I think I will come back to you, old blog.
I will abandon my other creative endeavor.
At least I tried.
L
SHL
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
I Henceforth Redirect You
I know I will lose an approximate fifty to seventy-five percent of my 'readership' in doing this.
However:
I henceforth redirect you to my New Blog.
It's not totally finished yet. It might take a long time to load, and you might not be able to see
The Rad-Ass Fonts. Sally forth and let me know.
Dance, magic dance.
However:
I henceforth redirect you to my New Blog.
It's not totally finished yet. It might take a long time to load, and you might not be able to see
The Rad-Ass Fonts. Sally forth and let me know.
Dance, magic dance.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Mexicans no know how drive.
My favorite essay on the sick ethos of Crash winning can be found here.
I burnt my chicken broth while reading the numerous Op-Eds on the story. BURNT my chicken broth, yes.
Today is day five off of work, but it is a sick day and my left eustachian tube is utterly compacted with viral swill, still pressing on my tympanic membrane and the little bones contained therein.
I went to Mammoth this weekend. It was a gong show (on my end). I had all this pent-up excitement to get out of LA and away from work, was told I *really deserved a vacation* and so believed it. Closer to the truth was that I *needed* a vacation.
It has been a few weeks at work where we all felt like King Theoden, looking over the remnants of battle at Helm's Deep: So much death.
So I finagled my way into a group of people heading up to the mountains and upon waking we found high winds, dumping powder and my a throat completely numbed by the toxins of some kind of infection. But did I try to ski nevertheless? Yes I did. The conditions were essentially complete whiteout with intermittent spots of simple high wind. Having not been able to find my contacts, I had to wear my glasses under goggles. These fogged immediately. Nothing could remedy the situation. I became immediately frustrated and Jordan Innes the 7th had to wait for my sorry ass at the bottom of every run, or halfway though. It was awful. We went back to the condo where I found myself febrile, shivering and the boys returned with ginger ale for me. Next day was sunny, I was still sick, but I wanted to have a Do-over of the previous day. And indeed it was a better day. I felt more comfortable on my skis and could wear my prescription sunglasses while enjoying clear visibility, but I still felt like my head was wholly detached from my body and wrapped in a layer of pink insulation foam.
By lunchtime, I was ready to join the rest of the group and not be a complete feeb and maybe even run some blacks.
Alas it was not to be. Mysteriously, no one showed up to the said meeting place for lunch. I felt jilted and dumped and skied the rest of the day alone, in the singles line for lifts. I was trying to tell myself that I shouldnt be mad and shouldnt feel dumped, but guys, I sure did. I tried to tell myself that skiing alone is really not so different from skiing with others. But, well, that's gullcrap. (not an eyelash was batted among them regarding me in such situation).
Nevertheless, I attempted some black runs, my first in many years. i did not snowplow. I did not make out with the mountain face first. I liked my parabolic skis. I was however in excrutiating thigh-pain, thought my quads and lats were going to break my femurs what with all the intensity of my uptight skiing posture in an effort not to fall.
The drive there and back...those bits were enjoyable. The rest of the time I have to say I felt like a chump.
However, there will be do-overs. I intend to sample the local runs this month, and to do so with GREAT LIGHTHEARTED ENJOYMENT. This will be achieved via clarity of sinuses, the company of others and good visibility.
Get on the love train. Join hands.
People of the world now, join me.
I burnt my chicken broth while reading the numerous Op-Eds on the story. BURNT my chicken broth, yes.
Today is day five off of work, but it is a sick day and my left eustachian tube is utterly compacted with viral swill, still pressing on my tympanic membrane and the little bones contained therein.
I went to Mammoth this weekend. It was a gong show (on my end). I had all this pent-up excitement to get out of LA and away from work, was told I *really deserved a vacation* and so believed it. Closer to the truth was that I *needed* a vacation.
It has been a few weeks at work where we all felt like King Theoden, looking over the remnants of battle at Helm's Deep: So much death.
So I finagled my way into a group of people heading up to the mountains and upon waking we found high winds, dumping powder and my a throat completely numbed by the toxins of some kind of infection. But did I try to ski nevertheless? Yes I did. The conditions were essentially complete whiteout with intermittent spots of simple high wind. Having not been able to find my contacts, I had to wear my glasses under goggles. These fogged immediately. Nothing could remedy the situation. I became immediately frustrated and Jordan Innes the 7th had to wait for my sorry ass at the bottom of every run, or halfway though. It was awful. We went back to the condo where I found myself febrile, shivering and the boys returned with ginger ale for me. Next day was sunny, I was still sick, but I wanted to have a Do-over of the previous day. And indeed it was a better day. I felt more comfortable on my skis and could wear my prescription sunglasses while enjoying clear visibility, but I still felt like my head was wholly detached from my body and wrapped in a layer of pink insulation foam.
By lunchtime, I was ready to join the rest of the group and not be a complete feeb and maybe even run some blacks.
Alas it was not to be. Mysteriously, no one showed up to the said meeting place for lunch. I felt jilted and dumped and skied the rest of the day alone, in the singles line for lifts. I was trying to tell myself that I shouldnt be mad and shouldnt feel dumped, but guys, I sure did. I tried to tell myself that skiing alone is really not so different from skiing with others. But, well, that's gullcrap. (not an eyelash was batted among them regarding me in such situation).
Nevertheless, I attempted some black runs, my first in many years. i did not snowplow. I did not make out with the mountain face first. I liked my parabolic skis. I was however in excrutiating thigh-pain, thought my quads and lats were going to break my femurs what with all the intensity of my uptight skiing posture in an effort not to fall.
The drive there and back...those bits were enjoyable. The rest of the time I have to say I felt like a chump.
However, there will be do-overs. I intend to sample the local runs this month, and to do so with GREAT LIGHTHEARTED ENJOYMENT. This will be achieved via clarity of sinuses, the company of others and good visibility.
Get on the love train. Join hands.
People of the world now, join me.
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Tuesday night, post-shift.
I've never written a drunken post. So I am being Columbus!
Our evening's sponsors:
Big Wangs (on Hollywood at Selma) where sports bar Calgary meets Howood hipster.
Cabernet sauvignon, probably from a box under the bar
The Valet for the minimall parking lot (wherein Big Wangs is located)
Madonna, American Life (for the unruly drive home-singalong)
Hot and Sour soup, Trader Joe's
Chocolate Sugar Free Jello Pudding
and
The Best of Jiminy Glick
(to which I eat my soup and pudding)
A wide world shout-out to Moon Boots (the next feature on Slowly Comes).
Have a pleasant evening. May the universe bless you.
S
Our evening's sponsors:
Big Wangs (on Hollywood at Selma) where sports bar Calgary meets Howood hipster.
Cabernet sauvignon, probably from a box under the bar
The Valet for the minimall parking lot (wherein Big Wangs is located)
Madonna, American Life (for the unruly drive home-singalong)
Hot and Sour soup, Trader Joe's
Chocolate Sugar Free Jello Pudding
and
The Best of Jiminy Glick
(to which I eat my soup and pudding)
A wide world shout-out to Moon Boots (the next feature on Slowly Comes).
Have a pleasant evening. May the universe bless you.
S
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Not the Craic
On Craic:
From the Irish, pronunciation: (crack) n.:a good time, whatever is 'up' e.g. 'What's the craic?' or "how was the craic?" or, "that was good craic".
YES, IT MOST CERTAINLY IS THE CRAIC. GOOD CRAIC:
1) It's All Gone Pete Tong (from the director of FUBAR)
2) The Best of Youth (six hours long. all Italian, all the time)
3) Brianna's French Vinaigrette and Caesar dressings rendering my cruet useless
4) Large artichokes
5) For Real: Okkervil River
6) the Olympian "Joey Cheek"
7) The Blues are Still Blue: Belle and Sebastian
8) dates with parmesan and bacon at AOC
9) Punks in the Beerlight: the Silver Jews
10) The Russian ice skaterman in the pairs, who won, who dropped his partner on her head once, dressed as the Superhero of Air Fresheners.
NO, NO. NOT THE CRAIC AT ALL.
1) The initial and ensuing all-body horror that accompanies one's first medication error, leading to prayers to a God one doesnt believe in, in the staff washroom while sobbing.
Not the craic. Not, not , no no no.
From the Irish, pronunciation: (crack) n.:a good time, whatever is 'up' e.g. 'What's the craic?' or "how was the craic?" or, "that was good craic".
YES, IT MOST CERTAINLY IS THE CRAIC. GOOD CRAIC:
1) It's All Gone Pete Tong (from the director of FUBAR)
2) The Best of Youth (six hours long. all Italian, all the time)
3) Brianna's French Vinaigrette and Caesar dressings rendering my cruet useless
4) Large artichokes
5) For Real: Okkervil River
6) the Olympian "Joey Cheek"
7) The Blues are Still Blue: Belle and Sebastian
8) dates with parmesan and bacon at AOC
9) Punks in the Beerlight: the Silver Jews
10) The Russian ice skaterman in the pairs, who won, who dropped his partner on her head once, dressed as the Superhero of Air Fresheners.
NO, NO. NOT THE CRAIC AT ALL.
1) The initial and ensuing all-body horror that accompanies one's first medication error, leading to prayers to a God one doesnt believe in, in the staff washroom while sobbing.
Not the craic. Not, not , no no no.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Tiger like a Jelly
At my place of work, we have three main elevators that are named after animals: giraffe, peacock, and tiger. My main line is Tiger, and I barely ever use the 'Cock. Near all the elevator entrances are paintings/drawings by children of said animals. This is my favorite. [N.B. - It is entirely possible that I have put up this picture before and forgotten that I did so.]
This painting by a 3 year old perfectly captures how children at this developmental level are unable to pictorally reproduce perspective, yet try nevertheless. I tend towards perkiness when I see this one on my way to nuclear medicine/pharmacy/cafeteria/MRI. Maybe it belongs on cuteoverload. Also, it sort of looks like a rabbit in addition to being both jellyfish and a tiger.
This morning I went to do laundry up by the Gelson's, where the air is clear and I don't have to smell the rotting produce for sale next door at the Armenian grocers like I do at the yellow formica washpalace on Hillhurst.
I was listening to a Ricky Gervais-Stephen Merchant-Karl Pilkington podcast while folding, and there was a woman next to me who made me think she should try being a witch for Halloween because she just has a face made for that kind of thing. I was trying to stifle laughter so as not to make the witch think I was a nutter. If you havent heard it yet, you should try it. But it's a very mean show wherein Karl Pilkington serves as both font and receptacle for all humor therein, so you have been warned. You don't know who he is, and neither did I. Here is his bio.
In sadder news, my narcissus and the other bit of plant life whose name I cannot recall gave up and fell over yesterday. Together.
What is your best approximation of the texture of lobster? I had it for the first time last Friday. Disgusted, it felt like the fish looked in Return of the King, in the gross-out fish eating Gollum scene crossed with firm grapefruit.
This painting by a 3 year old perfectly captures how children at this developmental level are unable to pictorally reproduce perspective, yet try nevertheless. I tend towards perkiness when I see this one on my way to nuclear medicine/pharmacy/cafeteria/MRI. Maybe it belongs on cuteoverload. Also, it sort of looks like a rabbit in addition to being both jellyfish and a tiger.
This morning I went to do laundry up by the Gelson's, where the air is clear and I don't have to smell the rotting produce for sale next door at the Armenian grocers like I do at the yellow formica washpalace on Hillhurst.
I was listening to a Ricky Gervais-Stephen Merchant-Karl Pilkington podcast while folding, and there was a woman next to me who made me think she should try being a witch for Halloween because she just has a face made for that kind of thing. I was trying to stifle laughter so as not to make the witch think I was a nutter. If you havent heard it yet, you should try it. But it's a very mean show wherein Karl Pilkington serves as both font and receptacle for all humor therein, so you have been warned. You don't know who he is, and neither did I. Here is his bio.
In sadder news, my narcissus and the other bit of plant life whose name I cannot recall gave up and fell over yesterday. Together.
What is your best approximation of the texture of lobster? I had it for the first time last Friday. Disgusted, it felt like the fish looked in Return of the King, in the gross-out fish eating Gollum scene crossed with firm grapefruit.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
A verbis a verbera/acta non verba
My living room is really quite a blackhole: cluttered with half-opened art supplies, empty glasses lined with dried red wine and root beer, books in stacks, a dead christmas tree, a trying-to-grow pot of paperwhites and me. My taxes have been e-filed. My grad school applications have been sent. I am wearing the new fleece. I worked three days and then a night shift. I saw Casanova and had tom yung koong. I ate a macrobiotic dinner last night with Karen Ma. I wash dishes and have baths. I am more than midway through book two of the Patrick O'Brien books. I realize every day that I have some very high quality friends and other very good half-friends, meaning they are anywhere from one quarter- to one half-good at actually being my friend. This quality issue has nothing to do with frequency of contact but rather other factors. There are those and then there are people we might not talk to in ten years (Karen Ma) and then when we see them we are home again, easy peasy. I worry every day that my very good friends are floating away from me on the tide of our own mutual negligence when it comes to keeping tabs. I bought all these art supplies in an attempt to pull them back against that tide by sending them little thank you notes expressing how much I value them. When I have tried to sit and make something, I accomplish little.
This weekend someone asked me what my bedroom looked like and I said it's my bed and nothing else, and this is true (Eric said this was very Leonard Cohen-y). Some of you may have known me for my previous rooms and my tendency to actually adorn them with remnants and signifiers of my life, and I liked that. I can still do that but it seems that now I am grown, whatever that means. Now I am without the frequent lightning strike of inspiration and
I wonder how much of this is the fault of my work or other things. For example, the other day I spent two hours online researching the approximate cost of a windbeaten cottage on the northwest coast of Ireland where I might one day retreat during winters (for the storms) to write. And yet I could have spent those two hours writing right here, right now and then I wouldnt think so little of myself. Problem solved! Actions not words.
Oh but you say, come now, you sound perfectly depressed, nurse!
I don't really think I am. I think I am tired and that I need to work more diligently at my calligraphy (I bought a kit with the other stuff at the art store) and try to keep my house uncluttered so I can find an available work space when I feel a lightning strike coming on.
That, and more wine, less talk.
This weekend someone asked me what my bedroom looked like and I said it's my bed and nothing else, and this is true (Eric said this was very Leonard Cohen-y). Some of you may have known me for my previous rooms and my tendency to actually adorn them with remnants and signifiers of my life, and I liked that. I can still do that but it seems that now I am grown, whatever that means. Now I am without the frequent lightning strike of inspiration and
I wonder how much of this is the fault of my work or other things. For example, the other day I spent two hours online researching the approximate cost of a windbeaten cottage on the northwest coast of Ireland where I might one day retreat during winters (for the storms) to write. And yet I could have spent those two hours writing right here, right now and then I wouldnt think so little of myself. Problem solved! Actions not words.
Oh but you say, come now, you sound perfectly depressed, nurse!
I don't really think I am. I think I am tired and that I need to work more diligently at my calligraphy (I bought a kit with the other stuff at the art store) and try to keep my house uncluttered so I can find an available work space when I feel a lightning strike coming on.
That, and more wine, less talk.
Monday, January 16, 2006
When the wind blows
wish I had that fleece
(mossy mossy teeth)
the brown one, I think the color is Carob
(numb nasopharynx)
half dizzy, mostly cold
(Emergen-C, you're my only hope. Emergen-C, you're my only hope)
Cleaning rangetops with Clorox wipes
(banana tree moving compliantly, sounds like a man in the bushes)
About to make omelette, only to abandon the endeavor
(in the name of love, in the name of love)
Put on hard contacts and I can see my face
(consider the essay sent, consider new alarm clock purchase)
wonder about people and their rationales
(in the name of love, what more in the name of love)
today with two other nurses deconstructed the near dreadlock
of my patient who meanwhile grinned and mouthed words of contentedness
while we all fussed above her
(she is ten but just learning to use her vocal chords)
(there was lots of grape scented conditioner)
I watched as another patient's mother read her the Hungry Caterpillar
(my patient has no mother but has a doting biker daddy)
and couldnt look away.
Went up to see two previous patients on another floor
(one watched the Daily Show with me and showed me his knitting and played me the Star Wars theme on a recorder)
the other giggled in his crib while I pretended to eat his foot like corn on the cob
(he cycled his legs, kicked his mylar Elmo balloon for sport when he was in the ICU)
This could have been a novel
This could have been a short story
(mossy mossy teeth)
the brown one, I think the color is Carob
(numb nasopharynx)
half dizzy, mostly cold
(Emergen-C, you're my only hope. Emergen-C, you're my only hope)
Cleaning rangetops with Clorox wipes
(banana tree moving compliantly, sounds like a man in the bushes)
About to make omelette, only to abandon the endeavor
(in the name of love, in the name of love)
Put on hard contacts and I can see my face
(consider the essay sent, consider new alarm clock purchase)
wonder about people and their rationales
(in the name of love, what more in the name of love)
today with two other nurses deconstructed the near dreadlock
of my patient who meanwhile grinned and mouthed words of contentedness
while we all fussed above her
(she is ten but just learning to use her vocal chords)
(there was lots of grape scented conditioner)
I watched as another patient's mother read her the Hungry Caterpillar
(my patient has no mother but has a doting biker daddy)
and couldnt look away.
Went up to see two previous patients on another floor
(one watched the Daily Show with me and showed me his knitting and played me the Star Wars theme on a recorder)
the other giggled in his crib while I pretended to eat his foot like corn on the cob
(he cycled his legs, kicked his mylar Elmo balloon for sport when he was in the ICU)
This could have been a novel
This could have been a short story
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Ativan plus Supershuttle = Vancouver
I snowed myself with Ativan yesterday AM prior to departure. Folks, I actually slept on a plane for two and a half hours. I don't remember hearing the engines idle down on descent, nor the captain announcing Mt St Helen's on the right nor the beverage service or the snoring of the snowboarders in the row ahead of me. I believe I have found my ideal dose friends, and it is two point five mgs of lorazepam (my Rx is for 0.5).
Pops and Gaga picked me up in the newest Lebomobile - a 1990 blue-grey Jetta diesel complete with ipod jack!
Gaga (in Gorton's-fisherman-yellow rainwear) welcomed me and then commenced discussion of the H5N1 virus and it's presence in Southeast Asia as pertains to my sister's imminent departure to said region. Then we had hot and sour soup, dry fried green beans, braised tofu and later, over the Daily Show, a mild Chianti. Oh, and my sister didnt know I was coming so that was a good surprise.
For your convenience, I found a painting of hot and sour soup. It might actually be from the author of the famed Everybody (active verb) series (e.g. Everybody Poops, etc), not sure.
the way in which the artist has plumbed the tofu-rich depths of the broth is admirable.
Pops and Gaga picked me up in the newest Lebomobile - a 1990 blue-grey Jetta diesel complete with ipod jack!
Gaga (in Gorton's-fisherman-yellow rainwear) welcomed me and then commenced discussion of the H5N1 virus and it's presence in Southeast Asia as pertains to my sister's imminent departure to said region. Then we had hot and sour soup, dry fried green beans, braised tofu and later, over the Daily Show, a mild Chianti. Oh, and my sister didnt know I was coming so that was a good surprise.
For your convenience, I found a painting of hot and sour soup. It might actually be from the author of the famed Everybody (active verb) series (e.g. Everybody Poops, etc), not sure.
the way in which the artist has plumbed the tofu-rich depths of the broth is admirable.
Friday, January 06, 2006
A horse. Working like a.
I am in the middle of my first night shift right now. I have two sleeping children in the rooms to my right. Since before Christmas, I've been working a foolish schedule. I made it myself and have only me to blame. I worked 5 12-hrs straight through over Christmas, had one day off, had two on, two off, then three on. Then this morning I slept in until noon. I got a phone call in the middle of omelette-making asking if I could come in for a night shift as they were short. I said yes and promptly swallowed a benadryl and climbed back into bed. O whoa is me, sitting at the tail end of the unit. It's dark and kinda lonely.
How was your new year's? Mildly disappointing but expectedly so? I went to my cousins' house. Everyone but me was on pills. I got lots of massages but early in the night realized I would have to abandon my plan to make out with somebody on such day.
I made something out of artichokes last night. My salmon on Monday was white.
I watched Labyrinth and also Jiminy Glick in La La Wood.
Dance magic dance.
Slap that baby, make it pee!
How was your new year's? Mildly disappointing but expectedly so? I went to my cousins' house. Everyone but me was on pills. I got lots of massages but early in the night realized I would have to abandon my plan to make out with somebody on such day.
I made something out of artichokes last night. My salmon on Monday was white.
I watched Labyrinth and also Jiminy Glick in La La Wood.
Dance magic dance.
Slap that baby, make it pee!
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