Le maudit Mo D.

articulate and sedate

I think I need to get out of town. Occasionally, I get a bug up my keister to run away. I don't know if this is healthy or not, but a good, short jaunt into the unknown would do me a little good, especially in the writing zone. I wear a very safe, well-traveled path and I don't get out of it much. My life is like red carpet turned pink from the friction of shoes. Mo! Get out of town!

I engaged in some retail therapy at the local feminist bookstore today. If I'm going to blow a wad, it should be on books at a struggling independent bookstore. It's like therapy for two. I purchased a novel recommended to me by the bookstore owner (The Secret History by D. Tartt), in addition to a novel that got a foaming-at-the-mouth review in Bitch (J. Egan's The Keep). On the literary front, I completed Middlesex by Jeff Eug. (Oprah pick!) in five days and it was majestic. I highly recommend it, and not only because he mentions Armenians.

Last night on the public access show (which was tremendous fun), I cringed every time we got a caller. The majority who called were inarticulate thrill-seekers with nothing better to do than call and demand that Kacey flash her boobs. I hated the idea that we were nothing but drivel to some broke-ass loser alternating bong hits and Cool Ranch Doritos. Of course, that's who watches public access, but we bitches class a place up. Don't they get that they're behavior is base and crude and that they are in the tele-presence of ladies?