"Simple Weekend Pleasures"

I had a most pleasant weekend. I hope you did too! Friday night, I met up with some friends from work at this bar on Damen Avenue called The Black Rock. Admittedly, an odd name for a tavern but it was very nice, typically Irish-y, but very low-key and not at all crowded for a Friday evening. They had a decent selection of beers on tap as well as bottles, though no Bells (not that Bells is Irish) and no McEwan's (which is Scottish) but both of which are favs of mine. Whatever! Anyway, I had a Guiness and an Oatmeal Irish Stout (which is a good alt for a Guiness). What the bar does have is a great jukebox with lots of old rock tunes (Metallica, Guns N Roses, Zepplin) and a very welcoming vibe.

On Saturday night, I saw Buster Keaton's silent classic The General for the first time. It was shown with a live musical accompaniment by Quasar Wut Wut who wrote an original score for the film. Both were brilliant. The film was hysterical! Keaton's ability to portray a wide variety of emotions with only his facial expressions was genius. I had never really had an appreciation for silent films but this experience makes me want to see more. So, there you go!

Sunday, of course, were the ever so dull Oscars. There were some highlights but you had to of stayed with it till the bitter end to catch them like Jaime Fox getting best actor for Ray. I was happy for Cate Blanchett receiving one for The Aviator, and for The Sea Inside for Best Foreign Language Film, and the ballad (performed by Antonio Banderes and Carlos Santana) from The Motorcycle Diaries for best song. Unfortunately, you had to wait through an endless variety of boredom to get to these rare moments. Do you realize that the telecast began a half hour earlier this year but still ran until almost 11:00! I don't think the problem is the acceptance speeches. I think its the number of awards given that just don't interest the general public. I know, I'll be critized cruelly for saying this but I think the network should limit the broadcast version of the telecast to just the actor, film, directing, cinematography, and song awards. Allow those recipients to have their say on stage (viewers want to hear that). We like the pre-show too! All those other awards for various technical skills (no matter all artistic the decisions may be) take up too much time for those of us watching at home. Look, for us at home this is entertainment and the length of the broadcast is killing us. If this format remains in the future, then I may have to tune out and just catch the highlights the following day.

"A new poem for your scrupulous displeasure!"

The folks in my poetry workshop hated this poem because they couldn't wrap their tiny minds around it. Their sentiments made me realize how fantastic this piece must be and, so, I'm sharing it with you and the greater net public.

borrowed flesh

A real asshole talking about cab drivers and fruits vaults a turnstile, sporting a crew cut and sharkskin suit. The heat closes in making devilish stool pigeons. Mosaic of floating news stories peaks at 6pm. Elongated issues pass through table litter night candy unknown, the author is a misplacement of sexual energy. Outside trying to thwart the odorless remnants under a vice specially designed for this and that, a character collector stands out like a hunka tin. Nobody can breathe convolutions of gristle by forcing dietary artists on logic and assaults, the silent black ooze of a gangster’s confidence! Backed by pink smell, regret cannot observe customary obscenities. In some sort of sanitarium the academy waits, thinking victims often know they are going to die often.

Getting hot, the terrible frequency that blinds, some kind of awful climax keeps getting heavier. Torture locates disciplinary procedure for twenty seconds balanced on peril like Japanese boys with fierce innocent faces. This monster, an abbreviated spinal column, grabs the stomach in moments of excitement and lapses into broken English. Rain bouncing up the stairs’ stuffy German alcoves, a limestone altar marking the center hemisphere for real, as artificial wings copulate the air with shit and whimper.

Chicken saw something ignoble and obvious reflected back from a jaunty wave carried by a little exclamation of disgust marked by tentative fades abdicated in a cold yellow halo. The Florida tan carried as a prop read as Little Abner. No pride, a distinct revulsion, can get used to anything proffered and proliferated flooding the world with cheap.

Huge iron-lungs full of paralyzed pies pop with horribles and pantomime. A room filled with green light misunderstood. No proof recommends confinement accurately contained.

"VD Again"

Some states are Red
Some states are Blue
Bipartisan politics?
How about you?

Honestly, I don't know where that little diddy came from or what it has to do with V-Day. I suppose one could make the connection that both politics and V-Day are manufactured concepts created to bring us together but, in fact, tear us apart. I mean, look at all the expectation built up around V-Day. Let's leave politics for another discussion. Was Saint Valentine the saint of love anyway? Here's the scoop:

The roots of St. Valentine's Day lie in the ancient Roman festival of Lupercalia, which was celebrated on Feb. 15. For 800 years the Romans had dedicated this day to the god Lupercus. On Lupercalia, a young man would draw the name of a young woman in a lottery and would then keep the woman as a sexual companion for the year.

Pope Gelasius I was, understandably, less than thrilled with this custom. So he changed the lottery to have both young men and women draw the names of saints whom they would then emulate for the year (a change that no doubt disappointed a few young men). Instead of Lupercus, the patron of the feast became Valentine. For Roman men, the day continued to be an occasion to seek the affections of women, and it became a tradition to give out handwritten messages of admiration that included Valentine's name.

There was also a conventional belief in Europe during the Middle Ages that birds chose their partners in the middle of February. Thus the day was dedicated to love, and people observed it by writing love letters and sending small gifts to their beloved. Legend has it that Charles, duke of Orleans, sent the first real Valentine card to his wife in 1415, when he was imprisoned in the Tower of London. (He, however, was not beheaded, and died a half-century later of old age.)

Hm. Beheadings, bird sex, and Romans. This explains alot and makes me long for the Roman society. Love would be so much less complicated if it were decided in a lottery and only lasted for a year. Perhaps I should start a movement to ressurect the Roman way of life. After all, when in Rome . . .

"LA Weather On My Mind"

The weekend forecast for Los Angeles is:

On The Spot Weather

Friday Feb 11 

Sunny
High 71°F
Low 50°F
Precip:   10%

Saturday 12 

Mostly Sunny
High 74°F
Low 50°F
Precip:   10%

Sunday 13 

Partly Cloudy
High 75°F
Low 52°F
Precip:   20%

What else is there to say?

"Survey Says"

I luv a fun survey! I just saw this one on my friend Charlotte's blog page. I've altered some of the questions alittle and dropped one that referenced something from a stupid TV show I never watched. The survey is all about your senior year.

1. What year was it? 1984/85
2. What were your 3 fav bands/musicians? Culture Club, Pat Benatar, & Cyndi Lauper
3. What was your fav outfit? black, tight-ass jeans, black-t, and either a black or white karate uniform top (wierd, but cool)
4. What was up w/ your hair? Actually, it was very low-key, kind of Shawn Cassidy like
5. Who were your best friends? Hm? Stephanie, Carol, Jennifer, David, Patty, Debbie, Robin, Melissa . . . I don't remember
6. What did you do after school? very little
7. Where did you work? work?
8. Did you take the bus? Hell no, I had a '73 Honda Accord hatchback
9. Who did you have a crush on? I was way too repressed for crushes
10. Celebrity crush? Hm? The bionic man
11. Did you fight with your parents? daily
12. Did you smoke? only when I was with the burnouts in the school parking lot
13. Carry your books in a backpack? No, I often forgot to bring them to class and often failed classes
14. In a clique? I knew people in cliques
15. Were you popular? I'm sure people look at me in their yearbook and wonder if I was even really there
16. Who did you want to be like? Didn't really know, still not entirely sure
17. What did you want to be? fashion designer
18. Where did you expect to be at the age you are now? definitely dead

"Dumb, da, da, da . . . D-u-m-b!"

I'm a moron. No, seriously, I have some sort of intellectual flaw or resistence to adaptation. See, I'm originally from the far south (no, that doesn't explain it) where it never gets cold and it only snows on TV. I've lived in Chicago for thirteen years and there are still times when I do the dumbest things. It took me almost eight years to get a proper winter coat. You know, first I went for looks and then I got one of those marshmallow man jackets, then, eventually settling on a vintage p-coat. However, my most recent blunder takes the cake. It all started with my very dirty car. Really, really filthy, snow stained, can't see through the windsheild dirty. It hadn't been washed since early fall. I tend to follow the line of thinking that once the weather goes bad (ie fall, winter, spring - rain, snow, rain) that there's no point in having the car washed when it's just going to be messed up again in a few days. Anyway, Dalloway (yes, I've named my car after the Mrs. She's a very literary, old Volvo) was looking grungy and driving sluggishly. Although, I think the main impetus for me was the fact that I was having trouble seeing out the windshield. One of Dalloway's ticks is her windshield wipers work, okay, but the one on the driver's side is slightly warped, so that with each stroke it leaves a streak right at eye level. Alright, so I took her to the touchless, drive through place near my apartment. I sat there contemplating whether to do the four or five dollar wash. The five gives you a forty-five second blow dry. I opted for the five and the wash proceeded. Dalloway seemed quite pleased at first but then as we proceeded to have her dried off, the force of the air on her wet skin caused an instant sheet of ice to encapsulate the entire car. I was suddenly trapped in a giant, mobile ice cube. I was, to say the least, disturbed by this turn of events. At least, I reasoned, Dalloway was clean beneath her half inch sheet of ice and hopefully, once it melted, she'd be spotless. I'll let you know in the spring.