fallen-from-the-sky checkered one where

Hello my Cats and Kittens.
I am writing to you from my post-surgical bed where I am currently on the mend. I am also in a Vicodin induced haze so you'll forgive my grammatical and spelling errors and/or type-os. I just wanted to write a quick hello and surgical re-cap. It seems to have gone well. I am feeling ok too. Best surgery ever, so far. Unlike the last time I received general anesthesia, I am moderately functional, cognizant and devoid of fainting spells. I am not speaking gibberish, vomiting sporadically or hallucinating. All of these things are improvements upon previous brushes with anesthesia. It's tough to say how my bosom is fairing, as it is hiding under miles of gauze. But they do appear smaller. (They are also bound rather tight, though…think Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love…only with breasts underneath them). My plans for the day are to eat more crackers, drink more Romulan Ale flavored Gatorade, sleep, and maybe watch some movies whilst blazed out of my mind on painkillers. Do you folks need to know any of this? Do you care? I don't know. But I'll tell you what. Typing is fun in this state of mind. I feel like the drugs haven't hindered my typing speed at all. Then again, I also think I can fly. So what does that tell you?
I'm off to the land of sugar plums and dancing platypi Later, my lovelies.

Hazy McHazerston


Yesterdays problems – Todays Solutions

An LJ Special

In honor of my surgery this Thursday, I have compiled a list.

*Getting hit on by attractive people.
*Being smug when watching fake boobs in porn.
*The ability to fill out a dress.
*The tricks that they can do.
*The hilarious jokes that I and others can make about them.

*Getting hit on by skanky old guys on busses.
*Having a very hard time finding clothes that fit me properly.
*The fact that the only bras they make in my size are ugly frumpy and never come with matching underpants.
*Not being able to go longer than an hour w/o wearing a bra.
*General self-esteem issues.
*Gauranteed saggyness by the age of 35.
*Not being able to do certain yoga positions as well as other people.

That's all I can think of for now. I may add to this list later.

Boobies, I knew ye hardly.

work smart not hard w/automated home bus. babel


Friday I rode down to Portland with the office crew for the annual X-mas party (which I missed last year to see Return of the King with the gang). I didn't think it would be TOO bad. I was just annoyed that I was going to get back to Seattle so late. See, everyone else decided to stay down in the PTLD for the weekend, so I booked a train to get back.
We got to the restaurant and I was IMMEDIATELY handed a glass of champagne so I thought things might be ok. We received our bonus checks (mine was a nice little chunk, but sadly, it's already spent because the hotel in London charged my credit card IN ADVANCE for our stay. Stupid online budget hotel bookers!). We also each got these letterman's jackets with our names and the company logo on them. They were obviously EXTREMELY expensive. However, I (nor anyone else in the office, I don't think) would NEVER wear them. For one thing, the cut is just all wrong. They are also made of HEAVY wool and leather and mine is GIGANTIC on me. I was somewhat offended because the Lil D. (who is of small build) got an extra small jacket and I got a normal one (which was too big for me). Now, I know I don't weigh 80 pounds like booty-less Lil D. But I am not the heffer that they apparently took me for. So even though I don't intend on wearing the jacket, I was still offended.
Anywho, we got our lunches (which everyone around me agreed were pretty bland for an upscale establishment). The waitress was very nice, however, and made sure my champagne glass was full at all times.
We did our White Elephant exchange. It seems like these days, most offices try to make the gifts nice anyway. But not our office. Most of the gifts were pretty bad. (i.e. an empty Starbuck's card, a HIDEOUS and somewhat disturbing Halloween ornament which involved a bare-bottomed witch, and the “Charles Schwab's Guide to Getting out of Debt”). I picked the witch ornament first but them swapped for a ceramic elephant mug.
Around 3:00, people were pretty drunk and talking of hitting the strip club. I was taken to the train station to make my 4:00 departure. Upon arrival, I discovered that my train was hideously delayed. So much so that they recommended I be put on the 6:15 train, rather than wait for my train to arrive. Needless to say, I was pretty annoyed. I was in a ghetto looking part of Portland, lugging around this stupid, heavy Letterman jacket, a ceramic elephant mug and a beer I stole from the party, all of which were quite heavy. I wandered a few blocks and found a coffee shop. I drank some caffeine and tried to sober up. While I waited, I read the Portland free weekly (who's name escapes me) which is EERILY (and not unintentionally, I'm sure) similar to the layout of The Stranger. Turns out Stephen Humphrey, the I heart Television guy, is the editor their. They also feature movie reviews by Sean Nelson and Bradley Steinbacher. They have a “last days” type column and an I Anonymous, as well as Strange Love and…a recommendations page!! I wonder how much Portland likes being the smaller, less pretentious twin brother to Seattle.
Back at the train station, my train departed at 6:30. By this time, my drunkenness was gone and I was just tired and cranky. I was crankier still when I found out the movie on the train was The Princess Diaries 2. I watched it anyway, of course, and made faces or horror to no one as the dialog became more and more ridiculous. The things that John Rhyse Davies had to do and say were truly horrifying. But, like a gruesome train wreck, I could not tear my eyes away from the carnage. When it was over, there were still TWO HOURS left of my journey. I spent them listening to Patton Oswalt's two hour, inebriated rant on CD, which only made me more irritable because, hilarious though he is, I was tired and vulnerable and therefore got swept up into his drunken rage. By the time my train arrived in Seattle, I was ready to fight anybody that looked at me crossways.
Now, I know that travel by train is romantic. This is true in Europe where the trains run on time (and frequently) and the scenery is lovely. But I now OFFICIALLY HATE Amtrack. As far as I'm concerned, trains are just another of countless things that the Americans stole from Europe and ruined.

Since my Friday rant is long and bitter, I will try and run though the rest of the weekend quickly. Saturday morning, we had a makeup meeting. I think it went well. Our guys seem to know what they're doing and are as excited about decapitations as we are. Unfortunately, poor Faye, who is usually just as bloodthirsty as the best of them, was having trouble this day. She has been deathly ill and was still ailing pretty badly on Saturday. You know a girl is sick when she can't even enjoy pictures of people with horrific face wounds!
Saturday night, Dom and I met Ryan the Nite Lite. We rocked the juke box, ate disgustingly greasy food, and saturated out hair and clothing with cigarette smoke. It was a terrific time! The only downside was that Gene was meant to meet us and, by the cruelty of fate, it didn't happen. You see, when you enter the Nite Lite, you can go right, into the frat boy and loud music den, or left into the quiet bar fly and pool table room. We choose to go left. Gene went right, didn't see us, and then TRIED to go left. A very surly bouncer told him “There's nothing over there” and Gene left. I don't know what his problem was, but I hope the frat boys give that bouncer and EXTRA hard time next Saturday.

Yoga (last one till after surgery), housecleaning, and then off to the Smithinghams Holiday Party. There was food, drink and delightful company. We walked through the Griswaldian Spectacle that is Candy Cane Lane, pet a sleepy puppy, and tended to the wounds of a drunk girl who's head met a tree it didn't like. In short, a while success!

make your plate invisible


Fan Boy Who?

The Stranger is now the most frequent cause of my fist shaking in the air! (Even though I am still at their mercy.) This is why:

So our little party wasn't good enough for them to publish in their calendar, let alone highlight for their prestigious “Stranger Suggests” section. Why? SO HELP ME GOD I DON'T KNOW…Because two weeks later, when the Rollergirls took our idea and did the EXACT SAME THING, they got a goddamned STRANGER SUGGESTS out of the deal. It was OUR idea first and they didn't like it then. But they fucking LOOOOOOVE it when it's ALL the Rollergirls. I mean, we HAD Rollergirls at our party, for fuck's sake. We had a D.J. We CAME UP with the idea of Zombie Roller Elves.

So what I want to know is WHO'S DICK DO WE HAVE TO FONDLE TO GET SOME FUCKING RESPECT FROM THAT RAG??!! Seriously. I want to know.


Here is the right-up for your reference so you can see how it is EXACTLY THE SAME PARTY as ours was. (If ours wasn't a little better…)

Nightmare Before Christmas Holiday Ball
(NIGHTMARISH BASH & BENEFIT) The Rat City Rollergirls are throwing a creepy, kooky, altogether spooky holiday bash in Belltown tonight, celebrating everything evil and undead about Christmas: There'll be naughty zombie elves, screenings of holiday classics like Silent Night/Bloody Night, DJ EON spinning punk and DJ JewK Boxx providing '80s hits, blood-splattered snow, and plenty of sexy people in festive funeral attire. Can it get any better? Yes, actually. It's a benefit for the homeless kids at Orion House. (Rendezvous, 2322 Second Ave, 441-5823, 8 pm, $6/$10 for couples.)


So I just heard the new Harvey Danger song on KEXP. I was never very impressed with this band. Pop drivel, really. But now that Sean Nelson, the film section editor of The Stranger seems to hold a good deal of our fate in his hands, I am paying attention. You see, the Stranger controls what lives or dies in the independent film community in Seattle. And if they don't even PRINT anything about us (see recent rant about our fundraiser getting omitted from their events calendar), then we basically don't exist.

So what's eating me right now is that KEXP is licking Harvey Danger's balls and playing all these songs off their new EP, but the songs are NOTHING SPECIAL AT ALL. The melodies are pretty generic. And the lyrics smack of pretension and intellectual ego. (Especially with the “references” to Seattle landmarks”). Here is a sample from a song called “Pike St./Park Slope” (OHMYGOD PIKE STREET IS IN SEATTLE AND THAT'S WHERE WE LIVE!!!):

“No one's keeping you captive in the town that let you down. Blame it on the television, blame it on the company. Don't blame it on the fundamental fact that no one owes you something…Maybe we could run away and start a little repertory moviehouse or something. she said, sorry but i think you might be just projecting…Pike street to park slope, Brooklyn.”

And it goes on like this. Am I wrong in thinking this smacks of a college journal (or blog, even) that some “thoughtful” hipster is updating from Bauhaus? But no one can be critical of Harvey Danger because they know Sean Nelson could break them. (Which is why this entry is locked…I'm such an asshole).

But it still burns my bacon that these mediocre talents have so much power over the art scene. And when ARE the burnouts going to let us sit with them in the cafeteria??!!


The picture of dorian gray
Oscar Wilde: The Portrait of Dorian Gray. You are a
horror novel from the world of dandies, rich
pretty boys, art and aesthetics, and
intellectual debates between ethical people and
decadent pleasure-seekers. You value beauty and
pleasure but realize their dangers, as well.

Which literature classic are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

This is one of the most interesting quizes of this type I have ever taken!

was something unprecedented, unnatural

Last night I felt pretty awful (probably from eating too much cookie dough as I did some holiday baking), but I forced myself to go to yoga anyway, as I don't know how long I will be out of commission after surgery. I am really glad I did. I've never been a competitive person as far as sports are concerned. Probably because I was never GOOD at any sports. (Or any physical activity, really. Having gimpy knees will do that to you). But I have to say that I LOVE it when these skinny girls in skimpy little bikinis show up to yoga for the first time and just DIE. Yesterday there were two such girls in class. They were struggling through the standing positions and they had to lie down for most of the second half. Our teacher came over to make sure they were ok. Meanwhile, even though I was pretty nauseous, my balance was in top form and they were actually looking at me to see how to do the positions. It didn't hurt that the teacher gave me several compliments on my form. I was eating it up with a spoon. Take that, skinny girls who were probably picked first in gym class! I felt so tough! So I'm telling you, Bikram Yoga is THE “sport” for gimps.

And now, as promised, I have a link to the second batch of pictures from the fundraiser. Click for the kind of excessiveness that only a drunk photographer can produce. I apologize for the fact that most of the pictures are of me. Jacob was pretty hammered and was taking pictures of whatever was in front of him. That happened to be me and Andrew's friend Chris. I've even edited out a good number of them. So when you're getting sick of my drunk face, remember…it could have been worse.

Countdown to Operation Deflation: 11 days.