Bars like Chapel. Fucking Chapel. My advice: do not go there on a Saturday night. Also, do not go there if you don't want to pay 7 dollars for a fucking well drink, which is bullshit; Bullshit, I say. I will say this: the bar itself is aesthetically pleasing. I am a little surprised at the stairway to heaven one must ascend to get in the door, though. We're talking many, many steps on a 90 degree angle. I imagine many a drunken tart in stiletto heels has taken a nasty spill down those steps, which, on second thought, would be kind of funny. Other than that, the place is well-decorated (okay, besides the white Jetson's chairs, which managed to be both ugly *and* uncomfortable at the same time) and the bar staff is attractive and only slightly rude. I wish I could say the same for the clientele, which consisted almost solely of (badly) aging hipsters, overweight office women and fat frat fucks with their skinny arm-girlfriends--you know, the kind who spends the entire night clinging to the fleshy elbow of her boyfriend and looking down at the floor? I'm like, I don't need geishas in here, okay? Go cover your mouth and giggle somewhere else and take your borderline abusive linebacker with you.
Also, my 7 dollar drink was totally watered down. Oh, and they served beer in wine glasses. Why would thay do that?
Several factors contribute to the all-encompassing evil that is the AHSM:
- Since it is an organizational-wide staff meeting, material from all of the branches is covered, so the chances that you don't know and don't care about a particular topic are pretty fucking good.
- Attendance is mandatory for every employee in Marc's organizational hierarchy. There are 200+ people huddled around the speakerphone in conference rooms across the country and you know what? At least 30 of them are going to have to put their two cents in during the Q&A session which extends the life (or death, really) of the meeting by 30 - 45 minutes. Fuckers.
- Marc is scary. I imagine that after work, he rips off his human face, hops on the back of a winged beast and retires to a darkened pit where he feasts on the charred flesh of newborn babies.
Wish me luck.
People on faddish, restrictive diets piss me off.
Also, I was at the Medusa a couple of weeks ago and I ordered a Rolling Rock and I take a swig and it was literally like beer-splashed water. What the...I look at the bottle. It's low-carb fucking Rolling Rock. Why would they do that, why why why? I mean, it's already the wussiest of the wussy beers-- it's like Zima without the refreshing citrus taste. So I go back to the bar and ask for a regular Rolling Rock, but guess what? They DON'T SERVE regular Rolling Rock. They only serve low carb beer. What? Why? I mean, it's not like they only serve diet soda and no-sugar juice and fucking carbless lemons, limes and maraschino cherries. Fuckers. This is SEATTLE, not New York or Los Angeles, godammit. We're not supposed to wear high-heeled strappy sandals with mini-skirts; we're not supposed to have to wait in line to get into a club; we're not supposed to have tans or really bleached teeth and the white devils at the Medusa certainly are not supposed to be serving low-carb beer.
Yeah. I took it all in stride. Finished the beer. Reapplied lip gloss. Left. Burned the place down.
Mmm. Off-topic. Yesterday started off brilliantly and ended disastrously. Jenn, the good friend that she is, helped me pick up some stuff at my office to take home with me. We made a day of it--went to Sushiland (light of my life, fire of my loins), hit Cost Plus World Market in Lynnwood for British candy, ate TCBY fro-yo and then decided to catch an early viewing of Ella Enchanted, which was, in fact, contrary to poor reviews (with the notable exception of this one by my arch-nemesis the no longer fat guy), totally enchanting. I have a rather large girl-crush on Anne Hathaway who, it turns out, is even more crush-worthy that previously thought, as she proves in the film that she can both dance and sing in addition to act, cry convincingly and be beautiful. I am jealous to the point of homicidal rage.
So, anyway, after the movie, we left the theatre to discover that Jenny had locked her keys in her car. The first thing I said was, "Do you have AAA?" She didn't. That's when we realized that we didn't know what to do. She called her cousin, Kimo, who lived nearby and I called our font of useful information friend, Amber. Kimo agreed to come with a clothes hanger and Amber informed us that should we need to, we could call a tow company or a locksmith. Let it be now noted that it was about 50 degrees and I was wearing a skirt and a tee-shirt. Yes. I tried to keep mental control over my temperature as Kimo tried his clothes hanger trick. After 15 minutes, I could no longer feel my legs. Soon, a Lynnwood Community Patrol vehicle approached and offered aid. They had slim jims and tools and I was convinced that we would be in the car in no time, which was good, because my soul was beginning to separate from my body. 15 minutes later, I asked Kimo if I could sit in his car. I slowly re-entered the world of the living. Half an hour later, the fake po-po gave up. Jenn called a locksmith who was there in 10 minutes and jimmied the lock in 5.
I offered to marry him. He was already married, though.
In other news, Heather celebrated her 25th birthday this past Friday...I believe I can safely say that good times were had by all. The evening started off with a bullet of fun--at the restaurant, Jeremy and I ordered the same dish and he felt the need to request that his be spicier because, as you know, if I, a woman, were to out-spice him, a man, his entire masculine world would have come crashing down around his shoulders. Consequently, Jeremy spent the rest of the meal chugging water, sweating profusely and holding back tears. How very manly. It reminded me of the time Freshman year when a bunch of us were out at that Mongolian Grill place and Jason Shamai was all: Pile on the chili and the pepper and the spice and the hot sauce! I can take it! I'm a man. And then, when he put the first bite in his mouth, all he could do was sob and shrilly cry: "I'm a fucking woman!"
Other highlights included: Heather's throaty karaoke rendition of Midnight Train To Georgia, nummy sherbet, the guy in the kilt, my inexplicable urge to steal Jade's wonderful handbag and the indie-mod, big bang-wearing super adorable young man with whom I shared two or three meaningful, prolonged looks. But, alas, our love will never come to fruition as he lives in Tacoma and I reside in Seattle and never the twain shall meet...except on random, beer-soaked Friday nights.
Reader Comments (squarespace)
Yes, fun times. I later asked Jeremy if he felt weird about being the only guy, and he said "Not after a few beers." He then added, "Plus, Ahe's practically like a dude." I cracked up and told I'd have to tell you that, and he was worried you'd beat him up. I assured him you'd think it was AWESOME! Heh...
that's AWESOME! being dude-like is cool, so long as it's not followed by "in appearance."
So, I am now officially as old as dirt. I had a remarkably nice birthday weekend, the high point of which was my three and a half hour visit to the Woodland Park Zoo. Dude, they have EVERYTHING there. Tigers, Snow Leopards, Jaguars, Malayan Sun Bears, Ocelots, Tapirs, the coolest reptile house ever, penguins, oh, and leeeetle teeny monkeys. I was a bit saddened that there was no boa constrictor because I was looking forward to reenacting the reptile house scene from Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
Some things I learned at the zoo:
- Kingsnakes totally kick rattlesnake ass
- Tapirs are weird, but cool at the same time
- Zebras stripes angle towards their bums
- Elephants eat whatever they fucking feel like eating
- Sonic the Hedgehog is not an accurate representation of the species
- It's funny when little kids think monkeys are cats
Once you get the opening African call from The Lion King stuck in your head, there's no getting it out
You know, if my birthday is on the same day that our lord and savior rose from the dead does that mean I get like...better presents? Because even though I specifically asked for David Boreanaz last year, not a one of my bastard friends delivered and I was right disappointed. You must all make up for it by getting me loads of presents. Loads.
Oh, and yes, I would still like David Boreanaz for my birthday. And please, remember to put airholes in the box. I don't want a repeat of last year's Orlando Bloom fiasco.
Now, what I'm trying to segue into is the fact that I've been going through boxes of books and whatall and I've been doing this freakish trip down amnesia lane..diaries, journals, old notes and letters, scrapbooks...it's all very very fun and completely embarrassing at the same time. I'm reading things I wrote from 5 years ago, thinking "Oh my god...is that me? Was I like that? There is no way..." But I was and I'm guessing, still am. We think that we change an awful lot in those formative high school and college years, but not so much, I'm thinking. It's like there's an essential core of you that remains the same no matter what you do or where you go and that's kind of comforting...well, it would be kind of comforting if it weren't for the fact that my essential core is one of general antipathy and contrariness. In one of the old books I unearthed, I found a list that my senior year housemates and I drafted...it was a list of "I am" statements patterned after the "I am Jack's--" from Fight Club. Some of my highlights:
I am Ahe's silent judgment
I am Ahe's need to just tell you
I am Ahe's bad day
I am Ahe's random good deed
I am Ahe's drunken indiscretion
I am Ahe's 30-second mood change
I am Ahe's uncharted depths
In other news, I was flipping channels yesterday and came across the last 5 minutes of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, just in time to see Mr. Spock die of radiation poisoning and then Kirk gives the eulogy saying that of all the souls he has known Spock's was the most...human and then they eject his casket-pod into space over the Genesis planet and even though I know that his khatra remained intact and he'll come back to life in the next movie I totally cried. Is that so wrong?
Keith's Going-Away Party (tm) provides several examples of these second-rate (and yet still stunningly hilarious) exploits, two of which were actually caught on camera as Keith's asshole loser dumbass friend Jim (who, by the way fathered a son, Nico, two years ago with Leslie) was capturing it for posterity on a rickety old handheld. Just in case you doubt Jim's assholic nature due to my predilection towards exaggerated invective, he, at one point during the Keith's Going-Away Party Video (tm), filmed himself urinating. Classy. Regardless, early on in the party, Drunk Liz came up with one of her patented mischievous plans which was as follows: She and I would bring Drunk Kelly over for a nice little tête-à-tête (if there are three of us, would that be a tête-à-tête-à-tête?) and then when Drunk Kelly least expected it, we would melvin her ass to high heaven. We tried and failed and laughed and Kelly's now-famous line was captured forever on film: "Liz and Ahe tried to seduce me into a wedgie!"
Maybe you had to be there.
The second nefarious scheme, also of Drunk Liz's creation was an attempt to take Drunk Dumb Bald Super-Grossly Flirty Boob-Flaunter down a notch or two. I refrain from mentioning her by name for two reasons: 1) on the off-chance she's as egotistical as the rest of us and googles her name and 2) because she honestly became much nicer and bearable after she pulled a Willow. Regardless, at the time of Keith's Going-Away Party (tm), Drunk Dumb Bald Super-Grossly Flirty Boob-Flaunter was, in fact, a drunk, dumb, bald, super-grossly flirty boob-flaunter. We did not like her for she was grody and also, shamelessly hitting on Drunk Liz's (and indeed, plain Liz's) boyfriend, Nicholas. Drunk Liz, hackles raised, decided that appropriate retribution would be to mix up a frothy concoction of smelly, staining liquid and have me "accidentally" bump into her and send the cup flying all over the DDBSGFBF, rendering her stinky and messy and thus incapable of flirting. After stirring fruit punch and kahlua and beer and soy sauce in Drunk Liz's plastic cup, we readied ourselves for Operation Bump and Spill, but in the midst of preparation, in a strange fortuitous moment, someone actually accidentally bumped into me, and I actually accidentally bumped into Drunk Liz and that cup went flying all over DDBSGFBF. Mission accomplished.
Then, of course, DDBSGFBF went into the kitchen and suggested that someone lick the stuff off of her, because, well, why wouldn't she?
Will you excuse me for a moment? I'll be back in a second. One second.
Okay, I think I'm seeing the attraction.
As you all know, this weekend heralded the advent of Spring which is a silly name for a season, don't you think? It sounds so commonplace alongside Summer, Autumn and Winter. Le Printemps is way better. Yet another reason why French people aren't totally useless. Okay, back to the weekend and the advent du printemps. After slogging though the depressing morass of the end of Seattle Winter--the grey, the rain, the wind, the endless 40-something degree days punctuated by the occasional, fleeting sunbreak--this thing happened when all of a sudden, it was 65 degrees and I was wearing a skirt without tights and no jacket and squinting into the...the what, the sun, YES, the sun! A shopping trip in the suburbs were taken, by me, and we went to TCBY and ate nummy frozen treats and life was good, especially when I discovered the cache of European candy and snacks at Cost Plus World Market--oh, Hob Nobs and Munchies and Aero and Yorkies, how I love you so...I invite you to stay in my home until such time as I desire to devour your chocolately goodness. The highlight of the weekend, naturally, was the quick jaunt down to Tacoma to visit lovely Heather who looks like Jason's mother. We lunched at the best place in the world, our favorite: The Enchanted Tea Garden. Little sandwiches arranged all pretty on the plates and fruity tea and scones and Devonshire cream and then full bellies and good times had by all.
I don't want to work anymore. I want to go and have high tea in a garden everyday. Is that so wrong?
A word to the wise: fat free salad dressing is a prelude to disaster.
So I'm downstairs in Mr. Fung's store, picking up an afternoon snack. I grab a big chocolate chip cookie and a side salad. I really want bleu cheese dressing, but they only have fat free. I think "well...how bad could it taste?" I get to my desk, douse my salad in the dressing and eat the tomatoes first. They are good--crisp, fresh. I only get a little of the dressing, and I don't notice anything amiss. The I spear a big piece of lettuce covered in fat free bleu cheese. I put it in my mouth and...it doesn't taste too bad, I guess. But it definitely doesn't taste good and it certainly doesn't taste like bleu cheese. I decide to give it the benefit of the doubt and try another taste. Eech. It tastes...sweet...but sick sweet like the sugar substitute that comes in the yellow packet. I tilt the bowl and look at it, willing myself to try it just one more time. As I look, I notice that the consistency is totally queer and thin and runny and palish whitish and then I realize that my fat free bleu cheese dressing is a dead ringer for fucking spooge, man, spooge! Jesus Fucking Christ!
In protest, instead of the requisite green, yesterday, I wore a butter-yellow blazer and an orange and pink flouncy skirt. Seven goddamn different people asked me why I wasn't wearing green. I had them killed, Lethal Weapon 2-style, rolled their bodies up in a tarp and threw them off the Winter River Bridge.
So. This will work the same way it did last time--I will post the last few entries from my previous site in order to acclimate my readership to the new place. Hopefully, all will go smoothly. Or as Andre3000 would say, smoofly. Please navigate to your heart's content. My links are kinda hidden over there on the right, but if you click around, you can find stuff.
so i was watching advance warning on mtv...2 the other night. (you have to say it like ian robinson says it, with that pause and the devil horns: mtv...two. is it wrong that i have a mad mad crush on that bald doofy punk?) yeah. i've found that i can pretty much never watch music videos on regular mtv because the playlist seems to include crap, more crap and mc-crapitty-crap. mtv...2, on the other hand, while still deeply mired in craptacularity manages to sneak some good shit in from time to time. this episode of advance warning featured dizzee rascal (who is fucking awesome), lost prophets (who are okay, but have the worst name i've ever heard) and finally, joss stone, whose freshman album is kind of presumptuously named "the soul sessions." i wasn't sure what to make of her at first. she has an okay voice for that bluesy stuff. kind of an amalgam of fiona apple and allison krauss. right. then she starts talking normally and this girl is a) british and b) like 16 years old. and she looks like miss piggy. not unlike kelly clarkson, from whom joss stone has stolen her wardrobe (skinny scarf and all) as well as the set for her new video, a cover of the white stripes' "fell in love with a girl," re-born as, wait for it..."fell in love with a boy." yes. now i love the white stripes and i'm not afraid to tell you that this girl, joss stone's version? well...it SUCKS BALLS. oh my god, it was the biggest piece of crap i have heard in a long time and most definitely the worst cover i've heard since britney spears' "i love rock n' roll" but without the added benefit of seeing britney spears in a belly shirt.
fucking kids, man.
does anybody else think that johnny depp is sitting in a coffee house somewhere in france contemplating the existential hilarity of the acting genius of donnie brasco, edward scissorhands and what's eating gilbert grape winning a screen actor's guild award for pirates of the carribbean: the curse of the black pearl?
in other news governor schwarzenegger has made a statement asserting that though constitutionally prohibited, foreign-born american citizens who have lived in the country for a long period of time should be eligible for the presidency. the governor then went on to cite war criminal and devious mastermind henry kissinger as an example of that foreign-born political goodness. while i would tend to agree that denying the pursuit of the highest office of a nation built by fucking immigrants to slightly newer immigrants is arguable, i'd like to say that the best argument for keeping this one on the books is that is guarantees a future in which i will never have to refer to governor schwarzenegger as "president schwarzenegger."
i am so glad to see that one of my favorite news sources shares my immense love for the hotarity (yeah, i made that word up. hot + hilarity) that is the seth cohen. it never fails to please me when my worlds collide.
so, on sunday, as i scoured the local drug stores for discounted valentine's day candy (because, as you know, my amazing weight-loss diet consists almost solely of sushi, mcdonald's and a tonnage of chocolate), i made an important discovery: the easter confections have arrived. as we all know, easter has the best candy of all the holidays. you know i'm right. thanksgiving: nothing. halloween and christmas: all the same candy as the rest of the year, but in different wrappers. chanukkah: mealy gelt. valentine's day: chalk-flavored hearts. easter: solid chocolate bunnies. those egg-shaped gumballs that come in the carton. malted easter eggs with the bright candy coating that you can lick and use as lipstick. and of course, who can forget the one, the only, my chocolatey nemesis: the cadbury creme egg. oh, you milky devil. the cadbury creme egg is the second food that i remember throwing up (the first being kentucky fried chicken coleslaw that i spewed, half-digested over the tray of my high chair). indeed, i was 3 years old, returning home in the butterfield family volvo from a potluck of some sort. little did my parents know that i had raided the easter candy spread at the mattson house, downing handful after handful of sugary devilment. i had even tucked away a final creme egg of death in my jumper pocket, hoping to savor it on the ride home, and i would have, had i not linda blaired all over myself, my sister, my brother, the backseat and that little hump in the middle of the car.
oh, cadbury creme egg, how you tempt me with your delicious sugared-milk interior and delectable chocolate shell. how i long to devour you without thinking of vomit. do i swallow you whole, like a snake? or bite a hole in the shell and suck out the creamy internal goodness, mongoose-style? one day...one day soon.
due in part to my insistence on viewing the entirety of angel season three in under three days in conjunction with all of the back-up episodes of season five i had on tape, i have developed a propensity to call people ridiculous nicknames in subconscious imitation of both spike and lorne. they drop such endearments as "angelcakes" and "freddikins" and "niblet" and "puff pastry" and "pet" with alarming frequency and i've found myself powerless to resist the urge. i was, at first, slightly embarrassed at the verbal slippage, but i've come to embrace the practice. from now on, i'm going to be the girl who rarely, if ever, calls anyone by his or her given name, preferring instead to replace said monikers with ones of my own choosing, included but not limited to the aforementioned spike/lorne-isms as well as such old favorites as "tiger," "guy," "honey," "sister-friend," "my little papaya," and "muffin."
and, from time to time: "cracker."
so last night was movie night. someone over in queen anne throws one of these about once or twice a month. always a blast. among the past viewees: super troopers, zoolander, the texas chainsaw massacre (original), brain candy, the royal tenenbaums. that sort of thing. the idea is to watch a movie that we have all seen so nobody gets all pissy about people talking during the the screening, and there will, invariably, be talking since there are always like 15 people crammed into the living room. last week, someone suggested we watch barfly which angered me for several reasons, not the least of which being that it's a mickey fucking rourke picture. also, it's on my short list for crappiest feature films of all time and i have actually *seen* gigli, so i know from crappy. long story short, i get to beth and dave's house at 8:00 for cocktails, hauling 8 bags of chips to feed the hordes. by "hordes," i mean me, beth and dave. i was the first to arrive and i downed a gorgeous jamesons on the rocks while bullshitting with the lord and lady of the manor.
nine o'clock rolls around and we're still the only ones there. turns out everybody got sick or busy and whatnot and totally ditched out on movie night, the fuckers. so beth and dave said i could pick the movie and we watched titanic. oh, bet on it. and they have one of those widescreen tvs, high-definition, the works. it was beautiful. then we decided that every time something billy zane said that would have sounded better when followed by "bitch," we should drink. oh, and also anytime a poor person has a foreign accent. we got well-nigh hammered and ended up scarfing down scores of chips and laughing till our stomachs hurt. although, to be fair, that could have been the chips.
my comedic genius moment of the evening was when i realized that bernard hill who has recently garnered nerd fame as king theoden in the lord of the rings played the captain of the titanic. during the solemn, quiet moment that the captain awaited his watery death, i intoned "where is the horse and the rider..." and beth and dave busted up.
you know, i'm thinking that moment was much funnier that it should have been since we were all drunk.
briefly: it occurs to me that if i pooled together the money i've spent on bikini waxes and manicures in the last 6 months, i'd have my marc jacobs venetia. or a month and a half of rent, however you want to look at it.
as noted below, last week sunday (not yesterday, last week), i went to see the shins play at the showbox. i was very excited, as i had never seen them live and i love them with all of the good places of my heart. this is not always the best mindset with which to approach a live show because research has shown that for at least 70 percent of music groups, album quality is inversely proportional to performance quality. for instance: the minus five, built to spill, spoon, the walkmen--so awesome on disc, so crappy live; and coheed & cambria, sparklehorse, grandaddy, sushirobo--so crappy on disc, so awesome live. clearly, some bands suck or rock both ways like wilco, andrew wk, neutral milk hotel, bright eyes and modest mouse. i'll leave it up to you which ones suck and which ones rock and keep in mind, there are no right answers. just cool ones and dumb ones.
my point is, i went into the shins show thinking, oh holy shit, this is going to be awesome, which is always a bad idea when the statistics really aren't in your favor. luckily for me, the statistics were twainian and the shins were fucking awesome live, oh holy shit. they are one of few bands that actually sound, you know...like the album when they play. i mean, exactly like the album. which, i suppose, could be a negative thing to some people, but not to me. they played for like an hour-forty-five, which was extra cool since they only have two really short albums, so they literally played EVERY song on both albums, so no one went away disappointed that the band didn't play his/her favorite track like when i went to see bright eyes the second time and the fuckers didn't play "make war." also, the dudes in the shins look like everybody's next door neighbor--geeky everymen in baggy tee-shirts with bad hair. plus, they were kinda tipsy and funny when whena girl threw a bra onstage with her name and number, they had no idea what it was. the keyboardist was like "dude...is this...is this a bra? somebody threw a bra up here! whoa! and it's got a phone number on it...this is AWESOME!" i was pissed that somebody beat me to the bra trick because *i* wanted to make out with him.
the best part was when, during the encore, someone shouted that they should cover a postal service song and the keyboardist was all, "yeah, hold on a second and i'll press 'demo' on my keyboard." HAH-HAH...in your face, postal service!
so i went with carol to the atmosphere show at the old showbox and it was fucking crazy, man. doors opened at 8, so we drove down at 10-ish. when we got there, there was still a motherfucking line. so we tell them we're on the guest list and they shuffle us to a smaller line, but a line nonetheless, two hours after doors opened; it was fucking bullshit, man. when we got to the door, we discovered the hold-up...they were doing bag searches and pat-downs. it was so cool. instant toughness. like gough with a "t." i mean, with two Fs.
(by the way, this tomato bisque i'm drinking is fabu. oh campbell's soup.)
so we make our way inside to find rachel who is hanging with will by the sound booth on stage left. this should have been easy, but it turned out to be tremendously difficult as there were fifteen billion people in the venue. they must have seriously oversold the show or something because the shins were sold out on sunday (more to follow on that) and there was room to move. last night, there was scarcely room to breathe and people were fucking raucus with the dancing and the arm waving and the head bobbing. so we find rachel and watch a bit of one of the openings (i don't know who they were, but they were actually pretty good).
then all of a sudden, this big, burly red-head--and i mean big, he was at least 6 inches taller than me and i'm no pixie--guy throws his arms around all three of us (don't ask me how that is possible) and asks us if we like the act because he thinks they suck. he draws his equally tall friends into the conversation. i, of course, say i think they suck but tell him that rachel thinks they're the best band ever, so they converge on her and drunkenly ask her to elaborate. it was funny because rachel buckles like a belt under pressure. one of the guys asks rachel her name and she tells him and he's all "rachel? like that girl on friends! i watch that shit every night!" rachel, ever the polite avoider of conflict nods and agrees. carol,and i lose our shit laughing, i mean, come on, that is seriously the worst pick-up line ever in history besides "hi, my name is adolf hitler." it's like "hey, not only do i not have a life, i choose to fill that void with FRIENDS of all things." then, the big burly red-head tells me he likes my hair and it's cute. i thank him and he says "i'm not trying to spit on your game or anything." what? spit on my game? what the fuck does that mean? i mean, clearly, it means he's not trying to hit on me, but seriously, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? what's my game? and why would he want to or not want to spit on it?
then some other stuff happened and atmosphere started their stuff and it was pretty cool. i was a little distracted by all the rhubarb with the showbox security people charging into the throng to stop whatever it was they were stopping. there's this girl who works there, she's kinda heavy and has these big long braids and she is SCARY. not in a bad way, but in a whoa, if i step wrong, this girl will fuck me up kind of a way. it was seth-davely awesome. i know it may just have been the braids and her zaftig figure, but when she jumped off the stage to accost that guy smoking pot all i could hear was die walküre and then later everytime she walked by i inadvertantly hummed various bars from götterdämmerung. rachel said her name is johnna, but she'll always be brunnhilde to me. well, not to her face or anything. clearly.
my father will be glad to know that his incessant listening to the ring of the nibelungen cycle back in 1992 was not lost on me.
oh, i do remember having a nice chat with my ex-housemate dan morelli's older brother, tim. now the thing with tim is, yeah, he's cute-ish. kind of roly-poly and all. a little doofy, not the best dresser. oh, and this one time, he puked in my friend jene's bed. that said, this guy tim is like knee-deep in chicks, man. for as long as i've known him, homeboy has had like two girlfriedns at a time and not uggos either, cute, nice girls. i never got it, you know, never quite understood the tim morelli mystique. right. so last night, i'm talking to the guy and within the span of five minutes, he tells me he a) likes my shoes b) likes my purse c) likes my hair and d) thinks i appear 'luminous.'
i was like, oh right. i love you. it's so rare to find a charming young man nowadays, you know? the charm, of course, wears off as soon as he stops talking, so i suppose that's a good thing. i mean, it's practically a weapon.
a short list of things that ahe doesn't have whilst drunk:
that's going straight to the shitter, my friends. to quote jed bartlet's liberal messiah president precursor, michael douglas in an american president, i'm throwing it out and writing a law that makes sense and that law is as follows: ahe will refrain from watching all reality television except america's top model and real world/road rules: the inferno because they are awesome, yo. the model show--they're just fucking with those vain, shallow, skinny bitches and ah love it...plus tyra banks is all charitably active and whatnot. as for the inferno...well it hasn't actually premiered yet, but i watched the preview on mtv last night and nearly wet myself. trishelle and mike had a rocky split because she's a cheating whore, psycho katie has returned to stir it up and melissa vs. julie has turned into coral vs. julie and i love that big bitch coral...man, she don't take shit from anybody and she's hot too. my favorite interaction to come: julie challanges coral to wrestle "like men" and coral says: "wrestle? i don't wrestle, i fucking beat bitches up!" SWEET.
oh, i am pumped. what heavenly catharsis.
in other news, johnny depp was nominated for an academy award for his role as captain jack sparrow in pirates of the carribbean: the curse of the black pearl. tom cruise and russell crowe were not nominated for anything. cold mountain got the shaft. that little chick from whale rider is up for best actress. lost in translation could nab best film, or best actor for the parless bill murray. "a kiss at the end of the rainbow" from a mighty wind is up for best song. meireilles was nominated for directing city of god which made my heart hurt. anthony minghella is softly weeping in a low-lit room right now. hah-hah, IN YOUR FACE, GOLDEN GLOBES!!! the academy awards are so much cooler than you are and always will be. thought you could jump the gun, come out early and swinging and sway the oscar voters to your second-rate taste, didn't you. in the immortal words of wynn rankin: eat this shit, yo.
in related news, i'm taking an extended dip in the pool of anxiety waiting for those oscar noms to hit the news. january 27th will see me waking up early and tuning in to cnn and maybe trembling a little bit. i know it's a ginourmous long shot for the depp or the sean astim to get awards nods, but i'm still pulling for them. mostly considering the dearth of oscar-worthy performances this year. i mean, did you see the golden globe runners? BOLLOCKS, says i. out of all of them female actors nominated, the only ones with which i agree are scarlett johansson (and dude, i'm so pulling my support afterv realizing that she's also in "the perfect score," which i will talk about later) and diane keaton, and the men, *the men.* tom cruise in the last samurai? what? this is me giving tom cruise in the last samurai the finger: --I-- . okay, sean penn, yeah he was amazing, but he kinda sorta always is, so i feel weirdly redundant talking about it. and best films? seabiscuit? cold mountain? love actually?
i will say this: the GG nominees for support actors (of both sexes) are actually spot on. but other wise, hollywood foreign press: bite me. this also i will say: if the lord of the rings: the return of the king does not win best picture...oh man, will there be rioting. geeks everywhere will storm the streets, rip up pavement and build some barricades. all i'm saying is strap in, okay?
hmm. i ate a lot of fudge and chocolate chip cookies this morning, which may explain why this entry has been so manic weird.
then i got an email from someone i haven't spoken to in 8 years. two people quit today...just up and quit. one of the uggos form the 6th floor is crying in the kitchen.
this cannot bode well for the new year.
so, i'm sitting at my computer. and there's this something at the pit of my stomach. not quite sure what it is, so i'm thinking back to yesterday. nothing eventful, really. went to tacoma, had high tea with heather, watched the lord of the rings: the return of the king, wiped away leaky tears. came back to seattle, went to an internet cafe. made a couple phone calls. watched some tv, went to sleep. no big.
woke up this morning...didn't feel right. not sick, not nauseated, not pre-menstrual, not depressed, just...not right. as the day dragos on, it doesn't get any better, worse in fact. slightly worse. despite the array of tasty snacks, i don't really have an appetite. something's wrong and i don't know what. did i forget to do something? forget my keys, my phone? nope, nope. is there something i'm supposed to be doing right now? am i way behind on a project and i just haven't realized it? why do i feel so...weirdly sad?
oh man. i remember this now. this, yuck, this is hurt feelings! somebody hurt my feelings and now i'm sad! FUCK!!! i thought i had done away with human feelings other than irritation, lust and righteous anger. this bites ass.
how do you make hurt feelings go away?
as the risk of yet again breaking out my seth cohen inflection, last night was AWESOME. my whole "going-out" thing has been severely lacking of late, due in part to my general reticence to bar-hop in that gorgeous seattle rain, but really mostly to the deficient planning skills of my friends and acquaintances. most of the young men i know seem to be virtual shut-ins and jabu's, the bar down the street, is about as far as the atrophied muscles in their limbs can take them. sadly, i live in capitol hill while all of my freinds live in queen anne, so "the bar down the street" is still ten bucks (or a begged pick-up)away, not to mention jabu's sucks a fat one. it's the kind of bar with televisions blaring seahawk games and ESPN news and old dudes making out in the corner with their faded levi's wearing white trash girlfriends. luckily for me, one of my intrepid queen anne-living girlfriends decided to shake things up and declare friday night "ladies night," or "ladeez nite," if you'll permit me.
i, of course, was a little disappointed when they suggested we go to sky, which is the new space that opened where maui used to be, which was where polly esther's was before that. yeah, gross, i said, but i figured if i got drunk enough at the pre-funk, i wouldn't care. so i dressed up casual-sexy and fancied myself quite the dish in my stretch paper denim and cloth jeans, tastefully reconstructed indie designer top and red pointy flats and headed over to sanna's house to down some colorado bulldogs while snarking about that living with MJ re-broadcast with beth, allison, heather, mindy and kathy. too drunk to drive, we cabbed it over to sky, which was closed for some private birthday party, naturally, so we headed across the street to the EMP just in time to catch some truly hideous salsa dancing. at this point, i was forced to take matters into my own hands and insist that we escape and make a break for one of the best meat markets in town, belltown billiards, or BTB, as my work buddies insist on calling it, though i have pointed out on numerous occasions (and to no avail) that "belltown" is one word, so they should abbreviate it correctly to BB. a fratty-lookingguy there called me cameron, which i didn't get, so he explained that my body reminded him of cameron diaz? offended, i cordelia-ed "why, because i'm tall and have small breasts? please don't tell me you were looking because 'as if.'" apparently he just meant that i'm tall and thin, which always gets me because i never really consider myself thin. then i started thinking about it, and you know,everyone with whom i graduated seems to be skinnier and skinner every time i see him/her. i mean, i've lost something like 30 pounds since 2001, maybe 40 now that i think about it. and all in the boobs and the butt, seemingly. i have neither t nor a. but i haven't done anything and i don't think they other post-grads have either. is college really *that* fattening? hmm. asks the girl who used to make meals of hostess cupcakes and breadsticks.
long story short, a good time was had by all. we drank, we danced (well, *they* danced and i kept drinking), we told the bartender it was sanna's birthday and got free shots which we took like men. i fended off suitors with my patented brand of bitchiness and mentally stabbed every girl wearing that same pair of new york wash boot cut seven jeans while secretly hoping they would notice that my PDC's were much cooler and more expensive, and didn't have that silly squiggle across the butt-cheeks to boot. i bonded with the lovely sanna over our amazonian stature and propensity to be very rude to strangers, both consciously and un-. i checked myself out in every reflective surface i passed, just to confirm that my ass looked as hot as i thought it did. and it did. i made that drunken profession of sisterly love to all parties and received love in return. i even shared a cream cheese hot dog and a cab with heather, who is quite a treat and way too good for ashley j. mohr.
good fucking times, man.
now, i am hung-over and loving every goddamn minute of it.
Heather: Hee....that's so cute. I totally didn't read it. I love them all......sigh.....
Ahe: yeah. i was like, well, shiiiit, i'd vote for myself too. every year, whatever movie i was in.
Heather: Hee.... Best Actress: Ahe in "Snarkalicious: Fueling the Fire"
Circle I Limbo
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow
Circle IV Rolling Weights
Osama bin Laden
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled
Circle VI Buried for Eternity
the girl the french accent on the 10th floor
Circle VII Burning Sands
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement
Parents who bring squalling brats to R-rated movies
Circle IX Frozen in Ice
in other, more important news, i am being slowly driven insane by the ever-leaking faucet in my bathroom tub. somehow, when i was gone, it because impossible to turn the cold water completely off, which i noticed, but remained unbothered by, until someone said "whoa...that's a leaky faucet? i thought someone was taking a shower in there." from that point forward, i have been unable to ignore the steady drone of wasted water and i think i actually may just snap if it's not fixed soon, which it apparently won't be. i called my manager and he had the facilities dude come in and check on it and they have to like do work in the adjacent apartment in order to fix the problem and the residents are on vacation or some such nonsense and they can't go inside unless it's an emergency which i think it bloody well is. yes. so i get to live with it until i kill because of it, i suppose. the best part was when i was talking to the facilities guy and everything he said just sounded so obscene and i could barely keep myself from bursting into hysteria... see, he had to "get into my pipes" and was having trouble getting his "tools through that tight valve."
oh, and the best part was i said, "so my pipes need cleaning?" but of course he didn't get it because he's not the immature perv i seem to be.
sadly i will not be posting my (could it be) past the international date line exotic new year's extravaganza here...i fear the day that my family stumbles across this page and reads about my rock n' roll lifestyle. everyone on my mailing list will get the full deets, so let me know if you want to hear about it all...
-vaccillated between extremes of fear and euphoria, settling eventually on euphoria
-turned the heat all the way on and curled up under three blankets while wearing yoga pants and a wool sweater and watched the lord of the rings: the two towers
-was taught how to snowboard by the super-jew
-totally ate it going down james hill, which, by the way is like a sheer fucking drop
-worshipped at the altar of the god of creamy tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches
-initiated a snowball fight with seattle u students i've never seen before and enjoyed the shared camaraderie of a snow day
-found out that blood on snow is kinda pretty and weirdly ominous
-did not, in fact, break my nose as previously thought
-painstakingly crafted a snow-monkey, complete with scarf and little monkey hat
-made snow angels and then gave them little devil horns
-called people who actually made it in to work and laughed at them
-trudged my way through capitol hill, falling down only once. twice.
-made an army of Mutant Killer Snow Goons in the park
-wrassled in snow and lost
-got hot cocoa and sat on a snow bank and drank it
-sat in friend's apartment in underwear while my clothes went through the dryer and watched pirates of the caribbean
-insisted that everyone call me "captain" for the remainder of the day
this is the best day EVER. it's like what i imagine heaven to be, but with bruises and wet jeans.