Le maudit Mo D.

My Own Private Ann Arbor

Recurring Dream Corner.

In terms of geographical locations noted in my dreams, I often find myself in Ann Arbor, MI. This is odd because I have never been there, don't know anyone there, and aside from a library school application to the U of M six years ago, have not had any contact with the place, ever. It is also not somewhere that I generally care about, as it is not in Canada, nor is it Seattle, Portland, or Northampton, MA.

But still, once in awhile, I will find myself in the Ann Arbor of my dreams, and then I awake and wonder why my subconscious has chosen Ann Arbor as its vacation destination of choice. Will I someday live there? Will I work at the U of M? Will I win the Michigan State Lottery and Literary Award of Achievement, which includes real estate in AA, MI? Huh?

I is confused.

BTW, clomber is a local dialect for "cobbler," in case you were worried or wanted to try some.

ALL HAIL CLOMBER!

All hail clomber!
From Peru to Waterloo
From the valley to the sea
From Round Rock to Slaughter Ln.
Let the cherrypickers and barristers know that a new Dessert has been sent from the heavens to their eager empty bowls:
CLOMBER.

Clomber is fruity with a baked topping.
Clomber is already widely available under a different name.
Children dream of it in their sleep. And their awakeness, too.
The elderly long to gum it!
CLOMBER.

Clomber in the churches
Clomber in the hospitals
Clomber where it counts and where it hurts
Let the nation rejoice and sing
Clomber! Clomber is the thing!
Let everyone from Maine to Greece
Let clomber bring them joy and peace!

Clomber in the graveyards
Clomber in the schools
Clomber for the people
Who swallow, poop, and drool.

Clomber for the Pope!
Clomber for the Puritan!
Clomber for man, woman, and kid alike!

Clomber for the hippie!
Clomber for the dyke!
Let every republican and democrat
Eat Clomber on a bike!!!

CLOMBER!

Troupe Love Pics

Xmas Card Perfection from the Geegsters

Who are you, Martha Wright?

Once in awhile I get e-mail intended for a woman named Martha Wright. Her e-mail addy is one letter away from mine, and she is some sort of woman of business because most of her e-mails are business related. She is a woman of many lunches. I just got a plane reservation confirmation intended for her. I always forward them on to her, because I would expect the same from anyone else. Plus, this has been going on for a long time. It's like we're friends. But not really.

I have thought of contacting Martha Wright if I am ever in her city because although she is a stranger, I have read her mail, unwittingly. I think it would be interesting to meet up with a person for coffee simply because you've been accidentally receiving her e-mail for five or so years. I've never received mail of a personal, emotional nature, nor have I received classified information such as her status with the FBI, but still, every few months Martha surfaces in my inbox and I just have to say hi.

Woodrow Badass

I didn't realize that high-capacity city busses could stop that short, Driveroo! The lite-up rolly sign on the front of the bus was out of order, so CapMetro Bad-Ass Driver of El Numero Cinco taped up a DIY sign on yellow paper, denoting to wary homebound UT employees that this bus was up to no good. After nearly taking out two Asian engineering students* and almost rear-ending a a shuttle bus, our bus driver kicked it up a notch by speeding up the aptly named Speedway, which has center rotary thingies in the middle of intersections.

Motherfucker in official uniform! Slow down that horsey!

I obtained Canadian-themed reading from UT's monstro-library on my lunch hour. Leaving my well-heeled repository workplace for the NYC-style throng of jammie-panted, flip-flop wearing undergraduates made this girlfriend feel old (opposite of previous post, yes. I am having age issues. Berfday three months away!) but I had to make my way to the large research library to obtain quality Canookie reading shizzle. And that I did. So I am fortified in CDN reads.

Bob, beloved and sweet, prepared some exciting meat entrees last evening, which we shall partake in whence he returns to the homestead. I'm fixin' to make some salad.

I have music on, and was just tempted to turn on my stereo. Even though I already have music on. WTF?

Salad. Tasty greens. Healthful and fibrous. Crunch between my molars and make me feel good about dessert.

Since before the election, I have had a sick, twisted relationship with DailyKos, the lefty political blog. It was more than furtive readings at work. It was a sickness. The developments of the last few months were nothing if not depressing and sickening, and beating myself over the head with repeated doses of bad news was an act of masochism I can no longer justify. So as of today, I've gone cold turkey, and will no longer be reading it. I deleted it from my RSS feed and will restrain myself at work. This is for my own personal safety. I am instead sticking to lighter reads, like the blog of Dr. Alex Golub, who I met a decade ago at at his "Anthropology of Coffee" class at Reed C., where I heard for the first time the word "praxis," which has joined my vocabulary quite nicely. Whenever I am sitting around in my skivvies drunkly envying that special Reedie brand of passion for academics, Alex G. is the first one I think of, followed of course by Venezuela's own Francisco T., infamous for driving me to the airport semi-nude.

Something in the house is farting (machinery, not intruder) and I must figure out what it is. I think our dryer is shooting smack or something.

*They were wearing Alec t-shirts, ergo, engineering students. Not making any racial commentary, tyvm.

O Solo Grownupo

I fear that I don't know anyone my own age anymore. It seems that those of us born in the 1974-1978 corridor (which, to me, equals "My Age") are really busy right now, careering and making babies and buying consumer goods and not having rich bonding moments of pink paperback hilarity.

Last evening, we dined with a college friend of Bob's, his wife, and their entourage of similarly late-thirties types, and to my baby late-twenties eyes, they were, um...old. The experience felt old because we were eating at a tres swank restaurant (Bob's brother's, so its all in the family and one of my favorite places) and I was actually paying attention to fork usage and chewing with my mouth closed. I had the Chilean Sea Bass, if anyone's interested. Excellent. But since no one made a joke about farting, and everyone seemed really comfortable with spending that much on dinner and talked about homeownership issues (proof you're OLD) and not renting and fucking and farting, topics that I am very comfortable with, because they are light and youthful. I suppose I am low-rent. Or clinging to youth. Or loathe to buy property. Something.

My eyes are showing signs of The Crow. Yes they are. Thirty is but sixteen months away. YOUTH IS TRUTH! ZING!

I don't know if you know this, but my computer audio kicks all sorts of ass. Yes it does. It makes my twinky-dink indie shit sounds awesome.

I've ordered several books of a Canadian theme from my local Texas independent bookseller, which offers instore pick-up and an excuse to get out of the house and see people and the sun. I might not see the sun if I move to Canada, but I am okay with that. I am planning on writing a one-woman show about my love for Canada, the Acadian expulsion, being a big nerd in school, modern American politics, and how they all converge. For the record, I am not of Acadian extraction.

I am faced with a violation of the pledge of allegiance, to the flag, to the God I was taught not to believe in. And to the republic for which it stands, one nation, divisible, with Nanaimo bars and Timbits for me.

Barnes, Noble: Inspire Me!

Last night we spent a good amount of time at a local Barnes & Noble, the one northward that has a Game Stop affixed to its side like a colostomy bag. Bob purchased some fly games for the PlayStation, including Simpsons Hit and Run, which involves running Homer around Springfield on errands in stolen cars.

I, of course, made a beeline for the TRAVEL GUIDES, because B&N has such a thorough and lovely travel guide section, which includes the blue-covered travel bibles penned by my travel saviour, Rick Steves. I enjoy reading travel guides, even to places I don't plan on going to anytime soon, such as Goa. Goa is part of India, and though I do plan to take a trip to Varanasi someday to see them hock the bodies into the Ganges (death tourism!), that probably won't happen for at least 10 years.

I also briefly took a look at the pink-covered formulaic world of PAPERBACK WOMEN'S FICTION and thought to myself, "if I just want to see my name on a pink cover, I could totally do that."

Step One: Pick Woman's Name. How about JULIA MARSDEN. It has to be a name that modern mothers from Indiana might give their daughters, paired up with an Anglo surname, or perhaps a Jewish or Italian surname, if you want to give your book "Ethnic Flavor."

Step Two: Give Julia a "personal challenge." Like, she is a lawyer, but an unaccomplished one who must show her boss, Miss Picklepussy, how capable she is. Or make her fat. Something.

Step Three: Boyfriend finds a reason to leave. Let's say that she comes home and finds her boyfriend dressed in a bear suit, getting a blow job from a bunny rabbit. Or finds him in bed with her sister. Or maybe he leaves her to make aliyah in Israel, or to care for his sick parents at their extremely Christian home in Alabama--the one where they don't know she exists.

Step Four: Insert "perfect" best friend whose wedding is only three weeks away! Let's name the perfect best friend Cappy. Cappy is a good dumbass rich girl nickname. Cappy is perfect. Even her breasts are uniform in size and shape. She is marrying the best looking rich guy in the Hamptons in three weeks and guess whose a bridesmaid! Everyone loves to hate Cappy.

Step Five: Things get worse. The housekeeper walks in on Julia having some "special vibrator time." Or she finds out that her boyfriend that just left her is going to be at the wedding! Or, holy crap, she's fired. Embarrassment!

Step Six: Adventure Time. Shopping spree? Impromptu trip to Las Vegas? Minor car accident that leads her to the arms of a suave Norwegian skier named Jens? Yes!

Step Seven: After rear-ending her Volkwagen Beetle into the arms of Jens the Norwegian Skier (not literally), they exchange insurance info, and soon, vows, since Jens needs American citizenship (too close to Muriel's wedding?)! Or, she goes back to his hotel room for kippers and FUCKING, which is something Julia never does, because she's a good girl, but then finds a picture of his PERFECT BLOND NORWEGIAN GIRLFRIEND and goes home feeling like crap, only to binge on a tub of cookie dough.

Step Eight: "Savior" arrives, usually in the form of cute, slightly nerdy, but big hearted potential love interest with a name like Sam or Ben. Let's call him BEN. At first, Julia can't see herself with such a nice guy, because she's such a big loser. So at first she blows him off. Or savior might be WISE OLDER WOMAN who shows her that she still has it going on. But usually the former wins out.

Step Nine: THE WEDDING. Clad in an expensive, ugly chiffon gown (makes witty quip: "I look like a labia!" she exclaimed, looking at herself in the mirror wearing the ghastly poppy-colored Vera Wang monstrosity!) she steps out only to find annoying Cappy crying. It turns out that her fiance is GAY, and she's only marrying him for his money and a need to feel special and wanted. "I walked in on him giving a guy in a bear suit a blowjob!" Special female bonding moment. Julia encourages Cappy to break it off and be her own person, even after she's blown several grand on her own bridesmaid dress, shoes, etc.

Step 10: Where did these flowers come from? Julia arrives home only to find a bouquet of roses waiting for her at her doorstep. The card doesn't say who they're from. She goes inside, and finds a DVD cued up in her DVD player! She plays it. It's Ben, instructing her to look out her window. There's Ben and his Weezer-esque band, playing a song Ben wrote just for her. She runs downstairs and the new couple embraces. "I can't believe you did all this for me," Julia will exclaim! And Ben says the most perfect thing like, "You're the only girl for me."

FIN

Any moron can do this. I just ripped this out of my butt in less than fifteen minutes. Maybe my butt is talented, but I kind of doubt it. Maybe I should write the above novel and pitch it around, even though it is ASS.

No, Really: Making Love With Rick Steves

I just bought some products from Mr. Steve's commerce website. I purchased MONEYBELTS for me and my travel companion, Mr. Bob. He and I will NOT BE ROBBED. I also bought the 2004 Great Britain Guide (a coworker lent me her 2000 edition and it rawks) and the $20 hide-a-way tote bag in Screaming Canary Yellow.

We have just returned from T-giving festivities, where many spiced curcurbita items were consumed. Bob has two giant bags of delicious ham in the fridge. He and I are digesting. I had a revelation this evening that I find Red vs. Blue quite boring. There are no facial expressions, and I am never sure why they are fighting. Is it a war? Is it gratuitous? I don't get it. Toss me that afghan, my legs are cold.

Screw Edinburgh; or making love with Rick Steves

I have made the unilateral decision to scrap the Edinburgh side trip. For one, the outrageously expensive train fare is a huge deterrant. Our pal Robby, who has been galivanting hither and yon around Europe for the last six months, recommended flying, but I would prefer to see the English countryside roll by and not the interior of a Ryanair jet. Call me old fashioned that way.

Another thing is, it will be cold and rainy and dark in Scotland, and why would I pay US$300 to see that? So Scotland will have to wait until a sunnier day. I think we have enough to do in London and surrounding countryside.

I am personally interested in a few days in PARIS, but Bob has language issues. Just as I don't understand or care about his vapor lock for his beer brewing, he doesn't care about Paris, and I suspect dragging his ass up the Champs-Elysees, through Pere-Lachaise, and up to take a picture in front of 27 Rue de Fleurus would be, for him, like being dragged up and down the aisles of Fry's for two days for me. He's never read Proust or had to think about Gertrude and Alice and the Left Bank for any reason. He can have science. I'll keep literature. Hopefully, we'll stay happy together.

They've obviously never met me

I am on the mailing list for several catalogs that purvey items I would never buy in a hundred thousand years, no matter how endless my cash supply was. These are usually catalogs with a theme. The one that arrived at our home today is one that sells warm, wintery lifestyle products for the home. I suspect that they got my address from Lands' End. The cover of this catalog depicts a Christmas tree with a silver star atop its highest bough, indicating that this catalog is for Christians who celebrate Christmas the American way--the Consumerist Way. Halleluljah.

Let me take you on a sleigh-ride tour of this magical catalog...

Because the frosty nip of winter is fast approaching, this catalog sells many fine products for your home fireplace. Scenes of Caucasian families gathered around their mack-daddy, pimped out fireplaces warms the heart and the hearth. Unfortunately for the Mo/Bob Family, we live in a house that doesn't have a fireplace, so Rockwellian scenes of yuletide homeyness are not to be ours with such beautiful items as these BRASS-HANDLED FIREPLACE TOOL SET, the MANTELPIECE MITTEN DRYER for wet woolen mittens (a huge problem here in Texas) and the HEAVY-DUTY CANVAS LOG TOTE. Did you know that this SPECIAL WOOL RUG protects wood floors from popping embers?

They also sell FIREPLACE CULINARY TOOLS such as an attractive long forky thing for roasting marshmallows in the comfort of your own home, and an old-fashioned iron popcorn popper on a long handle, perfect for when Uncle Orville R. comes by with his stash!

Of course, no proper Christmastized home is complete without SOLID OAK HOBBY HORSES. Order by December 11 for Xmas Delivery. A CANADIAN-MADE (!!!) ASH TOBOGGAN is perfect for those future Upstanding Citizens that are no doubt being raised under a caring parental eye in any household that orders these quality products. Nothing says "Quintessentially American Childhood" quite like ash! Also for the kids: dress-up gear for snowmen, snowwomen, snowpuppies, and whatever your snowimagination can come up with.

Wet boots need three different styles of BOOT WARMERS/DRYERS. Put away that Conair! Also, make sure Fido doesn't feel left out by purchasing a TAPESTRY PET STOCKING for your dog or cat.

This catalog features an entire page of products designed to keep away the nastiest of holiday visitors. No, not your in-laws (ha!), SQUIRRELS! Special bird feeders designed to keep filthy squirrels away from your GOURMET PENNSYLVANIA-BLEND BIRDSEED. BIRDBATH DE-ICERS make sure the lovely birds that frolic in your yard can continue to frolic after they've flown south for the winter.

Looking for that perfect gift for your gardener, your greengrocer, the chairlady of the Church Chorale? How about a HANDMADE WHIRLIGIG? Thse whirligigs depicts playing animals and were made to flutter in the wind!

For those who are constantly forlorn and distraught by losing their cellphones during gardening, a GARDENER'S PHONE BELT can prevent missing important calls while harvesting the chervil patch.

Bob and I nearly broke up after a seven-hour marathon fighting match over whether or not one could prepare campfire-style s'mores at the dining room table. Turns out he was right: this ceramic and stainless steel S'MORES MAKER will prevent ugly breakups while toasting marshmallows quickly and safely in your own home. How many relationships have been saved with Sterno?

MOUTH-BLOWN PEPPERMINT PIG. Not making that one up.

A STAINED-GLASS PICTURE OF FROLICKING BEARS hung in your window with care lets the entire neighborhood know that you oppose gay marriage! Support Bush's tax cuts with a manly WILDLIFE LAMPSHADE. And a TEDDY-BEAR FESTOONED COTTON DUCK DRAFTSTOPPER lets America know that you're ready to let someone else's kid fight the war in Iraq.

The WARM ASH VAC lets you have peace of mind knowing that if the dog knock's over Uncle Charlie's urn, clean-up will be a snap. And nothing says "Thanks for being a great yoga instructor" like a 10LB TIN OF ROASTED CASHEWS.

Well, friends, that's about it! May your Christmas shopping season be profound and your turkey sex be wicked. Tootles!

Vegetarian Haggis

First, let me state that I am somewhat fearful that our upcoming trip to the UK is going to break my bank. The weak dollar versus the almighty pound is a tad depressing, and plus I regret making our reservations out of Houston instead of paying more for Austin, because now we are going to be tired and grumpy and stressed out. Boo.

The winds are so strong here right now. Strong like the GBP.

I have unconfirmed reservations at a guest house in Edinburgh that offers both haggis and vegetarian haggis as breakfast menu options. I am a little confused by vegetarian haggis, but am glad that it is on the menu. I think I will be having a breakfast that is low on Scottish and high on familiarity.

I just completed a telephone interview to get paid $80 for one hour of trying different soaps via a local market research company. While most of the questions were about soap, body wash, and what I do in the shower, the final question was: "If someone offered you a $1 Million book deal, what would you write about?" And I answered: A book about Canadian vs. US culture and why Canada is so much better. (Lots of American soaps are made in Canada)

I asked her what my Canadian obsession had to do with washing myself with the soaps sold by their client, and she explained that it was to make sure I am articulate. So if I said, "I guess I'd write about my kids, 'cuz I've never worked in publishing and don't know that that will get me in the circular file quicker than anything..." or "cats" or "Idunno" would have gotten me disqualified. I have no problem articulating myself. I am a good articulator.

Hey--T-giving is but two days away, and that means TURKEY SEX, so strap on those bonnets and get ready to set that oven to 350...gobble gobble.

I didn't really mean that.

Canadian Idol

Hi. I had a really good day yesterday. Like, beyond what I expected from a good day.

I went to the Degrassi Marathon and watched 6.5 hours of Degrassi episodes, including a Q&A from the two guys who played Snake and Joey, who in their 30-year-old incarnations still look much like they did 15 years ago. I even asked Pat/Joey, a Canadian tv idol if there ever was one, what has been weighing heavily on my mind in terms of Canadian vs. American culture, which is that a show like Degrassi with its frank treatment of teenage problems, including showing kids using drugs and characters having abortions: "Was there ever an outcry in Canada by, say, Canadian organizations, to censor the show or have content changed, in a way that there are always American organizations that want that?" And the simple answer was NO. Said Pat, "Degrassi was always praised for its treatment of these subjects, and no one in Canada ever attempted to change or censor what was seen as a very educational show for teens."

Canada is just better. Sign me up.

I left the marathon to attend my former boss Beth's birthday party, which was cool. She has the coolest house.

Then I had to make the difficult choice between going to do improv or going back to the Degrassi fest. Somehow, fealty to improv won out over common sense, and I proceeded to purposely get whacked in the first round along with Ed, who, like me, only showed up to that thing because we knew the other would be there, so it probably would be okay, but it wasn't, so we got the hell out of there right quick.

Usually I am cautious about badmouthing that particular improv show, because it has been troubled for awhile, but now I don't care who knows: it sucked for a variety of reasons, any of which I would be willing to discuss diplomatically. SUCK!

So, Ed and I wandered back to the Degrassi thing only to find out it had ended early. They did not account for the removal of commercials in the timing of the event, so sadly, I missed the graduation finale, but Stefan/Snake filled me in on all the mortifying events of everyone's life. Everyone had a crazy, made-for-tv movie ending. As they should have.

Bob has returned from Atlanta! Hooray! I can do a little dance, make a little love (hee hee), and basically get down tonight, if you know what I'm sayin'. Obviously, this makes me a happy chicken. Bok bok.

soup rhymes with goop and poop

The Geegsters were just here. I made several quarts of my not-so-famous black bean soup and even bought a container of sour cream, because I am a nice person. That shit is hard work! Cooking for a bunch of people. Cleaning for a bunch of people. Shiz. I don't entertain very much. In fact, this was the first time I cooked dinner for people who are not members of my family (which includes Bob) in a very long time. And now I am tired, but I really want to go for a walk. Only its dark and I do not care to get attacked. I wonder if I could borrow a dog?

I should have asked if one of the ladies who munched upon my soup would kindly go for a walk with me, but I didn't. Grrr. I am woefully out of shape, what with my lifepartner being in another state, and me not getting those walks I deserve.

Bluh.

My hands are really dry from cooking and cleaning.

New England-style Crispy Baked Burritos

Today, we remember low-quality institutional foods.

1) Smith "burritos." A lunchtime treat, these were flour tortillas (packed with preservatives, flown in from Chicago, no doubt) filled with beans or ground beef, and then baked in the oven until crispy. You were then encouraged to dress them with your choice of lettuce, cheese, salsa, hummus, or maple syrup, and eat with a knife and fork. Oftentimes, the edges would be so charred they were difficult to chew through.

I actually wanted one of these today. Someone throw a colander at me.

And also: G-d Bless the Avocado Burger. Gray, glooshy avocado/breadcrumb mix formed into patty and baked to perfection. Everyone hated these, but I lerved them with all my heart.

I have just sent an e-mail to the 2EAT guy asking him if he will send me the avocado burger recipe.

2) BEEF TIPS A LA CO-OP

Beef at the 'Op was always treated with soy sauce. Not marinated. Treated. Like chemically. If there was red meat involved, soy sauce was a co-conspirator. I specifically am reminded of the soy saucey fajita meat served on Fajita Night, and how salty and, well, soy saucey it was. What would that low-grade Sysco beef be without Kikkoman? I can't answer that.

Tonight, I dined at the divine Casa de Luz, the local macrobiotic and peaceful eatery that has captured my heart with a pair of iron chopsticks. Tonight on the menu:
onion soup w/spelt croutons
usual bowl of raw vegetation with the Holy Condiment Trinity
white Japanese squash cooked with cinnamon (yum!)
Chard with almonds
navy beans (those people know how to cook beans!)
brown rice with cooked nori
beet and cabbage salad

This is by far my favorite place to eat in Austin. For $10 you get all the above plus tea, and it is very tasty tea. The hot tea tastes like a campfire (twig tea) or according to Bob, a sauna. The cold tea is a blend of rooibos and peppermint, and it doth refresh. I really wanted to buy their cookbook, but it only contains recipes for sauces and garnishes. I want their bean recipe. Their beans are so delicious it hurts to think about them.

Afterwards, I visited the local women's bookstore and got some women's books. I overheard snippets of lesbian gossip and firm mothering ("use your words!") and felt that Viva La Mujer vibe big time. La di da! After having a weird dream about severe, hospitalization-worthy menstruation last night, I am feeling the love of woman big time.

Five more days... FIVE MORE DAYS! AIE!

For reasons of security, I am not going to tell you why I can't wait for Sunday to come. Usually, I dislike Sundays, but this Sunday is going to be good. But I'm not going to tell you why. I'll tell you why on Monday.

Indie Rawk Revisited

When I was twenty years old, the root of all evil in my world was major record labels. Corporate beast! I vowed to stomp it down with my Converse* lo-tops. I papered my dormroom walls with St. Calvin and St. Mark and St. Lois in hopes of warding away, I guess Warner Bros, because they wanted to punk me down? Anyway, at this point in my late twenties, I could give a shit about indie rock. I still tune into cutey indie pop shows on the local college/independent station, but whenever I see bespectacled sceney students wandering campus, my aged eye has gone blind to whatever magic I found in that realm BITD (oh, gawd, purge my vocabulary of BITD, please!).

Maybe it's because I never dated an indie boy. In college, there were generally no boys, but there was this UMass guy who lived in town and had shows in his basement, and as I recall, he looked upon me and my feminine guile as if I were a spoiled slice of non-vegan shit pie. Bob and I are different types of geeks. He's got the science background, likes anime and Japanese things (when I first met him, I had suspicions that he was one of those guys who only dates Asian chicks), and hails from the working-class midwest, which in my experiences doesn't foster an appreciation for the twee. Maybe if he had been a semiotics major at Brown, things would be different for him.

Belle and Sebastian perplexes him. I fear he thinks they are, like, so gay.

Where was I going with this?

TAKE TWO

This past Saturday night at the improv show, we had a guest player who has recently moved to Texas from, of all places, Toronto. WTF? Uh, the migration is northward, friend! I've been trying to rationalize why a Canadian from Toronto would relocate to these parts, and the only logical explanation would have to be weather-related. If you want to roast and broil, then by all means, become a Texan.

So this guy is an Asian guy, and he's really good. But then this unfortunate thing happened in which a member of our TEXAN cast inadvertantly racial slurred the guy in giving his character the name Cream of Young Fat. In the wings, I covered my face in shame. Then he said that he was drinking sake. Way to represent for the TEXANS, eh?

Slur-man apologized profusely, but you could tell the Torontonian improviser was offended, and further offers to come play with us were met with, "We're probably moving to Dallas." Ugh...

TAKE THREE

I was thinking about conservatives at Smith, so I performed the sacred act of a Google, and came up with some op-eds for the Sophian about how so HARD it is to be conservative at such a liberal school! No one understands, and even the faculty is so liberal and vocal. Apparently, the Repug club brought ANN COULTER to my beloved alma mater, and everyone was in a tizzy over that. Please go back 12 years and see what happened when Camille P. spoke. Ann C. is just mean and I'm sure all five right-leaning Smithies had fun knocking over the catering cart after that event.

There seemed to be whining about all the sexual political realities of Smith, like the lesbo/tranny thing, public porn viewing (dude...that shit was FUN), etc that would apparently rile the older alumnae so that they would withhold their donation money. They didn't actually come out and say, "Please tell Chester and Scooter to take off those Mr Softees and put on a skirt so Bertha (Bertie) Ovarian Jones '43 will write a big fat check, but I felt that's what they were hoping for.

Remember power in numbers? Yeah, the liberal elite at Smith rules. A liberal school in a liberal town in the liberal Northeast. Yep.

I know it sounds catty, but out of all the schools in the country, if this bothers you so, WHY DID YOU CHOOSE SMITH? No, really! I want to know!

*Weird thing with me and my green converse: I've owned them since 10th grade (1992) and just sort of forgot to wear them from about 1995-2001, and then started wearing them again, and then stopped, but today (late 2004!) I am wearing them again, because I'm a freakin' archivist.

Love Notes to Arlen

I just wrote a love note to Sen. Arlen Specter. As you probably know, the Repugs are harrassing him and trying to prevent him from chairing the Senate Judiciary Committee, as he has stated that he will block the appointments of judges who wish to overturn Roe v. Wade.

It's sad to think that I can never be a state senator because I'm not some right-wing fire and brimstone wingnut. I think I might be able to pull it off it one state and one state only: Vermont.

Sadly, I'm a Flatlander. Poo.

I suggest writing letters of support and thanks to Senator Specter: arlen_specter AT specter.senate.gov.

Niddah for America!

The announcement that creepy-crawly woman-hating fuckwit "Dr" Hagar (the Christian prayer cures PMS dude) has been nominated to chair the FDA's Reproductive Health committee gave me stomach cramps all day. I mean, have you seen a picture of this guy? He dyes his hair! Never trust a man who colors his hair. It means he's a liar and has something to hide and/or prove. Also, I can tell by the shape of his eyes that he is inbred, and probably has an unnatural but powerful fascination with all things butt sex.

Anyway, I have a personal beef with him because it was his decision and his alone that the FDA reject over-the-counter morning-after pills, even though the FDA voted overwhelmingly in favor of it, his hateful ass made enough of a stink, and I guess yes, he does wield that much influence, that it is not available at your local pharmacy OTC. In fact, if you live in Austin, there are only two places you can get it (aside from nicer G.P.'s): UT health center, and Tha 'Hood.

Since these Christian sadists think they have a right to use government to infiltrate the personal lives of women and their families, and that they are doing G-d's work by legislating my vagina, (Jesus never said anything about abortion, assholes. And stop eating shrimp!), I'd like to call them out on their own dirty hypocrisy. Why is it that the our country has to accept that their gonna shove CHRISTIAN anti-sex doctrine down our throats, but not that of other world religions? Huh?

Take for example the Orthodox Jewish practice of niddah. Niddah proscribes that women who are menstruating are dirty, and so a married woman who is on the rag is prohibited from touching her husband, touching his food, or even handing him an object. She is still considered dirty one week after the end of her period and may not touch her husband (or any man) until the end of that week, at which time she is required to go to the mikveh, or purifying bath, and get dunked. After mikveh, she is required (by edict of, I believe, the Talmud) to go have sex with her husband.

So, Orthodox Jews who believe that a bunch of men from thousands of years ago who didn't understand the origins of menstruation are right, and that the devil, not hormones, causes women to bleed, are supposed to live in a world where filthy, bleeding women are allowed to touch their husbands, make them toast, and sleep in the same bed?!?!?? How can they be expected to live happy, fulfilling lives if everyone around them is not practicing this sacred, ancient tradition???

You think it's silly? You think it's unrealistic to expect that from people? You think it has no place in modern life?

HYPOCRITE!

I'd actually write a letter to these fucks if I didn't fear that they'd take me seriously...

BTW, I am sad to inform everyone that I am (gulp) BOYCOTTING CVS. They allow their pharmacists to not fill birth control prescriptions, and as sad as I am to have to do that, it is important to keep my money away from people that allow that.

Bowl-on-Head

I'm thrilled that oft-mentioned paragon of awesomeness John Kamp has inaugurated a blog of his own, and it is anything but bowl-on-head. You might remember Johnnycakes from his NPR spot about his compost pile. Said the commentator, "John Kamp embodies the spirit of Earth Day." Yes he does.

John cooks beautiful Asian soups with fried breaded tofu and a variety of vegetables. He has a charming boyfriend and is a man truly committed to the environment. He recently started consuming dairy again. Don't go to his home and make a mess or whine about vegan food. Just don't. John is very grindcore, and he will grind you into sesame paste.

Tonight Bob and I prepared "Armenian Lamb Stew" which had chunks of meaty, muttony agneau with tomatoey Armenian sauce, and some chunks of Armenians here and there for good measure. I almost choked on a Cadillac hood ornament.

We also splurged and bought a gigantic apple pie. Huge! Then we got a reminder call that we offered to donate some clothes to a local clothes-picking-up charity and as I was going through all the things I don't wear anymore, I realized quite painfully that I was giving away a lot of pants that I just don't fit into anymore. Sadness. I'm a meaty pie-eating tub.

My regularly scheduled aerobics class is out for all of November and December. Which will further contribute to my obesity.

Poo.

DCC

Have I ever told you about how much I love Douglas Coupland? That when he was in Austin for a booksigning three years ago, I actually hugged him? I was really proud that I didn't kiss him like the woman ahead of me in the sign line. That would have been too much. I hope Doug's used to it.

I don't know what it is about him, but to me, ever single one of his sentences is a hug. There is a warmth, an invitingness, a quiet wisdom, and an appreciation of the strange that really speaks to me in his writing. I just popped over to his site to see if his new novel, Eleanor Rigby, was available in the UK yet, and it is. That's the first thing I'm buying when I get there, and I will save it for the plane ride home.

When I lived in NYC, I was briefly friends with a woman who was also a fan just like me, but even more fervent about it, and even managed to become personal friends with Doug. Lucky! My move to Austin and corresponding personal renaissance in which I actually started liking my life precluded any and all obsessive fandom I may have had when I lived in New York.

I totally love Doug.

Degrassi, anyone?

Alamo D-house is having a 12 hour Degrassi Jr. High Marathon on November 20. Who wants to join me? Snake and Joey will be their LIVE!

Whose in?

atheists for jesus

I've been feeling kind of protective of Jesus lately. As someone who is not Christian, this may seem strange, but I feel sorry for the guy. For thousands of years, he has been the excuse for all sorts of hate and ignorance, but also some good things too. I always thought he stood for love and compassion and helping those who need help, but I guess according to a lot of people around here, he only loves them and those who share their opinions.

Some twit was wearing a shirt that said JESUS WAS A REPUBLICAN at tony CMarket today. Forget that there was no Republican Party or USA in Jesus's time. Forget that twaddle about Jesus loving everyone. I guess I'm wrong, since he probably doesn't love me or anyone else who voted for Kerry or anyone who doesn't live in the US of A. Jesus will announce sometime that he could care less about those Bulgarian nuns or the Chimay-making monks or any member of any church in Massachusetts.

Speaking of MA, there was a giant icy cranberry bog at CMarket today, with little red scoopy pans. There was a sign reading Massachusetts Fresh Cranberries! A group of kids were standing around it, scooping the cranberries, saying "Massachusetts is where Kerry's from. Yeah, Massachusetts is Kerry's home." I thought that was the cutest thing.

But back to my maligned buddy Jesus, why is his universal message of love being sent down the toilet? I mean, a lot of people have died in his name for a long time, but this American enmity has got to stop.

Jesus was a Massachusetts Liberal. Thank you.

You Need Potholders To Handle Me

Gawl durn. I just realized I am a WRECK. I am all keyed up from this election and the upcoming Holy War.

Evidence: Two co-workers have observed that I look tense.
Inability to form coherent sentences in my second language.
Accidentally started a fight with long-time friend over things that happened 7-9 years ago. Maybe now is not the time to bring up long-standing hurt feelings that have been festering since the mid-1990s?
Tired and floppy, but more so than usual.
Too apathetic to move to Canada. Apparently, traffic at the CIC site has been up, as reported by SLASHDOT.

Gorp.

So I am an unpleasant wreck. Combined with my hair, which is in a state of limbo, as I am growing it longer, I am one scary-ass bitch.

Grrr!

At least Bob still likes me.

Put your money where your uterus is

I just gave some money to Planned Parenthood. I've been doing this for years, but I just upped my usual dollar amount because they need all they can get, since mark my words, a year from now, it will be their lawyers battling to keep Roe v. Wade from being overturned.

Feeling Massachusetts

So, is it just me or does this compute:

homosexual : Jew

Republican America : Nazi Germany

I would like to debunk a few myths about gays and lesbians for all those fag-haters who put Bush in office:

MYTH: All gays do is have butt sex all day long.
REALITY: Most gay men don't have TIME to have butt sex all day long. Most of them have jobs, families, friends, responsibilities, and also need time to eat, sleep, shower, balance their checkbooks, and empty their dishwashers.

MYTH: Homosexuality is a sin against God and Jesus and Christianity and Christians and the Bible!
REALITY: "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." I think some dude named Jesus said that. That goes for you, Mr. Wife Beater, Mr. Adulterer, that lady in the back there who feeds her kids nothing but ramen, Mr. Rapist, and you there with the extention cord stranging that person. Yeah, you.

MYTH: Gay marriage is an affront to the family!
REALITY: Most people who believe this also don't believe that they know any real gay people. I always make the point that gay marriage doesn't take any food off of anyone's table. The American family is already in a world of crap, and the homos didn't put anyone there. Somehow, it doesn't stick.

And really, what's so positive about telling already existing two-mommy/two-daddy households that they aren't a family, aren't protected under the law, etc? Is making a bunch of innocent kid's lives really hard going to accomplish anything? Is that "Christian?"

MYTH: BUTT SEX!
REALITY: So called "moral" "religious" people are really hung up on other people's sex. Have you noticed this? Those buttoned-up hatemongers screaming about faggots? You know what they're thinking about? They're thinking about taking it up the ass, and they hate themselves for it. So they turn around and hate all those guys out there who are getting some, and they are so seethingly jealous. They're married to women and they only have sex to make babies and they don't enjoy it because women are dirty and wicked and...BUTT SEX!!!

MYTH: Lesbians just need a man.
REALITY: As a graduate of Smith College, I can attest that this is false. No they don't. I've seen it with my own eyes. Nope, you're wrong on that one.

MYTH: Kids with gay parents are really fucked up.
REALITY: Kids with straight parents are really fucked up. What's fucked up is the 2M2D crowd isn't ALLOWED to be fucked up. And how fucked up is it to have your birthright fucked-up-ness taken from you? Fucked up, it is.

Anyway, I hope that this was educational. As a Massachusetts liberal, I feel it is my duty to educate the masses. And mazel tov to Elton John and his husband-to-be! May there be many simchas on your bayit!

And I believe in a promised land.

There's a dark cloud rising from the desert floor
I packed my bags and I'm heading straight into the storm
Gonna be a twister to blow everything down
That ain't got the faith to stand its ground
Blow away the dreams that tear you apart
Blow away the dreams that break your heart
Blow away the lies that leave you nothing but lost and brokenhearted

--Bruce Springsteen

Make Cancer

I feel like I am suspended in a bottle of (gasp!) high fructose corn syrup. Everything is weird today, though I am now seriously going to pursue the vocation of counselor/therapist after chatting with my therapist today. More school debt! Huzzah!

Bob is currently "making cancer." He's got a lot of crabs.

I'm sitting here wasting my time, doing exactly what I said I wouldn't, which is looking at the f-ing returns.

Gah!

What I don't understand is how anyone actually WANTS another 4 years of that regime. Either you've gotta be really dumb, really religious, or really into your money, or all three.

Do I smell a Kerry victory?

Is it my large, Armenian nose or do I smell a Democratic victory tomorrow? It seems like all signs are pointing to JFK2. Even Fox had to tuck its tail between its legs and make a statement to that effect. And all the sports superstitions are pointing in the right direction.

I've spent the last month or so envisioning Kerry's presidential portrait on the wall at the LBJ Library. They have a wall of presidential portraits, and I have been focusing on imagining Kerry's on the wall.

I should be Nanowrimo-ing, but of course, am slackering. I will have plenty of time to write when Bob is in Atlanta and over T-giving weekend, so I am not going to sweat it.

I want to dance in the street tomorrow. Let it be so!

Bob is now the proud owner of Japanese video game KATAMARI DAMACY. For those of you who don't live with BIG NERDZ, Katamari Damacy is a wacky, fun game involving a little green guy pushing around a sticky ball that picks up pushpins, soy sauce packets, caramels, cars, people, stadiums, skyscrapers, until the ball is huge. I have so far played through Level One. The music is annoying, but it is colorful and fun, and its like living inside a bubble tea shop.

I can't stop listening to Springsteen. I bought Nebraska tonight. My musical taste is downright regressive, but I'm feeling particularly American at this point in history, so let me have my Bruce.

By the way, I am strangely charmed by Senator Kerry's senator website, kerry.senate.gov. The one that serves his constituents and has nothing to do with his presidentialness.