Call the Justice League of Super-Lame-o's.

It's official: My superpower is an extraorindary sense of smell. You will all, of course, remember my post on the legality of perfume. Yesterday on the 5:00 pm shuttle (rivaled in popularity only by the 8:30 am shuttle), a young woman sized up the possible shuttle-mates, and apparently, found me the most suitable choice. She didn't look offensive, seemed fairly recently showered, and had a book. A good shuttle-mate, indeed. I politely moved my bookpack in between my legs to open up the seat next to me.

We were in agreement. We would be sharing intimate space for the next thirty minutes.

Ah, but then I began to smell something. Wasn't perfume. Definitely, definitely nail polish remover. This struck me as odd; she clearly wasn't painting her fingernails currently. I looked at her nails, and they were manicured, but chipping; so she hadn't tried to strip the pretty off right before boarding.

Maybe I was just crazy.

Me: "Do you smell nail polish remover?"
Her: "No...hmmm"
Me: "It's so weird! I know I smell nail polish remover."
Her: "Oh, it could be my bag; I carry it with me to work in case I want to do my nails when I'm bored. Yeah, it's in here...it's closed, but it's probably me."

Damn bottle wasn't even open, y'all. Hadn't even been used.

So, I'm not crazy, but apparently have a lucrative career option as drug-dog-human available to me. And that's something, right?

P.S. In my move, I found one of those sample packets of perfume/eau de toilette, or whatever. I like Miyaki, because his scents are usually so light, and my nose will let it slide if I dare to dab a drop on. I opened the packet, and found a moist towelette, which I cautiously dabbed on my neck (didn't know if it was some kind of body-freshener thing, or supposed to be used for perfume purposes).

Now, the damn stench clinging to my neck is having a grand time of punching my nose like a flowery fist.

Argh.

Sing It Loud, Sing It Proud

I sing along to songs all_the_time. I have to stifle the urge on the shuttle; if others got to hear the accompaniment (what's playing on my ipod), then perhaps I would sing along there, too. I sing along because it makes me feel like I've contributed to the music--By singing along to Bowie, I'm somehow sharing in the genius of the song--I'm a helper! When I had a piano, I'd play along to songs for the same reason. My friends were cool about it, but gas prices being what they are, the piano's out of the question for the most part.

My college friend, Julia, LOVES to sing along. But she couldn't carry a tune in a lard bucket, and generally can't remember the words exactly. She sings with real gusto, though. Really. As loud as humanly possible without the aid of audio equipment.

Julia used to work in a restaurant in which the staff had to sing those awful "Happy Birthday" songs to their embarrassed patrons while the birthday boy or girl's friends beamed with sadistic enjoyment. This awful birthday song was no exception to Julia's playbook; she sang it loud, off key, and with her own peculiar phrasing. She really wanted to pour her heart into the embarrsassed guest's birthday song--so she gave it all she had each and every performance.

Then, one afternoon, as Julia was putting her things away in the employees' office, she noticed the an item on the agenda for that day's staff meeting: Talk about Julia.

Julia was delighted! One of those wacky kids who would take on the task of watching a pencil for a couple of hours with the enthusiasm of a cocker spaniel, Julia was sure she was going to be commended for her enthusiasm on the job. "Wow! I wonder what I did!?! Ah, another beautiful day to be at work."

The staff gathered around the restaurant manager, and Julia tried her best to supress her beaming pride until the big commendation. After ticking off the other items on the agenda, the manager looked to Julia. "Julia, you're not allowed to sing the Happy Birthday song anymore. Please just mouth the words and clap your hands--wait, just pretend to clap your hands."

To this day, Julia still can't bear to sing Happy Birthday to her friends, or for her friends to serenade her on her special day. This doesn't prevent her from enthusiastically butchering any song daring to play on the radio in one's car, though; so I suppose all's well that ends well...(?)

I Believe I Can Fly

Well, not anymore, but I did for a while.

In college, I had a recurring dream in which I was able to suspend myself in air. I simply jumped up, and then began twisting around in circles, somehow keeping my feet from touching the ground. This dream recurred so frequently that I began to live with the innate knowledge that yes, I could fly. I didn't actively think about it; it's akin to just knowing that you could outrun a toddler. You don't think about it, reason it out, or boast to others of this ability; you simply live with the knowledge that yes, in a life or death situation with a toddler and a knife, you could get away.

Then, one day, my conscious self and subconscious self began chattering to one another:

SS: Guess what we can do!
CS: What?
SS: We can sooo fly!
CS: That's improbable.
SS: No, really. Just jump up and twist around in circles. We'll be able to levitate!
CS: I'm sorry, but that just isn't going to work. I've taken physics, and there are some flaws with your thinking.
SS: No, no, I've seen it!
CS: Was this one of your dreams again?
SS: Ah, crap.

This happens a lot--where I don't know if something is true, or it has been dreamt. Sadly--or luckily--not everything is so obvious as the ability to fly...So as my memories fade and my dreams become more vivid, CS and SS are likely to trade furniture, and I rarely know if I'm sitting in a real chair (or floating on a magic carpet).

Wow.

I'm finally going through the box of 45's my mother gave me from her childhood. I'm moving, so I'm sniffing out crap that I can sell in the collective yard sale this weekend...But lo and behold, this box is full of surprises--surprises I won't sell.

Who would have guessed that my backhills, Southern belle mother listened to David Bowie? I now know she spun "Man Who Sold the World/Space Oddity", lots of Peggy Lee and Nat King Cole, Jimi Hendrix--my mind has been thoroughly boggled today.

I seriously thought this woman only knew Simon and Garfunkle, and a the entire catalogue of Protestant hymns.

I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around this. And am thrilled beyond words.

Mea Culpa

Dearest readers (I think there are now four of you),
After reading a recent email from my pal B-London, I realized how much I've forgotten to post here--I've become a glutton for all of the comments I receive at *that other site*. Sooo, I apologize. And offer the posts you've missed (sorely, I'm sure):

If You're Happy and You Know It

I have a place to live. I don't know how I did it, but out of 15 applications, I somehow won the prize of a roof, floor and walls. And I will live--by myself. Hurrah!

I also have a new love in my life. Her name is Bessie. She is a Nishiki road bike, and we are going on long rides together, not saying much, but feeling plenty. My last bike, Beatrix, was swell, but I felt it was time for both of us to move on. I released her to my neighbor with a kind wish...her curvy aluminum frame was so familiar to my legs, my hands, my eyes; but she was a hybrid, and I've become a purist.

I do not know why all of my bikes' names must begin with "B". I desperately wanted to name Nishiki "Millie." But my mind wouldn't let me. Whenever I thought of her, she was always Bessie. I certainly have no intention of ever referring to her as "Bessie the Bike," so an alliteration is clearly unnecessary.

Hmmm.

I've decided to finish my PhD, profess for a couple of years--until my school loans and debts are paid off, and then change careers. I'm currently entertaining thoughts of culinary school, apprenticing in violin-building, or going to a music conservatory. This new plan has filled my heart with so much joy, I fear my veins may burst, sending a geyser of red bliss all around my apartment, and surely forfeiting my security deposit in the process. A small price to pay.














I Could Never Love a Robot

I am naturally drawn to symmetry and logic. there is something infallible, safe, strong and beautiful in everything logical; symmetry seems to be the structural equivalent of logic, and therefore, symmetrical beings and visions are beautiful to me.

However, I find the truly breathtaking resides in the subtle flaws. I love slightly crooked teeth. I love hearing subtle mistakes in musical recordings... mistakes which become so fundamental to my enjoyment of the piece. I love the intense pursuits of perfection--certain to lead to the most beautiful flaws of all...But this is all a secret I shouldn't be sharing with strangers.


More Evidence News Just Rocks

Reporter: "So, Tom, your Mother died of breast cancer when you were 16 and you battled colon cancer three years ago. Can you tell me why you got so choked up mentioning your Live Strong bracelet?"

Reporter: "So, Nancy, I know you've just had so much fun working on these desserts. Tell me how much fun you've had."

Evening news advertisement: "The President gave his address on immigration reform last night. At 5, we'll gauge your reactions."

Um, thanks.

I'm In Love With An Oyster.

Today I will neither rant nor wax poetic. I will gush. Mommas, hold your babies tight, the world must be comin' to an end.

I went with my lovely ex last night to see Oyster, a dance performance from the dreams of Inbal Pinto. We went because I received the mass university email flyer enticing me in the subject heading with " Free Tix to 5/10 Quirky Vaudeville Dance Performance!".

I see "Free" and I'm already 50% certain to be in attendance. But wait, there's more.

"Taken from Tim Burton¹s ³The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy,² Inbal Pinto¹s
Oyster is part surreal vaudeville, part circus, and part toy store after
midnight. Pinto has created an idiosyncratic dance theater piece that spills
out into a dreamscape of wandering street acrobats and oddly beautiful
creatures with doll-like make-up, spiky blond wigs, and tutus. The work
brings to mind the dreamlike qualities of Fellini and the keen intellect of
choreographer Pina Bausch."

Well, now they've mentioned Tim Burton and Fellini. I suppressed a quiver in my loins.

However, my ex is a bit of a tortured, tired genius. I imagine he's probably a reincarnation of Franz Kafka. He came over, barely able to muster the strength required for a greeting, and quickly slid into a chair with a half-hearted sigh. We began the process of negotiation.

He: "How long does it run?"
Me: "Um, I dunno. We can just stay for a little of it if we don't like it."
He: "Yeah, I'm just so tired."
Me: "Well, I could make you some coffee...or we could just not go."
He: "No, it sounds interesting...But can we leave after about half an hour?"
Me: "Okay. I mean, it's free, so whatever."

I really was being sincere--if it sucked and blew a few goats, who cared? It was FREE!!

We climbed the hill to the theater. We shuffled to our seats and people-watched for a good 20 minutes. He was getting antsy. If it didn't start soon, we would enter into negotiations again.

The lights dimmed. The curtains pulled back, and thus began the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect, fantastical, breath-catching (it didn't just take one's breath, it held it captive) display of human movement, human imagination, human skill, and intensity I've ever witnessed.

The performance didn't rely on hidden meaning, or interpretation; it was the pure intensity of a dream flowing through all of the senses. The lighting was used more like delicate watercolor on a canvas of human bodies. The dancing didn't look rehearsed; it was primal and magnificent and so perfecly synchronized to some latent universal code of movement.

I have never wished to suspend myself in an hour of any of my life as I so fervently desired to do so last night.

The light extinguished, and the music ended. My ex, so lethargic I often wonder how he musters the strength to furnish a pulse, leapt to his feet to begin the standing ovation, which rose like a giant wave over the audience. I fought back tears--because the performance had been so perfect, and because it was finished...

Much like a dream, as I try to replay it now in my mind, I have only a fragment of the beauty accessible to my conscious self; but the emotion lingers, even as that most brilliant image fades.

80's Movies Rocked.

I saw Galaxy High on t.v. yesterday and it succeeded in providing every eighties' teen movie cliche. There was the sexy high school teacher, who sometimes wore a suit jacket and jeans, and then miraculously changed into the "bad boy", replete with black leather jacket and single dangling earring at night. They had a brawl between the rich kids in Beverly Hills and the poor drop-outs of East L.A. (the students of "Galaxy High"--a school whose classroom was a travelling bus with graffiti).

But to my complete amazement, there were at least three dance montages, two of which had completely spontaneous and perfectly choreographed/synchronized dances--the last of which took place in the rain outside of the rich school at the end of the movie ('cause at the end, the rich kids and the po' kids become pals and all, so they celebrated their new friendship with some dancin' in the rain).

[Okay, to be fair, I googled Galaxy High--and the movie I saw was actually Lambada--I came into the movie about half an hour late, and would never, in a million years, have guessed this movie had something to do with the lambada (though I remember wondering why they had played that awful song twice for two of the dance scenes...). Same plot, though. Same strange insertion of craptastic dancing. I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved...)

It was fascinating. It wasn't a FAME!-like movie, or some kind of musical, but the dancing, if viewed in isolation from the rest of the movie, would surely shout "MUSICAL!!!"... totally different from say, Breakfast Club (in which the characters just bust a move to some music--Ally Sheedy's interpretation of the music quite dissimilar to Molly or Emilio's...) or Footloose (in which you expect dancing--I mean, c'mon). It was some weird hybrid, which was simultaneously cringe-worthy and completely satisfying.

This reminded me of another 80's movie I heart: The Warriors. Technically, a gem brought to us by 1979, but who can tell the difference?
Back to the film. So, the movie was actually based on Anabasis, a Greek war in which the Spartans and the Persian emperor Cyrus attempted to overtake present-day Turkey. Both the Persian army and the Spartan leaders were captured, and the remaining army had to travel through hostile territory and various groups of meanies back to Homebase, as it were.

So, The Warriors takes this tale and contextualizes it in the future (based on the costumes, haircuts and phrasing, the future seems to be a couple months ahead of the release date--sidenote: Star Wars was also supposed to take place in a Galaxy Far Far Away--Did the feathered haircut really see that much universal action??). Instead of Spartans and hostile tribes , there are a host of different gangs, all of which are thematically organized. All of the members have chosen an outfit and, much like boy-bands, attempt to coordinate the hell out of them.

The Warriors, a gang which has decided on brown leather vests and sperm-killing tight jeans, are framed for the death of Cyrus, the uber-gang leader who was calling for a truce and the formation of a Super-gang. This pisses off the Grammery Riffs (Cyrus's homies) and urged by the call of some vindictive radio deejay, all the gangs try to take the Warriors out along their way to the big gang-meet-and-greet where they will be able to clear their names.



My favorite gang was the baseball-themed gang, The Baseball Furies. They carried baseball bats, and all wore baseball uniforms...to add that scary in, they wore purple lipstick. Because Knee-high socks and polyester and boys wearing lipstick would instill fear in every person I know.



However, a gang in the running for most bizarre-choice-given-that-you're-supposed-to-be -scary award was The Orphans. It's a bit sentimental for a bunch of "tough guys", no? And really, when they don't get the invite to the big gang-fest, can they wonder why?

Well, okay, let's make it a three-way tie. The Punks all wear overalls and roller-skates. Because when you're on roller-skates in overalls, you just, um, scream Tough Guy. Maybe it's just me, but aren't you a little vulnerable on rollerskates? And the blisters! Oh, my.



But what about the Hi-Hats? Okay, they're sneaking up for a surprise win. They all wear red shirts, black pants, suspenders, and top hats. they look like mimes. But wait, they're scary mimes. I forget what their weapon was--maybe they pantomime shooting you. ("Grab his hands! Don't let him escape into his pretend box!!!")

Seriously, how much whiskey you got?

We were driving to another doctor's appointment. My head throbbed and

1 2 3

more vicodins down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

My fingers went to my head, tracing out the last of the tumor. 7 days of creation, 7 surgeries, 4 wigs, 9 i.v.'s, 17 banana-shaped receptacles, 31 dressings,

1 2 3

bottles of vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

My father tells me to be glad this is over before I go to college: "Boys don't like damaged goods."
Head is spinning, did he really say that he did but I'm damaged in so many more ways and I'll always have these oddly shaped scars, a swasitka the doctor laughs, we carved a swastika into your head

4 5 6

vicodin down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

I leave the office, a fistful of tootsie pops, how many licks to the center, the pills aren't working, i grind my teeth into the tootsie pops, i'll never know how many licks to the center, but the bottles are at home and the drive is half an hour and my skull is going to rip open I know it will it did the last time in chemistry class

7 8 9 steps to the bathroom with blood on my hands, a dizzy lizzy.

The walls are white, the sheets are white, the bandages on my head--the new chic turban the doctors laugh--all white. My fingers are bloated, I can not bend them and the i.v. is in a new and exciting place--where my wrist is supposed to bend I'm tucked snug as a bug in the bleached bleached bleached blankets and here's where you push when you want more demoral

1 2 3 pumps of demoral into the veins, a dizzy lizzy.

But this is the last surgery they promised this time and promises are worth so much when uttered from those laughing doctors remember the fun when they ripped those tubes out of the back of your neck--you'll just feel a pinch--but there's another to go and now I know this is no ordinary pinch but don't worry

5 6 7 percocet down the throat, a dizzy lizzy.

Now it's over, and the doctor surveys his fine work--a swastika, we carved a swastika into your skull the doctors laugh. we can probably close those up a bit, you know, we just want you to feel comfortable with the results here's a mirror please tell us how pleased you are with the

0 0 0 no more pills for my throat.

You Are Every Day People.

He shuffled toward me, his whole person uncommonly common--no mean feat. I'm sure every feature on his face was the genetic average of the entire human population.I was wearing my generic, all-purpose smile. it's about 1/4 of a full smile, but still tips the scales in the friendly direction--i don't want any fistfights, you see. I cast my eyes onto his face, and was struck by his complete and utter normalcy...I moved my smile up to a 1/3--more as an excuse to let my eyes linger on his face than to suggest--. He looked startled. As though his clothes were made of magic threads--a cotton/poly blend--which had rendered him invisible--but my fractioned smile and observant eyes had stripped him. Exposed him for the first time in possibly four years. I'd describe his actual face to you now, but five minutes fresh, it has already faded into a blur with those startled brown eyes... or perhaps a blur is all he really is

You Move Me, Baby.

It's that time of year. No, not Spring, happy pants. Time to move!

This is why I have fewer friends than once upon a time--I've *moved* them all away...your friends just don't want to carry your goddamned couch around year after year. And, well, breaking up is hard to do, but it's much easier than lifting all of those books--why do you have so many books??--up two flights of stairs...

My rent has gone up, and I was already pretty dour at spending close to $1,000/month to live in a place that's street level with all the yackers walking by and gawking into my windows (I understand this is basic human nature, but I really do feel like they should be dropping treats into my apartment/aquarium if they're going to put me on display).

Oh, and I'm on a hill, so all the motorcyclists rev their engines all big and testosterone-y like, to get the maximum amount of annoyance out of me. Oh, and the leaf blowers at 7 am--the urban rooster which cries F You! every Saturday morning at my place.

But don't forget about the neighbor upstairs who has, on occasion, called me a "stank ho" (and if you're going to be called a ho, you might as well go for the gusto--be a robust whore, I say--a stank whore!), and procedes to slam the door in my face everytime she's walking into the complex in front of me and then jumps up and down (maybe picking up her couch and slamming it down?) on her floor (which, in a strange coincidence, doubles as my ceiling! I'm sure she's just unaware of that fact).

Oh, but finally, I flipping hate the city I live in, so I'm pretty dour about paying rent anyway.I mean, the reason rent's so high here is that people pay the "sunshine tax"--they love the weather and the beach, and blah blah blah. I don't. I'm Scottish/Irish/German and probably have a bit of vampire in there somehwere--I don't lay in the sun, I get exposed--generally involuntarily. I don't like spending all my time outdoors hiking biking sunning swimming surfing (by the way, all the boys in SoCal really do seem to want *activity partners* in the true sense of the word). But I'm getting taxed as though I do. But really, my PhD program is holding me captive in SoCal. And I just learned I'm not going on the job market this year, so that's two more years of captivity, and then I'm out into the wild!!!

But until then, I refuse to pay $1000/month to live in the den of annoyance, in the pit of despair, in the neighborhood of hell.

Sooo, I'm moving.

Again.

But there's a twist. I have a dog. And the whole nation of landlords apparently hates dogs much more than crack addicts. really. Sooo, every ad I peruse, I stifle the rage building in my throat when I see, "NO DOGS!!!", as though simple lower case and a period just wouldn't get it across... "SO MUCH NOT DOG WE'D RATHER BURN OUR APARTMENT DOWN TO THE GROUND THAN LET YOUR DOG NEAR IT!!!"

Okay. I get it. I don't get why cats--whose piss you can't get out of carpet to save your (or my dog's) life--are better tenants than dogs, but so be it.

I've been researching a while, and I've noticed that apartments which do allow dogs charge about $150/month premium for the possibility (of course, I think that if you don't have a dog, you shouldn't be allowed to live in a complex that allows them--it should be like, section 9 or canine citizen's housing).

So, to save money, I decided to try that whole living-with-someone-you're-not-banging thing again. And the thought fills me with dread. Yes, Sartre, Hell is other people at breakfast--especially if they didn't give you head the night before. I have trouble with weekend long dates (long stories, readers), but months--months--of pleasantries and polite chit-chat and what do you want to watch on the t.v.? and oh, is that what she said to you? i can't believe it and when the f* are you going to wash your dishes? --just sounds like a me-specific form of torture.

But, I have no choice. Apparently, grad school is not the lucrative industry it once was...so I routinely do not eat the last week of every month (which, sure, on the bright side, poverty really is the best diet). This is *not* cool.

Whining is so depressing.

So is moving.

In with others, no less.

Sigh.

Yours if the rent is right,
Slickaphonic

Don't Judge Me

When I was dating and stepped into my potential sweetheart's apartment, I would immediately sniff out their book collections. I wanted to see what they had read, or at least what they had interest in reading. This is what we call "revealed preference" in economics. How to intepret the evidence:

1) They don't have a lot of books
-well, this doesn't mean they don't read, but it does mean they don't form long-lasting relationships with their books. They have literary one-night stands, at best, and are a-book-sual at worst.

2) They have books, but no high lit. This is probably worse than number one; now I know they do form relationships with their books, but not the books I want in my life. and you remember health ed--you sleep with every book your partner sleeps with.

3) They have a mostly random assortment, comprised of literature, old textbooks, how-to books, self-improvement, etc. This means they mostly accept books as gifts from others, and are not invested in any particular genre, themselves. If you give them Dr. Phil's Diet book, it might end up right up against their copy of Kerouac (a gift before their graduation trip to Europe, of course).

4) They have great high literature books, and some weird collection of books all of whose subject is Katherine the Great. This guy is perfect (for me). Not because of the subject of the weird collection, but because they have some obsession which books have helped to nourish and heal. Also, now I can move to the secondary phase of my investigation: What books can I immediatley borrow? (this can also help determine the probable length of our relationship).

5) The above, but they also have Keirkegarrd, Heidegger, Nietzche, etc. At this point, I offer the use of my womb to house their children for nine months.

I have no illusions that everyone uses these criteria to judge others. But now I ask you, faithful reader (and hopefully, faithful commenter), on what possessions do you judge your potential sweetbuns?