After Dark

I am floored by the Twilight phenomenon. Twelve theaters under one roof for the 12:01am show, all sold out by 11pm. I've never ever seen so much estrogen in one place. You could smell it (really . . . it kind of creeped me out). And the movie was soooo bad. But funny. Funny funny funny. The good thing about seeing a movie like that late at night is that you're likely to have a better sense of humor about it sucking (no pun intended). It's like being drunk, you know, when your date starts to look not so bad. Still, I'd rather read the books again. And that says a lot, considering . . . As far as I'm concerned, Lost Boys still rules the teen vampire movie genre.

Seriously though, the movie bored me. I'd rather watch something like True Blood, or that horrible Lifetime based on a vampire book series TV show instead. I want my vampires having sex, people! What good is a vampire if you can't have hot vampire sex with him? And maybe get bitten. (Don't go getting any ideas G-man).

Ode of the day: To dead folk who have sex with the living (and not, deep breath, the other way around). What is that makes vampires so sexy? And for real, if ghosts can make it with a humans, more power to them.

(But I'd still rather do it with you G. Hands down.)

Shizzing and Shazzing

Next to me, to my right, on an ever growing pile of discarded paper, is a box elder and a beetle. They're walking in head-spinning circles around each other beneath the light, wiggling their wiggly things furiously. I sort of wonder what they think of each other . . . whether they're sizing each other up, or just lame to the fact that they're inches apart. Sort of like people. Either dumb or oblivious. Or maybe they just don't care. Or maybe they like each other.

If they mated . . . would they make little BEELDERS or BOXTEELS?

The beetle is lazy. Boxy probably gives him a complex, what with being so much brighter and bigger and alien and all. But Boxy seems like he's high on speed and he if walks in one more circle I think I might get a headache from watching. He's baiting me. Or maybe the beetle.

You know if I smooshed the beetle, it'd leave a orange stain. I wonder if Boxy would find that interesting.

They both seem to like my pile of quarters. And the cutty-things quite a bit. I'm really glad I'm not an insect. If I ever thought my life was boring. But seriously. It's weird. Whatever it is they're doing.

So that's it. I took the kids to see a doggie movie that I shall not name — mostly because I found it entertaining — and came home a stared at bugs, while they (the kids) ran round me shizzing and shooting. And then I thought of you, and how we barked at your voice, and I wondered if you ever still read this. I don't write. Because I don't usually have much amusing to say. But I wish I did.

Then I talked sternly to the children because . . . well, it's a long story. And now, even though we had a very nice night, one of them thinks I'm mean.

Whatever. Now that the kids are in bed, let's just say I'll be shizzing my own way through the internet. Bet you wish you were here with me.

ODE O' Day — To the Scorpions. They remind me: There's no one like you. And I'm still loving you. And I imagine the things you do (under big city lights on the wings of a dove). And I just want to be loved by you. In all sorts of ways, baby.

Atomic City

Goodbye tamales, and soppapias, and red and green chillies. Goodbye aliens, and ruins, and volcanoes and cheesy chilly ice caves. Goodbye Jackalope, and strange humming noises. Goodbye atomic bombs, and creepy gated cities. Goodbye scary ladders, and huge rocks, and switchback trails down the sheer side of the canyon. Goodbye curious glimmery stars, and lavender, and wild jagged rocks and mountains. Goodbye Indigenous, Native American, Indian peoples, and all your wonderful art and stories. Goodbye El Morro — this week, as last, my best friend.

Hello you. It'll be really nice to see you again. To hold you again. To hear you again. Your voice, which I know better than my own, has been sorely missed. Nothing beats the package in person. The package — if only it could have been here to watch the arroyo fill and the Plaza lights, and the stars over the mountains. And well, for the sex.

But then . . . there's always tomorrow.

Ode of the day: to my dear El Morro. One lonely patch of geologically stunning, historically intriguing, culturally significant, incredibly romantic land. In the middle of nowhere. Waiting.

Devil's Highway

Funny, I felt a little . . . err, off driving down highway 491 toward Shiprock today. Thought maybe it was just the current lack of a warm body over 60 pounds in my bed, but turns out, I was driving The Devil's Highway — Hwy 491, formally known as route 666. Supposedly one of the worst, accident prone highways in the Southwest (though truth be told, that probably has more to do with the fact that the bulk of the highway cuts through several large reservations). New Mexico and Arizona residents and the res hated it, so they pushed to rename it, and rename it they did. But there's still a wasteland of crash memorials and crosses along the roadside, and that's a little creepy. So I don't know — maybe the devil still gets his way.

Also, about Hwy 191 (which intersects 491), well . . . what's with all the dog roadkill? And in odd states of rigor mortis. I passed at least three dogs frozen on their sides in the road, as though still standing in the back of a big 'ole pickup truck waggling their goofy tongues in the breeze. One of them, a big bulldog, had his paws straight out in front of him and his mouth open wide as if he were just running down the road after a rabbit, then froze up on the spot and fell on his side in the roadway. More creepy. Actually, that sort of popped the creepy meter, I'd say.

Next, down 600 hundred very steep feet we climbed to the bottom of Canyon De Chelly. And yes, back up again (like what comes up must go down only backwards). And yes it was hot, near 90 degrees. And yes, at least one of my small children complained allll theee waaayyy (but usually in tandem). It was a stunning site. But I'm pretty sure I'm temporarily insane.

Ode of the day: To Cortez, Colorado. Where for some bizarre reason, I was very pretty. Prettier then in Minnesota, and about as pretty as in LA (except it's in the middle of nowhere, which makes pretty more like a novelty and less passe). Oh and the town's neat too, as long as you don't stay at the Rodeaway.

Mind Freak

My alien friends are back, which prompted me to write, even though its been months since the last entry. My head feels like someone scooped it into a microwave, which makes me wonder if there's a connection — you know, some kind of mind control thing.
Too bad they don't want me to like, clean the kitchen or do laundry or something. At least it'd be productive.

And the hive — we saved one of its victims, dragging itself across a teal frayed sea like a wounded combat soldier. It gonna die anyway, but seeing it struggle made the boys sad, so I picked him up and put him outside. We were all better off pretending.

I also built a fort. Pretty nifty. Except I'm not allowed in. Such is an architect's life it seems.

A storm passed though an hour back, so black, trailing low clouds that looked like disembodied tentacles. Long and fuzzy, like threads pulled through a loom. I know the house won't really blow away, but I still wish you were here.

So this is it, my ode today: To hornets, who never seem to be anything but curious. Too curious for their own good. We should all be so lucky.

And She Said . . .

I should be asking, like, what the fuck is wrong with the world (or at least, the good ole’ USA — except it’s not so hard to answer that question). But instead, all I really want to know right now, and I mean this, is what the fuck is wrong with Minnesota. It’s fucking 40 degrees out — fuck, fuck, fuck — I’m all full of bad language about it, and for good god-damned reason. And yet, it doesn’t do me a shit of good.

Not only that, things aren't looking much better until after the first week of May. Umm, hello, mother nature, I’m not particularly amused. And like, you know, it’s way, way past April 1st. I’m sick of being fooled. Heeheehaahaa, look I'm totally tapped out. Please, please make me stop laughing.

I’ve been gone a while. Too much to do not enough time to rant and rave. It seems like I sat next to that stupid couple like, yesterday. Yesterday, not fourtysomethingicantrememberdays ago.

Question: So, is it all right to keep a blog, if I blog out of it for weeks on end?

Answer: Who cares, and I guess it is if you keep reading . . . you, well, you know who you are (yes you g'sexy).

Ode of the day: Ode to nothing. Because without sun, well, I’m not feeling particularly gosh darned odey. And nothing seems as good as anything. And anything isn’t very specific. See, at least I’m a little discriminating.

White Trash + Airplanes = Free In-Flight Reality TV

Okay, so I really have to talk about this couple that sat one isle over from my seat on my flight to LA last night. I hate to be like this, but seriously, I think I had my first encounter with real, honest-to-goodness white trash.

This couple boarded the plane, looking kind of wanna-be hipish, but with some serious not so hip giveaways. Like the woman had rhinestones down the seam of her otherwise not so bad pants. And the guy, well, his nasty trucker's baseball cap just eclipsed his distressed leather jacket and hipster jeans. Oh, and he had that look – the one that kind of shouts, ‘I’m really stupid.’

The couple seemed really sweet when they boarded the plane. They were definitely young, maybe early twenties. And they had tons of electronic gadgets to keep them busy. An IPod, a portable PSP, what looked like a Blackberry. But all techno knowledge aside, they seemed really kind of lame in general. Like maybe they’d had just a few too many sips of contaminated well water.

Anyway, the flight attendant had to show the guy how to buckle his seatbelt, and then, and I swear, even after her demonstration, he asked the attendant how to unbuckle. Later, Ms. Trash had it out with the flight attendant, because though the attendant had already announced she couldn’t make change and asked for exact cash only, Ms. Trash didn’t have anything smaller than a twenty and wanted her alcohol. When the attendant told Ms. Trash she’d come back after she sold a few drinks and had change, Ms. Trash waited for the attendant to leave and then complained up a thunderstorm to her equally challenged counter-part.

Later, the two got in a fight and Ms. Trash yelled at Mr. Trash so loudly, about half the rows from 20 on back turned around to stare (on a very quiet red-eye).

During the flight, Mr. and Ms. Trash took down their carry-on luggage, and barricaded their isle in, by shoring up the empty isle seat with two suitcases. During the descent, even after the attendant’s announcement, they left their luggage there on the seat and floor. Then a flight attendant came by and told them to stow it above.

Pop quiz. Did they?

Not a chance. Mr. and Ms. Trash kind of stared at the attendant blankly. About five minutes later, the same flight attendant came back, clearly unhappy with the couple, and spent a few minutes loudly chastising their stupidity. She spoke to them like two-year olds and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from giggling. It took the couple another few minutes after that, to figure out what to do.

To top it off, a woman two rows up on the isle, kept turning on her cell-phone to check the time. That even after a flight attendant personally asked her to keep it off during the flight when she caught the women checking her voice-mail. And a group of men from Japan occupied the row of seats two rows behind me. They talked in Japanese at an unbecoming decibel level the whole flight, at one point arguing about who-knows what. If you’ve ever heard men argue in Japanese, you know what I’m saying.

Anyway, I’ve been on hundreds of flights, and though I definitely have some stories to tell about almost dying it on a few of them, I can’t say I’ve ever been as entertained by the company. Disgusted . . . well, there was that one flight to Japan next to some poor guy with the worst gas imaginable. Fourteen hours of holding my breath and looking longingly at the barf bag. Bust intellectually disgusting, never.

Ode of the day: To the unsung chance taker. Like people who finally fly, or leave their state (if not city) for the first time in over twenty years. I don’t get it, but I’m not them. And initiative at any point is better than a lifetime of unmerited complacency.

Pass The Box Elder Please

Someone held the door for me at the gas station this morning. Nice way to start the day considering how often I seem to get smacked in the face by the oh so many self-absorbed assholes multi-tasking on their cell-phones these days. The worst is, at least those cell phone dips have an excuse. Stupidity really is better than plain old rudeness, and rudeness seems to be contagious lately.

I have a parent-teacher conference this afternoon. Parent-teacher conferences are a funny thing when your kid’s in elementary school. It’s like we all act so serious we've forgotten we’re talking about 'Goosebumps' and really advanced addition (or ehem, geometry), not college admissions. But they make me nervous anyway. I want to make a good impression on my kid's third grade teachers so she can go and tell all the other teachers that her student's mom is really cool. You know, so I have another two years where at least someone admires me.

Anyone check the news? Texas and Ohio are either going to make my day or ruin it. Wait, that's tomorrow. Ignore me.


Ode of the day: To Box Elders

I’m pretty sure now that Box Elders are an alien species. Little science-bots or observers. They’re very calm, terribly hard to crush and don’t seem to mind being flicked a couple feet. Beat them up and they come back just the same, sort of clueless. And Box Elders sure love humans. You can always count on finding a couple hanging around just inches from whatever warm body happens to be in the vicinity; staring, furiously wiggling their little antennae like they’re reciting an alien reciting Ulysses. Oh, and they have no compunctions about walking all over you. Creepy.

The little black and orange flappers are everywhere. I went to pee earlier and had to share the bathroom with a little guy who seemed to be having issues stabbing the porcelain tile on the wall with the stabby little hairs on his feet. He couldn’t stabilize, and kept sliding down a tiny bit for every half-inch he made it up the wall. And he kept wiggling his feelers at me, like he wanted my help or something. Really, it’s bad enough I have to share the bathroom with my two male children.

I’ve flicked them off my arm in bed. Out of my green tea. Off my dark chocolate. They seem to like all the same things. Um, maybe they’re studying me.

If Weekends Smelled Like Something

Did this weekend ever happen? Did it? Wasn't it just Friday. I don't see the point of weekends. Weekends pass like lightning. Like I sit down to relax for just one little minute then next thing you know, it's Monday.

I wish I could say something exciting happened to me, or anyone I know this weekend, but I'd be lying. I saw Charles Bartlett, i.e., really bad movie. I bought a book on screenwriting and sat up all night, rehearsing my Oscar winning screenplay of epic proportions in my head (still plagued by insomnia this whole last week). It always sounds so much better when it's knocking around my brain than when I put it to paper. Sunday, I couldn't write a thing. It's all just still stuck in the faucet. I couldn't even edit - I'm just hacking my book to pieces.

I also cut a bunch of really pretty pieces of glass and then stood around staring at them. They looked a whole lot better arranged in my head. I had really great sex Saturday night though, so that makes up for it all, doesn't it? Good sex makes up for a whole lot of things. I got a backrub too. Back rub and sex and then, really, I got my husband to cook dinner. Sort of the holy grail of domestic mediocrity. Not that I'm complaining.

I've got to get ready for a show, and I'll be in LA for a week and half before it, so I'm reeeaaaalllyyy busy. Guess I should re-think the weekend. Fast as it was, at least I had some room to breath. Not as likely to happen the next two weeks.

I'm doing a really lousy job of pretending I'm fascinated by Arthur and the invisibles while I write this. The kids are too young yet to figure out that I'm not really interested. Just like when they tell me something and I nod head. I mean I do listen, but sometimes, they talk so much my mind ends up somewhere else. But as long as they're not torturing cats and licking the lead paint off the walls I guess I'm not doing that bad. One if not both of them are geniuses, so a lot of the time what I say matters little anyway. Even now, comparatively, I just probably sound ditzy half the time.

Why do people make such terrible movies?

Why aren't kids more discriminating?

Thank god they're not. Imagine if kids actually had good taste all the time. It's bad enough I have to argue with my eight year old because we're on a budget and he's in the mood for Sushi.

So if weekends smelled like something what would it be?

An American In Tokyo Is Like A Needle In A Haystack

An American woman walking in Tokyo gets very little play - no one looks at her. But in America, people stare blatantly. Except of course, when you actually want people to acknowledge your presence. But that's a different story.

The staring makes me a little insecure for sure, but hell if I don't like it. I sort of use the Look O' Barometer to gauge whether my face looks like it's been polishing the floor or on a sunny beach. Still, being anonymous in a foriegn country also makes me think.

In Japan, though I pay a hell of a lot more attention to how I look when I'm there, it doesn't matter. I don't worry much if I have hygienic issues, or decent hair. I feel freer, liberated and happy.

But also sometimes, pointless, invisible and a little bit silly.

Here's what I think; people should definitely ignore me and at the same time pay lots and lots of attention. I'm very conflicted. And I'm hoping this blog satisfies that need.

This blog isn't about anything particular, exactly. Just like I'm not always any one thing. I'm not in Japan now, but here's to pretending.