substitute: (burnside)

I took on a mission to bring [ profile] salome_st_john coffee in order to get cookies.[1] On the way I needed to visit the 7-11 to get antacids, because I require them to avoid choking up and vomiting, always[2], and I was out.

I got the two coffees at Peet's, secured them, and headed to the 7-11. I was nearly sick in the car on the way; past time to fix this problem. Delaying the inevitable with a long drink of water from the bottle in the car, I took a deep breath and charged in.

I got my Pepcid Complete[3] and trotted back out to the car to take it.

Pepcid Complete, as purchased in the 7-11, comes in a matchbook-like cardboard foldover. Inside there are two little envelopes, each containing one pill.

The envelopes are made from a foil-like substance[4] with a paper backing. On one edge of the envelope there is a line drawn, with a scissors icon next to it. The type says "fold on this line, then tear at the slit."

I folded along the line, which was difficult; it was very close to the edge. Nothing like a slit was evident. Tearing at the line was fruitless. The situation was still urgent, and I used increasing force. Coarse words passed my lips. I bit and tore in a canine way, heaved at the thing with fingers and nails, repeated these things. A tear did open along the line, but this was too far from the center of the envelope to release the pill, which still sat swaddled and safe. The canine tearing resumed, with appropriate snarling included. No joy.

I now understood my fate. Modern medicine had been defeated by modern packaging, and I was in a suburban postmodern wasteland rotting from the inside, unable to reach my salvation, as in a bad short story.

Guzzling water and praying not to lose it again, I drove the mile to [ profile] salome_st_john's place and rushed in, demanding scissors. I was saved.


[1] This is a very good way to spend two bucks.

[2] Since puberty I have had acidic stomach and GERD beyond belief. It's crummy. Nothing fixes it. Oh well!

[3] This is a combination of chewable antacid and a dose of famotidine which is an ideal quick-acting solution to sudden acid indigestion. I recommend it.

[4] I have nothing but admiration for the inventors of this remarkable substance. At first it appears to be simply paper and aluminum foil. Fifteen minutes into the process I realized that I had in my hands some miracle of materials science, developed perhaps for the Stealth Bomber, which managed to be soft and ductile yet completely untearable; it could only be cut by a sharp blade. Kudos!
substitute: (Default)
I am back from SF which was lovely. I ate and drank well, and enjoyed the company of many good people. Special thanks to [ profile] zebulon_y for the use of a couch much longer than is considered polite. There is pork on the way.

I won't try to summarize the trip because I am lazy.

If anyone huge happened in my absence, I may have missed it because skip=430.
substitute: (Default)
I am having writer's block and a lot went on this weekend, but I do want to say:

1. [ profile] miss_geek and [ profile] vanmojo are the best dates for a nerd's night out at a museum. Plus there was a mechanical dinosaur the size of a car wandering around, and we learned about dolphin brains and behavior, and there was ROCK MUSIC. What a good time! New rule for the Mountain Goats, though. Y'all have to play at least 10 miles away from USC. I'll explain later.

2. A day with [ profile] turnip and [ profile] spork0 is a fine, fine thing. Three hours of gabbling over coffee and then a memorably good meal at Pomegranate Restaurant, an unexpected and amazing Russian/Georgian restaurant. Plus, you know, zee beautiful womenz. Unavailable: the best kind for true romance.

3. I live in the only place in the country with good weather right now.
substitute: (Default)
I did not know Richard well — he was a friend of a friend and I met him only twice — but I remember everything about him. We were both in our mid to late 20s and our mutual friends were a circle of artistic types, dreamers, dropouts, and successful people who wished they were the first three things.

Richard was special. He was an effortlessly brilliant writer and illustrator, and he had a breadth and depth of knowledge out of proportion to his age. Talking to him was like a guided tour of a great library. He was usually doodling on something and the doodles turned out as perfect little cartoon stories sometimes. This was in the golden age of the "new comix" between Gary Panter in free weeklies and Art Spiegelman on coffee tables, when new styles of comic strip art were showing up everywhere.

Richard could have done well, made a living or better, made a name for himself. But he refused. He was not lazy, or disorganized, or dumb about money. He explicitly refused to show his work to a wider audience or to be paid for it. I remember someone joking that he was Kafka and some Max Brod was going to disobey him and publish everything, and he became very upset.

So Richard was poor. Very poor. He and his girlfriend basically cleaned toilets for a living. It wasn't clear to me why he dived that deep into the working class, since he had no romantic delusions of proletarian slumming. I think he just hated office work and liked being left alone to do menial labor.

Richard drank and smoked, a lot. Really quite a lot. I knew some hard drinkers at the time, but Richard was a full-service beer drunk. He never seemed to lose an intellectual edge, but his eyes were heavy-lidded and he swayed a bit when he walked.

He was living in San Francisco in the late 1980s, doing but not selling a long graphic novel and working his down and out job, when he and some friends took a night off and hung out on the top of a tall building downtown. They watched the city, and drank, and smoked, and drank some more.

At some point Richard, who was having a great time, was dancing around on balancing on something and stepped where the building wasn't, not seeing the gap between it and the next one. And that was that.

It still is not clear if there was explicit intention. Did he jump? Did he fall? Did he start to fall and then just decided to go with it? Did he even know what was going on? Was he in that situation half-hoping that something would kill him? No one knows.

He left behind a life incomplete in every way. Incomplete in years, incomplete in his art, just truncated. Everything about him was rolling along this curve towards something big — good or bad — and then stopped in mid journey.

Richard was a very sophisticated person, and the kind of artist who worked on multiple levels. Sometimes I wonder if his entire life, the shape of it and its end, could have been a work of art about truncation and incompleteness.

On the other hand, he was a drunk. And his father had committed suicide. So he might just have been a smart guy with some bad luck and some bad decisions. I don't know.

There are so many fakes and ridiculous twits playing at "tortured artist" who say and do things that sound a lot like Richard, but he was all real. And I believe he got what he wanted as an artist. I'm still not convinced, though, that he wanted or needed to die on the concrete of a San Francisco sidewalk that night.
substitute: (Default)

I received these two items in the mail yesterday simultaneously:

Lodge 6 1/2" miniature cast iron skillet

T1 Miniature 20W Autotuner (And FT-817 Remote-Control Adapter)

19th or 21st century, I need my tools! I don't think the T1 can tune the pan into an antenna though.
substitute: (phrenology head)
Once upon a time there was a university.

It was a good school, and many of its departments were well-known and respected. One department in particular had international strengths in two programs and was a magnet for talent, not least because of its professors and their reputations.

One of these professors wanted to advance himself. He was already the world's expert in a particular writer, and much in demand at conferences. He had published several books, and been promoted to a higher salary than most. Ambition did not leave this man. He needed more.

what happened then, uncle substitute? )

It's likely that some of the details are distorted, because this was communicated to me orally many years ago. But it stuck. I run into references to this guy sometimes, even saw him on TV lecturing. He's still a fine writer and very good on his topic.
substitute: (binky)
A large-scale brain failure today caused me to believe that it was Thursday. Not much harm occurred, but I didn't go in for my weekly in-person day at the office. I'm glad that I work with nice people who don't scream at me for stuff like that.

I use cologne. I had two 99 cent start spray things of this stuff for a few years and then they ran out. I do not use very much cologne. The cologne was good, so I ordered an actual bottle of it. When I first bought it years ago, it was called "Prince Matchabelli New Musk for Men Under 30." I was already over 30 but I cheated. They have since removed the bit about under 30. Vindication, cologne-wise.

This article and picture of Hillary with Scaife is something else:

Buy Ernest Hardy's books. He's a great writer, passionate and thoughtful. I don't know who else is writing about music from a queer black perspective, but he's sure good at it!

I probably won't be there, but anyone who attends the last day of Dutton's bookstore wake party please pour a little on the curb for me. It's a big part of my L.A. life gone. LA Observed says it's this Sunday at 5.

The Los Angeles Times has a new "Innovation" exec and he is broadcasting motivational gibberish from Planet Zinfandel. I had no idea that journalism was the new rock 'n' roll.
substitute: (Default)
Yesterday I found myself on Main Street in Huntington Beach at early dinner time, so I put all my change in a meter and went for a walk, followed by Guinness and fish 'n' chips.

For those who don't know the area, Main Street is the tourist trap and party zone of Huntington. Like Newport and Laguna, it has surf shops and souvenir crap and some theme restaurants. Unlike the others, it has tough guys, mean cops, real bars, and some genuine menace at night. Also, non chain restaurants!

At six on a weekday there wasn't much going on, but the people watching was good on my longish walk.

I walked by a guy who was parking a new Porsche. He was small and strong, with a skintight shirt and a little gold chain, and hair cut close. Not someone you'd want to mess with. As he was getting out of the car, a friend greeted him, obviously someone he hadn't seen in a while. Porsche was in a hurry, but stopped to talk. The Friend was generic overweight white guy with goatee, t-shirt over belly, shorts and flip flops. Porsche was dark, probably Mexican.

FRIEND: Hey! I heard you were into some stuff but I didn't know you were, well, um, [gesture at Porsche] into some stuff like THIS.

PORSCHE: Huh, what'ya mean? [starting to look annoyed]

FRIEND: Well I, uh. I heard you.. um.. had been on "vacation."

PORSCHE: Aah yeah... [nervous, more annoyed] That was a ways back. ANYWAY. [picks up phone]

The next chapter was at the Irish bar, where I had my meal. It was almost deserted, so I got a good outdoor seat for people watching.

The inside seat on the sidewalk was occupied by two very young teenaged girls, who were completely hyperactive. They kept asking random passers-by for a dollar. They said "hi" to almost everyone, and some people stopped to talk, including a middle-aged motorcyclist with salt and pepper hair, a couple of skater boys, a couple with a cute dog, etc. They asked me how old I thought they were. "Fourteen," I said. "Thirteen!" they declared, triumphantly.

Next to me on the patio was a party of thugs. There are a lot of tatted up guys with hats pointing the wrong away in this part of the world, but these were the real thing. One guy had the Suicidal style bandanna half over the eyes, and all of them had obvious gang tats, just not from gangs I knew of. The teenaged girls asked the thugs: "Would you date us if we were 18?" and they blanched.

They were very friendly thugs. They were discussing what assholes people were around here, and asked me if I was local. I agreed with them about the local "quality" being stuck up and tiresome, especially the ones who think they're tough. I urged them to consider this to be Disneyland and relax and enjoy it, and they thought that was a fine idea. They were from Chino Hills. When they left we all slapped each others' hands and exchanged names and good will. I told them to watch out for the cops.

Meanwhile, the cops were about 50 feet away giving the skater boys a massive overkill search and detainment.

Next door at Sharkeez (VERY BAD STUPID BAR) there was a party of New York Baller Types, puerto ricans and black people, having a great time being incredibly drunk and loud. They were almost out of control, but very cheerful. One of them was the Designated Funny Guy in the group and had a ghastly screeching laugh.

The teenaged girls, of course, went over and introduced themselves, making an Enrique and a Shawn very nervous. More handshakes and amusing fear on the part of the New York Ballers, who did not want anything at all to do with suburban jailbait.

As I left, the cops were finally releasing the skater boys. It was classic HBPD: they'd ignored two unattended children, a party of hardore gangster criminals, an obvious dope dealer, and an out of control loud yelling party of out-of-state brown people just to fuck with some local kids on skateboards.

Anyway, that's Main Street at six pm. At around 11 pm on a weekend night it's what you'd expect.
substitute: (1967)
Influenza stalks Paradise this month. The health department has finally admitted that the flu status is "widespread," and the emergency rooms are filling up with wheezing patients and the news crews that love them.

The worst of our influenza season falls in this half-Spring every year. The season see-saws between bright sunny butterfly-and-hummingbird days and windblown drizzle under grey. This has got to be harder on the butterflies but we hate it too. Be consistent! we yell and wave our tiny fists at whichever sky we've got that day.

Either I'm getting the influenza myself or it's just postmodern anxiety. Exhaustion and dissociation are associated with both conditions, so the differential will be made with a thermometer before I go to bed.

Have you ever met a ghost of yourself? I met one today, and it's been a few years. I saw myself as a very young child — like the one in the icon for this entry — playing on the floor in this house. The tile was different then, and because at close range each tile looked like a city block, I was driving a little Matchbox car along the street with my hand. No doubt there were vrooming noises. At one point in the journey the car encountered a furniture leg and whacked to a stop. Instead of going around, I just kept whacking the little toy car against the wood until some adult told me to knock it off.

And tonight I saw that kid in the dining room.

Maybe it's the influenza.
substitute: (chinatown cut)
Car: battery needs replacing, possible mysterious damage to electrical leads

Computers: home server blew up for no discernible reason. Big networking hardware at job is behaving erratically and goes off the air if it's bumped or insulted.

Light bulbs: 8 blew out this week.

Toaster: died suddenly this week

Phone: my third (!) Cingular 8525/HTC Tytn died, and I'm out of warranty. Do not buy this phone. It has awesome features and runs great and then breaks. Now I have to buy a phone cash and I need a pretty good one because job and $$$.

New lamps my mom got: won't use 3-way bulbs although they have 3-way switch.

My own nerves: conducting oddly on one side.
substitute: (me myspace bathroom)
For the first half of the 1990s I worked at a hospital near downtown Los Angeles.

The hospital itself is an old, fine institution that provides excellent care. I was proud to work there. The neighborhood, however, was dangerous. The Pico-Union/Westlake district, otherwise known as the LAPD's Rampart Division, had the worst numbers for population density, low income, and violent crime in the entire city.

Drug sales and gang gunfights were common, and strongarm street robberies were a constant threat. Central American, Mexican, Filipino and even Japanese gangsters were all competing for drug territory.

For the last two years of my employment I lived in hospital-provided housing. The commute was across the street and the rent was subsidized: great deal! But I had to deal with the neighborhood: not great.

Around the corner from my building ("The Pink Palace") there was another hospital-owned apartment building. It was used as a kind of hotel for patients' families who had to come from afar, and also housed some aged poor people per the donor's charter. You could see these old folks lurching about the neighborhood looking frail, and I was always afraid they'd be killed and eaten by the locals.

There was a lot of graffiti. Most of it was incomprehensible but I enjoyed trying to figure it out. I knew what a crossed out name or 187 meant, but most of the rest was a blur. The gang members' names were great too. But I was unable to predict oncoming battles or anything neat like that.

One day I noticed a new graffiti pattern. Near the hospital, on sidewalks and news boxes and transformer cases, I saw sharpie'd tags of the typical kind, but with a weird message: GRINGOS WORLDWIDE. Some of them said GRINGOS WORLDWIDE KILLERS.

What the hell? I'd never seen an obviously white gangbanger around here, except maybe some guys who got in one of the Spanish-speaking crews. And who would call themselves gringos? That's not even proper street talk! I wondered if some college kids were commuting in to prank, or if the LAPD had finally snapped and gone into surrealist mode.

Coming back from the liquor store that week I saw one of our impoverished senior citizen tenants strolling down 6th Street He was a typical old white guy: polyester sansabelt pants, old sneakers, nylon windbreaker, fishing hat. He stopped in front of a transformer box, whipped out a Sharpie, and wrote GRINGOS WORLDWIDE FOR LIFE on the green metal. He then turned and looked at me defiantly.

I avoided his gaze and just strolled by, murmuring "sup." Because that's what you do with gangbangers. Otherwise, who knows what might happen?
substitute: (smartypants)
My high school biology teacher was an original. Passionate about his subject, honest and plain-spoken, and invariably good-natured, he was a hero to me at the time. I was terrible at biology but I loved the ideas and I loved him.

He was a park ranger in the summers, and he took us out on field trips in, well, the fields to find out what our local ecosystem had to offer.

His experience stretched beyond life science. He had been a seminary student and on a serious track to the priesthood at one point, and he was also an expert in several Native American spiritual traditions. He wouldn't eat meat without apologizing to the animal, for example.

One day in class the subject of the occult somehow came up. I'm not sure, but I think it was related to a classmate of mine who scared the pants off herself with a ouija board. Some bit of aleatory coincidence made her think a dead relative was speaking and she flipped. Our teacher looked thoughtful at this and said "I have a story."
"When I was in the seminary, I had a lot of trouble with the idea of the Devil. I couldn't reconcile myself to the idea that an individual, some fallen angel, was permitted to exist and to hate us. And I couldn't wrap my mind around the dogma of evil, especially personified evil. My supervisor told me to fast and meditate about it and I did.

"So I didnt eat much at all, and prayed and meditated for three days. This is difficult and I do not suggest you do it yourself without a good reason and a supervisor. Near the end of the third day, I got up to go into the other room and there was someone sitting in there. He introduced himself as the Devil, and said he'd heard I wanted to know about him. He didn't look evil or have horns or anything. But it was clear somehow that he was the genuine article, you know. Not some prank.

"So I talked with the Devil for a few hours, and he explained his role to me, and why there was evil in the world. He himself didn't know why God permitted him, but he was quite serious about evil and his hatred for everyone. Very calm conversation, but obviously very chilling.

"And then he didn't leave. I hung around wondering what to do, and he just sat there. I realized then that the problem with inviting the Devil in is that he doesn't have to leave unless he wants to. I gave up on getting rid of him and went for a long walk, because that's solved so many problems for me. When I came back there was no Devil, and I had breakfast and went to sleep.

"And yes there is a moral to this story, right? Because there always is with me. Yeah, the moral is that you shouldn't play with things you can't understand or control. As much as it may look like a good idea, you're risking everything. And really it doesn't matter whether the Devil exists or I was hallucinating after all that fasting. In either case I couldn't get him to leave and it was terrifying.

"So, yeah. If the ouija board does that to you, leave it alone."
He had a picture on his wall of the Voyager message plaque, you know the one with the planet map and the humans and the symbols. The right-wing super-fundamentalist creationist smbiology teacher down the hall (yes, I know) got in the room one night and painted it over because it had nakeds on it. He also removed and destroyed the part of the anatomical charts that had genitalia on it. They had a little war, or rather the religioso waged war on my teacher. I think you can guess who won.
substitute: (me by hils)
The full moon probably does cause more crimes and craziness. It just makes a person feel weird having that big glowing orb up there. And here it was a warm summer night the week after the schools got out. Looney tunes.

I saw at least five bicyclists without light or helmet, heard a call on the fire radio about an accident, and then saw the emergency people rushing to the scene after one of the bicyclists was run over down by the Frog House.

I saw a guy just standing on the top of a bus shelter, looking reflective.

Punk Rock Tom told us the story of how he had a blowout in the work truck and slammed into the safety rail on an overpass. He was bleeding from the chin and trying to cut the rim off to get loose of the rail when the Metro guys came and forced a tow off, then dumped him in a parking lot in Carson which was full of CHUDs. He duct taped his chin wound shut and finished the repair so the CHUDs wouldn't steal his tools. Punchline is that he didn't consider the stitches in his chin to be an injury and wouldn't have told the story at all unless we'd insisted. An injury for Tom is a broken leg from skateboarding. Tom has a '52 Ford Victoria which he has sculpted into a genuinely beautiful work of art. He had to cut the steering wheel to a half moon shape because otherwise he was always bobbing his head to see out the slit-like front window.

The "Fritz's That's Too" strip club had a marquee sign that communicated: IT'S "DUCK" SEASON! Yes, the name of the place is "Fritz's That's Too."

I think tonight was also Some Kind of High School Party because the county was full of nervously glamorous teenaged girls dressed in their first grown-up summer night out dresses.

I am reading Burton's Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah. It is a magical book and this is the fourth time I've dived into it.
substitute: (1967)
she understood when she was just 5 years old
there was nothin' happening at all
every time she puts on the radio
there was nothing going down at all, not at all

then one fine morning she turns on a New York station
she don't believe what she heard at all
she started shakin' to that fine fine music
you know her life was saved by rock 'n' roll

you know despite all the amputation
you could just dance to the rock 'n' roll station
and it was all right
substitute: (blog about broccoli)
casa de los gabachos gorditorifficos

This restaurant is part of my childhood. There's no longer a cigarette machine, but not much else has changed. It's "Mexican Food" as it was understood by Anglos in 1972 Costa Mesa. Hard shell tacos, refried beans with rice with every entrée, no surprises, and literally deadly quantities of cheese.

For adults there is a great emphasis on margaritas.

Mi Casa is not Mexican food. Most people who are aficionados of good food would not consider it to be worth considering at all. I like it. It's my childhood, and there is nothing modern about it. No authentic cochinito en pibil, but no Chili's waitresses with flair upselling me on the Chi-Chi-Tastic Balsamic Nacho Wrap, either.

They never lost the red leather booths or the hanging baskets at Mi Casa, or the sixty year old women in miniskirts and tights serving food, or even the original tables, which as you can see were from a Roy Rogers steakhouse circa 197... 1971, I bet.

Why yes, I would like another margarita, ma'am.
substitute: (rejected anus bleeding)
My shoulder is trashed. It really hurts, just about all the time. Doctor on Friday. I feel like an idiot for not going weeks ago when it wasn't that bad. I hope I don't have double secret rotator cuff explosion requiring Civil War surgery with a saw.

I have a bad habit of doing the boiled frog and making something like this normal until I suddenly realize that it's very abnormal. In this case I was feeling a bit nauseated from pain and unable to find a comfortable position ever before I called the doctor. Doh.

Ow ow, OW.
substitute: (blog about broccoli)
It says something funny and sad about me that when I have a drink or two I get all excited about compiling new versions of my software.

My grocery store had a 5 kg bar of Callebout chocolate for sale: $78.00 USD

I visited [ profile] nickjb at the B&N tonight. The muzak was playing quietly inoffensive xmas stuff for a while, and then went into some French cabaret music. Nice 40s-style song. And then that song stayed on repeat. I think I heard it 15 times before I left. Hideous bananaphone experience.

Something is fucked with my government check and I haven't got one since Nov. 8. I had to borrow money from my family; thank goodness they're there.

I haven't been able to read or write anything of substance for a while due to some odd ADD-like symptoms. Oddly I can read the new Pynchon; it just kind of flows through me pleasantly.

I turn 42 this week. Not much of interest there except my mom's taking me to dinner at Pescadou on Friday. Mmm, Pescadou.

Outside the market tonight a madman was saying to another madman: "It's like a lot of things in my life. I have these gifts, things like seeing into the future. And I have visions and realizations of a sexual nature. These things are hard for the others to understand."

I think most of my problems could be solved with a bathtub of melted semi-sweet chocolate containing [ profile] salome_st_john and a manatee. Make it so.


Nov. 29th, 2006 10:37 pm
substitute: (network)
Woke up somehow hung over without having consumed any alcohol.

Cat barf on carpet.

First attempt to make coffee unsuccessful because I did not use water.

Opened cat food can in wrong direction so that minute particles of wet cat food went in my eye. Eye care advice: do not put cat food in your eye.

Inexplicable communication from government agency regarding money.

Rushed shower to meet friends for lunch. Therefore had not completely removed soap from hands before putting in contact lenses. Eye care advice: do not put soap on a contact lens and then place it in your eye.

Lunch with friends was good!

Santa Ana wind gusts to 60 mph. High tension lines flailing in traffic with arcing and explosions. Trash cans bouncing down the street like Rover from The Prisoner. Big-ass brush fire up off Santiago with at least one severe burn victim.

Inability to clean house; spiral of shame.

Kéan Coffee: Good coffee. Ibuprofen and ranitidine. LA Times food section full of inexcusably bad writing, particularly from S. Irene Virbila. I maintain that she is one of the Andy Kaufman clones or possibly a tulpa manifestation of the narrator of The Debt to Pleasure. Examples today:
A fresh spirit is blowing through the Paris dining scene... ...A friend who loves wine told me about Le Villaret, a small bistro with stone and half-timbered walls in the the 11th arrondissement, Paris' equivalent to Silver Lake.

Also, a recipe for Blanquette de Veaux (HOW MANY VEALS ARE TO BE USED?)

Another writer suggests fancying-up mac 'n' cheese: My personal cheese advisor Steven Jenkins, who wrote the definitive guide "Cheese Primer," suggests bringing the dish up to 2006 cheese-aisle standards by using a fresh goat's milk cheese, mascarpone, Gorgonzola dolce and a sheep's milk cheese from Spain (manchego, Idiazábal, Roncal) or from France (Ossau-Iraty). The combination is almost other-worldly, much more nuanced than the predictable original.
Start the reactor.

Back to cleaning; spiral of shame deepens. Fortunately, maternal flight delayed from 7 until 10:30 pm. Then, flight delayed further. Uh oh, I know where this is going. Yep! The flight will now miss the curfew for SNA and be diverted to LAX.

Folks I'm going to drive into L.A. to meet a flight at LAX at 1 am now. I wonder what I'll put in my eye first?


Nov. 24th, 2006 10:02 pm
substitute: (network)
  • Driving down Chapman in Orange today I saw a woman in a witch costume. By "witch costume" I mean the full Wicked Witch of the West outfit with conical black hat, flowing black garments, weird shoes. I could not figure out what this meant on the day after Thanksgiving in Southern California. As a bonus, the entire effect was ruined by the large neon pink duffel bag she was carrying.

  • The cranberry ginger cherry relish made by [ profile] salome_st_john is Cranberry Crack.

  • [ profile] culfinglin is a very cool person and I enjoyed the long convo over coffee today tremendously.

  • The "Holiday Season" has arrived in the traditional way here in Southern California. Today I was tailgated by my first SUV-with-grille-mounted-wreath of the season!

  • My cat has been staring at me a lot lately.

  • The new Pynchon has arrived. I am simultaneously eager to start it and afraid of its bulk. It's like having an entire ten pound cheesecake in the house.
substitute: (ahpuch)
I didn't go to [ profile] klikitak's thing tonight, partly because I am a social anxiety poster child lately and partly because I didn't want to get extruded through my own car by drunk people going to L.A. and back. Instead I ended up at [ profile] realitylost's where she and Craig stuffed me with really great food and their dogs sat on me. One of the many reasons to like Craig is that he is serious about food. O garlic bread, O cobbler.

I meant to go over and hang with [ profile] burntcurtis for a few later but a quick trip across the boulevard revealed that his entire neighborhood had been parked upon by partiers. Tonight is official Adult Halloween Party Night, and everyone was getting smashed, with pumpkins. A couple of his neighbors were incompetently necking in the condo complex and I nearly ran them down. She was wearing a slutty noun costume and he was in a rapist costume (pirate, soldier, Haidl, dunno). He was trying to paw her while simultaneously bracing a 24 pack of beer on his hip and she was trying to do the coy push-away-only-not but instead stumbling in front of my car. Two cheers for Halloween; it's now Daterapemas!

Part of the time at Susie & Craig's tonight the TV was on. I hadn't seen the History Channel in a long time. Wow is it dumb! The supposed academic guy referred to the "Cape of Africa" (?) and they spelled Gibraltar wrong, and the show about the history of dragons spent a full segment talking to a couple of lunatics who believed that dragons existed and waved broadswords while saying they were druids.

One of their neighbors has a license plate holder that says "Foamer Forever." Anyone know what that means?


substitute: (Default)

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