Anyone who is interested by the show heros.. click here. call the number for the code. fill out an application.
I don't know what will happen. But I'm willing to find out.
(oh hell, has my procrastination resorted to new tactics?)
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
The people and their soil.
Maybe I spend my time working on the pressing deadlines I can't stop talking about. Or maybe I just read the best things I can find on the internet, like this article about nutrition. Unlike other articles on nutrition, it doesn't tell you to do stupid things, but explains why those things you've been doing are lame, and to eat some vegetables. It has some history in it too, so despite it's length, it's very interesting to read.
I wish I had room for a garden in my life.
Maybe when the landscape changes a little.
Back to work.
I wish I had room for a garden in my life.
Maybe when the landscape changes a little.
Back to work.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Chlamydoselachus anguineus
scariest creature since the giant squid.
the frilled shark...
Even when it's sick, and in shallow water.
what a day.
Monday, January 22, 2007
pugilism
In attempt to figure out what to write for my 1800 word narrative autobiography, I've been reading through old poems. Ok, it's procrastination. But here's a ditty I wrote over a year ago, maybe a year and a half.
Pugilist
By the 7th round, the point scores knew that he'd already lost
locked his chin, jumped his shoulders
and struck down
that suddenly remembered the sound of his own name.
A fighter with lead pipes for bones:
he’d mumbled 40 years on the sugar coated ribs of men
who could count their loses on one unwrapped hand.
You insisted it wasn’t a comeback:
He lost a title he's held for the longest in middle weight history.
He knew it was over, it just wasn’t going to end like that.
When I kissed you that night
My shoulders shook.
I couldn't love like exposure.
Even when we sparred, you know I don't block.
You told me the flaw of my stance was leaving my face open.
I couldn't take my eyes off you, even when I could see what was coming.
I can tell you finally,
What I have learned from happiness,
is so much less than all that I know.
2 down
I've written two essays tonight, so I feel like I can take a moment of pause to talk about this.
This is a mouse. Not the one that's wireless to my keyboard, who I figured out tonight was malfunctioning not because I have done some karmic wrong, or because I'm a terrible consumer, but because the batteries were dead. Fine. New batteries.
There's a metal bucket in the kitchen, next the the trash that neither of us seem to be able to take out daily like we constantly promise eachother. In the bucket, about three days ago, I placed a cookie that I didn't like.
See there's a mouse. Actually I'm certain there are at least two. Which means there are probably more, or are going to be. That's the part I don't like.
When there was just one mouse it was the most adorable little rascal I've ever seen. Big ears, shiny healthy coat, blinking happy eyes, and what a sweet tooth. After my own heart with that sweet tooth.
It ate the hannukah geld we forgot to put in the mail away packages. It got into the sealed bags of chocolate-covered nuts. It found any cookie I forgot to take out of my bags, clear from the table, or throw away. It left more wrappers around than my cute boyfriend did. And it shredded them, so I knew who's they were.
But two. Two is about to be an infestation. And the cute adorable little mice aren't potty trained. Which is their fatal flaw.
But right now, while J keeps telling me he's going to get those traps that don't kill them so we can let them loose in the park. And if he doesn't, he'll get those other traps but being the meat-eater of the pair he'll deal with the death end. Right now, I'm trying what I remember of other non-fatal traps. Like the cookie in the big bucket.
I tried the thing Salah told me once, where you take a toilet paper roll with the tiniest bit of peanutbutter and balance it over a big bucket. The mouse walks in to get the peanutbutter and falls into the bucket- wha-lah! But I put the cookie in there so the mouse would be happy.
Instead the tube was spun around, the p-b eaten, and the mouse not in the bucket.
The next day there was some poop in the bucket, I think that was a "over the side" ordeal.
The cookie is still in there, and as there's slim pickins otherwise, so the mouse is checking it out.
Where I sit to write my application essays, I can see the trash. I try to ignore the mice. I'm thinking about my future here. But they're loud. And a minute ago, one walked the entire upper rim of the bucket looking for a way to climb down. That must be the chocoholic mouse. It also enjoys rummaging in plastic bags. It balances its weight with it's cute cute tail, switching inside outside with tail body, perfectly.
If only it wore a diaper or got potty trained. I hope J gets those nice traps soon. I don't know how much longer I can withstand their cuteness. and poop.
This is a mouse. Not the one that's wireless to my keyboard, who I figured out tonight was malfunctioning not because I have done some karmic wrong, or because I'm a terrible consumer, but because the batteries were dead. Fine. New batteries.
There's a metal bucket in the kitchen, next the the trash that neither of us seem to be able to take out daily like we constantly promise eachother. In the bucket, about three days ago, I placed a cookie that I didn't like.
See there's a mouse. Actually I'm certain there are at least two. Which means there are probably more, or are going to be. That's the part I don't like.
When there was just one mouse it was the most adorable little rascal I've ever seen. Big ears, shiny healthy coat, blinking happy eyes, and what a sweet tooth. After my own heart with that sweet tooth.
It ate the hannukah geld we forgot to put in the mail away packages. It got into the sealed bags of chocolate-covered nuts. It found any cookie I forgot to take out of my bags, clear from the table, or throw away. It left more wrappers around than my cute boyfriend did. And it shredded them, so I knew who's they were.
But two. Two is about to be an infestation. And the cute adorable little mice aren't potty trained. Which is their fatal flaw.
But right now, while J keeps telling me he's going to get those traps that don't kill them so we can let them loose in the park. And if he doesn't, he'll get those other traps but being the meat-eater of the pair he'll deal with the death end. Right now, I'm trying what I remember of other non-fatal traps. Like the cookie in the big bucket.
I tried the thing Salah told me once, where you take a toilet paper roll with the tiniest bit of peanutbutter and balance it over a big bucket. The mouse walks in to get the peanutbutter and falls into the bucket- wha-lah! But I put the cookie in there so the mouse would be happy.
Instead the tube was spun around, the p-b eaten, and the mouse not in the bucket.
The next day there was some poop in the bucket, I think that was a "over the side" ordeal.
The cookie is still in there, and as there's slim pickins otherwise, so the mouse is checking it out.
Where I sit to write my application essays, I can see the trash. I try to ignore the mice. I'm thinking about my future here. But they're loud. And a minute ago, one walked the entire upper rim of the bucket looking for a way to climb down. That must be the chocoholic mouse. It also enjoys rummaging in plastic bags. It balances its weight with it's cute cute tail, switching inside outside with tail body, perfectly.
If only it wore a diaper or got potty trained. I hope J gets those nice traps soon. I don't know how much longer I can withstand their cuteness. and poop.
Monday, January 15, 2007
an afternoon stroll..
After a trip to the amazing 24 hour post office on 31st street yesterday, where I mailed off two applications (the official count is now up to four), I took a bit of a stroll.
First I flirted with the incredibly sexy fromagier at the chelsea whole foods, who asked me to meet him later for drinks. (This isn't surprising, since we live together.) I also found out that the cheese I had so enjoyed at last week's cheese tasting at burp castle was called el'rocketeer or something like that. Some sexy rocket cheese.
Then I got some 4dollar vegetable lo mein from a chinese food place. The east village lacks cheap chinese food, and it is a great regret of the neighborhood. Chelsea apparently lacks nothing.
Then I saw a brilliant sight.... a sale at the container store. Why oh why do I love the container store so much??? Usually I would only answer, the clearance section. (which is a wonder of the west side for sure) But a 30% off sale?? I took a catalog and spent this morning designing things to organize our rather not-luxurious closet space. But yesterday, I got new ice cube trays with bins to hold the ice, and some acrylic boxes missing lids to replant plants into, and a bunch of other stuff.
All the walking around reminded me that soon I will be taking a last minute trip to israel, with Shaw and Glidden, and probably need better shoes for this. See, I've been wearing these sweet fashionable rocket dog kicks, but they don't support my feet. I began again my general quest for shoes that look cool and can support my feet all day. This quest, like a similar quest for boots which look cool and can support my feet, is always fruitless.
Any shoes which look good (chucks, rocket dogs, etc etc) are shitty inside. They always lack support and wear out in about 2 months tops. But all the shoes that help your feet (birkenstocks, naots, clarks, etc etc) are homely beasts that do not represent me in shoe form. I'm just not that sensible and earthy. Or maybe I am but I don't want to show it.
Regardless, I have a pair of Naots which are heaven to stand in, but almost embarrassing to be seen in. When I returned home, I found my favorite pair of chicagans (who were visiting for the weekend) and discussed this problem.
Then we realized that the shoes were the same shape. So I ripped out the awesome cork liner interior of the naots, and the thin useless liner of the rocketdogs, and switched them.
Now I have the ultimate shoes ever. So if any shoe designers ever read this, I hope they can think to put some damn nice "I love my feet more than I love the earth or all hippies ever" cork insides into some rad looking shoes, because you could be a millionaire. Me, I don't want the money, I just want someone to make some good shoes so I don't have to deal with shopping for something that doesn't exist.
First I flirted with the incredibly sexy fromagier at the chelsea whole foods, who asked me to meet him later for drinks. (This isn't surprising, since we live together.) I also found out that the cheese I had so enjoyed at last week's cheese tasting at burp castle was called el'rocketeer or something like that. Some sexy rocket cheese.
Then I got some 4dollar vegetable lo mein from a chinese food place. The east village lacks cheap chinese food, and it is a great regret of the neighborhood. Chelsea apparently lacks nothing.
Then I saw a brilliant sight.... a sale at the container store. Why oh why do I love the container store so much??? Usually I would only answer, the clearance section. (which is a wonder of the west side for sure) But a 30% off sale?? I took a catalog and spent this morning designing things to organize our rather not-luxurious closet space. But yesterday, I got new ice cube trays with bins to hold the ice, and some acrylic boxes missing lids to replant plants into, and a bunch of other stuff.
All the walking around reminded me that soon I will be taking a last minute trip to israel, with Shaw and Glidden, and probably need better shoes for this. See, I've been wearing these sweet fashionable rocket dog kicks, but they don't support my feet. I began again my general quest for shoes that look cool and can support my feet all day. This quest, like a similar quest for boots which look cool and can support my feet, is always fruitless.
Any shoes which look good (chucks, rocket dogs, etc etc) are shitty inside. They always lack support and wear out in about 2 months tops. But all the shoes that help your feet (birkenstocks, naots, clarks, etc etc) are homely beasts that do not represent me in shoe form. I'm just not that sensible and earthy. Or maybe I am but I don't want to show it.
Regardless, I have a pair of Naots which are heaven to stand in, but almost embarrassing to be seen in. When I returned home, I found my favorite pair of chicagans (who were visiting for the weekend) and discussed this problem.
Then we realized that the shoes were the same shape. So I ripped out the awesome cork liner interior of the naots, and the thin useless liner of the rocketdogs, and switched them.
Now I have the ultimate shoes ever. So if any shoe designers ever read this, I hope they can think to put some damn nice "I love my feet more than I love the earth or all hippies ever" cork insides into some rad looking shoes, because you could be a millionaire. Me, I don't want the money, I just want someone to make some good shoes so I don't have to deal with shopping for something that doesn't exist.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
chain nose nostalgia
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
No.
The first thing I did was cancel my personal training session at the gym I've been to once since I joined. I have no business there with a personal trainer until at least next week, when I can conceive of actually maintaining a regular schedule of lifting. They didn't seem to mind and asked for no explanation.
I dropped off 55 pounds of laundry on my way to lunch. You'd think that would be all of it. At 85cents a pound it's not the best deal, but they throw in soap, separates, laundry detergent, and sorting my socks for free. We definitely tried two other places who didn't sort the socks before our best neighbor, and occasional life coach, Smoz recommended this place.
My day continued in the theme of laundry when I stripped the sofa of all cushion covers and the bed of all bedding and took them to the cosmos laundry on 1st. I ran into a Cal bears fan there (we have a contingent at the bar). I also managed to absentmindedly put my quarters into a machine full of wash that wasn't mine, to which the laundromat attendant (who was adamantly watching Ford's funeral on the all Spanish station) immediately threw the circuit breaker for the machine and took the other guy's stuff out. I got a look, and the funeral blared on.
I left and bought some dirt. 55cents a cup at the corner hardware store. See, I have a guest coming this weekend, and I think I need to re-pot a plant on the windowsill before he gets here. I think I need to clean the sofa cushions, and clean the bed which he will not be getting into, and buy more toilet paper and sweep the floors and clean the kitchen and clean the fridge...etc etc.
I should be writing my essays for grad school. I carry a copy in my pocket and stare at it where ever I go. I should be working on my essay and the images I need to drop off at the photo place on Broome which makes nice slides for 3 bucks a pop with the coupon I have. I should be thinking entirely about what to tell these schools, about what I have and what they want. I shouldn't be trying to prepare for imminent arrival of old ghosts while keeping my impatient and dramatic family at an arms length until after all these stamps get used.
But I am. I'm not returning phone calls or emails. I'm not hanging out tonight with all the people who are suddenly in town. My sofa is reluctant to hold you, and I probably am not answering the phone. I forwarded your emails to my therapist and maybe I'll respond after she and I discuss them next week.
I met A. in a bar where she was blowing off after-work steam to discuss the essay in the glow of a blacklight until the jerks at the air hockey table were yelling too loud for us to talk about art. We went to a starbucks, where they microwaved some pre-cooked egg and I ate a cookie. She thinks I'm close to done, and that I should tell everyone else "no" until I take care of what I need to do. I think she's right. I'm adding a sentence that reads, "This painting examines the intersection of how we learn from our parents and how we learn from our own sense of wonder."
I dropped off 55 pounds of laundry on my way to lunch. You'd think that would be all of it. At 85cents a pound it's not the best deal, but they throw in soap, separates, laundry detergent, and sorting my socks for free. We definitely tried two other places who didn't sort the socks before our best neighbor, and occasional life coach, Smoz recommended this place.
My day continued in the theme of laundry when I stripped the sofa of all cushion covers and the bed of all bedding and took them to the cosmos laundry on 1st. I ran into a Cal bears fan there (we have a contingent at the bar). I also managed to absentmindedly put my quarters into a machine full of wash that wasn't mine, to which the laundromat attendant (who was adamantly watching Ford's funeral on the all Spanish station) immediately threw the circuit breaker for the machine and took the other guy's stuff out. I got a look, and the funeral blared on.
I left and bought some dirt. 55cents a cup at the corner hardware store. See, I have a guest coming this weekend, and I think I need to re-pot a plant on the windowsill before he gets here. I think I need to clean the sofa cushions, and clean the bed which he will not be getting into, and buy more toilet paper and sweep the floors and clean the kitchen and clean the fridge...etc etc.
I should be writing my essays for grad school. I carry a copy in my pocket and stare at it where ever I go. I should be working on my essay and the images I need to drop off at the photo place on Broome which makes nice slides for 3 bucks a pop with the coupon I have. I should be thinking entirely about what to tell these schools, about what I have and what they want. I shouldn't be trying to prepare for imminent arrival of old ghosts while keeping my impatient and dramatic family at an arms length until after all these stamps get used.
But I am. I'm not returning phone calls or emails. I'm not hanging out tonight with all the people who are suddenly in town. My sofa is reluctant to hold you, and I probably am not answering the phone. I forwarded your emails to my therapist and maybe I'll respond after she and I discuss them next week.
I met A. in a bar where she was blowing off after-work steam to discuss the essay in the glow of a blacklight until the jerks at the air hockey table were yelling too loud for us to talk about art. We went to a starbucks, where they microwaved some pre-cooked egg and I ate a cookie. She thinks I'm close to done, and that I should tell everyone else "no" until I take care of what I need to do. I think she's right. I'm adding a sentence that reads, "This painting examines the intersection of how we learn from our parents and how we learn from our own sense of wonder."
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
real estate
In 2006 my parents sold their house. The real estate agent bought a painting of mine that was in that house. It was nothing important, just a figure study I made in college. The woman told my mom that she wanted to sink her teeth into the round ass of the figure in the painting. She also said she'd been looking for something like that painting for years, to hang in her bedroom.
Yesterday Mom called with that concerned sound in her voice. Apparently the real estate lady got into some fight with her girlfriend, and shot the woman three times before killing herself. Mom said, " I thought she was a nice lady, I had no idea she was capable of this. I don't know what will happen to your painting though. I wonder why she even had a gun in the house. "
I wonder why Mom reads the obituaries on her days off. I hope the blood didn't get on the painting, but that's someone else's worry. A little soap and water should work.
Yesterday Mom called with that concerned sound in her voice. Apparently the real estate lady got into some fight with her girlfriend, and shot the woman three times before killing herself. Mom said, " I thought she was a nice lady, I had no idea she was capable of this. I don't know what will happen to your painting though. I wonder why she even had a gun in the house. "
I wonder why Mom reads the obituaries on her days off. I hope the blood didn't get on the painting, but that's someone else's worry. A little soap and water should work.
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