Archive for January, 2005

me and the virtuous pagans

A whole day of homework. Day 1 of trying to be strict about it. 3 hours in the morning. then phonecalling and dicking around with housework. then back to homework from 1-3:45, with a brief trip to the Hole Food.

Moomin and I made some bread in the bread machine. Again, I explain to him the miracle of yeast. I think because I learned about it when I was 6 or 7 from my sierra club calendar and thought it was super fascinating that yeast made so many different things happen.

Later we were messing around in the tub, after Peanut left.

“Mommy, I would like to learn some more songs by the romans.”
“By who?”
“You know. The… the RAYMONS. No, I mean, the Romans. The Rah-moan-es. Um, they have a punk rock song of Spiderman that you put on my superhero CD.”
“The Ramones. Yes. Yes I will most certainly make you a CD with more of their songs.”
“Because I would like to wisten to more punk rock songs.”
“I’ll make you a punk rock CD right now.” (laptop fetched, songs downloaded and played for him as he bathes. Thank you, wireless.)
“Thank you my dear. That’s so nice of you to do for me.” (yes. that’s what he said.)
“No problem Moomin. This is ska, like this. And this is new wave. “
*much excitement over “We will ska you” “I Don’t Care” and “Working in a coal mine”*

I’ll try to remember this lovely innocent moment later when he is blasting whatever the new Eminem equivalent is 10 years from now and sullenly won’t come out of his room.

i don’t even just wring the neck of that damn swan

Mad typing up of crap about F3nians, Y3ats, AE, all sorts of madness from 1800-1930 in Ireland. As usual I set out to write a paragraph and ended up with several pages, with more to say.

I am thinking of writing a swan poem. How not? Damn but i forgot how much that one Y3ats poem pissed me off. It’s even worse that he wrote it as a political allegory or something… L3da is supposed to be the socialist/anarchist masses that need raping and taming by the government. Oh, maybe I’m being too harsh and he was saying that that’s what had just happened in the revolution and civil war.

I also forgot how he proposed to Maud G.’s daughter when he was super super old. Gross!!! I mean, so gross, to try to marry the daughter of someone you were obsessed with for like 25 years! Gag ick barf!

Am wishing I could go back in time and make Maud kick his ass. The woman led riots in the streets! The instant he published that crappy poem about being old and grey (which was to her) she should have opened a can of whupass on his virginal, hashish-addicted ass.

Y3ats boot camp does this to a person. I warn you! Stay out from under bigben bulben’s head! (that is a joke and I realize no one will get it. Oh well, maybe I’ll try cracking that one in class and see if anyone laughs.)

it occurred to me today while doing this: I actually know a lot of history. That maybe 1 or 2 people in my class know something about what I just wrote, but the rest don’t. And sure, I looked up a lot of details, but I also just knew a bejesusload of stuff because of having read that one book about the p0tato famine and then some other books about lit3rary/political history. And from genealogical research, and odd fictional sources like reading C4ddie Woodlawn a hundred times and realizing that it’s not a coincidence that C4ddie’s dad hired their “hired man” who was a recent irish immigrant to take his place in the civil war draft. (eh? potato famine = emigration to u.s. = poor immigrant, marginal employment, cannon fodder for hire.) And that time I looked up a lot of history because i wanted to write the GOOD footnotes to the Patrick OBr1an books. And, not so oddly, from playing C.I.L.’s 1890s London game. Anyway, usually this depth of knowledge (not always coherent unless I have some prep time and lookup time) is utterly useless. Unless I’m a novelist, research assistant of some kind, teacher, or librarian, it goes unused except to add to the general ferment in the messy vat of my skull.

road to hell

Instead of J0yce, I went and read this…

reVeela-ing Secrets

this has my vote so far as the silliest ever… it must be deliberate! Must!

Hermione suddenly discovers she is half veela and half Sirius, and she femmes up in the silliest way possible, and her new living quarters are decorated hilariously, and then … no, you just have to read it. Oh, god. I’m going to be laughing even in my dreams. At the same time, I’m touched by the wish-fulfillment of whatever wishes you imagine they’re fulfilling (imaginary parodied ones, or ones of an actual teenager)

Relaine gasped at the sight of her new dormitories. It was go gorgeous! It was gorgeous with extra gorge! She had never been in such a gorgefully gorgeous room. It took her breath away knowing that she would get to stay here for the whole year.

It was white, black, and silver with splashes of color here and there. For example, in the common room, there were white comfy sitting pillows thrown everywhere with a silver TV and black carpeting. But, the walls were HOT PINK. It was so futuristically funky!

When her makeup applied itself to her face, I was nearly sick laughing.

The comments are often brilliant and funny… Like this one which mockingly continues the first chapter:

“Certainly, Momma! Anything for you!” Draco cried, his heart filled to the highest brim with joy. With that, he dove onto the bed with his brothers, sisters, and dearest darling sweetest Mother, all of them laughing the bright laugh of the happy.

Draco’s mother strummed an opening chord on her guitar, the room brightening with sunlight. “Why, look!” she exclaimed, pointing to the windows. Several birds and butterflies had gathered on the sill of one; another beheld the sight of a majestic stag, a friendly, friendly badger, a silly old beaver, a stoat, three goats, a woodchuck, and a little monkey. “Join us in our song, why don’t you, woodland friends?” she asked the animals who watched the scene with amusement (except the silly old beaver, as he’d forgotten his glasses). Draco’s mother played another chord and began to sing in the brightest, happiest, most beautiful voice Draco had ever heard: “Let’s start at the very beginning/A very good place to start…”

oh, for a un-REAL dictionary

do you people have any idea how much I want a really good sp4nish dictionary ? I’m going to have to haul my ass to staffnord and sit in the library with piles of regional and slang dictionaries.. if only the snotheads at the RAE would be less snotty. Grrrrr.

i have 6 tabs open now so i can look up words in 6 online dictionaries and then i have 2 paper ones and it is not enough as the words are too odd or specific to L0nfardo or riopl4tenese.


I’m so glad I got this book for Moomin. It’s just perfect!

“He is short and the other dogs and animals are laughing. Why do they laugh at him? Do they want him to be big?”

“Maybe they think he is a little bit different.”

“Yeah. They want to make fun of him because of that. But he does not want to make fun of himself. So he imagines that he is in a comic book. And he wants to rescue everybody.”

*barely suppress flood of sentiment* “Yup.”

“And then the mean big cat, and then, and then, he rescues the mean big cat, and the cat becomes supercat and will be a superhero with him and is his friend.”

“Yup that’s right.”

“I would like to be Superboy. But I am not Superboy. And I don’t know any superheroes. We are just real people.”

“I know a superboy.” (how to resist?)

“You do? Who is it?”

“It is YOU!” (I swear to god I don’t say corny stuff like this all the time. But I was thinking of how he is thoughtful of people’s feelings, and doesn’t ever whine… hour in fancy toy store and we didn’t buy him anything and he didn’t expect it… how he cleaned up the parcheesi set without my asking…If only I could be as nice as he is, I’d be… a lot nicer. he is my hero!)

“No! I am not a superhero. I am just a kid!” (But he had a blissful smile as he contradicted me and was clearly imagining himself flying around in the air, hero-like….)

“I know. You’re just a kid and I’m just a mom!”

Wow he is such a cool kid.

I also enjoyed watching him figuring out Parcheesi and dice-reading. He was getting the idea, but still wanted to count the dots with every roll to make sure that the math part was true. Parcheesi is cool for having a little strategy yet it not being necessary to play the game. Also, Chutes and L4dders wins hands down over fucking C4ndyland any day. I hate C4ndyland.. ugh! It’s grotesque! Great when they’re two or three to get the basic idea of moving around on a board, but so dull.

In the toy store it was pretty clear that Moomin wanted 2 things: weapons and superhero dolls. They had good lights4bers, phaser gun things, and stuff like that. I wonder if he could be persuaded to have a superhero party. then for the fridge box decorations I could make a cool skyscraper metropolis!

i hate the fucking ants

I have wiped away giant rivers of ants from 3 places in the house just now, and 2 this morning. I spray them ruthlessly with windex-type stuff or with the nastiest possible ant poison. Borax sort of works but they just find the one spot you ahve not boraxed and they go there. fuckers.

cleanup after everyone last night. dishes. laundry. dinner. more laundry. I cleaned Moomin’s room just now while sort of pretending to play with him, but he had my number. Ants on top of this, I can’t take!

I recall times when I just neutrally coexisted with rivers of ants. As long as they didn’t crawl on me, they weren’t hurting anything. Now I am personally offended by them. Oh rainy season, please be over soon!

On the subject of bitching about housework: I am also through with feeling bad about bitching about housework. It’s not so bad, I hope. Other people complain minorly about their jobs, right? About their commutes or something annoying that keeps happening. So what is the big deal about housewives and moms bitching about their jobs? Why is it such a big joke, and not to be done? (Yes, as a stoic philosopher, I should not bitch about anything. I know.)

I think by 9 when Moomin is in bed i am going to be exhausted. maybe just some catchup reading for class and no real creative homework…

on the other hand everything is very cosy tonight, and i like it all being clean. but yeah i am going to bed as soon as I can. flannel. curling up. book and pen.

yummy, wheezy

We had the best dimsum out today; me, Moomin, Rook, Rafael, Chula, Leann, and Joss, who seemed excited about spending all yesterday with a bunch of supergeeks doing My+hTV. Leeann and Rafael talked a lot about horror movies but I was mostly paying attention to eating and to Moomin.. suffering from my usual problem of not quite being able to hear people in restaurants unless they are automatic voice-projectors.

We all walked around a little. Moomin is having obvious asthma. I feel so bad for him… I’m also having constant trouble that seems to be getting worse not better. The bronchitis is gone, but the usual overly-reactive airway problem… going from a warm room to cold outside, or vice versa, makes it hard to breathe; laughing; strong perfumy smells or smoke (what was i thinking, about the fancy soap store? I walked in about 3 steps and realized I had to wait outside). At this point… I realize for several months I’ve been saying “Oh, my allergist is going to be quite stern and grim when I finally go back.” And he says if I ever, ever, ever need to use my inhaler, I must immediately come make an appointment because it means my asthma is not under control and it can be and should be. (apparently a giant new change in asthma management philosophy in the last 10 years). I am at the point of using my inhaler maybe 4 times a day and it’s feeling like not enough and that’s on top of s1ngulair pills every night and daily inhaled steroids. I had a major scary attack the other night and was not sure what to do but luckily had my inhaler… I had to do the thing of using it once and then waiting 15 min. and then doing it again. and right this very minute it is like someone is squeezing me deep in the pit of my windpipe. tomorrow or maybe tonight i’m going to go get the hardcore over the counter inhaler epinephrine…

I was reading that P.K. Dick had asthma and back in the 30s or whenever, they gave you methamphetamines for asthma. So from childhood onward he was a speed addict. Wow. From my perspective now I can see that doing megadoses of the0phylline was not good for my mental health but I sure hope it wasn’t on the scale of meth!!!

well.. later this week you will see me suddenly have a giant surge of energy and happiness as I pop huge quantities of prednisone, the feel-good happy pill (at least until it eats away your BONES.)

Moomin is going to have to learn to deal with inhalers. maybe they have disintegrating albuterol pills? talk about speed… he’ll get the shakes…

Rook and R. and Moomin went off to J.’s game playing and fancy food afternoon. I showed up later after some cafe-ing with the other guys, to pick up Moomin… we have been laying around playing Parcheesi and making block castles. Rook is still off at the game night.

Tonight i will read more in Uly$$es and will put together some kind of handout, maybe, or email to the class on y3ats and co. I have been looking forward to that 6 hours of uninterrupted work time!

mild guilt that, had i not spent so much social time this weekend, i could have had more homework done and been able to say yes to the Pilot to babysit Peanut (6 hours tomorrow during my work hours…) but i just could not say yes. I don’t have tuesday to work in, because I will be at the allergist and at Moomin’s dentist. And I can do a couple of last minute t hings on Wed. but with class from 3-6 and 7-10 and major form-signing to get done, I have to leave here at noon.

Off to make dinner for Moomin.

more photos from RWC’s strange new thing

Sweetly togged out hipster boys, writers both; G. an organizer of the gallery (who also lives there in an upstairs uber-pad which should be festooned at all times with a combination of bongwater and ladies in lingerie) and the other a chipmunk-voiced professional cool person or something. The thing he read was good but went kind of over people’s heads. That’s okay… they were convinced he was a fabulous genius, just from the way his corduroy pants flared out, slit up the sides….

I was absurdly excited at the hot greyhaired dieseldykes, until they asked me what “utopia” meant. That was disappointing. And that painting was more fabulous than I thought upon first glance. Usually I look at stuff that tries to be “Guernica” where all the people look like their necks are on backwards or broken, and just shrug. But this was actually neat for its horsewoman who was either giving birth or fucking herself with a dildo shaped like a baby horse. The horsewoman was very pleased with herself, bony arms, rose on the head, and all. All this person’s paintings (i didn’t write down her name… Anastasia something?) were cool and complex and had things sticking into and out of giant vaginas. I overheard the early older palo-alto art crowd, 2 guys saying to each other, “And actually, if you would believe it, a woman painted those over there.” And the other guy was like, “No! Really?” I could not figure this out until I realized that their assumption was that women would not paint nasty porno-style penetration. How weird of them?!

More cute slightly drunk people. The rave music was ravin’. “Do you know G.?” was the refrain of most of these people… I began thinking of G. as the keystone in the arch, as he appeared to be everyone’s lover, friend, muse, and perhaps dealer. He was charismatic but did this thing that makes me never know what to do; I was invited by him up the stairs to his pad, and then I realized there was no reason for me to be there since I had a pen and paper anyway; he gestured around and told me to feel free to go anywhere I pleased in an oddly significant way. And then some incredibly hot chick with a wild look in her eyes came up and he said he had to go “do something” with her but again there was this overly-significant stare that … what did it mean? I had no idea! I went back downstairs. All night people (like them there in the photo) were coming up to me and saying, “I saw you go upstairs with G.” *weird look meant to communicate something* Since I was up there only a few minutes surely there was no feeling that I had been inducted into the Hall of Fame in his pants? I think it must have meant they were doing some unspeakably pleasureable drug up there, one that I am too dorky to know it exists. It’s the green powder snorted by the Yanomamo indians, cut with pure colombian snow. or what? what? what? Was G. luring cute girls upstairs all night to replace their brains with alien parasites, and they were trying to establish communication? Lo, I escaped.

I liked this guy a lot, Sam G., and his folky wooden things painted with housepaint. He was fun to talk with! Who could not like “our lady of Deadwood city” painting above… Sam F. also nice, cute, not snooty, for one so famous.

A peculiarly charming painter, posed in front of his paintings. Only after I’d been talking to him for like half an hour did I realize why. Oh, a physicist. Yes, that explains why I thought he was cute. There was another dude, a kind of buff handsome guy lurking around, who was macking on me in just the sort of suave rico het boy way that Chula would have liked, and I kept dazzling him with my wacky evasions of his questions. I made up all this stuff about how I write poetry about giant sexbots and cities because I’m the sort of sleazy girl who likes to go to dive bars and pick up transexual hookers and convert them to be radical lesbian feminist militant warriors. and then he began telling me how the peninsula lesbian scene is all weirdly and secretly centered around the Staffnord women’s basketball team and this one player named Tara. But then he started to get weirded out as I added more details of my life, some real and some fictional. He was nice, but supplied no interesting wackiness of his own so that I felt only like BadgerTV and not like a conversation. I think the people in the room started to get scared by me or thought I was nuts, because once I’ve made up some weird stuff about orphanages and poetry or whatever, then saying “Oh yeah! and my husband was in 4ntarctica at the Soutth Pole doing a neutr1no experiment while I was pregnant!” just sounds completely made up. Well, I had a point but I completely forgot what it was. Mostly that the geek dude was awfully cute and painted the back door mural in my previous post.

And these lovely people, I think I scared them. The reluctant blogger, who looks to be another computer or science nerd, slightly disdainful of “services” and who assumes anyone who’s anyone would install their own Movable Type or whatever on their own server. hahaha. I thought of telling him stories about how I’m a perl hacker and work for McCoot the famous AI guy, but realized he would think I was making it up at that point… rather like when I worked at that stripclub and the DJ would announce all of us with oddball professions, like “Let’s all give Ebony a big hand! When she’s not dancing, she’s an emergency underwater medical technician and nanotechnological ggraphic designer! Her hobby is skydiving naked!” The cute girlie in the photo, whose name I might never have learned, was the one egging me on to ramble about the japanese porn industry for her video camera. I’m pretty sure I began to scare her.

The cozy, domestic, nerdy end of my evening as I kicked ass at Carcassonne. someday Rook and I will have a super cutthroat tournament!!! I suspect it woudl be like our scrabble days where I started out winning a lot more but then he learned how to kick my ass, and only my moments of erratic brilliance saved me from his consistent superior intelligence.

tentacle poets unite!

That was vastly more entertaining than I dreamed it would be. I figured go to the boringass gallery opening thing where suburban artbabes, slightly older than me, in tightfitting pantsuits and their hair pulled back, eat brie & grapes together while murmuring politely, and perhaps there would be a possible place to have readings if I feel like organizing one. Instead! Oh instead! A grungy rambling warehousey place with murals on the wall, dead flowers at the baseboards! Wildass paintings that were eclectic and charming…. I will post photos later. Wildeyed painters looking shy, edgy and occasionally grim. I imposed… ooo, a room full of people I don’t know! I’ll babble to them all about how I wish my hair could be prehensile and how then I could be my own tent4cle porn, and how I’m a poet and publisher and stuff. I ended up meeting lots of people who seemed a little baffled or vapid but more people who were quite interesting or a little bit crazy. The organizers said I could read something, possibly since they judged me crazy enough that I might sleep with their guru or buy his drugs or whatever. I’m sort of kidding; I liked their guru dude!

And the charming moment when in the dark, quiet back hallway, alone, I came across some luscious elegant sexy paintings, and peeked into a tiny office… 2 giggling very fancily dressed women, obviously high. The painter gave me her business card: she owns the building or something and is apparently a major importer of bu1lding materials (which if you didn’t know, is one of the main things the port of Deadwood City exists to do… gypsum and sand to make new buildings here, and then we export scrap metal.) They exploded laughing as I absorbed it… you’re the president of the import co… and those are your paintings… heh heh that is so great that I don’t even care if it’s true or not!

The photos and detailed reporting must wait till tomorrow, except for this glimpse of the back door:

I know, it would not be such a big deal if it were in o4land or SF but it is a rare beast here in the suburbs and so i’m all happy. There were flaming queers everywhere amidst the hipster dudes and artbabes (when is the last time i saw an old school grey haired butch in my town? never! yup, i was butched-on, a little too long of a handshake, a little too intense on the eye contact… ) which made me even happier. Plus, I read my g1ant robot poem and then everyone hit on me and I was full of happy energy. I liked the main reading dude and the ending of his story about all the buses and trolleys connecting everything through their cb radio thingies and their awareness of him having fucked up the schedule and how it was the most manly moment of his entire life.

Then, home to lovely Rook and his best friend, to kick their ass at Carcassonne hunter-gatherers. Oh yes. Life is sweet. I get to play with goofball painters, and have DJs and ramble in public about my plans for distributing free testosterone to j4panese schoolgirl bathhouse prostitutes or whatever, while some awfully cute chick asked me strange questions that spurred me on to say even more obnoxious things while she filmed me and people looked on in disbelief. I am the biggest camera whore! And then, and then, home to play board games. AND WIN.

Now Rook and Rafael are watching movies happily together just like old times.

Where is the fancy chocolate? Where are the teams of people longing to massage my feet?

I don’t even want them, as I just looked at my email and Chulita has sent me the first bit of her 2nd novel and the thought of reading it is sweeter than the best chocolate and more alluring than a giggling throng of doe-eyed bath slaves.

dreams, imprudence

I dreamed last night that I got rehired at the old “Lobe School” in Chicago doing tech support; the building was in San Francisco instead and all different, labyrinthlike. And one of my co-workers was acting a little odd and uncomfortable around me. He seemed vaguely familiar; tall, hairy, and gruff. I was sure I’d never seen him before. It was Joshua Norton! He knew what I looked like but I had never seen his picture and he was afraid of being outed.

Then I dreamed I woke up and blogged about it.

Then I really woke up and blogged about it. At least I think so.


I’m feeling foolish for just shooting my mouth off about someone to someone else. This is clearly unwise and I should really try not to do it. Firm resolution to not take any crap is one thing but perpetuating crap by nasty behind-the-back talk, whining and bitching is not the way to go. Quit it, me!