Men Who Fear Death

And the Women Who Love Them

Fuzzy Dumpling

Although these words should never be pasted side by side, when you meet the cat down the street who can only be named this, as god is my witness, you will know what I mean.

And yes, cats are better than people.

cats > you

Cranky, Cranky...

Why oh why am I so cranky?

Dido? Really?

I paid KCRW $55 to ship their old garbage to me.

I'm serious.

They sent me the copy of an uninteresting milk-toast mix CD from 2002 for my $50 premium (not the one I selected AT ALL) and charged me $5 for shipping.

Thanks for sending your trash around the city via parcel post rather than having it collected by The Brothers Sheen--or which EVER actors-slash-garbagemen are working for the Department of Stinky Business these days.

Vaginal Flutters:

Thank you, Jwolfe, for the Halloween Costume Suggestion.

(Correction: Congratulations on Your New Holiday Look!)

I no longer feel obligated to dress like one of the look-alike back-up singers in a pseudo band called "The Sarah Palins" for Halloween--along with every other brunette white girl who owns a pair of glasses in America.

(Correction: I will sadly play the dysfunctional part anyhow, due to being an American Overseas and not attending any Halloween parties when in transit--unless the plane ride happens to be on an Old School Rock Star Party Bus, etc.)

Instead, I can be truly FAB and nakedly FANCY FREE as follows:

(Correction, what I mean to say is as follows: NAKED SARAH PALIN in a GOD-DAMNED BABY BONNET.)

...Although this costume IS remarkably similar to what I wore for Halloween two years ago...

(Correction: Two years ago I was not naked. Not even once.)

And thank you too, Avolk, for the thought that twitchy men walking down the street are in actuality being privately thrilled by the beating wings of butterflies trapped confusingly up inside their female business. (???) I will never again be a person without this image permanently lodged in my brain.

The Books and How We Cooked Them

On my way home from San Francisco I lost a day in transit. Which I don't attribute to poor impulse control, not this time.

Somehow visiting S.F. and preparing to go to London shook something loose in my brain. Something that had been feeling sorry for itself for a while I think, and immersed in bad memories and details.

And somehow, capowie! It just went away.

I grew up in a day, in a car-ride, and stopped caring about things I never cared about anyhow. For now.

And then, last night at dinner, we talked about making The List: a list simply to express to yourself (if to no one else) what you need in a person, should you ever choose to Fall In Love Again EVER.

The List sort of grows in size if you're honest.

And then it shrinks down to nothing if you're too, too honest.

I've always been the latter and all I need is this:
Someone to laugh at this stupid world with.

(Okay, this is a lie. Here's where I flat out admit it.)

The end?

Jiggity Jog

Back in Los Angeles; Chez Same Name.

The Beauty; The Horror.

Let this be a lesson to you.