Hooray for Tod! My boyfriend rescued Liza from under the bookcase last night, we are glad to have her back.

It's noon and I'm making coffee. Must wake up. School is starting for him and for my roommate this week. It feels strange that I am not going back, I miss it, in a way. But it's acceptable, I am amenable to a housewife role at the moment.

Now if my diploma could just arrive...it feels, in a sense, not final, not the closure I would like, until that damned piece of paper is in my grabby little hands.

I never got the Mistress of Fire Ants tattoo. Someday, perhaps.



That and the other... I am working on a new book. It's just in the notecard stage at the moment, the strands and scenes and phrases in little bits on the coffee table.

It's about LA, this time, scrambled from fragments of friends and past encounters and supposition of the what-if. It's eluding me right now...scattered, distractions...I should get back to it.

I'm sitting down to edit the Jet Set Desolate manuscript. So relieved that it's fall, the cool of evening after a deathly hot summer.

It's the relief after a fever has broken.

We went to Maxi Kim's reading at the Smell last night, for One Break, a Thousand Blows,  and it was excellent. Well-orchestrated performance, theoretical commentary, and heat so moist and dense I almost fainted into my pie. Tasty, tasty pie.

Curiousity is piqued, now, I'll have to order the book.

The next morning, dear Liza got out, so we have been turning things topsy turvy to find her. I'm pretty sure she's behind the bookcase.

It's August 31st, and I'm sitting here with Erica and Sarah, preparing, practicing, talking, revising.

Pros and Cons of dating a younger man. – i.e. Cougar-time!

Pro:

• He’s so hotter than hot hot that when you go to New York, everyone thinks you have crazy game.
• Sexxin, sexxin, sexxin.
• Holds you in his arms all night, and when you wake up he kisses you and says you’re soft and sweet and cute.
• Easily entertained.
• You can dress him up in your clothing and makeup, and he will get a boner.
• He calls you a million cute nicknames like bunny-tron, Angie, cute-pants.
• He can be convinced to go buy vodka at 6 am by the sole act of putting on a corset.
• Said corset guarantees total worship.
• He doesn’t mind red wings.
• He will do all the housework.
• He’s fun to get tattoos with, and will let you pick his out.
• He’s fun to do just about anything with, because he’s silly and playful, not jaded, so going to the grocery store becomes as fun as Disneyland.
• He’s fun to rent movies with, because he hasn’t seen all your favorites and thinks they sound cool.
• He doesn’t own much stuff, so when he moves in, it’s no big deal.
• When you buy him a shirt, he wears it every day until it falls off.
• Because his brain isn’t as drug-fried as yours, he can spell better.
• He will read the books you recommend


Cons:

• When you go out to eat, he orders a milkshake.
• He says “psyche!”
• He calls himself “Big-balls Jackson”.
• You always pick up the check.
• He says “ass-to-mouth”, “balls-deep” and “squawk-box” like he has Tourettes,
• He looks at porn twice a day, at least.
• He plays video games all day while you work on your thesis.
• He waves his dick around while you’re trying to write this list.
• Late on rent.
• You have to convince him to move from Doc Martins to Cowboy boots.
• He doesn’t have as much baggage as you, so is more likely to get jealous/weird.
• As, within his age range, it is still possible to bag a virgin, he’s a little freaked by your multiplicity of sexual partners.
• He still thinks that not bathing makes a political statement.

Oh god, the fun doesn't stop, does it?
it's called, I discovered that being in love and making fun of stupid pet tricks is way more amusing then being an angsty bitch.

et voila!







alright!

Well, old blog, it's been quite a bit of time, now.

It's January, I'm about to go back to school again for the second semester of my last year (woo!). I just got back from this house club, and I sitting around with my boyfriend making...yes...loldogs. And lolgays! Or more appropriately, loltods! There may even be some lolandreas. This is what happens when you come home from hollywood blvd. all happy and awake.

So, here they are.

It's another Monday night. A Monday that was a vacation weekend, in which I spent every night alone because I don't have a car and all of the fun parties in L.A. I know about, well, I had no ride and was too proud to ask.

Besides, it doesn't matter, I'm meant to spend my nights alone, anyway. It allows me more time to refine my writing, sewing, self-pity and hatred. I'll just sit here and recall all of my past failed relationships and write about them in my novel: Jet Set Desolate, or, 101 drug stories. Certainly seems like a good use of next semester to me.

Now, trying again. Trying again after a week of two workshops, which I would really not advise. The first, the novel seminar, was helpful and inspiring, the second was terrifying. I got called, "brilliantly evil" by my professor, citing, "the evil intelligence of the self-awareness of it's own irresponsibility," claiming it to be an, "ethical disaster." "What we all want to ask is, 'Did you mean it?'". I meant every word. It may be time for a student-teacher conference, or I can at least try to figure out if being deliberately provacative and confrontational is worth a high pass or not.

wtf???

Movement !5!

The year 1873 was to prove the most intensive, cataclysmic and combustible Thanksgiving in the front of his G-string and with the other I did certain means of for analyzing cinematic signification for systematic regularities. The team-taught class will address students’ work by the fun and charm of being wasted, and the hard work it takes to live another day. A two-semester course: the obvious and the code. It would render a complete dismantling, that paranoia is a term invested with perjoratively pathological undertones.

“Queen of the Hill, living in a little pink cottage, what happens when the innards of functionality are siphoned from the body?”

Threads of harmony, and chromatic legends, in the sunset, vector works, or a perverse scenario which contains the lethal component; my second brother arrived home without warning. He has the technical skills towards realizing, “I’ll make you profiteroles and serve then to you on the beach every night.” Inventor of what had potentially been the first motion-picture camera, he was a seldom unwatchable situation comedy. And that’s not funny.

The dissension between the accused and his wife as it delves: ski masks, a knife, and a mysterious handsome passerby who saved my life before disappearing into the black night. DALLAS: Thank you. This crazy travesty will probably not ensue. Too bad.
I can’t stand silence. That’s part of the reason I like clubs, the same stage or scene as the public.

“Oh, vagabonds in Les Illuminations, what is this figure that eschews the purportedly real with a backhanded compliment and blasts into the symbolic with the hot fury of an ice cube?”

“Why, the School of Film/Video, of course.”

Coffee beakers smoked in the bars with the banality of everyday, the apoliticalness of sexuality, your insignificant petty wiles, your petty perversions. Photoshop, Garageband and InDesign will allow me to pour myself a double vodka in his heavy crystal rocks glasses. An account of the individual’s desire for identity, for secure subjective positionality, waste places which depict our depleted inner reserves. I dive headfirst into his dick with the resignation of a child being forced to eat his vegetables before dessert. A cartoonist informed the films with their mechanical whimsy and mania for anthropomorphizing, both staples of the classic comedic repertoire. The Girl Can’t Help It might major lessons as assigned.

Less permanent configurations, “variations on it,” heighten those of the female viewer. Regularly scheduled review and the post-residence review shall with liberal exhortation and fan-mag gush throw it down the trash chute. I give the world a sequined, star-spangled, show-stopping spectacular. And for visions fiercely rubbing his dazzled eyes, Tolstoy and his work are so described that the present taught by a series of CalArts faculty is Stranger than Paradise. Having spent night after night with these people for several months now, those whose limitations extended to monotheism, provincialism, inveterately inherited moral values, deciphering who’s really who in TV’s world of substitutional histories and circuitous ventriloquisms is a game that is exclusively for Interschool Grant recipients. The cinema is a body (a corpus for the semiologist) a fetish that can be loved.

“Those two individuals fought and tore at one another like wild beasts, just for the pleasure of making up afterwards.” By the time I’m heading out the door we’ve totally reimagined out lives with me as Japanese celebrity sensation and the light is coming at us. The text is assured by its tendentious unfolding, for the laws of Mexico City and Sao Paulo are broadcast via the conventional bastion of address, the male voice-over, a droning non-stop spouting of the proper rendition, simmering in its correctness. I flit from room to room, corner to corner, dancing on top of speakers and throwing candy from balcony railings. She is the blond bombshell of Contestants Row, a dead ringer for Connie Stevens. Being careful not to catch my heels on the long white fake fur cape dragging behind me, I am lulled into a false sense of security by the apparent legality of the surrogate, who creates satirical found object shadow performances using an overhead projector.

“THE CANDYMAN CAN!!! THE CANDYMAN CAN!!! THE CANDYMAN CAN!!!.”


Source texts include:
· Delirium: An Interpretation of Arthur Rimbaud, Jeremy Reed
· Narrative, Apparatus, Ideology: A Film Theory Reader, ed. Philip Rosen
· I Am Not Myself These Days, Josh Kilmer-Purcell
· Remote Control: Power, Culture, and the World of Appearances, Barbara Kruger
· CalArts Course Catalog and Academic Policies 06/07

Movement !9!

Use external cross-stitching (in a contrasting thread-color), to work fast in her blood, before she got cold. The theoretical entities recognized by psychiatric knowledge, and which say, "Still, nobody should overwhelm us, and if you have a chance to study at a art school, go for it." She was not in a vacuum. Without realizing the dread cliché of Match.com, homosexual desire flows in two directions, one rising towards sublimation, towards the hem (save fabric for step 5), and many a sacred heart is pinned to the wall above the stove. Not as afraid as I must become, I maybe ought to be now, as the process of getting into grad school is pretty straight-forwards. While they were drinking it, Sjarvitch reappeared in the bar, but I did so without any serious catastrophies.

Post-modernism - Indie-rock - heterogeneity - christmas presents. Poison pumped in from a 5 gallon drum, and try the shirt on and roll the top tube over 4" to 5" and certain points of quasi-religious inspiration are ghostlike bemusement, lingering remains. Art is reflective and audacious, ancient and impulsive, tangentially express, the party's over. N-Methyl: This is another one of the growing family of M-drugs, who pry slyly by, try. The integration of local Communist Parties into capitalist relations of production, always in the name of turning the halter right-side out, trying it on, and I should add a line to Your Own Private 1982 right after she's talking abour scarves that's, "Oh, you just have a hickey." Whether you've got a six-pack or a keg, or whether you're ready to show off your belly or you reached out to Emily with your impossibly fat hands, the problems of beaurocratism and fascism fade in the light of the micropolitics of desire.

Apart from adding in Kandinsky (and, for a good abstract hand, why not?), you and your fellow ecologists and zoologists will ultimately all the attention that geneticists and Bio-chem people get until you think, "Now I'm in the shade, it's better." At it's worst, mesh fabric gives me flash back to middle school PE and it's sweaty fact that J. Dee once wore a mesh shirt to German 111. J. Dee., partner, although falsehood thriving, remains within these vows. Far fron testifying to a sponteneity, he shook his head as he watched them go.

Source texts include:
· 1997 Reed College Student Handbook
· Ian Monk, Writings for the Oulipo
· Sylvere Lotringer, ed., Anti-Oedipus, from Psychoanalysis to Schitzopolitics
· Les Figues Press, ed., TrenchArt: Manual
· Megan Nicolay, Generation T, 108 ways to transform a T-shirt

Andrea Lambert, Journal 11/19/06 - 1/1/07

Movement !8!

"Everybody pretend to be normal." As saunas swelter on acid vapor, trickles of sweat in the cohabitation of desire & death.

"I'm not going to do that!" she huffed, "Are you crazy?" So instead I killed over 20 pages more than murders. Keep going and don't start until they are grown women, still others never masturbate. It's normal if you welcome back and every show shares a lot more hate than they do love, the first thing I'd do when I got there was shower.

"Bleep­," what is gratifyling about Brook's approach is his insistance that plot elements must realize that diamonds are a recording mirage of these syllables.

"I'm controversial because when I came to the house I was there for a purpose," she said.
"Bitch, I will take you out, it's no fair." Christmas mirages conjure from thin air, what the couture Sainte-Beurre contemptuously labeled an "industrial literature." I decided to come back to the Boston chicken once my blood sugar creamed out and confirmed the cuteness of Donna. The vaginal opening may be partially covered by a thin piece of skin just inside the opening called the hymen. Other names for the hymen are "cherry" or "maidenhead." The four of them hanging out in some awful, townie sports bar drinking beer and eating buffalo wings. Have you thought about everyone as your first, but your lover? Don't forget to check out Deja Vu love boutique on El Cajon Avenue. This is a fine example of the sottis par the lexicon of stupidity, complete with violence and through catacombs is convoluted as warrens in an anthill or canals in the allegator heads are shellaced, they look plastic, it's hard to imagine they were ever alive.

We have defined plot, for our copies of the drawings, and have started talking about the penis and the scrotum, and kids in my class are usually richocheting into echoes. The great joy and satisfaction that having children and being sexual can bring.

"What you're going through so far is only the beginning." He gave me his gem cutters and left me alone. He could so either prudently conserve or else exorbitantly expend. She had such a defined character. He didn't use these words, he said, "I love like the end of a long winter."

"Paulo," she said. "An aquaintance, not a friend." Northern lakes protect their exposed surfaces with acrylic membranes. God only knows what I'd be without you."

Source texts include:
·Lynda Madaras, The What's Happening to my Body Book for Girls
·Michelle Tea, Rent Girl
·Peter Brooks, Reading for the Plot
·Christian Bok, Crystallography
·Television, Flavor of Love Reunion: After the Loving

So yesterday I went to the dentist and had the most traumatizing visit of my life. I hadn't gone in about five years (don't ask, no health insurance), and so the cleaning was, well, can we say supersonic ultrasonix spike-hooked electrical devices? There was so much blood that the tech had to change her gloves halfway through. And the sight of your own blood is never cool. When they put in that suck-the-saliva device in my mouth, I just kept seeing this rising tube of blood. And it hurt! And then they told me that I was going to have to come back in a couple of days and do it again, and I made up (partially true) an excuse about going back to school immanently.

I don't know if there's ever a pleasant way to go to the dentist. But this was brutal. I think it's going to be another five years. And no, I think I'll just hold off on kissing anyone until 2012.

Okay, so you should totally listen to Rachel's band's new record, they are truly incredible and deserve all sorts of heart-shaped-ice-sculpture-throwing and bunny wabbits!

Check out the new album at:

City of Night

saucy, sexy, naughty

I have been very absent. I moved, now I'm moving again in a couple months to go to CalArts. I am finally getting out of here, I am so excited! This is really going to be fun.

I actually am living in a garret with a twin bed, actually. :)

this is actually just a test, sorry for the confusion, we are having technical difficulties

Portland, I miss you!

Two days after valentine's day, after the tearless acceptance of office "secret valentine" trinkets had safely passed, I though I had survived. It was the slow and subtle approach, the "wait until she thinks she's in the clear and lets her guard down" approach - that frosting of self-loathing on the good old cupcake of, well cupcakitude.

I don't know, it's a cupcake. When I think of cupcakes I think of snot-faced drooly toddlers smearing said frosting all over themselves. No, I do not like children. No, I did not especially enjoy my childhood, unless I was in complete isolation with a battalion of fairy dolls. They would stage elaborate invasions and torture the barbies, and thus I passed my life until I was able to move away and have sex.

With that said, have you seen those Bratz dolls they have nowadays? Lordy Lordy. When I was a wee tot we had to cut the Barbie's hair into mowhawks ourselves, and stick pins into their foreheads to show the anger of the forest creatures (stuffed animals), yet it was DIY. We were creating the violence in a world of sweetness and light. These Bratz dolls, they are little sluts! They have plaid schoolgirl kilts and thigh-highs and razored bangs, red lipstick, DJ boyfriend dolls with little plastic records and plastic sideburns - they even have a Bratz limosine that they "party" in. That's what it said on the box. I think I know what partying in the back of a limosine entails, and it's not something that you want your eight-year old to be part of.

Well, perhaps its good to give these little demons some idea of what the world is really about. If there are princesses (and there are), they don't cooperate in song and they don't always get what they dream of (although they will cut ahead of you in the elevator). Perhaps little Susie, after hours spent practicing with her DJ Matteo playset, will finally figure out how to get him to stop sleeping with 19-year-olds and...no, it'll never happen. Get yourself some Legos.

Tonight I was going to go to Cafe Bassam and attempt to be approachable through careful wielding of mid-drift and manuscript, but instead I lost my nerve and am home, with some vanilla smirnoff trying to deal. Shyness is an intense propensity - when one has been steeped in it for so long, it becomes harder and harder to go out. It is just so easy to stay here where I am comfortable and safe and can listen to music and write and curl up in my pedicure chair with a down comforter and generally veg.

I mean, really, I work all day, I wake up at 7:30 and go to a non-profit where they pay me nothing and I research customs regulations and why someone lost a package of "The L Word" dvds they were trying to ship to our field office in Honduras. WTF? You can't track the USPS! I don't know what happened to your goddam dvds, I mean, if I'd had the presence of mind to FedEx them this wouldn't have happened, but I'm told to cut corners and be cheap so we can feed more babies in Ethiopia, so I sent it priority mail and they completely vanished off the face of this earth. I'm sorry. Stop calling me about it, I need to get my eyebrows done. And, no, I don't know if the hotel in Malawi has a view.

Anyway. Sorry, work stories are boring. So I'm stressed out, the same as everyone else in this world that hates their job and feels trapped. I applied to a million grad schools (well, 7, it felt interminable) this winter, and hopefully one of them will rescue me and take me off to a place where I just have to produce vivacious text about my sordid life and live in a garret with a twin bed somewhere...

I need to get out of here...

So, I just put up some new links, some writing done for a now-defunct (and sadly mourned website called www.limetea.net. Edited by the delightful and vivacious Marty Smith: www.martysmith.com

I would've put up the erotica just for pure humor value - yes, we all need to make money, too, I was unemployed in San Francisco, I took a job writing for www.warhookers.com (don't bother, it's down) for $.20 a word, and that paid my rent for a bit. It was a facinating experience, really, getting inside the human psyche in terms of what excites people and how to play upon that while maintaining a forthright post-feminist stance. Seriously, the site was based upon the concept of a sexier Rosie the Riveter, of "the space between slink and hostility, lovely and a slap."

The last one is a club review from ages ago, back in 2000 when I had first moved to San Francisco and was bumbling my way around doing club reviews when I had actually spent very little time in clubs at all. It was an exciting introduction to the city, and I met all sort of disturbing characters and showed up to my temp jobs smelling of vodka, and all that. Much later the job would've been a snap.