January 31, 2009

I had some drinks last night; I did. And yet here I am at eleven am, been awake drinking coffee with a perfectly clear head for an hour already; shouldn’t I be sleeping in, universe? Sweet Jesus.

All I want from life is for Holly to wake up so we can watch more Weeds. Weeds is eating away at all the vital pieces of my brain and I can’t wait to see what happens next although it will probably hurt. Will Nancy continue to be a fucktard? Probably, but I can’t wait to see for sure. Will Shane finally crack like a fragile little egg and break my mothery little heart? Oh god I hope not, but I need to know NOW.

Dear Holly, please wake up. If you don’t I will continue to stomp around the house slamming things around in an increasingly obnoxious manner; I might also start playing some Gorillaz on volume 38.


If you want to destroy my sweater, make me wait a week while you run a background check and interview other people who are clearly not as cool as I am and dink around with other random corporate crapness before letting me know for sure whether or not I have the job. This = current state of affairs, and I am unraveling at the speed of light. Just give me the job, people; you can do it. Nicorette can help.

To distract myself from the horrendous freak outs induced by job insecurity limbo, last night I went with Holly and Jason to Kelly’s Olympian to hear our friend Brandon’s new band, Shimmers. Brandon is one of my favorite people ever because as well as being pretty awesome in most ways he was one of five stalwart souls who sat with me around a dive bar table on Christmas night and joined me in belting out the doxology at the top of my lungs. This should immediately tell you something about Brandon, and any of his musical efforts: fucking RAD.

Last night was Shimmers’ first show ever, and I think they did very well. Devoted readers will remember my deep and abiding love for all music punk, and while Shimmers is definitely not a punk band their music somehow reminded me enough of punk to have me bopping in a supremely satisfied way. Brandon plays the bass really super well, and is reported to be something of a ‘living gimmick’ as he always puts on a fabulously rocking show; last show he played so hard his fingers bled, and last night he rocked his own glasses clear off his face during the last song. This was impressive, but more impressive to me was the fact that he didn’t step on them afterward, since he continued to thrash the hell out of his bass and the stage floor until the song was well and done. Chris is the drummer, and, I suspect, is responsible for the delightful punk rock feel that jams insidiously along the outlines of every song; ok, I don’t really suspect it. Jason told me, because Jason knows more about music than I do and Jason knows that Chris previously played in a punk band. I would have liked to take credit for that kind of insight, but I don’t have the dishonesty skills to keep it up. Suffice to say, yay Chris, I am pleased with your contribution; keep it alive. There are also a really cool keyboardist named Dustin, who in my opinion melded everything together with scintillating sound and great style, and the guitar player/lead singer named Nick. I think that Nick has a good voice, but maybe the sound guy was sleeping or something because the vocals didn’t carry very well to the back of the room where I was squashed; the entire band seems kind of eclectic to me as far as mission sound/genre goes, and I think his vocals could really tie all the funkiness together if he just sang louder…or had his mic turned up. The harmonies were completely kick ass. It is one of my largest complaints with current music that the harmony concept has kind of fallen by the wayside and you pretty much have to listen to country to get your blended voice rocks off anymore. Shimmers, I am happy to say, is bringing back the harmonies, and they do it very well. If all the vocals had been as loud as the harmonies were the band would have had a check plus in my book; but this is still very high praise from someone who spends most of her time at shows staring at the wiring in ceilings or glaring at drunk people who bump into her. The only upcoming shows I can find for Shimmers are booked in Washington, which throws a decided damper on my attendance motivation, but I will let you know next time they’re playing Portland, because I will be there.


They're indescribably more colorful in real life. 🙂

You may have noticed a strange lack of bitching in this post as compared to some others, because unlike certain places, (Doug Fir cough cough), I actually like Kelly’s Olympian. I like the motorcycles hanging from the ceilings and I like the neon lights and I love the friendly bar staff who serve up such cheap, cheap beer. Two dollar Session? That is kind of ridiculously inexpensive and good. Every bar has its faults and I spent a good deal of the night disconcerted because I have a bad habit of seeing something that incites me to make a face of some sort to myself, (usually sarcastic or disparaging), and every time I turned away from the source of the face making I caught myself and my grimace in the inordinately huge mirror that runs across the bar side wall; certain sources of the face making caught my grimaces in the mirror also, and I felt that there was no country for old men, no safe land in which to mock people silently and to myself. Which was unfortunate, because while I like the bar itself a lot of its clientele are exactly the type I most frequently find myself needing to make faces over. For example, I have never seen such a mad quantity of patterns in one place. Ok, I exaggerate; I have never seen such a mad quantity of stripes and plaid in one place. Jeez. I know I begged the universe to bring grunge back, I just didn’t think it would come back in such eye screaming colors. But pretty much everyone there was beautiful and grungy in a well dressed way, which occasioned a moment or two of sadness for myself due to my grungy badly dressed ways. This happens every so often, I’ll see some gorgeous lanky person with priceless bone structure and hundred dollar distressed jeans and think for a flash second that maybe I should put some more time into dressing myself before I leave the house. Then I remember that this has happened before and it will happen again and I will never be anything but a lazy dresser, and I get over it; some people simply cannot be bothered, and therefore they will have to deal with looking like a scruffy little boy nine times out of ten, world without end amen.

yes he did

January 30, 2009

I have spent the entirety of what I consider to be my adult life under the well padded impression that the president of the US really has no more power over the good of the people than a two cent prize in a box of cracker jack. I have also spent that time squashed under patriotic apathy, believing that this situation had rarely, if ever, been better, and that it would probably never change. The possibility of electing Obama as president was the first political issue to move me toward any kind of passion since my days as an underaged, malinformed (apparently malinformed is not a word but it needs to be; misinformed gives off altogether too irresponsible a vibe. It wasn’t that I was misled in any way, it was that I didn’t question and had no interest in scrambling out the box of the politics I’d been raised in to see if things were as I thought they were) republican powerhouse of sorts; I remember reading about Obama for the first time well over a year ago, at a time when my childhood right wing naivete had melted off and left me with nothing to believe in and nary a damn to give. Like pretty much everyone else I know, this last election was a springboard from apathy to mental frenzy, at first simply because we were at long last losing W, but then because we began to notice that maybe a change was coming. I read all of the presidential hopeful’s political profiles and histories, and settled down to really dig into the pasts and personalities of the three who most interested me and who I considered most likely to succeed: McCain, Clinton, and Obama. It took me exactly one day of workplace reading around my data entry jobs (it was a slow day) to find my man to stand behind; I still failed to care very much, but Obama was my choice in almost every regard. His politics almost constantly lined up with my own, and, truth be told, I was far more in favor of a Leo (Obama) running the country than a Scorpio (Clinton). It came down for a short while to Clinton or Obama for me, but I was quickly repulsed by her voting history, obvious prejudices, and over the top feminaziism. I remember talking to my mom about Obama, summer before last, for the very first time, and for the very first time arguing my own researched and weighted opinions with vigor and passion. For the first time it occurred to me that something actually worth my involvement could take place in the top tier of US politics.

I jumped in with both feet for this last presidential campaign. I debated and discoursed with anyone who would listen, I got off my ass and went canvassing, I gave a damn. However, I am just now realizing how deep the eight year strain of W infused apathy ran in my dubious veins. I leapt and frolicked and danced and screamed when Obama won in November, and I talked about hope and change and painted a ‘yes we did’ sign, but until this very morning I have been holding my breath for the downfall of my hero and every hope I pinned on him. He hasn’t disappointed yet, peoples. I was excited when he issued the order to shut down Gitmo, because US sanctioned torture techniques were one of those things I would hear about and instantly shut down my mind on; my stomach would turn and my soul would ache and there was nothing I could do about it. I was excited when he actually carried through his promised stimulus plan. I was excited when he knocked over W’s restrictions on abortion aid. But today I read about the actual passing of his pre-election promised federally funded children’s health insurance bill, and it felt like something hard inside me cracked open and I almost cried. I have, inasmuch as I have been capable, believed in this man for over a year. I have believed in his messages of powerful change, I have believed in his politics and his superiority as a leader…and he’s keeping that faith. My faith is a battered thing and I’ll probably never quite finish holding my breath for the bottom to drop out, but so far so fucking good, y’all. He is making good on his promises, and he is, just as importantly, beginning to run this country the way I personally want to see it run.

I have no grand conclusion, but my heart is full and my head is buzzing; I raise my coffee cup to you, Mr. President, and to you, my fellow Americans: I’ve got high in the sky apple pie hopes.



That being said, I have an interview in half an hour and it is my first actual job offer in five months that does not involve the words ‘porn’ and ‘star.’ I am kind of freaking out with joy and trepidation over here, please to send peaceful vibes and good luck wishes. (omigod omigod omigod).

This is me in my stupid pink ruffly shirt.

This is me in my stupid pink ruffly shirt.

I woke up this morning because I was having dreams about going from house to house in some neighborhood and drinking a huge glass of water in every kitchen. I stumbled out to my own kitchen and drank a huge glass of water and had a profound respect for my dehydrated little mind.

DUDE. We will go right back to that, but OH MY GOD. Someone just knocked on my door and I opened it and an absolutely adorable girl about my age started to walk right in. Something about her looked homeless, and she was about to walk right in, so I leaned into her and pulled the door mostly closed around my body. ‘Hi,’ I said.

‘Hi,’ she said, and smiled an adorable pointy toothed smile at me. ‘Sorry, no English. You can help me?’

‘Um,’ I said, horrible visions of homeless people starting a door to door campaign flashing through my head, ‘espanol?’

‘No, no,’ she said.

My mind, lately so profound in its water acquiring abilities, faltered. ‘How can I help you?’

‘A tomato?’ she said.

‘A tomato?’ I asked.


My produce basket was on the counter right next to the door and there was one tomato in it. I gave it to her, because…because really, if an adorable homeless looking girl comes to your door at eleven ten in the morning and asks for a tomato and you have one, you might as well give it to her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and walked back down the steps with the tomato. I shut the door, sat back down at my computer, and lit a cigarette. What. The. Fuck. What the fuck?

Anyway, my profound mind. It seems not so profound now that it’s still tripping over the whole tomato incident like it’s stuck in an acid trip loop, but. I find it massively impressive that I can drink three shots of jager and a Session, forget all about my glass of water before bed, and my mind can tell me, while I’m sleeping, that my body needs some damn water.

Tomato? What the hell? Augh!

Furthermore, I noticed immediately after the water that my right foot ached with an indescribable fierceness; examination brought to light a huge bruise on top of my foot. Chances are that someone stepped on my foot sometime yesterday or something was dropped on my foot yesterday, but as I don’t remember anything like that happening, I am kind of hoping it’s not an early sign of stigmata. I will keep you all posted, and hope that no further bruises appear on my other foot or wrists.

Tomato. Christ.

satisfy my soul

January 26, 2009


God knows how long ago I started a painting. I painted her in chunks of time over months and months, listening exclusively to Bob Marley because…I don’t know, Bob Marley is her favorite musician. Finally, at long last, she’s done and she’s beautiful. For your viewing pleasure, may I present in her completed glory, Jive Yellow.

dried tea, basil, and an astounding quantity of dried yellow rose petals.

Texture: dried tea, basil, and an astounding quantity of dried yellow rose petals.





how vegan of her.

January 24, 2009

To see the funniest shit on the planet and have at least a fighting chance of understanding what’s happening when I say ‘oh, long Johnson’ and then fall over dead laughing, as is bound to occur with obnoxious frequency, please click here. You will not regret it. Holly and I spent full hours last night drinking between us six bottles of the unbelievably disgusting but very tipsy making bitch beers known as Bacardi Silver Mojitos and watching this clip over and over and over. My abs hurt from the laughing. Also my taste buds hurt from the utter nastiness of our first and last venture into the rye bread flavored waters of the Bacardi Mojito, at least until I was on my third bottle. I strongly suggest that you watch this clip; I even more strongly suggest that you never imbibe this vile concoction. Do not be wooed by its charming inexpensiveness; it is inexpensive for a very good reason, that reason being, you will absolutely regain in one fell sip any gag reflexes you may or may not have lost over the years.

After hours and hours of laughing our asses off at youtube cat videos, I swear to god we are not old ladies but you never really know, one of us does crochet and the other drives approximately two miles per hour under the speed limit at all times, (it’s not my fault. I’m one ticket away from losing my license so you’d better believe I follow the letter if not the spirit of the law to an obsessive degree), we put on the beloved old Aqua mix and went staggering around the place in high heels, compromising the structural integrity of the carpet and our ankles and got dressed to go out. We were both in just a ridiculous state of being, jumping on our beds and saying ‘oh, long Johnson’ to each other and falling over laughing, pulling out and trying on every ludicrous costume combination we could come up with, and I obviously settled for the shiny. I always settle for the shiny. I am pleased to point out my very striking resemblance to David Bowie.

Please to keep your babies away from me and my goblin minions; also, have you any crystal balls for me to contact juggle?

Please to keep your babies away from me and my goblin minions; also, have you any crystal balls for me to contact juggle?

After lots more falling and laughing and at least sixteen further views of the very awesome youtube clip, Holly’s very patient brother Brandon came over to drive us down to Berbati’s. I would just like to take a minute to celebrate Berbati’s like I should, as it is always there for me whenever I am feeling especially like making an ass out of myself in front of as many people as possible. It is staffed by awesome, friendly and inordinately dead sexy persons, and has the cheapest drinks west of the river. I say west and mean downtown, of course; my bar hopping comfort zone is as yet pretty much confined to approximately thirty blocks east and west of the river and I think this is more or less how it will stay. Especially when Berbati’s has a new dj, who, although he is not Dan and Dan is my very favorite world without end amen because he played me Daft Punk all the time with unnecessary kindness and frequently on demand, spins some pretty rocktagious stuff himself. He pays no attention to me when I go up to ask him about the Daft Punk, which never fails to incite my Irish into flames of indignation, but he does play a lot of great eighties music and mixes everything superbly and Holly likes him a whole lot. I mostly tolerate him, I think; I tolerate him because he is not Dan and he is there, and, well, better him than nothing, you know? Maybe that sounds a little mean, but come on. You have not seen mean until you’ve seen someone brutally ignore a pleading David Bowie look alike who only wants to hear some Daft Punk, and would be more than happy to tip for it if some grumpy people would just put a tip jar out. I know, I know, bastardization of the art and all and he probably doesn’t take requests because he’s so on top of shit and down with the musical mastery, but keeping one’s art pure and ideals high is not something I require of or even, apparently, appreciate in a dj. All I require and appreciate is some nice friendly chatter every so often and a possible overindulgence in Daft Punk. Dear Dan, please come back. Alcohol isn’t the same without you.

I would also like to take this time to celebrate Brandon as I ought, for his outstanding performance in the dubious role of chauffeur, stable shoulder to lean on when ankles positively give out, and all around calmer of troubled waters and smoother of ruffled feathers. I pretty much always wind up pissed at some drunk asshole or other on these excursions, and he is pretty much always right there to put a restraining hand on top of my head and hold me in place while I spin my wheels and throw inadequate shadow punches. He is also the only person who pretends to believe that I am good at pool. I think I shall make him a trophy of some sort.

In case anyone was wondering how the modeling audition went, fast. Fast is how it went. I got there and filled out a form to the best of my abilities, by which I mean I left off my address like I always do because I am paranoid in some very fundamental ways, which has cost me some gigs in the past believe it or not, was handed my number, (11), and waited for approximately six seconds before being called. This is because there were only four people in the room, the photographer, his assistant, me, and another model. Therefore I was vastly amused to be given a number, until I got up in front of the screen and was instructed to hold it up by my face. This smacked entirely too much of mug shot/criminal line up for me to keep much control over my face, so I bet I don’t get the gig. That, and I bet I don’t get it anyway. From the stacks of filled out forms on the assistant’s desk an awfully lot of applicants had gone before me and from the stacks of blank forms on the front table an awfully lot were still expected. I would be surprised, pleased, naturally, but surprised, if anyone went ahead and chose the short, fuzzy haired girl who looks a little like she’s spraying laugh spit at the camera to be part of the NARAL campaign. I just have a very firm belief that NARAL is all about the getting down to business and the ass kicking and I was planning on looking very capable and maybe pretending that I had a machine gun leg and it just…mug shot. Ha.

I must leave you now, as I am actually thinking about getting to work on those illustrations for the children’s book that I ought to have gotten to work on oh, six weeks ago. Or I might just drink more coffee and scratch myself. One never knows.