Girl! I wanna take you to a gay bah!

I am totally going to see Electric Six at the Southgate House.

Let's start a wah!

Well, I declare

Just back from a trip home to the South. My hometown is just a five-hour drive from here but it's always such a culture shock. Even driving on the interstate is noticeably different - Cincinnati drivers who want to change lanes will put on their turn signals, check and then change lanes if it's clear. Nashvilleans, always center-stage in their own dramas, lunge heedlessly across traffic, in front of tractor-trailers and along the shoulder of the road to reach their destination. And by God do they love to talk. There are no simple statements, only sweeping declarations (hence the frequent interjection "I declare"). It's such a contrast to the German efficiency of Cincinnati. I'm off to reread Florence King's classic "Southern Ladies and Gentlemen" chapter on the Southern woman: "She is required to be frigid, passionate, sweet, bitchy and scatterbrained - all at the same time. Her problems spring from the fact that she succeeds."

a blogger longs to care about stupid shit again

I had a vague idea of writing a post about my affection for Maybelline's Great Lash maascara, from its garish green-and-pink container to its outrageous clumpiness - it's perfect for when you want to look like you're wearing mascara. And I love the trashy way it immediately smudges all around your eyes. However, after logging on and reading about sectarian violence in Iraq, it is impossible to focus on mascara. The country appears to be headed for the civil war that cool heads predicted when the U.S. first invaded. We're responsible for the shattered golden dome and the 150 (and counting) deaths, just as we have been for the past three years of violence there. Nice work, us.

(The sad thing, is my writing is probably better when I just stick to the mascara.)

And if we had the time, we could see the Sphinx

Today's touring musical: Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, seen from nosebleed seats. Fortunately, the show is vividly colored. The story definitely feels padded (I was actively annoyed when several songs in Act II ended and then were immediately repeated) but it's infused with enough vigor and good cheer that you can't really be upset with it. Both my neighbors expressed dislike of it during intermission, and both were clapping heartily at the end with broad smiles on their faces. It's just catchy. The Enquirer's theater critic keeps referring to it as "lollipop rock," which is about right.

Today's bad cinematic remake: 2005's "The Fog," starring the sublime Selma Blair, along with the guy from "Smallville" and the bitchy blonde from "Lost." Gentleman-caller and I both like the original and agreed the pacing of this version was completely deranged. How can you go wrong with zombie pirate leper ghosts? Somehow, the remake did.

List of things that do not work in my apartment, as of this evening: bathtub drain, ceiling fan, a deadbolt, the spin function of the washing machine. Oh, and the front window doesn't close, and the two back ones don't open, but those aren't really new. Stupid broken house.

Dagbok

I just think this is the cutest thing I have ever seen.

For God's sake, people, don't listen to ME.

Apparently, television audiences have taken my last post too much to heart and left off watching the Olympics. Instead, they are watching something called "American Idol." For God's sake, people, this is not the way! If you must watch TV, by all means watch the Olympics. Skiing down a mountain is a much more admirable skill than singing in a sequined bodysuit, or whatever those teenagers are doing these days.

Today's book: "Reefer Madness" by Eric Schlosser, author of "Fast Food Nation." A most excellent study of the black market. I am on the chapter about strawberry farms, which is very sobering as strawberries from these exact farms start to fill the grocery. Can you buy them organic?

Today's real book: "Bridget Jones's Diary." I've been reading it only in the bathtub all week and keep taking baths so I can read more.

Apologies for the recent lack of posts. Work has more or less turned my life upside-down this past fortnight so I am readjusting. On the bright side, have just discovered one of my new colleagues is IN the upcoming local production of "Chess"! I overheard him discussing it and went all wobbly with joy. Then I got too nervous to ask him about it, partly because he does not know who I am.

Un-American girl

This week at work I made the mistake of asking a colleague, "Is it wrong that I don't give a shit about the Olympics?" He immediately replied, "Yes," and went around telling everyone that I was un-American. (This is what you get for asking stupid rhetorical questions while bored at work instead of surfing the Web like everyone else. But anyway.) My gentleman-caller is an Olympic fiend and I find his interest very cute, but I just can't get too much on board myself. It's great to see international fellowship, particularly in these troubled times, and the athletic feats are hugely impressive. But does it all have to be brought to us by Nike and McDonald's and Budweiser? Even the pasta brand I buy is all over that one skier guy, so I can't buy it now without looking like I've been subconsciously brainwashed by the Olympics. I just hate ads and I hate buying stuff and I hate that everything comes down to sales. Oh well. It probably comes down to my alleged resemblance to President Mitterand (see icon at right).

Ah, my Bogart's

Tonight I went back to Bogart's for the first time since college. It's been 8 years since I saw David Byrne there, and oh you cannot top him. He had some magnificent costume changes, particularly when he came out in a skintight glow-in-the-dark Visible Man type outfit, with drawings of organs and muscles all over it, to perform "Psycho Killer." Even his rendition of the blah "Miss America" was enlivening. Tonight I was there to see Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, which was not really worth ending an eight-year hiatus for, but I had forgotten what a great venue it is. The sound in there is amazing, and the stage is just high enough up to give the show a feeling of real majesty. And they have Leinenkugel on tap. Eight years ago I didn't even drink beer! The things one appreciates as time passes.

My gentleman-caller had to go wreck my Byrne thing by mentioning that he saw Pavement there right before they broke up. Yeah, well, I saw the Squirrel Nut Zippers there! ... [creeps back into library as crickets chirp]

Today's book: "Mama Day" by Gloria Naylor. It's a tale of magic and superstition off the coast of the Georgia-South Carolina border. I love this part of the country and am happy as a clam to be reading about it. It makes me hungry for Beaufort stew (aka low-country broil): corn, potatoes, sausage and shrimp all steamed in a pot with lots of Old Bay. Mm. Not really a dish for a single chick, though.

Postcard from the past

While home for Christmas, I found my stash of old zines from high school. Two of my good friends and I put out a monthly (or so) zine, naming ourselves after our favorite French cave painting, "Disemboweled Bison, Prostrate Man and Bird on a Stick," which we studied in art history. (If they ever find this blog, they now know my secret identity! I've lost touch with both of them, and I miss them.)

Anyway, I was just looking through them and noticed a comment Bird on a Stick wrote on one back page, way back in February 1995: "Party of Five's Matthew Fox is an animal!" And in February 2006, the "Lost"-obsessed Prostrate Man can finally agree.

"Romeo + Juliet" would be a further time travel adventure with a "Lost" connection, but gentleman-caller is hedging on me again.


Edited to add: If you Google "Disemboweled Bison, Prostrate Man and Bird on a Stick," you get some very interesting hits.

See the sun set in the hand of the man

Thanks to Linky for the tip on this beautiful Dream Anatomy gallery. The engravings, paintings etc. are exquisite and terrifying. Enjoy.

Queen Mab hath been with my son Walt

SCENE: Gentleman-caller and myself watching "Lost," two episodes ago, in which Michael goes on yet another tedious rampage and starts yelling at everyone about his son.

Me: Will you watch "Romeo + Juliet" with me?
Gentleman-caller: No.
Me: You can see Michael get shot. Fatally.
Gentleman-caller: Can we watch it next?

("Magic Street" update, circa page 190: Overwrought; full of bathroom references; evidently written by hyper twelve-year-old.)

Howard died this morning nothing to do thanks

In a sad move for lovers of arcana and "The Sound of Music" alike, Western Union has very quietly stopped its telegram service. However, you can send a Retro-Gram via email and admire telegram design of the past, as well as read a "brief" history written by cute obsessive boys who may or may not be tentacled.

Today's book: "Magic Street" by Orson Scott Card. I need to have it read by a lecture at noon tomorrow, but have not obtained a copy yet. Something just keeps telling me that this book will irritate the hell out of me; perhaps it is Mr. Card himself.