No this is not a wedding announcement, by the way. This is just the wine.
I don't really have time to be lonely.
I used to be so good at school. Now I'm six years out of practice. It's not exactly like riding a bike. It's more like...playing a musical instrument, maybe. I'm getting the hang of it again but in the meantime my head hurts because I'm not used to reading the notes, and my hands are sore from being forced into fingerings I only half remember.
That metaphor went on a little bit too long. I can't help it; I get carried away.
In any case, school is good, things are good, but I'm a little overwhelmed right this minute. If I've been flaky in the communication department, apologies. I hope you're all well out there in internet-land.
I hope my theory isn't true, that you don't all cease to exist when I'm away from my blog. I don't want to imagine you all languishing in the cold void of space. My imaginary friend died when I was little because I forgot to feed it. I just can't face that kind of loss again.
And here we go!
All right: the meme propagates, as ever, when anyone who is interested asks me to ask you five questions. I'll do so, and you post the answers (and the same offer I just made) in your own blog. Cheers!
2. I totally love my sister-out-law, who we'll from here on out call Sis in a privacy-protecting gesture. She is adorable. She's four years younger than we are and she's an artist and designer, but also a big old geek who watches buttloads of Fruits Basket and Inu-Yasha. Also she is helping us find a house. She's been driving around Austin peeking into windows of rentals and reporting back to us. Tomorrow she's going to actually go inside and if she feels good about the house we'll probably sign a contract (since she has awesome taste and knows what we want). I'm really excited to live near her, because she's fun and I've always wanted a sister and I'm totally too shy to tell her I think of her sort of like my sister but I do.
3. Our 4th was fun. We have patio furniture now! After three years of us whining every summer, "Hey, we should really get some patio furniture," drawgirl finally invested in some and it is totally awesome. We have places to rest our asses, and also shade! So we sat outside and grilled and drank. Then we blew stuff up in the streets.
4. Left a message at infinity tattoo. No one has called me back yet. I am going armed with about 20 Rischa sketches from drawgirl and a few ideas. I'm hoping we have time to finish a partial sleeve before I take off. That's right, I'm gonna do it. I used to have this fear I was suddenly going to become vanilla in my old age. Considering my aging process has consistently taken me away from soccer mom-dom, I'm not going to worry about it anymore. Also: if I'm going to end up a soccer mom, I will be the soccer mom with the best fucking tattoo and the most pimping hybrid minivan. And the other soccer moms will have secret crushes on me. Rock.
5. I was super domestic this last week. I resized a gigantic old t-shirt (my Reed O-Week shirt with the Trojan horse waiting outside Eliot Hall, which is maybe the dorkiest thing I own? No, that's a lie.) so now it looks super hot on me. And I made my first pie. It was a vegan pie and I'm not so sure the crust turned out but the banana-chocolate filling was tasty. I should have taken a picture of me in the shirt with the pie so you'd see how Doris Day I was.
6. Still sad about the move. Still having wild mood swings. But hanging in there. It's all good.
HODGE: Lose "interesting." Lose "incredible."
ME: (whining) But I'm tired! And they're easy! How else am I supposed to say it?
HODGE: Make it relevant to you specifically. "Teaching is exciting?" "I want to make their stories interesting?" No. No. Adjectives are not your friends.
ME: (being petulant) Yes they are.
HODGE: No they're not
ME: Yes, they are. Adjectives give me smooches.
HODGE: Adjectives don't give you smooches, they give you back-alley hand jobs.
Am attempting to rid myself of preconceived notions and assumptions about Texans in preparation for the trip. It's hard to do when you're actually related to some not-great examples of Texan insanity. Of course if I judged the world based on what I know about my family we'd all be in trouble, so I'll try my best to have an open mind. I'd rather not project my own crazy dysfunction on a group of completely innocent people.
Happy Thanksgiving to those of you that celebrate it.
Last night I finally made it to Snakes on a Plane with Guillermo at the beer theater. Seeing it with a theater full of drunks seemed like the best way to do it. I was surprised at how much fun it was, actually--it's a spoof but not a straight up parody (i.e. it has a great deal of fun with itself while still allowing you to get involved in what's going on). At one point Guillermo turned to me and said, "I still haven't figured out what makes snakes on a plane a better plan than bombs on a plane." I was appalled that he would even speak such nonsense while Samuel L. Jackson was burning snakes to cinder with an improvised blowtorch.
Many years ago a friend and I determined that all movies should come with a button in the armrest. If you hate the movie, you hit the button. If over half the audience hits the button, velociraptors are released into the film. If the velociraptors are not enough to save the movie, everyone pushes again, and if enough people push you release evil Nazis into the movie. This on the premise that dinosaurs and fascists make all plots better. If everyone pushes the button, if 100% of the audience pushes it, you get...brace yourself for this one...velocinazis.
Which are either Nazi velociraptors, or Nazis riding on velociraptors. The tequila, by this time, made it less a drunken conversation and more a mumbled argument, so I don't know what we finally decided.
Well, the point is, Snakes on a Plane is pretty much like cutting to the chase and giving the audience velocinazis before they even have to ask for it.
This morning hplovescats and I went for breakfast in Sellwood. To kill some time we wandered into Wallace Books, which is one of my favorite places--it's an old house filled to the brim with books. The walls are up, so it basically feels like a house of books. We went to the children's section and discovered the most totally kicking picture book I've ever found. It's called Frankenstein Makes a Sandwich, and it is absolutely hysterical. I ended up buying it because it delighted the snot out of me. If you love The Stinky Cheese Man, you will like this one too. (I know there have to be other adults out there who get a kick out of kid's picture books).
Okay. Now I'm done sitting up for a while. I'm going to go nestle into pillows and complain loudly for everyone's benefit for a while.
hplovescats finally has the bare-bones of his professional website up...for those who might be interested (and since he never actually updates his own damn blog) it can be found here:
It's got his editing/infographics but none of his directing on it--though that's probably coming soon. He has to finish Love by Numbers before a reasonable directing reel can be put together. (nag nag nag).
My favorite thing on this current one is the short but lovely Norrell and Strange homage.
Anyway, there seem to be two kinds of people that play this game. One is the Stoic. You know, every band has that guy. He usually plays the bass. He stands there just playing the guitar, nodding at his own vast competence from time to time. As the mighty oak allows the wind to howl through his branches, so does the Stoic stand, feet planted, letting the violent forces of rock blast against him without swaying. Most newbies seem to be Stoics, largely because we are just trying to get the right damn button.
Then there's the Showboat. Slasher is in fact a Showboat. Slasher was the individual we had to move the furniture for. He jumps up and down. He swings the guitar around. He plays it behind his head. He gets down on his knees and plays to the gods of rock. He is also more good at this game than any working adult person should have the time to be. Though I will say, by the time I started getting the hang of the game, it was becoming obvious to me that I myself will be a Showboat when I can do it without losing track of the buttons. I just couldn't help it. I wanted to move my shoulders around. I wanted to tilt the guitar up. I wanted to thrust my hips in obscene ways and throw up the horns at the screaming crowds chanting my name.
If you are a compulsive singer, I would advise wearing a ball gag during this game. As I discovered during "Ziggy Stardust" and "Killer Queen" both, it is not for the novice to sing and play at the same time. You wil forget the difference between green, red, and yellow, and your fingers will fail to obey you. Just concentrate on the damn buttons.
Also: avoid "Crossroads." Eric Clapton is not a Guitar Hero but a Guitar Demigod, and you should not try in your hubris to reach that star else you will only get carpal tunnel. Or make your tendonitis angry with you and spend the rest of the evening with an ice pack pressed to your wrist.