hysteria...here's an interesting op-ed piece about the US's financial collapse, from the LA Times.

So there's myspace, and bunspace, and ratspace?

What about todspace?

I have this great (?) idea to do a website where all the Tod/Todds can talk in chatrooms, with usernames like Todd5648, hotsytodsy, etc...

And they can have conventions, and T-shirts, and...eh, oh well

This is so not web 2.0

When I got out of grad school, I thought I would be a teacher. I went on SSI. It was the summer of sangria and cards, of serotonin sanitaria sangria schizophrenia. It was the summer I decided my life was over. It was the summer I got a book deal and lost the will to live. It was the summer I got a blue rat baby and regained it.

Summer. I read the philosophy of Andy Warhol every morning and felt blank.

And congratulations to Allison Carter, whose A Fixed, Formal Arrangement is coming out this October on Les Figues Press. Yay Allison!

So, on the topic of sociability, I went to a book release party for Vanessa Place's La Medusa the other day. It was acutely enjoyable, with a plot powerpoint by Teresa Carmody, Sissy Boyd did an exquisite movement piece, Christine Wertheim dissected vocalizations of qua...lecture on the origins of Wilshire boulevard, and more.

By the end, I was melting into the night, margarita glowing, so so pleased with the words I had seen reimagined.

I'm excited to read the core text. "As smart as Ulysses, but sexier."

Just awoke from a horrible dream.

That I was a contestant in a reality TV show, aping grad school.

Nobody knows, the trouble I've seen. Actually, some do.

Is it possible to have post-traumatic stress disorder from one's education?

I am watching my friends go back to school. It is through a glass, darkly. I am too sick to go back to anything. It was a dream marked by pity. I am going on disability because I can't work, my degenerative brain condition has become overwhelming.

I tell the internet this. The internet listens.

I think this dream was triggered by the comedy show taping I went to last night. There was a joke, under the hot lights, a comedian in a shiny shirt said, "it's like, emo, you know, they used to say, "are you ready to rock?" Now it's "are you ready to blog?""

Well hells yeah, I'm ready. What else am I supposed to do at five in the morning?
And yes, I did get these skinny jeans at hot topic.

Emo jokes weren't the trouble, though.

For three hours we watched six back to back episodes of a comedy show that will remain nameless, E and I. It was fascinating, the huge cameras, the forced applause, the occasional zinger, the blonde lady who came out during breaks to shine the host's bald head.

I watched in the audience, with surprise, because I usually can't handle crowds. But we were all neatly pointed forwards, with the assumption that we didn't have to speak.

The trouble came halfway into the third episode. The large iced coffee that had been so delicious before the show made it's presence uncomfortably known, amidst a barrage of bed-wetting jokes. No, this isn't the story of how Andrea wet her pants on national tv, it's more like how I made a break for it.

I got up, and wobbled past the three people in my aisle, hopping awkwardly to the floor. The douche in charge darted up and said, "Hey, hey, you don't walk out on a Dick Blick taping. You just don't do that."

At this point I should have said something witty about irrigating my neighbors or something, but I hissed the actual reason and a nice "key grip" or whatever they're called walked me to the potty.

But somehow there was this hot wave of humiliation. This wasn't my job, I wasn't getting paid, like some of the audience, but I was screwing up drastic when all I had to do was sit and laugh. I had been panicking, watching the swerving spotlights, the yells of "applause, applause."

I leaned against the wall of the bathroom, nauseous, thinking, you let douchy mcdoucherkins over here shame you, you're a grown woman?

It is perhaps a segue from jr high, from high school, college, grad school. The concept of shame in the body, in what the body does, how it acts out, sweats, fucks, produces waste.

It's really not that big of a deal, I told myself. are we ready to blog? Godammit, yes.

I enjoyed the rest of the show quite a bit, and after E dropped me home, I cuddled with my boo and fell asleep.

It wasn't until night, and dreams. I dreamed that I was trapped on a reality tv show involving elements from the previous, my pervasive agoraphobia and mistrust of others (paranoia, yep yep yep), and gossip girl!

Woke up in a cold sweat. Are we ready to blog?

And how.

Good news, today. I just heard from Jacquelyn, that Lorazepam and the Valley of Skin is going to be released in Stockholm and the US this winter. I am terribly excited. It will be under a different cover I think, but here is the old one.

The chapbook was put together out of my zinemakers urge, for some sort of post-school expression, and I'm thrilled that it was found interesting by others. Their new website is here.

My roommate and I were manically bouncing around the room this morning, she's writing new material for her thesis. I am trying to get back into that state, of production, of will. The internet can become such a time-suck...I'm trying to spend less time on it and more working, but the Jet Set Desolate manuscript is at a difficult point right now. It is the problem of perspective...when Brady is present, and Lena is not. Some of these moments can be easily fixed by putting Lena in the room in a passive state, but other situations are more difficult.

Blogging is a really wonderful way to procrastinate. This is what my desk looks like right now. The mug has coffee in it. I am hoping that the coffee will help me edit the manuscript. The abilify is helping, too.

The Octopus woodcut is by Omar Routher. Dear Oms.


I have been in a sort of foggy, swoony mood all day. Little sleep, strange dreams.

Not cohering, trying to work, failing, drifting.

I'll just go stare at the rats for awhile.
*skuttle...scamper*

It's Saturday morning, and I'm reading Elizabeth Wurtzel.

This book is so, so funny to me right now. Her grandiose self-absorption, her delusions and manic riffs. It is perhaps not acceptable to say that bipolar disorder and addiction are comic topics...but I've been there, so somehow it's real..though, of course, didn't have her resources.

Human dread, raised to the next level...yes. And somehow, because she is so ridiculous, when she gets arrested and panics about not getting to take her Ritalin and read a magazine in the cell...it becomes divine. Because, really, I would be terrified, too, especially if denied my medication for a prolonged period of time. Seizures are not cute, nor are they pleasant.

Reviews of this book

It gets a bit annoying after a point, by about page 125...yes, that's the point I'm at now. But, hey.

"Boners are uncomfortable, unless you can do something about it. Otherwise, you just want it to go away. "

Quoth the boyfriend, nevermore.

Here are my responses to the cheeesetoast omnivore's 100...foodie funtime from my dear cousin's blog.

So, this is what I have (green) and haven't tried. Red is what I absolutely won't eat.

1. Venison - somehow escaped Reno without trying this one
2. Nettle tea - not a big tea drinker
3. Huevos rancheros - yum yum yum, where's the chilaquiles?
4. Steak tartare - I've seen people eat it in Ethiopian restaurants, but never been bold enough.
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding - eh?
7. Cheese fondue - delish and so fun
8. Carp - what my mother does.
9. Borscht
10. Baba ghanoush - touched by the eggplant gods
11. Calamari - love it, great with garlic aioli from cha cha cha
12. Pho - occasionally, like the fish balls.
13. PB&J sandwich - boring, but comfy
14. Aloo Gobi - from those instant indian foil packets...yum.
15. Hot dog from a street cart - all wrapped in bacon...not yet, have to wait for a hungry night.
16. Epoisses - ?
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine (not from grapes) - drinking framboise at cafe du nord with my old friend K..
19. Steamed pork buns - pork bao, had these for lunch last week.
20. Pistachio ice cream - from scoops, these combos are fantastic. Pistachio-rosewater-honey-lavender-poppyseed-lemon...omg!
21. Heirloom tomatoes -
22. Fresh wild berries– oh, joy!
23. Foie gras -
24. Rice and beans - a staple, next to some enchiladas or chile rellenos.
25. Brawn or head cheese - never had the pleasure.
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper -
27. Dulce de leche - whether ice cream or cake, it's great.
28. Oysters - love love, will eat raw, steamed, even tinned if I'm desperate for fish o'clock.
29. Baklava - oh, succulent honey.
30. Bagna cauda - not sure what this is.
31. Wasabi peas - so addictive until your sinuses blow out.
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl - the CalArts cafeteria does this unexpectedly well.
33. Salted lassi - mango, great, haven't had salty.
34. Sauerkraut - oh yeah. With reubens, sausages, even plop by itself.
35. Root beer float - these don't do that much for me.
36. Cognac with a fat cigar - Cognac's swoony, but cigars, blech.
37. Clotted cream tea
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O - oh, but of course.
39. Gumbo - had it in Massachussets, I think. Or was that Jambalaya?
40. Oxtail - at this Filipino place in Valencia...tasty. I especially liked picking out the savory little meaty bits.
41. Curried goat - I would love to try this, curry anything is wonderwall for me
42. Whole insect - No no no.
43. Phaal - Not sure what this is.
44. Goat’s milk - how about goat cheese?
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more - my glass is waiting...anticipating...
46. Fugu - que?
47. Chicken Tikka Masala - craving has increased, thanks Lolo!
48. Eel - sushi fun
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut - donuts make me hyper-crash-barf, not a fan.
50. Sea urchin - my favorite sushi, just melts like ocean.
51. Prickly pear - nopales cactus in tacos.
52. Umeboshi - japanese sour plum...great in sushi, as well.
53. Abalone
54. Paneer - anyway, anyday, spinach puree will save the day.
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal - yuck, yuck, and yuck. I'll stick with the ramen.
56. Spaetzle - sort of bland, texture like a brain.
57. Dirty gin martini - yes, please. Green olives remind me of grandpa.
58. Beer above 8% ABV
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips - Mom was always pushing these...they're alright, but they're not chocolate.
61. S’mores - really, not into it. The marshmellow always gets burnt, and some little kid spits on it to put it out, and then they expect auntie angie to eat it - nope.
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin
64. Currywurst - is this a sausage?
65. Durian - isn't this Beyonce's little girls clothing line? The one with the high heels? I would not eat that.
66. Frogs’ legs - I would, if I ever came accross one on a menu.
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake - yes, yes, yes, and no.
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain - this is one of my favorite foods ever, I'm having it at the wedding if I can.
70. Chitterlings or andouillette -
71. Gazpacho - I make this from scratch, and it is amazing. Kind of like a big bloody mary sans vodka.
72. Caviar and blini - tried once, yes, then my hand got sliced open with the champagne bottle when the limo swerved. Oh, San Francisco.
73. Louche absinthe - Got my Mark Ryden bunny tattoo the night a friend imported this from Prague. We made martinis...but I never saw the green fairy.
74. Gjetost or brunost
75. Roadkill - I'm with Lolo, here. Do not want.
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie - just seems gross
78. Snail - under the right circumstances...i.e., garlic, wine sauce, I would eat this and like it.
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini - Very curious, would like to try.
81. Tom yum - kha or gai, best cold cure. I love crushing the lemon grass with my teeth.
82. Eggs Benedict - nice.
83. Pocky - ever try men's pocky. I gave my cousin this one year.
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant.
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare - the littlest bunny? oh, shucks. Sounds kind of tasty in a stew, tho.
87. Goulash
88. Flowers - I like to nibble rose petals as I walk around.
89. Horse
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam
92. Soft shell crab - yum
93. Rose harissa - ?
94. Catfish - had at the Delta in Portland
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox - lovely, also done well by the CalArts cafeteria.
97. Lobster Thermidor
98. Polenta - kind of overrated, or maybe I'm cooking it wrong.
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake - scared of these critters.

So, that's more than you ever wanted to know about my tastes.

So here are some things I'm happy about today:

My necklace arrived from modcloth.

It's an octopus.

And my little ratty is getting bigger and bigger.
Her name is Liza...or Little Squishy.

I'm engaged to the delightful Tod Jackson.

We haven't set a date, but I have had dreams of getting hitched in the Museum of Jurassic Technology. Wearing black, with gardenias.

There's something so endearing about the iconography of the 1890s.

the stereopticon, for example.

Absinthe, to my experience, is overrated...though past recipes were likely more potent.

This is one of my favorite old record finds...not exactly how I recall the Tenderloin, but again, the gloss of musicals, of singing whores and vice squads. It's about the Tenderloin of New York, reimagined by Robert Griffith.

The beautiful fakery of the stage.

Wake up - pills
Go to sleep - more pills

Absence and presence. Preiscence. Premonitions.

Seratonin Sangria Santeria.

I go to sleep, and dream of sick rats, dirty, squabbling, dying. I wake up at 8:30 and they are sweet blue furballs, round in their shoebox.

Video killed the radio star
Internet killed the zine.

But what's going to off the internet?

I remember making zines, feeling there was an evil creeping voicelessness of being a teenage girl. Now there are avenues of expression, so many.

My glasses lost, I cannot keep up.

It's time for lists.

Books I am in the middle of reading:

• More, Now, Again, Elizabeth Wurtzel
• The Virgin of Flames, Chris Abani
• Starting from Scratch, Rita Mae Brown
• Bloom, Fall 2005

What is secret and what is exposed, what is kept and what is discarded.

I live in Los Angeles, with its dance between public exposure, dense cult secrecy, and willful exploitation. I like it here.

Pop culture moment. We're watching Moulin Rouge, and what started as fascination is turning into disgust. Such beautiful costumes, sets, it would be delightful if they actually stuck to authentic gay nineties music. The 1890s, preferably.

Where is the accordion? This has probably been said a million times before...where are the automata, the harpsichord?


I have a fondness of musicals, having forced friends to watch the Marian, Madam Librarian scene from the Music Man over and over.

They do tend to run a very careful line between sappiness, camp, and tears. Valley of the Dolls and Cabaret hit all those notes for me. Rent...the first time I saw it I cried and cried, but later it seemed an over-romanticized circus.



Because there is that division between what is real, and what is lived, and what is voyeuristic, and what is exploitative.

Admittedly, I had to leave Jon Wagner's Narrative Ethics class. My essay was called an ethical disaster...and I realized I was fundamentally an unethical writer. Drastically so.

I write from experience, from what I have known, seen, born witness to. It was sometimes bleak, and it was often cruel. There was no music, and the velvet curtains were vomit-smeared.

Survivors guilt. I am still alive. I'm sorry. I miss you, I miss the people I used to know. But I had to leave, I was dying. I was doing cocaine alone every night, I had herpes sores on my face, on my hands, and of course. I was being sexually exploited and I didn't care. I had a death wish, I knew I was going to die, and I wanted pleasure before the end.

Somehow, I didn't die. Somehow, I'm still alive. Somehow, it goes on.