Bruce: Picture Review, Part III.

Homecoming:

I arrived home and a cake was in our refrigerator: "Happy Birthday from Michael and Island" or somesuch thing. My family (those related by blood, mind you) hadn't baked me a cake this year, so every few hours, as I waited for Bruce to come home from work at the W-C, I would check on it. Make sure it was still there. I've come to realize that birthday cake is very surprising, no matter what form it may take. If it first appears to you ablaze with candles as people sing or if it first appears sitting quietly in the fridge. Yes.

Surprise!

The snow is melting!

My cousin confirmed the mullett's existence! His fiancé has huge tits!

Cake!

Dick doesn't know what she's getting for Christmas or her birthday!

Dick and Bruce are 24 for 29 WHOLE DAYS!

This happened!:


(PS: Grandpa's sweater is not meant to be an ugly sweater. He says "this one's supposed to be pretty." Really)

Christmas was cancelled; my birthday wasn't.

First, before anything else: Dick's little brother is going to play soccer in college. YES!




Yesterday we cooperatively concluded that the roads were too bad to drive to Kenmore in the morning for a traditional holiday with the Garrett side.
I won't discuss what we did any further than stating that I didn't get out of my pajamas all day Christmas.




Early this morning my mother unilaterally decided to send an e-mail out to all our good local family and friends to invite them over for a "leftovers" party at our house. The social circles were split by gender:
a) In my brother's bedroom the teenage boys were playing Guitar Hero and debating rap vs. classic rock. An out-of-context line from this: "adult strength is crazy!" Then I went downstairs and...
b) In the kitchen the men were eating oyster stew and discussing sales of tire chains on Craigslist.com, while...
c) The women (there's only one teenage female anymore; all the rest of us are at least 21) were in the living room, all saying how much periods suck.

I kid you not.

Other mentionables:

1) For my 24th birthday, which I suppose is happening right now, I received another Gigantic Pine Cone to add to my Gigantic Pine Cone Family. I think I'll name this one Doris. Tiana mentioned that the sight of the Gigantic Pine Cone looked like a sea cucumber, which brings us to this other mentionable:
2) Apparently, sea cucumbers can die of suffocation if condoms are strapped to their breathing end. Which begs the question, what kind of research was being done with these sea cucumbers that necessitated the application of condoms? "Sand catching"?
3) In Apples-to-Apples, Clyde paired the adjective "worldly" to the noun "sailors".
4) Dickie's little brother hasn't yet seen Justin Timberlake in "Dick in a Box". Will require immediate attention to his education.

Festive family tradition.

This sweatshirt had a battery and lit up. Really.

No?

In my caffeine-induced dreams I inhabit a world-- it increasingly looks like this one-- where all the people for whom I care, care for others more.
It's very selfish to desire to be cared for, for lack of better grammar, but necessary for survival. We cannot only live in our heads, or we begin to to be like Henry Darger.



No?

My father, who drives the Seattle roads like a monstrous great white shark in a feeding frenzy, wants me to call my grandmother.

No?

Butt-hurt and waiting at the airport.

It looks like I might be getting where I need to go, when I want to go there!

A night in Spokane.

Davenport Hotel, heated garage. "Burms." Mizuna. 4 courses of fish. Travel war stories at Dempsy's brass nail. A bartender who doesn't know how to make a Manhattan.

Holiday fun.

"Let's get drunk..."

Incidental drinking is commonplace, like burritos from the taco wagon, while purposeful drinking is special, like Saturday pancakes. Funny things tend to happen. For instance, we made our New Year's resolutions, which included watching La Dolce Vita and loving Luna more.

"It's not even 11 yet."
"I guess we still have a lot of drinking to do."

We took pictures and put on all of our winter clothes. We flossed with scarves and scooped sand from the ottoman. Luna rolled her eyes at us and will probably be calling Cat Protective Services to seek revenge in her teenage angst.

Christmas is dead to us. Every carol is now a funeral march, composed to evoke stoicism. The tree is a gravestone: we burried Christmas in the floorboards, and she's starting to smell.

Dick in Walla Walla

I spent about 10 hours today @ 45 Terminal Loop Road.




Needless to say, I've certainly been enjoying Plan B:
-endless pictures of the Xmas Tree, an image that always makes me think, not of the Christ Child, but of the Stanley Kubrick film Eyes Wide Shut
-Scrabble with Bruce
-the "Faith" sequence from Rules of Attraction

Women Like Me...

... don't have relationships. We have dazzling affairs.



On an unrelated note, I say to Bruce,
"Let's get drunk."
Then, "I wish there were a romantic comedy to watch. We do have 'La Dolce Vita'."
"I don't wanna think."


We have no orange juice. We have a splash of rum, plenty vodka and bourbon whiskey. Then we found frozen grapes next to the gin and the jagermeister.

We are the purveyors of fun in these apocalyptic times, and we pronounce the wisdom of Aretha Franklin and Rufus Wainwright. We will not listen to Christmas music and we doubt that February will ever come. Or perhaps she's a flooder.

And this is an orgasm.

I leave the bathroom.
The Carpenters' Christmas album is playing in our living room.
"I guess you really needed to hear some Karen, didn't you?" I say to Bruce, who was singing a song of hers in the car.
"I can always listen to Karen."
"Of course," I enthuse.
"Good. I just wanted to make sure that her music wasn't wearing thin on you."


Dickie hopes to leave Walla Walla @ 6:55am tomorrow for 8 days. Packing beginning: now.

Bourbon or Making Out: You Decide, Part 2.

Okay, Bruce. You obviously are clueless.

Let's pose the question slightly differently:

Should you be stranded in life, stripped of everything except bourbon or making out (with another person), which would you choose? Which of these would get you awake in the morning?

Even the world's greatest bourbon is not half so good a reason to get out of bed as a make-out session might be. Perhaps you're just no good as a makers-out.

Bourbon or Making Out: You Decide

Here's the dilemma:

You have to choose between enjoying only Bourbon or making out for the rest of your life. What do you choose?

Bruce: Bourbon
Dick: making out
Alfred: Bourbon (cat HATES making out!)

Shareorism, Funny-looking Pancakes, Buttons, and other Saturday Morning Concerns

This morning, I woke up to the word "pancakes," and boy was I excited! I make some pretty yummy damn pancakes with soymilk and bisquick. So while Dick was in the shower, I made breakfast and drank coffee. Alfred was meowing a lot.

At the breakfast nook, we had a conversation about naming dogs. 1304 might be welcoming a new member in the next couple of months, and I want to name hir Buttons (Bu'•'ins). Objections abound.

"Don't you want a name that expresses more than 'cute?'"
"Cute and ferocious."

So we came up with some alternatives:
Blood Wedding
Killer
Serial Killer

Then we discussed regal names:
Regina
Oliver Cromwell

Popular/classic literary figures:
Tom Stoppard
Annie Proulx
Herman Melville

Concepts:
Theory of General Relativity
Nature Vs. Nuture
Fibonacci Code

Suffice it to say, instead of inventing solutions, we complicated the matter. I think I'm going to stick to my original idea, traditional fabric patterns:
Paisley
Herringbone
Argyle
Houndstooth

Finally, I shareor-jacked Dick's car and drove her to work.

Just knowing you exist:

It used to be enough. Danielle is in the Arizona desert developing a complicated relationship with border patrol. We haven't talked in months. There's these other friends, too; I know they go antique-ing in Chicago, teach critical thinking, mix fantastic drinks...

Hold. Michael asks, "does getting to know someone involve... using emotional energy?"
I respond, "Well, it depends on how you conceive of emotional energy. Some people-- they think you have a certain amount of emotional energy allotted each day..."
"That's bullshit."
About 93 seconds later, after an odd but affirming conversation on my opinions of emotional energy, Michael says, "Because I don't think about these things. I'm getting asked these questions and had to go to the reigning expert on this one."
So apparently I'm the authority on thoughts about emotional energy. Duh.
A thought brought forward by another thought from Dan Savage:
"'Emotional vulnerability' is just another word for 'hunger for sex'."

"Okay, Je. I'm going to spell out a word for you and you tell me how to say it:
W.O.R.C.E.S.T.E.R."

... are fabulous cooks and not fabulous cooks, appreciate Christmas tree lights and female pit hair, love Dungeons & Dragons and Settlers of Catan, disc jockey on the radio, and try to not fear the responsibilities of post-graduates to parents and society. To name just a tiny few.
Until this point in my life I have been sloppy about keeping in touch with people who weren't physically present to me. It was sufficient to know that Christina, Lorri, Mike Fish, Danielle, Dylan, Shannon, Bebhinne, Ben, Kyle, Alan, Karina, Eleanor, Amanda and a slew of other people were simply alive and breathing their beauty into the world. Well, I woke up this morning and it suddenly wasn't sufficient. Not at all.

The Man Who Threw Shoes At President Bush:

Muntadar al-Zaidi, an Iraqi journalist for Cairo-based al-Baghdadiya TV, that's who.

According to BBC News, "showing the soles of shoes to someone is a sign of contempt in Arab culture".


I think this is a beautiful thing that has happened: freedom of the press.

2 Shoes, One Target

Notice first how effective the president is at ducking and staying calm. That's resolve!

Secondly, do you think that the president is proud to have shoes thrown at him? Is this one of the great facets of a free society?

Come on Eileen

Even with the lyrics right in front of me, I had trouble deciphering the song. I mean, come on!

So do what I did: listen to the song and read along!

(PS: Don't watch the video, unless you're really into appalling lip-sync)

Poor old Johnny Ray
Sounded sad upon the radio, he moved a million hearts in mono.
Our mothers cried and sang along and who'd blame them.
Now you're grown, so grown, now I must say more than ever.
Go Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye-Aye
and we can sing just like our fathers.

Come on Eileen,
I swear (well he means) At this moment you mean everything,
With you in that dress my thoughts I confess verge on dirty
Ah come on Eileen.

These people round here wear beaten down eyes
Sunk in smoke dried faces they're so resigned to what their fate is,
But not us, no not us we are far too young and clever.
Remember Toora Loora Toora Loo-Rye-Aye
Eileen I'll hum this tune forever.

Come on Eileen, I swear, well he means
Ah come on let's take off everything,
That pretty red dress Eileen (Tell him yes)
Ah come on let's, ah come on Eileen, please.

Gay: Thundercats

Things discovered tonight:

1) The lyrics to "Come On Eileen" by (Dexy's Midnight Runners?) are completely incomprehensible. The chorus is nonsense.

2) Andrew B_____ spends his time with people who know what they're doing in the kitchen.

3) Sara Lee deep dish apple pies actually ARE amazing.

4) It's a three-way tie between "Inspector Gadget", "Muppet Babies", "Duck Tales" and "Chip N' Dale: Rescue Rangers" for best children's cartoon of the late-80s-early-90s era.

5) "Sailor Moon" (somewhat later in the cartoon-watching career) is the most sexually provocative.

6) When the "Thundercats" theme came on youtube.com, someone behind me said, "It's pretty gay." I ended up saying, "It was for those kids who ended up being furries."

Baconnaise: Cullinary Innovation or The Worst Idea Ever? You Decide

I ran across an advertisement for Baconnaise today. I think it's for real.

I also think my life has been missing something. Could this be it?

.

"Let's do it. Then write about it."
Michael "Small Face" Espinoza

Forgot about girl-on-girl.

So in my fiendish spree @ the iTunes Music Store, I downloaded that infamous Corinne Bailey Rae song... "Girl put your records on/ Tell me your favorite song/ You go ahead, let your hair down."

Apparently I know a lot of people who haven't heard it. Accolades to youtube.com for having so many incarnations:




Post-spree the track ended up on a mix for my Subaru. So I've been hearing it a lot. And the first thing I consider, every time I hear it, is making out with a girl. I imagine that should a femme fling actually feel, taste, smell and look like this song sounds... well, I'd get into it. I may have to wait 'till the summer. Light, warm, and fuzzy doesn't seem to turn up in the winter months. November and December were made for love like a Christmas tree: electric, prickly, rough, smelly, and perhaps too bright for reality.

We're Pregnant!

Michael: "This is the size of the baby."



Publicity photo for the Whitman Alumni Magazine.

AcroCats!

So basically, besides all the normal cat stuff Luna is capable of, this is the only trick she knows:That is, leaning in uncomfortable positions, for seemingly endless hours. And I thought, hey, that's pretty cool... That was, until I found the youtube page for AcroCats. And I'm like, OMG.

I mean, check this out!

1-888-5-OPTOUT

There are 2 great reasons (and a few inferior reasons) why you should call this number right now:

1) When you call this number, you provide your information, and the hotline will inform credit reporting agencies (Equifax, Experian, etc.) that you do not wish to receive "pre-approval" applications from credit card and insurance companies. After I got two (of the same damn letter), I was fed up! You can't waste paper on me!

2) Identity thiefs steal your mail and use these pre-approval applications to commit fraud. No such mailings = more secure identity (as long as you stop giving out your social security number to everyone).

Reduce waste, protect your identity, call 1-888-5-OPTOUT. It takes 10 minutes.

Spiritually Retreating:

Je is away for the weekend w/ 15-17-year-old students.

'Nuf said.




POSTSCRIPT: I got a lot out of being with the students.

Who's that fat guy?

I posed for some promotional photos today. Too many noodles perhaps?

I threatened to eat the little toe-headed children if they didn't smile, and here's the result:

Fear and Loathing in Troubled Economic Times

Maybe I listen to the radio too much, but this economic downturn business scares me. I have two paying jobs and a very low cost of living, but still, on the eve of my first student loan payment, I'm worried about my ability to make consistent payments until 2018 (the scheduled last loan payment), worried about the reliability of my little car, the long-term security of my housing, worried about taking on more loans for living and education through grad school...

These are the fears that keep me from sleeping so well. The future is approaching at an awesome pace, and I could be one of its victims.

So, as a result, as a resolutionist by nature, I am going forward with the intellectual problem of confronting fear, either by action or attitude.

I mentioned to a friend (more downtrodden than I can understand) that there is an infinite amount of joy in the world, and that we are charged to embrace it. My fear stems from a lack of faith in this principle of joy.

The apocalypse is much more frightening at its approach than it is from the safety of ivory tower conjecture.

More "year in pictures"

Insanity Condoms, Part Deux.

The terrible nightmare that interrupted my sleep last night was this:
I was a single woman and I found myself on that reality show The Bachelor.



I was trying to make a stranger marry me over the course of several weeks on national television; of the last two of us, he chose the other woman over me. I relinquished any trust in others to the Devil.

Self-Explanatory.

At Brasserie Four last night, Michael says, "I think drug addicts make the best time travelers."

Artists, philosophers, Taoists do not. These are grounded in NOW.

Andrew B_____ Can't Get Enough Hilary!

Glam Rock Balsamic Vinaigrette

Yesterday our house kitchen kicked ass:

with the chardonnay:
-bruschetta
-arugula, fig, stilton salad w/ balsamic vinaigrette




with the petite sirah:
-squash soup

with the abbot's table wine & chenin blanc:
-ravioli stuffed w/ a mushroom filling and also w/ ricotta

with the bouteille call:
-2 kinds of vegan mousse: maple syrup & vanilla, ginger & lemongrass



Michael and Andrew were really the people that made it happen, though. Michael's beautiful ravioli forms and Andrew's gusto in purchasing tomatoes.

A year in pictures...

I'll admit it. I've taken a lot of pictures of myself. Call it narcisistic, call it stupid, call it what you will, but when it comes right down to it, haven't we all?

Anyway, here's my year review in pictures I took of myself, starting from most recent to earliest.

The Joy of Cooking

"This is the most important book I've ever owned," Michael says to me. And I know for a fact that he owns Foucault's History of Sexuality trilogy. "It engages me in a process [...] instead of just suggesting ideas."

Then I remember what Jamil said to me about a year and a half ago, when he first got to town: that poets must be able to bake bread; knowing how to bake bread is knowing how to live and a poet who doesn't know how to live isn't a poet at all.

Rolling dowel or DIY dildo? You decide.

Je's Boss:

"You'll never guess what this is!"

Je:

"A rolling pin?"

What else could it be? An unfinished wood dildo so you can choose your own varnish?

That's when we got the best ispiration of the day.

Not a celebration, a commemoration:

Tags: Bleak, 300, Signifier as Process

Cat Woman leaves town in T-minus 5 days and then Batman will have his faithful Boy Wonder returned to his side. I am bleak about having missed out on 300, the PBR tall boys (Did I ever mention having dressed up as a PBR tall boy for Halloween once? Everybody wanted a drink.), and the ceiling vomit.

Michael doesn't know it, but I think indirectly about him now every time I take a piss at home. He purchased a book, Letters to Wendy's by Joe Wenderoth, that has found its way to our toilet with his blessings. I will quote:

'August 26, 1996
Very high on marijuana brownies, I could not speak today at the register. I kept stepping aside for other customers and staring hard at the menu. I was overwhelmed at the chicken sandwich pictured there, but had no words for it. I kept saying, "there, that one... the man dressed like a woman." It's hard to get served when one understands the signifier as a process.'

Buy six, get one free

Again, Robin strode under dark of night to the bizzaro Bat Cave in Oregon, and I was left to my own devices. So what to do?

PBR, McDonald's and 300 Night
At the Shell station on Isaacs, I purchased a pack of Camel Filters and a six-pack of PBR tall boys. At the counter, I was offered a seventh PBR tall boy. Apparently, one had been dropped on the way out the door. According to the attendant, she has no use for "that disgusting crap," so I got a seventh for free. She'd been waiting all night to give that one away. On the way out I saw several meth addicts.

So here I am, drinking PBR, glad I didn't choose High Life (the Champagne of beers), watching homoerotic violence.

Brief mention...

A contestant on Top Chef visited Saffron this evening.

Small lady, looked happy?

'nuf said.

What I did tonight:

After work, which was tough, I decided to go out to the alleyway and visit my heroine addicted friend Bil-ee-bob, who, as it happened was shooting up. I decided to join him.

You can verify this! Our rubber-band is still there!

And then, what-do-you-know, Joel moves the whole Harvest Vine (Marc) bar to my very location and I'm looking at yuppies sipping local wines saying things like, "Oh! Superb!" and "God! Ye I have seen!" I wanted to vomit. I was also pretty well strung out on heroine, horse, double-eagle, etc., so I moved on to the Whitehouse, where they know who I am and mix me free drinks. After a while, I listened in on a conversation between some 'insiders' and heard about this Tru Cellars. I thought, "is it tru?" And you know what? It is! The winemaker was sitting right next to me. I claimed to have no sense of humor so he would stop humoring me, but to no effect, the man continued to ask me about Colorado and the illegitimacy of waterboarding. Finally, the bartender brought me my Pisco sour, and I heard a joke so funny I vomited all over the ceiling! I hope they don't leave that for me to clean in the morning!! Anyway, Tru cellars. We were curious about it, and now we know.

Butt-Hurt and Festive.

"I wish there were a more reliable source of blood available. I'd make you blood puddin'."

"I think my boss can get us some blood."

"Excellent. I will make you some blood puddin'.
Is it free-range, organic blood?"


This conversation occurred approximately forty-seven seconds before Michael kissed me goodbye and left for the first time; approximately sixty-one seconds before he returned for his Thermos of coffee moaning about how I'm such a distraction. And approximately two minutes and twenty-eight seconds earlier we discussed:

"If you're going to blog about Andrew ________, don't use his last name."


This Christmas season is a knitted sweater unraveling.

Me too.

Leeks!

I had to take a leek over at Whitehouse-Crawford. My boss at Pho Sho asked me to do it. I took it right to the kitchen. They were very pleased.

Also, I posted a picture of me with gayface.

Punctuality

I hate waiting. And I hate you waiting.

The Economics of Punctuality.


It's in my top three of things to prioritize.

Waking Up to Live or, That Mystique Does Not = Truth

Albert Camus on philosophy:
"There is but one truly serious philosophical
problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether
life is or is not worth living amounts to answering
the fundamental question of philosophy."

When I first met David Youngblood he said something very striking-- as he is known to do-- that I've often considered since. I am sure I remember it less eloquently than he said it: that every morning we must make the decision about whether or not to kill ourselves because we've got to know why we are getting out of bed and living.



The only reason to wake up, to live, is to practice freedom. To pursue that truth which compels us. Sometimes at the Bat Cave we might say that Alfred the Cat, the Bat Mobile or somesuch other thing are compelling truths. Only insomuch as they push us closer in our relationships with our most free selves.
The self that has access to truth.
The self that has taken care of itself prior to and in tandem with access to the truth.

To hate waking up (aside from the occasional bad mood dictated by a massive hangover) is to not know why one is living, a symptom of bad care and loss of truth.

Sugar, coffee, among other bad habits: [everything it seems I like's a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me].

"I wish I knew how to quit you," Jack Twist would say.

Gayface

From Urban Dictionary:

gayface n.

Gayface is the look that gay men have that enables other gay men to quickly identify them as "family" no matter what they're doing, wearing or saying. Gayface is identifiable in photos. Gayface cannot be hidden by attempts to butch it up. Straight men with gayface are not really straight. When I saw his picture in the paper, I immediately knew that girl on his arm was a beard because he totally has gayface.

While this definition misses some important nuance (which I will dissect below), it is a good introduction to gayface, a condition that afflicts only certain gays.

My definition has more to do with grooming, particularly in terms of plucked eyebrows, and may be signaled by the presence of concealer on men (who are not onstage).

Anyway, I was thinking about gayface today when I ran into an unnamed acquaintance unusually afflicted. On top of an unnaturally even complexion (see: concealer) and thin, even eyebrows (see: plucking), the wardrobe was the epitome of newly named gaythread: clothing worn by men that signals homosexuality, involving in particular certain brands, shoulder bags smaller than a messanger, bootcut designer jeans with superfluous embellishment, and pointy boots or shoes. The whole effect is a little rediculous.

I am not in a position to throw stones, really, in this situation, however, an important distinction must be made. Being in style, following trends, and having a style are completely different things. Being in style is a basic level of sartorial awareness; its consent to ones involvement in a project of image. Following trends is the next level, when one knows generally what is and is not tasteful. A dangerous trap at this stage is devotion to a brand or brands at all cost. All that is necessary is an awareness of trends - a devotion, however, is dangerous due to the volitility and dynacism of style. Having one's own style involves first an understanding of oneself, a committment to being in style, and an awareness of trends. The best personal styles are unaffected: they always match the body.

Gayface is, in my opinion, a hyper-devotion to style and trends without any self-awareness and thus a style of one's own. The underlying assumption of its victims is that what appears on the outside will manifest on the inside. Needless to say, this is at best misguided.

Momentarily, while I do certainly agree that gayface is identifiable in photos, a brief umbridge with the above definition: gayface has nothing whatsoever to do with who and who is not gay. Its victims are no accident. Deciding whether or not someone is gay is a fun game, but please, play it to yourself. We all have different relationships with the closet.

To close, here's an example of how you can see it in photos:

White Paintings:

I am working on a white painting for Cat Woman, inspired by a conversation we had about coyotes in snow. I imagine my subconscious (ID- from last night's scrabble game) is trying to crystallize that moment, but right now I'm simply trying to perfect the art of painting in white.

Scrabble-tastic!

"Small Face" Espinoza: 103
Commissioner Gordon: 71
Dick Grayson: 90
Cat Woman: 191


Paul wins at every damn game.
Except Settlers of Catan. Michael wins at that.
I win at tongue-sticking-out contests.

"House of the Magazines"

Andrew B_____, aka Commissioner Gordon declares the Bat Cave "House of the Magazines" Why?

Here are some recent paper guests to the mailbox: