A · Miscreant · Delight

So I am currently back in Napa, for a small sojourn into the wilds of grapes and eating goddamn everything in the world, and roasting in the eternal heat, and watching movies movies movies, and drinking dranking drinking, and just living the life, I suppose.

It's so odd being back here and recognizing that it's no longer my real home. I feel welcome here, don't get me wrong, but it's definitely more a vacation home than where I hang my hat, as it were. So there's this disconnect. It's a little unsettling, but I suppose that's natural.

I'm at home a lot more cuz copp's can't use me this summer. It's a bummer in some ways ($$, copps pals, surrounded by books, good experience, keeping my brain active with ringing up and recieving, etc...), but it's awfully nice getting to veg the fuck out, not worrying about where I need to go and when and with whom.

I'm been watching a shit-load of films ("The Dying Gaul" being a perfect example. Jesus. That shit was intense. Who knew Peter Sarsgaard could look and act just like Charlotte's Costume History professor? Campbell Scott was a bit despicable...and there is this awkward scene where he is in bed with Sarsgaard, and Scott just appears to be jerking it right next to Sarsgaard. And then Sarsgaard starts to violently cry. And you're thinking...wooooooah now)

Granted, getting more writing done would be primo.

But so far being worked on:
"Centaur & Poodle"
"I Was Terribly Desperate..."
"Misfits"
and I've got that ghost story to work on.

But really...I'm enjoying this summer.

I have also been reading a lot. I've knocked through "marabou stork nightmares" (by my boyfriend Irvine Welsh-- a nice intense little psycho-drama with a bit of rape retribution mixed into hospital fantasies and Afrikanners), and "I, Fatty" by Jerry Stahl. "Fatty" was an interesting look into the life of Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, the silent film star who worked with Charlie Chap and Busty Keat, etc... until he was accused of the rape and murder of a bit actress (noting a theme in my choice of lit?) The problem with the book was that Fatty is supposedly telling his story to his servent, recording it onto a phonograph record. And he repeats himself a lot. and then mentions that he knows he repeats a lot. "But wouldn't you?" or "This is my story, so deal", or something along those lines tend to follow. Either that, or Stahl hits the punch-line over and over and over. Like "I was sorry...but little did I know that I would be even more sorry. Later. When i was REALLY sorry." You have to wonder if this book was closely edited. I mean, it was a fun read and all, but I kept looking at the back to make sure this wasn't an Advanced Reader's Copy. Like numerous times I checked. But it was interesting.
Now I'm onto "Cold Comfort Farm", which is AMAZING and hilarious. and just the best.

anyway, that's all for now, I suppose.

22 in 5 days...whaaaaaaat?

love you all

One brand-new purple phone later...
--Have finished prepping "Pink Hairdryer In The Blue Bathtub", my portfolio piece for Rob's Borderland's course. Granted, it's not quite as fancy as some of that shit he pulled out from previous years, but I think the added soundtrack *featuring the likes of Billy Idol, Animal Collective, David Bowie, Incredible String Band, etc...* should give it a little more creedence (but not clearwater revival). The pieces are some of the strongest things I've written in ages. And it's quite a lot of fun to be messing around with the dichotomies of relationships, waking/dreaming life, and surrealism. If that doesn't make me sound like a pretentious creative writing major, then I'm hard pressed to know what will.

--Am heading off to the deep south AGAIN, as is my wont, to sup upon amazing BBQ, sweet tea, hushpuppies, etc...while soaking in the glories of Faulkner's house, Graceland, Robert Johnson's stomping grounds, Al Green's church (hallelujah!), and other assorted magical sites of interest. I'll be coming back fat as hell with grease food, probably scorched from the unrelenting sunshine, and ready to shake some shit up. P.S. Peabody Hotel with marching ducks? Yes, I think so. Check it: http://www.peabodymemphis.com/peabody_ducks/

--My last year approaches, with extensive writing, eating, viewing, listening, causing kerfufles and ruckuses everywhichwaybuthere. There's a bit of trepidation, as certain arrangements are still up in the air, being sorted, but I'm sure one way or another, every little nugget will find a home and set up camp properly. And if not, that's part of the fun...right? Sure it is. (Nevertheless, fingers mothafucking crossed.)

--Colloq was brillo.

--Made $1 at our mini-yard sale. Props to E-bear for raking in $50+.

I suppose I don't really have anything new or exciting to share. Things are pretty good overall, new friends, bright days, and excitement for the future.

P.s. I have been eating so much sushi. I want to eat it always now. Dangerous? Yes. But delicious.

So my first draft of the shit-tastic "I-Txt" piece for C-Punk has been deemed quite good by Godzich. Wednesday we meet again, where he will tell me everything that I need to know to make this piece less than tragic. Can't even say what his support feels like. It's as though I am only mildly retarded in comparison, as opposed to ballz to the wall dumbass. And this is a good thing, really!

I'm very much done with this quarter. To be exact: I am done with working on shit. I'd love to just sit in M&M, joking with the gang, being on top of that game, and making it all hilarity. I'd love to just see C-Punk gang for coffee and treats 3 times a week. I'd love to just chillllll and watch excellent films (netflix queue at 500 films already? what what?) and listen to Merriweather Post Pavillion again and again. I'd love to just eat hella food all day and not care that it's showing.
But formalities, responsibilities exist.
With that, I am terrified at the possibility of getting this CUIP internship. It sounds like so much work and every time I see Jake, he looks absolutely marvelous but toats stressed. I suppose that's just what comes with it, and I'm sure the downtime with authors, Karen, Micah, etc...is awesome. But I get fearful. And I would hate to let them down. One step at a time, I suppose.

Publishing news: Submitted to Leviathan, Lotta's magazine, which should be coming out end of this quarter or april. Also will (maybe) have pieces in the next issue of Rapt and Kresge Town Krier. Sooo womp womp womp to that! In addition (yep), entered Bookshop Santa Cruz Short Story Contest with my Bowie piece, so womp to the 4th power.

This weather is making me unwilling to actually complete any productive work, which I suppose is a sum-up of what I have written previously.

Just finished the Truffaut "Farenheit 451". It's this amazing combination of extremely dated filming techniques, and bizarre dali-esque touches, putting the movie really outside of any specific genre or time period. It's also his only English film, so that distances it even farther. really a beautiful film, though. I love the idea of Book People. It's almost kitsch to have this group of vagabonds walking about reciting books. it reminds me of choir kids continuing to sing outside of class. obnoxious, but in this case, endearing. hmmmm....

I'm really looking forward to taking a lighter load next quarter. M&M: Borderlands with Wilson should be a trip. I don't know why, but I'm convinced that he's better in a smaller setting. granted, I hear he's still a macho dick in many ways, but I'm tempted to see what how his mind works when he has a more contained group to play off of. I'm not expecting to get listened to, granted, I'm almost positive I'll be railroaded everytime I attempt to speak up. But I'm still looking forward to it, in some masochistic way. Expect in a couple months for me to be bitching and moaning about the class, but for now, there's a perverse anticipation.
Stewart's class is going to be top notch. There's no way around it. We'll read some awesome prison narrative texts, have superb discussions, and it'll be grand. Stew-Pot time is the only time.
And Femme Phys will be good. Knock that GE out and learn something in the process. Maybe I'll discover I am a mutant. Rawr!

I want Upper Crust Pie.

P.S. I hate this: http://www.pinkcoyote.net/creativegrooming.html
P.P.S. I miss you, Copperfriends. Return of the Hosen approaches...

Again we are at the end of the winter breaking off of school, books, essays, classes, teaching, stresses, rent, bills, cramming, midterms, sections, fucking all.

So that means we start again?
But with the fact that this has become 2009, I am still in 2008. Ringing in the new year, my head buried under pillows as pulsations of pain and sick racked my skull. So I never really made that mental/physical transfer. Writing '09 has lost its novelty, however, so who knows what that means.

I imagine it'll all hit me when I least expect it. When I'm caught in the middle of a crazy moment, a time which only makes sense as one of the future. Continuations of thoughts blooming. I wasn't expecting adventures of paths held up to come around, but they did, and as soon as they did, they closed off. So perhaps further puzzle-pieces like that.

But copperfield's remained as it should. Some customers were dumb as shit, and I could hardly believe they were in my goddamned store. Inventory was RIDICULOUS because guess what, guys? CARNIES CAN'T COUNT. Shouldn't be a surprise. But that's what happens when you get the people from the land of cabbage to check out stock. Luckily, we had a good team holding down, as well as Dave's consistent sighs and head shakes, followed by the discreet under the breath "motherfuckers". That man could work me to the bone and I would still think he's the very best boss. Because he is, my dear chickadees.

W.C. Fields, though certainly a product of his time, has cropped again as another historic genius. The man had a way with words that really tickles the old funny bone. "It's A Gift", "You Can't Cheat An Honest Man", and "The Bank Dick" are all well worth checking out. I cannot even handle when he is dressed as Buffallo Bella and calls his horse Pe-gas-us. And then threatens Charlie McCarthy with the idea with a "couple of beavers to come and romp" with him. Fucking great. Silver screen comedy gems.

I appreciate the greenery outside. It's fitting for this time of the year, which is always my favorite. There's this thing about either loving the season of your birthday or summer the most, but for me, it really is this fall-winter time. The grey skies are more romantic and evocative than any blue blue blue cloudless day. More special perhaps because they are fewer, or maybe because I can be sedentary and "blame" it on the weather.

To experience:
-Wlad and cyberpunk
-KJF and the joys of sci-fi/fantasy
-Bruce Thompson and England
-House of Pi
-Visiting W+S
-concertos
-food
-WRITING WRITING WRITING WRITING
-you

until then, my dulcet delights.

Overall, things are damn peachy. Classes are zzzzoooming by, which I am all about. Reading is somewhat getting accomplished (sorry, Kerouac, you just don't butter my bread like every other tight-jeans wearing, small hat-sporting scene boy). Writing is sporadic but feasible when it does occur. The Zine Proj is going to be fucking badass...christened by the Bookshop SC 20% off sale tomorrow...and then culminating in cannolis and other such sumptuous delights in North Beach Saturday. It's good that I'm working on something creative, especially with a group. I feel that it'll be something we can be proud of.

The fact remains that I need to keep pummeling through my writing. "Centaur And Poodle" is...well. Something. I need to expand "'77", as I am considering offering it up as an idea for 33 1/3. Because that could happen. Maybe. If I was older. And more talented. But I figure at this point, it's the effort that counts. I can always improve. After all, that's what I'm here for.

So before Carolyn comes. Before I leave the house. Let's bam some more out, eh?

I'll be gradding by March 2010, hopefully. Which will mean time back in Napa to make dolla dolla cash money. To focus more on my writing. And to structure the proper Grad School Portfolio so i can go that extra mile and masters it up. Because lord knows, with this degree, I'ma gonna need hardcore diplomacy to back my shit up.

Reading some churchill, some orwell, some cutpurses and conmen for Thompson's brillo class next quarter. I am excited about that. Plus Godzich, not as though I haven't gushed about him enough. But he's just so damn cool. I saw him yesterday in a mustardy colored blazer, just walking. like a genius with his briefcase. Too classy. Not taking that Hieroglyphics class. I heard rumor that the prof is a lameass, and besides, I am certainly not going to a 9:30 class. That's just unthinkable (har har). So we'll be taking Methods and Materials of Fantasy/Science Fiction writing. Bam! That's a fucking triad of classes I am going to be ready to lose myself in.

I'm nervous about going to North Carolina for that week in December. I'm looking forward to seeing my grandparents, but there is that fear. The Parkinsons has progressed rather rapidly, and the facial ticks will be more prominent, he will get tired more easily, and things will be harder. He's been falling more, and seeing that (as selfish as it is to admit it) is almost more than I can bear. I'm so used to seeing him as this strong and brilliant man, a part of his own universe, barely involved in anything else other than his world of art. And to see him that vulnerable...that will be a challenge. But I know that being there, seeing him, that is more important than anything else. There's just the little kid inside of me who gets fearful. Plus I don't really want to deal with the Republican proselytizing that will issue from a certain person. Fuck. I'll just hide in the salmon room.

I'm feeling stronger. I'm feeling more forceful and more intelligent. A more whole person.

Music is becoming more of an influence. I appreciate that because it finds nooks and crannies that are normally closed off to something more permanent. At the same time, I need to not use music alone as an basis. There's enough in the noggin to create off of, if I will it to be so.

Our proj prop has turned out to be a combo of Carolyn's 4th grader business writing and my florid purple prose 50 year old museum curator. At least she'll know we're serious. Seriously INSANE.

I am laughing beyond anything else. if I was Saint George, that fucking dragon would have just been slain hardcore, my chainmail-plated foot driven into it's neck. Oh the power.
It's funny because I have trimmed off accessibility.

Time to fix myself baby food. It must be said, making a breakfast in which victuals and vittles are cooked in butter is the most satisfying thing. Not drenched in butter, obviously, but used as a base for cooking. I feel like a giant warm creature, filled with sustenance. Delisho.

Well, that's enough maundering for one day.

love you all (espesh you).

A much exciting day during a much exciting time. Classes are moving along nice and swiftly, profs remain cool under pressure (shout out to Dr. Love for coming to class feeling sick and pulling throuh the entire class while making hilarious snarky jokes. And looking awesome). And I am finally, officially a creative writing major (fiction concentration, if you please).

It's a little bit overwhelming. Most of the time I feel like it's some horrible joke that's being played on me. Like I will be getting an email at any time going: "BAHAHAHAH JOKE'S ON YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! Signed, Everyone In Creative Writing". And then sometimes I feel like it's always been this way. I don't know. I imagine the fun of it will hit me when I'm deep in the midst of some workshop and Yamashita/Perks are in the same room, being badasses. Or when I hear Mulva say...anything at all, really. Goddamn that woman.

In doing the paperwork today at the Lit Department, I came upon a truly awesome discovery. This discovery is as follows:
*My major requires very few classes to finish up. 3 Cret Writ courses, 1 senior seminar, 1 pre-1750 Lit, and 1 Non-western/lit in a global perspective. 3 of these I plan on pummeling through next quarter.
*Those three classes, one will be a cret. writing course---fantasy writing or lyric subject...the real question is, am I up to the people who will be in fantasy? Ayiyiyi. The other 2 are pre-1750 and non-western/global. Pre-1750 obviously must be the Reading Egyptian Hieroglyphics class. Obviously. and Non-western/global? Well, International Cyberpunk with Wlad "GOD" Godzich, of course! Psssh! So badass. So badassssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss...So that's next quarter wrapped up. in a beautiful package made of the most awesome prof ever, and pretty cool shit besides.
*Besides the 4 classes I will need to finish for Cret. Writing, I have one gen-ed left. TN, which is some science stuff. Deciding between "Life In The Sea" or "Female Physiology". Unless something better comes along, that is.

So, to sum up: I only have 7 classes to take to fulfill the course requirements to graduate. Granted, I will have to take other classes to reach my credit requirement, but they can be whichever classes I choose, which is pretty exciting! I can take muppet magic, or the beatles class, or another murray baumgarten class! Maybe even a minor in something...
I did some incorrect math earlier today, and got a bit excited about graduating early, but it turns out I will most likely graduate right on time by june 2010. Yet, there is nothing wrong with graduating as expected. Early is nice, but also, this gives me time to relax, maybe have more hours working, or whatever I like. Like writing! More time for writing would be muy primo.

In any case, it's all very new and exciting and I just can't wait to take all of these badass courses.

p.s. the costume was bought. it was washed. it looks fucking awesome. be prepared, my dears. This puts Winnie The Pooh to shame. SHAME.

Jackie Wilson is out.
The saga of the Wilson-ater should have appeared obvious when no dance-move practicing actually went down, and that I special-ordered two biographies of his...and just got bored. Bored. Not because of him, per se, but because the bios were really shittily written, with spelling errors, bizarre font changes, and just disheartening content. And I didn't buy either of them, rather putting them alpahebtically into the Music/Entertainers section.

Plus every suit I try to find for him costs me about $50-$90. And really, when am I going to wear a man's suit that is too big for me? Rarely, if ever.

So sorry, jackie boy, but this halloween is not meant to be.

Other ponderables:
*pushing Falcor ahead to this year and finding some pink glittery shit
*Some rockin' lit/rock chick
*Whatever I think of before Halloween

Am truly excited about the possibility of getting into the Concentration. Will know by aprox. 6PM this Friday. Fingers crossed, but attempting not to get too psyched so i don't dissemble that evening. But the what if lingers, making it all the more exciting.

In order to make myself feel more responsible and deserving of such an accolade, I am jumpstarting a new writing proj. Somewhat based on "'77" but also in the vein of "Belle and Beasty" (which i am putting aside until I can look at it again without feeling bored/irritated by my own childish designs). I'm feeling good about this new thing: "Centaur and Poodle". But we'll see...its source is hardly reliable, so that might just be a place-holder until my next "'77" comes to light.

Overall, feeling pretty successful about this quarter. Granted, it's, what, third week? But still...a sense of promise. And I'm starting to think grad schools. need to talk to those with experience...but certain east coast establishments are looking interesting. Plus, a change of scenery would be good. All in good time, though.

Welsh=a baller
Hot Chip=reborn to me
314 Lincoln=still best house ever
You all=awfully adorable

and in closing...
OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA OBAMA!
please vote.

*Blinis

*James Joyce

*Making stupid choices

*Enjoying a fine bevvy (which links to the previous fixation)

*Men who are scared

*Russia/ians

*Bee Season

*Writing

*Poker

*Wind

*Loud noises

that is all.

It's truly astonishing to me how very quickly time moves. Blah blah I knooow that is one of the most cliched things ever said, but this summer has really zoomed by. All of this anticipation for turning 21, for having time off from school, time to read, to smoke, to drink, to hold you, to watch them, to drape myself over all of it, it's all been culminating for months, and pretty much exploded within the past few weeks. It's like I can't remember much of summer before august and soon enough, I'll be able to pin down exact details less and less.

Which makes me sad.
Partially because I have written practically zilch (which, according to all the notes I'd written prior to vacay, was supposed to be my primarily occupation). Way to go, hosen. I guess I deserve a break of sorts, but wimping out of writing shouldn't be a part of that. But part of this that i keep reminding myself is allowing myself to BREATHE. TO NOT WORRY ABOUT WRITING. IT WILL HAPPEN WHEN IT HAPPENS. I DON'T NEED TO TORTURE MYSELF BECAUSE I NEED TO BE LAZY.

I've really enjoyed this summer; becoming a more important figure at copperfield's has been really exciting to me. My skill set has been upped, and with that, the feeling of being more involved. I feel like a cog, rather than a cog polisher. Plus my friendships with each co-worker have become stronger in their own way, increasing friendship and heartholds.

Whatever all of that means. In any case, I've had a summer. Of many things.

I've done some things I'm not proud of.
I've broken some rules.
I've grown.
I've moved on from two dangerous paths.
I've become more responsible.
I've lost some trepidations while gaining new concerns.
I've hurt myself.
I've made myself cry with joy.

It's like nothing I would have expected to experience (or to want). But they've happened. I've really enjoyed all of the time I've spent with you loverly people. Each of you mean so very much to me and have made this summer truly fantasmagoric.

I can't believe I finally saw Radiohead. That was just fucking brilliant. My beautiful alien boy thom. His wonky droppy left eye. It makes me all a'quiver. And (stupid sounding, but suck it) my appreciation for their music has increased. I'm listening to it closer now, and hearing the words sink in, feeling that velvet voice and impeccable chords just dancing. Brilliant. (plus climbing over those chainlink fences with 60,000 people was pretty sweet)

"340 Lb Model Runs Off With Czar Again" fucking trashed Drink Tank hard core last weekend. That was a sweet victory. Hopefully we can beat their asses again in a couple weekends. Something about beating a bunch of dicks at trivia (with a belly full of fried pub --oxymoron, i know-- food and harp...yum).

Couple of dicks today at work
Dick #1: This gent called Copps on the phone today to ask if we carried any copies of Outside Magazine's September issue. I checked and said, nah, we hadn't carried it since July. He gave this minute long sigh, and said something along the lines of "fucking napans, never go anywhere outside of the county." Now, far be it from me to deny that Napa is really fucking good at keeping people within the city limits, but something about his tone pissed me off. I mean, there are plenty of people I know who have left and most who don't just stay in napa 24/7, escaping whenever they can (though frequently coming back shortly after). This dude just sounded like such a fucking transplant asshole. I've only lived in Napa for 8 years, but I consider myself a semi-Napan. So I said "Well, some do eventually make it outside the limits." and he cuts me off and says "No. They don't. No one knows about anything outside of Napa. They are just clueless about the world beyond." Fuck. I couldn't even handle it. I didn't really understand why I was getting so upset, so that was exasperating too. He asked where else he could find his stupid ass magazine and I said I wasn't sure....maybe a grocery store or outdoors store. And he cuts me off again and goes "no, you really don't understand, do you? Napans don't appreciate this kind of magazine." THEN WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU ASKING ABOUT IT, ASSHOLE? And as luck would have it, our big boss Tom was walking right past me at that point so I couldn't do anything besides mutter through gritted teeth "well, that's really unfortunate, then, isn't it?" "Yup, it is. Well [SIGH SIGH SIGH EXASPERATED SIGH], thaaaaaanks." ahhhh motherfucker. I'd punch him if I saw him (and knew it was him, of course).

Dick #2: UPS Dude. Comes to the back room today with 80 million boxes and looks at the backroom which I have been working on trying to clear out, and sighs (what's with all the fucking sighing) "You guys can never catch up, can you?" in this fucking accusatory tone. AHHHHH shut it, asshole! "Well, everytime we do, you always bring more boxes." "harumph." So guess what? Most of the boxes he brought (yes, 80 million of them) aren't even supposed to be released until september 2nd. So we couldn't recieve and enter them into the system. So now we have 80 million gawddayum boxes in the back that can't be gone through until next week. That the sweaty asshole thought it would be clever to sass me about. Dick. he asked me about my tattoos and asked if they were hebrew and after I told him they were arabic (in a completely natural and kind tone, I thought), he went "ohhhh sorry if I offended you" in the most sarcastic tone ever. What the fuck? Well, shit, yeah, I'm obviously offended. He kept stomping around the backroom like some kind of plon plon and when I wished him a lovely day, where he would stay cool, he responded with "yeeeeaaaah, suuure." ahhhh what the fuck!!!

So this turned into more of a rant. Ah me. Oh well.

Truly, though, I wouldn't want to change anything that happened this summer. Despite all difficulties and mishaps, all tribulations and trials, the real majesty of it all is that I've been surrounded by such beautiful individuals. I was brought to question luck today by someone with more life experience than I.
and maybe it isn't luck. Maybe it's just how it's supposed to be. Maybe I'm meant to have such wonderful times. I would like to think so.

I mean, discard any religious or fate things. But maybe this is what I am to expect. My life to be filled with such a back and forth. Such a give and take.
Such times we share.

Oh gosh. It's almost midnight and I've created little to no sense in all of this.

Sum-up
Release the stars
Continue to read
Write fucking something
Kiss that person
Eat that food
Drink that bevvy
Fucking live it up (because Irvine Welsh will be entering your life soon enough, however briefly)
Thank everyone

Merci buckets

with the UCSC Chancellor and his wife was pretty surreal. I mean, you hear all about this guy, Blumenthal, and how all the tree-sitters are pissed at him, and how he took over for Chancellor Denton after her suicide, and all the choices he has made, and all you've seen are pictures and glanced over articles.

Then, before you know it, you've met his wife (who by the way has an extremely firm handshake), and you speak with her briefly, and then suddenly, you're in an elevator with the two of them. Just the two of them.

I'm not saying he's my hero or that I'm particularly proud of the choices he's made. But being in the same confined space with the man...it made him that much more human.

Granted, his speech afterwards was all I expected it to be: kind, a bit condescending, and self-referencing. But whatever. He's the fucking Chancellor. This is what he's supposed to be like.
For the record, I thought his little wave and smile to me when he left was awfully nice.
And Brian laughed at all of his jokes so much, I thought he would die. So that was hilarious.

So thank you, Student Employee Recognition Award Program. I appreciate the certificate, and the $100. It's nice to know that I'm doing a good job in K-town.

I'm getting towards the end, man. I'm finishing up classes, writing final papers, feeling damn good.
The tats have been touched up, so they don't look too ratty now. Rather pleasing. There's only one spot left that's not precise, but I like that. It reminds me of that practice of creating one imperfection in something so that you don't consider it finished. So I'm sticking with that. and planning a future bowie one. tahah.

The house for next year will be fucking great. I'm so ready for my own room, the claw-foot bathtub, the fruit trees, the bagelry, the lit guillotine, all of it. I'm ready to walk to midnight movies. I'm ready to eat at jack's and then take my basket of fries and chocolate milkshake home mere feet away. I'm ready for writing fiction in my room, poetry in my backyard, and reading everything and anything wherever I damn well choose. Plus I will be living with Erin and Charlotte, my lovely girlies, and it shall be so glorious.

Classes for next year shall be fucking great.
*Love and Madness In Medieval Literature: I don't think I even need to explain why this will be great. I so fucking stoked. Such great things shall be read.
*Regions in American Literature: San Francisco: again. This will be great, espesh because crazy Robert Wilson will be teaching it and he is a funny gnome of a man.
*Kresge Core with Kate and Kristina: The second round. And it shall rock. We shall use music and literature and books and art and everything to open up those bright little minds and create magic.

Future awesome classes:
*International Cyberpunk with Godzich: this man. This glorious glorious man. I'm scared shitless about having him reading my papers, so I'm hoping there's TAs. Otherwise he might murder me with his brilliance. But what a death. Oh what a death...and Jillian will be there, so I'll have a comrade.
*Reading Egyptian Heiroglyphics: sounds fucking cool. It's a two-parter, which must mean even more excellence.
*Twain with Gillman: she's just a beauty. and twain is a badass.
*Endless creative writing classes: shall be awesome. I am determined to have a class with one or all (hopefully all) perks/yamashita/mackey.

Also must apply to the concentration a billion more times. But I care not. It shall be most triumphant.

Have recently written a piece based on Talking Heads: 77 (the album). It's a series of narratives, some based on real people, and damn it. I'm feeling like it's the most honest and articulate piece I've written in ages. Love it. I must write more of these.

I'm just so excited about it all, my darlings.
*21st birthday in august: SF, watch out
*Working at copps: always brilliant, babes
*summer time, when the living is easy: being home, reading everything, watching everything, listening to everything, being with all my besties and beautiful bouncing buddies.

and beirut on the 27th of this month!
and rocky horror picture show on the 30th! (tranny tranny tranny, ooooo I am so excited to wear my outfit).

shit. everything is great right now.

love all o' you.

Sometimes, the most brilliant idea for a homo-erotic piece just lands in your lap. With all the ingredients perfectly aligned. This circumstance is made clear when your stomach cramps up from laughing so hard at how very gawddamn perfect it is. Let that be the teaser-trailer to a future piece. FUCK. it will be so hilarious, I expect deaths. That funny.

"Run Fatboy Run" was amusant. Simon Pegg never ceases to amaze me with how funny he can be...though it shouldn't be a surprise, as he is ever so British and thus instantaneously a genuis at hilarity. Sidenote: Kelsey, was it just me, or did our beloved Noel Fielding (le grand drool) make a cameo while holding a skateboard? It might have just been wishful thinking, but I could have sworn I saw a lovely black mop of hair cross the screen. Whatta fox.

New classes on Monday, starting bright and early (but not too much) at 9:30 with Intro to Cultural Anthropology, courtesy of Loki Pandey. I am fairly psyched about that class. I'm looking forward to seeing what this anthro stuff is all about, plus having Prof. Pandey promises to be an interesting event. Anyone with the first name Loki must have something special going on with them.

And then applying for the Intermediate Cret Writing with Kaaaaaaaate. So badass. That is going to rock. I'm submitting this short piece I wrote for Lit 1, called "Sweetness of a Hatchet", and it's pretty fun. Something fun about tapping into the unconcious of both mi padre and his extended family. Rich for mining and discovering nuggets about them (and in essence, myself).

Then just brillo Baumgarten time. Nuff said.

I'm finishing up that colloquium essay. it kinda sucks at the moment, sounding less like ME and more like horrid fragments not so delicately pieced together. I guess that's a part of the process. Something in me fucking hates revision, as I have said before, but shit. I don't like feeling unfinished. It makes me concerned that my previous work was in vain, not good enough. But I suppose that's natural. Maybe I should just stop flipping out and allow my magic to unfold.

I have enjoyed:
*concerts (jens, BoB, random moments of music, because it's all a concert in my head)
*work (copppppppppppppppps)
*all you lovelies with your eyes and hair and hands and laughs and sweetness
*films (lust caution holy shiiiiiiiiiiiit)
*lots and lots of NON dining-hall food
*not having power outages (fuck k-town...only slightly)
*admiral dewey, the most brilliant of cats
*reading for me (kav and clay)
*writing for me (tidbits of nuggets of somethings)
*closure (and in turn...)
*re-connecting

it's been a blast. Though I wish it had been longer, it's grandness to the Nth degree.

merci buckets

let the palooza begin!

Ah me oh my. Fucking a, man. Thank you Napa Valley Opera House for once managing to book an artist I adore (Rufus Wainwright). Not quite as cool: making it a Sunday night performance (my having an 8 AM class the next day), and selling tickets out faster than my little noggin can handle. Balzac and Cocteau. This does not mean that I have stopped trying. I am going to still push forward on going to the damn show, even if it means watching from the cage where Bryn tells me the spotlight is located. I could do that shit.

Concerts have been rife so far, which is enjoyable and unexpected. Deerhoof a week or so ago, which was loverly. Hanging with Potter, Jods, Lotta, Lucie, Ems, Ethan, etc...always a "good time". Last night was The Magentic Fields, and damn did we have good seats! Fourth row, positioned next to the photographer from Spin Magazine (hahah supoib) and pretty much in front of Mr. Merritt himself. I heartily enjoyed his demeanor, though categorized by some as antagonistic and unwelcoming. I figured he was allowed to act as such, what with producing such a wide and magnificent amount of music and tunes (espesh when having Hyperacusis, an auditory sensitivity to sound). So I was ever so pleased. Plus we got spanking pinkity pink shirts which shall mark us from miles off as ever-so-sophisticated music enjoyers. Diiiiivine. Jens coming up on the 22nd o' march, thanks ever so.

I am putting off an essay about the Tempest, and am quite aware of this. My plan is to book a room in Sci&Eng Lib in which to work really hard on this 5-page beasty, along with endless frustrating revisions of "White Rabbit", my workshop fiction piece. I've come to realize I hate revising. Maybe it helps when I put it away for a while, and then pick it up again with a more discerning eye. Perhaps this short quarter is not conducive to the way I revise. In any case, I don't like doing it. It makes me feel confused and lost in the work, and what i feel is a put-together, fully articulated piece, becomes a paraplegic, with some of its limbs completely non-functioning. I hope to break through this wall, but at the moment, it's a right bitch, and I dislike it.

I wish this cocked up two-pass system of enrollment wasn’t so phenomenally ruining everyone’s quarters. I am excited with what I will be taking, though. Intro to cultural anthro with pandey, who is supposed to be a gas and a half. Lovely Murray Baumgarten class about jewish literature in London, which will be excellent (I think my honorary status just keeps up-ing itself). And fingers crossed about intermediate creative writing with the grand kate schatz. I think it’ll be a good, entertaining quarter…which is nice, because going off of last year’s experience, I won’t want to do any work whatsoever in the sultry santa cruz weather. It’s just not a serious quarter, ladies and gents. Nada gets done, and everyone and their mother zebra knows it.

Almost done with "bedroom secrets of the master chefs". Congrats, Irvine Welsh, you have done it again. I wuv you hardcore. Your writing makes me want to write (or live in Scotland....kinda). There's just soo much flavor and I feel the characters tip-toeing through my bloodstream as I read it. too loverly.

I have noticed I enjoy the eccentricities of live music performances. Artists, in my experience, tend to throw in a random tick, something into a song that makes it stuck in your brain and embeds itself in there until you're liable to go mad. I'd forgotten about it until now, but there was a moment like that last spring when I went to see CocoRosie. "by your side", though charmingly downtrodden and ethereal on the record, took on a more bittersweet and wrenching tone when I heard it live. There is a chord change in both the guitar and vocals live that adds this unforgettable tension and sorrow to the song. She's almost pleading to fulfill the housewife persona. Like she could die if she doesn't. I can't even explain it. it almost makes me want to cry (or hold the singer close to me). So fucking good. I've been listening to it non-stop via videos, and it just makes me smile. I dunno why. I just love it.

The power keeps going off in our room. Lotta and I are ready to shank a sloot. it's ridick that we are just doing whatever we please, and all of a sudden, no electricity in our room for 12 hours. Can't wait to move off campus and away from 80 million year old collapsing apartments.

The end result of all of this maundering is I should either just finish "chefs" or start my essay. Something. This slacking off is doing no one any good.

God fucking dammit. Spring break needs to just happen already. And when it does, Hosen will hit napes like nothing else. And by hit it, I mean kick its ass in the best of ways. Natch.

I think I'm becoming "that" girl. You know. The one I bitched and moaned about in my Lit 101 class last quarter. Fuuuuuuuuuck. I fucking hope not. That beezy was so fucking obnoxious. I'm trying to step back and not gush about Gillman, but she's just too cool. Maybe I'll start taking a few extra seconds before talking about lit shit to ponder it. Then I should be golden. At least my voice isn't robot monotone. I'm safe on that front. and I haven't always related topics back to Descartes or Kant/C*nt.

Voting tomorrow should be "a blast". I think I know what I'm doing. Part of me is excited with this whole electoral thing. I mean, I actually have a little bit more of a say than I have in the past. So that's pretty cool. Makes me feel more my age, if nothing else.

I'd be down if the fat bruise on my knee melted away. Some bruises are just teh worst.

The arms are doing well. 2 more weeks until direct sunlight, but until that point, lots of moisturizing and soap. What fun. They're itching, but I've been told that's a part of the healing proccess. Hurrah. Let's just hope my nocturnal scratches stay away for the next while. I'd be down with not cutting up healing tatts.

I'm feeling stronger in the whole creative writing thing. Was having a bit of a majorial crisis, and feeling useless in all realms literary. But certain individs have boostered/bolstered my confidence, and I'm discovered that some of the stuff I'm currently writing is getting somewhere, if not exactly at the point I want it to be. With time, with time. And that refers to so many things.

Reading "Frankenstein" for the third time. Actually enjoying it...? What the fuck. That's not supposed to happen :)

I've been feeling the urge to listen to robots in disguise. I think there's a little bit of the glam in me that's still awaiting to be released. It might be lingering Mr. Fielding affection, but I want to boost shit up a notch. I still don't know what that means, and perhaps I'm figuring it out. At the mo, it's going according to plan, I believe. Maybe it's mid-winter image reconstruction. I bet that's it. Feeling like I want to shed an old skin and put on something new. Newish. With a touch of ret. reticent? Perchanceables.

Need to see:
*There will be blood: I know I know, I've heard numerous bad reviews. But I've heard good ones. and my Daniel Day-Lewis/Johnny Greenwood love has to see what's up with it foist
*The Savages: Bryn and I in film form
*Wanted: Don't ask. I just do. I'm already ashamed.

Need to read:
*Teh rest of Frankenstein
*Teh rest of "Bedroom Secrets of Master Chefs": Je t'aime, Irvine Welsh.
*My workshop pieces before I print them. Balls to the walls.
*12 poems for the wednesday lecture
*Other assigned readings

I have to write a piece on a photograph, and I'm finding in this media-centric world we're in, I've got too many to choose from! The guantanamo-esque style of the photo of lotta, casey, and myself (unintentional to the last) is intriguing, but I feel something else would be better. Do I pick a photo I'm in? Or one that I am distant from? Or excruciatingly close to? That's what these choices will be all about, I guess.

but until then, the rain is taking a breather, I'm feeling more or less healthy, and confident in most realms of my existence. Toast to that, bebes.

So I'm either losing my memory, or having too many nights where I do strange things. Everytime I just happen to glance at my knees/hands, I've got a million bruises/papercuts. Hmmm...maybe I'll just turning into my grandmother and everything from a raindrop to walking next to a table wounds me. Time will tell, I suppose.

Enjoying classes so far. Gillman=teh greatest, though I can't quite match her enthusiasm at 8 in the AM. She really is one of the happiest professors, nevermind people, that I've ever met. What a dollface. Not looking forward to my third reading of Fuckingstein, but I'll make it excellent somehow. Sections with Jeb are cool so far, fer surely.

Into to cret writing is neato as well. I need to finish that manifesto. I think it'll be fairly good, I dunno though. I'm slowly getting back into the more creative side of my writing, which I think was pretty well destroyed by Hermeneutics, etc...sucks, but what are you gonna do? Luckily I've got good people to kick me back into it. Wrote some cool stuff on monday, and am coming up with idea for short story for workshopping:
-simon pennings
-topshop
-burgler?
-something british
-CLASH

we'll see. The thing I do know fer sure is there is no facking way that this one guy is sitting next to me next time. My god. this is the kid who on the first/second day of class, had this stupid umbrella that he was twirling around the classroom like a total helicoptering fool, and when we were discussing how to workshop pieces of writing, which none of us really understood, this kid decides to RUN AROUND THE CLASSROOM SCREAMING THAT HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND. What the dick. Really. Not to mention the endless stupid jokes he makes. Balls. I know I complain about people in lit classes a lot, but it's because we are ridiculous creatures. I can only imagine what someone in that class thinks of me, but this guy is unbelieveable. We had to go over some essays we had printed out about writing and come up with concepts that we discussed in them. Guess who my partner was? Yep. He asks me what we were doing, and when I told him, he goes "fuck fuck fuck fuck shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit fuck fuck fuck fuck shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit fuck fuck fuck shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit." Really loudly, by the way. This goes on for god knows how long, until I say, "so I guess you didn't get the email?" "No, I just only check my important email, my yahoo account." This kinda pissed me off, maybe because I respect J as a prof, and I think when he emails us, it's with good information. Plus it's a part of the fucking class. Get on track, son. "Okay then." "Shiiiiiit fuuuuuuuuuuck shiiiiit." "Okay, so we should start working with these then." "Hey hey hey hey UM hey hey can you describe each of the things to me in like a minute each or something?" Keep in mind, these are fairly hefty essays. "Well, I can try. Let's just go through each of them and we'll do the work while I describe it." "Um um um hey hey okay cool." So as I'm trying to describe the papers and pull out the quotes we need, he keeps interrupting my explanations with either stupid movie quotes that don't apply, or with thinly veiled and just bizarre innuendos. Not only this, but he basically puts his entire upper body on our desk, his head nearly in my lap. Not exactly conducive to what I'm trying to accomplish. Plus he keeps eying my dinosaur pen that I bought at copps, and that's a no-no.
I'm sure the saga of Umbrella Cretin (as I have just named him-- especially because the creative writing/cretin go well together, bahahah) will continue throughout the quarter. For now, let the image of him getting up numerous times during the class to hand in something that is NOT due yet (no matter how many times he is told to turn it in on Thursday) and then shouting really fucking loudly about his manifesto 30 times stick with you. It's really tops, isn't it?

Overview is cool. It's nice have e-monk there, so I'm not completely tackling the insane math and astronomy madness on my own. Plus the prof Adriene Steinacker (mispelled but I care not) seems a cool broad. I had section with her yesterday, and she was tres helpful and I wuv her german accent. Simply divine. Almost Hedwig-esque (her voice, not her style haha). So we'll see how that progresses as well. I'm going to make my moon chart bowie themed, spaceship and beautiful red alien hair and all.

Extra taste of bowie, baby: Re-watched some of "the man who fell to earth" last night. Fucking weird-ass movie. But still excellent. I forgot how bizarre the "reunion" gun/sex scene is. E and I both agreed that it seemed more traumatizing and longer the first time we saw it, as did the bizarre skin and eye removal scene. But excellent, mais oui.

Josh Kornbluth comes to lecture tonight. He's fucking genius. I saw him at the Napes Opera House years ago now. Hilarious man. Everyone should either read his comedic monologues or see "Haiku Tunnel", a movie he and his brother made. My mum and I decided he's like ben franklin's crazy brother who they kept in the cellar because he's absolutely insane and brilliant. Plus he's a funny looking dude. Which only adds to the hilarity.

Okay, that's enough postponing of actual work. I've got things to do, people to see, brusies and papercuts to get, manifestos to write, etc...

Hope you enjoyed this update from HosenProductions, bringing you the finest quality ramblings and wit-inflicting nonsense writings since 1987.

love you all

p.s. see "the diving bell and the butterfly". it's beautiful, tragic, and one of the best movies I have seen in years. The cinematography really puts you into the body of Bauby (played by this really stupendous and strangely foxy actor...Mathieu Almaric), who was the editor of Elle Magazine in 1995 and had a stroke that caused all of his body to be paralyzed except for his left eye (it's called locked-in syndrome, which kinda gives you an idea of his situation). I'd tell you more, but it's better this way. heart-wrenching but beautiful.

I feel it's appropriate, as I haven't really written in a while, and I can't truly fall asleep for a little bit yet, to go over things bobbing about in the ol' brain cavity. The word that keeps floating to the surface is "love", so that's the apex/epoch/vector/prime of it all.

I love my parents. Before escapading tonight, the 'rents and I made cookies (linzer tart delishness), danced around the kitchen, had a scrumptious dinner of red red meat, and listened to an e.b. white essay/some of my hermeneutics essay. It never ceases to amaze me that they find it in their hearts to support my ventures...well thought out or not. And we know there have been much of the later. But it just means so much to me that I can tell them [almost] anything and know I'll get some sort of response from it that doesn't condescend or make me feel like shit.
[In addition, my pops bought one of the first bottlings of absinthe up for sale, being as the post WWII law has now been studied more closely, and the liquor is legal, and has been for the past 60-odd years. To start the eve off right, the three of us, absinthe spoon in hand, concocted some lovely glasses of the green stuff. Delishers.)

I love the ability to see myself as something of value. It's taken time, and more time shall need to be applied, of course, but recently, I feel good. I feel like Rose should feel. Like I have a brain. Like I have a pleasing face. Like I can make a decent joke. This is all very pandering stuff, but it's nice to realize things every once and a while, and go, "oh yeah, that's right. Something's nice here. Something works." Blah blah you're probably going, "fuck, Rose, whatever." But I maintain that it's nice to look in the mirror and enjoy the curly haired broad looking back at ya.

I love Creative Writing. I need to fucking do some. But the idea of it is lovely as well. I'm so stoked about this next quarter, and getting tossed back into that realm of schooling...that major that I'm actually supposed to be working on. Yeah, I'm not expecting an actual job to float out of it. But shit, man, it's a passion. And I used to do it more. And it sickens me that I don't now. Hence, tomorrow/today, later, I am going to write something. I dunno what. But something. I need to just get words onto the page and stir them up to make something.

I love David Bowie. I love listening to "sons of the silent age" and hearing him say, "oh baby I'll never let you go." Aching, longing in the notes. There's something just truly great about his voice, the music he creates, and the emotions it pulls up. Some certain people will crit, but I don't care. I do love it. DB's insane. And brilliant. And I love that his beautiful face is splashed all over his stuff because he knows he looks like an alien. And I want him to live forever.

I love reading Irvine Welsh again. I love the fact that he's so fucking crude and vulg and that whenever I start reading him again, I feel sick in my stomach because of the brutal visceral detail of it all. It's what I feel Palahniuk is like, but I can't get into that guy. Palahniuk just feels like shock value. Welsh does something to bring it home. I get completely grossed out by the mind-numbing sex and drugs and violence, and just when I am almost about to put the book down and read a book for 4-year-olds, I become cut off from the gut reactions. I lose myself in the book. I'm the slimy scottish gangster, the one who drinks endless pints of lager every 5 minutes, does a million mountains [baHA!] of cocaine, and fucks every chick in sight, describing it in purient detail, and not giving a shit when said skirts are heartbroken because I can't settle down. I don't know what it is, man, but reading his stuff is just crazy. It makes my mind whir like few things have done. I'm starting "The Bedroom Secrets of Master Chefs" (his newest) and though it isn't as intense as, say, "Trainspotting", or maybe "Acid House", it's got something interesting going. I wonder if he's [slightly] mellowing as he gets older. I hope not. There's a part of me that just loves being completely disgusted by what I'm reading, right before I dive into it head-over-heels.

I love the difference a year makes. I'd go into more detail, but I just don't feel like it. Mostly because I feel this can apply to everyone, rather than my obsessively personal above paragraphs. So the difference a year makes.

I suppose now, as I am running out of steam, and haven't yet hit the sappy shit, it's time to say the most obvious.
I love all of you.
I do. I truly do. At the precise moment midnight hit, 3 1/2 hours ago, I thought about how extremely fortunate and lucky I am to know you. Each and everyone of you, of course, but I thought about you. You. The one is who reading this now. You. About how great you are. About how you listen to me. About how you make me laugh. About how you make me cry. About how you make me so fucking angry, I want to fucking kill you. About how very incredibly full my heart is with love for you. About how the matter of time we have known one another doesn't really matter, because it's an endless and eternal love. Though I might not say it to your face, it isn't for a lack of affection. It's the thing inside me that keeps me from shouting it aloud. But know this now. As I sit here, at 3:23 in the AM, wasting my time writing some endless drivel that I wouldn't blame you for a moment in skipping, know that I love you. Fully and incredibly. You make my life strong. You make my heart beat. You make me me.

As Arvo Part is coming to a close, the time has come, the walrus said, to talk of many things. Most of those things I have just said. And I know there's more inside. And I know I'll spill more out onto the world wide interweb, the information highway, the nasty 'net before this new year is over. For now, I shall say, it's been a pleasure. And it promises to be another one. Let us not say happy new year, but let us say, here is the year where we do it. Whatever "it" is. It'll change and continue to mutate. In any case, it'll happen. And when it does, I'll be by your side, smiling at the beauty of this. and you.

I've decided to ruminate.
it's been a little over a year since the madness of college, the adult life, and numerous other factoids appeared in my general horizon (trying to stay away from the hermeneutics speak, but it's infiltrating like a bad plague).

I'm feeling pretty good about it overall. I'm pleased with what i have accomplished, satisfied with my choices (good and bad), and looking forward to seeing what this new era of hosen shall bring. I don't think it'll be easier, but it's going to keep getting interesting, I know that much.

I'm more/less giddy, more/less sure of myself, more/less tired of the bullshit, more/less able to say "yes"/"no", and more/less willing to admit defeat.
[circle the correct response]
I don't know what that adds up to, but it's something short of a totally new future (what the dick am I even talking about).

I'm not looking forward to:
*failing this french final which CONVIENIENTLY turns out to be 50% of my grade
*walking all the way up that damn hill to get to social sciences building 1
*packing up my shit to go home
*dealing with the high propensity of bullshit that is to come by eating certain dinners tonight with certain people who push me to a limit
*the most-assured hangover that is to come tomorrow morning

I AM looking forward to:
*Copp-a-feels and hanging with my lovely co's in a flurry of present wrapping and nervy/excited customers
*the reveling with the fam and wumps, with all of the food, gifts, and merryment that shall ensue
*eating delish food tonight at the provosts
*reveling post-provost dinner
*seeing "across the universe" tomorrow by myself with a milkshake in hand (saturn, perhaps?)
*making more chocolate fudge (I've become a fudge-making-machine)
*Selling back this sodding-ass french book (hoping for $35-$50)
*Saying gooden-nacht to 1532 for 3 1/2 weeks
*Pubquiz(es)---Horse-Power Lovecraft Reunite!
*Looking at your beautiful faces
*A rocking 'eve
*seeing what this new year of the '08 shall dump in our collective laps

This is a turning point, I feel. I'm not reading my damn depressing horoscopes (which somehow keep showing up in front of me), as I don't need further proof that things won't always work out the way i want them to. I've had enough proof of that over the past while, thanks ever so. But then, things do have a way of working out in a fashion that I don't expect, but do appreciate. That's something to keep in mind, now that I think of it.

Here's to it all. Thanks for humoring my complacent ramblings and giving a damn about what I say. You're too cute for this ol' world.

teh hose
head
en

In a similar vein to what Stacey has mentioned, I'm finding it easier to be crushing on guys that there is no possible chance of my getting together with. It seems to be less of a heart-tug, and more suited to my tres busy schedule. This is not to say that I don't get a little shock to the blood when I run into said males (really, singular at the mo', but I'm leaving it open to maintain a sense of mystery-- haHA!), but I dunno. I'm hoping things will solidify eventually in this general area, but for now, or at least until winter breakies begin, I'm down with not lying desolate in my room over someone. I've done that enough for now, and I've seen my budds dealing with it as well, and it's hard. But it's life, I guess. Fuck it.

So once again, in a matter of minutes, I shall be off to (hopefully) my last lit 101 section. I love sherwin, don't get me wrong. the man's hilar and Julian and I always get into giggle fits when he's washing his hands with water from his thermos. But I'm done with the bitch. I'm done with the conversations that go nowhere. I'm done thinking in a hermeneutics mindset. The 20 page final essay thing alone is driving me mad. I should have been working on that for the past half hour.
but chose not to.
That's what this weekend's about, right?
Right.

Seeing "I'm not there" tonight with dad and binjles. Really excited. I love Todd Haynes (the man may be ugly as sin, but "Velvet Goldmine" is a true testement to his art), and the cast looks supoib. plus joshua clover liked it, and he's a very tough man to please. I could give less than a flying fuck as to how Mick LaSalle ranked it. That man is a jumped-up prick and I don't care who knows it. Goddaaaaamn.

Probably gonna be an AA next year again. Yesssssssssssssssssssss. Love it. I've had so much fun with it this year, it's just silly. Kate's been awfully good fun as an instructor, and I've had epic sections. EPIC. My studentios are just dollfaces. Think I might have to have a reunion or something later in the year. Or a dance party. Something ballsy.

Ugh. laundry. that shit better be fully washed. I'll flip if it's not. These damn washers and dryers. It's like we hand-made them or something. Fingers crossed, dahlinks.

Just keep on keeping on for 2 more weeks, hose-head. You can do it.

amour

Back in SC.
Mixed.
Shaken and Stirred.

I dunno. I had a fun time at home, dropping by copps, seeing peeps, hitting up the Body or Brain? show, hanging with the fam, laughing laughing laughing, buying my ziggy record.
all in all, it was good times.
and I even got one (granted, out of 6) essays done for that fucking hermeneutics final. I love you Wlad, but honestly, do I really need to write 6 essays on Being versus being (basically)?

anyways.

I'm ready to be working. not thinking, but working. this quarter has been fun, don't get me wrong, but I'm done actually being conscious for a while. Not like I want to run around with my head cut off and make stupid choices, but I want to feel less responsible. more impulsive, less "well, I've got to get up at 6:30 AM tomorrow".

My grandmother was visiting, which was both good and bad. good to see her. not good to hear some of the stuff she said. It's this great mixture of Italian Catholic guilt and a really fucked up way of life that puts everyone on edge and causes a lot of misunderstanding and hurt feelings. The stuff she says to my mom makes me sick and frustrates me really badly. And then, of course, something scary happens like last night when my grandmother fell over and almost cracked her head open. Of course, she instantly starts to berate my mother for not catching her, which is just a really awesome thing to do to your daughter who thought you were going to hit your head on the glass table and die. and then she fell over again this morning. I was asleep for this one, but it sounded pretty bad.
fucking a.

don't even get me started on the parkinsons that is afflicting both sides of my family.

It's just a barrel of laughs in the Owens Home.
There was this wonderful sigh of relief when it was just the four of us (plus dewie, of course). we just sat there and didn't really say anything, just so tired of always doing things without getting to just be. Hopefully, we'll get more time during christmas break.
3 weeks. I can make it. I'm looking forward to finishing up this quarter, hanging with my studentos, writing stuff, passing classes, bumping tunes in the mailroom, seeing "i'm not there", being in e-bear's project, etc...

time for less talk and more rock.
time to sit and smoke (salesman/beauty and the beasty ref..baha!)
time for whatever comes this way.
i love you all, and I admire you for reading this far.

Yes, I know that I've been talking endlessly about Wlad "The Impaler" Godzich, but yet again, the man has amazed me.
Once again, boys and girls, it's story time with Uncle Wlad.

So Wlad is being interogated for the next two days in a room with no windows by agents from Homeland Security. They will interogate him in shifts of two, give him a ten minute break every two hours.
He is being interogated because during the process of changing all of the paperwork that Homeland Security has on immigrants, visas, etc... into a computerized format, Wlad's paperwork was lost.

Therefore, he was crossing the border with a passport that did not have a paper trail, causing those at the border to question his validity in the U.S. Wlad is the most genial and charming man. You'd have to be insane, or blind and deaf to think otherwise. Apparently, Homeland Security is one of these. You choose which.

To explain his work-related travels (364 times of crossing the border over 35 years or so), he has to give them an overview of the history of literary thought and such during that time.

Basically he'll teaching Homeland Security lit 101.

During his breaks, he'll be listening to his iPod and laughing. Laughing his ass off at this whole ridiculous sittuation.

Someone please give this man a medal.

Why did Lit 101 chick get into an argument with Godzich today?
Really, now.
The man is so fucking awesome. And hilarious. And Brilliant. Yes, a capital B for sheer brilliance (and capital B Being har har hermeneutics joke). Listen to the following joke he made:
"Why did the French take the name of 'The Resistance'? Because they were resisting HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA." Love him. The best part was him laughing at his own joke.

I mean, it's hilarious to hear him school her, and he does every time.
But really? Did she have to?

She asked him a question (my mind has blocked it out because of the sheer stupidity), and he answered it, only to have her practically yell:

"NO! THAT IS WRONG. THIS IS WHAT IT IS."

and then of course, he rubutted her and told her (more or less) to shut her fat face.

But seriously. Nobody wants to hear your bizarrely monotone and robotic voice yelling. Especially at such a G. A Fancy Santa Clausian G.

In other news, Creepy MacSleazerton sat next to me in section today. I could have done without him putting his horrid feet all over my bag and making endless obnoxious noises, while giving me "The Eye".

To sum up: God, I'm ready for Turkey Bowl.

love, hose-head