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July 31st, Two Thousand Four: Is there a hotline for testosterone poisoning?
Seriously, man. Most of the time, my kickboxing classes are primarily
women. Which is fab. Now and then, there are also men, which is
often not a problem. However, with some male teachers -- not Dante,
because Dante is the bomb and is insanely sensitive about sexism,
especially for a huge man reared in the Dominican Republic --
it very much IS a problem.
Somehow, just adding one extra guy into the mix supplies permission
for all sorts of crappy behaviour and contest-like approaches.
It allows for validation in the total dismissal of adaptations
required when you're a guy nearly 6'4 (in today's case) training
a class which includes one woman who is barely 5 foot. Holding
a pad over your head -- at then a height of about seven feet --
for a running jump kick is of no use whatsoever for someone under
around 5'8. Being told to "just touch it if you can't kick that
high," is a total waste of time because no one gets anything out
of walking in circles for five minutes and touching a pad with
their fingertips. We can all walk in circles and touch something
above our heads on our own time, when we are not paying for a
class.
Looking to the other male in the room with a guffaw and a grin
when I suggest that not only would taking turns so we could actually
run in the first place be helpful, but holding the pad to the
same level over our heads he'd be able to reach it were it held
over his head is really not cool.
Suggesting people in the room are lazy for being short or small
is also not okay.
While I'm working drills with my partner, who is holding the pads,
jumping RIGHT in front of me, mid-kick, to show another student
how to do the drill without a pause or even an "Excuse me, I'm an impatient child who could give a shit about
your personal space," is not only rude and annoying, it's also why one of the spinning
kicks I was throwing did, in fact, land on his backside. No, I
did not mean to do so, but I also did not apologize.
Moreover: when you're teaching, unless you have an odd number
of students, you don't get to train, too. Leaving one paying student
without a training partner so you can isn't groovy. Neither is
forgetting you're teaching several times during one short hour
because you're so busy trying to get some training in yourself.
This is a big part of why Dante and I train alone once a week:
so he can get some training in which he can't often when teaching.
Situps and pushups are not a cool-down. Shocking, but true. As
well, no one gets much use out of situps done at lightning speed
so the two men in the room can count really fast and loud and
be super-impressive... save to anyone who knows that the slower
you do either, the more work, not less, your body is doing. Telling
only a few of the women in class to keep their hands up to cover
their face is only okay if even ONCE you tell the OEG who has
been flailing his arms around all willy-nilly for the whole class
to do it, too.
The guy who subbed for Dante today is a good guy: I like him.
Okay, I like him save the time that he showed up during one of
Dante and my solo sessions and totally took over the space and
a good fifteen minutes of our hour with chatting. When there isn't
The OEG (one extra guy) Factor™, he can be a really good teacher.
But when there is? About a year ago, it was in exactly this situation
that I ended up with a sports injury for a month because the OEG
and this teacher were having so much fun goofing around that the
OEG let go of the standing bag he was supposed to be holding while
I was flying across the room in a flying side kick. Boy, was that
fun. He suggested doing the same drill today, and when I pointed
out the safety issue, told me there'd be 250 pounds behind it.
Umm, the man is tall, but he's a stringbean, I'm guessing maybe 175 pounds. Which is why I not only asked where the 250 pounds
was coming from, but also mentioned that 250 pounds doesn't do
much good when it's not actually holding the bag.
I'll likely figure out a way to say something to the owner of
the studio at some point, but the problem is that I'm not sure
he'll get it, given I've experienced him doing the exact same
thing. Affanculo. |
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July 30th, Two Thousand Four: My days right now are alternately insanely active and incredibly
lazy. One day finds me running around like a chicken with its
head cut off, and the next I'm a complete couch potato.
The day before yesterday I had to bike all over the city to run
a batch of errands, including a ten miles there and back stint
to the cable office to get a replacement modem. It's always so
outrageous to me that it's assumed everyone simply must have a
car. The man on the phone didn't understand that a few days wait
for a drop-off here of the modem or service was too long a delay
given I work here. He also didn't seem to understand as I was
asking for service locations that it was even remotely possible
I did not own a car. I eventually just called Becca at work who
looked up locations to help me find one I wouldn't get run over
by trucks on my bike trying to get to. Since the one in St. Louis
Park was right off the Greenway, that was a good choice. And it
was a nice day.
In fact, before I discovered that it costs $45 to have a 575 page
manuscript copied (and how thrilled am I to have decided I needed
an extra copy just in case the shipment to the publisher got screwed
up?), I was reminded, very pleasantly, of why I had said some
of what I had about getting old in the last entry.
There's a huge, gorgeous old stately victorian with a carriage
house a few blocks from here. I'd been told that an old woman
lived there and took care of it all by herself, but had never
met her. So, deprived of enough old folk around me, she of course
took on epic proportions in my imagination. As I was riding to
the copy shop -- a bit distracted, trying to organize all I needed
to do that morning, and trying to balance all the packages on
my back -- I heard a very loud "Ride'em cowgirl!"
... from the mouth of a tiny old woman mowing the lawn of that
house, dressed in an array of mismatched and slouchy men's clothes,
with a big floppy hat, a wave and a great big smile.
Needless to say, I had to whirl my bike around and go talk to
her. Within a half an hour, I knew when and where she got married,
that she was originally from New Orleans, how she came into that
house, a drama with hospital bills (they'd spelled her name wrong,
calling her "Katy" rather than "Cady," which she took great affront
to and therefore, felt she could be justified in saying no Katy
lived there and the bill wasn't hers: I agree), that people keep
telling her to write down her life story but she feels she can't
write, that she liked my t-shirt emblazoned with "self-service"
across the front of it, and that I should stop by again sometime.
That's one of the things I love, love, love about many old women:
there's no small talk. They go right to the stories, and they
keep'em coming unless you vacate the premises altogether. You
rarely even get a word in edgewise. It rocks.
Cady SO lived up to what I imagined and then some. It was the
high point of my day.
Yesterday was a lazy day, spent lying on the futon in the living
room watching films with The Girl on her day off, as she forever
kept passing the kleenex to me while I made her watch The Secret of Roan Inish, because I think it's one of the most beautiful films ever made.
Made one of the best batches of chili I've done in a long while
(cinnamon's the secret), went to bed good and early.
Today will not be a lazy day. I have arseloads of housecleaning
to do, for starters. One of the things I discovered while writing
the book was that when I'd get tired, or my eyes hurt, or my brain
stopped working, productive breaks were much more helpful than
passive ones. Taking a bike ride, walking the dog, grabbing a
quick swim, having a boxing session, mowing the lawn for the building:
all helpful. Cleaning was really helpful, which is outrageous
since I am a serious slob and generally hate cleaning. And yet.
My house has actually never been more regularly clean than it
has been in the last six months.
That's a very big deal. I constantly feel frustrated that while
inside my body and brain it's all very organized and focused,
what goes on outside is a complete mismatch much of the time.
I often feel as if my house is falling down around me because
I trip over things in the apartment at every turn, and the cleaning
piles up until it gets to the point where I earnestly consider
arson as the most efficient method of cleaning it out. So, since
it's been more clean, keeping it clean is vital. I don't want
to louse up now that the big project is done; lose the good habits
I miraculously developed with so little effort compared to how
hard I'd tried, and failed, to be a good housekeeper over the
years.
Floors, drawers, shelves, the desk, bathroom and sunporch are
on the agenda today. So is getting together the results of a couple
sessions with folks over the last few months and burning CDs to
mail them. It's only 9ish now, so if I can get all that done and
the light is good, I can shoot this afternoon. If not, then I
can do that after boxing tomorrow. I decided that for the next
few months, I'm going to alternate between black and white and
color work: August is B/W month, so I'll start with that. I figure
if I force myself to do that, I can hone my craft in both areas
in a very focused way. My creative mind tends to resist restraints,
so now and then, it's good to impose them, to force myself to
push against their walls.
(I've noticed that some of why I like shooting B/W so much is
that it seems to be the best route for me to do work with as little
artifice as possible. I love color so much that often when I shoot
color, I'm maxing it out as much as I can just because the bright
or rich colors make my senses so happy. Sometimes, that seems
to result in my mood or manner doing same -- being more intense
than they usually are, or heightened in some way. When I'm working
with black and white, that doesn't happen as much, and I feel
like what I get feels and looks more genuine. But what I want
is to find a medium between that reality of mood and manner and
the graphic intensity of the color work. We shall see.)
I also have a wee baby to photograph in the next week, a bike
race Becca is doing to take photos of Sunday, tenants moving in
and out of the building to manage, plans to make for the Chicago
jaunt next weekend, some more post-manuscript-delivery work to
do on the book, bills to pay and work to try and hunt down so
I can pay them.
And coffee to make now, so I can get cracking. |
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July 25th, Two Thousand Four: Yesterday was the most beautiful day. High seventies, cool breeze,
bright sunshine, wind in my hair, body moving.
I skipped boxing because I just wasn't in the mood, and had a
bit of a head cold. While blowing snot all over someone with every
strike is probably an excellent fighting strategy, it was a bit
too gross an image, even for me.
One of the worst parts of the last couple months of book writing
is it meant I got stuck inside almost all of the time, which is
a special circle of hell for me. I have no idea how there are
people who actually prefer to stay inside. I don't understand
how they don't feel like they're suffocating all the time. I can't
even keep my windows closed in the winter.
So, I grabbed my bike and did 20 miles from midmorning to mid-afternoon.
I mainly cycled the Chain of Lakes, starting near the top of the Lake of the Isles, just a few blocks
from my apartment. I wound my way from the east side south, until
I hit the southern most edge of Lake Harriet. I took a detour
then, over to 50th and France, a fairly ritzy neighborhood. I
have a cousin's wedding in Chicago the Girl and I are going to
in a couple of weeks, and I tend to run short of clothing that's
either too casual or too revealing in my mother's book, so figured
I'd see if Anthropologie was having a decent sale. They were,
but I still couldn't justify spending $40 on a cotton skirt, even
if it was Marimekko and did fit the bill. I really need to get
my sewing machine fixed.
Stopped at a goofy little pet store and got Sofi a few treats
and a new collar to help preserve her old one. I realize how whipped
I am by this small pug. Certainly, anyone who goes into these
sorts of shops is, but most people drive or live nearby, rather
than biking 10 miles to get there. So it goes.
The whole ride was just so lovely. The weather was beautiful,
and the breeze had that incredible crisp smell you get off lakes
in the summer. Everyone who biked, ran or walked by was smiling,
kids were being wacky. I took a break at some point to sit with
my feet in the water and watch a batch of little fish swim around
them. It's still so amazing to live in a city where all of this
is literally right in the middle of it. Growing up in Chicago,
it was so much like watching the entire color of the city change
slowly from green to gray as more and more of the special wild
bits got urbanized. The winter here is no picnic by any means,
but having all of this available during the warm months is such
a treat for me. And it's all free. I don't have to pay a dime
to go fly through so many beautiful places whenever I want to:
that's an ineffably wonderful gift.
At some point, there was an old woman biking in front of me, at
exactly my pace, who had this look about her that reminded me
so much of myself, it was cool. It's so sad to me to think of
people who invest so much money and energy in trying to fend off
old age: the surgeon's knives, the creams and colors, support
stockings and bizarre undergarments, the erection pills, what
have you. If I don't get to not only get old, but really BE old,
I'll feel very robbed. I get all excited just thinking about it.
One of the nicest parts of slowly getting older for me is the
freedom that seeps in where you just have to worry about what
you look like less and less, not more and more. A user at Scarleteen
was talking about how much having a room full of men bending over
backwards to get her attention ups her self-esteem, and it just
made me sort of sad. I've gotten to the point where that sort
of reaction is depressing to me; I avoid it rather than seeking
it out. It leaves this empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.
There's too much good stuff to dwell on that. I had a beautiful,
beautiful ride. I stopped at Whole Foods on the way home (which
has annoyingly become not so veggie-friendly anymore -- it's very
irritating to have to walk through a stinky meat aisle to get
to the real food, especially in stores which only got built up
because of the bucks of non-meat eaters). Picked up a few amazing
vegan cookies I've gotten addicted to, a big vat of whole, fresh
lemonade, and the fixings for a tofu scramble for dinner with
a bunch of my last farmer's co-op booty. I also discovered their
conditioner is $2 and vegan (and smells like fresh chamomile),
which was a nice coup. The night before, I'd emptied and cleaned
my fridge to sparkling. After taking the pup for a long, lazy
walk, chatting up a voter's registrar and enjoying more sun, I
made dinner and watched Firefly episodes all night, a surprise
gift from Chris Bridges (thanks you!) that had arrived the day
before.
* * *
Thursday, the day after I finished the book, I spent doing a a
similar bike ride, with a break in between to go swimming and
laze about in the sand reading. The Girl has been having a very
hard time lately with new job and with her depression, and felt
very bad that she couldn't handle the day: we'd agreed she should
go home early that morning after a tough evening the night before.
It's hard to make clear sometimes that spending time by myself
isn't a sad thing, especially doing something as relaxing and
sumptuous as taking a bath in a big lake. Or doing all of the
other things I've been able to have time alone to do since I finished
the manuscript: improvising on the (out of tune, but so it goes)
piano, playing with the dog and the cats, sweeping the floor,
having a cup of coffee or tea on the steps outside, enjoying a
cool shower or a soft bed.
I have a tough time finishing things. You're an Italian-Irish-Portuguese
Aries on the Taurus cusp with a Leo rising, you're an initiator,
kids. I am also able to sustain things. But likely a good part
of the reason why so much of what I do are projects with no foreseeable
end is because I am truly not skilled at finishing. So, being
able to finish that huge first draft and to let it go -- and yes,
a few times over the last few days, I've gasped to realize I thought
I forgot something, or did something wrong, only to double check
it and discover I did fine -- was so huge for me. I expected to
be heading into a post-project postpartum funk by now, but I'm
starting to think it's not coming this time. I'm just all floaty.
I'm not even in the usual rush to get to the next thing.
Over the years, attachment was my big Buddhist challenge. Generally,
when you talk about attachment in Buddhism, you're talking not
about people, but about stuff, things, ideas, states of being.
While it may seem like growing up poor being unattached to stuff
should be simple, I've found it's quite to opposite for me: I
cling to my treasures and the few things I have acquired. When
I do most work, I never truly let it go, always feeling like I
should redo it, tweak it, that I likely could have done better.
But I don't feel that way right now. At all. It's wacky.
The last few months was a constant pattern of 12 - 16 hours of
work, then passing out for anywhere from 4 - 10 hours until I
did the 12 - 16 hour stretch again, day after day after day. It
felt like I'd never be finished, and then it all just started
coming together until I WAS done. And I even felt done. So, I'm
pretty blissed out on that feeling, and it happening during a
time when it's so intensely beautiful outside and I can just enjoy
it for a few days is just so great.
Today I need to walk over to the market and get some food, go
check the P.O. Box at the pharmacy, do a little housecleaning
and the like. Tomorrow is more beach and bike time, this time
with the Girl, who wants to make up for her missed day. Being
able to do all of these simple things and take time to do them
is so nice. yesterday afternoon, I came home and made a cup of
tea, a caramel-pear blend I found at the market on the way home.
Just being able to breathe the secnt in as it brewed, get mesmerized
by pulling the silver tea ball up and down slowly made me smile.
The biggest bummer about having to work so hard and so much for
so long is that it's all too easy to lose the time and focus to
be truly mindful about everything; to enjoy all of those little
things that really do only take a couple of minutes but take up
hours of spiritual real estate.
The scent of steaming tea, the feeling of the wind in your hair,
flying down trails propelled by gravity and your own engine, schools
of wiggly fish, children jettisoning away from their parents with
joyful shrieking, bright daffodils and tiger lilies, the morning
perfect and quiet, a low G9 chord, sand between your toes, hair
that smells like fresh water, a soft bed when you're tired, a
silly suntan that looks like a belt from your pants creeping down
and your shirt creeping up, new silver hairs, better lines around
your eyes, bright green chard, cats stretched out in windowsills,
smiling at strangers, beautiful, beautiful old women whizzing
by on bicycles. Doesn't much matter, it just is , that I'm jobless
right now. Doesn't much matter, that money is a perpetual trouble,
that life is complicated most of the time, that I could fail at
this thing or succeed at that one, that you never really know
what's coming or what's going, that too many people suffer, often
by their own doing. There's still the tea and the fish and the
flying old ladies.
"Across the Universe" just came unto my digital turntable. That's
all I need to hear. |
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July 22nd, Two Thousand Four: 205233 words. 575 12 point font, double-spaced, single sided pages.
There's grunt work remaining: a foreword to obtain, intros and
summaries to do, waiting games to play. But the main manuscript?
It's done. DONE. |
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July 14th, Two Thousand Four: Got a minute?
1) I'd like some help compiling the resource list for the book,
to make sure I'm not missing anything utterly fantastic because
it's outside or under my own radar, or just not a flavor I particularly
dig.
The resource list will include websites, books, organizations
as well as a list of film and television (and there I'm practically
ignorant, save Buffy) media which are both teen-friendly and pretty accurate when
it comes to reflecting realities of teen life, especially those
working with issues of sexuality, relationships, body image, health.
Posting the existing list here would be a pain in my butt and
not helpful, so suffice it to say, I've already got the really
obvious stuff down there. If you want to give a hand, or just
let me in on your undiscovered-and-needs-discovery treasures,
could you post your ideas here, with the whys of your love or
affection for them? Leads on finding stuff that's tricky to find
or obscure, so I can try and check it out if I haven't read/seen
it would also be really helpful.
2) I have a couple sections I could really use a second set of
eyeballs on, addressing issues or aspects of them that aren't
as personal to me as others, or that I'm not as experienced with.
Namely, having one or to folks who have really struggled with
body image or eating disorders, esp. as teens, for that section
would rock. Having a couple people who are very much heterosexual
to read over the gender and orientation section -- which is aimed
at everyone -- would be really helpful, since my sensibilities
have always been pretty queer. A lawyer or law student to eyeball
the short section on sex laws would be ducky. Having someone who
grew up very indoctrinated with the concept of virginity for that
section would rock. Someone NOT very familiar with safer sex practices
or current birth control methods for those sections would be grand.
A parent or two to glance through the parent/teen talk section
would also be helpful. If you're into any of that and have time
over the next few days -- I don't need big edits, just read-throughs
for content, clarity, inclusion, etc. -- toss me an email?
It's so foreign to me to be asking so many people for help lately
-- it's a new trick for this old dog -- so if I'm overstepping
bounds or asking too much, feel free to ignore me. Otherwise,
thanks! |
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July 13th, Two Thousand Four: My deadline was extended a few more days. i didn't ask for this.
However, I'm guessing that telling my editor that thinking coherently
at this point and forming said thoughts into cohesive sentences
was akin to trying to do swim a fast lap through mud solicited
this suggestion.
It's okay, it's okay. (I'm saying this for me, not you.) I've
been told all along, by everyone, that no writer with a huge book
and a short schedule finishes on time. It even gave a one-month
grace period in my contract. But, being me, I was convinced even
if no one else could do it, I could.
I was hoping doing this book would curb some of these sorts of
tendencies. However, it's done quite the opposite. Because this
puppy is practically done.
This is the last of these profoundly OCD visual graphs on my progress
you get from me.
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| Today |
June 17th |
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April |
Left to go: the sexual trauma chapters (gee, don't know why on
earth I wouldn't be aching to write those), a finish on the opening
chapter and two small sections in the relationships chapter. The
introductions and the summary, and the supporting grunt stuff:
resource lists, footnotes, table of contents, etc. I also need
to convert them all to Word when I'm done, and write a letter
to Judy Blume which will someone allow her to realize that no
one else in the whole wide world could possibly write the foreword
to this book, because without her, we'd all be nothing, including
me. Sometime soon I also need to take some Very Pretentious Headshots
for the back cover. This needs to be done when I have my brain
back, however, because right now, the temptation to take a photo
of myself lying on the floor with a white chalk outline is too
great. As is turning in a photo of my at 15 with a head full of
spikes and Aqua Net and a joint in my hand, flipping off the camera.
This visual may give you a better understanding of why it is I've
been so incommunicado and so questionably sane:
I spoke with a very helpful man from the YMCA, for the record,
who agrees with me that it would be far more cost-effective for
them to purchase crates of my first draft manuscript for weight
training rather than those spendy machines. This way, even if
book sales totally suck next year, I'll still have managed to
achieve solvency with my work, see. I'm so smart.
(The pint-and-a-half bourbon bottle is here for scale. No, really. Sofia wanted to be the scale object, because she's
sure everyone knows the size of a pug's ass. We're not telling her she was ousted from her rightful position
by booze.)
The plan was for me to take the whole day off today. isn't it
always. It will be a mellow day, though. I've had a truly terrifying
number of days -- nay, weeks -- now where I've worked day through
late evening on four hours of sleep.
So, let's pretend I'm taking time off shall we? Believe it or
not, now and then over the past couple months, sex encyclopedia
authoring and girlfriends with the black frigging plague notwithstanding,
I have had some semblance of a life. So, with no further adieu,
in no particular order, and most likely, with only a modicum of
cohesion, I give you some tidbits.
• Pride was soggy. It was dark, it was cold, it was pouring rain
and I had horrendous menstrual cramps. The dress made of HazMat
tape was not especially toasty, and I had to wear a skirt under
it to try and stay remotely warm, which really blew, since the
neon blue fishnets and hot pink boy's underpants were pretty darn
stylish. The girl was working the IKEA float, which was sadly
at the opposite end of the parade all the rest of us were in.
Our antiwar sector seemed to have decided it was a marathon, not
a parade, so Heather and I, and sometimes Donna and I, and occasionally
Jaime, Brandon and I, kept getting an entire block to ourselves.
People cheered and clapped for us, even though we were holding
no signs, looking fairly confused and sopped to the bone. That
was nice. People took pictures. This scares me. Somewhere out
there are photographs of the demon lovechild of Cyndi Lauper and
Stevie Nicks in a gown made of yellow plastic tape.
I didn't take many myself, what with the marathon marching and
all. Did grab a few at Joe's garage afterwards though, and there
are a pile from Jaime as well. I'm too tried and stupid to organize
then nicely, or even to crop the blue border off the ones Kodak
processed for jaime. Such is life. But here are a few for your
amusement:
As we reach the end of the parade and it was merely drizzling,
Jeffry got happy, and Brandon, Heather, Ayesha, your soaking wet author who was
SO ready not to be holding her smile for the camera anymore, and
Donna paused for a family portrait.
After it finally stopped pouring, Steve (AKA BarbieQ, though in a far different guise than usual), Jaime and Jeffry
took over as representatives for Target. I understand that the Target people were less than thrilled. But the mayor thought they were cool. It appears I'm always a bridesmaid, for the record.
Given our collective and rather unintentional choice of apparel,
for most of the day, we looked like the world's scariest wedding reception. There was even a drunken toast, sideways glances, champagne and a bizarre face (and no, I really haven't been kidding when I've said I'm going
grey mighty fast lately), an out of control and apparently indecisive bridegroom, glowing brides, and someone being terribly silly at such a serious occasion.
The Girl felt the need to be surly for kicks at some point. We
came prepared by clipping a bit of my gown into an appropriate sign for her. (And yes, she's slowly healing from the black plague and its
army-slash-punk-band, Face Full of Pustules.)
Here's a shot of the dress on a hanger after I was finished constructing the thing (before it's worn
again, I've decided it needs one more layer, sort of a petticoat
thing made of red danger tape), and the condom corsage affixed. Sofia was really brassed off that she couldn't go. But I let her wear her costume anyway.
There are also a couple Jaime had from the last drag show. I don't
know what the hell I was doing here. But it was clearly very important. (That'd be The Girl to my
left: the rules are that for any given picture of the two of us,
one needs to me either acting ridiculous or making a very weird
face. It's the rules, see. We can't do anything about it.) It's
also very important that the beer be guarded at all times, that
several ashtrays are always available, and that if you're going
to ride the rollercoaster that is the floor, you keep your hands inside the...something that isn't even there.
(Want to get really scared? Brandon in my lap is who I landscape
with. Minnesota yards may never be safe again.)
• IKEA opens here tomorrow. But I got to go Saturday since my
girlfriend works there so I'm so much more special than you are.
(Yeah, go on, hiss at me. Do it, you know you wanna.) If I ever
have money, though, I think I'll only be buying furniture from
the kids section, because it's way cooler than the adult stuff.
For instance, my antique fridge has become too small to hold all
the sex toys anymore. Tell me this isn't the most perfect sex toy cabinet, ever. I dare you.
Because of the extended deadline, I am considering heading to
the opening tomorrow morning with my camera. I'm concerned that
if I'm not there to take photos, some photographer who isn't me
will take them. That'd be a bummer, because what I envision is
a scene straight out of a Divine film: stepford wives, queens
and suburban SUV drivers ripping each others eyes out, pulling
hair, severing achilles' heels with carts all to claw their way
inside. I'm not sure if I'll go because of this. I mean, if it
isn't like that, I'm going to be really pissed for taking the
long bus ride to scary mallville, and there I'll be with my tripod
screaming "Let's go, people! I want blood, I want growling! Show me all
those years of passive-aggressive mania finally unleashed upon
the world! You take her DOWN for that armchair, honey!" Yeah.
• This year, Becca and I opted into an independent farm co-op.
A million years ago, I managed a cooperative through the school
I ran in Chicago. That had major bonuses, but also involved unloading
a semi's worth of groceries into an entire classroom for a day.
Just picking up my one grocery bag of veggies on my bike is much
better. Some of the stuff has been AMAZING. Look at these strawberries. Or at this (yeah, vegan propaganda --
you don't like it, go somewhere else, kid) dinner, half of which is a combo of steamed spinach and kale with currants
(the other half is some cajun-spiced polenta and tempeh).
(I was concerned you didn't really get a good look at those strawberries.
I worry about these things.)
• Good -- okay, so not all exactly good -- tunes have saved my life through the process of writing this
book. I may well have to include 10cc, Donna Summer, Journey,
Barry White, Stevie Wonder, Rickie Lee Jones, the Psychedelic
Furs, Cheap Trick, Bif Naked, The Donnas, Holly Figueroa and Rufus
Wainwright in the thank you section of the book.
• The Summer Of Rain is really pissing me off. Of course, this
week, the last sodding week I'm writing the book in, it has to
suddenly get nice. Mother Nature had damn well better get her
shit together next week, because I really need that beach time.
• After the beach time that WILL happen, I really will be updating
the site's, I swear on the grave of my dead bunny rabbit. And
someone WILL fucking hire me for a decent paying gig so I can,
like, not be the world's most famous homeless sex writer. Some
beautiful day soon, I will have time to take pictures again, get
in touch with people who keep bugging me to do so, and mow the
lawn o'weeds around the building. But not today. Today I'm taking
a day off.
Sure I am. |
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