2-1/2 restaurant reviews and two movies.

This weekend, my family visited four restaurants and ate at two. Only we can spend hours stomping around the foodie capital of America and come up starving and empty-handed at 9 on a Sunday night.

Lunch was an easy, if terrifyingly expensive, choice in Rose Pistola. The food was delicious and the service fine, though the price is enough to drive away any thought of returning. My brother had the penne with beef bolognese--shocking--while my mom and sister and I shared several antipasti: a roast beet salad with chunks of cheese, a spreckled romaine and red grape salad with a wonderful vinaigrette, an absolutely divine caprese with melt-in-your-mouth buffalo mozzarella and gorgeous heirloom tomatoes, a trio of bruschetta, and, most interestingly, deep-fried chickpeas with capers and lemon zest.

As we were visiting the Haight, Margot suggested a place called Asquew for dinner, which is an informal, inexpensive, healthy, and most likely tasty kebab spot, but we ended up not eating there due to the lack of available seating. We poked around a few thrift stores before heading back towards my sister's place.

We got off the bus a little early and decided to eat at a Greek restaurant on Polk we'd been to a few years ago. A large party had been seated just ahead of us, so we agreed to wait 10 minutes for a table. We looked at the menu and decided what to order while we waited, but when we were actually seated, no one came to take our order, bring us water, or even say hello. For thirty fucking minutes. The waiter spent ten minutes chatting with a another table, a party who were seated *after* we were. They got their orders, even. We stormed out.

Eventually, we ate at a little Italian place on Post called Caffe Bella Valencia or something like that. The prices were not unreasonable and the food was decent. The pasta was overcooked, but the flavors were all right. The service was a little slow after the initial bringing of water and bread and taking of the orders, but the place seemed somewhat busy and it was the poor guy's first night. Or that's what they told everyone to compensate for mediocre service. It took for-freaking-ever to get the check, and at that point, I wanted nothing more than the hop on BART and go to bed. On the plus side, I have leftovers for lunch, including my brother's vegetable side and polenta, which he mistook for potatoes and did not much care for.

On Saturday, mom and my brother were staying with us in Milpitas, so we had to devise some way to spend the day. My brother really wanted to see The Aristocrats, which is unlikely to show in Olympia soon, plus mom should never see that movie. She would be horrified. Comedy is something my brother and I have always bonded over--it's my fault that he's the only kid I knew who was reading The Onion at 12. The theater at Santana Row was playing Broken Flowers at 2, the same time as The Aristocrats was playing at the Camera 7, so we dropped her off for the less offensive film and went to ours. It was really entertaining and, we thought, surprisingly tame. Or we're just horribly desensitized, or context is everything.

Later, mom told us she looked up the joke online. She gave us quite a look.

Late Saturday night, after we'd feasted on tilapia filets I smeared with a potent mixture of spices and a garlicky greek yogurt sauce, mom and I watched The Motorcycle Diaries. She lent me the DVD at the beginning of the summer and I never got around to watching it, so I needed to do that and give it back to her while she was here. It was a damn fine film, and not entirely too heavy-handed considering the subject matter. Might have been nicer on something larger than a laptop screen, though.

It was good to see the family, but it was a very long weekend, and I am really tired today. I am a little concerned that my allergies are flaring up again, after months of respite, or that I'm coming down with a cold. Either of these possibilities would suck, but I am hoping a good night's sleep will do the trick. Heh.

Otherwise, I fully anticipate being a snot-nosed medicine head at Wednesday's Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright show.

(Ab)using Waiter.com.

I'm not sure how, but I made it almost to age 24 without really feeling much love for takeout. Oh, sure, I've used it--I can't count the number of times I ducked into a teriyaki joint on the Ave for chicken teriyaki (back when I wasn't a hippie) and some of that cabbage salad with the strange and wonderful dressing to take home and enjoy for the next two meals. Or the cheap and delicious lunch-is-anytime special Chinese that my Hong Kong-born roommate swore by. Or the time only a styrofoam container of bi bim bap could soothe my angry mind. Or, naturally, the zillions of boxes of leftover Thai.

No, since moving to California, takeout has been a bland experience, dotted with overpriced and surly Whole Foods lunches, cheap but bland Togo's sandwiches, and vegetarian Chinese that was of a sub-par quality compared to its in-restaurant brethren. Until recently, we suffered under the early closures of area restaurants--10 p.m. is hardly late for the man who gets home at 9 and his girlfriend who staves off the hunger pains with unnecessary junk food.

But there is a solution, and it's one so beautiful, I find myself wondering what the catch is: Waiter.com.

The Internet. No phone, no need of a photocopied takeout menu, just a few clicks and a short drive before closing and bam, there's your bag of delicious food. It works for pizza that is far more delicious (and expensive) than Pizza Hut. It works for goddamn burrito joints. Tonight we got Indian, which was so enormously satisfying, I don't even care that I was eating the Indian equivalent of supersized french fries in my order of spinach pakoras. They were too delicious, and came with three vats of equally delicious chutneys. The moong masala dosa, while not up to my beloved Udupi Palace standards, especially taking into account the comparative distance. I didn't even have to change out of my skanky workout clothes.

I am so full now, I could burst. And it's much later than I like eating, but I'll suffer through the inevitable bizarre dreams. Every gram of buttery fat is worth it.

Tomorrow my mom and brother will be here and the food wars will begin. Who will win: The middle-aged dieter, doing a damn fine job of working down her dress size? The tall not-quite-18-year-old with a penchant for steak, potatoes, and fettuccine alfredo? Or the neo-local with knowledge of area ethnic restaurants and a deep sympathy for vegans? Tune in next time.

The first one is free.

Lately I've been thinking about the bands I like (or used to like) and the first songs I'd ever heard--or at least really listened to--by them. Only some of them have just one definite hook. The following is a list of some bands and the first song I heard by each of them, and maybe, just maybe, a little story.

Pulp, "I Spy"

I was reminded of this tonight as I listened to Different Class and sang along loudly. One summer, Becky and I visited our then-Internet-buddies Tristan and Sarah in Corvallis, Ore. Tristan sat us down in an overcast parking lot by the river and placed a pair of giant headphones on each of our ears and played this song.

Luna, "23 Minutes in Brussels"

This was the work of Sammy. I listened to this and iimmediately wanted more.

Blur, "Beetlebum"

Yeah, so everyone heard "Song 2," but it was a 1-minute clip of "Beetlebum" that made me get the album. I'm kind of a sucker.

The Mountain Goats, "See America Right"

Gabe sent me this mp3 like a hundred years ago. I didn't pick up Tallahassee for a couple years, but I did get a few other albums. It took me awhile to be convinced based on this song alone, but there's no turning back. (Had he sent "No Children," I don't think wild horses could have stopped me from running up to fucking Cellophane Square and dropping full price on the CD.)

The Decemberists, "The Soldiering Life"

A KRS freebie that, in conjunction with a damn fine Bumbershoot set in ought-three, forced me to buy a CD that, while it isn't their best, got me in line with the Youth and Beauty Brigade.

DJ Shadow, "Midnight in a Perfect World"

Probably everyone's first DJ Shadow, considering how many between-NPR-bits it occupies, among other things, but you know what? For good reason.

Ben Folds Five, "Battle of Who Could Care Less"

I know, it was a radio single, but there is a little story behind why this song, which I absolutely loved, failed to get me to obtain the album for years. I heard it on the radio once and was excited. The second time, I managed to tape it--at the time, I carried around a 90-minute cassette full of songs I liked that I taped off the radio--and listened to it on my Walkman for weeks. I forced certain friends to listen to it, and they hated it, so I didn't buy it. And that is a lesson about the power of peer pressure.

Built to Spill, "I Could Hurt a Fly"

Ah, finally, something Kevin sent me. There isn't much else to say about it, but this song rocks, and I really like BTS now. Yay.

Anyone else got a list of firsts?

Dorkier than DDR.

I have started working out. To a video game. No, not DDR. Worse than DDR.

Yourself! Fitness.

For fucking serious, the exclamation point is in there.

It's totally designed for soccer moms. And it is kicking my ass.

I am super uncoordinated, so some of the movements are like whoa, but overall? I sweated and I will be sore. That's probably a good thing. And it's slightly less embarrassing than actually going to a gym, and a hell of a lot cheaper. It also doesn't require me to leave the house and potentially interact with my potentially irritating suburban neighbors, for whom I feel vague scorn, just because. I am a horrible person.

However, I have many delicious snacks in my house. I am hoping Kevin will help me consume at least some of them, as they are all vegan: apple pie (*vegan* apple pie, natch), organic raspberries, and Double Rainbow chocolate sorbet (bestest sorbet in the westest), and a 70% dark chocolate "save the animals or whatever" bar. (I do think that brand is silly. They give something like 10% of profits to some vaguely animal-related charity. The chocolate is decent, however, and reasonably priced, so I'll buy it sometimes.) I imagine he won't partake of the chocolate items, but he personally OK'ed the pie, so he better be in for at least half.

Fuck, I'm hungry. Today my awesome vegetarian coworker--with whom I have split pretty much every lunch since she started--brought homemade idly, which was all kinds of delicious. If you've never had them, idly are a little white cake made of ground-up rice or rice flour and a pale dahl, with a texture sort of resembling polenta. In restaurants, they are usually served with a cup of sambar, which is a kind of vegetable soup for dipping. She taught me how to eat it like she does, which is to put a couple idlies in a bowl and pour the sambar over it, then used the spoon to cut up the idly so more of the flavor soaks into it. Her sambar had something I thought was potato, but turned out to be bottleneck gourd, which was really tasty.

While I'm on the food kick, Kevin and I tried a Lebanese restaurant in Fremont the other night. The proprieters were chatting with a family when we got there, so we overheard some of their discussion of Beirut (apparently, it's a nice place) and how the restaurant had been at that location for something like 20 years. Impressive. We tried the fattoush salad, which was a little too tangy to finish, the falafel sandwich, and the veggie combo. (Sometime I think I should write about the "veggie combo" at several different restaurants.) The combo featured falafel, hummus, and yabraks, which appear to be the Lebanese version of dolmas. I didn't try those, but the hummus was delicious and the falafels were awesome. They were rich with spice and had a good texture, an even consistency, and weren't too greasy or crispy. Next time we go, I'd like to try the tabbouleh, order the falafels as an appetizer--just eat 'em straight or with some hummus--and try this one thing the owners had the table next to us try: something like hummus, but made with cauliflower. That sounded so intriguing.

And finally, here's this week's roundup of Netflix rentals:

Deadwood: Season 1, disc 3: This shit is getting good. I wasn't totally digging it immediately, but something about it said, "Give me a chance, you cocksucker." So I did, and I'm definitely into it now.

Ran: I have now officially seen it. Damn good and beautiful and fucking long as fuck.

Hard Eight: P.T. Anderson's first movie boasts an impressive cast and isn't a bad movie. I was expecting way more violence than it had, though, and I am not sure I totally understood the main character's motivations. It seems like it might bear repeated viewings, but that isn't high on my priority list.

A tip for how not to feel like an idiot.

If you have any kind of evidence that you were ever under the age of 18, don't go looking at it.

For example, I have on one of my hard drives several versions of several websites I created and maintained while I was in high school. I should not have done that. I should definitely not have kept them. And I should especially not be looking at them now, because wow, that's depressing.

Also, I liked crap. And I used smileys to excess. And quoted lyrics ALL THE TIME (okay, so that's not changed too much, but it should have).

I may be a dork now, but I was dork^n back then.

I hope we both die.

The following is the subject line of an email I received today from Amazon.com:

Amazon.com recommends Funeral

I hope you die, too, Amazon. I hope we both die.

Just saw Broken Flowers. The people I saw it with said the trailer gave away all the jokes, but they still enjoyed it, and I did too. With movies like that, it seems best to avoid detailed reviews and trailers prior to seeing the movie. I'd rather have the ability to absorb it, unbiased. Unless liking Jim Jarmusch and Bill Murray counts as bias, which I'd imagine it does a little. It's the first Jarmusch movie that I found laugh-out-loud funny, though his others are funny, too.

Afterwards, we sipped iced tea and enjoyed the manufactured environment of Santana Row. It was sunny, but not too warm, and there was a breeze. We complained about the Disneyland Main Street USA for the Platinum card set-ness of it all, but secretly, it's not that the place is manufactured that arouses my suspicions. It's the lack of non-manufactured alternatives. It's great to have a place to sit comfortably, sip tea, and chat with friends, just as it's great to have a giant bookstore where you can browse all kinds of reading material and get a coffee and sit on a couch, but something about the experience at Santana Row, just like at Borders/Barnes & Noble, rings false. That's what makes me sad.

Rob writes a rap.

About me. Hee.

[roboter] emily's burning it up. west coast! you suckas don't front it.
[roboter] emily's like Bam! like cannon. cause thats her last name.
[roboter] I'm making a rap song about emily.
[roboter] take notes! you dead wrong. emily fix your spellin. she's got it going on.

Then he had to go work.

What's that? Yes, Rob IS the coolest mothafucka in Yuma, Arizona.

The pizza that is, should be.

I am awesome with the cheater pizza. Awesome, I say.

Tonight's concoction: whole wheat dough, spread 1/4" thin and round, with sauteed red onion, diced marinated fire-roasted red peppers, artichoke hearts, and a healthy sprinkling of red pepper flakes, topped with chopped baby spinach, feta, and a mixture of "Mediterranean" cheeses that melt nicely. After this is baked until the cheese is bubbly and the crust is lightly browned, add slices of some gorgeous fresh heirloom tomato.

This takes under 15 minutes, not counting the baking and the anticipation.

It's nice when being lazy pays off.

A post that is not a list.

Here's a possible first since moving to California: I got out of the house two nights in a row. Both times because of the Editor.

When we first started talking, he'd made a generous offer of sitting down to talk about writing with me. I took him up on it, at least as a first step, because god knows I've written jack shit since college. It was a very encouraging talk, and he gave me a lot to think about and specific things to do, which I'm gonna do. (I hate saying it that way, though, because I keep saying I'M GONNA DO SOMETHING and then not doing it. I have to work on my follow-through.)

Tonight he called me up and said I should come to this deal in Mountain View his paper was having, and despite my usual array of social anxieties, I showed up. It ended up being pretty cool, and I got to meet some of his staffers, which provided further ass-kicking in the direction of not being a lump anymore.

Jesus, that was convoluted. I want to write?

There was also a guy from the local Green Party, who gave us a half-drunken spiel about energy conservation and Green activism and tried to sell us stickers. Another guy, upon hearing my name, complimented it, saying it sounded very East Coast. I told him that was funny, because I'm West Coast through and through.

Anyway, back to the writing thing, since I'm trying to concentrate on it. I need to think about--make a list--of topics I'd like to write about. Story ideas. It's difficult for me to get into that mindset. It was difficult even when it was what I had to do, though not for a living, but for school. So that's task no. 1.

The trouble now lays in my horrible complacency. I may complain about boredom and not wanting to stagnant, but part of me is happy to be in a fairly comfortable--though who knows how ultimately unstable--place, at least for the moment. Then, when I think about breaking out of that mold, I have to confront my insecurities and anxieties, which are numerous, but whose aren't? What's so fucking insurmountable about mine that I can't get over them enough to do something I want to do when other people have?

So there's all that inward-thinking, which, in addition to merely exacerbating the aforementioned insecurities and anxieties, cloud any judgment I have with regard to what's interesting in the world that I could write about. Hah.

I do know that I won't be happy if I stay where I am forever, or even in a place close to it. It's not fulfilling. There's a lot of good in it, but my heart isn't in it. I can only cut my teeth for so long before they start to dull.

Oceanographer's choice.

1.

Well, guy in a skeleton costume goes up to the guy
In the Superman suit and runs through him with a broadsword.

(Link swiped from Defamer.)

2.

Wouldn't it be great if they made a tiny cell phone that was designed so the earpiece was on your thumb and the mouthpiece was on your pinky?

Think about it.

Things I did this weekend.

A list:

1. Spent too much on dinner at Citronelle with my boyfriend. It was open late and I remembered incorrectly where the restaurant we wanted to try existed, so it was out of desperation.

2. Slept in, in the only way I can: by waking up early, then passing out repeatedly until I get bored.

3. Went to TJ Maxx and bought a lightweight black hoodie and a nice Anolon hard anodized 10"/3-qt. saute pan.

4. Watched the last disc of Homicide season 3.

5. Ordered and picked up some pizza from Amici's again.

6. Slept in slightly less.

7. Watched the second disc of Deadwood season 1, which warmed me to the show.

8. Took a walk around the part of the Don Edwards SF Bay National Wildlife Refuge that has an entrance in Alviso. Saw a pretty sunset and some pretty birds and things.

9. Got burritos for dinner.

10. Now there is a fucking jackhammer outside. It's time to go.

Because I am a big dork...

I'm totally excited to learn that there is an open source layout program: Scribus.

Not that almost anyone besides me will give a shit, but whoa.

It appears to have the same basic functionality as Quark and Adobe's products, though the interface and navigation are going to take some getting used to. I had the same problem with the GIMP at first, and now it all makes sense.

Anyway, it made me think that I'd like to do the zine project with as much open source stuff as possible. Not in an overt way; I don't want it to be *about* open source by any means, but I'd like to make something that uses open source and isn't a purely geek exercise. I think open source is way cool, and it would be fun to apply it to something other than my minimal Linux skills.

Life as a situation comedy.

Two tales of Friday:

1. My boyfriend, leaning heavily on Curb Your Enthusiasm for inspiration, wants to start carrying marbles with him to restaurants. With the marbles, he plans to test waitstaff patience by experimenting with the angle of the table surface. Will it roll? How much is the table tilted?

He thinks this would make a great focus for a restaurant review site, though he is unwilling to dissuade people from trying a restaurant based on his own reviews. I asked if the reviews would focus on the flatness of the eating surface or the quality of the food, and he said both.

A side note: In high school, I carried around a small velveteen pouch containing two marbles and a semi-precious stone with the word "Peace" engraved on it. The latter was inside the pouch to symbolize "inner peace," (I know) but the marbles I carried around just so I wouldn't lose them. When I told Kevin that, he thought it was ridiculous. I'd lose them if I carried them around instead of keeping them in a safe place, he said. I said I didn't lose them then, but upon reflection, I don't know where they are now, so I guess I've lost my marbles.

2. Apologies to my coworker, should he ever find this, but he came into my office this afternoon just to tell me about a dream he'd had the night before. Apparently, his dream had a commercial. A commercial for Jennifer Aniston Sings Motown and R&B hits. He said he could hear her nasally voice in his dream.

I thought that was beautiful.

The best things always find me.

Sunday night ended up being some fun, as Kevin's dad, his girlfriend, and her daughter all stopped by in the evening. We hung out and ate ice cream (uh, well, mostly it was Kevin's dad and his girlfriend's daughter and I who polished off two pints of Haagen-Dazs, but who's counting) and played Apples to Apples. Kevin's dad beat everyone by a long shot.

(Side note to the Harem: It's hard to play the "Your Mom" custom card in a group where one player's mom is present, one player's dad is present and divorced from that player's mom, and one player's mom is deceased.)

Their impromptu visit spurred a rapid housecleaning effort by yours truly, as the house was in its usual embarrassingly disgusting state. Kevin's dad went into the backyard and picked up three grocery bags' worth of apples that had fallen to the ground but weren't rotten or wormy and took them home to juice.

The house stayed clean enough that I wasn't too embarrassed to ask the Editor over to watch a movie when he suggested we go catch one in the theater Monday night. I couldn't get the monitor in the living room to turn on, so I dragged Kevin's 13" TV out, swiped the RCA cable from my TV, and hooked up the hacked CyberHome player on a chair two feet from the couches. This worked out well, at least as soon as Kevin dug up the remote so we could turn on the subtitles.

The movie was Eyes Without a Face, a French thriller from 1959. It was damn good and creepy, though in retrospect, the concept of face-stealing seems ridiculous. It does make me wonder when cosmetic surgery became well-known, though, because that would have sort of negated the need for the entire plot of the film. And also, apparently Paris police are dumb. But it was enjoyable.

One complaint I have about Netflix is the lack of labeling things as Criterion Collection releases, and it would be nice to be able to search for those as well. Reckless Video in my old Seattle neighborhood had a special Criterion shelf, and it was always cool to pick something out of that and know I'd end up with something worthwhile.

I've been working on a small project at work that requires a modicum of creative thought. Imagine that. I also worked on five regular projects before 11, only to spend most of the rest of the day twiddling my thumbs. Sheesh.

I wish I had more interesting things to say, but I don't. I'm boring. Sorry.

The zine project is still being contemplated. I have emailed several of you and I EXPECT to hear back. Hah. (Jesse gets a pass due to the whole getting-married-in-Romania thing, but the rest of you!) My sister has offered to draw a political comic off "Stay Hungry." What will YOU do?

A valiant attempt.

I'm really trying to make a weekend. I am.

Yesterday I was out of the house from 9:30 until 3, shopping and watching a movie. (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was pretty good, by the way. If you're one of those people who never saw or didn't like the original movie, I'd even go so far as to say liking this one hardly amounts to blasphemy. It's a good adaptation of the novel rather than a rehash of the movie.) I went out again later to see what was at the local Ross, where I have decent luck finding clothes. Kevin and I had a late dinner of pizza takeout from Amici's in Mountain View. So far, so good.

This morning, I met up with my coworker and her roommate to drive up the winding Page Mill Road into the Palo Alto hills for a little hike. It was a lovely drive and a great little walk. But I was home before noon--wouldn't want to be out in the blazing full afternoon sun--and that left me with a whole afternoon to fill. Which I'm currently contemplating.

There's the North Beach Jazz Festival, which my sister suggested, though at this point, I'm feeling pretty beat and a trek into SF to watch jazz, which is not my favorite genre, sounds only mildly appealing. There are no other movies playing this afternoon within a 15-mi. radius of my house that I want to see. The few people I know are either working or busy or I don't want to bug them.

I do have a DVD to watch, at least. And I guess I could, uh, read or something.

But really, I did try.

Feeling fictional.

Maybe life has just gotten too dull, but my mind has turned to thoughts of the made up and surreal, even though that isn't its normal orientation. I had visions of a story about commercial pirates--the swashbuckling kind, not mp3 freeloaders--in a world with a zombie problem. This is the kind of thing I might think to write two paragraphs on and never return to, because I haven't got the heart for fiction.

And it struck me, maybe I've lost the heart for storytelling altogether. I can't tell you how many times I've started a story in the past few months, only to finish with the other person saying, "...yeah?," a disappointed lilt to their voice. There's all kinds of strange occurrences that become built up in my mind and turn to mush when I try to let them out. It's bad news.

I don't know how I ever wrote anything, at this point. I think about it and wonder how I had the patience and concentration.

I wonder if it's a symptom of thoughts I've been hiding away, like tshirts in an overflowing drawer, and now I can't close the drawer and I can't find anything, either. I'm getting lost in mundane metaphors and similes made up for the sake of pretending one neuron can still make a connection with another neuron in some meaningful way.

And I come here and tell you all about blah blah blah. Today I bought coffee. I was out. I ate lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant with some coworkers. I had the vegetable curry and fresh spring rolls. When I came home, my boyfriend and I went out for Ethiopian again. We always order the veggie combo and mitten shiro. The latter is as warm and comforting in my hands as its coincidental namesake.

I have plans to see a matinee of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and hit up some inexpensive clothing stores tomorrow. Sunday's plans remain tentative. I am trying very hard.

How is everyone else? Anyone want to write for my zine? I'll start. I'll get right on it. I'll make something real someday.

All the schadenfreude, none of the annoying singing.

That's what I've been telling people about So You Think You Can Dance, the surprisingly entertaining show that does for dancing what American Idol did for horrible vocal pop.* They take breakdancers and try to coreograph them. They tell effeminate male ballet dancers they aren't masculine enough. They fail to tell the fat chick en pointe that she looks like a hippo, though they do cringe a lot. Anyway, it's very funny, and I actually like watching people dance.

So I've been suckered into yet another shitty summer reality show. So what. It's not like I'll put off any social engagements to watch it.

"Social engagements." Hah!

Pretty much all I've done this week is go to work and actually spend most of the time working. I did see Once Upon a Time in the West, thanks to the Editor, who thought it a horrible oversight that I'd never seen it when I listed The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly in my top 10 movies I liked a lot that I've seen more than once. He was right; it's a much bigger, richer, fulfilling movie, and once I see it a second time, I can switch it out on the list.

I am looking for weekend plans. Hello, weekend plans, where are you? I may do something with my coworker friend, like visit hilly San Francisco or some happy trees in the Santa Cruz area, but otherwise, I've been on the lookout for plans that have yet to materialize. I browsed Pollstar and some ticket sites and Metroactive for things of interest and nothing really caught my eye. Apparently there's some grand prix racing thing in downtown San Jose that's causing lots of streets to be closed and half my office is excited to go down and check it out; needless to say, I'm less interested.

Anyway, the thing is, I have to get out of the house for most of the weekend or my boyfriend will start to hate me. And I will start to hate myself (OH, TOO LATE). Unless I'm on the rag, in which case, I will be sitting in my swelteringly hot room in a fetal position, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.

I really want/need to see a show in the near-to-immediate future. I don't know what. Aja can't come in August for Dinosaur Jr and I don't know that I'd go alone; Kevin and I are going to Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright in about a month, but that's not the kind of show where you rock out and get sweaty as fuck and are all like YEAH, though it should be enjoyable.

Besides, rocking out is good exercise, isn't it?

*Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been, a regular viewer or fan of American Idol.

I have a dark chocolate-mint problem.

Namely, it's apparently hard to find. Whole Foods was out of the two tried-and-true bars in the "not obscene" price range that were not Ghiradelli (blech)--that is, the Endangered Species kind and the Lake Champlain bar--so I ended up with some Stonyfield Farms chocolate mint chip frozen yogurt. This was unfortunate, because it's not the traditional mint ice cream-chocolate chip arrangement, but rather dry, vaguely minty chips swimming in a barely chocolatey soup. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the label.

This comes in stark contrast to the "light" Haagen-Daz mint chocolate chip, which is barely less fattening than most regular grocery store ice creams, but incredibly delicious, or the Double Rainbow mint chocolate chip soy cream, which is so good, it makes me want to cry sometimes that the usual outlets seem not to be selling it anymore.

Yes, I am a whore. A whore for dark chocolate. And mint. But mostly chocolate.

So, I had kind of a bad weekend, and I don't want to go into it, but it could have meant a pretty major lifestyle change for me, but it has at least temporarily resolved itself, so don't you worry your pretty little heads about me. And don't fucking ask when I'm moving back to Seattle.

I need to get a life. I keep doing nothing, and it's really lame. I don't know why, either--it's like I'm terrified to do stuff alone. Which is so completely laughable, I don't even know what to think. I mean, consider the things I have done by my damn self: for god's sake, I went all the way around the world on my own to spend time with strangers. Why is it so hard for me to go hang out in a coffee shop or to a movie here?

On the plus side, we hung out with Kevin's dad and all that, sitting around the much-cooler Aptos when it was certainly 90+ degrees in San Jose and playing Pictionary well into the night. Heh. I watched Wild at Heart and Born into Brothels on Sunday, both of which were great. It was hot as fuck all day, which always makes me want to die.

But I'm not dead, and I'm not going to die.

An idea.

So, as you may know, I've been wanting to put together a zine for a long time now. I need a creative outlet that requires more effort than this beast and is a little less navel-gazing than redesigning the rest of my personal site, plus I've just always wanted to make a zine.

In my recent commenting back-and-forth with Julie, I came up with a new idea. Let me know what you think.

Each issue would be an album: It would take the title of the record, and each article would correspond to one of the songs. The link between the song and the subject of the story may be tenuous at best, but it's a jumping off point. The design could be inspired by the cover art of the album and such. All manner of subjects could be tackled; I just don't want poetry or a ton of fiction.

For example, one could be the Talking Heads' More Songs About Buildings and Food. The track listing on that album:

1. Thank You for Sending Me an Angel
2. With Our Love
3. The Good Thing
4. Warning Sign
5. The Girls Want to Be with the Girls
6. Found a Job
7. Artists Only
8. I'm Not in Love
9. Stay Hungry
10. Take Me to the River
11. The Big Country

Regardless of whether or not you know these songs, you could use the titles as inspiration for an essay, story, personal reflection, or feature about anything. Make sense?

Maybe this record is just general enough where others could be problematic. I don't know. Anyone want to give it a shot?

ETA: Here is a page with further suggestions.

Some things you just shouldn't do.

People shouldn't cross an arterial road at night against the light. That's just fucking insane. That's how I just almost fucking hit someone coming home tonight.

I was driving down a 5-lane road near my house with a speed limit of 35 mph, probably going about 40. Everyone does. I approached a light where there is a left turn signal. The oncoming traffic was stopped so someone could turn left from my side of the road and I had a green, so I kept driving. Suddenly, she appeared from among the stopped headlights, crossing against the light, and I screeched to a halt, certainly inches from her. She was running away with a terrified expression, but I didn't hit her. So I kept going, which was maybe not the right thing to do. Are you supposed to stop if you didn't actually hit? But jesus christ, she was running away.

If you're going to jaywalk, do it responsibly. Especially at night. Jesus fucking christ.

My heart was pounding and my body was shivering for the rest of the drive home. My god, what if I did hit her? What would have happened? Who is at fault?

As a driver, I know I have a responsibility to look out for pedestrians, which I do. I stop to let pedestrians cross when I'm waiting to turn right; I look both ways at the mid-block crosswalks in my neighborhood. I spent a long time as a pedestrian myself; I know what assholes drivers can be. Pedestrians should be given the right of way in all cases, but what if they're breaking the law and you don't see them?

What if my eyes failed me and I ran a red light without even knowing it?

What if someone witnessed it, thought I hit her, and called the police on my ass for a hit and run?

Thought-showers.

I wasn't even going to post today--not a whole hell of a lot to say--but I wanted to respond to this week's Free Will Astrology for me.

This week's horoscope was about brainstorms: "I don't care what term you employ, Sagittarius, as long as you just do it. You're overdue for prolonged encounters with mind volcanoes, imagination avalanches, and creativity hurricanes."

I AM A HURRICANE. I have killed people!

But I'm having trouble with my creative side. I just can't get started. I need to spend more time talking to people. This isn't even possible at work anymore because we are too freakin' busy. Unfortunately, that is my greatest exposure to fellow humans.

It's getting a little desperate up there in my head.

Also, cats are cool.

And in case you hadn't already seen these sites which have been making the Internet Dorkdom rounds for weeks already, here they are.

Kitten War

and

Stuff on my Cat

If I ever get a cat, I am naming it Snark. But I am allergic to cats and so is Kevin, so that isn't happening any time soon.

I will also take this opportunity to tell Aja that she needs to come here in August and we will go see Dinosaur Jr. Because just saying so on IRC isn't meaningful enough. I also promise pancakes and a rousing game of Apples to Apples.

Back and forth. Forever.

This is blatant google-baiting, but please go see Me and You and Everyone We Know so you will understand the line above. And then you will laugh with me about it. I cannot explain the joke because you will think I am dumb and it will ruin everything. Just, go.

And now, a round-up of recent search terms that brought people to my humble web abode.

mclenin's explanation
What's to explain? It's a tshirt with a drawing of Lenin and the Golden Arches. It says "The Party is Over." It's kind of awesome.

"daybed with storage"
Well, that's a fascinating search that brings you to a blog.

"bittersweet symphony" lyrics mourn
I don't know what this is referring to, exactly--I don't recall the word "mourn" in the song. Maybe a band called Mourn covered it.

skittles sheep boy commercial
I'm surprised how many hits I get from people searching for commercials. I wasn't sure what to make of that commercial, and I'm definitely not sure what to make of people who want to see it again so badly they google it.

carkeek park train pictures
Oh, this is a good one. My favorite park in the city of Seattle has a rickety pedestrian bridge that crosses the railroad to get to the beach. When the trains come, you can stand on the bridge and it feels almost like you're going to be swept away. (This effect is best felt with freight trains; Amtrak feels wussy in comparison.)

mister olympia 2004
Given that this referral was from the Portuguese google, I can only assume they are not referring to some kind of male pageant in my hometown.

Gravy Train song " You Make me Nervous" and
You make me nervous. hella, hella nervous
I get so many fucking hits for this lyric, I swear to god. The last time I did this, I had the same thing. Go here.

i was driving when the radiator burst mountain goats
The lyrics game will be the death of me. "See America Right" was the first Mountain Goats song I ever heard.

"trivial pursuit pop culture" questions
Oh, dude. These are fun, but ridiculously easy. RIDICULOUS. I recently played--I think it was the '90s edition; whatever it is Josie has that is recent--mopped the floor with it, friends. There is too much excess information floating around up there. This is how I know I am my father's daughter.

questionnaire Would you come to my funeral
Weeeeeird. I don't know what questionnaire you'd need someone to fill out to ensure full funeral attendance. I know at least two songs that refer to funerals, though: "Dress Sexy at my Funeral" by Smog and "With Bells On" by Sloan. Have fun searching.

"netflix for music"
Netflix for music that works exactly like movie Netflix would be lame. However, I can recommend eMusic as a cool mp3 downloading site.

"united state of electronica" KEXP dancers
Sometimes I'm surprised that my seething irritation with the U.S.E. doesn't get me hate mail, considering (1) how apparently popular they are in Seattle and (2) how many freaking hits I get about them.

the daily growl lyrics
I couldn't google them, either. Some bands are hard to find straight-up lyrics listings for when the 'net is so cluttered with reviews. Lambchop must be one of them.

swirlie
I don't even know what to say about this. It's so whimsical, and yet depressing.

No one has searched for "peanut butter and jelly, that's what I like in my belly" recently. I'm sad.

P-p-p-p-p-por favor!

Telemundo is showing Who Framed Roger Rabbit? right now, dubbed into Spanish, of course. Every time there is a visual component with English writing on it, there's some narrator who VO's the interpretation. This happened at least six times in the opening Baby Herman cartoon. It's awesome.

I spent a large chunk of the day watching episodes of Airline so I can return the DVD, then He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, which was really, really dumb. I saw the preview a few years ago and knew then what the basic plot would be. I'm not sure why I added it to my queue or how I neglected to take it out before I actually got it.

If it cools off around 6, we might go for a walk near the Bay, but otherwise, today is a day of extreme laziness. It's 80 degrees and that makes me want to die. I know, I know--that's nothing. Still, air conditioning is about the only reason to look forward to work tomorrow.

Man, Roger Rabbit has a more hilariously adverse reaction to liquor than I do. I just think it tastes like cough syrup, no matter how low the alcohol content or how tasty the supposed flavor. But it would be much cooler if my response to, "What? Why don't you drink?" was: "My eyes pop out of their sockets and I start changing colors and shaking violently."

Riding the electrified third rail.

First of all, it was a mistake to think I could get away with wearing my new boots in San Francisco. My sister and I, no matter how lazy our plans, always spend at least an hour walking all told. She will say a place is at "the end of my street," and it's 12 blocks away.

So by the time I reached the Powell St. BART station around 8 p.m., my calves and toes were crying out for mercy.

Not that this precludes the day from being full of joy and wonder, mind you. Margot's new apartment is in an awesome location and looks amazing. Her new roommate is sweet. Her bar is stocked, not that this matters to me, but it does to her. Her kitchen has a gas range. You could do a lot worse.

We picked up a falafel to split and had coffee from somewhere--iced--and hung out at her place for awhile before the day's activity was decided. It was determined that we would go to a store and buy things to cook. This involved a bus trip up Geary to Trader Joe's, where Margot stocked up on liquor, coffee, and coffee-flavored liquor, and I got things to make a small Mexican-style feast.

The food turned out amazing: tilapia fillets baked in a jar full of Cuban mojito sauce, black beans mashed with garlic and baked with pepper jack cheese, and avocado mashed up with fresh lime and salt; finished off with pico de gallo and thick corn tortillas. We ate it all. We are gluttons.

At that point, we determined that a visit to Good Vibrations was in order. Margot said it was "just up the street" from her apartment, which it was, in fact, not. That is when my toes inside my boots started screaming at me. Perhaps I really am not cut out for wearing shoes with a 2-inch heel after all. Anyway, we went to Goodwill on the way, which was amusing and somewhat productive. I found two boring shirts to wear to work; as we were heading to the register, Margot spotted a cute, hippie-ish top that fit her perfectly and was quite flattering, really. Score. Good Vibrations yielded the expected level of amusement from penis pasta, boob cake tins, flaccid dildos for sexual acts we are too young to know about, and multicolored vibrators of all shapes, sizes, and species. I don't even want to know how many high-larious google hits that last sentence is going to get me.

My feet were trying to fall off my body, so we thought about catching a movie, but our timing was all wrong, so we parted ways and I got on the next train towards home.

And here I am. Home. Happy to be barefoot.

I know it ain't gonna last.

Hello, America. Got any good weekend plans?

Me, I'm just taking advantage of the unfortunate circumstance of my sister's boyfriend's jerkiness which lead her to be in San Francisco and not scheduled to work this weekend (when she was supposed to be in Seaside, Ore.). That is, I'm going up to the city tomorrow to check out her new place and probably bug her for a few hours before coming home to rot further in front of my TV and/or stereo.

Things that are good for my ears this week: John Vanderslice, Dan Bern (thanks to the Editor), Sufjan Stevens, the Pixies, Charles Mingus, and oddly, Mercury Rev. I am just barely over the Mountain Goats obsession hump. My boss popped in a Sleep Chamber CD while we worked overtime alone in the office the other night, which was alternately interesting and creepy-hilarious.

I haven't been spending much time watching TV. It's too hot to not listen to music. Besides, even the second-rate reality crap I was watching is now ending, so it's a whole lot of who-the-fuck-cares. Besides, music is much less enraging.

I'm so fucking tired from this week. Restless and tired.

Time and a half.

Christine said something interesting in an email. She suggested we should be able to network for friends like some people do for jobs. I suppose that's ultimately what happens on the Internet, but it doesn't make what she wrote any less amusing: "Instead of saying, 'I'm looking for a job, these are my skills and interests, do you know of any' you say, 'I'm looking for friends, these are my skills and interests, do you know of any?'"

I'm going out of my head with boredom. I really am. I am so bored that I am trying once again to like Xiu Xiu. No one is talking on IRC, no one is on AIM, no one is at my house, and you know how I feel about the phone when it comes to people who are not already considered "safe." (Yeah, I have some fucking issues I need to resolve.)

I was at work until 7. It's after 9 and I can't even find my boyfriend. Not that he wants to do anything besides curl up with his musical equipment this week, so I'm not sure which is more frustrating: that he's not here, or that he probably wouldn't want much to do with me if he were here.

That's a sad fucking statement. I promise that isn't all there is to life all the time. He's a software engineer with an artistic side and a deep loner streak. These things happen.

I need some mental stimulation. I need more things to get excited about and less to whine about. I need to go out and find those things.

Category 2!

Hurricane!

Is it wrong to be amused by a destructive storm that shares my name?

Deeeeeeluxe.

Bean sprouts, that is. Stolen from my memory of the Thai-ger Room.

-1 block of firm tofu, drained of as much water as possible
-cornstarch
-oil to fry

Cut the tofu into wedges and dust it with the cornstarch. Then fry on each side until lightly browned.

In a wok or other large pan, saute:

-little oil
-tons of garlic (no, really. Tons)
-as much red pepper as you can handle

Add the fried tofu wedges and:

-soy sauce, to taste
-3 chopped scallions

Cook the wedges a little more until they are coated with flavor. Mmmm, flavor. Take out and set aside, but be sure to leave most of the scallions, garlic, and pepper in the pan. Then add:

-a whole bunch of bean sprouts
-a little extra soy sauce if you need to deglaze the pan or something

Stir the flavor and the bean sprouts quickly, being careful not to overcook the sprouts.

Serve with rice. Brown if you're a health nut like me. Hah.

Aside from the time it took to prepare the tofu, this takes maybe 10 minutes to do. And you can buy pre-cooked fried tofu from many Asian markets. Yum.

Three entries in one day? It may be a RECORD.

As fucking promised.

Without further ado, here's a list of movies. Or two lists. Or one list broken into two sub-lists. Anyway, there's 10 of 'em; I've committed.

5 for Funny

1. The Big Lebowski

But of course, it isn't great only because it's funny. I laugh and I quote, but there is so much more. If you have not seen it or you do not like it, you do not understand. If you were stoned and/or drunk for it, you might not understand. This movie makes me want to write analytical papers of LOVE.

2. Harold and Maude

Again, not an entirely hilarious movie, but the comedy is black as night. I've already made all of you watch it. I don't have to explain it.

3. Dr. Strangelove (or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb)

So many perfect lines. It's probably my favorite Kubrick (though A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket are awesome as well).

4. Rushmore

God, I have nothing intelligent to say about these movies, at least not in this context. The criteria appear to be: This movie made me laugh. This movie made me think. This movie made me watch it again and again. This movie made me force my friends to watch it. This movie made me repeat lines and situations from it. Rushmore's more oft-quoted line: “Oh, ARE you?”

5. The Princess Bride

This failed to make me think too much, but it succeeds on all other counts. It's a shared cultural experience, really. Best in Show receives an honorable mention here.


5 for Not-Funny

1. Hedwig and the Angry Inch

This is the only—ONLY—musical I have ever loved. Well, okay, The Sound of fucking Music (Nazis!), but this totally wins. I actually like the music and there is some semblance of plot and character development.

2. Rear Window

This may be only because I own it on VHS, but I've watched it many times, and it only improves with each viewing.

3. Heavenly Creatures

A Peter Jackson movie that isn't horror or fantasy? With a young Kate Winslet and disarmingly fucked-up based-on-a-true-story plot? Love it.

4. Annie Hall

I know Woody Allen is both hated and a comedian, but I don't find his movies very ha-ha funny, at least not the ones that resonate.

5. The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

If for no other reason than the amazing score...but of course, the movie is at least as good as the score.

I have a hard time committing to the latter group, especially, because a lot of movies I think are amazing I've only seen once, and I don't feel comfortable plopping those down in my top 5 or 10 or whatever.

Confidential to the Editor: Happy now?

Here I am.

Rock you like a hurricane.

Notice my emphasis on LIKE A. Because right now I am only a tropical storm. But I can pick up wind speed and make landfall and fuck some shit up!

Always look on the bright side of life.

Apologies to Monty Python.

Things may be hectic and ridiculous at work, but one big headache got shoved out the door along with almost everything else by 5 p.m., and I made it through the day without shooting myself in the head. Any day where I don't actually die is probably okay on some level.

After work, I met up with the Editor again. He scored passes to the Santa Cruz Built to Spill show, but we decided to skip it in favor of not driving over the hill and getting back after midnight or worse. Instead, we saw Me and You and Everyone We Know, which was better than anticipated. I mean, I'd heard it was decent, but I enjoyed it very much. Some people, who shall remain nameless, with certain in-jokes with me about poop will enjoy its humor, though it is at times even more surprisingly crass than we could ever imagine.

Don't we all have a few in-jokes about poop with someone? No? You people live sad little lives.

AND ALSO. For those who are about to fucking ask. This is not dating. If I were to hang out with a chick and do the same things, no one would say that. This annoys me, for some reason.

When I arrived home, a USPS package containing my new boots was waiting for me. They are so cute! They will require much breaking in, but they are cute! I have cute shoes! And I did not pay $150 for them! ...Only $50. They were on sale from Nordstrom.com, and only in black and only in my size.

Okay, tomorrow I will do up the 10 movies. I made a promise. I will also make my pathetic approximation of bean sprout deluxe (a la the Thai-ger Room). That is the plan. But plans, as we all know, are wont to change.

Empty title.

I'm completely devoid of commentary this week. I've had pretty much nothing to do at work when everyone else is crazy-busy. (It was this crazy-busy-ness that cheated me out of Friday night's plans, incidentally.)

So I keep wanting to write, but I don't know what to write about (besides the movies, which I want to be in the mood to do, because right now I'm liable to be all, "I dunno, I kind of don't give a fuck about anything, here's some shit I gave 5 stars on Netflix, blah").

Lots of parentheticals. I am bored to the point of being drained.

I tried to get Kevin to go hiking today--pursuant to his desire to not use up an entire weekend or even a day on these sorts of activities, what bothers they are, I attempted to pick a moderate difficulty 2-3 hour trail in advance that is located less than an hour drive away, and I could have directions and food ready to go in the morning. The 45 minutes it would take to drive up in the hills west of here was too far, he said, as was anything around Hwy 9 in the redwoods. He said maybe something closer, but still with trees. I don't think you can get trees much closer than 45 minutes. I grew weary of this argument (mostly one-sided on my part, because he doesn't get angry, he just picks a branch of logic and goes with it) and have had a lazy Saturday to show for it.

Maybe we can go to the wildlife refuge in the early evening, after the sun goes down a little. It won't be muddy and stormy like last time we went, and it is reasonably pretty.

In happier news, my new burner rules. I burned a CD in under 5 minutes. Kevin found an app, k3b, that supports on-the-fly decoding of mp3s and OGGs for audio CDs and works very much like Easy CD Creator and all that. The interface is a little fluffy and clumsy, but user-friendly and functional. I think he also got DVD support working because he was using it earlier.

On the other hand, I have apparently lost my old homepage/blog layout graphics, and that is really annoying. I must've deleted them from everywhere I still have access to. Fuck. Redesign in the works when I fucking feel like it.

My old blog is depressing me, because even though the summer of 2002 was a crazy time, I was writing a lot and I actually like the way I wrote some things and was excited about stuff. Pretty much everything I've written lately has been so lame, it reminds me of why I quit playing guitar: it's frustrating and I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere with it. I must've lost my callouses.

People have commented that I am a very angry person. I'm not sure if I was always this angry, or if it's just been building. I take it out on things I can't control, but I know it isn't about other drivers and television commercials. I think it's okay to scream sometimes, even if it's petty, because it lets a little of the deeper anger slip out, too. But maybe I'm fooling myself on that one.

For my own amusement, may I present...

Me, at age 20. A tumultuous year, indeed.

I fixed the template so it isn't using images that have long since been deleted from UW's servers. That was a pretty, pretty layout, though.

Whine and dine.

I promised The Editor (how's that for a creative moniker?) I'd write about my top 10 movies this week, but I'm not feeling up to it today. I received M in the mail and still have my mom's copy of The Motorcycle Diaries to watch, but I've strangely not been in the mood.

This did not, however, stop me from seeing Kung Fu Hustle last night, which was exactly the kind of happy pill I needed this week. I also realized how much I fucking miss going to movies and doing things and oh man. I gotta do shit more often. Talking to cool people + seeing cool things + not sitting home on my lazy white ass on an otherwise dead weeknight = good. I even have plans for Friday night, as my coworker and I decided to go see (probably) Howl's Moving Castle and have some dinner.

I cannot stop listening to the Mountain Goats. It's sort of driving me insane, but it's all I want to hear anymore. This happens sometimes after I see a band, though, and the obsession always fades.

I don't even know what I was thinking I'd write about today. It's weird times. I woke up to the news about London, as I'm sure everyone did. I'm slowly contemplating where I want to be in life and how to get there, that sort of thing, because while I'm okay now, it certainly isn't where I want to be forever. But who is at that place at age 23? Or, for that matter, 30?

I've known since I was a teenager I could do better.

God bless America.

It gets harder every year to think of an appropriately cynical way to mark this holiday.

Instead of making a picnic and heading for a grassy knoll with 60,000 others to watch pyrotechnics in a designated locale, Kevin and I headed to the Redwoods for a stroll, where Kevin came up with a potentially brilliant idea I will discuss in a moment. After that, we headed into Santa Cruz, browsed Streetlight, noticed our favorite Thai restaurant in town had disappeared, and went to Capitola to eat dinner at Dharma's. (When I crave a salad, I crave the basic salad from Dharma's with their tahini-lemon dressing that's inexplicably good.)

Kevin's brilliant idea is to rent another place near Santa Cruz in which to spend the weekends. He wants the Redwoods. He was torn between a tiny place or a big place; considering whether or not to move his music equipment; questioning how much time he could realistically spend there. Upon checking rental availability and rates on Craigslist, I think he may be reconsidering, but it's kind of a happy thought, anyway.

The Redwoods are always lovely to visit. There's a certain serenity in the carpet of shamrocks, each on their own planes tilting toward sunlight. While younger trees stand straight and tall, the more ancient creatures and those recently passed display knots and gnarls and the gentle patterns of age as though imbued with the likeness of the divine itself. This visible spirit is awe-inspiring, really.

We never made it to the sand. Several beaches were blocked to traffic and already overrun with eager fireworks spectators, and by the time we parked somewhere in Aptos, I didn't feel like making the trek. I saw the ocean and felt the breeze; that was enough for me. Not so for Kevin, but he's sort of at my mercy as a bitchy girl.

I haven't seen a single firework today, though I've heard dozens. With or without them, these days there's little to stir the rah-rah spirit within me as far as national pride goes.

Three days of nothing.

I must have some kind of cosmic time-management problem. Only typical weekends seem to get packed with activity, while this expansive holiday weekend, I can barely find a reason to drag myself out of bed. I've been spoiled by houseguests, who always want to do things.

Sure, I've got DVDs to watch—or did, until I watched them all—and I'm in the middle of a great book, The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. Yesterday I found a decent pair of jeans at Ross and bought some pretty black slacks at Target. Kevin got my burner working, at least the CD capabilities and using a command line interface I'm not nearly smart enough to know how to use yet, so I can listen to Tallahassee in the car. It's been hot as hell, and yet I made soup yesterday. I'm not feeling creative enough to throw together anything else; in other dishes, overcooked vegetables are more of a detraction. My plants are almost certainly dying.

I painted my short (but not bitten) nails Vixen red, much to Kevin's amusement. He seems to find it funny whenever I do something girly. Wear a skirt; he giggles. Shave my legs; he's laughing. Go shopping for clothes; he's confused. Dye my hair; he marvels at the disgusting state of affairs while the color sets. I have never met a boy so strangely and openly beguiled by a girl's simple vanity. (And it is simple—if you've ever met me, you probably know I put minimal effort into my appearance. The hair gel is just because my hair doesn't take barrettes kindly and it sucks to have hair falling in my face all day at work.)

So today may or may not be filled by an assortment of activities from the following: thrifting at the Savers on Bascom (Savers is to California what Value Village is to Washington), visiting Kevin's coworker's holiday party, watching streaming video of Deep Impact, a round of mini-golf, seeing a movie like Me and You and Everyone We Know, going to Whole Foods for tahini to make hummus, visiting a park or one of the open spaces. So far we've agreed to exactly none of these activities, but if I don't get out of the house today, I'm going to be whiny. How this differs from the norm, I don't know.

Last night we went to Udupi Palace, which serves vegetarian South Indian food that is relatively non-greasy and tends to be yummy. I ordered a spinach masala dosa and masala tea. Because I was starving when a regular masala dosa arrived, I figured my order was misheard and dove in. A few minutes later, a spinach masala dosa arrived, followed by Kevin's order. I figured there was a mistake in the order, that the waiter thought I ordered a masala dosa instead of masala tea, but when the bill arrived, I saw that wasn't the case. I paid a little extra tip, packed up the spinach masala dosa, and went home, confused and very full. I never did get any tea.

We saw the fireworks at Great America from 237 as we went to the restaurant. I've heard events in my neighborhood since Friday night, as well as the loud POP sounds from kids playing with explosives. This is going to go on for the next week, at least. I hate the 4th of July.

One of those weeks.

Some nights, I really wish I liked the taste of alcohol. Work has been hectic, to say the least, and I'm so glad it's a 3-day weekend, despite my complete lack of plans.

Well, there's DVDs, and possibly some movies, and maybe we'll go down to Santa Cruz or a park. And my bathtub needs cleaning. My new burner arrived, so I'll have to get Kevin to work on it. There are many CDs I'd like to burn, many Mountain Goats records from emusic I want to have in my car, many fun mixes to create, many cover songs to gather for the stranger from the Internet (whose name is TOP SECRET, apparently, in my mind).

Oh, I fucked up. I was going to write, but I turned on the TV. The TV kills all writing thoughts that do not involve irrational anger toward commercials. Bad TV!

Things could be worse, though. I could be homeless and begging for money in the Whole Foods parking lot.

Foods that are making me happy today.

Besides all of them.

Breakfast of Trader Joe's California complete protein bread with almond butter and marionberry preserves, strawberry yogurt, and cranberry-orange juice.

Lunch from the Trader Joe's refrigerated section: vegetable sushi, noodles with carrots, cilantro-lime dressing, and toasted coconut and peanuts, and a protein with PZAZZ (I swear that is how they spell it, inexplicably) shake.

We picked up a box of lime juice popcicles, too, and enjoyed them later in the afternoon.

Dinner? Ethiopian again. This time with Kevin's mom and grandfather, so we were able to order pretty much every vegetarian item (and his grandfather had the lamb, thanks to Chris's previous recommendation). Gojo's vegetarian menu includes a veggie combo of the spicy red lentils, mild yellow split peas, collard greens, a mixture of cabbage, carrots, and potatoes, and a lightly dressed green salad. In addition to that, we get mitten shiro, which is a smooth gravy of pureed chickpeas and spices, and timatim fitfit, a cold, sour mixture of tomato, onion, bell peppers, and pieces of injera. It is all super delicious and I LOVE IT.

Despite my very full belly, I felt the need to break into my super dark chocolate bar. It soothes the soul. Plus, I have some sparkling lemonade.

And this is all I can think to write about today.

Fellow bloggers, avail yourselves.

The MIT Weblog Survey is cool. It's like making science!

Putting it out there.

I'm not a writer. I write, but I don't think of myself as a writer. You'd think a girl who got a degree in journalism and has a(n admittedly paltry) portfolio of published and non-published nonfiction would be a writer, but no.

But I'd like to be, I think. I'd like to be part of that process. It's enthralling.

And so, as a kind of first step in that direction, I'm going to write down why I'm not a writer now. The stupid excuses I have to get over before I can think of myself as fully realized adult and claim myself for what I want to be. My sister's the artist, my brother's the musician, and I'm the writer.

Is that self-absorbed enough to start? Good. It's about to get worse.

I need to be confident in my abilities. I can get through an interview without stuttering or making people think I'm a complete asshole; I need to stop thinking like I can't.

I need to believe in my own ideas. People read the boring shit I throw up here; surely even a half-researched and competently written story about not-me would be interesting to more people.

I need to stop thinking that the butterflies in my stomach give me an out.

I need to trust people. I missed a lot of opportunities in college because I wasn't willing to put myself out there.

I need to find a way to get the thoughts in my head out that doesn't involve waiting until I reach my destination. I also need to hope these ideas don't come out only to reveal themselves as crap.

I need to think of bedtime as flexible.

I need to value ideas and process over laziness.

I need to treat my blog as more than a schedule receptacle.

***

This isn't quite a to-do list, just a list of things I'm aware that I blame for my complacency.

Anything you want to know about? I'm accepting story requests. They can be anything that could be covered in a brief entry and wouldn't require press credentials to competently research.

It's an experiment I'm willing to try. Anyone else out there?

Ten Records I Still Love.

In no particular order, and subject to change at whim.

The Northwest Bands:

• Death Cab for Cutie, We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes
  Before I had to explain to people that the guy from the Postal Service was in this other band, which is also, believe it or not, ridiculously popular for an indie, there was this record. And it is love.
  
  
• Unwound, The Future of What?!
  Every time I try to explain why this record rocks me, all I can come up with is lyrics: “I'm on a subway to a place I can't pronounce / But at least I didn't pay. / A train of thought for a movie plot / Starring me and you, insane. / Can I tempt you with natural disasters?”
  
  
• 764-HERO, Weekends of Sound
  Great driving music from a band named after the number you call in Western Washington to report carpool lane violators.
  
  
• Quasi, Featuring 'Birds'
  A divorced couple sings dirty harmony about broken relationships, bitterness, and depression. I don't know why I wouldn't like it.
  
  
• The Gossip, Arkansas Heat
  This EP captures the essence of their live shows better than the full-length LPs (not to mention the actual length of the average show). It makes me shake my ass for 20 minutes straight, which is no small feat during traffic.

The Non-Northwest Bands:

• The Pixies, Doolittle
  This should be obvious.
  
  
• Massive Attack, Mezzanine
  So sexy, I want to die.
  
  
• Neutral Milk Hotel, In the Aeroplane over the Sea
  Again, obvious. For the uninitiated, this is a spectacle of near-perfect indie rock insanity. Not for the faint of heart.
  
  
• Talking Heads, More Songs About Buildings and Food
  I don't know if it's cool to like the Talking Heads or what, but I do. David Byrne strikes me as completely fucking nuts in a way that rivals Bjork, which is great. Plus, again, it makes me wanna dance.
  
  
• The Mountain Goats, Tallahassee
  This may be thrown on due to its freshness in my mind, and also for “No Children.” Which is not to discount its awesomeness in any way.

That's all I can commit to at this time. I should update this list every couple months, just to see how it shifts. Yes. I aspire to make list so obsessive that I can put them into a spreadsheet and create a graph. To post on my blog. That would be awesome.

Frustrations.

I want to preface this by saying I try not to talk about work, and I sure as shit don't name names. I'm easily googled and a few coworkers (friendly coworkers) know about the blog, even if they don't read it much. (I don't know why anyone reads this, actually.) But considering a majority of my wakeful hours and social interaction occurs at work, sometimes I feel like talking about it--and by it, I don't mean the work I do, just some things I think about as a result of those social interactions. So, coworkers, if you do see this, don't take it personally that I'm a dork.

That enough bullshit disclaimer for you?

On Friday, some people were giving me grief about my "date" for the evening, which did not help my nervousness in the slightest. I get nervous about meeting people. I get nervous about meeting people I think will be cool because I don't want to be a dork. I get nervous about doing things with strangers where I could get in trouble. I do not need the additional crap that is my coworkers wrongly accusing me of going on a "date."

I have no idea why I'm so sensitive about that. But making fun of me was their reaction to my nervous state, and it wasn't helping.

At 5 o'clock, I was so sick of being in the office that I just walked outside and leaned against my car, waiting for a call. It was sunny but not too warm, even in my black jacket. One coworker emerged from the office and made her way to her car, calling out, "You look like someone who's waiting for a date!"

To which I did not react kindly, though (I think) in a sarcastic enough way. I'm not very tactful.

And as she drove off, I waved.

Today at lunch, she announced with a laugh that I'd flipped her the bird. She also did an amusing impression of my body language that I hope to god was greatly exaggerated.

I'm sure I turned bright red as I leapt to my own defense. I only flip off people with whom I have the kind of relationship that we have an understanding it's a joke! Like when you tell your best friend to fuck off! You don't mean it! It isn't undercut with the severity reserved for true ire. The kind of ire I wouldn't dare direct at a coworker I hardly know in the parking lot on a Friday night when all she's done is tease me.

Sometimes I feel like such a little kid in the office. I'm not used to relating to people 5+ years my senior as peers. When I tell everyone I'm fucking 23 and a baby, I don't mean it to imply that I think they're all REAL FUCKING OLD, just that I'm really young, as if this means anything besides half of their pop culture references are meaningless to me. Anyway, it's a weird feeling. I've always had friends who were within 2 years of me, besides adults in teacher-type roles. I've also always been a student. I'm still adjusting to this new role in life. There's still cognitive dissonance to work out.

In other news, my mom and I visited Big Sur this weekend, where the gas is a good $1 more than the Bay Area (the fabled $3.50/gallon!). It was gorgeous, especially this little trail mom read about on the Internet where you drive 36 miles south of Carmel, look for a row of colorful mailboxes on your right, then go around a bend and down the hill a bit and park in a turnout near a locked iron gate (not marked "private property"). It's about 2 miles and you see some nice redwoods, a stream, and some spectacular swells crashing against the rocks.

Did I mention we were on a sailboat Saturday? It was cool.

We also visited Hot Pot City for the first time, which felt like a strange combination of fondue, Mongolian BBQ, and campfire cooking, but it was a satisfying meal.

And today I ordered a DVD-RW/CD-RW drive that supports dual layer DVDs and a bunch of other acronyms and stuff from New Egg for $50 with tax. My 7-year-old 6x Smart & Friendly CD-RW won't burn anymore, but it's had a good run.

I visited a petting zoo with a murderer.

Or, rather, went to San Francisco to see the Mountain Goats with a stranger from the Internet who could easily have been a murderer, for all I knew.

Obviously, I lived to tell the tale.

So the story is this: Last Monday, someone replied to my repeated requests for a show buddy. He said he was qualified to be my Mountain Goats friend and claimed work for a San Jose altweekly. As the editor. I looked it up and it seemed legit, so I wrote back and said he could definitely have the ticket, but I'd have to think about being show buddies with a total Internet stranger, for obvious reasons.

In subsequent emails, he came off as a cool guy, plus the whole editor thing, plus he has a girlfriend so there went that whole potentially-creepy factor. I decided to take him up on his offer to drive.

This worked out well. We had fun talking (about bands that suck, movies that are scary and give some people panic attacks, how Silicon Valley is boring, the journalism game) before and during the show, even though it was a ridiculously late night. The opening acts started at 10 and were pretty annoying, and the Mountain Goats didn't get onstage until 12.

They played for a lovely and amazing hour and 20 minutes, ending the second encore with crowd favorite "No Children." Though we all wanted a longer set, despite the late hour, "No Children" was enough to shut us all up and make us go home happy.

I'm not effectively communicating the level of hilarious good fortune involved in this encounter, but believe me, it was there.

At 2:30 a.m., I finally arrived home. I got to sleep around 3 and woke up at 9. My mom was here by 10, and we were on a sailboat by noon. It was a great day for sailing, and I learned a few things about sailing and ropes. Not much, but a little.

Now I am tired, but I cannot nap.

Now that was a weekend.

While most of my days off are spent watching DVDs, cleaning, cooking, and irritating my boyfriend, I did very little of any of that this weekend. Chris was here, and we had a blast.

Friday night, we went to our favorite Ethiopian place. On the way home, we stopped off at Albertsons so Chris could get some milk and, apparently, booze that is considerably less expensive than in Washington, and I realized I'd left my purse in the restaurant. Fortunately, the proprietor found it and kept it behind the bar for me. All was well.

On Saturday, we drove down to Point Lobos State Reserve, which some of you may recall is, in my opinion, one of the prettiest places in the country. We wandered around for a few hours, basking in the near-perfect weather (not too hot, not too windy), taking in the sights. We had a picnic lunch overlooking some tidepools, though a smiling park ranger cut our meal slightly short when he informed us that we were setting a bad example by not dining in a designated picnic area.

We drove up beautiful Highway 1 to Santa Cruz in the midafternoon to spend some time downtown. When the sun was starting to set, we went to a beach in Aptos. I enjoyed the sand on my bare feet and Chris made a pair of sand pants. Dinner was at Charlie Hong Kong, after which we were all pretty tired and decided to head home.

Sunday morning Chris informed me that he'd like to do some touristy activities, like driving across the Golden Gate Bridge. Kevin said he'd rather stay home, so we headed up in Chris's car. The bridge was the first stop, and it was lovely aside from all the crazy traffic at Vista Point (please hold your eye-rolling). I learned from my sister that North Beach was a zoo of a street fair, but we parked under a hotel on Washington and walked up Columbus to visit her candy store. We at lunch at a nice little place that wasn't insanely busy.

Chris's old friend just finished nursing school at USF, so we headed to Inner Richmond to hang out with her for awhile. We took a long stroll around Golden Gate park, stopping to watch (1) rock 'n' roll roller skaters and (2) drum circle hippies along the way. Then we got ice cream in fresh crepe cones, which was memorably delicious.

Next weekend I'll go see the Mountain Goats (and someone has claimed the ticket--story to come after the fact), then hang out with my mom. Apparently on a sailboat owned by someone who was a friend of my dad's.

Bleary-eyed, but awake.

This is how I greet my Saturdays. Before the normal time my alarm would jolt me out of bed and into the shower, I'm awake, and once I'm awake, there's no turning back.

I realize there's 80 miles of highway before me, full of swerving sports cars and careening RVs, glistening with the sun of every promising Saturday this state has to offer. I'm recalling the blue skies and groves of evergreens that overlook the churning bay, the dusty haze of wildflowers and overgrown brush, and the cool yelping of sea lions, all lazily sunning themselves. Their only traffic jam is atop the rock with the best sun exposure.

My lips are wrinkled from a night of open-mouthed breathing. My back is a little sore from my harsh mistress of a bed. Without my glasses, the AAA Bay Area map I have tacked to my wall is blurry even from two feet away. But that doesn't matter. Once we get out of here, my maps won't even know where we are.

Soon there will be blueberry pancakes and coffee. I hope the other two are on board.

Come on, now.

I offer a free Mountain Goat ticket and show companion--even a fucking ride to SF from San Jose--and not a word from any available and interested party. Not a word.

Fucking Internets letting me down again.

Someday I will write about my boring-ass life, but not tonight. Except to say that Veronica Mars season 1 reruns are on Wednesdays as of tomorrow, and you should be watching.

Preemptive strike: The Mountain Goats.

Hello to anyone in the SF Bay Area or anyone planning to be here on June 24!

Have I got a deal for you!

If you enjoy the fine sounds of the Mountain Goats, I have tickets to their Friday night show at Bottom of the Hill, and I want someone to go with me. This is a fairly open invite: my usual suspects have been kinda "eh" on the subject, but this should not preclude them from nabbing my extra ticket if they ACT FAST. Or even slow.

Please! Don't make me be a lonely loser! Be my friend! I'LL PAY YOU.

I got paid to watch "Star Wars."

Seriously. My entire company went this afternoon, and we got some cash for snacks. My boss and I went an hour early to reserve seats for everyone, which involved a lot of jackets. (My boss is--and I cannot overstate this--a huge Star Wars fan.) Did I mention that my job is pretty sweet?

I did enjoy it. It was about as good as the reviews generally say--the visuals are great; the dialogue is cheesy. Most of the characters were fairly flat for me, but Ewan McGregor was good. The first thing Darth Vader says and does once he gets the helmet is too, too much. Padme and Anakin make me want to vomit. This is probably the first and last time you'll see me write anything about Star Wars.

So now it's the weekend. I have some more Scrubs to watch, the first Twin Peaks DVD to finish, and the biopic about Peter Sellers to be annoyed by. I might attempt to henna my hair again; maybe it will take better this time. I also might catch some other movie at the Cinema Saver if they still have Sin City or something.

Other than that, I just need to try not to die, or to let my plants die.

Long weekend, short nights.

I didn't sleep much this weekend. I don't do well when I'm not in my own bed, for some reason. But it was all good because I saw some friends, I saw my brother, and I saw my mom. It was good times.

Jana and her new boyfriend Tom picked me up from the airport on Saturday. We headed immediately into North Seattle to pick up Chris and meet Josie and Christine at a Northgate Starbucks, which was mercifully air conditioned. (Seattle was hotter than San Jose that day, ick.) We sat around lamenting the heat for awhile before deciding what the plan was.

The plan ended up involving Jana and Tom picking up her new bicycle (and doing whatever else took them a few hours to do) and meeting us for food at Pete's Pizza. The rest of us piled in Josie's car and hung out at Chris and Jana's apartment for awhile before heading into the University District to meet up with Josie's boyfriend, Joel, order calzones, and pick up beverages from Safeway. Jana and Tom were still running late, so they agreed to meet us at Gasworks, where we were bringing all the food.

They showed up as the rest of us were polishing off our delicious calzones. Mine was the Florentine: spinach and chopped hard-boiled egg. Mmmmm. And also: so much food.

The evening was spent at Chris and Jana's, playing a game that I spent 20 minutes trying to explain to Kevin and failed, but was somewhat entertaining. I won, because apparently, I know what people think of me. Hah. Everyone left, Jana let me have her bed, and I talked to Chris until we were both about to pass out.

On Sunday morning, Chris and I both woke up early, and, expecting everyone else to appear at 10 a.m. for pancakes, visited PCC for some ingredients and coffee. The coffee was eh, and Josie and Christine bailed in favor of Jesus and stuff, then Jana and Tom didn't show up until almost 11. The pancakes, however, were delicious, as was the Naked orange juice and--apparently--the bacon.

Josie and Christine showed up about 30 minutes after I'd eaten some pancakes and were jonesing for some Agua Verde lunch. I didn't eat so many pancakes, so I managed to scarf down a bowl of vegetarian pozole (the corn grains, by the way, are hominy, Josie--my coworker from Mexico had some in her soup today and I asked), and it was delicious. Lunch was followed by a game of '90s Trivial Pursuit at Josie's apartment (Boo!), which I won by boring the crap out of my opponents. And by a lifetime of filling my head with useless knowledge!

My mom picked me up. She has lost a lot of weight since Christmas, so yay on her! We managed to stupidly drive through downtown Seattle on our way south, which was a mess because of Folklife. She made dinner and I was dead tired, but dinner was so good--baked tilapia, brown rice, and a ton of stir-fried vegetables. After dinner, Becky came over--her hair is cute!--and we went out for a night on the town. Or as much of a night on the town as you can have on a Sunday night in Olympia. We drank root beers and ate mozzarella sticks at Jake's, the local gay bar she's been spending her evenings in. The music was good, and the company was even better.

But I am lame and wanted to pass out early, so I made her take me home.

Sunday, my mom and I got a late start because I was coming down with a cold, but we browsed the local Value Village (50% off everything sale) and Goodwill ($0.99 orange tags). She found stuff, mainly for my brother, and I just looked. We went home and made soup, which I put too much black pepper in for her (though the perfect amount for me). I spent a little time with my brother, who is preparing for his second summer at Aspen with a new tux, new laptop, and new iPod. My mom and I watched "Hell's Kitchen," which was kind of painful and stupid. We went to bed early because my flight? Was at 6:40 the next morning.

And I got up at 5. It takes about 50 minutes to get from Olympia to Seatac. I made my flight, but just barely. I went directly from the airport to work and was in time for the weekly meeting. My boss thought it was insane that I didn't just take the day off, but I'd already made the arrangements and I was already up, so I figured it would be stupid to lose a day of pay.

I was so fucking tired, but it was a good weekend. Thanks to everyone who made it possible, and I hope I get to see the people I didn't see this time around some other time soon.

Oh, fuck. Summer in California means heat.

I don't like it one tiny bit. Hey, Seattle, think you can arrange temperatures below 80 degrees for me this weekend? That would rock.

This weekend, I had some movies. Kevin and I watched Kinsey together, which we both enjoyed, mainly due to the interesting subject matter. Unfortunately for me, the narrative structure was pretty much a predictable biopic with weak dialogue and character development, but the content and the acting mostly rose above it to make a nice movie.

Also, I watched The Pillow Book. I'm actually not sure why I thought I wanted to see that, but I have very mixed feelings about it, post-viewing. It was visually interesting--occasionally exciting, even, mainly due to a really hot young Ewan McGregor--but also gross in at least one particular spot, not to mention convoluted and boring. So I didn't really care for the movie, but Ewan McGregor gets four stars. Until he dies. Then, ew.

My side yard gave me a bit of a workout Sunday, because I cleared out some of the weeds and planted squash seedlings and green beans and pea pods. Yay. They are all going to die.

In other news of the stupid fucking yard, Kevin received a call from our landlord yesterday that the neighbors finally filed a complaint, and we had to, you know, trim the lawn. So he bought a weedwhacker and gave it a haircut. It's enough that the neighbors can shove it. I hate lawns. What a pointless thing.

We also trekked to Santa Cruz Sunday night, just for fun. There was forest romping, beach sitting, Charlie Hong Kong eating, and Kevin's mom visiting.

I will be in the PacNW this weekend, dividing my time between Seattle and Seaside, most likely. Hope to see some of you around.

The last show of the regular TV season that I care about is about to begin, so I am going to turn my attention away.

Summer begins...now.

That is, when the shows all go into reruns, the bad reality TV crops up, and the summer concert season is upon us. A great time to be alive, basically.

Aside from most assuredly seeing the Gossip for a 6th (or 7th?) time next Thursday, I just learned that the Mountain Goats are playing Bottom of the Hill two nights in late June, which I am so down for it isn't funny. Even if no one will go with me.

A handful of Bumbershoot acts have been announced, including Devo, Son Volt, Digable Planets, and the Decemberists, so that's not a bad showing. Full lineup in mid-June, I guess, so I can decide how much of it I need to pay for then. But I'll start hunting for good fares into Seattle Labor Day weekend and possibly take off that Friday.

I don't know how I managed to avoid this for so long, but I finally obtained and listened to a full Dinosaur Jr. record. Wow, that is some happy shit. I mean, it made me happy, not that it sounds cheerful or anything. The new Mountain Goats is also lovely.

Someone will come with, right?

Free will of the stars.

This post is in response to this week's Free Will Astrology, which I happily own up to getting via email every week...

SAGITTARIUS (Nov. 22-Dec. 21): ... As long as you cooperate with the unusual flow of fate, you will thrive. Here are some exercises to get you in the proper frame of mind: Picture yourself having the body of the opposite gender.

There's a thought. Walking around like I had external genitalia and could pee standing up while pretending these appendages hanging from my chest simply weren't there might create some odd interactions at work, though.

Hold a pen with your non-dominant hand as you write about your taboo fantasies.

I used to practice doing that first part in my pre-calculus lecture. My taboo fantasies should stay firmly planted in my mind, though, I think.

Gaze at yourself in a mirror that reflects your image from another mirror.

I love doing that! It makes me feel awfully self-obsessed, however.

Consider the possibility that there's something you really need but you don't know what it is.

I consider it often. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Make up a dream in which you change into an animal.

I've never been good at forcing dreams. I wonder what animal my unconscious would pretend to be.

Compose a prayer in which you ask for something you think you're not supposed to.

I'd have to think of what I'm not supposed to ask for first. I'm not supposed to ask for... things I don't need? things I don't want? things that can't reasonably occur? things with negative, unintended consequences? I ask for lots of things I know I won't get, but I'm not aware of a line not to cross where whatever higher power is concerned. I guess I'm too agnostic for this item.

I'm always vaguely amused and inspired by these horoscopes, but I never know what to make of them.

Our fabulous prizes.

I need to get out of here. A little mini-vacation is appearing very necessary, very soon.

And don't get me wrong, Washington people, but visiting in a few weeks won't be a vacation. It will be a lot of shuttling around and seeing as many people as possible. It will be a lot of transient face time and happy smiles and nice-to-see-yous. Not to sound unappreciative, because I do love you. Better than a family reunion, but not a vacation.

There is an unrelenting march of the increasingly familiar that drags from day to day until I just want to cry. The same stretch of highway filled with cars and drivers of dubious ability; a front lawn growing taller and taller; a mailbox full of advertising and things addressed to previous tenants. An office where I itch to spill red, purple, or green ink and log my time, just to justify my existence and meager paycheck.

I'm getting good at mediocrity, and there's no end in sight. I watch endless hours of TV, and I don't even get cable. I don't know where to go from here or when to start leaving.

Embracing my liberal anger.

I mean, I'm pretty much always angry at something. Sometimes it's a righteous anger, or an emotional/hormonal rage, but mostly it's just vague ire directed at, for example, other drivers or my neighbors I am afraid will try to bitch at me about the lawn in the 30 seconds I appear in front of my house every evening.

I've got a lot of the vague ire going on right now--I am having my period, which, while not an excuse, does tend to make things seem less rosy, ironically and disgustingly enough--but there's also some righteousness mixed in for good measure.

In case your eyes glazed over for the news that the Senate unanimously passed and Bush today signed $82 billion in war spending, anti-terrorism, and tsunami relief, let me enlighten you on one particularly unsavory aspect of this feel-good measure. The Real ID act is one Wisconsin Representative's underhanded way of slipping a national ID program into law. What's so bad about a national ID, you ask?

Well, I'm not smart enough to tell you, but I can link to a few people who are. I highly suggest you read up, at least a little, because this shit is going to affect everyone, and you should know what it is and how it can fuck you over.

Declan McCullaugh's FAQ of how Real ID will affect you is condensed and informative. His Politech mailing list is a great source of information and discussion on the subject, as well. Text of the law here for all those fluent in legalese. Google News rounds up the mainstream media coverage, which shows a remarkable lack of discussion on Real ID, while geeks with security and privacy concerns over at Slashdot and News.com pick apart the new law.

And it may just be my naivete regarding how the Senate works, but those Democrats quoted as being against Real ID who voted for it anyway? Where is their sense of dissent? Did they not learn in school that, for true/false questions, if even part of a question is false, the whole thing is false? Is it really so impossible to get a clean bill through Congress to fund things that evidently need funding, or at least a bill clean of major, divisive legislation?

No?

Wow, fuck the legislative process, then.

It's no fun reading fortune cookies to yourself.

Points to whoever knows the song.

Yesterday I had a henna experience. Henna is a much more awkward dye experience than, say, Manic Panic, and the results are more subtle. I tried to follow the Lush instructions to the letter, but I think I only tinted my hair a shade darker. It's treading chocolate territory, though I doubt anyone but me will notice.

For an hour and a half, my head was caked in what looked and felt like green mud and enveloped with sheets of cling film. It was squishy to the touch. The first rinse took awhile, and my hair was impossible to comb afterwards. The waxiness was so thick, I could barely style it into something less anime-freak and more just-having-a-bad-hair-day-greasy. But I let it stay that way for a few hours to see the full effect of the henna.

Three hours later, I was desperate to fix it, so I shampooed it. The waxiness was a little better, but not 100%, so a few hours after that, I applied probably 4 times the amount of shampoo I would normally use and let it sit for a minute before rinsing it out. The texture was fine and the color was somewhat apparent still, so I'm calling it good.

It's true I have no patience for things that are aesthetically displeasing.

The henna seemed only to stain the soap scum in my bathroom, which just highlighted the need to scrub it all down with Bon Ami. Which I did today, because Kevin would probably freak out if I didn't.

He's visiting his mom and sort of implied a desire to go alone because he doesn't go to see his family much without me anymore. When I pointed out that the last time he actually visited his mom--Christmas--I was in Oregon, he replied, "Hmm." We've seen his dad a few times, but not his mom. I can appreciate the desire to want to spend time without chatty ol' me, since he's quiet and tends to let me monopolize the conversation (I like both his parents, and we can talk about a lot of things that he doesn't care about). I only felt bad because I've been trying to get him to go to Santa Cruz for months, and he hasn't wanted to, and now that he has gone, he didn't want me to go. I just hope this doesn't make it look like I'm the reticent one.

Anyway, I really need to make some damn friends. Doing nothing with my free time is starting to wear me down.

This week's rentals: Home Movies: Season 1, disc 1, which totally rules; The Yes Men, a documentary about lefties who pretended to be WTO members and were responsible for the long-deceased WTO parody site; and Two-Way Stretch, an old Peter Sellers movie that was Kevin's selection and I probably won't watch.