And Now, For Her Next Trick...

Paris is an artist. Don't you try to tell her she isn't. She'll draw you so fast you won't know whether it was with a number 2 or a mechanical pencil.

She had some time to kill in jail. As it has been the case with so many artists and writers before her, being behind bars inspired artistic inclinations to cross over into true genius. Think Dostoevsky. Think Caravaggio. And then...look to the left:

Oh Paris. None of us would've have seen this fantastical side of you if you hadn't violated your probation. Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my and the rest of the world's heart.

In other news, I was walking across the Burnside bridge at the veritable break of dawn. On the downtown side there was a row of homeless folk all wrapped up in their comforters like sausages just waking up to a brand new day. One lady was ahead of the rest. She'd already gotten up...adjusted her clothes...and went to store her bedding...under a large orange construction cone. As she stuffed everything into the cone, her pants fell down. This is beside the point, but worth noting.

Anyway. I've been worrying about her things all day. There's been construction on that bridge for about a year now, but it's constantly switching sides. What if she goes into the Rescue Mission for a little breakfast and comes back out to discover that some dude has accidentally absconded with what little she has in the world all because they happened to move the cones to the west side of the bridge. I suppose she could just walk to to the other side to find them...but how will she know which cone is her locker cone?

I have to go back that way after work...I'll check out the situation then. Until then...I fret.

Not Even Worthy Of A Title

I know I haven't blogged for a while, but I'm in a funk. The weather is acting bipolar and Kansas is gone to California all week for his stupid job that allows us to pay for our stupid super cable and stupid food to put on the stupid table (well, coffee table, we don't have a real table). Right now I think everything's stupid.

Paris gets out this week. Stupid skankho.

Trying to pass another stem-cell research bill while Bush is still in office is stupid.

Whoever knocked over my scooter the other day is trying-to-get-his-ass-beat stupid.

The crazy bottle blond my newly dyed hair turned up with is stupid.

Ex-boyfriends/toys keep popping up everywhere. Boys are stupid.

My job is stupid.

Saw Spider-stupid-man 3. Tobey McGuire doing his best Saturday Night Fever impression had me longing for those glorious days I spent in the fever hallucinating about being eaten by whales. Yes, that was better.

I'm currently out of cheese and forgot to get any at the store today. Fucking awful.

I'll be back when I hate the world a little less.(Pilfered from Marc John's Drawings)

Scottish Accents and Loincloths...Delightful.

Just got back from seeing 300 at the pub theater. Who can say no to a $3 movie, right? Granted, my opinion may be slightly skewed by the fact that I've had a LOT to drink (taking a little vacay Monday and Tuesday)...but that movie was a) BADASS and b) the longest shirtless advertisement for the Iraq war I've seen to date.

Let me just start off by saying I've never seen blood be so pretty. Now before you all send in anonymous tips to the police about my apparent homicidal tendencies...let me elaborate. This is a movie where men's heads are constantly being cut off...but the bodies they are being separated from are BEAUTIFUL. Wave after wave of perfectly chiseled abdomens...it's what I imagine the inside of Wonka's chocolate factory really looks, like...if they made perfect men instead of chocolate...and was...you know...not fictional.

I'm told it's loosely based on what actually occurred back in the day between the Spartans and the evil Persians (who, based on this film...were all black)...300 men holding back an army of thousands upon thousands. And let me just say, if even an iota of the story is true...it FINALLY explains why 2/3 of this country's high schools and 1/3 of its colleges have Spartans as a mascot. And here I thought it had everything to do with their functional and stylish head wear. Silly me.

That's really all I have to say at the moment.



Who do you think should win the cookies...hmmm?

As Though A Dead Body's Lying By The Road...

I can't look away:

(tmz.com)

Can I reiterate this?

"There were times she was so debilitated, she could NOT push the panic button in her cell."

I love this. I love this so much.

So it's been determined that Paris Hilton suffers from severe ADD and claustrophobia. Shocking no one ever knew this about her before. I mean...has the bitch ever utilized the lavatory on an airplane? Probably not. If she had, she probably would've smoked in it. Which means she would've had to tamper with the smoke detector. Which, I'm told by flight attendants, is a federal offense. Which would've landed her in the slammer...where she'd be closed in by 3 gray walls, some bars and nothing to do. Wait.

Here's a thought. If you're not used to being locked up in a tiny room with nothing to do...wouldn't you EXPECT to react to it in a way that could be described as something other than 'calm'? I (or any other reasonably not retarded person) would think that if I had to stare at an uncomfortably close wall all day with nothing to do...yes...I might just have a few spaz attacks myself.

COME. THE. FUCK. ON.

If she does a leeetle penal survey, maybe she'll find some lovely lady inmates who suffer from correctional institution-induced side effects as well and she can start a support group. She can call it Rich Bitches in Orange. Once done, provided she adopts an African baby when she gets out, she'll be well on her way to Jackie O/Princess Di-level celebrity sainthood and this tainted present will soon be the forgotten past.

I can't wait to see the Made-for-TV-Movie this whole brouhaha will result in. And it's even cool if it's on Lifetime...a 'cause I've got cable, bitches.

**Come up with a better name for Paris' support group and I'll bake you cookies!**

What It Is...What It Is

The great thing about blogging on the weekends is that you can do it in your underwear. Which I am currently doing. It's Sunday and I just can't bring myself to put on pants. Suck it.

I just put something called "silksheen" on my hair. Damn Bishops Rock-n-Roll Barbershop and their punkishly suggestive stylists. How can toddler hair have "fly-aways"? Did I REALLY need anything else to help plaster my wisps to my head? Apparently so. I am a sucker. If the chick had also suggested that snorting the line of coke formed with a comb on the hand mirror added volume, I probably would've taken to it with both nostrils. So now I'm staring at my hair in the mirror and it looks disco shiny. I suppose that'll be helpful at night if I need to flag down a taxi. I'll just use my hair as a reflector. Awesome.

I realize I didn't really blog much last week...and I'm sorry. I meant to. I also meant to mention that I got reviewed on Ask and Ye Shall Receive...and that went rather well, I think. Some suggestions I agreed with...some I shall haughtily refute. I always find myself to be more contrary when I'm not wearing pants. And I like it.

Anyway, there were a lot of things I meant write about last week. But some shit went down with work, friendships, Paris Hilton and the like, and frankly I don't want to talk about any of it. Monday is the meeting about the Account Management position. Still don't know what I'm going to do. If anyone out there wants to offer me a kick ass job where I could write in some capacity so I could leave email marketing all together...you know...let me know. Whatever it is, I'll take it...as long as it keeps me at the level of luxury I currently enjoy. Basement apartment luxury. Pabst Blue Ribbon luxury. Clothes from Target luxury. I know. I know. But really, I'll be a great employee. I'll even wear pants. And my hair will be shiny. That's pretty much my resume, right there. You see why I have problems.

I have to go. My laptop is making gurgling noises again. I spilled a bottle of Rolling Rock on the keyboard two years ago and since then...well...it's never been the same. Every once in a while it starts randomly making 'drowning person' noises and it freaks my shit out. I feel like listeing to Tom Waits anyway, so I'm going to have to go wrestle the iPod from the steely death-grip of Kansas. I'll probably win. He won't be expecting a pantless assault...so it's the perfect moment.

This Generational Gap Is Closed. Find Another.

I'm sucking at this whole "blog from home" thing. I don't seem to be doing it. I wish I knew why I was the way that I am. Or something.

I used to be crazy into vintage clothes. You should see some of the shit I wore in high school...queen of the polyester was I. It petered out a bit in college. It was just too fucking hot to wear anything but cotton in New Orleans. I just wore the least amounting of clothing I could without being mistaken for a hooker. I worked with children, after all.

When I moved back to Portland, I tried to get back into it again...my vintage shopping. But by then it had become so trendy that all the good thrift stores were either completely picked over, or they figured out what they had and started demanding payment to the tune of my first born for a decent 60s gingham shirt. That turned me off again. So here and there I would buy reproductions. They're also crazy expensive, but at least I knew they were new while they maintained the "look".

I've been dabbling in it again lately since trying to look more "corporate". Think Tippi Hedren in Hitchcock's Marnie. And if you've never seen Marnie...I'll provide pictures for you:

"Why, hello there Mr. Bond. No...I don't have your money...take me now."

She has fabulous clothes in this movie.

Anyway, as I find pieces here and there, I'm noticing something alarming and rather painful about this type of clothing. The measurements do not fit a normal human being. Take the brown linen pencil skirt I am currently wearing; it fits perfectly over my hips and ass (my...um..."trouble spots") but it's high waisted, so it zips up to well past my belly button and then there's this flap upon which are two buttons with corresponding holes that are, well...supposed to be able to reach each other.

Yeah, they currently don't. I have a safety pin through both holes holding the flap closed. Now, you may not be understanding of what a drastic difference in quantity of fabric is within the two ends of this one skirt. I have what are known as "birthing hips". They're something like 39"-40" compared to my 27"-28" waist. That means that whoever owned this skirt originally had my hip size and something like a 24"-25" waist. She would've looked like an alien. It's the same for a lot of the dresses and slacks I find. How did women in the 1940s - 70s stuff themselves into these clothes? Was it girdles? Did girdles do the trick? Is that the reason why so many of them in their old age opt for elastic waistbands and nothing but? I want to know. I want to know why I'm sitting here trying NOT to think about the cookies in my right desk drawer while several of my ribs actually hang over my waistband. My safety-pinned waistband.

Stupid vintage clothes. Somebody get me to a fucking Old Navy.

"I'd let you search me...but my waistband is just so tight!"

I Enjoy The Word "Penal"

I just ate TWO pieces of chocoloate/macadamia nut candy.

It's my 150th post and I think I will celebrate by stating nothing in particular. 'Cause, you know, why deviate from perfection? Exactly.

I have to say something here. Something that's gonna piss off a lot of people, but I have to do it. I'm sorry.



I kind of feel sorry for Paris Hilton.






JUST KIDDING! Ha Ha! I had you guys going there for a second, didn't I. I know, I'm amazing like that. That bitch can just ROT in her white collar, private, clean, sterile, juice-providing, cable-having prison. WITHOUT even her extensions to keep her warm during the cold, lonely California penal nights...for all I care, I mean.

Have you people seen Jesus Camp yet? Watch it. Righ now. Fanfuckingtastic documentary. So watch it. Can't emphasize that directive enough. Don't make me bring out the bold fonts. I'll do it.

I will do it.

I Just Bought Star Wars Stamps

I know. The United States Postal Service can sink no lower. My options were that or the "Forever Stamp" which has a stupid bell on it. You see I had no choice.

In other news...I'm told by a friend who has the same medical insurance as me that Oregon has just passed a law requiring insurance companies to cover birth control. As she put it, "Oregon is bravely stepping into the 1950s".

That's right...our insurance doesn't/didn't cover birth control. And if you don't think that's a big deal, let me tell you...that shit gets expensive. Especially if you can only use one specific kind because all other kinds give you side effects that mirror ingesting large quantities of Olean. Ok, not like those...but bad, believe you me.

Now maybe you understand the having to deal with the color change in panic levels in any given month. Or maybe not. I don't care. Still, I always maintained that those of us who don't want children (or who, like me, are starting to lean towards not wanting them) are doing this country a favor by not procreating. Not adding to the population that needs to be fed, housed, clothed and entertained for the next 70-0dd years. We're keeping pools cleaner, restaurants quieter, cars smaller, happy hours fuller and taxes lower...we should be celebrated...or at least supported. But no...oh no...we're freaks who have to pay for our birth control out of pocket. Outrageous!

Speaking of not having insurance...I went to the dentist yesterday. Remember that chipped tooth I told you about? Turns out it couldn't just be filed down...of course not...it had to be drilled, filled, molded into a nubbin and crowned. Now, I've never had a cavity in my LIFE. This about sucked the life out of me. I have to go back for two more fillings and a permanent crown. But I may run. I know they'll catch up with me sometime...but I'll be the one to decide where...and when...and how my teeth are accosted by these merciless dentists of doom.

I left there with my face half frozen and had to go to work. It stayed numb for hours. Every smile was a sneer. I drooled without even knowing it. Lunch consisted of me tossing one piece of penne in at a time...and then gumming it til I could swallow. Did I mention I'd also had food poisoning the night before? Yeah. Chicken apple Gouda sausage. Never again.

Wow...that went from informing to whining within only a few paragraphs! I'm amazing.

Happy Friday, my little sloths!