Heh heh . . . Horn.

Yesterday, Jen, Kevin, Dani and I ventured out into the mountains of Santa Barbara in search of the Heart of the Forest Renaissance Faire being held at Live Oaks Camp. My, what a most beauteous day to be out among the oaks! It was just warm enough to not need sweaters, but not as hot as it usually gets at RenFaire (which is so hot that those of us in garb who do not continually have a full cup, mug, or tankard will probably pass out). Live Oaks is shady and beautiful, and only about half as dirty as other faires I've been to, which I would venture is largely due to the high concentration of fallen leaves lining the dirt pathways. Heart of the Forest is a significantly smaller faire than I'm used to, but it's something I'm going to have to get used to as there will be no more NorCal Pleasure Faire. Heart of the Forest comes to Novato sometime this summer. If Novato is anywhere as shady as Live Oaks, I'll be there for certain.

Becauase its a smaller faire in size of location, that means its a smaller faire in terms of present merchants. Lots of different merchants, though fewer of them, a smaller trader's market, smaller jousting area, no fencing tournaments, fewer games, and a smaller variety of foods. (No beansteaks. Oh well. I'll live, now that I know how damned good the pitas are at faire!) But even though this was a smaller, quieter faire, it was still just as much fun. And had just as many performance stages as any other.

The four of us took in a good number of performances that day (more than most times I go to faire, where my friends at home are bastards and don't want to watch any shows). We saw a 2-man Pyramus & Thisbe, which required a volunteer from the audience, so, naturally, Jen and I made Kevin do it. Because its fun to embarass people. Pyramus & Thisbe was followed by 12 min. Hamlet--which was hilarious, as it was also performed with only two people. We also took in Taming of the Shrew (reduced to about half an hour), and two dance performances--country and Celtic. Some of the Celtic dancers were really amazing. They've obviously been doing it for years and years, probably since they were wee mites, because their calves are so finely muscled and their backs held so straight.

We made a few purchases of finery--mostly from Fellowship Foundry. I said this year was the year I was finally going to get a tankard so I wouldn't have to carry around the giant 2 liter bottles of Aquafina they sell at faire. I purchased a hammer-topped cup with a kitten for the handle, leaning her head in to drink. I'm going to take it everywhere. I'll start bringing it into the dining commons and snubbing their shitty glasses. The girl at Fellowship even custom set the cat's eyes for me (red) and put different eyes in the mouse that sits opposite the cat, looking terrified (green). I will be the only one with a cup like this one. Jen bought one of Fellowship's fairy necklaces and purchased a Leaf of Lothlorien necklace for Heather. She also got a couple of glass leaf pendants from another vendor, who educated us about peircing in the Renaissance. Dani bought a little wire box on a necklace from him. She's planning on putting herbs in it so that it will be like a sachet. I also purchased a drinking horn.

And when we went to Natalie's pirate and wench party that night, the horn was the hit of the evening. Jen and Dani borrowed my corsets and bodices to dress for the occasion (in fact, everything Jen was wearing was mine: corset, skirt, belt, boots, necklace, jacket--all mine), but I just stayed in my faire garb. Burgandy bodice, black skirt, big white chemise with celtic knotwork down the sleeves, burgandy muffin cap and my belt full of fun accessories: my dragon pouch, 4 feather ticklers, the lambswool handcuffs, my lambskin whip, the dragon tankard strap, my brand new kitten cup, and, of course, the drinking horn. I took all my drinks from the horn (3 rum and cokes, 2 strawberry vodkas) and showed people how to drink from the horn. I had many a conversation about RenFaire and my garb. From now on, I bring the drinking horn to every party I go to. And next time I go to faire, I am getting one for Nikki Ferry. Because Nikki loves the horn.

Kind of a Drag

In the depths of sleep deprivation, I attended the Sociology 1 drag show put on by the drag queens of the 801 Cabaret in Key West, Florida. I had been excited about this show for weeks, and seeing the queens, Miss Sushi, Miss Kylie Jean Louise, and Miss Gugi Gomez parade out onstage in a variety of interesting vinyls, boas, furs, laces, and silks, I was instantly awake again. They were absolutely stellar. Each had a particular style of song she liked to perform and a particular style of dress to go along with it. Gugi capitalized on her Latin roots, wearing outrageous cominations of dominatrix couture with the styles popular on Latin American teenage girls. She wore bondage gear, gypsy skirts, and a denim jumpsuit complete with denim hat for her J. Lo number. She chose music that would allow her to come into the audience and give kisses, lap dances, an simulated blowjobs to as many people as possible. Kylie was like a Vegas showgirl. She showed off as much of her fantastic legs as humanly possible, generally exposing just a little bit of her ass in the process. She did lighter pop numbers that were generally uptempo . . . and she even stripped naked in one to remind everyone that drag culture is all about questioning assigned gender roles and sexual identity. My favorite of the three was Miss Sushi. She was tall and thin and by far the most graceful of the three queens. She wore a 50's rockabilly style short wig for most of the show, and eventually went onstage in just her natural hair, which was about the same length, but not nearly as perfectly curled. Sushi chose numbers that vacillated between fast and slow, mostly based on dancefloor and lounge favorites from the 40's and 50's. She wore a long sheer gown with asian fans hanging from it for one number, a glittering white gown with an ostrich feather coat for another, and a Japanese wedding kimono (cut short in front to expose her long legs) for her final number as a nod to her Japanese-American heritige. All of her numbers allowed her to move gracefully and dance exceptionally well. She even showed off her acrobatics in "Take Me or Leave Me," which she performed with Gugi. Sushi played Maureen's part in a cute, short vinyl skirt (nobody wears vinyl better than Miss Sushi) and a tied up oxford button down shirt. She did a couple of cartwheels and jumped into the arms of Gugi, who played Maureen's lover Joanne as a true "control freak:" a dominatrix. These ladies were fucking fabulous. And I want to go to drag shows all the time. I was so happy to see how into the performances the audience was--especially the group of (presumably straight) guys right in the front, who were the first to tuck dollars into Kylie's ass (and later to place one right between her dick and her balls), the first to ask Gugi for lap dances, and the first to want to touch Miss Sushi's graceful thighs. Sushi later said in an interview that straight men respond well to drag culture because it's all about femininity. They wish straight women would be as outrageous and glamorous as drag queens are--and as sexually overt. I think that if this were true, more straight men would like musicals. (Which would be awesome. Seriously.)

On another note related to gay culture, Jen and I visited Dani's room today. She lated told us that her roommate thought we were lovers, Jen and I. When I asked Dani to inquire about her roommate's evidence for this theory, she sited that we "could finish each other's sentences" and that we "were talking about cute girls and hot girls all the time." Wow. It was then that I realized that she must have obviously thought me the "bulldyke" in the relationship, you know, considering I was wearing pants and I have short hair. So I've decided that, while this girl has impeccable taste in literature (I inspected her bookshelves after she left because I had spotted Beloved from half the room away), she is obviously too superficial to comprehend anything she reads. If she honestly thought that just because Jen and I are willing to admit that Brody Dalle of the Distillers and Gwen Stefani of No Doubt are infinitely hotter than we are--and infinitely more attractive than anyone we've ever met in our lives--then we must logically be lesbians. And because we are good enough friends to have inside jokes and know what one other is thinking then we logically must be a couple. Because that makes complete sense.

Note the biting irony.

2 Stories:

1. Last night, Kevin calls as I am desperately trying to remember how to do logarithmic equations. He says he's coming by for a little bit. He shows up only 2 minutes later, and walks through the door announcing, "Happy Mother's Day, Mama Stevi!" For a minute, I am frozen in half fear. Can't really explain why. He hands me a gift--cleverly wrapped in several Albertson's plastic bags. "Are you impressed with my wrapping, Mama?" "Yes, Kevy. I am very impressed." Inside all the plastic is a cope of P.D. Eastman's children's classic Are You My Mother? It is so fucking sweet that I am on the verge of tears. This is the nicest bit of odd sentiment ever. He even wrote my name on the "this book belongs to" page as "my mama Stevi." I think now I will have to open that fried chicken and gumbo restaurant, just for Kevy . . .

2. I was sitting in the UCen this morning, slurping my Jamba and reading the Nexus, when I was approached by J.J. (See the bongo drum story from November 2003.) He tapped my leg with his cane and asked me if I was reading a newspaper. Knowing how talkative this guy can be, I just said yeah as disinterestedly as possible. He manuvered his way around the table that sits among the couch horseshoes to sit on the couch next to mine. Alarmed that he failed to notice the girl sleeping on that couch (even in his blindness, if he could tell I was reading a newspaper, I would venture he could hear the sleeping girl breathing), I alerted him to her presence, so he found his way to the other end of my couch. And he began talking to me. I feel like a terrible person to say that I wasn't really listening or even interested in listening, but I figured it couldn't do any harm to him if I did a half-assed job of it. He was telling me all about cutting and splicing in various radio ads, video games and telephone lines. It would have been a really interesting conversation if I had wanted to have it. Which makes me feel like a total asshole. He's a nice guy. He's lonely. He likes people, and I'm sure he desperately wishes he could see them, but most people won't give him the time of day. (Literally. I've seen him ask people and they will refuse to tell him for fear he'll come talk to them.) I'm less of an asshole than those people, but still an asshole.

Sex & the City

So, given my obsession with Sex and the City, I've always wondered which girl I'm more like. Knowing fully that I was a composite of the 4 of them, I found an all-knowing internet quiz at iVillage to do all the percentages for me. (Sex and the City quiz here.)

Me, in a nutshell:

You scored 30% Miranda
You chose many of the same answers that Earth Sign-like Miranda, the cynical but pragmatic lawyer, might have chosen. Just like Miranda's had a tough time deciding whether to give in to the affections of Steve the Bartender, you don't give your heart up to just anyone. Miranda shies away from a relationship with Steve because he's 'just' a bartender, not something more conventionally ambitious or stable. Those with powerful Earth Sign qualities -- characteristics associated with Taurus, Virgo and Capricorn -- are cautious in love and seek stability and status over nearly anything else. Earth Signs provide a steady, realistic attitude and they can bring order out of chaos. A little-known Earth Sign fact: Incredibly sensual, you seethe beneath that smart, expensive business suit of yours, yearning for intimacy but hesitant to give up your material needs, your career ambitions or your responsibilities for a passionate moment that might not turn out the way you'd hope.


You scored 30% Carrie
Your answers peg you as a Carrie-type, much influenced by the Air Sign qualities associated with Gemini, Libra and Aquarius. Like confident Carrie, a sex columnist, you're curious and perceptive, always seeking answers and never satisfied with the superficial. An Air Sign influence can lead to indecision and an avoidance of tough issues, like with Carrie and her on-again, off-again attachment to Mr. Big. Forward-thinking, incredibly intelligent and witty, you just exude quirky charm. You'd be utterly bored by someone who's just a pretty face or hot body -- though you don't mind looking and flirting! You're more turned on by an equally smart and funny mate, someone who challenges your mind and makes you laugh. You love to talk, so you need a good listener who's open to playful and eccentric ideas about love and lovemaking.


You scored 30% Charlotte
A romantic at heart, you chose the answers that demure Charlotte may have chosen. Strongly influenced by the intuitive, profound and sometimes naïve Water Signs -- Cancer, Scorpio and Pisces -- you're like a mother, a mystery and a poet all in one. Though on the surface you may seem innocent and all about seeking the good in people, beneath the surface, you hide secret yearnings for intimacy, for attachment and ideal love. You're seeking a knight in shining armor, a soul mate, someone who will complete you and tether you to the earth when you get carried away with your fantasies. You're super-sensitive, soaking up the moods of others; you emote freely, crying at commercials and sappy movies. You also provide a shoulder to cry on and open arms for hugs. Be careful that you're not so wide-eyed and trusting that you get taken in by some cunning wolf in sheep's clothing.


You scored 10% Samantha
You identify with Samantha's bold and liberated Fire Sign qualities, characteristics associated with the Signs of Aries, Leo and Sagittarius. You're strong, audacious and larger than life -- and you take what you want! Sometimes you can even be thoughtless and selfish, as you get so caught up in craving immediate gratification and excitement that you overlook someone's feelings. Your personal style likely reflects your desires: sleek, low-cut, revealing just a bit more than might be considered acceptable. Watch that you're not coming on too strong, though. You could scare potential suitors off with all your drama. If you seek so much attention, the more basic qualities of the Fire Signs could be burned right out of the picture. Show less skin or cleavage and more of your creativity, your vibrant leadership skills and courageous generosity!

Tony Awards!

Tony Award nominations came out today. I get the sinking feeling that Wicked and Boy from Oz will steal all of the musical categories away from Avenue Q. As amazing as Nikki Ferry tells me that Hugh Jackman is as Peter Allen in Boy from Oz, I would love to see super-cute, super-talented puppeteer John Tartaglia win out over him from his roles as Rod and Princeton in Avenue Q.

Granted, I haven't seen the green glitz of Stephen Schwartz's Wicked, nor have I seen the Hugh Jackman vehicle. I don't doubt the talent of Jackman. He hosted last year's Tony's and broke into "New York, New York" from On the Town, so I know he has an incredible voice. I do doubt Wicked. I like Schwartz--when he's writing Disney scores. I do not like Godspell. And I can only find one good song in Children of Eden. But I have to advocate Avenue Q simply because it is only of the boldest, most innovative shows I've seen in a long time.

The performers in Avenue Q are former Hensen puppeteers. They created the show around the concept that puppeteers should be recognized for the work that they do. Essentially, they're actors, too--not just people capable of doing some really amazing voice work. Sitting 4th row in the Golden Theatre on 41st Steet last August to witness the awesome skill of puppeteers like John Tartalia, fellow nominee Stephanie D'Abruzzo, Rick Lyon and Jennifer Bernhardt was amazing. Each puppeteer handled two puppets a peice--more if you're Bernhardt--and, because these actors are no longer hiding behind their puppets, but acting with them, it was amazing to see the way each performer morphed his or her body and facial expressions to suit the needs of the characters they had stuck on their hands. I'm also amazed when people can sing in voices other than their own. So even hearing John Tartaglia sing as the naive Princeton and then the "closeted homo-whatever" Rod (whose voice, I think, is produced in that little gap between the back of your nasal cavity and your throat) was equally impressive.

To dispell the fact that this is merely a puppet show, Avenue Q has three non-puppet characters, all of whom interact with the puppets a la Sesame Street. One of whom is Gary Coleman. Yes, that Gary Coleman--but played by a woman. But this is not a kids show. At all. It's sort of an adult spin on the educational Hensen creations we all grew up on. It deals with life after college, and begs the questions that are pertinent to our every day lives: what is our purpose? why doesn't college really perpare us for the real world? why is rent so damned high? why are people mean? why do we love? who defines political correctness? and so on. Each song on the show is a light hearted attempt to answer these questions. Princeton, fresh out of college, begins the shows action by singing,
"What do you do with a BA in English?
What is my life going to be?
Four years of college
and pleanty of knowledge
have earned me this useless degree.
I can pay the bills yet,
'cause I have no skills yet."
It also features such numbers as "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist," "Shaudenfreude," "It Sucks to Be Me," and "If You Were Gay." The show is witty, hilarious and ultimately one of the happiest things I've ever seen. It is aware of its genre and uses it well (from little animated signboards on the side that can morph the word "purpose" in "propose" and help the audience spell "shaudenfreude" to the nature of the set and puppets themselves). It's amazing. Really. And I haven't laughed so hard at the theatre since Urinetown.

Ride On, Jesus, Ride

I've just returned from church with Heather and Jen and Dani. I don't think I'll be going again.

As amazing as it was to hear the stories that this priest told (beginning with an Irish joke, foraying into Fellini's La Strada, relating a tale about a CEO and Mother Theresa, mentioning "Love Makes the World Go 'Round" from Carnival, braiding it all together with Dante's Commedia Divina and finally ending with his own charitable works in Mexico), as soon as the emphasis on words was over, I completely lost interest. I was then further put off as I was forced into holding people's hands during the "Our Father." After which point, I resorted to inattentive sifting through my hymnal, and was curiously suprised when I happened upon a song called "Ride On, Jesus, Ride."

The title disturbs me, but the liner notes said it was a traditional African spiritual. I'm not sure how that justifies the title in my head, but it somehow seem less odd.

If one good thing has come of tonight's run in with organized religionl, it is the knowledge that I will most certainly not be getting married in a church.

"Piss" Drunk.

Jen's Birthday: night filled with drunken revelry and songs late into the evening. People like to hear me sing when I'm drunk. I guess it sounds better or something. The really interesting story from last night, however, really happened this morning at about 5:25.

Jen and I wake up to light and the sound of urination. I peek one eye open and see some guy standing at the edge of Jen's bed. I do not process the sounds at all, but I assume he's just talking to Jen. My concern is why she invited someone over after our party, or if he had been here the whole time and I just never noticed. Then I realize he's peeing. He finishes, and walks to the middle of the room to put his pants on over his boxers. Jen evidently realizes who he is. She says, "Hank? What are you doing here?' He doesn't respond. "Hank, do you need us to take you downstairs?" He mumbles that he's fine and goes over to turn off the light by the door before he leaves. Thinking this is still too weird for words, I flip on my reading light. Just to make sure that he's gone and that I am not dreaming this. Hank walks over from the door, turns off my reading light, and leaves. I hear him trying doors down the hallway, looking for his room or the stairs or what have you. He obviously has no idea where he is.

So Jen and I sit in the room, desperately trying to process what the hell just happened. "Did he just piss on my chair?" Jen asks. "I think so." We inspect the damage. Chair, wet. Floor surrounding chair, large puddle. Splatter on the desk and certain nearby objects. Oh God. We take the chair outside. It is living in the hall forever. We decide to go downstairs to tell Merileigh, our RA. So we venture downward and wake her up at about 5:35. We tell her the story of what happened and she is almost more bewildered than we were. Jesus is awake, too, for some reason, so he volunteers to go and find Hank. We all search every bathroom and lounge looking for Hank, and we can't find him anywhere. Merileigh inspects the damage in our room. "Wow. How weird," she says. She tells us to put in a work request and she'll have Hank pay for the clean-up of the chair and floor. So I submit the work request, and everyone else goes back downstairs in search of Hank.

We find him at 6 am in his bed. Asleep. With no recollection of what happened. Merileigh explains his adventures this morning to him and we all go to sleep again.

At 11:30 this morning, Hank comes up to wake us again. He apologizes profusely, offers to pay for the damage, and is just as amazed at his actions as we were. Especially how he got to the 3rd floor in the first place. Forgiveness. No hard feelings.

In retrospect, Hank, this is a fucking awesome story. It's a little scary to wake up with someone you've barely spoken to in your room. It's weird when you wake up and they're peeing on your chair. But it's funny when they intentionally turn off all the lights before they leave.

Impending Doom

So. Hot. Going. To. Die. Seriously.

Chill Time

Today has been such a reconnecting with old friends day. Talked to Roni for a good long time this afternoon on AIM, had dinner with Jenrikay. It feels good. I'm so glad college erases the meanness of high school. It's been a chill day. I've been contemplating my Dicken's Faire garb and decided to pair a pagoda bodice with a parlor skirt, and make the bodice all beautiful and eastern and paisley print. Then we shall see about the skirt. So much excitement! Grandma and I have a project!

Knowing full well that her husband could be dead by the time summer rolls around, I asked Grandma if she would teach me how to sew on a machine this summer so I could make my Dicken's Faire dress. She said she'd be happy to teach me, and I'm sure she knows that it would take her mind off of Ed if he does indeed die before the summer rolls around. So it's our project. It'll be just like when I was young and played in her sewing room while she made me dresses. Sort of a tradition of needlework that skips generations: she the seamstress, my mother the surgeon, and me . . . what exactly to I string together?

Makeover-Makeover . . .

We just did a Mary Kay party as a favor to a friend of a friend. I am now obsessed with green eyeshadow and the prospect of owning a lipstick called "raisinberry." So, naturally, I spent money on makeup. Le sigh. I'm going to need a much bigger train case for all of my beauty products. I'm considering this a humanitarian effort because my spending money on makeup means that, eventually, Miss Sheila will get a car. My vanity brings good to other people. All is well with the world.

Yadda Yadda Yadda

This is the elaborate construction of characters if our lives were like Seinfeld . . .

Regulars:
Jen= Jerry
Jen is Jerry because she is the most balanced out of the four of us, but is randomly overcritical. Also, the world revolves around her.
Heather= Elaine
Heather is Elaine because she has never had a successful relationship with a guy, and everyone she meets think that, for some reason, she hates them. She's a pusher who hates The English Patient.
Stevi= George Costanza
Stevi is George for soooo many reasons. She is inappropriately possessive of "her seat" in Campbell Hall (J8), and sometimes irrational about inconsequential things, like finding the proper comeback.
Nikki Ferry=Kramer
Nikki is Kramer because she stumbles occasionally, is the funniest of our foursome, and works at Bargain Network . . . which is almost like Kramerica.

Recurring Characters:
Richie=Newman
Richie is Newman because he and Kramer and the schemers of the group. Also, sometimes Richie wishes Nikki would just drop dead.
Raffi= Babu
Arguably the most "ethnic" of our group, we are in continual fear that the current government will deport him because he looks like a "terrorist." Also, like Babu, Raffi has aspirations in the business world. We really hope he doesn't get deported.
Chris= Putty
Chris completely matches the randomness of Putty. Is he is all that is man? All signs point to yes.
Kevin= Banya
Banya and Jerry have a love/hate relationship, just like Jen and Kevin. Banya, like Kev, is very indecisive about his set and continually annoys Jerry by asking him for advice.
Dani= Susan
Dani just looks like Susan. And Stevi is probably cheap enough to buy Dani the most toxic of stationary glues.

Guest Stars:
David= George's Mom
Ted= George's Dad
Dan= Soup Nazi
Derek= J. Peterman
Greg= Joe DaVola
Britney= Man Hands
Segway Girl= Bubble Boy
Naked Jessica= The Girl Who Doesn't Wear a Bra
Cara= The Girl Who Got Gonnerhea from a Tractor
Gina= The Sidler
Marisa= Alternate George (From when Elaine goes into that weird alternate universe.)
Frankie= Darren (Kramer's personal secretary at Kramerica, who Kramer tries to guide. Just as Nikki has taken Frankie under her wing at Bargain Network.)
Nick Lafferty= Barry Prophet (The guy that the foursome think is on coke because he's allergic to Kramer's sweater.)
Nikki's Mom= Babs Kramer (Because if Nikki is Kramer, than her mommy should be, um, her mommy.)
Scott Ferry= Bob Sacamano (The guy Kramer always talks about but viewer's never see. Just like Nikki's brother.)
Irish Guy from Heather's "Psych Class"= Captain Nemo (Because Elaine once gave him a fake number, just as Heather gave the Irish guy a fake major.)
Phil the Movie Guy= Celia (Who Jerry only dates to play with her toys.)
Crazy Jesus Guy= Christy (Who always wears the same dress, just as he always wears the same clothes.)

I Don't Do Camp.

A little bit of background to put this post in context: I was supposed to go to Italy last summer as part of the Lion's Club Intl. Youth Exchange Program. And then people in China got SARS. And people in Europe got scared because they do not have a large wet thing separating them from China. So, the majority of European YE programs were cancelled for the summer. Rather than just telling the Chinese kids, "No, I'm sorry, but you cannot attend this years Youth Exchange because you pose a serious health threat to all others in attendance" (because that's discrimination), they decided to cancel the whole kit and caboodle. Fair, sure, but as a result I had to slave away at Hollywood Video for 5 weeks longer than I should have.

So, background out of the way, I am going on the Youth Exchange program to Italy for certain this year. Now, what I've always been a little aprehensive about concerning this trip is the fact that I have to spend a week at camp. I've never been to camp in America, let alone a foriegn country. If I can't handle stupid camp kids here, how the hell am I supposed to deal with stupid camp kids in Europe. But today, all my fears were quelled. Quelled with an email from Lion Alfredo, owner of a small, lovely hotel in the Alps who runs the so-called "camp" program in Italy. I am staying for a full week in the comfort of the Apli & Golf Hotel in Bormio, which is evidently somewhere in the Alps, near Lago di Como. Go to the website link, look at the pictures and be jealous of the glories of the Italian Alps and my quaint little hotel.

The only downside to this lovely hotel/camp thing, is the prospect of hiking. Apparently, we will be hiking. A lot. Lots and lots of hiking. In the Alps. In the summer. This I am not looking forward to. I am looking forward to the promise of a "thermal centre" (which I understand to be a kind of sauna-like thing) and visits to breweries and wineries. I am also looking forward to impressing the natives with my superior knowledge of their language, thereby making the other Americans look silly.

Swirly Blood Sadness

I am very sad today because I couldn't donate blood. My iron count was 1% below where it needs to be to donate. So, I'm back across the threshold of anemia--when I wasn't in December--and oh so sad because that means I didn't get to see all the swirly blood leaving my body. And I love swirly blood.

But I don't love anemia. I am apparently always in this state of flux. I sit continually on the borderline of health and anemia, so it flucctuates far too often. I may never get to see the swirly blood unless I start having labwork done whenever I feel like a rush of swirly blood happiness.

The only plus side of anemia is that its a really great exuse to have people wait on you all the time. So everyone else should donate blood because I cannot. You must all know the joys of watching the swirly blood. Consider it a sacrifice towards my well-being. (Plus, blood banks really need the life juice of the young. Give them your life juice. For me.)

Shameless Self Promotion

So I've been nominated for Vice President, Secretary and Director of WETT. And I can only run for two positions. And I decided that I would actually be a really kickass secretary. My case is argued thusly:
1. I fucking love office supplies. A secretary would definitely need to love office supplies. And I sure do.
2. I maintain my blog adequately and have learned to change templates and all that, so I think I can probably power the WETT website off of Blogger for easy update access.
3. I have an eye for design: I venture that I can make a rockin' sweetass program and flyers because I like pretty things. Pretty things like the girl on my blog.
So, seriously, vote me for WETT secretary. Because I will kick so much ass.

Oooooooh . . . pretties . . .

After growing steadily jealous of everyone else I know having interesting, original-looking blogs, I have chosen to join the club. I am not a fan of the hard-to-read, super-skinny little font boxes, but I absolutely love the graphic on this far too much to give it up just yet. She's so pretty. Now that I have joined your ranks, you creative blog-skin lovers, I will probably change this kind of often. Kind of.

Penny Lane

I am so glad that I was able to do the scene for Marcus. It was probably one of the best theatrical experiences of my life. It was the most professional work I've ever done for anything, and that's probably because there were so few of us there. Just me, Camden, Marcus, Dana and a camera.

Meeting my William Miller made me feel immediately comfortable as Penny Lane. Camden is the most genial person. He's very amicable and exceptionally well-spoken, and yet so utterly quirky. All that aside, he's a very good actor and takes his work seriously. Being cute and flirtatious is for rehearsal time and between takes. (I took off my jacket to reveal my backless, strapless shirt at one point during our line running sessions, at which he said, "Oh, good. Now I won't have to act.") There is none of that with him while in character. Being so likeable makes him, of course, very easy to work with. So I think our rapport played well onscreen, despite having no rehearsals and having never met before.

Marcus found the most amazing location for the scene to be shot. The script dictates that it's backstage at an outdoor concert somewhere in Boston. We filmed in the bowels of the LMU distribution center because the winding corridors and massive loading dock area really look like the loading areas of a stadium venue. We played a few lines off the ladder at the loading dock, which I think was the point where I really started getting into it. I just hope that my ladder work turns out as well on film as I felt it did.

In addition to filming, Marcus took me to see Hurlyburly at the MET theatre (overall good production, but I'll probably forget it in favor of the film), we had lunch with Kate and Nolan, and I spent too much money on makeup. (My excuse is that I needed two particular items for the film, and the rest was impulse buy.)

Requiem for a Dead Cat

Sadly, Patches Devourer of Souls fell into the shadows sometime on Friday night. It was pretty sad watching the cat in those last hours. He theoretically should have died six years ago (he's 19), but he was never allowed to run out of the house and die on his own as cats often do. So he spent his last few hours wallowing in pain, slowly dragging himself off his dingy kitty bed to die under the heater because Fernando wouldn't take him to the vet to have him put down. I walked by the cat several times thinking he had gone quietly under, only to see him lift his matted head and cry out a cry that seemed to say, "Please step on my neck and end my misery!" Finally, when I walked to the bathroom to get my pills, I noticed that the cat's limp, skeletal body had been replaced by a cat-angel candle holder with a lit votive in it and two Tibetan idols. Patches Devourer of Souls, who lived far longer than any cat should, probably having spent the last six years in the equivilant of cat purgatory, devours souls no longer. For his little kitty soul is free.

"What kind of beer?" --Penny Lane (Kate Hudson), Almost Famous

I'm all out of ideas for my current art history paper-writing endeavor. The good news is, however, that it's due Thursday morning at 9 and I am already on my 4th page out of the 4-5 page requirement. So I break from this to discuss Almost Famous.

Marcus's cinematography/editing project is to film a scene from a pre-existing film in his own way. So he chose Almost Famous, Penny and William's confrontation scene. ("You're too sweet for rock'n'roll." "Sweet? Where do you get off?") I'd made the decision to visit him this weekend, and he told me a few days ago that he was probably going to film the scene while I'm down there. Then he forayed into his explanatory mode, which to me always sounds slightly apologetic if the explanation involves me in any way at all. He told me that he isn't asking me to be Penny Lane because he already used me for a project and he doesn't want the class to think he isn't using actors. And he said all this as though he expected me to be upset that I wouldn't get to be Penny, as though it were a betrayal of the metaphor we always use about me being to him what this "Penny Lane" was to Cameron Crowe. And then yesterday, he called me and asked me to be Penny. The people he wanted couldn't do it. Time conflicts and whatnot.

But here's my reservation: no one in their right mind would ever cast me as Penny Lane. I do not have the right look. At all. I'm not appropriate for the era, and I don't know how to do this character in any way other than Kate Hudson's portrayal. I'm too dark for that kind of rock'n'roll. I'm so much more believable as Toni Colette's role in Velvet Goldmine. I need to be a character from a different movie about rock in the 70's. One that isn't so reliant on that hippie look. I don't think this is going to turn out very well for my part.

"I know all about your valhalla of decadence." --Elaine (Frances McDormand), Almost Famous

This weekend is a spring visiting weekend for prospective UCSB students. There are parents and high school seniors everywhere. Fucking everywhere. It's scary. Last night, as my roommates and our friends set out a drinkin' prior to a really rockin' 80's themed party, we found one of these prospective freshmen among us. He was visiting a friend of our friend, who joined us in our revelry. I'm sure his impression of our college experience here is . . . stellar. Here's some of my advice to him after about 8 shots of Southern Comfort:

"Listen, Taryn, I don't want you to think that this is all we do, okay? We don't always live in this valhalla of drunken decadence. I mean, come on, look at me. I'm ridiculously drunk and I can still say the word 'valhalla.' That's amazing, right? I mean, I'm an English major, a drunken English major and I can still say 'valhalla.' So, I mean, that's pretty good right? I've said 'valhalla,' um, a few times now and I am, what, 8 shots deep? So, yeah. My vocabulary is pretty unaffected if I can still say 'valhalla' while drunk."

Paper Should Cost So Much Less Than This

College textbook pricing defies logic.

Exhibit A: Dinosaurs: The Textbook
1. This book is used.
2. This book is 1/2 inch thick.
3. This book is paperback.

And yet it costs . . . $72 dollars.

I will be getting, oh, about $15 bucks for it at the end of the quarter when I sell it back. Or less.

Does this make sense at all?

Dorm Sweet Dorm

I have returned to the comfort of my dorm room after my week-long adventure with my parents. Good Jesus, am I ever glad to be back in my dorm room!

Like everyone, I do miss my parents. But I only miss them enough to want to see them for a few days. I don't miss them enough to spend every waking moment with them for a week, and therein lies the problem with my Spring Break. My mother irks me to no end. She's fine for a little while, and then slowly but suddenly, I start to twitch with irritation every time she opens her mouth. I do this not because she's painfully stupid. She's a nurse, an educated lady. I do this because she ruins perfectly good silences with innane commentary about whatever is outside the window. I don't understand why people feel the need to fill every singly silence with such irritating noise. We are not a family of talkers, Mom. We never have been. We don't relate to one another. This is not helping! Don't get me wrong, the woman isn't all this bad. I'm sure the reason I find her so annoying is simply because she's my mother. She had knee surgery a couple of years ago, and suddenly during this trip her good knee began to flare up (probably as a result of having to favor it for so long). So I took care of her and iced her down and everything for the first few days, like the good daughter that I've always presented myself to be around them. And then, as soon as we had left the San Diego part of our trip behind and began our much too lengthy drive to Arizona, I was no longer forgiving of her gimpiness. Rather, she was irritating AND malfunctioning.

My father and I spent a good 5 days wandering around San Diego while my mother was at her AORN conference and not unknowingly making me insane. San Diego was not as sunny as we had expected, so it felt very much like being in the Bay Area in springtime. Only, not as foggy. We went to the most amazing Wild Animal Park and the less amazing San Diego Zoo (which I cannot believe is so "world famous" in comparison to the Wild Animal Park, considering the sheer size and quality of the enclosures for the Zoo animals--so much smaller than expected). My father, sailor that he is, took me to every single Naval base in the San Diego area--and there are at least 4 of them. He drove me around the SD Naval Base, showed me places his ships were docked and where he had stayed and etc when he was stationed there. We drove to the North Island base on Coronado and all through the island. He bought me things. Because Daddy loves me best. (And the base is dirt cheap for all kinds of things. Where else in the world are you going to find Converse All Stars for 20 bucks a pair?) We drove around downtown SD looking for my father's old house, and finding a baptist church with the following sign on the marquee:

"Under same management for over 2000 years."

Our adventures also led us to SeaWorld one evening when the park was closed to everyone but AORN conference goers. Fun times were had by all as we rented my mother a wheelchair and I pushed her around the park at high speeds. It was essentially 4 hours of hopping from one show to another, with a free meal somewhere in between. But SeaWorld also contained the most awesome event of the entire vacation: I fed a dolphin. And got to pet him, too. This is me getting one step closer to being able to actually swim with one.

The drive from SD to Arizona was long and warm and a lot of me trying to read while my mother pointed out how dry everything is. ("Yes, Mom. It's a desert.") I got a sunburn from the UV rays penetrating the window. I was not happy. We got into Arizona very late that night, and got to stay in the swankiest cheap hotel ever. I highly recommend the Wellesley Inn & Suites. The best hotel you can get for $80 bucks a night (and thats for 3 people). I spent the subsequent two afternoons at baseball parks for A's Spring Training. My team lost both games. (Adam says I must have brought them bad luck.) I had to spend about 3 hours each afternoon in the hot sun. Barry Zito was not pitching (which is why we really lost). And I didn't get any autographs. Bah. If I'm going to spend 3 hours at a ballpark in the sun, not get autographs, and not get to see Zito pitch, then I may as well do it at my own ballpark! No more driving to Arizona for me! Besides, games are much more fun at our park in Oakland anyway. Ten times as exciting. (And garlic fries.)

I tried to convince my parents to drive all the way from Phoenix to Santa Barbara last night, but they gave up around Malibu Canyon and forced me to stay in a janky little inn where I had to sleep on the floor with no extra blankets or pillows because they didn't have any at the front desk. This is what I get for asking to stop and have food. Which is funny, because I thought my punishment for wanting to eat was having to eat in this creepy little middle of the desert cafe. It was the kind of place that, if my life were a movie, would have been run entirely by the dead. Or, if my life were a different movie, dead cowboys. So, needless to say I am glad to be back in SB with my roommates, because here I have a bed and sheets and blankets and pillows. And as far as I know, I have not yet been served food by a dead person.

I Have Head Explodey!

. . . and not in the good way.

Just took the hardest final ever. Art history is evil. Can no longer form coherent sentences. So much writing. 10 short answer analysis sections. 2 real essays. Took entire 3 hours. Couldn't find TA. Waited groggy outside Campbell Hall for her to give me back paper. Going to die now.

"I never went to bed with anybody for a role--that's true. I never got any roles, either." --Carla, Kennedy's Children by Robert Patrick

Booked my flight home today! Yay!

I probably shouldn't be this excited about going home just to wake up early and drive to DVC to judge the State Forensics Tournament--something I myself never got to go to in high school, despite all my whoreing and husband killing and transsexualism. Mind you, I was not actually a whore, transsexual or husband killer, but all Dramatic Interp kids take on a little bit of the people they play. If not because you love your character, then because you've spent a good year working on becoming them and understanding them and being them on Saturday mornings at 8 AM in front of a room full of strangers who are also playing at being someone. While I loved Carla and was Carla, I can't deny that there are parts of me that are Agnes and Sarah and Hedwig. I can't deny that there are parts of my abandoned characters in me, either. I am a little bit Betty and a little bit Amneris and (apparently) more than a little bit Joan of Arc.

But judging at State is exciting. Being at State is exciting. Being around exceptionally talented kids is horribly exciting. Being able to see said horribly talented kids doing their interps, their extemps, their expos, their debates, their oratories--that's exciting. And being with my old coach and my teammates is exciting.

And now that I'm thinking back on it and how much I really did love it, I wish I hadn't gotten so overwhelmed. I wish I hadn't given up. I wish I'd not given up on Hedwig just because my audience didn't understand her. Hell, no one understood Carla, but I made people love her because I did. And I should have treated all the characters I played that way. But instead, I just gave up. There were so many factors outside of it though. I wasn't even myself, then. And if I wasn't me, how can I be expected to be someone else when I've got nothing to work with?

Seaweed and Brine

Today is too beautiful for words. Spent a good three hours reading in the sun on the beach. It was absolutely marvelous. Heather and I are planning a picnic for Thursday afternoon. We will make sandwiches in the dining commons, and smuggle them out in our carefully concealed tupperware so that we may take them to the beach later for snacking. And we'll go swimming! And it will be marvelous!

Good gods, I smell so much like salt. But it's good salt. Salt and Coppertone.

I Am Not a Stranger to the Rain

I'm on the 3rd page of my art history paper (due Thursday) and I think it's a good time to stop writing important things and tell my rainy day story from last week, seeing as today is, again, a rainy day.

Santa Barbara has this new thing weatherwise. It's quite extraordinary. It's called rain. And it will only begin to do this at 9:40 am when I leave my English class and have to walk a good long ways to the HSSB. Santa Barbara, being a quaint seaside city, much like Venice, is not equipped to deal with massive amounts of rain, much like Venice. Last Wednesday at precisely 9:40 am as I left English, it began to rain. Big, scary, heavy rain. And it didn't stop. And it got much, much worse as the day went on. I was okay while I was in class, and even fine while walking back from Italian. The real terrors came at about 3:30 in the afternoon as I decided to brave the weather and get coffee before my Electra class. Little did I know what was about to unfold . . .

(note: I am switching to present tense for Dave Eggers style realism.)

It is really fucking wet outside! There are people wearing garbage bags like capes in an attempt to keep their backpacks dry. I scurried about with my hood up, gloves on, and my Eugene O'Neill stuffed nicely inside my coat to keep him dry. (In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have cared so much about a dead playwright's book. I could have just bought another one.) I choose my steps very carefully when going down one of the many flights of hillside stairs at UCSB because they are covered in mud that has slid off the hillsides. I choose my steps even more carefully as I walk along the lagoon path, which is flooded in certain areas with a mixture of landmud from the shoddy areas of the faculty club green and lagoon water. It is raining exceptionally hard. The front of my person is literally drenched. This is really uncomfortable. I make it all the way to the UCen unharmed. And then, right outside the fucking door, of all places, I fall flat on my ass. And hard, too. So, now I am wet pretty much everywhere. And my ass hurts.

I pick myself up, brush myself off (as though it would help), and head into the UCen to nab some coffee from Nicoletti's. I was hoping sympathy coffee from Brian the Barista, but no such luck. I pay for my coffee, and sit down on one of the nice, warm, dry UCen chairs for a bit and watch the rain through the picture window. After a good ten minutes, I brave the rain again. I think it literally must be worse now, rainwise. Definitely heavier and even more unrelenting. I trek to the HSSB through several large puddles that have accumulated outside of the Art Museum. Large, unseen puddles are proof that SB was not equipped to handle deluge. The water has soaked entirely through my All-Stars. And my socks. The next hour will be very, very uncomfortable. I have wet pants and wet feet. I am not a happy camper.

I climb the water-logged steps of the HSSB and squeak my way down the hallway to class. Everyone who has made it there before me is also soaked. Aditi still has water on her face that she has neglected to brush off. We moan about how miserable it is. And how miserable we are. This is the most uncomfortable hour of our lives.

Once the hour is up, I brave the rain again. It's still wet, but less so now. I make it down to flights of HSSB stairs before my foot lands in a puddle and a fall--again--on the landing. Ass is even more wet. Left side of body is now in a lot of wet, cold, uncomfortable, rainy pain. I whimper to myself as I very fucking carefully descend. I feel a bit like Myrrah, that I'm dissolving into tears, but it's really more like tears are dissolving me. I whimper all the way home.

And halfway there. I decide Raffi's place is a lot closer than mine. So I pop up at his door for sympathy and shelter and warmth. Kitties don't like this much water! I am soaking. My hair is soaking and I had a fucking hood on. Rafe blow dries me--hair to feet. With his hairdryer. It is both kind and humiliating, but, hey, I fell fucking twice in the rain. This is the highlight of my day.

Mmmmmm . . . . Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Most of my day I've spent sleeping. I do not entirely know why. I'm sure somehow this is my body's very odd way of attempting to make up for the missed sleep I got this weekend. My body knows full well that said sleep can not actually be made up. So, with that in mind, I think maybe my body is trying to fuck me over. Well, I've got news for you body . . . I'm not gonna take it! I'll sleep when I want to and wake up when I want to and you can't make me do or say anything! My mind is much more powerful than you and you ought to know it, you frail, weak peice of flesh!

If I Were a Grand Slam . . . (sung to the tune of "If I Were a Rich Man," just in case that didn't immediately pop into your head like it should have)

Spent the past two weeks doing so much work regarding last Friday's V-Day Extravaganza and this weekend's upcoming production of The Vagina Monologues that I hardly had time to sleep or breathe or any other such vital function. And then this weekend happened. And despite rehearsal from forever until the end of time on Sunday night . . . I suddenly had only time to sleep and breathe.

I don't think I'd ever been so bored in my life. Last night, I literally spent a half hour staring at objects in my roommate's possession. I was awake then, and I couldn't actually bring myself to sleep. (Funny how "after you get what you want you don't want it," isn't it? Who knew Irving Berlin songs could be so prophetic.) I could call this relaxing, I suppose. But relaxing is a term I generally reserve for reading in a hot bath or sitting in a spa or visiting the masseuse I don't actually have. Relaxing is not resorting to asking your roommates such questions as: "If you were a menu item at Denny's, what would you be?"

And just FYI, Jen is Cheesesticks, Heather is French Toast and I am a Milkshake. Raffi, when later asked this question, supplied me with the Denny's menu item in the title.

Sloth Isn't That Much of a Sin . . . Is It?

Kate said that her only desire once she got to college was to sleep. Judging by the state of my room and the moment, I think it just might be true.

Last night, I was up talking with Kevin and Jen until 2:30 am. At which point, they left and I went to sleep. I have no idea what happened until about 9 am, when Jen's alarm went off and I roll over to find the two of them curled up in opposite corners of the futon . . . which Kevin had somehow taken down in the middle of the morning without rousting me. I went back to sleep until noon.

Right now, Kevin is sprawled out on my bed--aka "the couch"--napping under the glow of a halogen lamp. Jennifer has crawled up to her roost for ten minutes of mid-midterm studying naptime. And those sleepy motherfuckers are making me tired as hell. I yawn just knowing that they are here! Here and tired!

Kevin's sloth-like nature must be rubbing off on me. He has decreased my desire to do any sort of work merely by being in the same room. I want him to see Sevenfor the sloth-murder, but at the same time I admire his dedication to laziness and wish he were a sort of superhero. If he were indeed a superhero, he would be the patron and savior of college students everywhere.

Who do you have to fuck to get a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits around here?

Being that I have two papers rapidly approaching, I naturally have no inclination to write anything. (Not even here, really, which explains the brief hiatus.)

I've got one paper on the treatment of women in the poetry of Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift and another on . . . well, I haven't chosen yet, but it's for art history and it will inevitably involve a Renaissance altarpeice of some variety. But, as I have no school on Fridays this quarter, I like to pretend that Thursday is my Friday and thusly, I prefer not to do a whole lot of work on Thursday. Friday I may spend the day slaving away at my computer and writing a hefty load of bollux.

For now, I adjourn to being mildly British and enjoying my cup of chai tea. Someone must find me biscuits.

Sideshow Stevi

I've made a decision: no matter what other wonderful, fantastic things I do in my life (being an English teacher, winning a Pulitzer, and getting an Academy Nom for Original Screenplay . . . or Adapted, I don't care) I am going to become an expert on Carnival Sideshows.

And I am totally serious.

I have a fascination with Carnie folk. The way the live their rootless lives as American gypsies, the wandering minstrels of their era. The social acceptance of treating those with unique genetic anomilies as exhibits. The endurance of the freakshow tradition. The seemingly contradictory view that the freakshow allows an outlet for such genetic anomolies to "make a living just by being themselves." The silmultaneous rise of the burlesque show as both art and entertainment. It's all fascinating.

Almost as fascinating as genuine sideshow performers is the way a "gaff" is pulled off. Half the time, customers would never know if they were seeing the genuine article or a falsification. Siamese twins were "constructed" by carnival management because the condition is exceptionally rare, and having grown twins was even more of an anomily due to the low survival rates of such conjoined siblings during the heyday of the carnival era. Hermaphrodites were constructed using prosthetics. Parasitic twins (a half-formed twin attached somewhere on the abdomen to the host twin, essentially a failed attempted at the development of conjoined twins; parasitic twins have no brains or hearts but subsist on the bloodflow of the host twin, like an extra limb) were attached with simple paste and children's dolls. People added extra limbs the same way. (People born with so-called "extra limbs" are actually a subclassification of individuals born with parasitic twins, called dypigus, meaning that the lower half of the body is reduplicated. It's like having a parasitic twin, but having one that can actually function in a near-normal way.) Then there are the fake lycans. The fake bearded ladies. The faux mentalists. And so on.

The world of the carnival sideshow is so inherently intriguging because of the blurred lines between fiction and reality. It's a social world of the past. A form of entertainment that is no longer PC. By modern standards, it must be some violation of civil rights and liberties, though most carnival showfolk joined-up willingly. I like its inherent contradictions, its mysteries, its story.

The only thing that even comes close to being a carnival sideshow in our society, is probably reality TV.

I Guess the Renaissance Really is Over.

The Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire has been closed permanantly. It's over. No more two hour drives from my house to Hollister. I feel like I've been kicked square in the chest. I spend four years collecting a great costume, each year promising myself some silly new accessory so that the outfit is never really complete and I always have a good excuse to spend a great deal of my hard earned money. ("But Mom, this year I promised myself a set of leather handcuffs and a new cat o' nine. That's why I spent 100 dollars at the faire!") This year I was finally going to get a tankard to put in the tankard strap I bought 4 years ago. I guess I'm not getting it from that faire.

I guess its a little silly to be this upset that the NorCal faire is gone. It's not like its the only one. (AND THANK GOD!) The Heart of the Forest Faire, I hear, is very lovely, and in the location that NorCal Faire used to be in the late 80's and early 90's. But NorCal faire was the big faire, and it was my faire. And it has all kinds of stupid sentimental value behind it. And for a few years, it was only 30 minutes from my house! I could always go to Faire then. But like I said, its not the only faire. I found out that Heart of the Forest Faire happens here in Santa Barbara, as well. And during Spring quarter, too! But there goes all the familiarity that I miss about NorCal Faire. There's always SoCal Faire, but that is a two hour drive I'd be making without my friends . . . or my crappy little un-Renaissance white Prizm.

Sigh.

I shouldn't be this crushed. But I am.

Pool Sharks.

I am very bad at pool. Actually, we are all pretty bad at pool--Jen, Heather and I, I mean. In a bout of Saturday Night Boredom, we decided to drag Raffi along to play some pool in DeAnza. It was a fairly even match, considering the teams (me with Raffi, and my roommates against us). Even if only because we are all so terrifically bad at the game. Jen and I rarely sink any shots. I am known to scratch on breaks. Heather and Raffi are of much better skill . . . except for the scratches . . . or sinking shots for the other team. Our games last forever because none of us possess the simple abilities to execute the shots that we can clearly, through clever observations of physics and geometry, see. Let's just say that I really shouldn't have titled this entry "Pool Sharks" as none of us seem to live up to the name.

But Jen is determined that if we play a game or two of pool a day, or at least as often as we can, that we can improve. And this is true. Today's three game series with Kevin as a fourth showed much improvement over last night (until in the 3rd game, when Kevin and I spent 20 minutes trying to sink the 8 ball and failing miserably . . . then I think we just stoppd caring). Now, if I said that my team (last night, Stevi-Raffi, today, Stevi-Kevin) lost every single game we played, you'd have to assume that Jen and Heather are actually pretty good at pool. But this assumption would be wholly incorrect. They are no better than us, really. They just never get an oppurtunity to go for the 8 ball and, therefore, never get the oppurtunity to scratch on the 8 ball. They win simply because we fail. Not because they're (dare I say it?) good at pool.
I think this bit of dialogue between Raffi and me last night in the pool room is so good that it needs to be shared:

(after scratching on the 8 ball to lose our second game that night)

Me: I am very bad at this. I should just give up and kill myself now.

Raffi: Ahh. Don't do that. After all, it is only pool.

Me: You're right. Let's go get ice cream.

Raffi: Wow. Crisis averted. You almost killed yourself. Thank God I stepped in.

Me: Eh, I'm pretty easy to distract.

That last bit, that's probably why I'm not very good at pool.

Le cough. Le hack. Le sigh.

I was practially glowing last quarter because the move from the Bay to Santa Barbara had proven quite fruitful for my health. For once in my life, I wasn't ill every other week. In fact, I could breathe easily, sleep well, etc. In general, an improvement over the last four years of my life. But I go home for break, and pick up a slight cold. Annoying, yes, but a vast improvement over that one week in high school where I swear I had the bubonic plague . . . and all other subsequent high school illnesses, for that matter. And I got over it quickly, which was even more of a miracle because my normal immune system must have some sort of deficiency. But despite all that good fortune, I return to campus and I am smacked in the face with a cold. Admittedly, this one is far superior to most colds Ive had. The sore throat has passed and now I am left with a stuffy nose . . . that would seem to contain more mucus than I thought humanly possible. Nevertheless, it doesn't make me happy. I long for last quarter, where I lived happily and disease free!

I did fulfill my long-ago promise to Jake to see a doctor before the end of the year, though. I did it right on the wire: December 31st. However, I did it. Apparently, there really isn't anything wrong with me. Not anemic. Not diabetic. Not iron deficient. I'm just little. And frail. (All the rage with the gents during the French revolution, so I'm told. Doesn't everyone love a waif?) My uterus is, however, tilted slightly to the left. I don't know what that means. It's apparently not a bad thing. It's just a quaint abnormailty.

They also did some blood tests during my visit to the doctor's office. Let me tell you, having blood drawn is possibly the coolest thing in existence. It may have been some of the most medically related fun I've ever had in my life. I couldn't stop laughing. It was great! Blood is all swirly and there's just so much of it! And they can fill tubes with blood instantaneously! My god, why is blood so fucking cool?! Why did no one tell me blood was this cool? I would have dontated blood all the time in high school had I known! Oh, had I only known. College blood drives, here I come!

And we're back.

Back in Santa Barbara. Back in my dorm. Back in class. Back . . . here.

But here is a pretty good place for me, usually. I'm more sane here than I've ever been before. And that's saying a lot, I think.

Only here can I listen to No Doubt's "Simple Kind of Life" with my roommate singing along (in her perfect, perfect Gwen-like pitch) and not be in tears. I promised myself in the wee hours of New Year's Day (after several episodes of "Sex & the City") that these kinds of things would no longer bother me. It's four days into the new year and I'm succeeding. We shall see how long this lasts.

Regardless, I love being back here in my dark little room with Jen and Heather--Jen singing along to whatever CD she has on, Heather on the phone with someone. It feels right. It also feels right to be walking around here and rearranging things to accomodate our Christmas gifts and all the other extra stuff we returned with.

It even feels right to be wandering through the bookstore and realize that I got the most obscure of all English 10 professors. Everyone else has a good four books on their reading list, and most include at least one Toni Morrison novel (Sidenote: Marcus bought me her new book, the aptly titled Love, for our anniversary.) . . . my professor chose two books, both of which I have never heard of in my life. In the best case, this class turns out to be absolutely fascinating and the books are both some of the most interesting things I've never heard of. In the worst case, it blows because the novels chosen are reminiscent of Melville's Billy Budd, voted worst book every by students in Mrs. Pasternak's 2nd period AP English Lit class in 2003. Tomorrow morning shall tell.

We'll see if I can wake up at 7:40 of my own volition.

Heather and I are horrible human beings. The last of our fish has died.

Well, to be totally technical, we had to kill it. It sounds horrible, but let's set a couple things straight: a) it would have died anyway over the break and b) it was Selina's idea.

The fish had several options facing it, all of which included its eminent demise:
1. We leave it in the tank for three weeks, during which it dies of starvation because the only food tablets available last for a maximum of two weeks.
2. We put it in a cup and take it home with one of us. This sounds like a good idea at first, but when you think about it the fish would die on the long rides to our varius destinations. There is no way in hell Jen was going to be able to take a fish in a cup on the Greyhound down to LA. I probably could have taken it home to Crockett . . . if I were driving the five hours straight and not spending the duration of my week in Santa Monica with Marcus. (This would also involve putting a fish on a bus.) Finally, Heather lives a whole 9 hour drive from school. And I'm sure the fish would feeze to death before she reached Tahoe.
3. We flush the little fucker. The force kills him immediately.
4. Selina suggests we set him free in the lagoon . . . and let the saltwater cause it to die of shock within 30 seconds.

We went with option number four. And we set him free in the lagoon . . . he tried to swim back to us, and thrashed about violently in the shallows of the lagoon as the salt entered his gills. It was horrifying. We're fucking murderers. What kind of vegetarians are we?

I think this is it for us and dorm room pets, though. So its good news for all other living creatures we encounter.

I love the Holidays!!!!!

Yuletide is the bestest season . . . EVER!!!

The roommates and I are having Christmas tonight. I'm so excited. Plus, Heather and I get to have our birthdays tonight, too. (Heather was born two days after Christmas and I was born nine days after Christmas.) I'm such an egocentric whore. I love all Holidays that involve centering at least some sort of attention on myself. Be it by the use of food or gifts, I care not. So long as its all about me.

You know, and the spirit of giving and all that rot.

I kid. I'm a sucker for buying people presents, too. I like to spend money on people almost as much as spending money on myself. But, again, I can't discuss the supercool things I got for people because those snoopy bastards are probably reading this. However, I can say that Raffi and I have impeccable taste.

I left Raffi his gift in his room on Saturday night, so it would be waiting for him when he got back from his evil math final. I got him Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies, because I'm sure that at least part of the spirit of Christmas involves the macabre deaths of unsuspecting children. Unbeknownst to me, he had gotten me the same book. It's all crazy-like! But, upon opening his gift, he returned the copy he got for me and traded it in for Amphigorey, Too. Now I have them all. But that's crazy. It's like we share a brain. A brain that delights in macabre demises, apparently.

I took a final this morning at 8 am. During which I wrote an essay about setting a production of Tartuffe in a Catholic High School (because the closest thing to 17th century French class structure is high school) and another essay about how the Olympics are a capitalist marketing tool that sells merchandise degrading the culture of the host countries/cities, with specific reference to the 2002 winter games in Salt Lake wherein pins featuring bicycling LDS missionaries and green jello made a mockery of American religions.

My brain does funny things when it has to think and hasn't really gotten a good rest.

Lalalalala . . . I was born at the wrong time of the year! Japanese restaurants are never open on my birthday and there are no theatrical productions running in the city that are of note. My mom and I were trying to plan what to do on my birthday. We were going to go to Teatro Zinzanni . . . until we realized that it would be $125 per person ($500 for a CARNIVAL????) plus another $40 that night in gratuity for the wait staff. Fuck that. I'll just put on my own show!

God, I'm tired.

So it's dead week, and there is literally nothing to do. One can only spend so much time studying, after all. Brooks on the 2nd floor is quoted as saying this about weekends in Santa Barbara: "It's so boring here. The only things to do are drink, study or spend money." It's sad, but true. I don't drink, because my idea of a good time with alcohol is getting together with a bunch of intellectual friends, getting drunk and trying to play word games or charades . . . and that kind of shit just doesn't go down in Santa Barbara. But it should. I don't really want to study just yet. I have a final Saturday in theatre . . . which I don't think will be very hard at all. However, I have to get up before 8 am to take it. That doesn't make me happy. After that, my next final is on Monday. At noon. And it's linguistics. So I'll get my study on a little later in the weekend. This leaves me with one choice: spend money.

I went downtown today to finalize my Christmas shopping. Or at least to bring it closer to its inevitable end. I bought a lot of books for people. I am not at liberty to say what books or for whom, because the intended recipients read this weblog and I don't want those snooping bastards to find out and ruin the suprise. Let it be said, however, that Barnes & Noble and Borders booksellers are just a little bit richer today because of me.

I'm also noticing that because drinking, studying, and spending money are the only things to do on weekends around here . . . and because I usually do the latter . . . my favorite stores on State Street are getting a little old due to biweekly visitation. New Deal is my favorite place for Swingwear, but the prices are tailored to the budget of some movie star's neice who just happens to have a very big place in the Santa Barbara hills. Plus, I know for a fact I can find those dresses at half the price if I look hard enough on the Macy's and JC Penny's clearance racks. (I just did that very thing over Thanksgiving break.) Midnite Sun is the closest thing to Goth-coture that you'll find on State . . . but it's also a smidge pricey . . . and I've only seen one skirt in there that I cannot live without. I mostly just buy their raunchy underwear. The girl's stuff continually changes. The guy's stuff doesn't. This is why it's hard to find cool shirts for Marcus there. In fact, thats a problem with a lot of the boutiques on State: 75% female oriented, 25% male oriented. Marcus likes clothing. He just doesn't have nice clothing. And it's my mission to find him some sort of style. State Street boutiques are not helping me here. Scavenge is alright, but they should lower their prices a bit, seeing as they don't do any business post-Halloween . . . and I really just want a pair of extra-cheap boots from them. And maybe a Dickie's jacket. So I'm forced to go shopping in Reference, because there is no Forever 21 on State and the stores are practically sisters, which has very little black most of the year. But it's winter right now. Black is in. But if I want any of it, I'm apparently going to have to be preppy-goth . . . or start building up my professional teacher's wardrobe.

It's really hard to have a good Thanksgiving under the following circumstances:
a. You're a vegetarian.
b. Your Grandmother is from the South/Midwest . . . and doesn't know how to cook for vegetarians.
c. You have a very small family.
d. Said very small family is largely uneccentric and uninteresting.
e. Grandfather is dying of cancer.
But given all of these circumstances, Turkey Day wasn't horrible. It was okay. I wasn't expecting a whole lot more than that, anyway. I've accepted the fact that my grandmother will always forget to make vegetarian food. (I usually spend Thanksgiving munching on potatoes. Which is okay by me.) It's the Ed dying part that blows. He's the nicest, most loving man in the world and he really doesn't deserve to spend the remainder of his days in so much pain. Ed's the kind of guy who should die in a freak repelling accident, or in a rockslide. Or by falling into a grapepress. He should die on a Boy Scout Trip (since he's been Scoutmastering for 50 plus years), or making wine. Either way, he'd go out doing what he loves. His heart has never been used; it beat far too slowly. Only when he met my grandmother 12 years ago did he have a pacemaker put in. He has all the will and strength of someone half his age. But now his body is riddled with the cancer that so kindly lodged itself in his lungs after working for years as a plumber in asbestos-ridden homes and ships. Ed doesn't deserve to die just because there were no building codes back in the day. But he will. And it probably won't be very long until then. And without Ed, I fear my hometown will be entirely devoured in darkness.

But on a far less depressing note, my weekend at home was alright. Good, in fact, if ya' wanna get all technical and stuff. I was very anxious to get back and see mia famiglia, despite the mask I put on that I don't miss them. I do miss them a little teensy bit. I spent a lot of good quality time with my mums, which is a whole lot different than spending good quality time with a dictionary, let me tell you. We rummaged around department stores on the absolute worst of shopping days in an attempt to find me a decent winter coat. But I'm a finicky bitch: all the coats that fit me were ugly, and the ones that I liked didn't fit. Bugger me. I did however find the following wonders that I cannot have until Christmas (because that's how my mom shops for me, takes me out and lets me get things that I deem cool, but hides them from me and wraps them up for Christmas . . . so much for the element of suprise): a pair of vintage white lace knee high Victorian boots, a purse in the shape of a corset, yet another swing dress . . . and a new glass pen from Dicken's Fair.

Dicken's Fair is by far my new favorite Christmas tradition. Because it's just a San Francisco thing, it feels far more authentic than RenFaire . . . and I prefer Victorian garb to RenGarb by far, anyway. Plus it's always nice when your parents indulge your bizarre costume party fantasies and pay your admission and food. Alas, I was not in garb. Because this was unexpected. My mother just woke me up and announced we were going . . . and then I realized that my corsets were still in Santa Barbara. Teach me to leave them behind!

Plus, I got to see The Best Friend, whom I have been missing terribly. All in all, a lovely trip back home to the bay.

And it is officially only 13 more days til Big Bad Voodoo Daddy! I cannot contain my excitement.

745.

That's my number.

I am the 745th girl to play J.J.'s bongo drums.

Let me elaborate: J.J. is this blind music major that I see around campus. He's really friendly--so much so that it sometimes borders on annoying--and he's been doing this experiment-type thing about girls playing the bongos. I am not actually entirely certain about what, per say, this is, but I do know this: this is an awesome way to meet women. Hell, if I had a quaint disability such as blindness (hey, I'm halfway there!) I would totally come up with something as novel as this to meet people. Raffi and I were returning a game to the front desk in San Raf, and J.J. walked by us and started talking to us about music. At one point he takes these bongos out of his backpack and asks me if I would play them for him. I confess that I have no musical talent, but he asks me to play anyway. He demonstates how to do a beat and I fail fucking miserably. He then asks me to do a drumroll. Apparently, I do such a kickass German drumroll that I get to go on his special list. "You just say that. All the girls are on the special list, aren't they?" says Raffi. J.J. proves him wrong by reciting to us the entirety of the special list, with reasons for why some of them were on there if they were extra special. German drumrolls are apparently extra special.

I found the perfect Christmas card! It's all weird and kinda spooky and Edward Gorey-fied . . . but it is out of stock on Gorey Details! I am greatly dismayed. No one will have a spookified Christmas if they cannot have Christmas with the Great Veiled Bear. I am deeply saddened. Deeply.

I am spending way too much quality time with my dictionary.

I made friends with an ex-con on the bus home from LA yesterday.

Yep, it was fun. All I wanted to do was read my art history textbook. All he wanted to do was talk to someone. In a way, it's kind of sad. But I learned a whole lot about how to not break my parole and still have fun! This guy, a tall, muscular, mustachioed dude, was just getting back from a 15 day parole pass trip to Ontario, CA. (See, when you're on parole, you are limited to a 50 mile radius of your hometown, and you can get a pass to vacation outside of that area so that if you are pulled over you are not in violation of your parole. He is wise in the ways of jail.) He went down there to hook up with some college girl and ended up hooking up with her mom, instead. He showed me a picture. She was wearing a black cowboy hat atop her dark curls. It made her look like she was from New Jersey. He then told me about his dead friend, who was recently hit by a train. He showed me pictures of him, too. Apparently, he just carries this stuff around with him. He even had those little ribbon rememberance things you get at Mexican funerals. This man is infinitely prepared for things to tell what Chuck Palahniuk calls "single-serving friends" in Fight Club.

That was way more than I would have ever wanted to know about this guy. Why can't I have a peaceful busride back to campus where I can be boring and academic and read my textbooks with fervor? That's all I want. But I guess with an ex-con, one feels compelled to nodd and smile like you care. God knows why this guy was in the pen. I was not about to ask. Really, I just wanted to do my art history homework.

The really interesting part about this was that he told the same exact things to the woman who came to sit with us at a later point on the bus ride . . . the same fucking routine, only in Spanish this time.

This engagement ring, on an only slightly related note, is an amazing tool. Had this ex-con been hitting on me, rather than just being lonely and odd, I certainly would have had to employ its laser-beam like powers on him. Last weekend, the guys, Heather and I all went to see The Matrix Revolutions. We got there exceptionally early, grabbed coffee, and got in line. Before the "queuing" (as those silly Brits would say), we perused Borders for a bit. Now, keep in mind that this is The Matrix and, naturally, I am all gussied up in vinyl and boots and the whole fucking shebang. I look like Trinity, but with a pretty girl's makeup. I'm wearing this ratty little jacket I love, with patches from cult movies running down both of the sleeves. So, we walk in, and Heather and I peruse the first table of books we see and I am immediately caught by the eyes of some long haired Renaissance Faire junkie. He compliments me on my outfit. I am now prey. I say thanks, and explain that we're seeing The Matrix, just so he doesn't think I'm a bondage freak everyday. He then takes note of the Rocky Horror Picture Show patch on my jacket, and starts up a conversation about going to Rocky. He is from Marin! Lo and behold! We go to the same Rocky back home! And then, by an odd turn of events, he offers to drive me down to the NuArt in LA for RHPS . . . if I give him my number. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. My fiance lives down in Santa Monica, so I go to the NuArt with him, usually." I flash the ring. He is silent. This cat has eluded yet another hunter.

I thanked Marcus immediately. Never again will sleezy guys be a problem. I am freed.

I can't believe that I have to follow up my engagement announcement posting with yet another tale of dead fish.

So, uh, yeah. We totally blow at fishkeeping. Archimedes is dead. I scooped him out with Heather's incense burner, because we still haven't bought a net. Then I flushed him. He has gone the way that all good fish go. Whatever. I've grown very disillusioned with this fishkeeping thing. They are cheap pets. I want something substantial. Like a frog. Maybe we'll get a frog. Something. Anything. Anything that UCSB allows us to have that won't die immediately. As for me, I'll stick with my stuffed cats.

Marcus and I are going to get a bunch of kitties and a Caanan dog. And we shall name the puppy Jujubee. And we shall call him Jew Puppy, for he will be a dog of the chosen people. And he will herd the children, dear little lambs that they will be. And he will not die. For he is not a fish. He is a dog. And they are different.

I realize that last week I said Monday was the best day of my life. I'd like to make a correction. Last Monday was the best day of my collegiate academic life. Halloween was the best day of my life.

It was raining like mad when I left Santa Barbara, and the rain followed me down to Santa Monica, it seems. We went to the pier just after sunset, and it was just beginning to drizzle there. But nevertheless it was Halloween and no one was particularly interested in playing arcade games or riding the ferris wheel, so they were closing everything down when we got there. Marcus was really hoping for the ferris wheel--he loves those things. The play he wrote for me contains one. It's a very 1950's sort of Boardwalk romance icon. I think that's why he likes them. But we got no ferris wheel ride that night. So instead we walk along the pier and I am freezing fucking cold and I suggest that we go get coffee to warm up.

"We will, but I want to walk along the beach a little bit first."

"I don't have beach shoes, really. And all the sand is wet."

"Let's just walk here a little longer, okay?"

"But, honey, it's so cold!" He pulls me to him. I press my face to his chest.

"Honey, I got you a present."

"You did?" He never gives me presents.

"Yes. I wanted you to have this, and I want you to know that Moulin Rouge is more than just a movie, ok?"

We were going to a midnight showing that night. I open the gift paper--it's wrapped in Christmas wrap--and inside there is a still of Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor, signed. He begins again:

"It's not really signed. The signatures are just tacked on. You can see the pixels around the names. I wanted to get you a signed 3rd edition script, but it was too much. Anyway, I know you like that press shot. It's cute."

"It is. Thank you, honey. Um, could you put it in your backpack? I don't want to get it wet. I'll look at it more closely later."

I snuggle up against his chest again, trying not to freeze to death. Here the words he says to me get jumbled.

"You mean more to me than any movie, or any play, or any poem, or any other peice of art. You know that. You mean more to me than all art can ever be."

That last bit is a line from Dorian Gray. I look up. There is a Zales box in my face, a glittering diamond ring inside it. I'm floored.

"Will you marry me?"

All I can do is laugh. Well, it's not exactly laughing. It's shocked laughter, combined with joyous giggles. My hands fly to my mouth. I don't know what to say or do. I forget all about Dorian Gray. I turn and I jump and I spin. I am so happy.

"Honey? Will you?" He waves the box at me.

"Yes!" I jump toward him and throw my arms around him. "Yes!" And we kiss, and I am still laughing.

"Take that thing off." He points to the lover's knot I wear on my left ring finger. I do, and he slips on the most beautiful, sparkling diamond ring in the world. It is simple and poetic and shines like fire. "You really do mean more to me than all art can ever mean."

"That's from Dorian Gray, you know."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Sibyl says it to Dorian on the night she gives up the theatre."

"Well, it's true. I love you . . .

"Beyond poetry."

And we kiss, and I lace my hand in his, and we walk away from the bright lights of the pier, the shadow of the ferris wheel--completely and utterly warm.

I took some myth-related internet quizzes, because apparently I just can't get enough of that midterm! Woo! Boy, did I ever kick that bitch in the ass. This will probably be the most that I will ever update in a day.


Aphrodite/Eros


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

Interesting that in that one, Aphrodite assumes the identity of her son, Eros, within herself. Curious.

And this is just plain interesting . . .


You are Form 9, Vampire: The Undying.

"And The Vampire was all that remained on
the blood drowned creation. She attempted to
regrow life from the dead. But as she was
about to give the breath of life, she was
consumed in the flame of The Phoenix and the
cycle began again."

Some examples of the Vampire Form are Hades (Greek)
and Isis (Egyptian).
The Vampire is associated with the concept of
death, the number 9, and the element of fire.
Her sign is the eclipsed moon.

As a member of Form 9, you are a very realistic
individual. You may be a little idealistic,
but you are very grounded and down to earth.
You realize that not everything lasts, but you
savor every minute of the good times. While
you may sometimes find yourself lonely, you
have strong ties with people that will never be
broken. Vampires are the best friends to have
because they are sensible.


Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The internet is a curious realm of wonders.

My life is rated NC-17.
What is your life rated?

I would think that after so many changes in my life, I would be at least rated R. (Like a good pirate movie.) Apparently, though, lots of sex with one steady partner equals NC-17 though. Oh well. Fuck the MPAA.

This is the best day of my life.

I feel so insanely confident about my midterms. I got an A on my art history paper. My TA said it was the best one out of any of her 3 sections. And I am having a cheesy-ass baked potato as I type this. Plus, the roommates and I are going to the Zoo tomorrow. My life is so amazing right now.

I feel like frollicking!

I need to do Zombie Prom. My longing for a 1950's Nuclear Rock & Roll Musical has been rekindled. It's no Sunset Boulevard, or Sweeney Todd. Or even Rent or Man of La Mancha (I believe that comprises my top 4, with ZP as #5), but its so much fun!

Somehow, I'll get myself into a production of this. Or produce it myself. It must be done. More people must become aware of the glory that is Zombie Prom.

In high school, I burned 20 copies of the CD and handed it out to all of my friends, asking them, "Have you been Zombified?" Most of them just looked at me funny. They probably took the CD just to make sure I didn't kill them.

But really, though, what more could you want in a musical than a story of teen love that cannot be stopped--not even by death? It's a very hopeful sentiment. Plus, what exactly do you do when a student returns from the dead and wants to finish high school? Equal rights for the undead could be a national crusade.

I can just imagine all the fun costumes for this show. Seriously huge skirts for all the girls, really dorky suit jackets for the guys at prom, funky-ass studded leather, dark-wash jean and Chuck Taylors a la Rebel Without a Cause for Jonny. I can't wait to make his "No H" jacket. And Jonny's post-mortem makeup would be a very fun challenge. I've seen several productions where Jonny has been completely zombified, and looks truly gruesome. And then I've seen others that make him look rather campy and cute (well, as cute as an undead teenage rebel can be). Somewhere in between would be optimum.

Oh, I cannot wait. The world must be Zombified.

Wooo! Midterms!

I have just returned from a short battle with the theatre. I kicked that midterm right in the ass. It didn't even see it coming. It got a couple of good punches in, though. Still, I triumph.

My next midterm is Linguistics, though, and I fear that will truly kick my ass. But I've got until Monday for that ass-whooping. I'll put up a good fight. I think.

I need to mail birthday gifts to my family. Apparently, everyone is born in either October or February. It's not fair. I should be spending my money on Halloween gear, not birthday gifts. Bah. Maybe my family will send me money, because I'm so nice . . . and I buy gifts . . . that'd be great.

I'm a selfish bastard.

Art History is crushing me.

I've spent most of my time today trying to make sense of all the shit I've written. Never again will I write a paper without thoroughly thinking about it first.

Writing about art is like dancing about architecture.

Upon my exceptionally late aquisition of The Smashing Pumpkins' opus Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, all of my Sean memories resurface. The happy ones, of course. And today, while listening to the album, he sends me a message and says:

"Have you ever slow danced with your hands tied up?" I am caught off guard. I am listening to "Galapogos," a song he sent me long ago about how I made him feel. He won't deny the change, and neither will Billy Crogan.

"Sean, what's even more strange is that, at this very moment, I am listening to a song you sent me a long time ago. Galapogos." He is also caught off guard. He says nothing, and then:

"I haven't heard that song in forever."

"Your timing is, as always, impeccable."

"I don't know why I thought of that dance. I don't even remember it that well. My memory is like a fog sometimes. How do you remember it?"

And I think about it, and then I say:

"I remember that you rarely went to dances, and that I liked you and that you held my attentions all evening, even though I went with someone else, and we we're dancing, and a slow song I do not remember came on, and you pulled a rope out of your pocket, sly as a magician's slight of hand, and you asked me if I wanted to be tied up and I said, yes, and so I was . . . and as we danced, I remember the reactions of friends dancing near us, in our little company corner by the speakers."

And in this obscure poetry that is spilling from my fingers, I see fragments of everything I'd ever written for that man. And I see how absolutely crushed I was when he was so suddenly no longer there. I realize now that I even found myself using a line that Sean and I always said to one another on Marcus this weekend. Sean used to say to me, "Excuse me, miss, do I know you? You look rather familiar." And I would blink at him, coy, and say, "I don't think so. It's possible, though. You see, I have this problem." "Yes?" "This is somewhat embarassing to admit, but I can't ever seem to remember people with their clothes on." He would laugh that sexy, rough laugh of his and say, "Sometimes I have that problem, too. Maybe I can . . . help you remember?" Oh, and would he ever help me remember.

And then Sean muses: "I was hanging out with Laurie and her friend in Santa Cruz the other day, and they seemed to recall a day that involved chocolate and strawberries . . ."

"I think everyone remembers that day. Especially Minichun's blanket."

"Apparently, you tossed them the chocolate. And we took the strawberries, and disappeared, while everyone fought over the chocolate down below us."

I remember all of these days. All of our little excursions. Sean and I did such exciting things! They were subtle and dark and sensual, and only the observant really noticed, but they were so exciting! And everything is so different now, and it is simply exciting to just be with Marcus. I was so completely different then that it wouldn't be even remotely honest to say that I miss those things. I miss them, yes, but I did them then for reasons I would never do them for now.

This life and that life are separate entities. And I look at pictures of myself then and know that I was so happy in my utter misery, except for when I see myself duct taped to Eric's bedroom door do I realize that that kind of misery is not happiness at all.

So on Fridays I have breakfast with Derek, go to class for four hours straight, come back to my room, drop off my shit, and then take a jaunty little walk to the dining comons for lunch so I can get there before it closes at 2:30. (My last class gets out at 2.) I eat at a small table on Friday afternoons, just big enough for two people, or for me and a very large book, and read while I'm eating.

Today, I opted not to read. I decided that I was going to have a small meal and then go about my merry way (which today involved buying a very ornate boquet of flowers for Greg, who graciously offered to drive me to the bus station at 6 am tomorrow morning because I SEVERELY FUCKED UP!!!!). About halfway through my slice of pizza, I notice these two runners (evident by the running shoes and shorts) occasionally glancing over at my table. I'm thinking: (a) "Was I mean/aloof/bitchy to them in high school?" (b) "Do I know them from high school?" (c) "Why am I the subject of their conversation? Am I the subject of their conversation?" (d) "Oh, fuck, what do I have on my face?"

Some minutes after all of these thoughts (I am now eating a sandwhich), one of them comes over to me and asks, "Hey, do you want to come sit with us? So you don't have to eat alone? Not that there's anything wrong with eating alone, we just thought you might like to sit with someone." Holy fecal matter. Do I look this depressed? I'm not depressed. I just really like black. Damn you, runner girl, for judging me on my clothing alone!!! Damn you to hell!!!

"Uhhhhh . . . . that's okay. Thanks though. I'm cool." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Ok. Well, um, I'm Maria, by the way."

"Stevi." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Nice meeting you!" I wave a little gesture that's supposed to say, "You too!!!!" and she scampers off. I am not looked at again for the rest of my meal.

Now, about that severe fuck-up. I'm going to see Marcus in LA this weekend, and I bought an early morning bus ticket for Saturday . . . not realizing that the MTD to get to the Greyhound doesn't run as early as I need it to run in order to get there. Jen suggests I go ask one of the Engineers over at Derek's place if maybe, just maybe, one of them could drive me to the bus station . . . since they have cars and all. In explaining my plight to Derek, he suggests (after a lot of miscommunication) that I should sidle up to anyone in the room with a car and flirt my way into it. I decide to try my chances with Greg, and he agrees, with very little sideling involved on my part and a whole lot of begging. I have a ride! Yay! So, in some sort of feeble gratitude for this HUGE gesture, I scamper down to the UCen after lunch to buy him a boquet of flowers.

I return from this endeavor to a room full of stunned Engineers (and one Derek), with a big boquet of asiatic lillies, irises, and one fucking cool South African flower thing that looks very, very pre-historic.

I am now their goddess.

Today, the death toll remains the same. Perhaps the epidemic is over. Perhaps. Oh, but what of tomorrow?

Hopefully this week will go by smoothly, with no more dead fish and no more injured roommates. The head injury I've sustained is going to make it rather hard to trek across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in a cup, or an injured roommate, for that matter.

Last night, you see, I hit my head. Really fucking hard. On Heather's bed. Because that fucker Derek was making me laugh. Something about no wonder all the bettas are dying--they live in the same tank. Something to that extent. I wouldn't know. My head came in contact with Heather's bed before he could finish the sentence. It was a shock to all of us, believe me. And, man, did it make one fantastic comic-book style thunk!

I think I have a permanent recession in the back of my skull now. What if it never goes back? My God, then I'll be deformed. And what happens, then, when I get cancer and lose all my hair and my freakish skull recession is exposed to the world, raising the question: "Dude, what the fuck happened to your head?" How am I supposed to answer? I won't know if they're referring to the indentation or the fact that I no longer have hair. And even then, what kind of person asks that to someone who obviously (I mean, seriously, imagine it) has cancer? Heartless bastards.

Forunately, for now, I have youthful, Shelley-esque thick hair. And no one will know. So my deformity will remain relatively unknown. If and when I do get cancer, however, the exposure of my head dent is completely Derek's fault. For the record.

It's getting to be like some sort of fish haulocost in here.

Powder died last night. We suspect he was murdered by the new fish, Archimedes. We have no proof of this. All we know is that my fish are evil. No one elses fish are evil. Just mine. Figures. Blame everything on me.

We've got two fish left. I say if they go, we invest no more money in fish, at least until spring quarter. Spring quarter all bets are off.

We are the perpetrators of fishy genocide.

Fluffy Jr. (our replacement betta) died in the same disgustingly fluffy manner as his predecessor. Again, we scoop him out of the tank with Heather's incense burner because we didn't buy a fucking net last time we went down to Petco. No more bettas. Ever. This one, we flushed.

Heather's fish is being bullied by my new fish. (Why do I have the evil fish?) We're expecting it to die soon.

God forbid we ever get a dog. Or have children.

We are fish killers.

Voltaire is dead. (This fish, not the philosopher. We know this philosopher is dead.)

He was fine yesterday. Then he just keeled over. I had to scoop him out of the tank with an incense burner. I think we should invest in a net. And perhaps some more substantial fish. Voltaire wasn't a pussy betta, though. You can't name a pussy fish Voltaire. However, I think you can name a fish that you suspect to have digestive problems Voltaire. I think he died of a stomach problem.

In any case, now I have to walk halfway across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in my hand and then ride the bus downtown with said dead fish to get a new one. God damnit. I thought that was gonna be a one time thing. Fuck.

I hate sea creatures.