i hope it works
29 March 2007
28 March 2007
hello sunshine
ah, early spring. these teasing days where you tear through your clothes finding the reserve warm-weather outfit you haven't packed away to make room for itchy sweaters and lined trousers.
unfortunately, the beauty of this day does little for little miss wcs, because we are too busy having internal arguments about wanting and not having a cigarette. i'm on about hour 44 or so and we are not liking this one bit. it does seem like there's a lot of gunk exiting my lungs here and there, though, and i don't want to go through that more than once, so annoyed i will continue to be for the next 12-18 months or so.
unfortunately, the beauty of this day does little for little miss wcs, because we are too busy having internal arguments about wanting and not having a cigarette. i'm on about hour 44 or so and we are not liking this one bit. it does seem like there's a lot of gunk exiting my lungs here and there, though, and i don't want to go through that more than once, so annoyed i will continue to be for the next 12-18 months or so.
27 March 2007
woo-hoo!
according to last night's episode of the Simpsons, i can add one very heroic man to the list of people with whom i share a birthday. Aretha Franklin & Elton John, say hello to
Homer J Simpson!!!!
not sure there is a person (real or otherwise) i'd rather share a birthday with.
Homer J Simpson!!!!
not sure there is a person (real or otherwise) i'd rather share a birthday with.
22 March 2007
from the floorboards to the flys, here i was fated to reside
the maj took me to see "the pirate queen" last night. i was already disappointed that the play was not, in fact, based on some long-lost decemberists song, it also turned out to be the shittiest thing i've seen in a long fucking time. and yes, i remember the times they are a-changin' debacle.
the lyrics were completely naff. they were not clever, they barely even rhymed. the queen elizabeth character made and off-the-cuff beheading joke. there was a pot shot at wales, and a song called "boys'll be boys", that came with a reprise.
i swear to god i was holding in roaring laughter the entire first act. i didn't have to worry about the second act because i left at intermission. all i have to say is this: if someone tries to get you to see this musical, break your own leg to avoid it.
the lyrics were completely naff. they were not clever, they barely even rhymed. the queen elizabeth character made and off-the-cuff beheading joke. there was a pot shot at wales, and a song called "boys'll be boys", that came with a reprise.
i swear to god i was holding in roaring laughter the entire first act. i didn't have to worry about the second act because i left at intermission. all i have to say is this: if someone tries to get you to see this musical, break your own leg to avoid it.
21 March 2007
sit on a train, reading a book
perhaps it's because i'm riding the train at off hours, but something was definitely up yesterday, or, as my mother would say "the crazies are out". i was almost entirely sure it was a full moon, but it tuns out it was just after a new moon. go figure...
on the way in i was Queen Elizabeth II. Only she was Greek. but she had it all, the hair, the glasses, the skirt and shoes.
but it was on the way home that things went haywire. i noticed a guy standing in front of the doors, holding up a sheet of paper and what looked like a trapper keeper folder. he was sort of oscillating, peeking through the three-inch gap between the two rectangles he held aloft.
of course, this is weird behavior, but nothing could've prepared me for the idiocy that was about to come out of this liberace-coifed lunatic. he starts telling everyone that the papers are a shield to protect him because he's a motherfucking angel. this prompted one of those rare moments on the subway when people actually make eye contact with each other. the people sitting in the group of seats next to me were all giggling at each other.
eventually, he gets around to the part where he invites women 29 & younger (whew, i barely make the cut!) to join him as an angel. women 30 and over, he said, were stuck as part of mankind. mankind is obsolete. i don't even know what the fuck that means. how are we obsolete when we're all sitting here on a subway train? anyway, i missed a great deal of this speech because i was wearing headphones, but it certainly added to the surreality of the whole experience that, peppering this total mental case's speech, was lou reed telling me "she's too busy sucking on my ding-dong".
a couple stops after gabriel got off the train, a guy comes through the car handing out xeroxed sheets of paper. on the paper, in very nice penmanship, is a note to the effect of: my name is so-and-so, i fell off a porch when i was a kid and now i suffer from epilepsy and seizures. from the years of 1952 to 1962 i was aspiring to be a successful dj. i am also a James Brown imitator. please help in any way you can... at the bottom, he's copied his driver's license and a business card for his james browning. i had a look at the license because after reading the note and looking at the guy, i thought he looked rather young to have been a dj in 1952. apparently, he was aspiring to be a dj at the tender age of three, as he was born in 1949. even the later end of his range, 1962, would have brought him in at 13-year-old aspiring dj. he was a little pushy. when he came to collect his pages, he gave everyone that "so you're really not going to give me money" look.
on the way in i was Queen Elizabeth II. Only she was Greek. but she had it all, the hair, the glasses, the skirt and shoes.
but it was on the way home that things went haywire. i noticed a guy standing in front of the doors, holding up a sheet of paper and what looked like a trapper keeper folder. he was sort of oscillating, peeking through the three-inch gap between the two rectangles he held aloft.
of course, this is weird behavior, but nothing could've prepared me for the idiocy that was about to come out of this liberace-coifed lunatic. he starts telling everyone that the papers are a shield to protect him because he's a motherfucking angel. this prompted one of those rare moments on the subway when people actually make eye contact with each other. the people sitting in the group of seats next to me were all giggling at each other.
eventually, he gets around to the part where he invites women 29 & younger (whew, i barely make the cut!) to join him as an angel. women 30 and over, he said, were stuck as part of mankind. mankind is obsolete. i don't even know what the fuck that means. how are we obsolete when we're all sitting here on a subway train? anyway, i missed a great deal of this speech because i was wearing headphones, but it certainly added to the surreality of the whole experience that, peppering this total mental case's speech, was lou reed telling me "she's too busy sucking on my ding-dong".
a couple stops after gabriel got off the train, a guy comes through the car handing out xeroxed sheets of paper. on the paper, in very nice penmanship, is a note to the effect of: my name is so-and-so, i fell off a porch when i was a kid and now i suffer from epilepsy and seizures. from the years of 1952 to 1962 i was aspiring to be a successful dj. i am also a James Brown imitator. please help in any way you can... at the bottom, he's copied his driver's license and a business card for his james browning. i had a look at the license because after reading the note and looking at the guy, i thought he looked rather young to have been a dj in 1952. apparently, he was aspiring to be a dj at the tender age of three, as he was born in 1949. even the later end of his range, 1962, would have brought him in at 13-year-old aspiring dj. he was a little pushy. when he came to collect his pages, he gave everyone that "so you're really not going to give me money" look.
16 March 2007
1968/8024
while other people i know are using their time to do things like read a book a month (or is it two?), learn a new skill or just be better people in general, i've undertaken listening to every song on my ipod. unfortunately this is a sisyphusian task since in the time since i began this stupid feat, i've put almost 500 new songs on my itunes. anyway, as i said earlier, the best thing about this "project" is getting weird songs put together.
the other day i was lucky enough to have this combination
Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah"
Amii Stewart's "Knock on Wood"
the other day i was lucky enough to have this combination
Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah"
Amii Stewart's "Knock on Wood"
15 March 2007
not that i care, at all
but what the fuck is going on out there in pop music land? with my lazy half-day schedule, i've started dvr-ing mtv's "after hours" which is "music videos". what it actually is is music video, set of commercials, music video, set of commercials. not only that, but they actually play the SAME FUCKING VIDEO twice in the same 1.5 hour show.
but the point here is this: what happened to avril lavigne and nelly frutado? before i go any further, let's get one thing straight: i never liked either of these people, but they've both pulled complete 180s on me in the past x years. avril used to be bitchy and brunette, now she's blond and wants to be your "girlfriend". nelly used to be a twit who wanted to be like a bird and now she's a slut. it seems the only constant here is that they both still lack talent.
the only thing i can hope to see is that bloc party video where he's walking through the train, and as i'm not overwhelmed with joy at their new album, even that is barely enough to keep me interested. i'm thinking it might have something to do with the fact that the lead singer is gay. not that i mind gayness, but it seems like no one is writing nice love songs for the ladies anymore. of course, no one probably was in the first place. that's not bitter, i just mean i'd put money on the fact that a great number of songwriters were/are gay, that's all.
jensenator and i went to see tunng the other night at UH. i was impressed with them. it turned out the tall dude in front of me was the singer or something for lonely, dear. they were not so great; nothing new under the sun. tunng did their shit and a bloc party cover and made me want to buy their record. which i would do if i were not making half a salary. things are very weird on this side of the economic spectrum.
i'm not complaining actually. it seems i can still pay my rent and bills and eat, and i put my pajamas on at 3 in the afternoon sometimes and i have plenty of time to go to the gym and i make myself delicious lunches. the only real difference is i am sitting on my couch listening to the new Oh No! Oh My! (exclamation points? please. so last year) record c/o lester writing this instead of doing it at suck inc. yeah. i'm not about to complain about this shit any time soon. except beer. soon i will start to miss it. a lot.
but the point here is this: what happened to avril lavigne and nelly frutado? before i go any further, let's get one thing straight: i never liked either of these people, but they've both pulled complete 180s on me in the past x years. avril used to be bitchy and brunette, now she's blond and wants to be your "girlfriend". nelly used to be a twit who wanted to be like a bird and now she's a slut. it seems the only constant here is that they both still lack talent.
the only thing i can hope to see is that bloc party video where he's walking through the train, and as i'm not overwhelmed with joy at their new album, even that is barely enough to keep me interested. i'm thinking it might have something to do with the fact that the lead singer is gay. not that i mind gayness, but it seems like no one is writing nice love songs for the ladies anymore. of course, no one probably was in the first place. that's not bitter, i just mean i'd put money on the fact that a great number of songwriters were/are gay, that's all.
jensenator and i went to see tunng the other night at UH. i was impressed with them. it turned out the tall dude in front of me was the singer or something for lonely, dear. they were not so great; nothing new under the sun. tunng did their shit and a bloc party cover and made me want to buy their record. which i would do if i were not making half a salary. things are very weird on this side of the economic spectrum.
i'm not complaining actually. it seems i can still pay my rent and bills and eat, and i put my pajamas on at 3 in the afternoon sometimes and i have plenty of time to go to the gym and i make myself delicious lunches. the only real difference is i am sitting on my couch listening to the new Oh No! Oh My! (exclamation points? please. so last year) record c/o lester writing this instead of doing it at suck inc. yeah. i'm not about to complain about this shit any time soon. except beer. soon i will start to miss it. a lot.
10 March 2007
italian vacation
it seems like the gods were smiling on me and xx for our journey. we encountered damn near perfect weather everywhere we went. except siena, but the insanely delicious meal (me: artichoke risotto, she: pizza with eggs and whatnot) totally made up for it.
without a doubt the highlight of the trip was the cinque terre. it'a a little cluster of towns that look like they fell down a cliff and piled up next to the sea. well, here:
yeah. charming as fuck basically. birthplace of pesto, make their own lovely white wine. awash in clams and mussels and such. and home to a seaside piazza where the local custom appears to be getting some wine and sitting around talking and watching everyone else do the same thing.
we did all the major tourist things at the rest of our destinations: leaning tower in; pisa, ufizzi, duomo, the david in florence; and too much stuff in rome to list.
my main goal throughout the trip was to eat and drink as much as possible. i would drag poor xx in to every paticceria (sp?) i saw for treats. i think i averaged about five meals a day. food is good.
one thing i don't get though: at what age do slim, gorgeous, trendy italians pull the ultimate Mr. Rogers and dump it all to turn into (adorable) shortish, cardigan-clad old people? it's REALLY bizarre. it's as though on some birthday they come at you with a little cap and cardigan (bowtie?) if you're a fella and a calf-length skirt, stockings, ortho-shoes, an apron and a headscarf (and perhaps a shopping bag or cart of some kind) if you're a lady. personally, i'd be looking forward to getting old if i got to wear that getup--and get to see my husband in a sweet little hat and suit everyday.
this trip afforded way fewer adventures than india, a welcome change, to be honest. however, there were two somewhat harrowing incidents which i will recount for you now.
the first occurred on our first night in pisa. we'd been in london much of the day (curry, pint, run for the bus), having arrived there after a much-delayed overnight flight. in short, we were shattered and just wanted to get to the hotel and crash. when we deplaned, the plan, as is always my plan but seems suddenly to be more often than not thwarted, was to find a cash machine and get local currency. i do not mess about with those rip-off huts called bureaus (does anyone else out there really hate spelling the word 'bureau'? not a single time have i got it right on the first try) de change. i refuse to pay money to get money, especially when i'm already losing money because our own dastardly currency refuses to be worth a shit; anyway i am not the kind of traveler American Express would approve of, i do not purchase currency in advance or upon arrival and i certainly do not use traveler's cheques. this is my own damn problem, because there were two cash machines in pisa airport. one of them told me my card was not valid for international withdrawals (a declaration xx and i would become well familiar with, and would cause us to rejoice and pull out money any time we found a deutsche bank or a banco tuscana, regardless of whether or not we needed it), the other one might as well have had Xs over its eyes for all the good it could do us. at this point (around 11pm? jetlagged to hell), xx and i just kept looking at each other and saying "what the fuck can we do?" i could smoke a number of cigarettes and pace, xx went in to check the thomas cooke, who, despite being occupied by a live man, was closed and unwilling to help two stranded (bureau-hating) american ladies. some people from the bus service to florence told us there was an atm about 10 minutes away "under that bridge". we clomped off with all our shit and no energy. but we were lazy and once we saw that there was no easy way to get under that bridge, we thought, "fuck this". we decided we'd beg a taxi driver to take us to the bank and then just pay him (for those of you paying attention, this is where the irony that we could've just popped off the plane to the then-open thomas cooke and had our sweet, sweet cash rather than literally paying someone to take us to get money (surely at a rate higher than even the shysteriest BdC's commission) comes shining through). so we go up to a taxi driver and explain our situation, using that incredibly rude, loud and slow version of english reserved for people who don't speak it, and after about 10 minutes of our panicked entreating the driver looks at us and says "you have a credit card? i take(a) the credit card".
the second involves us arriving extremely late from rome into london, taking the last bus from stanstead to liverpool street (in central london) and trying to get a taxi to go to the flat we were borrowing from rope-a-dope. r-a-d was in venice with her hubby and had given us the keys on our way through (see curry above) london the first time. so arriving at 230 am on a sunday and getting in a taxi rank as it's raining all over the place is not the most efficient way to get somewhere. things went from bad to worse when a group of girls came running up, one sans shoes, poked their heads in a off-duty cab, got in and sped off, prompting a girl in the queue behind us to scream "it's not like they're gonna shag yeh!" we waited about 40 more minutes and got into a cab. the driver wasn't quite sure where we were going, so i was craning out the window to make sure we didn't speed past the flat (i was slightly nervous i wouldn't pick it out, as i'd only been there once). anyway. we got to the flat and there was a note "they've had to change the locks, go to xyz Cassland road and ask for cara, she has a spare for you". it's nearing 3am. i'm supposed to go knock on some total stranger's door and ask for a key? yes. and that's just what i did, because i was not planning on sleeping in the rain, love london as i do. after buzzing thrice, a bleary eyed chap, who was uninterested in my apologies, came down and said gruffly (not that i blame him at all) "you sara? it's in the bbq". so back to the flat i went. in the bbq.
without a doubt the highlight of the trip was the cinque terre. it'a a little cluster of towns that look like they fell down a cliff and piled up next to the sea. well, here:
yeah. charming as fuck basically. birthplace of pesto, make their own lovely white wine. awash in clams and mussels and such. and home to a seaside piazza where the local custom appears to be getting some wine and sitting around talking and watching everyone else do the same thing.
we did all the major tourist things at the rest of our destinations: leaning tower in; pisa, ufizzi, duomo, the david in florence; and too much stuff in rome to list.
my main goal throughout the trip was to eat and drink as much as possible. i would drag poor xx in to every paticceria (sp?) i saw for treats. i think i averaged about five meals a day. food is good.
one thing i don't get though: at what age do slim, gorgeous, trendy italians pull the ultimate Mr. Rogers and dump it all to turn into (adorable) shortish, cardigan-clad old people? it's REALLY bizarre. it's as though on some birthday they come at you with a little cap and cardigan (bowtie?) if you're a fella and a calf-length skirt, stockings, ortho-shoes, an apron and a headscarf (and perhaps a shopping bag or cart of some kind) if you're a lady. personally, i'd be looking forward to getting old if i got to wear that getup--and get to see my husband in a sweet little hat and suit everyday.
this trip afforded way fewer adventures than india, a welcome change, to be honest. however, there were two somewhat harrowing incidents which i will recount for you now.
the first occurred on our first night in pisa. we'd been in london much of the day (curry, pint, run for the bus), having arrived there after a much-delayed overnight flight. in short, we were shattered and just wanted to get to the hotel and crash. when we deplaned, the plan, as is always my plan but seems suddenly to be more often than not thwarted, was to find a cash machine and get local currency. i do not mess about with those rip-off huts called bureaus (does anyone else out there really hate spelling the word 'bureau'? not a single time have i got it right on the first try) de change. i refuse to pay money to get money, especially when i'm already losing money because our own dastardly currency refuses to be worth a shit; anyway i am not the kind of traveler American Express would approve of, i do not purchase currency in advance or upon arrival and i certainly do not use traveler's cheques. this is my own damn problem, because there were two cash machines in pisa airport. one of them told me my card was not valid for international withdrawals (a declaration xx and i would become well familiar with, and would cause us to rejoice and pull out money any time we found a deutsche bank or a banco tuscana, regardless of whether or not we needed it), the other one might as well have had Xs over its eyes for all the good it could do us. at this point (around 11pm? jetlagged to hell), xx and i just kept looking at each other and saying "what the fuck can we do?" i could smoke a number of cigarettes and pace, xx went in to check the thomas cooke, who, despite being occupied by a live man, was closed and unwilling to help two stranded (bureau-hating) american ladies. some people from the bus service to florence told us there was an atm about 10 minutes away "under that bridge". we clomped off with all our shit and no energy. but we were lazy and once we saw that there was no easy way to get under that bridge, we thought, "fuck this". we decided we'd beg a taxi driver to take us to the bank and then just pay him (for those of you paying attention, this is where the irony that we could've just popped off the plane to the then-open thomas cooke and had our sweet, sweet cash rather than literally paying someone to take us to get money (surely at a rate higher than even the shysteriest BdC's commission) comes shining through). so we go up to a taxi driver and explain our situation, using that incredibly rude, loud and slow version of english reserved for people who don't speak it, and after about 10 minutes of our panicked entreating the driver looks at us and says "you have a credit card? i take(a) the credit card".
the second involves us arriving extremely late from rome into london, taking the last bus from stanstead to liverpool street (in central london) and trying to get a taxi to go to the flat we were borrowing from rope-a-dope. r-a-d was in venice with her hubby and had given us the keys on our way through (see curry above) london the first time. so arriving at 230 am on a sunday and getting in a taxi rank as it's raining all over the place is not the most efficient way to get somewhere. things went from bad to worse when a group of girls came running up, one sans shoes, poked their heads in a off-duty cab, got in and sped off, prompting a girl in the queue behind us to scream "it's not like they're gonna shag yeh!" we waited about 40 more minutes and got into a cab. the driver wasn't quite sure where we were going, so i was craning out the window to make sure we didn't speed past the flat (i was slightly nervous i wouldn't pick it out, as i'd only been there once). anyway. we got to the flat and there was a note "they've had to change the locks, go to xyz Cassland road and ask for cara, she has a spare for you". it's nearing 3am. i'm supposed to go knock on some total stranger's door and ask for a key? yes. and that's just what i did, because i was not planning on sleeping in the rain, love london as i do. after buzzing thrice, a bleary eyed chap, who was uninterested in my apologies, came down and said gruffly (not that i blame him at all) "you sara? it's in the bbq". so back to the flat i went. in the bbq.
08 March 2007
friends with benefits
i know, i know, you want to hear about italy and london. it's coming. we're messing around with photos and such and the newsdesk got slammed with news as soon as i returned. soon, my sweets, soon.
anyway, upon my return, i received great news from no-suck, inc. while i am still a half-time employee, they've officially hired me, which means i don't have to invoice them AND i get health insurance, 401(k), dental, vision, oh, and i accrue vacation time! woooot!
anyway, upon my return, i received great news from no-suck, inc. while i am still a half-time employee, they've officially hired me, which means i don't have to invoice them AND i get health insurance, 401(k), dental, vision, oh, and i accrue vacation time! woooot!
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