I think that some of my favorite poetry ever is archy and mehitabel. If you don't know what I'm talking about, then go check it out.

Unpacking boxes last night, I found a letter that I wrote to a friend years ago and then never sent (circumstances were quite bizarre then, so it's not so surprising that it was never sent). I have no idea how it managed to be preserved all this time. Probably got lodged in something semi-important but seldom used. Upon rereading it, I was struck by several things. One, I'm glad that the particular period of madness in which I found myself as I wrote that letter is behind me. I'm MUCH more centered these days. Second, I'm very glad that I did have the opportunity to be thrust into that particular trial-by-fire, because in the end I gained a lot from it. It really, really, really sucked at the time. Then again, our toughest lessons are just that--tough. Lastly, this thing amused me as much as it unsettled me to be reminded of where I was at that particular point in time. It's also an interesting exercise to notice how much you become a new person as you grow, and how much remains the same. It seems that even at this point I had a penchant for abusing commas and semicolons. So here it is, in its entirety. I've removed names, but that's it.

"S-----

I really have no idea why I'm sending you this paper. Part of me knows that I'm a little bit crazy and this is almost certainly just a manifestation of that. I also think that I happen to have written a good piece here, and good pieces need an audience. So.

We haven't spoken in God knows how long, I've about 8 other people that I suppose I could have given this to. I don't know.

Is this the point of the letter where I'm supposed to tell you about how things are going in New Mexico? Alright then. I'm impoverished, sleeping with an asshole named T. whose redeeming qualities are a subscription to Harper's, impeccable taste in music and literature, amazing hands, and unbelievable stamina. I know more about herbs than God and I've been homeless for 10 days. I have been going insane for about 3 months but I plan on coming back to Chicago, and conceivably sanity, when I can. I drive out into the desert, that really funky area between Gallup and Grants, to scream when I have to.

T. is very tall and calls my tits "boobies" after 8 or so whiskey and cokes. I have taken to avoiding drugs except for occasional alcoholic binges, because there are good herbs for that. Simon has almost died due to severe asthma 4 or 5 times; but there are also herbs for that. Right now I am sitting my friend J.'s bizarre shotgun apartment while she's out screwing her fuck-up ex-skinhead tattooed motherfuck of a boyfriend. She keeps coming to her senses and dumping his sorry ass, but he keeps doing something to get her back. This time he bought her a sewing machine. I would go out but I have no clean clothes (side effect of homelessness) and only 60 cents 'till Monday. J's an excellent sort. You'd like her. She rescued my ass when I showed up here in jeans and a t-shirt a couple of weeks ago, blithering about N-- and death and Bjork lyrics.

I would say that I'm emotionally needy, except that I have an intense and enduring desire to be alone most of the time. The small amount of time I spend with people I really don't want to bother with fucking small talk. My world has been falling about my ankles and I really don't want to talk about the goddamn weather, you know? So I guess I could seem "emotionally needy", because I'm awfully likely to just ask you, straight out, whether or not I can call at 3 a.m. to discuss the impact the doctrine of virgin birth has had on gender relations (hint: a very big one indeed).

I will try very hard not to call you at 3 a.m. to ask you about the Virgin Mary. I'm fairly certain I could so there's no real reason to.

Also, there is the bit that you're one of those who understand the place where you are when you're deeply suicidal. No; I'm not going to off myself; don't worry (p.s. you get my Tori Amos bootleg if I die in a fiery auto crash, also please see that Simon gets a good home) but I've been having a whopper of an existential crisis out here in the fucking desert and if you mention that you've been analyzing suicide as an option, on a purely intellectual, analytical level a la Sartre, most people start hyperventilating and calling crisis intervention lines, which is a horrible bore.

I've also gone out with a boy named G-- who's an alchemist and into astral travel and such. He also shares an appreciation for a good blade, but he let slip that he hasn't been laid in 5 years and the hungry look is only appealing if it's hunger, and not starvation. Such a shame; the boy's smarter than a basket of ferrets; but a girl must have standards. Of a sort, anyway.

Definitely get the new Tori Amos. Track 5, Lust. Best song about mental desire I've ever heard.

O S---- this is odd. I know I'm dead smart, but I've come to realize that intelligence has nothing at all to do with sanity. Zip, zero, zilch, not (as Keith would say) a swabbo. Interestingly enough a good chunk of me can see my descent into insanity with a fairly objective, and oddly, approving, eye. Something is happening here; conceiveably something bigger than I, definitely something greater than my conscious comprehension. I am learning something. I have no idea what and I don't know why it requires me to wander around alone late at night a lot, but at the very least, I'm not bored. Cold, broke, frustrated, giddy and lost, but not bored.

Last night I sat in a borrowed green Adidas t-shirt that reeked of boy, in my underwear, watching someone get overly excited by a dynamic new car wax that withstands even the exhaust from a jet engine. They actually got a small Lear engine, strapped it to a picnic table right in front of a T-Bird, and fired it up. For 15 minutes. Sure enough, the waxed surface wiped clean. Remind me, S--, if I ever decide to park right behind a 747, to first obtain and use a bottle of this wax.

We live in bizarre times.

And I work in a store where there are bottles and bottles of pills for what ails you. Can't sleep? Arthritis? Backache? Impotent? We have a pill. We have, for chrissakes, a pill guaranteed to make your boobs grow. And we sell great big bottles of ephedrine for weight loss. I wonder why these people don't just go ahead and get a meth habit if they're that crazy to lose weight. It'd be cheaper.

One of the more enduring aspects of whatever the hell has been going on outside my frontal lobes is an almost constantly recurring mental image of Bast (that cool Egyptian cat goddess). In dreams, in awake time, it is there, a black statue of an image. Have no idea what it means, where it came from, why it's there. But it's pretty.

Anyway, I'm certain I've rambled on long enough. Hope this isn't too unsettling; all things considered, I'm doing all right. I'd like to see you and E-- over the holidays, I'll call you when I have a house/phone.

Sarahchia"

Carolyn has posted the number of her Secret Freak on the forum. Go to it, folks, for the Good of Humanity.

Sam sent me this link from rathergood.com. While many of you have probably seen the Angry Rock Kittens in action before, it's worth another look.

It is totally impossible to be in a bad mood when you're wearing Marvin the Martian panties.

I'm havin' a great day.

Damn. Now there's a useful gift.

WA HA HAA AAHH HHAA! Go read this shit; remind yourself not to take life so seriously.

Picked up a bunch of hippies on the road from Portland today, on a whim. Two of them got in the back of the Go Big Red Truck, and one, Sean, road shotgun with me. We talked about all sorts of things, from his history of hitchhiking cross-country, to the scene in Boston, to proper cultivation of a certain species of plant used for medicinal and recreational purposes. Concerning the latter, this somewhat rough-around-the-edges young man waxed erudite as he described crosses and cloning and growth cycles like a pro. I have the feeling he knew what he was talking about, so I listened with interest. He asked me why I moved from Chicago and when I told him he said of herbalism, "That's a good trade." After he found out I was an herbalist he seemed much more comfortable talking technical about plants.

In any case, we, as all good lefties are forced to by conscience in these dark days, veered the conversation towards politics at some point. Or rather, the conversation lurched and loomed around us. Finally with great trepidation we embarked on that dark path. Nobody wants to think about what horrible monsters lurk in the Pentagon these days. The day was far too golden and sunny to bring in the spectre of disasterous foreign policy. God damn we didn't want to. But we knew that we had to, as citizens of the United States. It was our responsibility as true patriots to voice our opinions, to talk about this great error that threatens to tear our country to shreds.

So we talked. We talked about what it must be like to be eighteen and sent away to the desert to shoot people you don't know as sun drenched fields filled with spring lambs flew past us along the highway. There is nothing more sweet and sacred, more adorable and holy, than a tiny lamb cavorting next to its mother in a great grassy field. That's why it's such a cliche for innocence--because it's true. We talked about the fact that Saddam was enough of a madman to destroy his own people in spite. We talked about protesting, and he said,

"They just find a way to arrest the protesters now."

I said, "But we have to keep protesting."

"I know, but that's why they arrest us. They want to find a way for us to stop."

"But we can't."

"I know."

I sighed. "You know, I understand now why conservatives are they way they are, to some extent. When you are comfortable, you don't want to rock the boat. Not put yourself on the front line, you know? I guess I feel bad because I haven't had time to do much more than talk to people about this. I haven't been to any protests--I'm so busy with work. I feel like I'm not doing enough."

He looked at me with consternation. "But you are. Your individual protest means a lot. And you're doing something good."

For some reason, I feel better now. I still feel like I should be screaming louder, like because I haven't been jailed yet for obstructing traffic I am not doing enough. But I am writing my uncle in the Reserves to let him know why I love him and support him but can't support the war; I am talking to people, and I am an educated voter. It's still something I have to sit with. The question of What More Can I Do haunts me, but for today I feel like perhaps I am making a difference, however small.

For those of you who may (or may not) read the forum on my blog, my friend Carolyn got an obscene phone call on her voicemail from a pervert stupid enough to actually leave his phone number.

Therefore, I am beginning a Jihad on Stupid Perverts. Carolyn will soon be posting this number to the forum. I encourage each and every one of you to take the time from your busy schedule to engage in senseless, childish retribution. So as not to cause too much pain and suffering, let's all try to have a sense of humor about it as we annoy and irritate this stellar gentleman who took it into his heart to freak out one of my friends.

Thank you for your efforts.

God and Dubya

Best Protest Sign Seen Yet:

"Beer: Yes
War: No"

I bought some Avery address labels. They had an address on the front, to demonstrate what a printed label would look like:

"Mr. Tyler Durden
420 Paper Street
Delaware, PA"

So someone in the Avery corporation doing graphic design not only has a good sense of humor, but is cool enough to sneak this shit past the boss.

So I'm in a parking lot in my truck talking on my sister's cell to her boyfriend, and we're discussing the most impressive way for a man to show appreciation of a hot girl in a nearby car in traffic. He prefers the honk-your-horn method, whereas I say that for me as a woman, I'm always stunned by the class and suave manner of the men that loudly yell out "WHOOOOOOO!"

Of course, to prove my point, I had to demonstrate to him exactly how that should sound, by letting out a large, boisterous, "WHOOOOOO!" myself.

This before I notice the four or five guys smoking in the back yard adjoining the parking lot.

So I let out a good loud holler, and suddenly I become very, very aware that four twentysomething men are now pausing, mid-cigarette, to stare at the chick in the truck that just let out her best rebel yell. Part of me wanted to lean out of the window and yell, "Sorry! Wasn't yellin' at you!" but somehow that seemed like it might make things worse.

Sigh. Sometimes I wonder what I'd do if I wasn't constantly embarrassing myself in front of total strangers.

Then again, it was pretty fucking funny.

Ever become very aware of your body suddenly? For whatever reason you are suddenly pulled into yourself and the blood pounding in your ears is the most present thing at the moment. The fact that you are flesh is something we don't always like to be reminded of, but whenever it happens we must be humbled by the power this odd thing we call a body, all that is a mystery beneath our skin and beneath our consciousness.

snick snatch and you hear the rumble
the roar and the tumult
smack wet and hot and alive
suddenly aware of what's beneath
smooth satiny and cool your skin
betrays your calm becomes sensitive
vessels dialate beads of sweat form
you are reminded forcefully
you are real
you cannot be forgotten

there's a river running through me
thundering viscous red ribbons slice through
cataracts of flesh tumble down bone staircases
delicate framework of meat
graceful and loud
swirling through time and space
running heat and in chambers in caverns it flows
oh my

we try
to forget
we try
to deny
we wear scents like ill-fitting costumes
to hide the animal underneath
we like to pretend; no, that's not me
gasping and panting
sweating and stinking
living and breathing
more beautiful than prayer

Whenever my sister and I get together, we start talking in strange argot I can only describe as Suburban Cool Kid. Our sentences become peppered with phrases like "homegirl" and "what up, yo?". Think of Bob of Jay and Silent Bob, except unlike Bob, we are free of the swagger and rhythm. Our delivery is completely straight. We don't fake ghetto attitude or gesticulate wildly. We still sound, accent-wise, like the fresh-faced Midwestern farm girls our family brought us up to be, except that we use words like "homie". Think of the hysterical scene in Airplane with June Cleaver and the black dudes ("Why, I speak jive!"). I call this little linguistic quirk Suburban Cool Kid because the phraseology was ganked straight from the mouths of the posers and wiggers that try to sound like they grew up on the West Side of Chicago (and we all know, folks, that buying Snoop Dogg CDs does not make you all down with your bad g self, so can we just put that to rest? Thanks.) So it's highly ironic, using words like "whoopty" and "wack" in plainface Midwestern twang. It's called Suburban Cool Kid because we're cool enough to know the words, and cool enough to know not to try to sound like something we ain't. Homie don't play that.

Oh. The forum is getting interesting. Thanks, ya'll.

The satisfaction of shreiking along to Jeff Buckley tunes in the car is not to be ignored. I say "shreiking" because if you try, like Jeff does, to have the sort of angels-on-a-saturday-night emotion and intensity in your voice, you aren't going to be singin' like church (unless, of course, you grew up in one of those cool churches that sings Black spirituals. As most of my friends are a) white; and b) not Christian; I feel this is unlikely). In any case, he rocks. Normally the kind of music he plays I can't stand, but he just does it so well. His cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is nothing short of brilliant. And I'm learning to sing "Lilac Wine", which is kinda cool since the last song I learned to sing by heart was a bawdy song about a Scotsman's penis. But this is beside my point, which is that I use music in my car as a major release for all sorts of behavior that I'd otherwise have to get good and drunk to get out of my system. I mean, I find that when I'm really hyped, totally stressed, glued, screwed, and tattooed, I will just SCREAM in my car--one good piercing shreik--an average of once a day. I think it leaves me, to quote the immortal Python, "all tired and shagged out after a particularly long squawk".

In any case, you should always have some sort of violent behavior saved up for being in your car. For one, it scares the straights, which is always a benefit to society. For another, if you, like me, cannot install a punching bag in your home, it helps to have a small, enclosed space where you can scream or emote without police being involved. This is why I believe we have so many people develop truly inspired Car Dances. You'll see them every now and then. You might even think, "What a goober." But to be honest, haven't *you* ever been grooving out in your car only to notice the guy in the Honda next to you looking at you kinda funny? Cars are cool, because they're semi-private locations, but you can see into them. All the same, when you notice someone doing something odd in their car you realize that you're getting a glimpse into a stranger's personal life, which is why I think most people don't really think much of it. I mean, you see people pick their noses in traffic all the time, and while we all think it's kinda gross, it's not like we comment on it as much as if we saw them diving for nose goblins at work.

The idea of urban society, and the interesting things we do to preserve privacy in public places, is fascinating. Like not looking at people in the grocery line, or ignoring nakedness in a locker room.

Personally, I wholeheartedly support the individual's right to a truly righteous Car Dance.

This is worth a gander, simply for Crapulence Factor.

The Chronicles of the Road Trip

As you know if you read this blog, I just drove cross-country with my sister, my cat, my snake, and all my worldly possessions in the Go Big Red Truck (a '98 Ford F150 extended bed pickup). It's about 35 hours from Chicago to Eugene, Oregon. We left Friday and got in Sunday, with two stops in Omaha and some little town in Idaho. I've done several Albuquerque to Chicago trips; this was much much harder from an endurance point of view. As with all proper road trips, we stuck to a highly nourishing diet of Road Food, consisting largely of Slim Jims and Red Bull. Simon, my cat, has earned his title as King of the Road Cats. Outfitted in his little red harness and tie-died leash, he happily spent most of the trip perched on the center console unit, groovin' out on M. Doughty tunes and causing consternation at truck stops. Simon loves the Road.

This country is completely crazy. We kept notes by state:

IOWA:

Iowa is large and flat. It has the World's Biggest Truck Stop, which we of course visited. The most amazing thing about this truck stop was the dentist. Yes, it was a truck stop with a dentist. Wow. Otherwise it was just a lot more cheap plastic crap, ugly knicknacks, and hideous belt buckles that are always found at truck stops. Another landmark of note in Iowa is that someone, apparently not appreciating the deep and almost fatally filthy humor, named their chain of convenience stores "Kum and Go". This gave us the giggles for quite some time. We stopped at a Perkins in Des Moines for two reasons: One, without food and coffee we would have perished from the earth, and two, we needed to be able to say that we kicked it in Des Moines, IA.

In the Perkins in Des Moines, we almost died trying not to laugh at the Rent-A-Cop With The Upholstered Ass. This gentleman, I am sure, is a wonderful human being. He even *looks* normal and kindly, except for the fact that he looked exactly like someone had shoved an ottoman in his pants.

NEBRASKA:

My advice to you: Under no circumstances should you ever agree to travel through Nebraska by auto unless someone else drives so that you may be heavily sedated. Trust me. Nebraska wins the award for "Most Soul-Suckingly Boring State", which I believe is the state motto. In Nebraska we passed the "Weak Storage Center", and Emily proposed the award-winning slogan "Where Our Walls Are Paper Thin". If I ever have storage needs in the middle of Nowhere, Nebraska, I'll be sure to find a Weak Storage Center.

We also passed the most disturbing roadkill ever. We whizzed by a large dead SOMETHING doing eighty. Emily and I both looked at each other and simultaneously said, "Was that a kangaroo?"

Emily saw a tumbleweed and almost wet her pants. As I lived in New Mexico for three years and got tired of picking them out of the front of my car, I was slightly less impressed.

Nebraska is also the home of Arbor Day, as if you cared.

WYOMING:

Wyoming is pretty. The second you get over the border the sucking that is Nebraska ends and it's all gorgeous rock formations. Emily discovered a new thing that you should Never Do: Never eat a Slim Jim and chug a Red Bull at the same time. She described it as "foamy". I won't go into detail. In Wyoming, Simon decided that he, too, liked Slim Jims. Road Kitties rule.

A kid at a truck stop had a t-shirt that read, "Sometimes I just want to put on a bunny suit and scream". I concur.

Emily and I both had goals for this road trip. You should always have goals. She needed to find a heater meal, which is a special type of Road Food that has a little pad in it that heats up when you pour water on it, cooking your meal. I wanted one of those vinyl stickers that reads, "A woman and her truck--it's a beautiful thing". So far it's been 1,000 miles and we have neither.

At 11:21 on Saturday night in Wyoming, I got mocked by a limping cowboy in a loud shirt for stalling my truck when backing out of the parking lot. (Hey, it was the first time I stalled the thing, which is pretty damn good considering I'd driven it exactly once before leaving for Eugene, and I had been driving for about 13 hours.) Unfortunately, Emily made me laugh so hard that I stalled it twice after that before I made it out of the parking lot.

We spotted "Cruel Jack's Truck Stop". Emily wouldn't let me stop.

And at some point, I uttered the phrase, "I've had so much caffeine I'm having chest pains."

IDAHO:

We saw a sign for Dingle, Idaho. My feelings on the matter is that this is clearly a prank.

At some ungodly small hour we rolled into Pocatello, Idaho, to look for a hotel. Of course, Pocatello, Idaho was full of cowboys for a rodeo this weekend, so there was no room at the inn. So we stopped for snacky snacks and rolled on out of Pocatello, Idaho. Emily bought a Cowtail, which is a nasty little confection consisting of a rope of mediocre caramel with some sort of creme filling, and remarked, "Cowtails--Nature's perfect food." At this point I realized that we needed to stop for sleep.

We did. I have no idea where, somewhere midway between Pocatello and Boise. I had forgotten to stop for a disposable litter box for Simon (those are GREAT for travelling, in case you were wondering) so he kept me up all night yowling his displeasure. It was my fault.

We also found a sign for Chubbuck, Idaho, which means that either people in Idaho allow individuals with severe brain damage to name their towns, or some people from Dingle got fed up and formed a colony elsewhere. Sez Emily: "I would be so ashamed of myself if I lived in Chubbuck."

OREGON:

The notes for Oregon:

"Saw a tree full of shoes.
Beautiful."

I'm fairly certain that it means that Oregon is beautiful, although a tree full of shoes is also beautiful in its own way.

In Oregon we almost died.

You know, I grew up in the Midwest which means that the sum total of my experience with mountains, growing up, was nature postcards. In the words of my friend Sam, "I live in Illinois, where you fall TO the ground, not OFF it." So when we found ourselves in a fully loaded pickup--NOT a 4x4--on a summit in the middle of a snowstorm, I learned anew the phrase "white-knuckle". At some point I thought about pulling over and waiting it out, but then I realized that a) There was no place to pull over; and b) I couldn't stop the truck safely. I tried. It was not a good feeling at all. Thank goodness I'd stopped to pee shortly before driving up the mountain....Luckily we had brand-new tires, and while I might not know very much about mountain driving, I do know a helluvalot about snow driving, having grown up in (you guessed it) Illinois. So we made it in one piece, and it only took me about 45 minutes to unclench my fingers from the steering wheel. I can just buff the finger dents out later.


So I'm back in Oregon, watching "PCU" in my friend Emily's living room (different Emily from sister-road-trip Emily) and drinking herbal tea. Life could be worse.

Oh, and by the way: Munching on apples while driving is more effective than drinking coffee in keeping you awake, and you don't have to stop as much with apples.

Compliments of my sister Emily:

Sing to the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It
(clap your hands)"
==========

If we cannot find Osama, bomb Iraq.
If the markets hurt your Mama, bomb Iraq.
If the terrorists are Saudi
And the bank takes back your Audi
And the TV shows are bawdy, Bomb Iraq.


If the corporate scandals growin', bomb Iraq.
And your ties to them are showin', bomb Iraq.
If the smoking gun ain't smokin'
We don't care, and we're not jokin'.
That Saddam will soon be croakin', Bomb Iraq.


Even if we have no allies, bomb Iraq.
From the sand dunes to the valleys, bomb Iraq.
So to hell with the inspections;
Let's look tough for the elections,
Close your mind and take directions, Bomb Iraq.


While the globe is slowly warming, bomb Iraq.
Yay! the clouds of war are storming, bomb Iraq.
If the ozone hole is growing,
Some things we prefer not knowing.
(Though our ignorance is showing), Bomb Iraq.


So here's one for dear old daddy, bomb Iraq,
From his favorite little laddy, bomb Iraq.
Saying no would look like treason.
It's the Hussein hunting season.
Even if we have no reason, Bomb Iraq.

sanctus
padraic
sanctus
sanctus

st. paddy's day in chicago.

started with 'ritas at cesar's and continued at abbey's pub for revelry and Harp Ale on tap. Abbey's Irish Pub opened at eight am on St. Patrick's Day. By the time we go there the party was filled with green hats and drunken people and those who were dancing jigs and these girls with light up green lights pasted on their bouncing bosoms. Quite fun. Some smiling man with kind eyes gave me a necklace of green beads with a plastic shamrock.

god I miss this town. Here you ask, 'hey, do we wanna go drinking in Urkrainian Village? How about that German place in Lincoln Square? What about having sake at Kabuki?" You can go to Rush Street if you're feeling pretentious or you can slum it on the south side with the micks or you can go to the little hovels that serve pabst blue ribbon under the el. So many choices. And it's just beautiful. The river and the lake and the buildings and the people filled with theatre. Not like small towns. Small towns are nice and friendly but they aren't cities. They aren't chicago with its people and it truly is the city of big shoulders. The buildings here, the architecture with it's wonderful old quality. Stained glass and moulded cement from 1910. Limestone sculpted detail. Glass and Mies Van der Rohe and Louis and Sullivan and Frank Lloyd Wright and the nameless ones that build in brick and stone and glass.

so drunk I was with a crowd of people celebrating for the sake of celebrating a truly secular Dionysian holiday and I love my city of light and smog I love my city of song and drink I love my home sweet home chicago

stopped at clark and belmont to consider a piercing-where else can you go to pierce your flesh professionally, neatly, sanitarily at 3 am on a Tuesday morning? why, in Chicago there are several places that'll do it quite well. But I don't have the money for the one that I want so it'll have to wait.

stopped at Berlin to see how the dancing was but it was a weeknight so few were left. went home happy to see my lovely old apartment all hardwood floors and ten foot ceilings and antique moulding and stained glass and old windows and cats. I miss it so much.

homesick while I'm here. The pangs occur because now I know what I'm missing. Love eugene and it's beauty but the taste of the city is like a cigarette addiction. It might not be healthy but oh how I love it, rough against my throat as I inhale sharply and love what I see here love what I breathe in as I walk the streets begging for more and getting it as I stroll along Devon or Clark or State or Elston just loving it here. just loving it here.

home.

Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.

I just LOST the entire post that I did on the nature of communication and art.

FUCK.

Well. Suffice to say that it can be condensed as follows:

1) One of the best things about being human is that you can always have a voice.
2) There are many ways to have a voice. Basically you might call the voice artistic expression or simply a need to communicate on a grand scale.
3) This blog is currently my voice. Once I liked making beautiful spirals out of small pieces of torn paper with words written on them (sort of poem/sculpture thingies) placed in front of drafty areas so that they would blow away after so long--sometimes days, sometimes minutes. Before that I played a lot of music. I still write poems on scraps of paper and I still sit down at pianos whenever I get the chance but right now the blog is my outlet.
4) Therefore I will be using this more as a journal than I have been in order to express all the things I think about when sitting in traffic
5) This is why I bug ya'll to read this thing in order to satisfy my basic need to communicate.
6) The basic need to communicate isn't really an ego thing; one can argue that human civilization (other than the bits directly concerned with filling our stomachs, keeping ourselves warm and dry, and avoiding large animals with big teeth) is one giant mechanism for the exchange of ideas.

It was a lot more profound and flowery than that but Blogger ate it so this is the Campbell's Condensed version without the neat arguments and linking ideas.

Aaah, the Midwest. It gets so fucking cold here, especially in Wisconsin, that people can't really go outside and so they start doing all sorts of crazy things. Like starting Mustard Museums, which is EXACTLY what it sounds like. I've never seen so many jars of mustard before in my life. I didn't know that I wanted to. But it was fun, and I walked out with a few jars of really, really good mustard.

Then off to my mother's house to help her with a dinner for eight, at eight. How very proper. My mum is rather proper; I realized today that she has at least four separate china patterns. Three of them are service for eight. Between her vast china cabinet and my napkin-folding skills gleaned from years of serving chicken in sherry sauce with a wild mushroom confit to lots of Rich Bastards, the table looks quite Martha Stewart, except we did not stoop to making clever little animals out of vegetables. Besides, there isn't room.

And Monday it's off to celebrate St. Patrick's day in style in Chicago. The Abbey Pub is opening at eight AM. I just may start drinking by ten. And they're far too classy to serve green beer--it'll be draft Harp or Guinness. I'm meeting up with a bunch of the crowd from my last job--wonderful folks and even better drinking buddies. And although I had vowed to save my liver over this break, I'm going to break that rule.

Tuesday is for sleeping and calling insurance companies to insure the Great Big Truck. I haven't decided what to name the Great Big Truck. I'm fairly certain (for those of you who are hopeless Neal Stephenson fans) to call it the Go Big Red Truck. Those that do not appreciate the joke my enquire after class, but are also required to turn in their Neal Stephenson Geek badges.

carolyn and andy get Gold Stars for going to the forum and filling out the Homework Assignment. The rest of you slackers can just shrivel up and die.

So I'm home.

I love Oregon. I'm glad I moved there. But Chicago is HOME. I can't even begin to describe the feeling I got flying in to Midway, or driving along Lake Shore Drive on the way to my friend's awesome old Chicago apartment. I'm HOME for a week and it feels like heaven.

Things A Good Woman Can Do:

drive stick--bake bitchin' pies--change her own damn tire--apply lipstick without a mirror--deal with the spider on the windowsill with a minimum of fuss--drink the asshole trying to get her drunk *under the table*--swear like sailor; but only when appropriate--choose, buy, and assemble her own furniture--pay her own way--graciously accept gifts--vote--coordinate shoes and skirt--not worry terribly much if the shoes and skirt don't coordinate--diaper a baby--take the car in to get the oil changed every 3,000 miles (or do it herself)--choose a good wine--do the job well, the first time--navigate rush hour traffic and *still* make the appointment on time--change clothes in the car at a stoplight (including pantyhose/tights)--be there for friends who really need it--stick up for herself--whistle back at construction workers--know the difference between Kenneth Cole and Coach--refuse to be a victim--have a basic understanding of the internal combustion engine--buy low; sell high--never kiss and tell--knows the difference between James Joyce and Joyce Chen--wouldn't dream of putting away a knife away before it's clean and dry--set up a tent--grill a steak--can spell "chief" correctly--knows the difference between perl and pearls--hold your head when you're puking and *not* make you feel like a drunken asshole--burn a better mix cd than most--live without fear or apology

I know I promised not to post any more lyrics; however; circumstances have made this song completely appropriate for the moment. I bring you "Talula":

"congratulate you
said you had a double tongue
balancing cake and bread
say goodbye to a glitter girl

talula
talula
you don't want to lose her
she must be worth losing
if it is worth something
talula
talula
she's brand new now to you
wrapped in your papoose
your little fig newton

say goodbye to the old world
ran into the henchman who severed
anne boleyn
he did it right quickly a merciful man
she said 1+1 is 2
but henry said that it was 3
so it was
here i am

talula
talula
i don't want to lose it
it must be worth losing
if it is worth something
talula
talula
she's brand new now to you
wrapped in your papoose
your little fig newton

and jamaica
do you know what i have done...

...but i know right now
that it's in god's hands
but i don't know who the father is

talula
talula
i don't want to lose him
he must be worth losing
if it is worth something
talula
talula
he's brand new now to you
wrapped in your papoose
your little fig newton"

End of indulgent lyric posting.

I miss my bizarre and obnoxious cat. This cartoon reminds me of him; those who have met him will agree.

"Well, first we've got to figure out if you're the writing type."

"Fair enough."

"Popular in school?"

"Mmm...yeah."

"Parents together?"

"Yeah."

"Getting laid regularily?"

"Yes."

"Good with people?"

"Yes."

"Ever suffer from depression?"

"No."

"Yeah, listen Jimmy, this isn't going to work out. You're just not screwed up enough to write for a living."

"Ah, nuts."

--Shaw Island

Well, as some of you know, I'm gonna be driving a truck laden with all my worldly possessions cross-country in a few days. So, as one might expect, the bloggin' will be thin for a few days. Sorry. My advice to you is to go hang out on the forum and post interesting things so I'm completely inspired to blog like a madwoman once I get near a 'puter. Consider it a challenge.

I agree with Sam. "Eerily prescient" is right.

I feel like I overslept and woke up in a facist nation.

The feeling of vertigo when I consider the actions of our government is completely bewildering to me. Turkey just held its elections; the man supportive of our plan to invade Iraq from within Turkey is now in office.

We have become nothing better than Mafia-like thugs. We offered Turkey fifteen billion dollars in aid--if they go along with our militaristic agenda. I grew up in the vicinity of Chicago--bribery, graft, corruption and nepotism are nothing new. But as damaging as this is on a municipal level, can you imagine how bad this looks on a global scale? This sort of back-room bribery should be beneath us. And note, ladies and gentlemen, that I use the collective pronoun. Because it is you and I, he and she, them and us that allowed this to happen. Our complacency has allowed less than 30% of the electorate to put a spoiled alcoholic son of priviledge--a C student who only went to Yale because of family connections--in a position of terrible power, with a machinery of graceless greed to back him up.

This must stop. I beg, I plead, I swear to you: Start voting. Demonstrate--peacefully. Start writing to Congress. Contrary to popular belief, when a great many letters arrive in a Congressman's office, they do pay attention. You may be able to buy some elections, but you can't buy them all; not if the people are against you. All the money in the world won't help if the electorate won't vote for you. We can take back our government--and we can do it bloodlessly. Stand up and be counted. Pray for peace, but prepare to fight. Fight in the courtroom, fight with your pen. Fight with education and with love. Tear down the dogmatic ideas of your friends. Refuse to ascribe to pedagogy and skewed thinking. Use your mind for peace. Use your voice.

This country was founded by radicals. Rich, white, racist radicals; true, but radicals nonetheless. They envisioned this problem--it's why Thomas Jefferson wrote "a little rebellion now and then is a good thing". Rebel. We are in the most wonderful circumstance Time has ever given Humankind: We have the power to rebel without bloodshed. We can rebel, we can overtake, we can WIN.

Don't you miss the Bill of Rights? Wasn't the Constitution, flawed as it is, better than the crazy bureaucracy we have now?

We can't make people care until it gets worse, most likely. The question is--how much worse will it have to get before we realize that our country is being stolen from us?

I love this land. I want it back.

We're goin' to hell.

I have the world's most fragrant (and expensive) hair right now.

Just finished making 50% dilutions of some of our precious oils so that people can actually *afford* them. Rose Absolute and Neroli--these are some of the Crown Jewels of our essential oil line; they cost around $200 *an ounce*. Rose oil is always costly; Neroli is the distilled perfume of orange blossoms and it takes hundreds of pounds of flowers for just tiny quantities of oil, hence the cost. The fragrance of the two is incomparable. Most perfumes sold today are based off of synthetic fragrances, with maybe a few natural essential oils if nothing else will do. And as good as perfumes can smell, they simply can't compare to the complexity of natural oils. And these two--Rose and Neroli--are some of the sweetest, headiest fragrances you can imagine. Neroli, especially, has always been my favorite. Sweet, flowery, a hint of green and citrus, you think of white tropic beaches and clean linen and moonlight, distilled.

I had to measure--slowly and carefully--into tiny little 10 ml graduated cylinders, and of course I always try to get every last drop out at the end, but there's always that tiny little bit that you just can't get out. What to do? I can't just rinse it off and pour it down the drain; that'd be just...wrong. So I stood there for a few moments, wondering what the hell to do with this fragrant little globule, this liquid gold. And then I thought, well, it's diluted in jojoba, which is very good for hair...and smoothed this tiny little gem onto my braid, which I had thrown over my shoulder.

And I might look a little odd, pausing every now and then to smell my braid, but if you had a garden in your hair, you would, too.

"Well, yes, it's spelled 'Raymond Luxury-Yacht', but it's pronounced 'Throatwobbler Mangrove'".

This...amazing book I am reading, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, is one of the best books I've ever read. Heartily recommended.

A small excerpt:

"What about dignity?

You will die, and when you die, you will know a profound lack of it. It's never dignified, always brutal. What's dignified about dying? It's never dignified. And in obscurity? Offensive. Dignity is an affectation, cute but eccentric, like learning French or collecting scarves. And it's fleeting and incredibly mercurial. And subjective. So fuck it."

--A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers

Frodo Has Failed

Homework Assignment

This survey just in from my sister. I urge all of you to fill it out and post the results to our nifty little forum:

And as she so charmingly says, "fill it out dammit! it's a short one!"



HAVE YOU EVER:
* Been so drunk you blacked out?
* Put a body part on fire for amusement?
*Been hurt emotionally?
* Kept a secret from everyone to this day?
* Had an imaginary friend?
* Wanted to go out with a friend?
* Had a crush on a teacher?
* Had a New Kids on the Block tape?
* Been on stage?
* Cut your own hair?
* Wished you hadn't said something?

FAVORITES:

* Shampoo
* Soap
* Color
* Day/Night
* Summer/Winter
* Lace or satin
* Fave Cartoon Character(s):
* Fave Food:
* Fave Movie:
* Fave Ice Cream:
* Fave Subject:
* Fave 'normal' drink:
Fave Persons to talk to online:
*Fave smell:

RIGHT NOW:

* Wearing:
* Hair is:
* I'm feeling:
* Eating:
* Drinking:
* Thinking about:
* Listening to:
* Talking 2:

THE LAST 24 HRS:

* Cried:
* Worn a skirt:
* Met someone new:
* Cleaned your room:
* Done laundry:

DO YOU BELIEVE IN:

* Yourself:
* Your friends:
* Santa Claus:
* Tooth Fairy:
* Destiny/Fate:
* Angels:
* Ghosts:
* UFO's:
* God:

FRIENDS AND LIFE:

* Do you have a boyfriend/girlfriend?
* Like anyone?
* Who have u known the longest of your friends?
* Who's the shyest:
* Who's the weirdest:
* Who do you go to for advice:
* When do you cry the most?:
* What's the best feeling in the world?:
* Worst Feeling:
* Who sent this 2 u:

This whole insomnia thing hasn't happened to me since back in the days at University of Illinois, when my sleep cycle degraded into a raggedy thing chewed on by my depression, drinking habits, and endless nights of horrible little artistic abortions in prose, music, and mixed media. It's kind of odd, now, since my sleep habits are fairly regular, except that once every week or so I Just. Can't. Sleep.

I don't know why; it's not particularily bothersome; except that I can't imagine that I'll be all that useful at work tomorrow. Well, that's what coffee is for, and here in the Great Northwest, they do know how to make a cup of joe.

We won.

"Today the DC Council unanimously passed legislation that will make Washington,
DC's presidential primary first in the nation on January 13, 2004.Ê DC Mayor
Anthony Williams is expected to sign the legislation within days.

This vote capped a furious campaign by DC Democracy Fund and other community
organizations to use the first primary to force the nation and its presidential
candidates to address DC residents' lack of self-government and voting rights in
Congress.

Many thanks to everyone who attended hearings and meetings, signed the online
petition, or voiced their support in other ways. We couldn't have done it
without you. Special thanks to DC Councilmember Jack Evans who united the entire
Council behind this effort and Councilmember Vincent Orange who moved this
legislation forward with remarkable speed.

DC Democracy Fund is now approaching presidential candidates to secure their
participation in the primary and to assess their views on DC voting rights.Ê
You will soon recieve an invitation to DC Democracy Fund's "first in the nation"
party where DC residents will be able to celebrate this victory and mingle with
the Presidential campaigns!

Thanks Again,
Sean Tenner
Executive Director
DC Democracy Fund
(202) 549-6127
stenner@mrss.com"

PRAY FOR PEACE

Pray to whoever you kneel down to:
Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross,
his suffering face bent to kiss you,
Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat,
Yahweh, Allah, raise your arms to Mary
that she may lay her palm on our brows,
to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth,
to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper
of time before, time now, time ahead, pray. Bow down
to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats.
Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work,
pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus
and for everyone riding buses all over the world.
If you haven't been on a bus in a long time,
climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM,
for your latté and croissant, offer your plea.
Make your eating and drinking a supplication.
Make your slicing of carrots a holy act,
each translucent layer of the onion, a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair
a prayer, every strand its own voice,
singing in the choir on your head.
As you wash your face, the water slipping
through your fingers, a prayer: Water,
softest thing on earth, gentleness
that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer.
Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin,
the fragile case we are poured into,
each caress a season of peace.

If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired.
Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day.
Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth.
Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox,
to the video store, let each step
be a prayer that we all keep our legs,
that we do not blow off anyone else's legs.
Or crush their skulls.
And if you are riding on a bicycle
or a skateboard, in a wheel chair, each revolution
of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves
we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure,
a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail
or delivering soda or drawing good blood
into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard
with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those
who have believed when belief seemed foolish,
who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace,
feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed
that spills onto the earth, another second of peace.
Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk.
Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child
around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust
of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter.
Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling
your prayer through the streets.

--Ellen Bass

www.ellenbass.com

Screw "What Would Jesus Do?"

I want "What Would Martin Luther King Do?"

I need to find me a man who thinks chicks with power tools are sexy. I've become Jill Handygirl at work lately. It's been me, and old t-shirt, and the power drill 3 days out of five for the past three weeks. Because of various silliness when I was growing up I don't have the easy familiarity with tools that I'd like, so I'm still handling things a bit gingerly and haven't quite worked out all the kinks. But I love it, working with my hands and putting things up, sanding and pounding and drilling. The focus required is nice and zennish.

Wow.

Major blast-from-the-past mojo working today. Found a link to Cerebus, which I hadn't thought about in an age.

What seems like several eons ago, but in actuality was only about seven years ago (fuck. seven years? i feel old.) I read Dave Sim's Cerebus for the first time, and suffered what might have actually amounted to a psychic break to anyone who hadn't also been simultaneously reading a great deal of Robert Anton Wilson. I slogged through all of the Phone Books available up to that point, and kept up on single issues for some time. Of course I am horribly out of touch at this point, but I am putting a call out: Do any of you still have the Phone Books? I need to reread them. Because I remember that Cerebus seriously fucked up a song that I was listening to a lot at that point in time by having a major climax at the same time that the song was climaxing, thereby inextricably linking the two in my head, so that when I listened to the song in question my mind was instantly yanked back to that moment. It was extremely vertigo-inducing, and kind of obnoxious because the two climaxes had NOTHING in common except their intensity. But dear ol' Uncle Robert allowed me to compartmentalize, reduce to map status, and basically surf out any weird juju I got from the Phone Books. I love Uncle Robert and his wily wonderful ways of making our brains think for themselves for a change. Later, I sorted things out for myself and came to several conclusions. I am grateful to Dave Sim for making me think about this sort of thing.

But anyway. Back to that psychic breakpoint narrowly averted.

So a great deal of Cerebus may be said to be misogynistic, and in fact, has been said to be misogynistic. Is he? I sure as hell don't know. What I got out from reading Cerebus the first time was that Dave Sim didn't get laid very much for years and years (surprise! a comic nerd that doesn't get laid? naaaah....), fell in love--hard--got married, got divorced, and decided a whole lot of odd things about women, their "emotionalism", and a bunch of other ideas.

Normally, I'd dismiss this as a wounded man attacking things.

Except that his arguments were rather convincing--or should I say, they were very vivid, and I got very afraid of my head for awhile.

I mean. If this man is putting out a fairly convincing argument that I'm a second-hand citizen because I don't have a penis....if a bloody comic book is making me uncertain, than how strong is my foundation?

what if this crazy motherfucker is *right*? What if I am worth less because I am a woman? Oh my god what if I am the wretch I've always feared...what if the childhood feelings of inadequacy for not having a dick are true...what do I do what do I do? Think, girl....

"Female Void Devouring Male Light: Seminal Energy and Omnivorous Parasite"...growl. He actually said, at one point in the books, "If you look at her and see anything besides emptiness, fear and emotional hunger, you are looking at the parts of yourself which have been consumed to that point." And, at seventeen, I was just at a point where I was scared enough to believe that just maybe I was nothing but emptiness, fear, and emotional hunger. It terrified me to my very soul. But then he started talking about how women aren't rational, how we really don't *need* to vote, and I thought, Well. This man is clearly not rational, even if he pretends to be so.

Even if...even if his arguments that Women are Emotional and Men are Rational are true on any level (and I am in no way supporting this. I've seen a lot of evidence to support the contrary conclusion), he uses as his base assumption that this is a bad thing, that Rational is somehow Better than "animal brain emotion".

I ain't so sure. Rational is a good tool, but it isn't necessarily the best monkey wrench in the box. Without delving into some sort of quasi-mystical "some things are known by the heart alone" blather, I would argue that the non-rational framework often comes up with solutions that rational thought can't get at. Think fuzzy logic. Think about the last time you had a hunch. Think about music.

And he has some right goofy ideas about sex. I have never withheld my body to play emotional hostage games, you silly silly man. For two reasons, really. One, it would be wrong. And two, it would mean that *I* would have to go without sex. shudder to think..... While some women do, some of the time, it's a bit much to say that it's the M.O. of an entire gender. For that matter, I know quite a few women whose lovers/husbands/boyfriends do that very thing to them.

I've deconstructed his arguments since then; I'm happy to be a woman (good lord am I happy to be a girl); I'm a bit amused by some of his arguments now, to be honest. But at 17 it was an unholy mindfuck.

The Flaming Marshmallow Balrog Contest. This is far cooler than you may think. Worth a look, for certain.

It's best to avoid standing between a competitive jerk and his goals. Most of you have probably seen demotivators, but if you haven't....it's pretty damn funny.

Wow! The coolest search engine I've ever seen.

apologia

for maudlin poetry

about old lovers

This person and you didn't mesh. They were a friend or a lover or somebody on a bus that you couldn't keep your eyes off of. You met them years ago. You maybe haven't seen or heard for them in about as long. Maybe it was her, or him, that kept you from sleep, in many ways. It didn't work out because there wasn't time, because you fought, because there was the taint of contempt. Maybe it did work out, for awhile, and then it collapsed and when the smoke cleared you weren't sure who you were anymore. But you own this experience, it is part of your dreams and your skin, and when you really think about it, you wouldn't change it for the world. Sometimes, when the breeze is just right, you can catch a subtle hint of something that reminds you of their scent.

I.

I hold a secret against my flesh
as bright green leaves unfold against my breast
sapheartwood boiling spring through the
firmness and force of wood still hard from winter
and I think of you
and I feel the strength of the oak

II.

We explored caves; you and I, stopping only for lust
when the glass shattered in your hand that night
I knew I'd gone deeper than I had ever imagined
spelunking down a slippery hole
closed and tight with musky claustrophobia
When, finally,
lost in blue and humor and whiskey
I surfaced
I found I could not eat
could not sleep
for days.
Pliable and soft as willow
peaceful as its leaves.

If my body was not as faithful as my heart
could I have found you again?

III.

but when I found your opposite across the sky
your face returned to the shards.
I wonder again at the green of it all
the forest heart beneath the glass.

Went to the hot springs at Salt Creek today.

It, like many things in this garden of a state, was gorgeous. We got lost going out there, Em and Obi and I, and ended up above the snowline for awhile. I watched the snow melting from the trees. It finally made me understand just how important the snowpack is on a visceral level. There's a great deal of water bound up in this fabulous winter, and this girl from Illinois is still stunned when elevation alone brings you an entirely new season.

At one point there was a break in the trees near the road, and we looked out over miles and miles and miles of solid conifer forest running over mountainsides as far as the eye could see. Something in me was satisfied for the first time then, something I've yet to name. That many trees was profoundly comforting. It was like looking out over platoon after platoon after platoon of soldiers and realizing they're actually all swans. Something of greater beauty and power than we can ever hope to create, and the satisfaction that it brings.

We finally got to where we needed to be and hiked into the spring along the creek, which was....Well, think of your general Idyllic Mountain Waterway scene on a PBS nature show. Yeah, that one. I was there today. Complete with moss-covered treetrunks and cool shade-drenched fern grottoes and the beautiful filtered light that only a forest can provide. The springs were right next to the creek and near a beautiful little pool completely choked with watercress. I, being a weed eating herbalist, gathered some as we were leaving to snack on. They are sulphur springs, and the soft faint smell of sulphur was noticeable at first but faded as we eased into the pool. Obi was a bit uncertain at first but then caught on to the spirit of things and happily splashed and played with rocks for the entire time (He became proficient at the popular "thunk" game of dropping large stones directly into the water with much splashing and noise in very quick order). I followed my usual hotsprings routine, which is to soak a bit and then go explore the nearby area, come back and soak a bit more, then usually everyone else is ready to go. I get antsy if I'm in for too long--I'm uncertain if it's the tempurature or just my general restlessness, or the fact that I could easily spend the rest of my life hiking around outdoors. This particular spring has a beautiful moss-covered plateau right above it that made me want to take a nap on it. But, as I was exploring naked and it was a tad cold, I didn't. Next time, when it's warmer. A good place for nude sunbathing.

I'll be back there for sure.

Help my boy Sean out, 'k? Go sign this petition:

"As you may know, DC Democracy Fund has been waging a campaign to make DC's presidential primary "first in the nation" on January 13th, 2004 to highlight our lack of voting rights and autonomy before the nation and our presidential candidates.

Our "first in the nation" campaign, and the District's plight, is grabbing headlines in media outlets across the country. With the help of champions like DC Councilmembers Jack Evans and Vincent Orange and civil rights activists like Tim Cooper and Lawrence Guyot we now have victory in sight. But we need YOUR help to make this primary happen.

The DC Council will vote on the "first in the nation" bill on Tuesday, March 4th. Even though all 13 Councilmembers and Mayor Williams currently support the bill, some political operatives from both parties are working overtime to stop this movement - they want to hide the dirty secret that DC residents can't vote for members of Congress who make our laws and spend our money.

There are two things you can do to ensure that DC's plight is front and center during the upcoming presidential campaign. First, click here:
http://letsfreedc.org/primary/index.php to sign a petition in support of the primary that will be delivered to District and national leaders. Please sign even if you don't live in Washington, DC. We need to show that the DC "first in the nation" movement is garnering national attention and support for our cause. Please feel free to forward this e-mail to your friends.

We also urge you to attend the DC Council vote on Tuesday, March 4th at 10:15 AM in the Council Chambers at the Wilson Building - 1350 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW.
Councilmembers were overwhelmed by representatives from the 25 diverse organizations who testified on behalf of the primary move during a hearing last week. They need to see that DC is UNITED and ENERGIZED in support of this move.

I hope to see you there. In the meantime, feel free to contact me with any questions - and please see the Washington Post article below for columnist Marc Fisher's take on what this primary can mean for DC.

Sincerely,

Sean Tenner
Executive Director
DC Democracy Fund
(202) 549-6127
stenner@mrss.com

My dog Zeke! I miss my dog, because I can talk to Sam on the phone but Zeke isn't much of a conversationalist.

Raw, untamed Viking lust. Where's my helmet?

This link is fuckin' hilarious.

Viewer takes all responsibility for adverse effects as a result of viewing this webpage. You may experience loss of consciousness, bowel control, or bladder control. Head injuries have been reported, but not confirmed, to have been sustained during use. Feelings of vertigo, nausea or panic generally subside after 2-4 days. Check with your physician before combining with pharmaceuticals. Not responsible for lost or stolen items. DO NOT TAUNT HAPPY FUN BALL.


more of the same

Well.

I certainly have bee posting a great deal of song lyrics, and very little of actual substance on This Here Blog. As a public service for those of you wasting valuable eyeball time on this page, that'll have to change. The lyrics thing is getting boring, especially since most of the time they were posted because I was in a mood and the song seemed profound at the moment and I thought, "Oh my dog, this is a GREAT song with all sorts of meaning! I'm posting it!"

This is all well and good, except that as someone once wisely said, lyrics are merely bad poetry set to music. And without the music I fear that they're just not so interesting. Besides, a great many of them you've already seen before, or heard before, or really don't give a wet slap about. In any case, the rampant lyric posting will be curtailed.

But I'm not sorry I posted the Pixies lyrics. Those are cool.

Your Daily Moment of Zen

with your e's
and your ease
and i do much more
need a lip gloss boost
in your america
is it god's
is it yours
sweet saliva
with your e's
and your ease
and i do one more
i know we're dying
and there's no sign of a parachute
we scream in cathedrals
why can't it be beautiful
why does there gotta be a sacrifice
just say yes
you little arsonist
you're so sure you can save
every hair on my chest
just say yes
you little arsonist
with your e's
and your ease
and i do one more
well i know we're dying
and there's no sign of a parachute
in this chapel
little chapel of love
can't we get a little grace
and some elegance
no we scream in cathedrals
why can't it be beautiful
why does there
gotta be a sacrifice
just say yes
you little arsonist
with your e's
and your ease
and i do one more
well i know we're dying
and there's no sign of a parachute
in this chapel
little chapel of love
can't we get a little grace
and some elegance
no we scream in cathedrals
why can't it be beautiful
why does there
gotta be a sacrifice


iieee, tori amos