I have NO MOTIVATION TODAY. Really need to get up and start packing. Will be moving starting sometime next week. No, not to another city unfortunately. If I had a gazillion dollars I would move to Seattle or somewhere over there. Today is a lot like last Wednesday; I returned from my sister's fabulous wedding the previous night, proceeded to do absolutely nothing but lay around in bed, attempt to finish a crossword puzzle, and read the internets. Just can't believe how lazy my lazy bones are today. Jeebus! That one exclamation mark took all of my energy, actually.
Well, that and the sandwich I got from Fozzie's for lunch.

SO YEAH. Should probably get up off my butt and start putting stuff in boxes. That actually sounds kind of enticing. I don't mind moving all that much. The only thing I don't like much is trying to get stuff out of my car. Putting boxes in my car is easy and carrying them around is not so bad but trying to get things out of my car is so awkward.

Perpetually excited about living in a new place that is gggigantic and I can have a room ALL TO MYSELF and whatever it is that I do at home anymore. I don't even remember if I have any hobbies anymore. I did at some point but I don't know what there is to do besides look at the same 12 websites everyday. Oh, pathetic.

Have applied for about 4 jobs in the past few weeks. Have heard nothing back, of course. Start classes in a week or so? Wow. Should probably buy my books! Ha!



Totally just copied something and then forgot that I had something really important already copied that I needed to paste elsewhere. Whoops. That's just what happens when you've got so many important things surrounding you that need copying, I suppose.

In the meantime . . .

Few days until I leave for Seattle for big, important times. By the time I'm back in St. Louis I'll have a brother-in-law.  Not excited about surrendering my autonomy to a stranger, i.e. sitting on an airplane hoping to god that I don't die like that, because, really, that would suck more than anything yet. Maybe I should just take the rich old lady approach to it; don some oversize sunglasses and wrap my head in a silken floral-patterned scarf, take a Valium and drink a gin and tonic on the flight. Oh, if only I had the wontons, but my liver and kidneys get kinda pissed when I try to pull one over on 'em like that.

In a few weeks I go back to school to retake classes that I paid for at one point in time and then consequently never attended. It's nice to leave the house again, and be less of a fuck up. It's really nice, actually. Speaking of nice, the weather has been tolerable lately. Maybe I should go outside and shit.



That actually happened to a friend of mine. Wowee zowee, there is quite a storm coming down out there today. Lovely. Stuck at the crappy alternative to Mokabe's during said storm, because . . . well, I don't need to take a shower right now and neither does my fancy internet box. But, it has become evident that I did indeed need to eat this gigantic brownie. I don't know what it is about tiny drops of water falling from the sky that is so hypnotizing; I have the attention span of a four year old hopped up on juice boxes most of the time anyway, but I can barely even focus on what it is I'm trying to convey to all three of you readers here. So nice to not be at work, and explore this series of tubes call the "internet," AND sit on my butt. I love America. ANYWAY:

So! Many! Things!

First, this guy who is incredibly funny. His inflection, diction, and syntax made my day. Yes, I'm that intense about my comedians.

Secondly, I keep getting this song stuck in my head every time I hear it (usually at the grocery store; thank you Schnuck's for keeping me in touch with today's hot music!).

Thirdly, so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so SO excited about seeing the Flaming Lips and Ariel Pink in September. So excited. So very very very very excited.



He's just so fucking fantastic.



Doesn't this look like the face of an honest man? I think I'd enjoy a nice caprese salad or hell, even a hoagie with him. It's Philip Alston, an NYU law professor as well as the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Extrajudicial, Summary, or Arbitrary Executions. So, important dude who knows his shit.

Harper's Magazine released this interview with him about the use of drones in combat situations (particularly targeted killings), unsurprisingly enough, does not paint the most progressive picture of the U.S. government or the CIA.

Recently, there has been talk of using drones to track the actions of civilians.


Is there anything more disappointing than receiving stale chips with your sandwich for which you paid cold, hard-earned cash? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?

At least there is this to make up for my sad, soggy-chipped lunch:

does someone want to take me to poland?

anyone? anyone?




(from dear old love)


come on, really?


So, found myself grazing the fields of Jezebel's offerings today and came upon this somewhat of an expose of The Daily Show. As a former devoted and now occasional viewer of the show, I had always noticed that women were scarce but I didn't think much of it. I'm long past hoping that women or women's contributions will be represented in any substantial way in mainstream media. The gist of the article states that women have rarely been hired as correspondents (or writers, I presume) nor have those hired remained in the cast as long as their male counterparts. It is highly doubtful that this is due to there not being enough women out there in the world who follow the news, have well informed opinions, and are capable of making with the funnies. Of course, they also have to be easy on the eyes or, hey, a Playboy bunny in order to get the gig. The first comment left was particularly poignant:

"We don't spend our whole lives being told how gross we are, we don't spend our lives being encouraged to indulge our every whim, whether it's a fart or a fuck, and we don't spend our lives being taught to embrace our flaws and deem ourselves awesome anyway (as so often is the case with guys. See: "every dude deserves a hot chick")."

What is interesting to me is that The Daily Show isn't even that good, anyway. It's become a parody of itself, and just like any other liberal "news" source, it hand picks stories that fit right in with it's world view. It's not informative or broadening the scope of journalism. For the type of content that is delivered, there is all the more reason to skip it and go straight for The Colbert Report. Stephen Colbert has the star quality that is sought from that audience and his delivery is exactly what those viewers want. The Daily Show is not about seriously analyzing or criticizing politics and current events any more than Fox News is trying to deliver a fair and balanced report of news from around the world. However, the average viewer of The Daily Show or The Colbert Report is most likely more informed, centered in their politics, and have more good will toward people than the average FN viewer. I hope. 





Really need to get things straightened out. Have been out of a routine for some time now. Driving me nuts. Makes me a little crazy everyday that I haven't had a real way of life in several years, at this point. Part of that is the general uneasiness of living in less than stable habitats and part of it is my lack of will power adhere to my own independence in the morning rather than just lay around with current manfriend, which inevitably leads to laying around in the afternoon. The problem with always having an excuse for why life-isn't-perfect-but-when-it-finally-is-I'll-do-something-brilliant-and-fulfill-my-potential-just-like-I-always-knew-I-could is not any external factor, but ME. (Plus, If I had the internet at home instead of having to mooch it off of loved ones or coffee shop owners, I probably wouldn't ever even leave the house much less make myself suitable for the dating or non-dating public.)

I used to be really good about having a morning routine. Put on KEXP or a record, or maybe even NPR. Make breakfast, drink coffee. Write something, whether personal or analytical for 20 minutes. Exercise or watch teevee, or internerd it up for a bit. Go to work. Of course, this only worked when I didn't have a hangover - which was fairly often to almost regularly for the past few years (what, what, everyone is 21 at some point). Sticking to one's morning routine is key to being a well-balance adult who doesn't eat sweets for breakfast and gets out of bed even when the weather isn't perfect. It's just too easy to not do anything, though the flipside of that is constantly finding alternative sources to exorcise one's creative energies. Hence the addiction to sweets of all kinds, at all hours.

Well, there is the whole thing about not being in . . . school. I've decided that THE FALL is the time to do it. FINALLY, and ALL THE WAY. I mean, I'm not doing anything otherwise. Sometimes I update this. I have a lot of things I'd like to make that I don't and instead I think about making them. I don't even know what I want to study, but I really don't care anymore. I'll figure it out; the much-needed discipline is more so what would make me feel more as though I am constructing my life rather than just letting it happen.

(I'm so glad I'm not a drunk anymore.)


My favorite line from this: "An hour after christening it, I smelled like a nursing home."



time: 10:21 p.m. location: SNOTHEAD CITY, USA.


I know, I know everyone also hates being ill. I know I'm not "special" in this. Why isn't the human race just one big club centered around not getting sick? Oh, right. Nazi socialists want everyone to be poor, sick, and dying. No, seriously. I just Googled "healthcare problems" trying to find some crazy flophead off his shit. I did good.

This chick is pretty much been a bit of an obsession lately. I feel like she's my alter ego. At some point in the day, every day, I daydream about what it would be like to run off and go gonzo on life. It's just so cool; she doesn't seem to have a lot of insecurities, maybe she doesn't know entirely what she wants out of life but she's having fun doing what she's doing, she fucks whomever she wants, she takes really decent pictures, is an acerbic yet poignant writer, and she's cute. But, ya know. I like stability okay.

Have been sitting on my ass way too much lately. The week before last, I was very active and top of all my wantings to do this and wantings to do that. I went running four times. I planted a bunch of peppers, tomatoes, and other plants in kitty litter buckets. I made food (I think?). I did some laundry. I cleaned my apartment. I looked for jobs. I downloaded a lot of really cool sounding music and listened to some of it.

Then, I found Taco.

Oh, Taco. Right from the start you were so adorable. You were found wet and scampering the streets late at night. I immediately scooped you up and poured affection all over you. It is no secret that I have been wanting a canine to devote whatever affections I have to give leftover from two cats, two sisters and a brother, said bf, already sparingly seen friends, and, oh, myself. Taco, you gave me the best lesson I could have ever learned: I was right to think that no dog could possibly fit into my life at this time. Especially a separation-anxiety-prone, ever-excitable, rarely-tired, lady-dog-humping-machine of a tiny Pomeranian mix pup. Oy. How I loved you, and loved to be rid of you.

Oh! Also! I found my real life Jerri Blank (and, yes, I do know about this).


Isn't she just lovely?



I need more stuff to read on the internet. Give me some links.



I think that's all. Oh, wait; it's nice outside at night. As in, it smells great and since it's been raining every few days there is usually a coolish breeze in the air. It looks quite more like spring out there than summer at times.

Have I mentioned lately that I need the internet at home? The lovely folks at MoKaBe's are probably starting to wonder when I'm moving in and how much I'll bring with me. Also, the slow drain on my checking account for various coffees and treats is beginning to speed up a bit, and now would most likely be the sum of services rendered for Interwebs-At-Home.

Music seems pretty cool again - again. Kind of hate when I'm lazy about engaging myself with music, seeing as how falling into a semi-dangerous depressive spiral of encompassing dreary voiditude is ever the more determinable. I've been downloading various bits and pieces like a madwoman on crack-cocaine with rabies. With that precious image of myself in mind, one would think I'd be getting into a lot of loud, aggro, face-meltingly scathing whathaveyou. Instead it's been a lazy drift through dream pop / shoegaze. Reacquainted myself with Papercuts, Galaxie 500, and Slowdive, amongst many, many, many others. Slowly acquiring a very real and committed interest in playing an instrument again - again.

Heather Havrilesky, who writes the at-this-point-fairly-canonical Rabbit Blog, entirely summarized every 21-30ish's anxieties and squashed them to bits in her last post. Sometimes I can't wait to be 40. Sometimes I can't wait to be not on fire.

On a sidenote: WHY CAN'T I JUST BE RICH. REALLY, THOUGH, I AM TIRED OF NOT BEING ABLE TO DO WHAT I WANT, WHICH MOST OF THE TIME HAPPENS TO BE SOME PRETTY BASIC SHIT. Godshitfuck, seriously, I have that feeling to look forward to for the rest of my adulthood? Cool. I can't wait to resent my kids, either.

(BTDUBS, so I know everyone has already seen this but I was just informed it yesterday. And how!)



Over at Emily Magazine, I stumbled across this tumblr, Dear Old Love. It reminds me of fatalist text art; I love it.


SO . . .

Ronnie James Dio died today? Fucked up.



It's been a bit of a week. Clearly.


I think this guy's getting put in something called "Hero Squad"

Seriously. I think I might have a new hero. Sorry, Tina Turner , but I am always in need of heroes. Wasn't there some crappy, bland melodrama about heroes on some generic network? Hm. Seems like that didn't catch much attention. Maybe this guy has an answer:

That is the most appropriate response to receiving a parking ticket. Parking tickets are like mosquito bites, only they cost money and there is no satisfying sensation of scratching an itch. Actually, on second thought, parking tickets aren't like mosquito bites at all. They're like those assholes who step right in front of you to repeat whatever it was you were just saying to someone.

I also happened upon this extraordinarily disturbing article at Disinformation today. My mom, apparently, cried for three days straight when Ronald Reagan was elected in 1980. I feel the same way after every new molehill of research that is released concerning the overwhelming amount of foreign and/or chemical agents in the vast majority of foods. It's hard to eat well and be poor. Also, I never want to eat out again.*

So fuck you, big agribusiness, and your bullshit agenda.

*Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know I will, too.



For seemingly no reason, I've been bit by some strange "instinct" to "nurture" things this year. Like dogs. And plants. And possibly, in the somewhat distant future, small mammals with four limbs that speak human and shit and barf all over the goddamn place. I thought I was supposed to party until 30, and then makeover my agenda. Apparently fucking not.

Let's start with the plants, though, shall we? Last week before I left for my sister's bachelorette party I started two and three sets of the following: nasturtium, marigold, lettuce, and basil Genovese; the other seeds were specific varieties as well, but did I bother to remember or write them down? Of course not. Today, my friend Janice (WHO NOW HAS A DOG) and I went to Hartke Nursery, on Warson in Olivette (AND THE DOG CAME WITH US). My mom would take me along with her on errands to Hartke, Worm's Way, Beckmann Brothers, etc. when I was younger and now, look. I'm my mother's daughter, or whatever. If I were really good about having a blog, I would insert some topical and possibly hilarious and/or adorable picture of Janice, her dog Inkle (WHO IS SO SO SO CUTE), and I here. Instead, not only am I lazy but also technologically challenged seeing as how I am lacking in any kind of digital picture taking device.

So! Today I went a little nut$ and bought a jade plant, an aloe plant, two little cacti, a kalanchoe, and two different varieties of oregano (common and True Greek) as well as a different variety of basil (Mrs. Burns Lemon*), and rosemary! The kalanchoe I brought home is more of a coral color, and now I am wishing I bought this sweet ass pinkish red color:

I AM SO EXCITED ABOUT MY HERBS! I have chive, parsley, and thyme growing also; I can't wait for all of them to flourish and stink up my house. In a couple weeks, I will have in my possession pepper and tomato plants. And, after that, the farmers' markets will open again. Then, I shall feast untils I can feast no more. Summer is going to be sooooo cooool. Except for all the crappy hot and humid weather, duh.



PYLON, possibly the greatest {dance} rock band ever.





They did it!

Instant film is back!



I am a woman, therefore I am obsessed with shoes. This has developed into quite the pastime lately. Like many upright bipeds, I had always had a passing affection for footwear. However, I had not spent hours toiling over sizing charts, or comparing shipping costs, or researching currency exchange rates just to figure out if a pair of shoes is worthy of consideration for purchase.

 These little Frenchy bastards have completely gotten my focus and attention for the past several weeks, or is it months now? I blame a good friend of mine for introducing me to the brand. More than one style has been the object of my affection and I have been weighing heavily the consideration to purchase not one pair, but maybe two or three? Because I'm surely to wear these quite often and of heavy frequency, so why not acquire a tiny collection for myself in the event of wearing them out sooner rather than later? These are the thoughts of an addict.




I am sickly sickly sickly, which means that the internet has been my best friend for the past several hours.

I forgot how much I love Mark Jenkins' work.
They are so lifelike! So creepy! So perfect!

Ugh. I have officially reached the snotheaded portion of my sickliness. Yesterday morning greeted me with the irritating sharpness of a sore throat and the dizzying confusion of a congested head. Today? Sneezing and gushing snot. Lovely. Also, I'm oh so stinky in the way that only the exceptionally talented can achieve.

Health care reform happened! Or something! Only time will tell if it sticks. There was much rejoicing, apparently .

I get to attend a bachelorette party on the west side of the country in about a week. WOOOOO! WINE COOLERS AND PARTY HATS! I think there'll be a lot of this goin on:

Actually, it's going to be quite a nice time; a limo tour of some wineries in and/or around Seattle, a funny cake, free booze, and NO PARENTS. I'm looking forward to everything but the plane ride. Flying terrifies me and it wouldn't surprise me if I died either departing or returning.

Buh. A second nap is seducing me.



How could I forget this just because you're gone?



Genius. I never get tired of this, and I don't care that he doesn't have what LL's got. He's got it better.

I love it when no one can maintain any level of professionalism. Camera operators always get away with it, but it's even richer that the interviewer himself can't keep a straight face. I wonder if he actually did get fired.


So, recently a dear friend of mine informed me that a dear friend of her's has cancer. {big, big sigh} At any rate, this friend of a friend is blogging about it. And, she just happens to be super super cool and amazingly upbeat despite the circumstances. You can read Katrina's blog here. 



Why is it that every time I want to be productive and ladylike, I fall asleep watching 21 Jump Street?

In other related news, I love naps. With cats.



I can't believe this is actually happening.

SANDMAN: At Your Service (Teaser) from Gatling Pictures on Vimeo.

While I can't claim to be a connoisseur of smoldering songwriters, I can, however, make claim that Mark Sandman was one of a kind. His / Morphine's sound, self-described as "low," was remarkable in its ambivalent pull and push of simplicity and seduction. I can only imagine him as the kind of man who managed to bewilder you into wondering how he pulled your chair out for you, lit your cigarette, and handed you a drink all at the same time and in a humbled, quiet manner. Morphine's songs evoke memories that don't yet exist but you damn well wish they did. They are the kind of songs that turn you into a romantic, if only cynically so; that stranger's affections can be gained and traded with a wink, a story, and a suggestive smile.

Whatever, basically I'm in love with Mark Sandman (rest his soul).



YEAH, DUDE.  I'm with you. I have also been spending winter nights eating ice cream and crying about why my ex-wife left me alone with greying hair, that plant I'll never be able to take care of, and ever-growing moobs*.

Why? Why do I live in a state with winter? Like many well-rounded people, I used to enjoy the variety of the seasons: the colors and comfort of autumn, the vibrancy and beauty of spring, the fun and warmth of summer, the majestic wonderlandment of winter. But, now, oh no no no. It is all over. My love for winter has faded with my paling skin color and rotting joie de vivre. 

It's too cold. Too cold to go outside and exercise or walk around and chat / sunbathe / take pictures / run errands / read in the grass / go for nice, long rides / window shop / watch the ducks / go to MOBOT / people watch / explore curbs, alleys, and dumpster dive. Too cold to get a table outside or have a drink on the porch. Too cold not to wear a dozen layers, including many a petticoat or long john. Too cold not to eat whatever is lying around all the time, since it's too cold to get into yr cold, cold car with crappy heat to do something that won't even take long enough to warm up the car. Too cold not to bitch and moan constantly about how it's too cold to do anything until a general sense of loathing is set so deep, you forget that there was anything about the day that you enjoyed. 

Being good at winter used to be a special talent of mine. Layering up to enjoy the solitude of the cold was an activity in which I was heavily invested. Cities behave so differently when left alone; this picture is from a visit to Buffalo, NY in 2008. I ambled around the downtown area for a better part of this day. Fantastic architecture was quietly planted on every block, but never too far from skeletal buildings lacking doors and windows pleading for attention and redevelopment. It defined winter in a way for me that I doubt I'll ever experience again; the cold bears proof that if you can survive it, the only thing you ever need is yourself.

*Neither he, nor I, in fact possess any moob-like qualities.


Sure, sure, this video has been all over the world wide webtroniks by now. I don't care. 2009 was the year of nothing - almost nothing - that truly seemed promising or exciting to me. Now that 2010 has rolled around, it has been thrilling to rediscover these basic elements of life that make it more than worthwhile. Also, fuck the Vivian Girls.



Not unlike my friend KFed here.

It's been a hard few years, living on a shoestring. First of all, it's difficult because once or twice a day, someone swings your home around with their big ass giantess hands and unlaces or laces your home all over the fucking place. Then you have to spend the rest of the day gathering your possessions like a peasant, and running as fast as you can back onto that shoe or it's back to Cardboard Shacks 'R' Us - although, I did hear that homeless fashion was back "in" again. 

No, but seriously. Being poor is exhaustingly boring and overrated. We all know it, at some point in our lives: having a car in a near-death state, stealing toilet paper from work or bars, getting overly excited over $2 drinks, always at the ready to ask your friends "are you still using that?", scouring restaurant alleys for scraps . . . Oh, wait. I actually don't do that.**

I'm already long passed the paralyzing fear of working in a new environment. It was always a struggle for me to try to get new jobs in the past due to crippling anxiety, but fuck that. I can bullshit myself long enough to finally achieve gainful enough employment that I could, I dunno, maybe pay my library debt off so that they don't keep following me around threatening lemon-juiced paper cuts? Sleep soundly a week through without thinking of grandma-duping and taking-candy-from-baby like schemes ? Go out to lunch and get a salad with my gigantor sandwich? Fuck. Yes. 
(mmm. sandwich.)

So, please, universe. Give me a job. Give me your money. Give me your money.
*A better job. I already have one.



Is it getting warm in here? No? It's just me? Okay.
What a hunk of man, right? A god, more like it. I think I would do a disservice to those of us who love the man and his music, so I'll just direct you here and leave you with this: