Today in didactics, we had a lecture by a man from the Spiritual Care department of the hospital. The minister man talked about how we should all make a conscious effort to exert nondenominational spiritual support (if we provide any at all) unless the family indicates a specific religion and you feel comfortable participating along those lines. Then he said he was at a family conference once, sitting around a table with the residents, attendings, fellows, RNs, social workers and family members to discuss the impending death of their child and the mom stood up in the middle of it and started speaking in tongues. Minister-man says that he's one of those kinds of Christians that does this kind of thing, so he put aside the nondenominational hat and stood up and starting speaking in tongues along with her. It was a good story. How do you just start speaking in tongues? Isn't there a lead-up to that?
Then we had a lecture on post-mortem care.
Then we went to the morgue, for a tour.
Then the CEO of the hospital talked to us about all the great things done at CHLA, and they were all things related to medicine, noble medicine, rich medicine, respected medicine. I became kind of angry on the inside.
Then at lunch I had a conversation with Daniel, who thinks I should be an MD or an OD and I tried not to think too hard about it.
Then I checked my email: nothing.
Then during break I almost finished O'Connor's Star of the Sea and when Yo La Tengo's Autumn Sweater was chosen at random from iPod it made me nearly teary.
Then I went and bought Return of the King Extended Edition. I really wanted that Minas Tirith stash-box. It would make an incredible stash-box. But it was 30 bucks more than the DVD alone, so I recanted. The insert on the back of the DVD says "50 minutes of new and extended scenes added by Director Peter Jackson". In case there was any confusion, you know - in case you thought the 50 minutes of new and extended scenes were added by Emperor Hirohito or Paul Reubens.
Then, here I am now.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Friday, December 10, 2004
Getting the Geek Blood to Boil
1. Did I mention that I spotted Daniel Lanois at the Arcade Fire show? Pulling his skull cap on immediately after crossing the threshold as he left the show, whereupon he mounted one of the meatiest chrome motorcycles I have ever seen, and went away into the rainy night. It was a Yeah, Bono's Slept In My Guestroom kind of motorcycle. Look for a future review on my mom's blog as mom and sister are going to the Vancouver show, courtesy of Lebo RN. (BTW, both Troubadour shows are already sold out for the 15th and 16th in LA.) I hold one of the precious.
2. I have three tickets to Imperial Teen for this Saturday. One is for me, the others are up for grabs. You can haves them for free, it will be my little Jesus gift to you. I know most of you will be stuffing yourself with Bill Murray paraphernalia instead, but if not, hey, I thought I'd ask.
3. First trailer for Burton's Willy Wonka, aqui. The Wonka bars are the same as in the first movie.
4. It is that time of year, O December! The season when miniature Minas Tirith stash-holders are being shipped nationwide, wrapped tightly beside the blue faux-leather, faux-book DVD packaging we - our kind - have grown to become so hungry for. It will be the last great beckoning of the Frodoiste for quite some time, I think. There is a long teaser trailer for the Return of the King Extended Edition for those with instant gratification problems
5. Very cool piece on 826 LA in the LA Times this week. It is a concise and exciting explanation of what we will be doing when we are up and running.
Your favorite Lone Star,
Sarah
2. I have three tickets to Imperial Teen for this Saturday. One is for me, the others are up for grabs. You can haves them for free, it will be my little Jesus gift to you. I know most of you will be stuffing yourself with Bill Murray paraphernalia instead, but if not, hey, I thought I'd ask.
3. First trailer for Burton's Willy Wonka, aqui. The Wonka bars are the same as in the first movie.
4. It is that time of year, O December! The season when miniature Minas Tirith stash-holders are being shipped nationwide, wrapped tightly beside the blue faux-leather, faux-book DVD packaging we - our kind - have grown to become so hungry for. It will be the last great beckoning of the Frodoiste for quite some time, I think. There is a long teaser trailer for the Return of the King Extended Edition for those with instant gratification problems
5. Very cool piece on 826 LA in the LA Times this week. It is a concise and exciting explanation of what we will be doing when we are up and running.
Your favorite Lone Star,
Sarah
Thursday, December 09, 2004
More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark
Remember those scary story books we used to order from Scholastic? With the scary black and white wet-on-wet watercolors? I think the creators of those books hold the chemical formula for Scary.
I want to tell you about something scary.
Last night, I watched Revelations, the second documentary (the first called Paradise Lost: The murders at Robin Hood Hills) about the case of the "West Memphis 3". These are three teenagers accused of committing "a satanic, ritualistic murder" of three little boys in the forest between trailer parks. Essentially, it appears these three have been tossed in jail for life because they listened to Metallica, wore black t-shirts and because the smart one of the three (Damien Echols, currently on death row) was bold enough to describe himself as a Wiccan before a Arkansian jury. Poor Metallica, they mean so well.
However, regarding the scary aspect, I am not referring to the oral health or hygiene of the inhabitants of West Memphis. No, I suggest you rent Paradise Lost or Revelations, and then tell me what you think of Mr. Mark Byers, stepfather of one of the three boys murdered in the case. He is a six foot 2, toothless method-actor, a man on a variety of antipsychotic medications, a lover of knives, an individual who performs a mock burial for the accused involving lighter fluid, an axe, some overalls and a lot of yelling the words "Burn in Hell!" with gritted teeth, who falls dramatically to his knees at the grave of his wife, who seems to speak only in rehearsed monologue every time he is on-camera, who loves to wax biblical at the sight of stormclouds, whose intelligence is kind of unnerving in contrast to those who surround him, who gave the filmmakers a hunting knife as a gift during the filming of the first documentary that had dried human blood on it, a man who, affter evidence of bite marks were found on a victim following the first trial, claims all of his teeth were extracted following the murders due to taking tegretol - this is the portrait of the scariest bogeyman I've ever seen, and who is believed by many to be the murderer himself.
Enjoy the show!
I want to tell you about something scary.
Last night, I watched Revelations, the second documentary (the first called Paradise Lost: The murders at Robin Hood Hills) about the case of the "West Memphis 3". These are three teenagers accused of committing "a satanic, ritualistic murder" of three little boys in the forest between trailer parks. Essentially, it appears these three have been tossed in jail for life because they listened to Metallica, wore black t-shirts and because the smart one of the three (Damien Echols, currently on death row) was bold enough to describe himself as a Wiccan before a Arkansian jury. Poor Metallica, they mean so well.
However, regarding the scary aspect, I am not referring to the oral health or hygiene of the inhabitants of West Memphis. No, I suggest you rent Paradise Lost or Revelations, and then tell me what you think of Mr. Mark Byers, stepfather of one of the three boys murdered in the case. He is a six foot 2, toothless method-actor, a man on a variety of antipsychotic medications, a lover of knives, an individual who performs a mock burial for the accused involving lighter fluid, an axe, some overalls and a lot of yelling the words "Burn in Hell!" with gritted teeth, who falls dramatically to his knees at the grave of his wife, who seems to speak only in rehearsed monologue every time he is on-camera, who loves to wax biblical at the sight of stormclouds, whose intelligence is kind of unnerving in contrast to those who surround him, who gave the filmmakers a hunting knife as a gift during the filming of the first documentary that had dried human blood on it, a man who, affter evidence of bite marks were found on a victim following the first trial, claims all of his teeth were extracted following the murders due to taking tegretol - this is the portrait of the scariest bogeyman I've ever seen, and who is believed by many to be the murderer himself.
Enjoy the show!
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Cardiac Fire
If I had a stick,
I'd bang it on a drum and
I'd hook myself up to an amplifier
and electric-spark myself across the stage.
If I were to trip or twitch in the process,
I could make it look like part of the show.
I have witnessed the twitch, and the clapping.
I was tripped, but I fell into the Arcade Fire, and I was held by the heat for a moment in time.
By the end of tonight, my right eye was stung by a bead of sweat,
brought forth down my forehead by several Newtons of
blue light, accordion-sucked air, and
uncorked heartbeats.
A band that covers Naive Melody (this must be the place);
A band that offers us Beast of Burden and Cinnamon Girl as background while
the cymbals are set up;
A band that drums on any surface regardless of its density
can only reflect white joy off of its wall of sound.
I'd bang it on a drum and
I'd hook myself up to an amplifier
and electric-spark myself across the stage.
If I were to trip or twitch in the process,
I could make it look like part of the show.
I have witnessed the twitch, and the clapping.
I was tripped, but I fell into the Arcade Fire, and I was held by the heat for a moment in time.
By the end of tonight, my right eye was stung by a bead of sweat,
brought forth down my forehead by several Newtons of
blue light, accordion-sucked air, and
uncorked heartbeats.
A band that covers Naive Melody (this must be the place);
A band that offers us Beast of Burden and Cinnamon Girl as background while
the cymbals are set up;
A band that drums on any surface regardless of its density
can only reflect white joy off of its wall of sound.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Archive No. 3: Last in a Tryptich.
Adam Clayton, silent bass player. Bonovox, self-professed 3-inch man, Chicago 1981. Randomized, controlled clinical trials completed in the field of follicular cultural studies have demonstrated that Ireland has not conclusively contributed to the canon of forward-thinking hairstyles in a manner that can be described as statistically significant (alpha < 0.5). It has been hypothesized in other works that these results may be applicable to the whole of Hibernia and Britain, save for England proper (responsible for the Chelsea Girl, Mo- and Faux-hawks, Mohicans, Moptops, Blur Bangs, and Toni and Guy products among others).
Sunday, December 05, 2004
Archive No.2: The Irish Have A Hard Time of It
Archive No.2: I avert mine eyes, for the gaze of the hair is more powerful than the gaze of the bearer.
Originally uploaded by Sarah Lebo.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Friday, December 03, 2004
The Society for Follicular Safety and the Prevention of Historical Repetition Presents: A cautionary tale in triptych
Archive No. 1: A young Paul Hewson and tea, circa 1980. This follicular arrangement is tolerable, partially flattering and even mod. There is quite a bit of it. Note its lustre - resilient, pervasive. Some believe the shinyness of one's hair can be directly equated with the shinyness of one's soul.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Stale, expensive Spanish gummies
These looked good but did not taste good.
They were in the Boqueria in Barcelona, near the Egg Man and the other Candy Ladies.
I am not in a mood for writing today, so you can just have candy and pretend it is me.
They were in the Boqueria in Barcelona, near the Egg Man and the other Candy Ladies.
I am not in a mood for writing today, so you can just have candy and pretend it is me.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Tostada times two
Thanksgiving:
Nana, sayeth to us o'er the low din of scootching chairs to tables, "I am thankful for being here; and I'm thankful for oranges and aspirin, which represent the sun and the moon". I do not fib.
I spake to the table that grateful I am for all the people I know, for they are enrich-ed and worthy, peace-loving, attractive and self-aware. (I am thankful also for the earnestness that drapeth the new U2 album, though I exempt thanks for the choruses on tracks 2 and 6. This I did not say at the table, but I say it to you now.)
My cousin-in-law gave thanks to the philosopher's stone responsible for Splenda. We looked at pictures afterwards, and played picture bingo and drove home in the tortuga verde listening to Eminem's Mosh and other special items.
Zankou chicken. Friday. Upon facing my roasted chicken tarna thingy, nearly fell face first into it being overcome with exhaustion related to The Week.
Upon returning from el hospital on Saturday, entered house full of architecture students and my dad, who was deeply involved in a conversation about tequila and religion in the dim corner of the kitchen with a young man in a seersucker suit, all in celebration of Libby's 27th year. Slept upstairs in Libby's parents bedroom to avoid noise of revelry so I could wake up at 5:00 AM and drive to work without incident, but before I could tuck myself into bed, I fell off of it. Really fell off of it. It's probably two and a half feet off the slippery wooden floor. My iBook got bruised too. The sad thing was nobody heard me fall but me. I kind of lay there, in an awkward arrangement, before attempting to open computer to make sure it was alive.
I discovered today that my day really is better if I have coffee in the morning. I want to resist the idea of this. However, perhaps it is something to accept.
There was one patient who would swipe at me (unintentionally) until I leaned across her bed to give her a hug,and I was not to be let go of, and the hugs were of great intensity and at an awkward angle. She will only settle down if someone puts their chest to hers. And lo, then there was another patient who gave me the "L on the forehead" maneouvre. Then he addressed me as "Woman" (like, "Hey, woman, listen here...") and interrupted me in the middle of an admission with this announcement of my loserhood, then corrected me on the information I was giving to his new roomate about pulling the code cord.
Now I am full of tostadas eaten at Mexico City on Hillhurst. They give you two kinds of salsas there and the windows are large.
Goodnight. I imagine you all in bed with me. I mean this figuratively, as in, "I wish you could all feel cozy inside when it is cold and windy outside in LA and there are palm fronds lying like casualties on all the roads of the city".
I also learned that the word "cucuy" in Spanish (pronounced "koo-koo-ee") means bogeyman/person. I learned this from a former patient who came back for a visit today, because he kept pointing at another child and repeating "cucuy" (and laughing about it) because he dreamt about this patient as a scary cucuy.
To all my cucuys and dreamers I give thanks.
Nana, sayeth to us o'er the low din of scootching chairs to tables, "I am thankful for being here; and I'm thankful for oranges and aspirin, which represent the sun and the moon". I do not fib.
I spake to the table that grateful I am for all the people I know, for they are enrich-ed and worthy, peace-loving, attractive and self-aware. (I am thankful also for the earnestness that drapeth the new U2 album, though I exempt thanks for the choruses on tracks 2 and 6. This I did not say at the table, but I say it to you now.)
My cousin-in-law gave thanks to the philosopher's stone responsible for Splenda. We looked at pictures afterwards, and played picture bingo and drove home in the tortuga verde listening to Eminem's Mosh and other special items.
Zankou chicken. Friday. Upon facing my roasted chicken tarna thingy, nearly fell face first into it being overcome with exhaustion related to The Week.
Upon returning from el hospital on Saturday, entered house full of architecture students and my dad, who was deeply involved in a conversation about tequila and religion in the dim corner of the kitchen with a young man in a seersucker suit, all in celebration of Libby's 27th year. Slept upstairs in Libby's parents bedroom to avoid noise of revelry so I could wake up at 5:00 AM and drive to work without incident, but before I could tuck myself into bed, I fell off of it. Really fell off of it. It's probably two and a half feet off the slippery wooden floor. My iBook got bruised too. The sad thing was nobody heard me fall but me. I kind of lay there, in an awkward arrangement, before attempting to open computer to make sure it was alive.
I discovered today that my day really is better if I have coffee in the morning. I want to resist the idea of this. However, perhaps it is something to accept.
There was one patient who would swipe at me (unintentionally) until I leaned across her bed to give her a hug,and I was not to be let go of, and the hugs were of great intensity and at an awkward angle. She will only settle down if someone puts their chest to hers. And lo, then there was another patient who gave me the "L on the forehead" maneouvre. Then he addressed me as "Woman" (like, "Hey, woman, listen here...") and interrupted me in the middle of an admission with this announcement of my loserhood, then corrected me on the information I was giving to his new roomate about pulling the code cord.
Now I am full of tostadas eaten at Mexico City on Hillhurst. They give you two kinds of salsas there and the windows are large.
Goodnight. I imagine you all in bed with me. I mean this figuratively, as in, "I wish you could all feel cozy inside when it is cold and windy outside in LA and there are palm fronds lying like casualties on all the roads of the city".
I also learned that the word "cucuy" in Spanish (pronounced "koo-koo-ee") means bogeyman/person. I learned this from a former patient who came back for a visit today, because he kept pointing at another child and repeating "cucuy" (and laughing about it) because he dreamt about this patient as a scary cucuy.
To all my cucuys and dreamers I give thanks.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Volunteer Army battles Forces of Darkness
This morning was all about a drive to Venice. I dont think I've actually ever been to Venice. The part of Venice I roamed into was delightful and green and wild and full of bungalows of many colors.
This morning was all about being seated on the floor of one of these said majestic bungalows with 30 other souls plus Dave Eggers, Vendela Vida, Nineve Calegari and assorted other representatives of the 826 Valencia project. An 826 Los Angeles is about to be initiated here, come January, hence my placement on the floor beside Mr. Writer of Items Admired Greatly by Sarah. The 30 people there (there will be hundreds, hopefully,to come) and I are to be writing tutors. The majority of attendees are production and/or executive assistants, public relations/events planning, and people comfortable with referring to themselves as "director", "former executive producer", and "writer". I mean, fair play to them...I just dont have the play-doh, if you will, to go there, to call myself that, so I think I resent them in a friendly way.
There are a few teachers, some journalists, web designers, a film editor, and me. We were asked to announce our skills, and I put scrimshaw artist but then had to announce that this was a forged skill, and was hard pressed to think of my skills/talents. I mean, there are things I'm good at, but I couldnt think of how to categorize them, so I just said "diplomatic communicator, good on follow-through, letter writer, guacamole" which felt empty but honest. I wasnt say, a former speech writer for Clinton, like one woman in the room. Nor -sigh- have I ever had anything published, lo! not even one of my many letters. Nevertheless, I can give, and likely get got and that is all that matters.
I left feeling insanely excited. But then I ate the protein bar I had in my bag for lunch/breakfast and felt sick on the 405 cause I had nothing to wash it down with..but I was listening to a song with a chorus that went "I hate this part of Texas, Odio este parte de Tejas", so it was ok.
I then drove around Pasadena taking pictures for a potential Location Book that no one will probably ever use/see. To the Gamble House I went, and the home of Mr. Lebowski (Wrigley Mansion/Rose Parade building), to the casting pond in the arroyo, to Shady Lane (located on the grounds of my old kindergarten), past the Ritz Carlton where I wasnt allowed to photograph the gardens, to Lacy Park in San Marino, to the Holly St/Colorado bridge (from which once hung a gigantic puppet of Emily Dickenson and which has been popular setting for Fear Factor stunts), and by the wierd government buildings I never before knew were governmentally-occupied but which always reflect gold from their windows at sunset.
I was unable to peek through the gates of the spooky Frank Lloyd Wright house off of Prospect because I was blocked at all angles from approaching the east side of the Rose Bowl due to Rev. Billy Graham's Crusade (they make no apologies for their literal use of active descriptors!) ongoing in the stadium at this time. Lots of Gap-adorned, Cheesecake Factory-eatin born agins roamed up and down Orange Grove after the Crusade was over, Old Town-bound.
I came home and stared blanky (I believe the Buddhists call reaching this state of non-thought, non-self awareness "transcendence" or "boddhisatva" or something, ahem) at my laptop, basically crumpled over in my chair, at which point I removed my body to my bed, where I took to napping and had literal dreams involving tutoring workshops.
I was awoken by the silence of the house.
I then failed to follow through on previously initiated attempts at being social.
I initiated my physiology case assignment on the Immune System, which goes: "In order for me to pose a compelling argument that would encourage you to get a flu shot, Mr. Jones, I'll talk first about the basic anatomy of viruses, and then give you a simplified sketch of how our immune system reacts to infections in general."
I wait here still.
This morning was all about being seated on the floor of one of these said majestic bungalows with 30 other souls plus Dave Eggers, Vendela Vida, Nineve Calegari and assorted other representatives of the 826 Valencia project. An 826 Los Angeles is about to be initiated here, come January, hence my placement on the floor beside Mr. Writer of Items Admired Greatly by Sarah. The 30 people there (there will be hundreds, hopefully,to come) and I are to be writing tutors. The majority of attendees are production and/or executive assistants, public relations/events planning, and people comfortable with referring to themselves as "director", "former executive producer", and "writer". I mean, fair play to them...I just dont have the play-doh, if you will, to go there, to call myself that, so I think I resent them in a friendly way.
There are a few teachers, some journalists, web designers, a film editor, and me. We were asked to announce our skills, and I put scrimshaw artist but then had to announce that this was a forged skill, and was hard pressed to think of my skills/talents. I mean, there are things I'm good at, but I couldnt think of how to categorize them, so I just said "diplomatic communicator, good on follow-through, letter writer, guacamole" which felt empty but honest. I wasnt say, a former speech writer for Clinton, like one woman in the room. Nor -sigh- have I ever had anything published, lo! not even one of my many letters. Nevertheless, I can give, and likely get got and that is all that matters.
I left feeling insanely excited. But then I ate the protein bar I had in my bag for lunch/breakfast and felt sick on the 405 cause I had nothing to wash it down with..but I was listening to a song with a chorus that went "I hate this part of Texas, Odio este parte de Tejas", so it was ok.
I then drove around Pasadena taking pictures for a potential Location Book that no one will probably ever use/see. To the Gamble House I went, and the home of Mr. Lebowski (Wrigley Mansion/Rose Parade building), to the casting pond in the arroyo, to Shady Lane (located on the grounds of my old kindergarten), past the Ritz Carlton where I wasnt allowed to photograph the gardens, to Lacy Park in San Marino, to the Holly St/Colorado bridge (from which once hung a gigantic puppet of Emily Dickenson and which has been popular setting for Fear Factor stunts), and by the wierd government buildings I never before knew were governmentally-occupied but which always reflect gold from their windows at sunset.
I was unable to peek through the gates of the spooky Frank Lloyd Wright house off of Prospect because I was blocked at all angles from approaching the east side of the Rose Bowl due to Rev. Billy Graham's Crusade (they make no apologies for their literal use of active descriptors!) ongoing in the stadium at this time. Lots of Gap-adorned, Cheesecake Factory-eatin born agins roamed up and down Orange Grove after the Crusade was over, Old Town-bound.
I came home and stared blanky (I believe the Buddhists call reaching this state of non-thought, non-self awareness "transcendence" or "boddhisatva" or something, ahem) at my laptop, basically crumpled over in my chair, at which point I removed my body to my bed, where I took to napping and had literal dreams involving tutoring workshops.
I was awoken by the silence of the house.
I then failed to follow through on previously initiated attempts at being social.
I initiated my physiology case assignment on the Immune System, which goes: "In order for me to pose a compelling argument that would encourage you to get a flu shot, Mr. Jones, I'll talk first about the basic anatomy of viruses, and then give you a simplified sketch of how our immune system reacts to infections in general."
I wait here still.
Friday, November 19, 2004
It is a gift...
This was a poster I saw in a pharmacy near Queen's University in Belfast on one of my many fruitless, aimless, time-killing walks there.
Who was the advertising genius....who was the trailblazer responsible for storyboarding this campaign? I want to give him/her an award for Outstandingly Awkward PSA of the Year, Northern Ireland 2004.
See, this ad is not something people there would think was funny. We do. But they dont.
I mean, there was a radio ad I heard in the Republic in 2001 while I was in Galway, an ad for nappies/diapers: "The only nappy for pee and soft poo". A national media that abides by an unwritten law o earnestness.
Today I became very bummed while at work in the lunch room. This clique of older nurses was talking about molcahetes and tamales and it wasnt that I felt left out because my mom cannot make posole from scratch....it's just, I don't know, my mortal coil began to shudder - a little bit.
It's not that this group ignores me completely - no, see, they use me for reference, like a thesaurus. And then they just talk over me. It's fascinating, truly. Generally I can ignore it.
Sigh.
"It's not the band I hate - it's the fans."
Who was the advertising genius....who was the trailblazer responsible for storyboarding this campaign? I want to give him/her an award for Outstandingly Awkward PSA of the Year, Northern Ireland 2004.
See, this ad is not something people there would think was funny. We do. But they dont.
I mean, there was a radio ad I heard in the Republic in 2001 while I was in Galway, an ad for nappies/diapers: "The only nappy for pee and soft poo". A national media that abides by an unwritten law o earnestness.
Today I became very bummed while at work in the lunch room. This clique of older nurses was talking about molcahetes and tamales and it wasnt that I felt left out because my mom cannot make posole from scratch....it's just, I don't know, my mortal coil began to shudder - a little bit.
It's not that this group ignores me completely - no, see, they use me for reference, like a thesaurus. And then they just talk over me. It's fascinating, truly. Generally I can ignore it.
Sigh.
"It's not the band I hate - it's the fans."
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Le Grrrrrr
Tonight saw Le Tigre at the El Rey (translated: the The King theater).
When I was on the outside of the floor crowd, fretfully contemplating the least invasive route inwards towards my people, a guy and a girl erupted from the mass and said "Come on sister! It's the Underground Railroad!" and they were like tree branches that parted in my presence, my stranger escorts into the core of the crowd. To this I replied: "I'm feeling the moss on the west side of the tree trunks to find my way north!" and they actually knew what I meant and we laughed the privileged giggle of people who have mastered at the minimum, a secondary school education.
So Le Tigre danced (choreographically), Le Tigre rocked, Le Tigre pushed some noise.
Kathleen Hanna.
She might be the grey-eyed goddess Athena, or she might just be hot and compelling. You tell me.
I love hot and compelling!
There were many moments during the show when I would say to myself - oh, hey it's Jack Osbourne! Only it wasnt. Ever. I was being repeatedly foiled by, you might say, "roly poly little bat-faced girls". With fros and plugs and black button up shirts.
You missed out.
(also, anyone can post now. Go ahead, try it. The raspberries taste like raspberries. The bananas taste like bananas. The schnozberries taste like schnozberries!)
When I was on the outside of the floor crowd, fretfully contemplating the least invasive route inwards towards my people, a guy and a girl erupted from the mass and said "Come on sister! It's the Underground Railroad!" and they were like tree branches that parted in my presence, my stranger escorts into the core of the crowd. To this I replied: "I'm feeling the moss on the west side of the tree trunks to find my way north!" and they actually knew what I meant and we laughed the privileged giggle of people who have mastered at the minimum, a secondary school education.
So Le Tigre danced (choreographically), Le Tigre rocked, Le Tigre pushed some noise.
Kathleen Hanna.
She might be the grey-eyed goddess Athena, or she might just be hot and compelling. You tell me.
I love hot and compelling!
There were many moments during the show when I would say to myself - oh, hey it's Jack Osbourne! Only it wasnt. Ever. I was being repeatedly foiled by, you might say, "roly poly little bat-faced girls". With fros and plugs and black button up shirts.
You missed out.
(also, anyone can post now. Go ahead, try it. The raspberries taste like raspberries. The bananas taste like bananas. The schnozberries taste like schnozberries!)
Theater, Lucca, Tuscania 2004
Wherein I saw Taking Lives, in Italian, by myself.
It rained profusely, the leaves were green green, and I had an americano after buying lavender flavored mints in a tin. A walled city.
It rained profusely, the leaves were green green, and I had an americano after buying lavender flavored mints in a tin. A walled city.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
The Rev. Henry Mayer Lebo (c. 1969, Courtesy of Universal Life Church archives)
The Rev. Henry Mayer Lebo (c. 1969, Courtesy of Universal Life Church archives)
Originally uploaded by Sarah Lebo.
Has it ever happened to you that upon listening to a Strokes song, you have shed a tear? This just happened to me (c.f. "what ever happened?", Reptilia). It is not the first instinct/emotion born of this kind of music (that instinct is the one that leads you to drink and not bathe but have lots of dirty fun with attractive people while not bathing).
I mean, you know, I write this down in earnest and yet I know there are legions of holier-thans who would probably cringe at the fact I still listen to the Strokes. I give those people a big finger of fuck you.
Big ups. Thank you Reverend for your most holy guidance.
The pumpkin no one could open.
This is my pumpkin du Cash. I wish you could see his hair. It was the best part. And he looked more like who he is supposed to be before part of his cheek imploded and had to be removed.
He does not look like Napoleon.
Thank you.
He does not look like Napoleon.
Thank you.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Don't count when I count.
First nightmare in a long time last night. It lasted maybe 3 seconds. In the dream I was lying in bed in a low-lit room, as if it were lit with white christmas lights alone. Make-out kinda lighting you could say. I saw the latter half of a cat whip by at the edge of my visual field. Next thing I know, the cat - somehow half-man, half-cat now - has paws on my temples (bilaterally) and is pushing inwards with it paws. I cant see it but I know it's there, and that it's big. It is speaking in a low muddy voice that made me think I was about to be killed. It was nasty. I think it was Pussums, pre-incarnated, come a'down to haint me.
I was yelled at by a patient for 65% of the day. By Little Man T, I shall call him. His right leg is amputated below the knee, he has a feeding tube coming out of his stomach and a large metal contraption sticking out of his left thigh which is holding his femur together, along with a head injury, so you know, we'll cut him some collective slack. First he wanted to give me a hug. Then he wanted to give me a kiss. Then, the world turned inside out like a pocket on a pair of cords right out the dryer, and he said he hated me. Any question I would ask him, the answer would be "Yes please", followed immediately by "No, what are you doing!". Then when transferring him from his wheelchair to his bed, I counted one two three. "Please! Dont Count When I Count!" Somehow it is so much sadder when he uses the word "please".
I went to the Soap Plant in search of curious birthday presents, etc after work. Amid the books on fetish art, female pirates, anime; amid the "Homer Simpson's pet monkey" keychains, scented candles, tantra calendars, Domokun stuffed...things, Spongebob lunchboxes and Emily Strange journals, I started to feel cheesed out by the novelty of it all, and left.
Did you know that "America (The Book)" from Jon Stewart et al is formatted like a high school civics text? It's even smells gluey and has a stamp on the inside front cover for name, class and year. I never had a high school civics class you see.
Last comment: I'm not above watching trash - those who know me know I have a penchant for trash, ok? But I just dont understand PEOPLE WHO WATCH THE OC as a "guilty pleasure" (that phrase is so torn and frayed, someone please make up a new one). I mean, a subplot involves Rich Anorexic Girl #1 having a secret affair with a....Latino yardman! They call him the "yardguy", as in "You cant have a crush on him, he's a yardguy!" but really, every time they say "yardguy", they mean "brown guy". Also, it's a show that employs a lot of "welding" as my dad would say. He'd go, "Jesus, look at the welding on that forehead!" He says Aaron Spelling invented this style of TV lighting.
Enough.
Leebs
I was yelled at by a patient for 65% of the day. By Little Man T, I shall call him. His right leg is amputated below the knee, he has a feeding tube coming out of his stomach and a large metal contraption sticking out of his left thigh which is holding his femur together, along with a head injury, so you know, we'll cut him some collective slack. First he wanted to give me a hug. Then he wanted to give me a kiss. Then, the world turned inside out like a pocket on a pair of cords right out the dryer, and he said he hated me. Any question I would ask him, the answer would be "Yes please", followed immediately by "No, what are you doing!". Then when transferring him from his wheelchair to his bed, I counted one two three. "Please! Dont Count When I Count!" Somehow it is so much sadder when he uses the word "please".
I went to the Soap Plant in search of curious birthday presents, etc after work. Amid the books on fetish art, female pirates, anime; amid the "Homer Simpson's pet monkey" keychains, scented candles, tantra calendars, Domokun stuffed...things, Spongebob lunchboxes and Emily Strange journals, I started to feel cheesed out by the novelty of it all, and left.
Did you know that "America (The Book)" from Jon Stewart et al is formatted like a high school civics text? It's even smells gluey and has a stamp on the inside front cover for name, class and year. I never had a high school civics class you see.
Last comment: I'm not above watching trash - those who know me know I have a penchant for trash, ok? But I just dont understand PEOPLE WHO WATCH THE OC as a "guilty pleasure" (that phrase is so torn and frayed, someone please make up a new one). I mean, a subplot involves Rich Anorexic Girl #1 having a secret affair with a....Latino yardman! They call him the "yardguy", as in "You cant have a crush on him, he's a yardguy!" but really, every time they say "yardguy", they mean "brown guy". Also, it's a show that employs a lot of "welding" as my dad would say. He'd go, "Jesus, look at the welding on that forehead!" He says Aaron Spelling invented this style of TV lighting.
Enough.
Leebs
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Saving Grace
Woods, County Donegal
up the airy mountain down the rushy glen, we darent go a-hunting for fear of little men.
You jerried the rendezvous.
Me scusa signore! Pero, how do you start a blog? I feel entirely too self-conscious, like I'm wearing jam instead of clothes!
Today there was sleeping in, and skipping a didactic day for my residency and having sort of a cold. Remarkably, I am feeling no residue from the night prior, a night that I think about and feel embarrased, so I do, for it was a night of music and barley-hops-whistling-etc and in which I may now obtain my first "Most Drunken (Individual Performance in a Group)" award.
Some of you will know that It's been a long time coming.Well, I know. And I just want to thank my fans, my agent and GlaxoSmithKline for giving me this brilliantine opportunity. Of course, remember, my 'drunk' is not another's 'drunk'. I still have never won the "Most Passed-Out, Half-in-the Bathtub, Half-on-the-Toilet (Individual Performance at a Function)" award, or the "Blacked Out Way Deep Into the Nadir of Time/Universe" award, nor the "Public Urination Behind a 7-11" award, so we thank the lord for small mercies, and for the rare notion that there are some awards we actually always want others to win. My ridiculousness is apparent to even me.
Slainte.
Democracy for the North of Ireland now!
Today there was sleeping in, and skipping a didactic day for my residency and having sort of a cold. Remarkably, I am feeling no residue from the night prior, a night that I think about and feel embarrased, so I do, for it was a night of music and barley-hops-whistling-etc and in which I may now obtain my first "Most Drunken (Individual Performance in a Group)" award.
Some of you will know that It's been a long time coming.Well, I know. And I just want to thank my fans, my agent and GlaxoSmithKline for giving me this brilliantine opportunity. Of course, remember, my 'drunk' is not another's 'drunk'. I still have never won the "Most Passed-Out, Half-in-the Bathtub, Half-on-the-Toilet (Individual Performance at a Function)" award, or the "Blacked Out Way Deep Into the Nadir of Time/Universe" award, nor the "Public Urination Behind a 7-11" award, so we thank the lord for small mercies, and for the rare notion that there are some awards we actually always want others to win. My ridiculousness is apparent to even me.
Slainte.
Democracy for the North of Ireland now!
Zapata
I wish my name was "shoe" and I could lead a crew of literate revolutionaries towards a goal framed by hope.
Escrito in media res.
If you ever have children, I would encourage you to enroll them in Latin classes and take them to Chinatown for Chinese New Years. Thank you.
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