Pouting

If there's anything I've been a pro at, it's pouting. I'm a little bit out of practice, but in my day, I was a master. As a little girl, I could sigh more loudly than most children could wail. I could wail more loudly than most children could scream. I never screamed; oh no. How crassly overt.

Upon entering my teens, the pout became a bit more refined. When I felt slighted by my friends, I'd become silently belligerent. I could shoot a glare with piercing intensity. More than a few people issued somber requests that I never glare at them, ever, even in jest, because it was unnerving.

As a girlfriend, I responded to disputably ill treatment with a pout that knew the power it contained, the frustration it would unleash onto its target, the explosions it could spark if it pushed the envelope just a little too far. My silence, accompanied in less mature years by that lovely cliched stuck-out lower lip, masked itself in phony smiles and breathed through stony eyes and monotonic laughter.

I'm no longer a little girl (no, nor a woman either, yes I thought of that too and it's NOT FUNNY), and I'm out of my teens, and I'm not a girlfriend - especially not that one. Furthermore, I don't have much to pout about. My glare is out of practice, and my sullenness is atrophying. There's a whole range of vocal timbre I've been unable to exploit. I have no role in which I consistently find dissatisfaction, outside of work which doesn't count because it's too extreme a case.

Except my role as a blogger!

I'm tired of having nothing to pout over. But I figured there must be things out there in the blog world to serve that purpose - posts that remind me what I lack in the brains and/or humor department, things like that - I just have to look for them! So I did some hunting, and easily came up with some poutables. I was going to list them here, and I was all excited for this indulgent dip into the pool of poutiness, and for the fact that for once I wasn't blocked for something to post up here. But then a strange reluctance came over me, and I discarded and then forgot every little poutable nugget (except one: I'm pouting because I didn't get to see Karen's shoes in person this weekend).

So you can blame life's relative goodness for my lack of content. Or you can tell me what to pout about and I'll give you the famed Medusa glare.

Homecoming

The air is warming, the snow isn't all I'd hoped, the plane was late, my co-passengers were grouchy, the airport food was expensive and tasteless, the two new household cats are awakening hitherto dormant allergies, and mom's already gone and made the cranberry sauce. But it's still real nice to be back in the nest.

Hi, Spokane. I didn't miss you a bit all year, but I'm glad to see you anyhow.

And I will go sledding this weekend if it kills me.

Happy Thanksgiving.

State politics

Scenario: there is a massive budget deficit.

Gray Davis: I'll increase fees for university students. 30% plus an extra 10% for nonresidents, 'cause, y'know, they don't pay enough. No, an extra ten grand is not enough. Bitches are lucky we let 'em LIVE here.

Enter Darrell Issa.

Arnold Schwarzeneggar: I'll make cuts in university budgets. Say ... $50-75 million.

All three: BWA HA HA HA HA.

Fee increase: Hey! Where did I go?

Kate: [buys ramen]

Tracklist

Pix reminded me that I haven't posted the kissy mix tracklist for you all. Here it is. It's been re-drafted and condensed into one disc because I can't afford to make copies of two and you better believe this is a holiday gift for all of my friends who don't read this.

1. Elvis Costello - I Want You
2. Garbage - Queer
3. Fiona Apple - Slow Like Honey
4. Handsome Boy Modeling School - The Truth
5. NIN - Closer
6. Foo Fighters - Darling Nikki (cover)
7. Paula Cole - Feelin' Love
8. R.E.M. - Turn You Inside Out
9. Hunters and Collectors - Throw Your Arms Around Me
10. Imogen Heap - Come Here Boy
11. Vanessa Daou - Near The Black Forest
12. Supreme Beings of Leisure - Never the Same
13. Cocteau Twins - Cherry-Coloured Funk
14. Norah Jones - Turn Me On
15. Al Green - Let's Stay Together
16. Mazzy Star - Fade Into You
17. Massive Attack - Teardrop

With the blessing of the generous Underwear Ninja, I'll soon have some of those tracks up for the downloading. I'll update the tracklist with links as they become available.

Things to do at a birthday party during the occasional dull moment:

• raid the freshly re-stocked wine table
• fix the bathroom door
• fend off armies of sleaze
• in fit of warped logic, give bottle of jameson as birthday gift just like every other attendee in hopes that fifty bottles of gift liquor will force some sort of lifestyle evaluation on the part of the recipient
• find out who's dated or slept with whom (there may not be enough moments for this to be done to completion)
• talk to pretty girls you don't know
• in cases of extreme boredom, tell people you are an expensive call girl on her night off
• in cases of extreme stupidity i.e. someone believes the above, talk money. Say you make lots of it. Point at fishnets. Say, "These are $50 fishnets! You can't afford fishnets like these on a street hooker's salary!" Appreciate nod of understanding.
• realize you need to stop with the lying already

I really need to stop

I really need to stop getting into trouble with the law.

Just do it

Do this. Pretty pretty please? It'll be fun.

Do this. You know you want to.

Do this. Otherwise I will de-link you AND WE ALL KNOW THE HEARTBREAK THAT KIND OF THING CAUSES.

Do this. I'd seriously like to read your answers, and it'll be a really interesting compilation when it's finished. Consider this my personal request that you contribute.

%jkl#*(&@, or, I HATE YOU, MORNING, I HATE YOU, or, A 21-year-old's rant written in the style of a 15-year-old's livejournal.

It's been an absolutely shit morning since about 6:30. And listening to OK Computer in the car didn't help me emotionally. I think now I'm going to sit at my desk and SOB so they can fire me for being incompetent and I can drive home and hit every red fucking light on the way back but still work up enough speed between them to be pulled over and given a speeding ticket I can't wipe away with traffic school because my last one wasn't quite a year ago and I'll get fined for having expired tags too because my appointment with the DMV isn't til December 10 and then in my rage and state of heightened emotion I'll drive into a tree and DIE and then they'll play Wish You Were Here at my funeral which is okay until some people start SINGING ALONG which completely ruins it and makes my whole funeral and thus my afterlife a JOKE, making me unfit for heaven or hell so I'll be bouncing around happily in my lovely sinful handbasket when there's word from the surface that there are people SINGING ALONG TO PINK FLOYD AT MY FUNERAL and the driver of the handbasket is like well at least it's Pink Floyd but the tour guide is like no dude, singing is totally out and they dump me off in limbo where you KNOW nothing interesting every happens and I'm doomed to an ETERNITY of mornings JUST LIKE THIS ONE.

I'm consoling myself with the fact that I discovered last night a positively uncanny ability to imitate Alanis Morisette, especially as she sings "Uninvited". Sure, it sounds like an insult, but with my morning, it's the happy thought keeping me from starting an anonymous livejournal with a black background and the scrolling text, "The world is cruel..."

Okay, here's the deal with the mixxx.

On mixing:

1. This is the hottest list of songs I've ever cumulated.
2. All told, there are over 60 songs on this list. I managed to download all the songs I didn't already own, with only three exceptions.
3. I did listen to every single song that was suggested (except the three I couldn't find), even the ones I knew I wouldn't like. (You all are fabulous, but that doesn't mean we have identical tastes.)
4. I narrowed the list down to 18 songs. THAT HURT. I can never be an editor.
5. The 18 songs totaled 89 minutes in length - about two songs longer than a mix CD can be. Upon realization of that fact, I nearly lost it. Here was the sexiest mix ever to reach human ears all in one go, and I had to butcher it. SOB.
6. I did some more, quite painful cutting and realized I was editing out some of my very favorites, because I loved them all. So I decided to make a two-disc mix.

1. I had to have a nice hearty laugh when I realized how many CDs I could theoretically hand over myself. If Krissa and Shivery could wait two weeks, and Stuart and Pix and Spengy about four, and Dan and Jennn and Greg another month or so after that, half my requests would be taken care of.
2. What stands between me and a globeful (heh) of bloggers listening to this Compilation O' Hotness? Well, to be completely honest, mainly laziness and cheapery. Sorry. I really like you thinking I'm generous and all, but seriously? I'm a poser, on so many levels.
3. I wanted to narrow things down a little so I sought out advice: I remembered Greg's Running Mix CD giveaway in the spring and I found it in his archives. Not that it necessarily curbed the requests, but Greg posted a few warnings; the requester should actually run regularly, that sort of thing. I could do something similar but it would run along the lines of, "You really shouldn't ask for this mix if you don't like kissing. I'm being serious here, guys. You non-kissers? Better stay away." I don't think that would weed anyone out.
4. So I'm going to have to be lame and not send the thing out to everyone. But - and I hope this is worth something - I'll soon upload some tracks for your enjoyment. I'm really sorry for the cop-out.
5. But go kiss someone anyway. And then we'll be even, because I'll have the music but I'm not doing the kissing. Deal?

Love, first attempt

I'm such a fool in the car, thinking about DH who's in the front seat being perfect. I don't hear anything he says to me the first time around because in my head he's just saying "Hi Kathleen" while staring into my eyes and that's enough to keep me in pieces in the cold backseat, dreaming.

All year DH gives me rides home on Monday evenings and my dreams about it are always the same: he pulls up in front of my house, stops the truck and kisses me. Every week they come two-thirds true and I go in feeling happy. You know what makes me happy? When we're socializing after rehearsal in different groups and then he decides it's time to leave and approaches me with "Hi Kathleen" like it's an offering and asks if we can go.

No one has ever said my name more sweetly than this, DH asking me if we can leave, and it's even better after a concert. Under the bright stage lights we're a club in the front row of the orchestra, the eight of us, the only ones who can hear the conductor make a snide remark or joke. I wonder if the audience ever notices when all the principal players start to snicker, barely.

DH and I are comrades when we're on a stage, and when I'm playing I can forget that I'm four years younger than him and hope he forgets, too. When I'm playing I'm the musician, not the kid, I don't tolerate simple musical mistakes and I'm stern with my section in a yeah-I-know-you're-all-older-than-me sort of way, I suggest fingerings and keep an eye on the direction of every bow behind me. So the boys want me in their quartet, I mean they don't have another, better option. "We wanted an all-upperclassmen, all-guy quartet, just for fun, but you're fun, aren't you?"

DH graduates and sends me letters from college, and postcards, and photographs of the stark Wyoming landscape. When he comes home for Christmas and summer we get together and play. There's always an event that needs a chamber group. I love playing with him and I love it afterwards when we put away our instruments and we're just two teenagers in formal dress for suddenly no reason.

One summer I'm driving my car past his house and after I pass it I see him in the mirror and park. We sit on the curb and talk for awhile about me leaving for college and him finishing it. I think about asking for my young heart back, please, but actually, he can have it.

She's pre-med, and she's a funnier writer than I've ever been

One of the girls I live with started a blog. Here's an excerpt (slightly altered per space considerations:

This morning I was watching TV and I stumbled upon an infomercial. I like infomercials. My family owns a Miracle Thaw, a hand-held electric can opener, a JuiceMan juicer, a car duster, the Nads hair removal system, a microwave bacon rack, and three George Forman grills. I have literally dreamt of owning the pots that cook themselves. This particular infomercial happened to be just starting, the best kind. It had only begun to flash the requisite preface that usually goes something like, "The views expressed during the proceeding program in no way reflect the views of this network so we're going to let them claim that a knife can cut through a shoe and if you're dumb enough to believe it, we're pretty sure you'd never be able to figure out how to sue us for false advertising anyway." At this point, every infomercial holds so much promise. The anticipation that comes from waiting to figure out what the product will be is like waiting to open presents Christmas morning.

And just so you know, she's not being ironic about her taste for infomercials.

To find out what happens, go here. For more Kellie, check out the recently birthed http://kon2chiwa.blogspot.com.

Update (I'm big on these recently): Please don't infer from Kellie's blog that I have spent the past two weeks in my living room screaming 1990s pop hits at the top of my lungs. Although I sure know what that sounds like, because SHE HAS. (I say because I love, Kellie, I really do.)

Bus (please) stop

The blinker blinks. The bus is signalling left. It's going to pull away from the stop. Fifty yards behind it, a girl runs to catch up. She runs in the street and she can see the driver in his long side mirror and she knows he sees her, too, running right toward his path.

The blinker switches off and for that second her guard is down, knowing the bus is waiting. She dashes over to the sidewalk, still running, and then suddenly as she's approaching the bus it starts to leave. She's at the side of the big noisy thing, she's right next to the driver, she's pounding at the windows, all the windows from front to back as the bus speeds up. It's 22 minutes till the hour and she's standing on the curb punching bus windows and the driver pulls away.

Asshole.

Flaming lips

Here are the responses to my plea for sexy songs. Reading through them could give Ebenezer Scrooge a craving for some hot lip action. You guys are good. I haven't wanted to insert my own comments, out of fear that by opening my mouth I'd jinx the flow of hotttness. But fuck that. I love the way y'all get all dirty 'n' stuff! Hey, if you can manage it, kiss someone tonight. I won't, but believe me, you deserve it.

(In the extended portion, a couple responses to individual comments.)

- - - - -

Update: Um, if I made a mix, would anyone want one? Can't make promises, but I'm curious.

Update update: Between suggestions from bloggers, ideas from friends, and my own contributions, I've come up with this master list of about 60 songs.

The lines are now open...

...and we're taking your suggestions for sexy songs. The songs that make you think, "I want to kiss someone right now. Hard."

I've got no reason for wanting your ideas except that I like listening to sexy music. So screw sue me.

I love a song with a good key change*.

That climactic feel - priceless.

It's like, Hey, let's really get our hearts into this. I'm kicking it up a notch.

And by "notch", I mean "half-step".

It's so moving.

* Please see Whitney Houston, Michael Jackson, Bryan Adams, or Mariah Carey for some great examples of this art form.

YOU'RE GOING TO RUN OUT OF IRONY, PEOPLE.

We were eating breakfast in Silver Lake, making fun of the hipsters - like y'do - and then it struck me:

Making fun of hipsterism is the new hipsterism.

With that realization came the almost irrepressible urge to throw myself in front of a moving car. A Hummer. No, an old Buick, that's retro and ironic...

Ack - NO! NO MORE IRONY! I am DROWNING IN IRONY! DAMNIT!

I'm getting out of here. Someone pass me my vintage jacket.

Let me clarify

There's nothing wrong with me; I'm letting fauxhemia breathe a little. This is just that moment on a January morning when the ground is frosted over and the windshield needs scraping and you can see your breath inside the car, and for the first few twists of the key in the ignition the car won't start. But you stop for a sec, rub your cold hands together, try again and it's fine. And you rev it and go.

BECAUSE I CAN'T IN GOOD CONSCIENCE CONTINUE TO SUBJECT YOU TO UTTER CRAP

You'd best go away for a little while.

Update: This is not a hiatus (I'll be up and posting soon), nor is it a cry for help (hence the closed comments), nor is it a fishing expedition (that would be for compliments), nor is it an indicator of my depressing, hopeless existence (my existence is neither of those things). You can find all those in plenty on other blogs.

How to write depressing love poems

The style of the following was inspired by Katherine, the awful poetess in Love me, but the reason I wrote it in the first place is simply for a workshop. Yes, I'm recycling.

I'm warning you now. It's horrible. Carefully crafted horrible.

OKAY, FINE.

I lied about my night out with Jennn. We really did cancel on one another at the last minute. Ya happy?

Naturally, we canceled in favor of even MORE scandalous and outrageous activities. Because we are FUN, FABULOUS people. NOT workaholics. No.

The city will never be the same

I was conflicted about whether to post about my raucous, riotous evening out with the lovely firecracker Jennn. I even told a few people we actually hadn't gone out, that we'd had to cancel at the last minute, because I just didn't know what to say.

There are a couple of reasons for this. I don't want to make anyone jealous, I don't want to offend small children who might be reading ... but to be honest, the biggest reason is that the night's a bit of a blur. A collection of fuzzy images. Skirts. Fishnets. Martini glasses. Tall heels. Strobe lights. Lipstick. Utter carnage.

I can only guess that Jennn doesn't remember much of it either, because she hasn't mentioned it on her blog. Or perhaps she's upholding some sort of confidentiality agreement that I've totally forgotten, that fell into the the alcoholic whirlpool of unrememberables along with what happened to my clear lipgloss, why I woke up with Jennn's ring on my finger, and just exactly whose phone number is written on my stomach - my STOMACH - in red marker. Jennn, is it yours? It's your area code.

Somehow, sometime between the first martini I downed with conviction at 8:00 last night and the toothpaste I swallowed accidentally this morning, I managed to make my way back to my sister's place. And I don't think I did anything illegal. And if I made out with anyone it was probably just Jennn. But dude, Jennn, if I'm forgetting something - ha, I mean if I'm forgetting something SIGNIFICANT - please let me know.

And, ahem, if it's something REALLY, REALLY SCANDALOUS, perhaps you should tell me in comments instead of email email instead of comments.

Jennn (or as Greg calls you, Jennnnnnnnnnn), you are too fun for words. Oh, the bystanders, the poor, innocent bystanders! Bwa ha ha! They had no idea what was coming.

Sisterly

I've been visiting my little sister since Saturday, and I've raved about her a lot to everyone I've talked to. I say she likes the opera and knits one or two scarves a week. I say she's gorgeous and couldn't care less.

I don't take any of that back, but I just noticed that every single newspaper clipping she has posted above her desk - where I'm sitting now - is a death notice. So I'm adding "cynical" and "a WEE bit creepy" to my list of attributes.

There are also several superfluous kitty pictures, so let's hope she's not a blogger.

Confuciuscation

I can't explain why, but right now listening to "Needle in the Hay" by Elliott Smith feels like revenge against reading An Introduction to Confucianism by Xinzhong Yao.

Visual

Funny, sometimes doing something you've never done before makes you want to do it more, even though it had never occurred to you that you'd even want to do it in the first place.

I finished an illustrated story today, kind of graphic-novel style, and when I was flipping through the finished product I thought, "This is actually pretty cool. I should try writing a short graphic novel!"

And then I remembered that I didn't actually do any - ANY - of my own illustrations. So, nix that.

Thank you, Sam Brown. I did credit you.

On another note, can I just give a shout-out to the Friend God (no, not that one, the other one) for touching me with your magic wand? Honestly, every day I feel grateful for the friends I have, here at home, back in my hometown home, in the places I wish were home. I really don't know how I got to be so fortunate, and I'm reminded constantly that I've got it good. Today I mooched printer use off one generous roomie and a long, tedious ride off another; got email from two people that warmed my heart; chatted online with people who make me laugh; and received best conference call EVER, one that involved the cupcake-eating participants on the other end actually PLACING A CUPCAKE BY THE SPEAKERPHONE so that I could be as close to the chocolatey goodness of their company as possible.

I know this verges on the G-rated, and I do try to make sure we keep things at least PG-13 'round here, but I just feel it needs to be said: I have the best friends in the world. The close ones, the distant ones, even the ones I've only met once or twice but with whom I've exchanged thousands of words - I don't know what lucky charm I've been blessed by (though I suspect it's either the boots or the garter), but y'all are a very big reason that though my birthday was only six months ago (minus two days), it's already been the best year of my life.

In the spirit of that shout-out, and remembering the title of this post (you'll see), and keeping cognizant of the strange and lovely fact that some of the people most precious to me in the world I met through this wee blogging thing, I'd like to dedicate today to Krissa, one of the strongest, most vibrant, most inspirational people I know. I won't give a blow-by-blow account of the weekend I spent with her and my wonderful, wonderful Shivery in New York City, but guys, it was fucking (see? PG-13) RAD. Vinyl, wine, skirts, boots, tea, french fries, fishnet, movies, wigs, pizza, hot chocolate, and a common obsession over Adrien Brody are the recipe for an absofuckinglutely specfuckingtacular goddamn fucking KICKS YOUR WEEKEND'S ASS weekend.

I miss you.

There are some things money can't buy

Staying at the office until 1am working on hellish project that never dies: horrible.

Being brought coffee by male friend so late-night office work doesn't cause comatose state: wonderful.

Getting accused by woman on floor (who after two years still doesn't know who I am) of having an illicit midnight tryst with "suspicious" male friend in boss' office: priceless.

I know it's after the fact now, but whoever arrived here by searching for "things to say to girls when sorry" should know that the answer is:

"I'm sorry."

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And mean it.

Soul-death, in one act

Wicked

In LAX tonight I saw a man wearing a t-shirt which on the back read

For the wicked there shall be no rest

and I thought, "Fuck no, we never stop moving."

But I'm really tired now and want to sleep, so I guess that makes me a pretty lame wicked person. Tomorrow: I try to explain how much I love what I just left behind.

Hive mind

So goddamn hot.