Saturday, October 18, 2003
Let the Beats Roll and the Leaves Fall
Alright! The weekend has begun!!!
I'm steppin' out w/ the new do, heading out for some eats, some drinks, then some delicious fall pics tomorrow.
Keep comin' back to check when the photos are posted. I'll likely have them up Sunday night.
I'm steppin' out w/ the new do, heading out for some eats, some drinks, then some delicious fall pics tomorrow.
Keep comin' back to check when the photos are posted. I'll likely have them up Sunday night.
Out of Reach
OK. I have a super swank glass work-of-art ashtray for a cat food dish. It's absolutely simple, clean, and gorgeous. I picked it up a few months ago. And it keeps showing up in my dreams.
I can't explain it. I don't fantasize about this glass piece, and I'm not obsessed with it, but I keep seeing it in my sleep as an ashtray, out of place, on late night diner tables, on linoleum floors, multiples of itself lined up in rows extending at oblique angles out into the abyss, &etc. The strange thing (though typical for the dream world)– I can never touch one when I reach out to pick it up. And they aren't the centerpiece of the dream. They are more like scenery. I'll be doing something else, talking to someone or on my way somewhere (if you can ever actually be going somewhere in a dream vs just showing up in a new scenario), and there they are. And I always notice them. And I want to pick one up. And I can't.
I have no idea.
I can't explain it. I don't fantasize about this glass piece, and I'm not obsessed with it, but I keep seeing it in my sleep as an ashtray, out of place, on late night diner tables, on linoleum floors, multiples of itself lined up in rows extending at oblique angles out into the abyss, &etc. The strange thing (though typical for the dream world)– I can never touch one when I reach out to pick it up. And they aren't the centerpiece of the dream. They are more like scenery. I'll be doing something else, talking to someone or on my way somewhere (if you can ever actually be going somewhere in a dream vs just showing up in a new scenario), and there they are. And I always notice them. And I want to pick one up. And I can't.
I have no idea.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Snippy Snipity Snip Snip Buzz Buzz
New haircut about to start in T minus five minutes.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
28" Waist 33" Leg
OK. Another post before bed.
One of the cds I blessed myself with on Saturday is Jim White's No Such Place.
I came across him from the cd grab box the tiny radio station at my college would set out in the lobby (of the residence hall it was located in). This was right about the time I realized there were "independent" record labels out there and that they produced music that kicked the pants off anything Clear Channel played on the FM.
I would sit there and select cds (for free, may I reiterate) based mainly on (a) the title and (b) the cover. It served me well, actually. "Wrong-Eyed Jesus!" was one of those. It had a creepy, southern-pentacostal-church feel to it. And the album delivered, in everlasting glory.
If I have my memory in order, he's from either north Florida or the Florida panhandle (no, they are not the same). I grew up in north central Florida, it's pronounced "rural."
Jim White captures north Florida in ways the tourist council would rather keep in the backyard shed.
The panhandle is trapped between Alabama and the Gulf. It's got more cows than trailers and long stretches of flat road through scrubby pine woods and gas stations that don't have pay at the pump. In college, I would ride along with a guy I dated on visits to his grandparents in Okaloosa County. (His dad's a no-life and divorced his mom when he and his brother were little. This was his dad's parents, they tried to make up for their sorry son, but could only do so much, which wasn't much.) Like a lot of small towns, it's an uncomfortable place unless you grew up there. The people are friendly enough, but they've got the certain place they park their car in the limestone drive in front of the trailer, and if you park your car in any spot other than the car spot, they're uneasy and can't see why you didn't park where the car it supposed to go. But they won't mention it.
Jim White. I found that cd not too long after I'd been to Okaloosa County a few times.
His voice and the way he puts songs together are simple but detailed. Not simple as in hick country music, but simple as in it sounds right. It sounds like Okaloosa County feels: it's just the way it is. And the car is supposed to go just left of the plastic pond, not in front of it.
On "No Such Place" I noticed tonight that he's got cicadas in the background. I didn't notice it before because, well, growing up in the woods, they still sound like they belong. However, it's raining tonight and I heard them because, well, they usually quiet down when it's raining. Then I realized I was in my smelly apartment in Pittsburgh and I shouldn't be hearing cicadas.
His lyrics are matter of fact. But the facts are itchy and humid. He sings of love, but not the ideal fairy tale type. He tells stories about the reality of love as felt by people who aren't wired for fairy tales. People incapable of peaceful, white-dove love. His people cut and paste their personal definition of love from their small fucked-up reality of abuse and mental wiring hacks. Their circuits got a little too much solder on a couple of under-rated resistors. Corvairs, bus stations, motels, cigarettes, hitchhiking, drunk god, and women who dump their husband's bodies in heart shaped graves.
You listen to his albums and you know you've seen him in the truck stop when you come out of the bathroom and it's 2:00 am and you are trying to get across the country, and you smell bad. Your car smells worse because it's summer and you have no ac and it's been raining. You want to stay and eat what he's ordered to eat. But you know you'd just come across as another passer-through who doesn't know about the actual town that is about a mile off the interstate. So you just get coffee and caramels, pay for your gas, and leave.
He sounds like dewy cobwebs feel when you don't see them before walking through them face first. You keep looking for the spider.
One of the cds I blessed myself with on Saturday is Jim White's No Such Place.
I came across him from the cd grab box the tiny radio station at my college would set out in the lobby (of the residence hall it was located in). This was right about the time I realized there were "independent" record labels out there and that they produced music that kicked the pants off anything Clear Channel played on the FM.
I would sit there and select cds (for free, may I reiterate) based mainly on (a) the title and (b) the cover. It served me well, actually. "Wrong-Eyed Jesus!" was one of those. It had a creepy, southern-pentacostal-church feel to it. And the album delivered, in everlasting glory.
If I have my memory in order, he's from either north Florida or the Florida panhandle (no, they are not the same). I grew up in north central Florida, it's pronounced "rural."
Jim White captures north Florida in ways the tourist council would rather keep in the backyard shed.
The panhandle is trapped between Alabama and the Gulf. It's got more cows than trailers and long stretches of flat road through scrubby pine woods and gas stations that don't have pay at the pump. In college, I would ride along with a guy I dated on visits to his grandparents in Okaloosa County. (His dad's a no-life and divorced his mom when he and his brother were little. This was his dad's parents, they tried to make up for their sorry son, but could only do so much, which wasn't much.) Like a lot of small towns, it's an uncomfortable place unless you grew up there. The people are friendly enough, but they've got the certain place they park their car in the limestone drive in front of the trailer, and if you park your car in any spot other than the car spot, they're uneasy and can't see why you didn't park where the car it supposed to go. But they won't mention it.
Jim White. I found that cd not too long after I'd been to Okaloosa County a few times.
His voice and the way he puts songs together are simple but detailed. Not simple as in hick country music, but simple as in it sounds right. It sounds like Okaloosa County feels: it's just the way it is. And the car is supposed to go just left of the plastic pond, not in front of it.
On "No Such Place" I noticed tonight that he's got cicadas in the background. I didn't notice it before because, well, growing up in the woods, they still sound like they belong. However, it's raining tonight and I heard them because, well, they usually quiet down when it's raining. Then I realized I was in my smelly apartment in Pittsburgh and I shouldn't be hearing cicadas.
His lyrics are matter of fact. But the facts are itchy and humid. He sings of love, but not the ideal fairy tale type. He tells stories about the reality of love as felt by people who aren't wired for fairy tales. People incapable of peaceful, white-dove love. His people cut and paste their personal definition of love from their small fucked-up reality of abuse and mental wiring hacks. Their circuits got a little too much solder on a couple of under-rated resistors. Corvairs, bus stations, motels, cigarettes, hitchhiking, drunk god, and women who dump their husband's bodies in heart shaped graves.
You listen to his albums and you know you've seen him in the truck stop when you come out of the bathroom and it's 2:00 am and you are trying to get across the country, and you smell bad. Your car smells worse because it's summer and you have no ac and it's been raining. You want to stay and eat what he's ordered to eat. But you know you'd just come across as another passer-through who doesn't know about the actual town that is about a mile off the interstate. So you just get coffee and caramels, pay for your gas, and leave.
He sounds like dewy cobwebs feel when you don't see them before walking through them face first. You keep looking for the spider.
Fried Surprise
I stayed at work late today so that I could come home and relax, vs coming home for a nap and going back.
Now, dinner in my belly, and e-mail checked, I just too tired to enjoy the evening.
So, in lieu of a fantastic post, I'm going to bed.
I will note that when I walked into the apartment complex tonight, I could smell dinner cooking. Now, this isn't unusual, I live in a very mediocre complex and I can pretty much smell in the hallway everything people are cooking.
But tonight it was fried chicken. I love fried chicken. I haven't eaten it in a while after suffering repeated disappointment, it's never as good as mom's. Plus, it doesn't matter what part the country I'm in: if it's not the south, it's not fried chicken. I've tried.
It smelled good, non-the-less. So, I got my mail and came into the apartment. And holy shit if it didn't smell like that damned fried chicken was cooked in my apartment. I walked to the living room, and yeah, it smelled like the usual apartment funk this place has had since before I moved in (my sweaters will never be the same). However, in the bathroom, it smelled like fried chicken again.
Bedroom and living room: 30 year-old apartment funk.
Bathroom and kitchen: fried chicken.
Clearly, being the engineer I am, I realize that it has everything to do with shared exhaust, but it's the first time my own apartment has smelled like the neighbor's food. And, clearly, no one actually fried some delicious crisco-cooked chicken in my digs.
Even so, I hope it happens more. I'd much rather the sweaters smell like dinner than the weird old funk this place harbors.
Now, dinner in my belly, and e-mail checked, I just too tired to enjoy the evening.
So, in lieu of a fantastic post, I'm going to bed.
I will note that when I walked into the apartment complex tonight, I could smell dinner cooking. Now, this isn't unusual, I live in a very mediocre complex and I can pretty much smell in the hallway everything people are cooking.
But tonight it was fried chicken. I love fried chicken. I haven't eaten it in a while after suffering repeated disappointment, it's never as good as mom's. Plus, it doesn't matter what part the country I'm in: if it's not the south, it's not fried chicken. I've tried.
It smelled good, non-the-less. So, I got my mail and came into the apartment. And holy shit if it didn't smell like that damned fried chicken was cooked in my apartment. I walked to the living room, and yeah, it smelled like the usual apartment funk this place has had since before I moved in (my sweaters will never be the same). However, in the bathroom, it smelled like fried chicken again.
Bedroom and living room: 30 year-old apartment funk.
Bathroom and kitchen: fried chicken.
Clearly, being the engineer I am, I realize that it has everything to do with shared exhaust, but it's the first time my own apartment has smelled like the neighbor's food. And, clearly, no one actually fried some delicious crisco-cooked chicken in my digs.
Even so, I hope it happens more. I'd much rather the sweaters smell like dinner than the weird old funk this place harbors.
Music to Rock To.
OK. I've been getting acquainted with my righteous music purchases from Saturday. Tonight is on the lighter side of the new musical masterpieces.
There's so much to post in this arena, but let me give a serious recommendation on Electric Six and their Fire album.
This band is out there shakin' their shit with no apologies. Think hair.
Think late 70s rock.
Think black Camero with hood art in form of big painted spread-winged eagle.
Think attention-hungry front man with a sweet rockin' coarse brit-sounding and oh-so-slightly effeminate-high voice when it matters.
Think lit-up disco floor.
They are the folks (and this is the album) that brought us Gay Bar (video by Joel Veitch).
For instance, track 12 is "I'm the Bomb." A few lyrics:
"And I will freak you like you've never been freaked before, now. And I'm a-ready to go., yeah. EEee-Aaaahh."
...
"In case you wonder, I'm the bomb,
and I'm ready to go off in your shi-it.
In case you wonder, I'm the bomb,
and I'm ready to go off in your shi-it.
In case you wonder, I'm the boh-a-amb,
and I'm ready to go off, ready to go off now.
Ahh haa aaaa."
(musical interlude)
(spoken)
"Hey girl, when I'm fuckin' you,
it's like nothing else matters.
Makes me wanna reach down,
between my legs
and EASE the seat back."
(harder musical interlude... more "eeeEEeehoo")
&etc.
I mean, who can't relate to that?
There's some nice 80s keyboard work, driving drum machine, and lyrics such as "we've got sex plans," "you can't ignore my techno," "You must have been a dance commander," "she is so white/ white like the light, never like the night/ ... I was born to excite her, she could never be whitah" (I have no idea, so don't ask... but he does make "her" and "whitah" ryme), "I invented the night/ in my labor-ra-tee," and "I've got something to put in you/ at the gar bar gar bar gay bar- HaaaoooW!"
Trashy hipster trailer rock. I love it.
There's so much to post in this arena, but let me give a serious recommendation on Electric Six and their Fire album.
This band is out there shakin' their shit with no apologies. Think hair.
Think late 70s rock.
Think black Camero with hood art in form of big painted spread-winged eagle.
Think attention-hungry front man with a sweet rockin' coarse brit-sounding and oh-so-slightly effeminate-high voice when it matters.
Think lit-up disco floor.
They are the folks (and this is the album) that brought us Gay Bar (video by Joel Veitch).
For instance, track 12 is "I'm the Bomb." A few lyrics:
"And I will freak you like you've never been freaked before, now. And I'm a-ready to go., yeah. EEee-Aaaahh."
...
"In case you wonder, I'm the bomb,
and I'm ready to go off in your shi-it.
In case you wonder, I'm the bomb,
and I'm ready to go off in your shi-it.
In case you wonder, I'm the boh-a-amb,
and I'm ready to go off, ready to go off now.
Ahh haa aaaa."
(musical interlude)
(spoken)
"Hey girl, when I'm fuckin' you,
it's like nothing else matters.
Makes me wanna reach down,
between my legs
and EASE the seat back."
(harder musical interlude... more "eeeEEeehoo")
&etc.
I mean, who can't relate to that?
There's some nice 80s keyboard work, driving drum machine, and lyrics such as "we've got sex plans," "you can't ignore my techno," "You must have been a dance commander," "she is so white/ white like the light, never like the night/ ... I was born to excite her, she could never be whitah" (I have no idea, so don't ask... but he does make "her" and "whitah" ryme), "I invented the night/ in my labor-ra-tee," and "I've got something to put in you/ at the gar bar gar bar gay bar- HaaaoooW!"
Trashy hipster trailer rock. I love it.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Photos Now Available in Isle 71b
Alright. Pics from this past weekend (flaming sunshine on colorful trees, flaming party, and not-so-sunny Sunday pics) are up. (If the page confuses you, "PGH 5a" and "PGH 5b" are the newest.)
There aren't many people pics of the party mainly because it was really dark and "random girl walking around blinding people with flash" goes against Socialite Deluxxe guidlines.
I will likely put up a page of fire sequence pics. They kick ass.
Meanwhile... it's sleepytime!
There aren't many people pics of the party mainly because it was really dark and "random girl walking around blinding people with flash" goes against Socialite Deluxxe guidlines.
I will likely put up a page of fire sequence pics. They kick ass.
Meanwhile... it's sleepytime!
Monday, October 13, 2003
Push
Late night panic.
Big stuff doing tomorrow.
Must focus.
The trees are preparing,
so am my.
f o c u s
Keep mind on the point.
Point gets confused.
frustrated
Not sure
what
point
is.
They tell me the point.
They are deluded.
They believe something I don't.
Engineering hell camp.
Under the eye and
always watched.
Reports I'll never read.
But would read from
compulsion if offered.
I don't want to know
what they say.
Cull the details,
detail overload.
Signal to noise is high.
It doesn't pay to think
about it too much.
Being smart is dangerous.
Wouldn't trade
the burden of intelligence
for the bliss of ignorance.
Pool the effort.
Summon the stubbornness.
Must engage the
drive.
It is difficult.
Difficult to push.
Big stuff doing tomorrow.
Must focus.
The trees are preparing,
so am my.
f o c u s
Keep mind on the point.
Point gets confused.
frustrated
Not sure
what
point
is.
They tell me the point.
They are deluded.
They believe something I don't.
Engineering hell camp.
Under the eye and
always watched.
Reports I'll never read.
But would read from
compulsion if offered.
I don't want to know
what they say.
Cull the details,
detail overload.
Signal to noise is high.
It doesn't pay to think
about it too much.
Being smart is dangerous.
Wouldn't trade
the burden of intelligence
for the bliss of ignorance.
Pool the effort.
Summon the stubbornness.
Must engage the
drive.
It is difficult.
Difficult to push.
My Life as a Stapler
If I were a stapler, I have a few of the following benefits:
I wouldn't need sleep.
I would be low maintenance.
I would be reliable.
I would be a sleek and trusted.
I would be coveted.
I would be simultaneously simple and amazing.
I would always look hot.
I wouldn't be one of the cheap crappy plastic ones.
I'd be missed when not in my usual spot.
I wouldn't need sleep.
I would be low maintenance.
I would be reliable.
I would be a sleek and trusted.
I would be coveted.
I would be simultaneously simple and amazing.
I would always look hot.
I wouldn't be one of the cheap crappy plastic ones.
I'd be missed when not in my usual spot.
Status: Stressed.
Home for a few minutes then back to work for more punishment. At least the weekends (well, about 43 hours of the weekend) kicks ass. I need to wash that spankin'-sweet sweatervest and get in into rotation.
Bear with me. This week is/will be short on posting time. Oh, if only we got bonus hours in the day to sleep.
::pause:: I have to sleep now. ... ::resume::
It would be sweet.
I am trying hard not to post the bitter and not very pleased state of affairs this week holds.
Happy thoughts... happy thoughts... need sleep.
Bear with me. This week is/will be short on posting time. Oh, if only we got bonus hours in the day to sleep.
::pause:: I have to sleep now. ... ::resume::
It would be sweet.
I am trying hard not to post the bitter and not very pleased state of affairs this week holds.
Happy thoughts... happy thoughts... need sleep.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Monday is Coming
What a fantastic weekend. Truss and I trouped around Saturday, some tidbits below:
- Paul's Compact Discs. My ridiculous music collection is eleven albums better. More on them as I hit repeat over and over and burn them into my head.
- Score at the Salvation Army. Pair Levi's, fuzzy sweater, spankin' sweet sweater vest (yes, I am a dork), tasty little bamboo hand bag, little goin'-out skirt, &etc. Bonus score: I think I found the centerpiece for the Halloween ensemble. You'll have to wait until Halloween for more on this one, even then it might be just too damn hott to associate with myself online.
- Bonfire party. Yes, it was in a field with loads of dogs, beer, roast pig, and fire. It was one day past a the full moon and the weather could not have been better, it was about 50 degrees (at the coldest), calm wind, and perfectly clear skies. Truss' trusty little Jetta groaned a bit but got us through the backwoods roads without fail.
Also of note, the FALL COLORS are out of control. Absolutely nuts with reds, oranges, yellows, dark purples, browns, and greens. To date, Pittsburgh wins the "Best Fall Colors" award for the cities I've lived in thus far.
Now, if I'm lucky I'll either be able to get out one day after work this week for some more pics or, if I'm really lucky, they'll still be ludicrous technicolor. [Holy crap. I'm listening to the local NRP station and it's the Indian Music Show (Indian as in India). The song playing right now is surreal. There are horse hooves in the background (unabashedly as percussion in the old cheesy Lone Ranger style) and they are *yodeling* in the chorus. Yodeling. Now, I don't understand a word they are singing, but this man and woman are most definitely yodeling, old-western-tv-show style.]
[OK. Song is over now. I'm back.] Next Saturday will have to be a day of fall pictures. Maybe if Truss has his new camera by then it'll be a little picture fest. Hell, if the colors are waning up here, maybe I'll/we'll drive down towards Maryland and check things out in the hill country down there.
*Pictures* from this weekend will be available within the next few days. I'm not sure if they'll be enough time to put them up tonight.
- Paul's Compact Discs. My ridiculous music collection is eleven albums better. More on them as I hit repeat over and over and burn them into my head.
- Score at the Salvation Army. Pair Levi's, fuzzy sweater, spankin' sweet sweater vest (yes, I am a dork), tasty little bamboo hand bag, little goin'-out skirt, &etc. Bonus score: I think I found the centerpiece for the Halloween ensemble. You'll have to wait until Halloween for more on this one, even then it might be just too damn hott to associate with myself online.
- Bonfire party. Yes, it was in a field with loads of dogs, beer, roast pig, and fire. It was one day past a the full moon and the weather could not have been better, it was about 50 degrees (at the coldest), calm wind, and perfectly clear skies. Truss' trusty little Jetta groaned a bit but got us through the backwoods roads without fail.
Also of note, the FALL COLORS are out of control. Absolutely nuts with reds, oranges, yellows, dark purples, browns, and greens. To date, Pittsburgh wins the "Best Fall Colors" award for the cities I've lived in thus far.
Now, if I'm lucky I'll either be able to get out one day after work this week for some more pics or, if I'm really lucky, they'll still be ludicrous technicolor. [Holy crap. I'm listening to the local NRP station and it's the Indian Music Show (Indian as in India). The song playing right now is surreal. There are horse hooves in the background (unabashedly as percussion in the old cheesy Lone Ranger style) and they are *yodeling* in the chorus. Yodeling. Now, I don't understand a word they are singing, but this man and woman are most definitely yodeling, old-western-tv-show style.]
[OK. Song is over now. I'm back.] Next Saturday will have to be a day of fall pictures. Maybe if Truss has his new camera by then it'll be a little picture fest. Hell, if the colors are waning up here, maybe I'll/we'll drive down towards Maryland and check things out in the hill country down there.
*Pictures* from this weekend will be available within the next few days. I'm not sure if they'll be enough time to put them up tonight.
