November 28, 2012

I’m sitting at Southeast Grind admiring the neon. It’s very complimentary to the atmosphere. I have been here almost three hours, eaten little for the day, and contemplated how great it would be if my bed would fly like Eglantine Price’s. I rolled in bed excruciatingly late today, not because I was tired persay, just because I was comfortable. I haven’t felt that way in such a long time! I figured that excused the numbers on the clock and was a moment to be relished, rather than frowned upon.

Life has been, dare I say, excellent.

Such a pleasant change from the last year or so. I’m quite content for once, though internally I still struggle with the desire and motivation to work. (By work, I mean write things that aren’t journal related, or do some more printmaking.)

It’s become that time of year that I’ve grown confused with over the past few seasons. Winter used to keep me company. I liked wrapping myself up in the idea of cold rainy-ness, perpetual Miles Davis Sundays, and the comfort that should I be feeling like an utter train wreck, the weather didn’t merit uninvited guilt. The sun gives a parting farewell much earlier which is a real downer for me these days. I miss lounging around until late in the afternoon, welcomed by a warm evening breeze that didn’t require a sweater and a litany of expletives. I don’t know. I guess fickleness has seeped deep into my bones, though, I can’t really decide if that’s the case either. Ha.

I feel like these three paragraphs and change have been an intro for something I’m not quite sure how to talk about, so I suppose I’ll just write it as it happened:

The other day, it was pouring down rain. After I met with Andy for coffee. I biked home, and got relatively soaked. When I walked into my mother’s house, intending to eat some delicious left-over pie, the radio was on, and Christmas Time Is Here was playing. I stood infront of our fireplace, and just listened to it. Awhile ago, someone sang this to me while I was dreaming. It was one of the loveliest moments of my life.

I thought of that, and my wet pants, and how lucky I was to have such wonderful friends, and how much I missed this singing person, who I’d never even met; and everything just felt really nice. I thought about Mrs. Imaginary and I holding hands, she didn’t even have to sing this time; I just knew she was there.



November 25, 2012

First of all, peace an’ blessins. Second of all, I fucking hate the amount of disingenuous gratitude that comes along with this time of year. I would like to condense a few of the previous week’s meaningful vignettes together to make this blog post, so here goes.

Friday before last Friday I almost kicked the bucket. I woke up to six paramedics in my bedroom trying to get me to identify the people in the posters on my wall. Not a fun experience, though also not unfamiliar. Frustrating is more like it. I’d been sick the previous week, and, like a true dia-dumbass, blamed my chronic illness and took much too much insulin before bed Thursday evening. I have made this mistake before. Life has gone on. The following day, my expected post-almost-dying Simoment was listening to Divaville on KMHD, and having a delicious blueberry bagel. Uneventful on the whole, but, I was alive. (Previous day after almost dying Simoments have been: seeing Anthony Edwards run the NY Marathon *swoon*, and becoming acquainted with Mary Oliver.)

Wednesday evening, I was too hyper to go to sleep. I made it through half of Woody Allen’s Thanksgiving classic “Hannah and Her Sisters” before trying to get some shuteye. I ran through a list of things I am thankful for in my head, and it grew immeasurably large before I finally was tired enough to sleep. It felt good.

Thursday evening, my family goes around the table and says what they are thankful for. I was trying to be as truthful as possible.

“I am thankful for coffee, because it’s good; and jazz music, because it’s good.”

The previous evening’s list had already been made, so I didn’t feel like I wanted to rehash it with an entire group of people. Everyone else goes around the room and says something trite like, “Family” and “We’re all together”. My mom goes last, and starts crying about what a tough week she’s had, and she’s happy all of her kids are still alive, and other ridiculousness.  For a second, I felt like my answer was stupid, and I *should* have said something more apt like, “I’m thankful for my life, and all that business”; but even if I had– the fact that I’d almost  bought the farm wouldn’t have compared to my mom’s “hard week” because I didn’t fucking lose my shit over it.

Dinner was good. Family was good.

Friday I met up with my friend Andy. Andy who’s mother was with mine when they found me unconscious. (“Found” meaning they broke into my house.) We shot the breeze for a little bit;  and I rolled up my sleeve to show him the bruise on my arm from the I.V., and he starts cracking up.

“My mom only told me the story about her having to crawl through your window.” He says, “What actually happened?”

After explaining the whole story, we started laughing. I almost died. Let me repeat myself: I almost died. The candor of that conversation was exactly what I needed. His mom wasn’t crying over my legs, my mom wasn’t trying to convince a room full of people that her week had been really difficult; it was just me, and him, cracking up because I was still there to drink coffee, and listen to jazz music with someone.

I think that’s what I’m most thankful for.


November 14, 2012

Y’all, I can’t bring my ass to grow up.

This isn’t just because I stayed up until 5:30 this morning reading X-Files fanfiction and watching Peter Bogdanovich’s take on Noises Off. Good heavens no. Not even because I can’t help but think about how At Long Last Love was a fucking terrible piece of American Cinema save Eileen Brennan and Madeline Kahn tap dancing with Cybill Shepherd in the dressing room of a fancy department store. EVEN THEN: let’s talk about ankle flexibility, shall we?

This month, I’ve been trying to do NaNoWriMo. I’ve been failing really hard at it, and, just, LOLZ. I can’t handle the amount of stress I’m under without a flippin’ outline. FUCK. THAT. NOISE. Here’s the quandary. I cannot force myself to sit down and do anything. I should be at around 25k words right now. I’m at….7. Not a huge deal in the grand scheme of writing, right? Probably not. The thing is, I’ve either grown out of NaNo, or I’m not grown up enough to discipline myself into a proper schedule. I want to be an “a little at a time” person; but even that seems like pulling teeth. I seem to be the perennial teenager, who, by the grace of God, has a job that pays my bills. I don’t even know.

Today I slept in until 3pm! Unacceptable! I wanted to get up, do some laundry, go to the bank, get my computer looked at….instead I scraped to the bottom of my clean laundry bin and found the Starbucks card my great grandmother got me for my birthday (in May, no less) and now I’m sipping peppermint flavored capitalism less than a block from my house.


How does a person change themselves into a productivity machine?

How can a person get 45k words written in 15 days?

Why am I terrible at life?



November 6, 2012


Let’s talk for a second about lady cops. (Because the election is boring me senseless; and by that I mean giving me the migrane of the century.) Cagney and Lacey was a TV series that ran on CBS from 1981-1988. I have long been open about the fact that peen or vageen is a nonissue for me in terms of who I’d consider taking to bonetown; and young Sharon Gless gave my bathing suit area the biggest exclamation point it’d seen in a long-ass-motherloving-time.

Let’s take a look at exhibit A, shall we? Cagney can pull of all of the trite 80’s fashions and make them look really, really flawless. Like, maybe we shouldn’t be mocking them so much because she’s supposed to be a freaking OFFICER OF THE LAW and looks like a total babe 24/7.

I don’t think what drew me to Cagney was her perfect teeth or immaculate Farrah feather. I’ve never seen a character behave so real on TV before. Everything she does is so organically motivated, which makes her beauty that much more believable. I also could see a lot of myself in her– that being, she’s super brash and completely in your face in a suck-it-up-or-just-suck-it kind of way. She’s the type of person I could see punching a person in the face, blowing off her knuckles, like smoke from a gun, before nonchalantly stating: ‘Oops’; and then going about her business like nothing happened. I respect that.

The relationship she has with her partner greatly blurs the line of heterosexuality. (AND I’M NOT JUST SAYING THIS BECAUSE LESBIAN SEXUAL SUBTEXT IS GR9.)  Yes, they are absolutely my BFFOTP. No question about it. But can you deny that they are meant for each other after looking at images like these?


After Mary-Beth escapes a hostage situation, Christine is the first one to run to her aide. Say it with me: Awwwwww……. 


After Mary-Beth has a lumpectomy, she’s asking for Christine after the surgery (if I recall) and is bummed that she missed the sergeant’s exam.

OK. CAN WE TAKE A LOOK AT THIS FLAWLESS FRIENDSHIP. (Uh, clearly they love each other. In a long-term-domestic-partnership sorta way.)

The reason I’m filling my hubris quota with C&L today, is that I’ve just been offered a ticket on the “ZOMG, DID YOU HEAR MARISKA HARGITAY IS TOTALLY GAYBALLS?” express. I don’t know how I feel about this. Is she number two on the “ladies I’d go gay for and NEVER LOOK BACK” list? No doubt. Do I have a strange, yet slightly strong desire to maybe put my mouth on her mouth? Possibly.

Given the recent internet excursions this gossip tip has lead me on, and the fact that most of my “ladies I’d go gay for” list run in the same Manhattan-based-charities ‘social circle’, (still eyeing you, Jill Hennessy); supposedly they’ve all slept together at one point or another.   While I won’t lie and say this isn’t a thing of my fantasies, it’s still strange to read about people’s (alleged) sexual preferences on the internet, y’know?

With that said, this doesn’t negate the fact that these pictures of Marish and Maria Bello are adorable.




…this is also kind of an irrelevant post script, but in the episode of ER I was watching yesterday, Susan tells Abby that she “doesn’t have to be alone tonight if she doesn’t want to.”



That is all.


November 5, 2012

I can’t seem to focus lately. My body hurts, my brain hurts, I’ve finally moved into a new place, but I don’t feel like I live there quite yet. It’s odd. I’m making an attempt at NaNo this year (with the yet-to-be-titled-massive-crossover-fanfic.) So far it’s weird. Forcing myself to write feels weird. I don’t feel empty because of that, but I still feel sort of empty, y’know?

Perhaps it’s because I still can’t find a reason to get up in the morning aside from enjoying a cup of coffee outside of my house? Maybe it’s because my best friends are scattered throughout the world right now and only one of them lives in town and can’t hang out that often? Who knows.

I’ve been trying to get into a groove of some sort lately– a writing groove, a living groove, a “yay it’s finally John Coltrane weather” groove; and it just isn’t happening. Do you guys ever feel that way?