I’ve been unable to write lately because I’ve been in the hospital. Several hospitals. My liver and kidneys got sick of my crap and spontaneously agreed to stage a coup and attempt to abdicate; I had no idea they felt so strongly about disliking mashups, but I’ve promised to consider their opinions in the future. Looking back, it seems like such a silly thing to argue over. I think they feel the same. Anyway, I was jammed out to San Francisco for a bit, where the nicest cabal you can possibly imagine of highly intellectual medical overlords who are so smart and powerful that they get to swap people’s body parts around actually met up and voted to toss me a new liver so I could continue to be the body that rocks the party.
Kristen McMenamy by Francois Nars
Preparations began for the transplant to ensue, but it all went on unbeknownst to me since I was mainly out like a trout for quite a couple days there and was pretty much wholly at the mercy of a luckily kind system — things went well for me, what with me spending my life being a good citizen E and paying in to this health care system and all. I do not know how it would have gone otherwise, but I thank God, truly, that from the moment I finally checked myself in to the hospital two weeks ago, until today at 1:30 when they released me, I’ve been taken care of with world-class speed, compassion, and totality.
via b&wtf on the tumblr
See, I’d just thought I had flu or food poisoning or something for a few days at the beginning so I had been woefully barfing it out and collapsing in exhaustion at home and figuring on waiting until the weekend’s end to go see my regular doc; when I couldn’t stop throwing up and finally threw in the towel and agreed to go to a quasi-emergency room several Sundays ago, they all freaked out when I got there and said my liver was failing, which I knew must be true when I couldn’t really wake up for about three or four days and came around in SF and realized I’d basically almost died. I mean, I know that with Lost having ended, I would have at least died with my curiosity satisfied on that front, but I was kind of hoping to see how the mysteries of the rest of life shook out, watch my kid grow up; you know, sentimental shit like that.
Right about the time I woke up in the City and started trying to piece shit together, my own organs rethought throwing the doors open to a stranger and began to make a slow, halting comeback over the last 14-15 days. The cabal agreed that this was great news and I would rock the party much better and perhaps longer with my O.G. body parts in tact, as long as they promised to stay put and eat their vegetables this time. They took me off their too-cool-to-quit-school list, but it did remind me to harangue everyone I know about becoming an organ donor. I’ve been one since 2001. (Blows on fingernails.) No big deal. Be a hero, dudes. Anyway, Promoetheus, your liver is safe again — for now. See you after breakfast. Yeah, I just called myself a harpy. The analogy got away from me in a hurry.
I was bounced back to a hospital in my home town as things improved, which is when the deep boredom set in, but my friends and family were incredible and visited with me for hours every day. Their support in both San Francisco, which for a lot of my stay I was mainly unaware, and back here at home played a huge part in my being able to cheerfully and ably plow through the bizarre obstacle course I’ve been running this past half-month. Also, I’ve never thought hospital food was that bad. I kind of dug it and knew all the servers’ names.
Every morning, I woke up early, put on mascara and lipstick, and pinned flowers from my bouquets in my hair. I joked with the phlebotomists and the transporters and the nurses, and walked all over the hospital, getting off at floors and halls in which I did not belong and striding around confidently in my gown like I had every reason to be doing what I was. Once, in an elevator, an old man and his wife told me if I was trying to break out, I needed to change clothes. I agreed I was pretty conspicuous. I would wear one gown the proper way and use a second gown as a sort of robe. They gave me non-skid hospital socks but Panda Eraser collects those so I stashed those in my bag to take home and sported my busted-ass flip-flops all over the place. The trick in the hospital, like anywhere, was to act as though you were completely authorized to be doing everything you did at all times.
Don’t take this to mean I was a rebel. I actually went out of my way to be the best little patient ever. I did everything they told me and more, smiled and thanked everyone by name, and assured nurse after nurse repeatedly that I was a “tough stick” and they were doing a great job trying to lay that IV line. From a glance at my arms, I am afraid I look just like the lifelong chasers I was puzzling over in discussing Mr. Burroughs two weeks ago. Tough stick means I apparently have dodgy veins. To say a lot of people took a stab at me is to put it lightly. My track marks are freaky. I ended up with some IVs in some really weird places because every time they placed one in a usual spot, something would happen and my body would duck and dive out of it and chaos would ensue. My bruises pose a puzzle to anyone who looks at me. See? I’m so not cut out to be a heroin addict.
All in all, I got pretty in to the swing of things, hospital-routine-wise, and I actually don’t know what I’ll do when I wake up tomorrow at 5 a.m. and there is no one there to weigh me and suck my blood and count my heartbeats. It’s like, it’s cool to send me home and all, but it’s my blood, dudes, remember? That stuff you have positively not been able to get enough of for two weeks now? You’re turning your back on it now, after all that obsession? You loved that shit. Is this how it ends? No takers? I bet people around here aren’t even going to get excited when I pee. No applause, no saving my urine in cups, no measuring it, no nothing — seriously? I’m just not sure how I’ll feel special.
I guess what I’m saying is, if there are any vampires out there who like watersports and don’t mind a love object who needs a lot of rest, holla.
I was finally sprung this afternoon. I have a lot of catching up to do, but the experience — as genuinely grueling, unexpected, and unwelcome as it was — certainly gave me a lot to contemplate. I’d been considering shutting things down around here because my original plan had been a yearlong self-audit and that’s been up for a few weeks now, but my incredibly long amounts of time to do nothing but think in a hospital bed made me realize my audit will never end and I have so much more left to think about that I couldn’t possibly quit now.
I look forward to a continuing future of malarkey, shenanigans, tomfoolery, jacknapery and maybe even a little monkey shines. Inexpressibly glad to be back and please join me!
addendum: Right before I signed the paperwork to go, one of my many, many doctors was chatting with me and handed me a stack of reports from my many, many blood draws and urine cultures, and casually commented, “Oh, and you have e. coli.” Now, I overlooked this at the time in favor of being outside for more than 30 seconds in a row as soon as possible and not even strapped to a gurney to boot, but it’s beginning to, you might say, “nag” at me. Isn’t e. coli kind of … pretty bad? I don’t pretend to be a medical expert but I seem to remember everything I’ve ever heard about e. coli being pretty bad. I’ll be looking that up now.
I did a stupid thing and decided to skip The Tommyknockers. Instead, I read L.A. Confidential, then Red Harvest, then some subpar book from Jeffery Deaver that was a bit afield from what I usually expect of him.
Image via thegunnshow right here on the wordpress. Girls Like a Boy Who Reads. My cover looks exactly like that but I do not look exactly like him. Check the blog out.
He spells it Jeffery and not Jeffrey, but that is not today’s issue. Also I am mad at him for getting tired of his Lincoln Rhyme characters (you may remember their portrayals by Denzel Washington and Angelina Jolie in the film adaptation of The Bone Collector) and moving to this boring woman in Monterey as his new detective, but there was a preview in the back for a new Lincoln Rhyme so he is sort-of back in my good graces. Jury is out: he better not do anything stupid like kill off Lincoln or his hot redheaded girlfriend Amelia. That is still not today’s issue.
Today’s issue is that I skipped The Tommyknockers which I always read over the Fourth of July in order for maximum synchronicity and a karmically blessed Summer, and I thought I’d try something different and not be a slave to superstition, but I think I got a little overly cocky. Right away bad things started happening.
And it’s obviously all because I did not read The Tommyknockers and the blame for this situation can be laid only at the door of that fact and has nothing to do with my own behaviors and weaknesses. (eye roll)
Now instead I’ve read the Gentleman’s generous loan of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and I’m about to make a date with Milo for us to simultaneously begin Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
Pictures come from Une femme est une femme and allthatsinteresting on the tumblr.
Photographed by one-of-a-kind supafly sweetie pie Mr. Peter Gowland!
The lovely and talented Miss July 1957 was Jean Jani, from Dayton, Ohio.
Although Playboy implies in her write-up (emphasis on the lies half of that word) that Ms. Jani was a stewardess, she was actually a reservations clerk for United Airlines. Will explain shortly.
We were winging our way to a busy week of conferences with authors and agents, and our mind was filled with thoughts of the loftiest literary calibre. So lofty were they that we scarcely heard the dulcet voice of the stewardess requesting us to fasten our seat belt. She repeated the request, and we looked up into the brown eyes of petite (5’3″) Jean Jani of Dayton, Ohio.
(“Cloud Nine.” Playboy, July 1957.)
Barf to blarney and banana splits. Yay to little lookers.
Texture and busy-ness combine in contrast with Ms. Jani’s crisp features throughout the compositions in this spread. Top-notch, complex, and beautiful eye-catching work.
She told us she is saving money to buy a T-bird, her favorite drink is a Vodka Gimlet and she is the proud possessor of a pile of Frank Sinatra, Harry Belafonte and Jackie Gleason platters
(Ibid.)
Excellent musical tastes if that part is true. As for the Vodka Gimlet part, I have never had a gimlet of any stripe, but I think one of my friends, I am almost positive Mr. Kite, was recently deciding that Gimlet was the new retro drink of choice. I have strong faith in his trendspotting abilities, so I wager this will come to pass.
You know, like the way Singapore Slings sort of swept last year, at least in my tiny knowledge of central California circles — understand these are things I merely overhear up at the bar while ordering myself a beer.
My friends are really creative with mixed drinks, especially Christo and Gorgeous George, and Paolo and Miss D, either of which pair can find themself spontaneously hosting a party and expertly assess what they have on hand to come up with cramazing cocktails suited to the meal, occasion, and weather, but I am afraid I’m all thumbs at reckoning anything like that — I am also not so great at drinking hard alcohol, period.
For me, beer does the trick and almost never throws me any ugly curveballs. It is usually reasonably priced and you never have to worry about the bartender not knowing how to make it or mixing it too strong.
Beer puts me on familiar footing in what is usually an admittedly uncomfortable situation for me: public socializing. If I have safe, friendly, non-judgmental beer as my co-pilot, I know at least one part of the night will go well.
Like me, beer is a “what you see is what you get” kind of a thing. I feel a kinship and loyalty to beer unmatched by my feelings about any other type of alcohol. When I find something I like, I stick with it.
I like the case of her disappearing, reappearing mole. Like, “Disappearing, reappearing nuclear physicist husband” — Clue. The weird thing about that recurring line is that the nuclear physicist husband was the one Mrs. White beheaded and then cut off his dick; the one who disappeared was actually her first husband.
Without googling the script, I can tell you the conversation between Mrs. White and Wadsworth goes exactly like this (believe me, I watch this movie in my head all the time and I audio recorded it when I was a kid and listened to it on tape while walking around town — don’t you judge me):
“But he was your second husband. Your first husband also disappeared under, shall we say, ‘mysterious’ circumstances.”
“That was his job. He was an illusionist.”
“But he never re-appeared.”
(Spreads her hands and smiles) “He wasn’t a very good illusionist.”
Favorite shot of the spread. Peter and Alice are such wonderful and fun photographers. Man, they’re cool.
I’ve always wondered why those lines about “disappearing, reappearing nuclear physicist husband” were kept in despite being inaccurate. I think Clue might’ve gone through some rewrites and shit got forgotten. Anyway.
Back to marvelous Ms. Jani and the case of her on-again, off-again beauty mark!
“I’m sorry, Sire. It’s just … your mole. Wasn’t it on the other side?”
“I have a mole?!”
(Robin Hood: Men In Tights.)
Full of movie references today, jes.
If being a brunette knockout wasn’t enough for her, every so often Jani would put on a blonde wig [above] and do photo shoots under the name “Joan Brennan.” She retired from modeling in the mid-1960’s in favor of a more domesticated existence.
was portrayed as a sexy stewardess for United Airlines in the pages of Playboy, but in actuality she was a reservations clerk. Regardless, her appearance in Playboy cost her her job.
(Ibid.)
After more photoshoots with the Gowlands and with Ron Vogel, whose name you may remember seeing in the credits for many of the playmates highlighted on this journal, Ms. Jani embarked on a successful full-time career as a pin-up model which spanned the decade of mid-50’s to 60’s.
Jani appeared in several issues of Adam and Modern Man as well as other titles in the late 50’s and early 60’s.
She was also responsible for the jaw-dropping cover of Adam Bedside Reader #2 where she is wearing nothing but a red ribbon. This was a gal who was not afraid to show off her assets.
(Ibid.)
According to The Playmate Book, Jani forgot about her Playboy experience until her grown daughter gave her a copy in recent years. She has since embraced her pin-up past and become involved in the convention circuit.
(Ibid.)
Once more, enormous, immeasurably phat big-ups to Java’s Bachelor Pad for the credited shots and info above and for the hot tip about Jeanohs’ wigohs — her blonde alter ego, Ms. Joan Brennan. Your site is awesomesauce! Muah. Thanks a mil. ♥
Christopher Rouxbin: just sent you a thing E: I am about to go read it Christopher Rouxbin: good. you should. because i sent it. E: wow, that looks like the cover to a heavy metal album
Unsigned heavy metal bands, feel free to contact Sgr. Fulle about the use of this shot for your next EP!
The Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland began erupting in late March but has gotten a lot more attention in the last week or so, as some glacial ice has melted and been reheated by the lava into badass glass particles that are floating around in the ash. Pretty hot stuff. Get it? That’s right, I like science and I make terrible puns. Try to keep your pants on!
(Please do not attempt to relate this natural occurrence to recent earthquakes in Chile and Haiti. Please do not tell me how this means we are “due” for a disastrous geological event in North America. Please have a better basic understanding of nature than that. Please. Please.)
“We are an impossibility in an impossible universe.” –Ray Bradbury
Believe it. We are extraordinary. How can I focus on my tiny, insignificant problems and feel beat down when I am moving through this beautiful, miraculous universe? I will try to stop staring at the ground and scuffing my feet when I could be gazing at the stars. Thanks for the perspective, Christo!
Tonight I’m meeting up to set off soosh bombasticos for probably the last time in a bad long while with Jonohs Welchos, Esq., aka the MWP, aka Junior Quizboy. (He didn’t know about that last one.) I’m also returning the last of the books he loaned to me over the course of our friendship, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater and Mother Night.
Click to enlarge.
I’m inexpressibly sad that he’s moving away and I didn’t make better use of my time with him, but I’m glad to have got to benefit from his centered-yet-unpredictable company and sound advice even for a short time. My brief association with Jonohs has taught me many valuable things.
Two heads are better than one when it comes to cryptic crosswords.
I am not alone on Spaceship Earth in thinking Achewood is worth buying shirts over. (Mine is from my husband and features Roast Beef Kazenzakis saying “what we need more of is science”; Jonohs’ is even older school and has the “equation of the day.” We knew one another for several months before it even came up.)
There is such a thing as acai berry beer.
From a BevMo visit with Jonohs in September. Left: Acai berry beer. Right: The hard shit, only recommended for true HST gonzos who are ready for some serious bat country driving.
Don’t discount anyone based on age or the suspicion you yourself will be discounted based on age.
Not every coffee shop in Motown is full of hipster douchenozzles, and, even if it were, I still have the right to sit there and read about opera with my friend.
Wonderful new people can pop up into my life in the least likely places, even places I’ve searched a thousand times (aka the pub).
Some lost summer night of trivia and shenanigans.
There is a secret menu at Miki from which only Jonohs, like a g, can order and convince the waitress to convince the chef to make food that technically no longer exists at their restaurant. It is a powerful display of confidence. Peanut sauce, ahoy.
I apologize too much.
Graciously serving as my candy corn vampire date at Paolo and Miss D’s wedding.
Candy corn vampires suck much less than the trite usual kind, and are ultimately far superior to sparkly vegetarian douchebags.
Kurt Vonnegut wrote novels that were as good as his short stories and are well worth my time.
I deserve and should expect fidelity in all my relationships. I have to stop assuming I am not worthy of good things.
Jonohs as That Guy at chili cookoff.
Even my best drawings of the flux capacitor look more like a crude sketch of a uterus and fallopian tubes.
No matter how complete you think your circle of friends is, there is always room to make it even better-rounded.
The Gentlemen and I first met Jonohs when he stepped in for Ronald as the quizmaster one trivia night at the pub — calendar check — last April, specifically April 27, 2009. Man. So much in my life has changed since then, but I definitely would not change having gotten to know Jon and become friends. I’m really going to miss the prospect of seeing him weekly. I guess the final lesson I’ve learned from getting close to a new friend as a fully-formed adult is not to take people’s presence in my life for granted. Even though I had a great time with him and he constantly surprised me by showing me new things I didn’t already know about the area, or had never tried, I still wish I’d made more use of our time together.
Just all by myself exactly and with kind of a science type question…
On that note, I’m going to go make something out of this cloud of frizz I call hair, and scootch by the bank to deposit a check from subbing — I’m treating the Man With the Plan, if he will allow it (we’ll see), to some serious soosh bombasticos. Have to make the best of the last time I will be able to get the secret menu stuff!, and I plan to guzzle “crispy” beers the size of his new-job-seeking head. Catch you on the flip side!
Gorgeous George and Corinnette on our way to find undiscovered country.
Had a great weekend up in the great white woods with the fabulous friendohs, other than the kidlet being wretchedly sick; if she dies of double-pneumonia-screaming-meemies-and-bad-hair (very common and tragic disease) it is sure to be my fault for falling prey to her “I’ll be fine, Mommy, please please please let me go to the snow!” baloney sauce and not just keeping her home like I ought to have. The only component missing that would’ve made the weekend even more perfect were Paolo and Miss D, who’d sadly decided, with greater wisdom than the kidlet and me, to stay home so Paolo did not compound his cold. We are hoping to do a follow-up trip in the Spring and I can’t wait for them to come along and appear in my annoyingly copious pictures (my friends are kindly tolerant of my photographic shenanigans, but I’m very lucky they’ve never seized the camera and thrown it off a cliff).
Did You Know? This beautiful child is actually a festering harbinger of plague and germs that can singlehandedly fell a houseful of hale and hearty adults in Just Two Days. “Think I’m cute, do you? Enjoy the bronchitis, suckaaaas!”
Poor Corinnette, who rode with me and Gorgeous George and the kidlet, was probably sick to death by Sunday night of Elvis, which we bumped in the car nearly the whole weekend, partly because we’re both huge fans and partly because Gorgeous George was the driver which left me as the passenger with way too much time to look over cliffs and dread death at the hands of unknown reckless drivers (I trust Geo implicitly: it is those loose cannon other sons-of-bitches that I fear will careen around a corner and cost me my child’s life), so we played tunes that I could stare out the window and sing “Little Sister” and “Don’t Be Cruel,” along to, giving me something familiar to focus on rather than hairpin turns and speeding Subarus.
Elvis Presley and Sophia Loren clowning around. I am telling you this because though talented they are virtually complete unknowns of whom you have probably never heard.
At one point along Highway 140, when we were on a straightaway and I was feeling less Nervous Nellie —had my eyes open and everything! just like a big girl!— I remarked to Geo, “Elvis Presley really was a great performer. It’s too bad he wasn’t more popular,” which we thought was hysterical.
Gorgeous George’s wonderful parents were as wonderful as they always are, and Saturday night, after playing word games and bullshitting over beers and barbeque for a few hours, Pam-tastic and Senior (Geo’s folks) screened this nothing-less-than-cool-as-shit movie for us about the early career of Shirley Muldowney that seriously revved me up.
Still from Heart Like A Wheel (Jonathan Kaplan, 1983), starring Bonnie Bedelia and Beau Bridges as Shirley Muldowney and Connie Kalitta. Anthony Edwards (pictured) plays her grown son, who is on her pit crew. It’s a really great, great movie. I sat next to Pam-tastic, who had posters of Shirley all over the den we were watching the movie in, and she filled me in on extra details while we watched. Amazing experience. They’re so great.
Shirley Muldowney was the first NHRA female champion drag racer; her struggle was totally engrossing, and a story I’d never even heard of, which I love finding out about all new shit when it comes to deeply detailed sports, and for it to be a lady driving fast on top of it just sealed the deal. I am going to try to find more screencaps and factoids to share more about her in the coming days. Pam and George even know her. They are rad. Kick ass, I’m serious. Best in the West!
Lo-Bo and the Gentleman when we’d finally stopped trekking past protected meadows (normally I’m all in favor of those but cheese-and-rice, I had a sick kid and it was really coming down; it was a great relief to stop walking). They are watching Corinnette gather the materials needed to demolish the Great Dane’s mini-snowman. All respect due to Niels and his snowman, I need to say that for being built by an engineer, that thing sure went down like a bitch.
As a follow-up to my last entry before leaving town, on the bookfoolery front: I took neither Vonnegut short stories in the wake of Jonohs’s novel-loans nor Panda’s much-maligned copy of Oates’ Zombie up with me to read while on our weekend Yosemite retreat. (Although I did let kidlet bring her comic book, and I did not at any point attempt to swipe it: I can be taught!)
l to r: Corinnette, the Great Dane, and Michelle-my-belle at the lea, watching Gorgeous George destroy the snowman.
I realized the only logical choice to take for a trip to the snowy woods with friends was a book about a trip to the snowy woods with friends: Dreamcatcher, by Stephen King. It was perfect to sink in to bed at night and re-live the highs and lows of that admirable group of old friends after spending the day having so much fun with my own.
I really dearly love every one of the four lead characters in Dreamcatcher and will happily tell you all about why I think they are some of the best and most shining examples of King’s already-wonderful pantheon of character creations if we are ever stuck on a tarmac at the end of a runway while they repeatedly de-ice our plane; lord, how a real estate secretary from Miami wishes this were just a random example of a situation and not pulled directly from my real life.
Jonesy and the Beav (Damian Lewis and Jason Lee) attempt to hail a helicopter in Dreamcatcher (Lawrence Kasdan, 2003). This movie is jam-crack-packed with hot men bein’ hot. And nice and brave and heroic. Great book, great flick.
Anyway, snow and friends in the novel. Snow and friends in my life. Synchronicity. Except we did not encounter aliens. That I remember. Moving along, the free time I have today while watching my little sicklet means I have almost no choice but to pass the time between making her food and giving her cold medicine by finally crack-a-lacking on posting up the undone Valentine Vixens. Come sail with me. HMS Sexytimes, ahoy!
Basking in the success and pre-indigestive warmth of the Chili Cook-off back in November, the friendohs unanimously agreed to have a Souperbowl Superbowl Sunday, wherein we would each bring signature soup dishes for everyone to try, smorgasboard style. Fast-forward to this weekend, and we’ve all been working on our recipes! I made my hearty roast red pepper and tomato soup with toasted bread crumbs, basil, oregano, carmelized pine nuts, cheddar cheese, and bacon on top. (My recipe is decidely not “heart”-healthy or low-carb.)
Stock footage. It just looks exactly like my soup. I’ll explain why I can’t upload a picture of my own in a moment.
Gorgeous George and the Gentleman are hosting, along with relative newcomer and housemate the Great Dane. The LBC is doing chicken noodle, Geo called clam chowder, and Paolo and Miss D are thinking outside the box and bringing accompanying dishes rather than soup itself. I can only guess Jonohs is bringing cheesecake; I have not had the chance to talk to him between his phone being o.o.c. and my computer in the same state. That frumious bandersnatch about which I’ve been writing from time-to-time in my occasional efforts to remove it has stepped up its game:
Tenniel cut.
It is now a straight up jubjub bird, heading swiftly in to Jabberwock territory. Not cool! Especially as I’m in the thick of the Valentine Vixens and I’ve got all kinds of babymama non-drama news to share (nothing but roses on that front, thank God one area of my life is moving along successfully) and yucky love stuff to ruminate on, as it comes up on a full year since my husband and I separated. I’m swamped with ideas and the actual desire to write for once, and the computer is decidely not cooperating.
“Now, Professor, without knowing the exact problem, would you say it’s time to PANIC, cracking each other’s heads open and feasting upon the goo inside?” “Mmm, yes I would, Kent.”
I’ve been trying a number of methods for exorcism and I’m hoping at least one pans out, but will keep you posted. I’m writing this from a borrowed computer which I’m about to vacate, so if you don’t hear from me for awhile that is the trouble. Wish me luck. Until then: “Technical difficulties — Please stand by!”
First off, thanks to the — as of this writing — over 6,400 people who’ve swung by the site today! Super-cool!* I see you are being linked by a site called pussycalor.com. My thanks again to you for your visits, and a tip of my hat to the fine folks at the site referring you here for the, erm, clever wordplay in their company title (“Pussy Galore” + “hot” en español, I imagine, right? get it? … it’s a decent enough pun; I give it a 60 but I can’t dance to it).
Dawn Richard, Miss May 1957. Photographed by Ed DeLong and David Sutton.
However, now that you’re here, and I’ve got these vintage cheesecake Playboy centerfolds helping me hold your attention, LeVar Burton’s** twitter and I would like to bend your ear a tick on this whole Haiti earthquake and subsequent increased housing and famine catastrophe. This article in the Miami Herald details legit relief organizations through which you can help with time, money, and food donations the displaced and surviving persons affected by yesterday’s devastating earthquake in Haiti, which is unfortunately only going to compound their existing problems as a developing nation.
Miss December 1959, Pat Sheehan. Photographed by Sam Wu.
Those are all fine and worthy causes if you give the list a genuine spin, but I sense that if you have landed here, you are probably impatient to get on with other things, and I empathize to a point with you on the whole “utter-lack-of-attention-span” thing. (Everyone blames MTV but I think it started with cereal box-backs, because I never had cable and I’ve an awful itchy trigger finger in almost every situation) Here is the super-fast-easy way to seal the deal:
Miss January 1957, June Blair. Photographed by Hal Adams.
In America, text the word “HAITI” to the number 90999 to donate $10 to the Red Cross. It will automatically come off your phone bill. How easy is that? $10 is not that much, and this is coming from an extremely broke person. So why don’t you take your hand off your dick (only for a moment, don’t worry — I’m not asking for miracles), fetch up the cell phone you’ve undoubtedly parked in your pocket, and take a second to donate even the low amount of $10 to the Red Cross’s special fund, through which, guaranteed, 100% of your donation goes to Haitian quake relief efforts. The playmates you are gawking at would be super, super impressed. That is why they are all in red: for the Red Cross. (Yes, I have so many playmate pictures saved that I was able to cull out a few scantily red-clad ones for just this entry — and even then I narrowed it to these, my faves.)
Miss March 1957, Sandra Edwards. Photographed by Peter Gowland, a dear patron saint. Right on!
I am not telling you how to live your life, just saying it is a quick and easy way to ease suffering while we comfortably enjoy and count ourselves lucky another carefree, nudie-pic-seeking day. Thanks for your time!
*As I said to the Gentleman earlier today, “I have supported the porn industry for years. It’s about time they returned the favor.”
**You’re darned-tootin’ I follow Geordi La Forge on the twitter. And I did not think it was possible he could be more of a nerd than I always imagined, but he is. He’s seen Avatar, like, five times. I almost stopped following him cause it was all he was on about for weeks. But I forgive him.
Last night was supposed to be Star Wars and Indiana Jones trivia night at the pub, but there was a snafu with the printer and we did regular trivia instead. Total folklore!
It’s been rescheduled for next week. So, if you are in the area, come down to P. Wexford’s in Modesto next Tuesday starting at 7pm for cheap Irish pints and a no-holds-barred*, bloody-knuckles-trivia-showdown. Prize is a free round of beer for the winners! And the knowledge that you are the geekiest person in the pub. Which is saying something, believe me!
*okay. Some holds barred. Boob honks and throwin’ elbows are just plain not allowed.
So, I went to the mall with Miss D yesterday to check out the new H&M store. The women’s stuff was all fine and good, some cute things I guess although nothing unmissable, but I struck awesome gold in the little boys’ department: scored two totally pimp Star Wars sweatshirts. One is a zip-up hoodie and the other is a purple pullover with Yoda on it. Freaking sweet as heck!
There were fantastic Star Wars t-shirts, too, but I was already over the spending limit I’d mentally set for myself. Still, looking at the sweatshirts? Totally worth it, and Miss D got this pretty necklace that looks like cranberries at the store next door to H&M, while kidlet snagged a hot pink headband with a bow that is pure Madonna circa 1985. So a great haul was yielded by all!
I was right about the first Diana roll sucking. The pictures came out horribly. I mean, just the absolute Suck. Only like three even printed. It’s my fault because I am so heedlessly impatient and thoughtless that I didn’t take the time to get it right before snapping away in the heat of the moment. I need to work on this, but I will not let it get me down. Hopefully my next roll will come out better.
In the evening, we had a small pre-Friend Thanksgiving with Christo since he will be gone on real Friend Thanksgiving. It was really great; we went around the table saying what we were thankful for. I was thankful to be home, and put the period right there. Then I jetted to Panda’s and whisked her off to the pub cause she had had a motherfucker of a day, like with dead pets and everything, it was horrible. We met up with Jonohs (who had new guylights — between him and Panda going blonde, I am beginning to feel totally untransformed!) and sort of did trivia, but mainly Panda and I focused on beer and chat.
All in all, it was a surprisingly full day, and I did a lot more driving on city streets than I normally care to, but a really excellent day. What I said at dinner, I meant. Days like yesterday, both the good and bad, can take my breath away with how fortunate I am to be in a place I think of as home, to be with my friends and family. I’m ridiculously lucky.
All done with the ambrosia, hair flat-ironed, going to slap on some mascara and slide on down to C-town for that there ol’ chili cook-off. Wish me luck! In the meanwhile, here is some adorable but culinarily challenged Drew Barrymore to brighten your night.
“I don’t cook, I can’t cook, and it is really abominable to see me in the kitchen. I order in takeaway food or get my friends to cook because a lot of them are very good.” — Drew Barrymore
“My culinary skills are terrible. I can’t even make toast taste good. I do make scrambled eggs for myself sometimes but I wouldn’t even inflict that on anyone else.” — Drew Barrymore
“I can cook about two things. I can boil hot water for the only pasta I can make.” — Drew Barrymore
I’ll let you know how the cookoff goes. Have a great night!
Today some quickies from Drew on humility, being true to oneself, and having a good self-image.
“I definitely don’t think that I’m hot doo-doo. I don’t.”
“I used to look in the mirror and feel shame, I look in the mirror now and I absolutely love myself.”
“There’s something liberating about not pretending. Dare to embarrass yourself. Risk.”
Today, I am trying to put together something spectacular for the Chili Cookoff that Paolo and Miss D are hosting tomorrow. Everyone is going to be there, and they’ve all snatched up the available sides: Miss D is doing cornbread and I think apple pie; Jonohs is of course on cheesecake duty (“legendary”); the LBC is making one of her amazing dips so she has that and chips nailed down already; Corinnette is bringing beverages; Geo, Paolo, and the Gentleman have all opted to enter top secret chili recipes; Jan-Han grabbed pasta salad right out from under my nose for which I do not begrudge her (like I am going to tell my oldest friend’s recently cancer-surviving mom who I adore that pasta salad is my signature dish, and I dare you to suggest I ought); I feel like all that’s left is brats and fancy sauces and rolls, but that feels super-unoriginal. If you have ideas, please throw them my way!
Meanwhile, as I get kind of shady and nervous about large social gatherings, I’ll be keeping the lovely and talented DB’s advice in mind today and work on inner peace. Today, inner peace: tomorrow, a chili cookoff. See, when I write it out like that, my goals are not only miniscule but almost embarassingly easy to achieve. Hurray!
To entertain the kidlet while we were trying to make a silk purse out of the sow’s ear that was my biblically shitty day, life’s-work-wise, we were using the Xbox controller to go surfing the Netflix for child-appropriate viewing. What should we run across in the “recommended” section for littl’uns but one of the two brightest spots in this day?
2000’s Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker. Awwwwesommme! It has a slightly convoluted plot (what? in a cartoon based on comics? no way!) but it is totally worth watching. Mark Hamill, Angie Harmon, Melissa Joan Hart, and Rachel Leigh Cook voice characters in this movie, if any of those names entice you.
Geo: Uh-oh, [Harley Quinn] is in trouble now.
Me: Yeah, you better look out for that crazy redhead. Batgirl will kick you in the face. She don’t wear those boots for standin’ around.
Geo: Batgirl’s boots were made for kickin’. And that’s just what they’ll do.
Me: One of these days, Batgirl’s boots are gonna kick the shit out of you.
Thus making it a reference with nods to both Batgirl and sexy Nancy Sinatra. Thank you so much, I know, right? I’m three times a lady.
In other batnews, what has two thumbs and bought a set of Batman hat and fingerless gloves for the winter today? This flyass mothafucka right here, that is who! Me! I am the one! And are they siiiiiiick? Hell, yes, they are! I’m trying to get amped. I try to keep it upbeat. Arg, I’m going to go have a drink now.
Maybe I’ll get some pictures of those gloves tomorrow, if the boils I expect to break out all over my body at any moment are not too painful.
Today in my life all hell broke loose, I lost blood and tears and years of my life I can never get back, became much poorer, and paced several football stadiums.
Today, I have smelled the wrath of god in the sulfur taint of the gutter water, and the incessant humming of locusts has dogged my every step. I should have stayed the fuckety fuck-well in bed.
Also I am pretty sure that it rained frogs. Maybe check the news on that, but I’m almost positive that it rained frogs. In my goddamned heart.
Big ups to Gorgeous George and the Gentleman for their time and parts. Don’t let my horrible, crushing depression fool you: I am super-grateful for your help!
Liz: I never get put on a jury. I wear my Princess Leia costume and they dismiss me immediately.
Liz: I don’t think it’s fair to ask me to be on a jury because I can read thoughts.
Judge: Dismissed!
But that was in Chicago. More recently, the character was called to jury duty in New York. This ensued.
Other references abound. Here’s a few.
(Liz Lemon talks with Jenna Maroney about being asked out by the good looking guy that works for MSNBC upstairs, whom they refer to as “The Hair”)
Liz: I had to say yes. I mean, he looked at me with those crazy handsome guy eyes. It was like the Death Star tractor beam when the Falcon —
Jenna: No, Liz! Do not talk about stuff like that on your date. Guys like that do not like Star Trek.
Liz: Wars — Star Wars!
Liz: (videochatting with boyfriend Floyd) Is that how far apart my eyes are?! I look like Admiral Ackbar!
edit: The Gentleman just found me this on thinkgeek.com: a kids’ Tauntaun sleeping bag.
I will not truly rest until I have one. It even has intestines decorating the lining. (I thought they smelled bad on the etc) Siiiiiiiiiigh.
“In a study, scientists report that drinking beer can be good for the liver. I’m sorry, did I say “scientists”? I meant “Irish people.””
That’s a Hangover Sunday look if I ever saw one. Friendohs know of what I speak.
Hangover Sunday (n.): usually the morning after Saturday night Band Practice and adult libations, when one shuffles about in the double digits of the a.m. with vacant-zombie-eyes and puffy faces until Paolo gets on the skillet and fries up some resurrection.
Suddenly I’ve got a lot of little details to attend to today. And I’m elated to say that later in the day I’m going to rendezvous with the Gentleman for some Zombieland, soosh-bombasticos at the ol’ Gardino, and hopefully some very-much-needed heavy, deep, and real chitty chat, not to mention crispy Japanese beers big as my head. All this in mind, I’m handing over the reins for the day to the auto-posting feature.
Ladies and gentleman, the lovely and talented Tina Fey!
“I used to dress up in my best nightgown, which was a peach-colored rayon number with a matching robe, and I would drink soda out of a champagne glass in the dark while I watched The Love Boat. I pretended I was on the cruise. That was so classy.”
Kidlet and I have been sick all day and I had taken advantage of the down time to start browsing through the cookbook the Gentleman gave me for my birthday, A Platter of Figs and other recipes, by David Tanis, reknowned chef of Chez Panisse, a Gourmet cookbook club selection, with front blurbs from Michael Pollan and Alice freaking Waters, just basically hooty-hoos all around.
Right about the time that kidlet and I were agreeing that neither of us would ever be able to in good conscience eat rabbit unless it was a survival-type situation (they are cute little bunnies, come on!), the doorbell rang.
It was Panda Eraser! Stopping by unexpectedly with a present for me, a Superfriends shirt featuring Batgirl, Wonder Woman, and Supergirl! And she had a coordinating one!
I know I have said it before…
…but I have really caring friends. I’m really lucky.
Playboy: Isn’t there an old show-business rule about not acting with children or animals?
Tina Fey: That’s right. They will upstage you because they’re adorable. The same can be said of Amy Poehler. I shouldn’t have acted with Poehler. She climbs everything and curls up in your lap, and she’s cuter than babies. Playboy: That’s a pretty bold statement.
Tina Fey: Amy Poehler is cuter than a baby and a monkey combined.
I did not much care for the movie Baby Mama; maybe my expectations of it were too high. Trouble is, my husband and I watched it on television a few days before we separated (come to think of it, it may have been only hours), so I can’t say anything for sure about my opinions of what I viewed during that time period. Except that Forgetting Sarah Marshall is NOT a good movie to watch when you’re waiting for the right moment to ask for a split — I am pretty sure that is a unilateral truth that we were merely unlucky enough to stumble upon the actual experience of but that everyone can agree is nonetheless for-sure-solid in terms of epiphanies, without having to personally go through it.
In the past few weeks, I’ve started talking to some of my friends — specifically Miss D and Jonohs because they are tricksie and ask the tough questions in mild and genuinely curious and empathetic enough ways that I don’t get startled and run screaming down to Mexico to avoid admitting that I actually feel Ways about Things — more about the separation, more about our time together, and even have talked more to my husband, and I’d pushed aside all those things for so long that I guess I must have started to fool myself that everything was okay.
It is not.
The horrible is beginning to set in as an all new breed of horrible, and congruently the panic is a different and infinitely deeper kind of panic. And I am afraid, and sometimes lonely, though it is self-induced isolation because it’s more like a desperate last-ditch effort at avoidance than loneliness. I can’t talk to my family about it because they are involved, and also frankly very pushy and aggressive people, and I tend to approach a problem far more tentatively than they do. To them, you just snap your fingers and you should know what you think and what to do next. I’m not that way, I need time before I am able to come to any conclusions about things. My feelings freak me out and I spook easily. I need a peaceful solo drive in the country or else a boisterous day of booze and ball to work through my emotions. Thank god a) it’s Autumn and my car is running. b) that the World Series is coming up. c) for my friends and their literally ’round the clock support of me.
I first wrote this looking back over my weekend and thinking of the time I spent with Paolo, Miss D, Geo, Corinnette, and Jonohs, and right then I was checking facebook for the first time in a day and was reminded that Panda Eraser put up a Batman on my wall for me, and Milo and Cinder keep inviting me over, and then I got a message from the Gentleman saying that if we change our minds and want soup, let him know, because kidlet and I are having a Sick Day. I am so ridiculously lucky to have such wonderful friends. If I’ve been avoiding anyone reading this or you haven’t heard from me in a bit, it’s probably because I was afraid if I talked to you I’d start crying and babbling about feelings, but if you don’t like getting avoided, then remind me I can suck it and better stop it! Make me talk, people, I’m a frigging powder keg over here.
The Thought Experiment 