...and I'm back in the game!

Cats and Christmas trees don't mix. "Get away from there, mind your own business, knock that over and I'm knocking you into next week, I will string you up by your ass hair from a nail in the wall," et cetera. Nosy little varmint. Then he jumps up next to you on the bed and starts rubbing his furry face all over the book you're trying to read, you find yourself at a loss, outclassed by cuteness; next thing you know, you've marked your place and started doling out a belly rub.


glitter-graphics.com

If y'all hear from me Saturday, that means I have internet access from my house once again. If not, c'est la fucking vie. Seeya next Tuesday. Love and kisses.

(Why am I listening to this song? rocketts_chica's gonna murderate me.)

RE: She's a Ho Ho Ho
Every year there's at least one Christmas song I get bored with, sick of and pissed at. In 2006 it was "Dominick the Donkey"...in 2007, that mother by the Chipmunks where Alvin wants a hula hoop...in 2008, "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree." This year I've been done wrong by at least seventy versions of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus." Sorry, kid, but must I give a fuck? It's not my fault the bitch gets a few eggnogs in her and wants to make out with a nonsectarian saint.

When I was about eight or nine, my dad played Santa Claus at a church function--this was back when we were pretending to be Methodists--and after all the kiddies were done sitting on his lap, my crazy mother threw down her paper plate, sashayed her fat ass over there and straddled him. She wasn't even drunk, so there goes that excuse. To this day, I don't know when I was more traumatized: before or after I knew it was my pops in the suit.

(Sure, it's hysterical now, after all my years of public blowjobs.)

RE: Vital Information
Going around with a perpetual grin is skincrawling, not heartwarming. Especially if you're estranged from your toothbrush.

RE: Fuckers at neighboring terminals
I am going to shove this one guy's head up this other guy's ass. Then I am going to shove the second guy's head up the first guy's ass. Then...I am going to roll them down a hill.

So. My weekend.

(As if I have anything better to write about.)

Friday, after an extensive holiday mall hike with machinemolle, I met up with a former co-worker at a karaoke bar and covered "Eye of the Tiger"; two performances later he brought down the house with "What's Love Got to Do With It." In recent years I've definitely come around to that song's POV. What's love got to do, got to do with it?/ What's love but a secondhand emotion?/ What's love got to do, got to do with it?/ Who needs a heart when a heart can be broken? Problem is, I don't know if my cynicism is defensive or offensive, meaning whether it stems from having my ass handed to me eighty-five million times in the pursuit of love, or thumbing my nose at the conventions of love. Knowing me, they're both in flux, but I front like it's the latter at all times.

Saturday I worked a 12-hour shift. Once again, I caused a sensory sensation--first my boss mooched half my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, later he called me pretentious for not liking Reese's peanut butter cups. Fuckever, buddy. Then it started snowing at about ten o'clock, but since Springfield was on the dusting end of the storm system, I didn't have any problems getting home three hours later. I like snow fine when it's just snow, without ice and rain and sleet landing right on top of it, making an unholy mess and turning the sidewalks into a deathtrap.

Yesterday I went out for a walk and got lost. Nothing to panic about, because all the residential streets around here eventually empty into one thoroughfare or another, just mildly aggravating. Probably it wasn't the best time to have an urban adventure anyway--I've got something like five-hundred dollars in my pocket. Cash. Plus two joints and some X I bought off a regular at the bar. I haven't had this much cash money on me since...Jesus, since my tax return when I was 22 and working at that ritzy nursing home where they served all the residents stuffed red snapper for lunch. I would not have enjoyed being mugged or accosted by the cops yesterday. I would not have enjoyed it one little bit. After three unmarked turns, two dissapearing sidewalks, one leering old goat and one very weird loudmouth dog later, I was back on the main drag.

Right now--the truth? I'm listening to a bunch of shit from 1987 and thinking that "Cross My Broken Heart" is total MonaBoyd, "Love You Down" just screams MinxWood and "Don't Dream it's Over" (one of my all-time favorite songs ever) goes with the future of the entire foursome. Get off my back--I find this therapeutic.

So yeah, I guess I'm okay. It's just these last few months have been Stress City, for me and almost everyone I know. How we've gotten this far without chemical assistance or joining a fight club is anyone's guess. And despite the "Peace on Earth" catchphrase, there's never a moment's peace this time of year. I sustained a monster bruise in Barnes & Noble when this rude cunt came charging by at warp eight and thwacked me right in the shoulder blade with what I think was a deep-sea diving bell. Didn't say I'm sorry, kiss my ass, nothing--or even look around when I spit a violent expletive at her back. To add to the fun, I've fucked up my knee for a record third December in a row, and I'm supposed to be scheduling an MRI. Woo-hoo.

On the bright side, I'm getting the hang of my synthesizer. I'll be auditioning for an 80s cover band by my 33rd birthday. (Yeah, right.)

"Brittany Murphy" and "dead" are two things I did not expect to see paired anytime soon.

It's bullshit, though. I liked her. Despite some career missteps and the requisite Hollywood blonding, she was an old-school screwball with a kind of contemporary grit and moodiness inside--Lucille Ball meets Jennifer Jason Leigh.



"Now she's breaking hearts in heaven..."

Suddenly it's fun again. I render my most of my fic private, and it immediately gets its power back. Huh. I'm starting to think this universe wasn't meant to be, like, a spectator sport. Not yet. Maybe it makes more sense as something exclusive, what with its fusion--slash and het; fanfiction and original work; slapstick, smut and bloodshed--complex mythology, fragmentation and chronology defiance. Secret detours into my imagination that require a certain VIP status to access, because the general public will either embarrass themselves by not getting it or embarrass me by pretending it doesn't exist. I believe in the Paper Cuts/ Highlandstown universe, it's stolen my heart in a way nothing I've done before ever has, and I don't want any resentments or bullshit competitiveness to fuck up what it means to me. One of these days I'll be ready to change the real people into fictional characters, at which point I imagine my troubles will be over. But right now, I enjoy having the hobbits on board too much.

Might I take this as an opportunity to color inside the lines and dish up some plain old slash for public consumption? Never say never. I've been selling myself on a bunny where Elijah is a college student circa 1987, working as a part-time deejay at a roller rink owned by Billy, with Dominic as the mysterious stranger in town. If nothing else, I can appreciate the irony of heterophobia. And I won't be alone when I laugh at how crazy and unfair it is, because most of my friends are in fact straight guys who quite like the Paper Cuts/ Highlandstown universe, despite its occasional gayness, and totally get what I'm on about. One went so far as contributing a track to the band's discography. Unsolicited. Like the old Nike commercial, he just did it. Even my damn MoME award can't top that. So there.

Look, I have to give myself these pep talks, okay? I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me. It's like I have both inferiority and superiority complexes, and they're equal-opportunity parasites who won't miss a chance to feed on each other. Nor do I know why I even give a shit about mass adulation, having my own groupies, or how I can't function without something to prove, or how one letdown can poison everything good that's come before it. Most people make me sick, if they're even interesting enough to do that, yet it's the end of the world when my work doesn't blow their idiot minds. It doesn't compute. I can't force anyone to feel something's power the way I do; I'm not a fucking televangelist. Besides, it's not like I have real problems. I'm employed, stylish, literate, healthier than I've ever been and not busted. My dad and I have never gotten along better, my mom isn't the gorgon I depict her as when I'm pissed, my friends treat me like God, and there are things I'm looking forward to. My ego hasn't exactly been left out in the cold these past few years...if anything, it's been spoiled rotten.

Dear Santa... Dear Santa, This year I've been busy! In April I ruled Duluth, Minnesota as a kind and benevolent dictator (700 points). In March I committed genocide... Sorry about that, lijahlover (-5000 points). In June I put money in robingurl's expired parking meter (14 points). In January I helped twopiearr hide a body (-173 points). Last Monday I bought porn for lisabellex (-10 points). Overall, I've been naughty (-4469 points). For Christmas I deserve a spanking! Sincerely, glamoursnipe

Write your letter to Santa! Enter your LJ username:

Wrong: I've never even been to Duluth--all I know is that Bob Dylan's from there.

*reacting to an extremely loud crash outside*

The hell was that? Did someone just drive a car off the roof? Or are they testing missiles again? Now, goddamn it, I done told these people to watch it with that domestic terrorism shit around here.

Right now Xanadu, Kyle and Dombillijah just need to skate the night away. Electric starlight, op-art murals and neon-noir period music. They think they failed me, so I left them at a roller rink/ arcade in the Valley with their peeps. I want them to know there aren't any hard feelings. For what it's worth, I love them and their universe very much.

Fucking fandom. Slash this.

You always wanted me to be something I wasn't
You always wanted too much (oh-whoa)
Now I can do what I want to--forever
How am I gonna get through?
How am I gonna get through?

Not much else to report. I'm making red velvet cupcakes tonight. And the nightmares started up again about a week ago. And I'd kill for the means to go back to school or travel. And I feel so much younger than 32, but at the same time I'm damn near worn down and burned out on everything. My whole life is just one stupid oxymoron after another.

At night the people come and go
They talk too fast and walk too slow
Chasing time from hour to hour
I pour the drinks and crush the flowers
What have I, what have I done to deserve this?
What have I, what have I, what have I done to deserve this?

Uploading positive new outlook. Please stand by.

At least ten people agree: I sound just like this motherfucker when I laugh.

Fuck this, I'm not posting my work here anymore. I'll write it, because I want to, but it won't see the light of LJ. It's not worth feeling like a fucking failure every other time I log on. If anyone wants to read my shit, they know where to fucking find me. I am DONE. I will not keep embarrassing myself.

MoME Winner, my ass.

Now, the good news: ever had to look up a novel you read in, like, junior high? But the only thing you had to go on was the name of one character? That describes my primary online mission for today. Lucky for me, the character's name is Hardass Boucher.

Wanna cheer me up? Order me a copy of Angel of Darkness, by Charles de Lint.

That's just it. They can't. /bravado

Goddamn snow. Wouldn't be so bad if the sky didn't puke rain right on fucking top of it. New England is nothing but weather and politics; no wonder everyone who lives up here is such a grouch. On the other hand, the South is nothing but greasy food and religious hypocrisy, so it's no wonder everyone who lives down there is fucked in the head. Gotta love days like these, when I end up representing the worst of both worlds.

Yesterday I watched Boyz N the Hood, because it felt necessary. I've seen that movie about twenty times since I was fourteen, and it never leaves me unscathed. Good, because it's not supposed to, is it? I don't pretend to empathize with what black people from hazardous neighborhoods go through; it's obvious I've never had to live under that cloud, fear what they fear or face the kind of choices they do. But it hits me where I live every time. That's what happens when you emphasize the "people" part of black people, especially while watching a movie that lets its characters be, taking sides only when there's no way around it. Something that never fails to blow my mind--or confirm the strength of this particular story--is how I remain convinced that in the end, Cuba Gooding, Jr.'s character did the right thing by bailing. At the same time, I'm just as glad Ice Cube's character stayed on course. What was done needed to be done, even if it just perpetuated the cycle of urban violence, but it was a job for Doughboy, not Tre'.

Sunday night I went cruising, driving around aimlessly with music full-blast, for about two hours. It wasn't the same. I don't just mean in the sense that I was in Massachusetts rather than North Carolina. Mainly I'm talking about how being alone in a car on a bunch of near-deserted streets seemed to magnify my petty concerns, rather than dispel them. If I felt any guilt about leaving a massive carbon footprint on this undead burg, or failing to heed adulthood's call for compulsive industry, I didn't take it very far because I was too busy having my monthly existential meltdown. I don't retain many detailed memories of my adolescence, but in a lot of ways I still feel like the same outcast kid I was then, avoiding human contact because I'm sick of feeling like I have to defend everything I say or do, just like I'm fed up with listening to other people take my character apart, as if the sanctimonious motherfuckers are any better at life than I am. Look, I'm a person who thrives on catharsis. I just plain need it. Call it shallow, call it immature, at this point I don't give a shit what label you slap on it--Dani O. gotta have it. And it seems like every issue anybody has with me can be traced to either the totality of disengagement that can occur between the interior and exterior of my mind, or the fact that sometimes, for reasons that may or may not be clear as a bell, I need to just focus on something that offends me and take offense, whether that means crying or getting mad as hell or thrashing around to the stereo, lip-syncing and playing a fictional glamoursnipe quintet's worth of air instruments. If my heart's congested, I can't think clearly, and I hate that. To the extent at which it's practical, I admit to seeking catalysts for the purpose of coaxing out the buildup. Maybe it's not healthy to force my pain back out the way it came instead of letting it wash through to the other side. Maybe my heart deserves better than a vote of no confidence. But those are my problems, and I'll address them in my own time, on my own terms, without editorial commentary I didn't fucking ask for.

So I'm on the phone with my mother, explaining why turning on my main heater for the first time in six months requires an in-depth course of action, because it always sets off the goddamn smoke alarm. On the advice of a friend, I taped a plastic bag over the alarm in addition to opening the windows (which worked, by the way), but during our conversation prior to the event, she actually thought I was planning to tape a plastic bag over the heat vent. As if, lady. And yeah, ha-ha-ha, I can't decide which is funnier, that you think your daughter is stupid enough to deliberately manufacture a firehazard, or that you're too dense/ smug/ insensitive to let it sink in when she tells you to FUCK OFF. I'm glad someone's amused. One of these days the woman is going to leave me no choice but to deal a bitchslap. She's right about one thing, though--she doesn't know shit about being a parent. All she knows or cares about is maintaining an illusion of authority.

Ironic: ten years ago, I thought my dad was the dick of the family. I could never get past his faux-racism (throwing the word "nigger" around like a conjunctive while maintaining friendships with two black men and grooving to Marvin Gaye) or his disinclination to express negative emotion through any means but anger. Don't get me wrong, I'm still not a fan of those things, or the way he indulges my mother's every shallow, myopic whim, plus he exaggerates like a son of a bitch, but he's not incapable of respecting someone younger and/or less financially prosperous than him. At least when I talk to my dad, I feel like an adult. It's nice when someone disagrees with your viewpoints and has enough faith in your capacity for rational thought to explain why, rather than just chucking them aside like junk mail.

Happy Birthday, Dominic. I thought up the perfect gift for you: as we speak, I've got Evangeline bound and gagged in the trunk of my car; do me a favor and take advantage of it. Obviously you can't spend the day in my world, where voyeurism and exhibitionism collide--Billy slaves over your sexual gratification in bed while Elijah and Xanadu put on a smut show from the other side of the room--and more's the pity, but you definitely deserve to celebrate the age of Christ with your real friends. So get out there and get it done, lest I show up with a 2-gallon drum of whoopass and pour it all over you.

* * * * *

Got me some LU Petite Madelines: dark chocolate. Nummy. Why are prepackaged European and Australian cookies so much better than American ones? This country is so halfass. I don't like Oreos or Chips Ahoy--I used to eat them, because that's what we had--but those Tim Tam things? *ecstatic shudder* Australia knows what's up.

I won't rest until I get the female perspective from a woman who enjoys the intimacy, thrill, and possible danger of sexual activity more than male attention.

Yeah. That'll happen.

Christmas sucks. There's some kind of Dickensfest going on at the library, and it's a madhouse up in here. I just got hit on by a dude in a maribou-trimmed velvet robe, wearing a candleabra headdress. I think he was supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Past.

Why am I surprised? With that thing on his head, he could satisfy five women at once.

Disregard previous entry. Evidently I won after all. Nice. I don't know how the hell I missed it; r/t must have me in a stronger chokehold than I thought. Go away and let me be happy, you sadistic fuck. Jesus.

The proof.

The story.

Okay. o_0 is literally my face.

Actually, would someone mind copy-pasting the banner and emailing it to me? I'm on a library computer and they're all tightassed about shit like that. True, I could just say the hell with it, I've done it before, but there's no desktop access to document/pitcure files or the recycle bin, so the implication's clear. Also I've got a thing about my fanfiction being public knowledge; I prefer to regulate that intelligence to those who qualify and no one else. So--please? I'll be your best friend.

My portable CD player is, like, possessed or something. Cutting out and reading scrapes on perfectly smooth discs. Plus I can only skip tracks in reverse, so if there are eleven and I want to hear the second one, I have to backtrack from eleven instead of simply advancing forward from one to two. Grr. The power of Christ compels you, motherfucker.

My list of completely objective and indisputably correct picks. Sequels and remakes, with one exception, are excluded.

10. Jeepers Creepers (2002)
Gets off to a promising start, then Victor Salva snatches mediocrity from the jaws of greatness. The worst part? Francis Ford Coppola paid him to do it.

9. Disturbing Behavior (1998)
Somebody went dumpster-diving outside the Wes Craven factory, slapped a few pieces together and called it a movie. Somebody thought they could feed the Scream formula through a halfassed crossbreed of John Saul's Creature and The Stepford Wives. Somebody forgot to give pre-TomKat Katie Holmes' bare midriff second billing. Somebody somehow knew that viewers would've been more disappointed if someone hadn't referenced a certain Pink Floyd song at the "climactic" moment. Someone needs to cough up the three bucks and ninety minutes of my life I lost to obtain this information.

8. 13 Ghosts (2001)
One of the ghosts is a busty naked chick covered with open wounds. Another looks like a Cenobite Uncle Remus. Another skitters around in a tattered straightjacket with a birdcage over his head. See, it's much more fun describing the titular characters one by one than telling you that 13 Ghosts barely even qualifies as a movie. It's a blinding, deafening, exhausting nonexperience. You don't improve living conditions in a tenement slum by painting the cockroaches.

7. Dreamcatcher (2003)
Critics love the word "incomprehensible" when referring to a poorly-constructed film, but nowhere is that assessment more accurate than it is here. Try watching Dreamcatcher with your DVD player's chapter-shuffle capability, then go back and watch it straight through--I challenge you to pick which version makes more sense. An insult to Stephen King, a slap in the face of true horror fans everywhere, and a real bad career move for half a dozen solid actors. Crap weasels, indeed.

6. Leprechaun (1993)
What the fuck is this shit, a live-action Warner Brothers cartoon made by glue-huffing serial killers? I'm sorry, did that sound like an endorsement? Trust me, it isn't.

5. The Blair Witch Project (1999)
Never mind how "groundbreaking" it was; nothing onscreen was half as scary as the lack of Dramamine in my purse.

4. Slaughter High (1986)
Revenge of the nerd: a posse of stereotypes are impaled, electrocuted, lawnmowered, gassed and dissolved in acid as payback for a prank that left one of their high school classmates disfigured and unhinged. After shotgunning a tainted beer, one unlucky bastard's guts launch themselves across the room and turning the next victim into a human Pollack canvas. But that's not important right now. I'd like to direct your attention to a conversation that precedes the blonde bimbo and the Harley hog's extermination in flagrante delicto.
"Talk dirty to me, Frank!"
"Uh...tits."
"Dirty dirty."
"Uh...fuck. Tits...screw..."
*facepalm* There's not enough brain bleach in the world.

3. The Happening (2008)
Click me.

2. Terrorvision (1986)
Maybe I just expect too much from my horror/comedy mashups. Though I'd like to think not; I'm a fan of the first two Critters movies. And Tremors. And Killler Klowns From Outer Space. All of which had the sense to pair their gonzo adversaries with human protagonists that felt lived-in and halfway believable. One rule I would strongly encourage anyone working in the horror genre to follow is, the more outlandish the threat, the more realistic the victims. Destroy that paradox and what have you got? A fucking mess, that's right. For starters, taking artistic license with the color of human blood does not contribute to a sense of avant-garde whimsy. It's stupid and disorienting, just like everything else you can imagine here sight unseen. The cotton candy cocoons in Killer Klowns made my skin crawl in deep thought because they were liquefying and preserving the ordinary citizens of and ordinary American town. When dark green slime starts oozing from the wounds of every alleged human being onscreen, I start to wonder if the monster isn't simply trying to contain an epidemic...of crap acting. I'm serious, if you know of anyone in the world who behaves the way these characters do, please take me to them, so I can point and laugh.

1. Buried Alive (1979)
No list of horror movies would be complete without a nice fat slice of Giallo trash. This one collected dust on the shelf at a local video store, a label between the title and the cover image of a startled-looking reanimated corpse (not at all prurient with her ands sitting limply atop her overripe breasts and her spaghetti straps drifting toward her elbows) exclaiming--if not bragging--that the film had been banned in thirty-odd countries. How was I to resist? Finally, when I was about thirteen, my dad let me and a friend rent the damn thing. Bottom line: a film that boasts sadism, disembowelment, dismemberment, torture, cannibalism, castration, incest, implied necrophilia and acid body disposal has no goddamn business being this fucking boring. But don't take my word for it. Read this review: MTE

What am I thinkful for? Honestly? I'm thankful for never having to answer this question on Thanksgiving. Forced sentiment makes me squirm like a nun at a Peaches concert. I can't go there without feeling like a complete phony; I prefer to think my gratitude speaks for itself.

Expressive as I allegedly am, there aren't many things I can truly rhapsodize about anymore. Waterfalls, I guess, are an exception, but to me waterfalls are just perfect: marvels of structure, physics, and geology. It's still hard for me not to treat them like sentient beings, but rest assured my days of engaging them in one-sided conversation are long gone. Then there's the key word, water. I love water as much as any fish. When other kids' parents were wondering when they'd burn down the house, mine were waiting for me to flood ours: I was always turning on faucets and splashing around with my toys and making up excuses to be fully immersed. When our pool was finished, I came home from school and swam until my dad reminded me that I was not technically a mermaid. I don't even mind walking in the rain all that much, unless I'm wearing something that smells funky when it's wet, like cords.

Clear nights, too. The moon, stars, and celestial bodies in general: perfect, especially when you're agnostic and don't feel like they're watching you. There's been a cloudcover over this part of New England that hasn't bundged since Tuesday. During the day I couldn't care less--I might even prefer it--but at night I start feeling what can best be described as claustrophobic. I like having an open window to the cosmos, if you follow me.

The 80s are God, but I've done them to death. So has everyone else, come to think of it. Not that I'm complaining. Please, keep it up, give me more.

Okay, okay, I've got one. I'm thankful for being able to keep my sense of humor about having to eat caramel sundaes for dessert yesterday because somebody accidentally bought an unbaked commercial pie with their oven on the fritz (the turkey and stuffing our hosts served were precooked to order, and I threw in a broccoli casserole). From my point of view, it was a riot. They asked me if I'd mind breaking it out, so I tore open the box and got slimed right down the front of my top. I smelled like pumpkin sludge until my next shower. The scent of pumpkin pie is supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but you couldn't prove it by me. On the other hand, my cherry blossom perfume is a huge hit with the opposite sex, when, according to the same studies, anything cherryish is supposed to make penises recoil en masse. Just goes to show. Even science is stupid and bogus when it features in Cosmopolitan.

For example, the scent they claim gets a woman wanting to straddle things? Licorice. "Not I," said the fox.

glitter-graphics.com

...for being supportive. Especially since my despondency had nothing to do with anyone on LJ. Really, most of y'all have been aces. I saved all the comments before deleting the entry. Sorry if I worried anyone; I was no go for Wednesday because the library closed at noon and their fucking server was down. The usual asinine-assed asininity. It's just been the autumn that wouldn't die over here. I don't get it. Usually October and November are really nice to me.

This is so daft: I could play fashion plates with my own characters all day. But I'd rather watch a Jennifer Lopez chick flick triple feature (Clockwork Orange style) than make a living doing the same thing for real people. Back in the 90s there was a really bad movie with one really good line about fashion being the art of the street. Me being me, I took that observation directly to heart. I've always defined art two ways, as the mythology of stimulus and the lens of identity, so the whole fashion-stylist movement is kind of a slap in the latter's face. Sylists aren't paid to be objective, so whatever their clients end up wearing is going to be the result of external debate. That just squicks me for some reason. Fashion is the most personal form of self-expression. Anyone can hear a song or see a movie or look at a painting, but with very few rule-proving exceptions, it's one person per outfit. Public opinion should matter to the designers because they need to move their shit off the shelves (ten bucks says this is all part of a conspiracy to keep their product from looking bad because it's in the best interest of their profit), but it the buyer shouldn't give it a second thought. Think about it. You wouldn't feel comfortable telling Wolfgang Puck how to cook a meal or Martin Scorsese how to direct a film or Mozart how to write a composition. Granted, not everyone plays on that level, but if someone genuinely enjoys engaging in an artform, and they've got the basic hang of it, why would you want to stand over their shoulder and badger them with your input like a meglomaniacal asshole? And why would they ever want to pay you good money to do it?

Hiring a stylist to doctor your outfits is like hiring a megaproducer to doctor your songs. In both cases the individual is secondary (if not tertiary) to making a surefire hit. But surefire hit after surefire hit loses its teeth pretty quick. It sells, but it's boring. Part of the reason it sells is because other options are being limited and people get unwilling to reset their ears and eyes for something truly out of the ordinary.

When I did this topic with Mike, he asked me what I expected from a medium as shallow as fashion. But one could argue that all visual art is shallow. Michelangelo deified the human body. Picasso distorted and disfigured it. Munch freeze-framed dreamscapes. Mondrian fetishized geometry and color saturation. O'Keefe gave souls to inanimate objects. Warhol turned pop culture into an acid party. At the end of the day, it's all eye candy. Look at it, react to it, get on with your life. The most shallow thing about fashion is how ephemeral it is--instead of savoring it, we're supposed to get a jump on the next trend. Totally patronizing, frustrating and exhausting.

Paradoxically, I've nothing against interior decorators. Unless they're the kind of compulsive insurgents who'll turn a Japanophile's living room into Austin Powers' jumbo jet--there's no excuse for making someone feel disconnected from their own home. But fixing up a living space is to getting dressed what Antarctica is to an ice cube on the levels of size and term limits, plus there's more accessorizing, more mixing and matching, more ways to fuck it all up in one go. And the practice is more concerned with style endurance than sniffing out the next big craze. So there's no shame in appointing a guru if the project is bigger than yourself and meant to last longer than one day. Just make sure they don't get lost once they venture outside their own taste.

Last night I had two people tell me I smelled like bananas.

"Something smells like bananas." *sniffs my hair* "Oh, it's you."

(Later) "Why do I smell bananas?" *first guy points to me, second guy takes a whiff* "I see."

All I did was switch shampoos.

There's other shit going on, but right now I don't have the energy to take my life seriously.

Researching swine flu...machinemolle's oldest son has it and the dude is about to keel over from sheer panic.

So far our only exposure to this stuff has been the media, and of course they've painted it as The Stand come to life.

Fuck sensationalism. Fuck N1H1. Fuck my mother for laughing at me when I called her (any palpable show of concern for anything but your financial situation is goddamn overkill, to hear her talk). Fuck this decade.

And fuck everything, now that I think about it.

"Never trust a big butt and a smile"...how about never trust more makeup than Dee Snider and half a bottle of cheap perfume?

Way to turn a gas station into a gas chamber.

The days are getting shorter. That's what everyone else is saying.

But if you ask me, the nights are coming sooner.

I like that.

* * * * *

My best friend and I are kinda sorta working on a screenplay together. He doesn't have a lot of free time, so it's extremely slow going, and the odds are against us ever finishing. But we're giving it a shot. It's called DC, and it's a political satire. We've even agreed to include a scene where the early-thirtysomething House staffer heroine dances around in her underwear to "Things Can Only Get Better", the unofficial theme song--how cool is that?

Look. When someone only has a certain amount of time to do something they really want to do, you don't ever cut into it. Got that? Unless it's the only way to prevent a life-threatening emergency, you will WAIT YOUR FUCKING TURN. I don't bend this rule for myself, why should I bend it for your sorry ass? Cutting into my time is one thing guaranteed to make me go hair-pulling, glass-breaking, wall-punching batshit.

What really ground my goat yesterday is there were six unoccupied stations when I fucked off, but they were all in the Young Adult section. The library's age-based segregation initiative has got to go. People hate it. It's an insult to everyone under eighteen, and a damn pain in the ass for the rest of us. Tell me, what difference does it make if the minors are playing online blackjack five feet from the main desk, or fifteen? Do they honestly think these whiskered old farts who come scuffing in every morning aren't here for the beaver hunt? Shows what they know.

I can't even check out a book from the YA floor after three o'clock. Sorry, but that borders on fascism. Like I'm really going to torture, molest or otherwise harm some airheaded teenybopper I'd sooner not even look at. New England acts like it's all progressive, but everything Massachusetts does is in service to chronic paranoia.

* * * * *

Dear Fred Phelps,

Go die, so my friends and I can wait in line to dance on your grave.

Sincerely,
Dani O.

My two favorites from the series. Nothing but the best for my F-List.

Goddamn Veteran's Day. Goddamn all federal holidays. They wouldn't aggravate me so much if 75% of them didn't revolve around the fucking military. It's just so one-track...and don't give me that balloon juice about willingness to die for our country. While it is in its own dehumanizing way a necessary and noble exploit, people risk death every moment they live. On that note, why not Doctor's Day? Astronaut's Day? Scientists Day? (On second thought, scratch that one, the fundies would have a cow about their being no Preacher's Day, despite Sunday still coming once a week.) There's a Secretary's Day, and we kowtow to teachers for a whole week. So what's the story? As a matter of fact, I've got a great idea: Make Your Own Holiday Day. One say set aside for everyone to celebrate whatever the fuck comes to mind--modern architecture, twilight picnics, legwarmers, MonaBoyd--so long as no laws are broken, ie. don't celebrate explosives by planting a bomb in your neighbor's Honda. Shut up, it's brilliant. And can you imagine a better icebreaker?

http://www.upi.com/Odd_News/2009/11/07/Atlanta-bus-driver-suspended-for-praying/UPI-61241257623242/
I have no words. Scoffing, rolling my eyes and rueful laughter don't count. But why suspension? Mike thinks he should be forced to publicly break one of the ten commandments. Love it, but which one is up to his supervisors--I confess I don't know them all. Or what order they're in.

This wingnut on the morning sports show was complaining that in President Obama [Bin Laden]'s recent address, the one about the shootings in Texas, he never mentioned the words Terrorism, Islamic or Muslim. I was mystified until I reminded myself that Jerry Callahan is the syndicated Bostonian version of a creep who was always writing letters to the local papers when I was a teenager. And we're off--blah blah those pesky liberals are at it again blah blah moral decay blah blah gay lifestyle blah blah baby killers blah blah repent in the name of Jesus Christ blah blah blah and the needle's on E. Refill in t-minus two weeks, and counting. Awopbopaloobop, alopbamboom!

Jewelry is mutating at such an alarming rate, I'm starting to wonder if the designers haven't been keeping radiation-zappers and toxic waste in their workshops. I'm all for quirky accessorizing, but this new stuff--it's way too bulky and it looks like scrap. Give or take the s. I'm waiting for some ingenue to be decapitated on the street when her 50-pound Dries Van Noten "Junkyard" choker comes to life and attacks her in a bloodthirsty rage. That's what I call putting the victim in "fashion victim", yo.

Two nights ago at work, my boss pinched my cheek and I threatened to sic the Sexual Harrassment Panda on him. "Inappropriate physical contact makes him a sa-aaa-aad panda." Shits and giggles, don't worry. The prick still won't let me use the office computer, though. Two nights before that, one of the waitresses brought in the latest People and we somehow ended up discussing Fergie and Josh Whatshisface. This stripper he allegedly dorked? Ugliness From Beyond. Fergie isn't my cup of tea, either, but she's far from nauseating, meaning I can at least get behind someone's attraction to her. The skank, however, could scare lightning back up a tree. Another bleach-blonde who thinks she's hot just because she's a bleach-blonde. We've all known them. In the plural form.

Back in the 80s, Robert Zemeckis gave us the first two chapters of Back to the Future--colorful, breezy little movies built on science-fiction and existentialism. Score one for solid entertainment coexisting with unforced originality. His latest project, I understand, is the fuckzillionth film version of A Christmas Carol--why? Who needs it? Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that story exists and there are several versions of it I love watching this time of year: the Albert Finney musical ("Thank You Very Much" is like the catchiest song ever), the one with the Muppets, and the set-in-the-late-eighties update starring Bill Murray. But if you're going to retell something we all know by heart, you better find a way to put some kind of new spin on it. Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy as the Cratchits = awesomesauce; sterile Pixar-style animation is about as thrilling as bread and water. No wonder the box office is about to croak. Movies would almost rather be easily-digested pieces of branded commercialism--not altogether different from Campbell's soup or those pantyhose that come in plastic eggs--than movies. Instead of storytellers who like their efforts to feel lived-in and touched by human hands, we've got a bunch of hyperactive geeks playing with their toys.

Speaking of Jim Henson's universe, I'm getting a major kick out of seeing Sesame Street references everywhere I go. Lots of good memories there. (Yes, Mikey, I remember Roosevelt Franklin. You did not hallucinate him.) Oscar the Grouch was my favorite, which should tell you something--except I always called him "Oscar the Trash Can", tickling my pops to no end. I dug the Count, too; I still impersonate that crazy motherfucker almost every time I deal with numbers, and Bert and Ernie were cool. Are they supposed to be getting busy off-camera? Hell if I know. Nor do I care. First and foremost, they're puppets. Grow up. In a show subversive enough to have few white people (Gordan and Susan: black, Luis and Maria: hispanic) among its flesh and blood regulars, it wouldn't surprise me at all, but for their sake I'll exercise the don't ask, don't tell option. (I still think Vanity Smurf is the biggest kiddie-show fag of all time, but that's another story.)

* * * * *

Hoo, boy. Now I am pissed off. Someone just made a reservation on this box and cut into my time. Cut it almost in fucking half. Not cool. You do not fucking do that to me. Ever. Fucking impatient motherfucker couldn't even wait twenty fucking minutes to take over...you fucking stupid worthless inconsiderate asshole, I will fuck you up. GODDAMN IT, ANYWAY. People, by and large, are not stupid. That must sound relevatory coming from me, but hold your applause: most of them are ignorant as fuck. There's a difference. Stupidity is no one's fault and can't be helped. Ignorance could be reversed, it's just that most of us are too lazy and self-absorbed to make the effort. Left untreated, ignorance exhibits the symptoms of classic stupidity. Those affected get described as dumbasses. They have the nerve to take offense to this. Catch my drift?

Whatever. I'm outta here. Sorry I'm stiffing everyone who responded to the compliment meme--it's nothing personal, I'm just down to three minutes. The jerk responsible is about to get a go-to-hell look that'll haunt them for at least a week. Word 2 ya mutha and all that BS.

My excuse is that it's a meme and therefore at least partially legit.

One little compliment can make you feel great. So give me a compliment, anything in the entire world, even that my shoelaces are pretty. Put this in your journal. Once you get some comments, put that entry in a memory or tag and when you are feeling down, just go to that entry and this will remind you how great you are.

VITAL INFORMATION
There is no such thing as a good landlord. Take it from me. Either they'll slack off on everything and treat you like shit in the process, or they'll do everything by the book and treat you like shit in the process. Eventually, they all want a power fix out of it and the tenant's getting screwed. Our collective sanity depends on holding this as a universal truth and a scientific fact, as consistent as gravity. LANDLORDS = ASSHOLES. Do not befriend these people, do not open up to them, do not establish a line of communication unless it's necessary to maintain an agreeable living condition. Even if they bake you Christmas cookies, stand hard, because sooner or later you're going to leave a few empty shampoo bottles in the vanity or fail to replace a light bulb outside your front door or stretch a phone cord between rooms, and they won't hesitate to write you up as eviction material.

As a society, we'd be much better off if we deep-sixed all this misplaced idealism. I don't know what the hell the current owners were tripping on when they bought that rat-trap I live in, but they took a wrong turn at Albequerque and didn't look back if their idea was making it over into a squeaky-clean white hive for squeaky-clean white people. Get serious. This is trashville. Small-time drug dealers. Wannabe gang-bangers. Probably a registered sex offender or five. Every spring the cops catch at least one knucklehead running naked down some street. My neighborhood is so pathetic it doesn't even have the balls to become the malignant urban war zone it fronts like it wants to be. No wonder the real enemy--ignorant well-meaning elitists--keep trying to gentrify it behind our backs.

I've just about had it to the teeth with everyday people being treated like liabilities (at best) or the scum of the earth (at worst) for harboring everyday desires, vices, and habits.

THE REALITY: Some people smoke.
THE REALITY: Many people own, or would enjoy owning, a pet.
THE REALITY: Most people do not dust and vacuum every five minutes.

No one breaks the law, everyone keeps the noise down between 11 PM and 8 AM, what's the fucking problem?


DID YOU EVER WONDER...
...if half of any gay couples in the Victorian era ever posed as members of the opposite sex to keep the Morality Club off their backs? There's a story here, but I'm not the one you want to write it.


INTERMEZZO
HIM: Donnie Wahlberg's gonna be on Dale & Holley later, talking about the Celtics.
ME: And?
HIM: Well, you know, for whatever it means to you.
ME: Not much.

Shit fire and save matches, am I going to be associated with New Kids on the Block until the day I die? I want to go back in time and shake my 12-year-old self like a rag doll. "No! You will not submit! They'll torture you when you give a fuck and they'll torture you when you don't! Turn up Living Color and stay strong!"

For the record, I've heard a a whopping two songs from The Block. Didn't think much of them. Honestly, I'm not into that heavy-breathing fake R&B slow-jam crap anymore. And as long as we're on the subject, I can't sit on this forever: Justin Timberlake's "My Love" is one of the most annoying, nerve-scorching, make-me-wanna-bust-a-cap-in-the-stereo songs I've ever survived from beggining to end.


BOTTOM LINE
Calgon, take me away. And if you won't, at least give me directions so I can get there my damn self.

Well, whaddaya know? Here I am, saturated with sick. On top of that, I don't trust LJ to behave because the computer I was on before this one froze up twice, and both times, I was here.

I've no goals for today apart from a bubble bath, hot tea and lots of sleep.

Later.

THIS JUST IN
I'm a redhead. Garnier Pomegranate (True Red).

This would have happened sooner, exept I didn't relish the idea of those who've been to my ficverse thinking I was trying to copycat the heroine. No. Just a case of a bored brunette who'd be hard-pressed to pull off any shade of blonde. I'll leave the Frost & Tip to all the tacky tan-whores out there who still fancy themselves cheerleaders.

OUR TOP STORY
I almost destroyed the microwave yesterday by being a scatterbrained moron. I was making egg salad, because it's nice to have stuff like egg salad around when you come home starving in the middle of the night but suspect you'd pass out before you could so much as heat up a can of soup. So I did what I normally do. Put the eggs on to boil, set the microwave timer for twenty-five minutes, and decided to spend that time in the tub. About halfway through my soak I smelled scorched food, which made absolutely no sense but still wasn't good. And here's what happened: I'd punched in 25:00 on the display window, but then accidentally hit "cook" instead of "timer", so the befrigged thing was zapping its own interior--and the dregs of a Marie Callendar chicken parmesan dinner--on high. I hadn't heard the telltale activating whoosh because the exhaust fan over the stove was running. So yeah, I'd call that an epic close one.

MORE ON THURSDAY--STAY TUNED

(People are turning into right little bitches about embedding, aren't they?)

* * * * *

"Something in My House"/ Dead Or Alive
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHb3wj9roy0

"Somebody's Watching Me"/ Rockwell
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uu1RP34FLXU

"Pet Sematary"/ The Ramones
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6GzVCYqoyY
(*BONUS* Rammstein's "live" version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCaxa2xS3pU)

"Good Man in A Bad Time"/ Ian Hunter
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CD2GYiXmh0

"Flesh to Flesh"/ Joe Lamont
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHNouGz4FOo

"Lullaby"/ The Cure
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0uD17tNip1s

"Fear of the Unknown"/ Siouxie & the Banshees
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQUcjt10NGg

* * * * *

Dig on it a while.

My landlord is playing ding-dong ditch with my nerves. My downstairs neighbor seems to think she's entitled to slam furniture around all night and still get uppity over the scent of cigarette smoke. My boss is acting like the cliche machine. My BFF needs to shit or get off the pot.

People wonder why I've spent half my life inside my own head. It's the only goddamn sanctuary I've got. Major fuckery goes down in there, but at least I'm calling the shots.

Subject change. Please.

Got my stupid costume together. After finding a used Trivial Pursuit Genus Fucksomethingorother at Goodwill, along with a bubblegum-pink pillbox hat that could be painted to resemble one of the plastic pie-wedge holders, I finalized my choice. A coworker stenciled the logo on my long-neglected navy dress in gold, I used a glue gun to add various question cards/ game bits, and I've scored accessories like whoa: a light blue pageboy wig, green nail polish and orange lipstick, to which I'll add navy tights and my cheap yellow pumps. I'm still debating whether to carry around the folded-up game board like a demented clutch purse, or rest assured I've made my point. All conundrums should be so grueling, ja?

Yo, Dominic, do me a favor: you and that ungrateful little cunt stay broken up this time. For real. Read my lips: SHE AIN'T WORTH IT, never has been, never will be. While her missionary history suggests she can care for people, probably she's aces at that so long as she has full Biblical clearance, I don't think she could care about anyone--numero uno excluded--if her life depended on it. Not to mention, she thinks that pissing in a trash can for twenty bucks is the stuff of bragging rights. If you're not going to do the right thing and sail off into the sunset with Billy, at least find yourself a woman whose hype and/ or ego is in proportion to her looks, talent, style and allure.

Here's a guy who needs an Eat Me, Beat Me Lady, stat.

Speaking of Dom, I miss mine.

Being inconvenienced is not the same thing as being opressed, victimized, persecuted, abused--I'm well aware of this. But when inconveniences take over your life, back to back to back and day after day after day, it starts getting hard to tell the difference.

I can't do this any more. I refuse to keep living in a pressure cooker/ Jenga tower. Do you know what happens to a pressure cooker when the lid isn't properly secured? That's right--kaboom. Before the year is out, I guarantee, some poor sucker is going to be standing there festooned with my guts and hair and brains and eyeballs, wondering what the hell that was all about, unless it's somebody I know.

Call it a crossroads.

Slash.

Now that I have your attention...I ferociously love it, but it's not always a sure thing with me. Not much is, but the one thing that seems to get my pulse crashing without fail is a heterosexual relationship that includes frequent and unplanned reversal of traditional gender roles. Bullshit feminist posturing? If you have little exposure to male-female relationships outside commercial fiction, where women are either saintly heroines, neurotic media science projects, sexual catalysts or exist mainly as a foil for something, I can see how you might think so. I just like the idea of telling convention and human instinct to go straight to hell. It's an outgrowth of my classic "problem with authority." Look at my ficverse, for the love of Christ. The Paper Cuts? A woman sings lead (while playing a keytar/ saxophone/ v-neck guitar without irony or shame)--the same woman who eventually marries a diminuitive baby-faced actor considerably more docile than she. The guitarist? Woman--whose boyfriend totally plays the role of the scorned one after she hits the off switch for good. The tech-nerd instrumental multitasker? Woman. So it's an all-girl outfit singing about what their love trials, then. Right? Not so fast. There's the bassist, whose sperm has hit a bullseye twice over with one of his bandmates. And about my only concession to business as usual was installing a male behind the drum set.

With that in mind, it's no wonder I'm secretly obsessed with Frasier. Think about it--on a lot of levels, Niles is the bitch and Daphne is the butch. As for Roz (who got knocked up by a college junior when she was at least thirty-five): play on, playette. Respect.

If I were to sketch out a thermometer-style gradient of my sexual poisons, turning the gender tables would threaten to shatter the glass, with M/M slash not quite there but way into the red zone. Traditional het and girl-on-girl would be somewhere in the middle. There was a time when F/F would have ranked much higher, but that was before the Trend Nazis sucked all the meat (forbiddenness) out of it and turned it into another empty spectator sport. BDSM? As long as the bottom isn't merely a receptacle for the top's abuse, hit it.

I could muse on topics like these all day. Fuck this one-hour shit.

If I'm in one of my dick moods I might get putdownish (with little regard to whose joke it is), but usually I'll just say "Funny," monotone, and jump to a new topic, or I'll smirk while doing that rueful oh-kay headshake. If I really like a joke, I won't say anything at all. I'll just laugh.

And no, I don't get annoyed if someone else laughs at a crappy joke, unless they're clearly faking it. There's no accounting for taste.

I swear to God, my mother gets these ideas in her head that I just have to have something, that the quality of my life will nosedive without it, and I tell her no, I don't want any, I seriously couldn't care less, save your money. But as usual, I don't know what I'm talking about and soon thereafter, I'll be the owner of something I specifically asked her not to get for me. The woman's like a date rapist: no means yes.

The problem with LJ: we all think we are so close, but really, we know nothing about each other. So ask me something you want to know about me. Something that should be obvious, but you have no idea about. Ask away. Then post this in your LJ and find out what people don't know about you. (Unless you'd rather not.)

Something tells me I've done this meme before. But it's a good day for reprisal. Hit it.