IT ALWAYS LEFT A TASTE IN YR MOUTH

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

MATING CALL

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.

IT IS WHAT IT IS

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. 

DAYZONLAYZE

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.

HIDE YOUR DAUGHTERS IN THE SNOW

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).

I WAITED FOR YOU

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.

CAN'T BREATHE ANYMORE

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.

GIVE ME YOUR MONEY

SERIOUSLY. I NEED A JOB.* I AM BEGGING FOR IT.

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.

**ANYMORE