curiouser and curiouser

i would like to remark on some remarkable things.
1. while participating in the traffic equivalent of eavesdropping, i noticed that the woman next to me was driving and talking on the phone. i only found this remarkable because she had sealed both her hands and the cell phone in separate ziplock bags. i wonder if the "yellow and blue makes green" seal helps with reception?
2. i went on a very boring hike. the hike promised, "two miles to M*A*S*H* site" from the first trail marker. and since everyone wants to see where M*A*S*H* was filmed, i was forced to keep hiking. and every sign i thereafter said "two miles to M*A*S*H* site". thus the M*A*S*H* site was never found. is this a military conspiracy or a hollywood conspiracy?
3. i just finished dog sitting for a maltese that can dance for her food, but cannot figure out how to climb off the furniture. this dog would rather starve than jump off the couch. if i invent a time machine, should i go back and let darwin have his way with her?
4. my mother is here and she is driving about... oh... twelve miles an hour. i think she is the real reason los angeles traffic is so bad. it's not the butterfly flapping its wings in the amazon, it's my mother braking for yet another green light on the offchance that it will change in the next six years. i am sure she's the reason i was rear ended last week.
5. work keeps telling me there's nothing to do at night, so i work the day shift... eight hours later they remember "oh, there is work to do at night!" and they ask me to stay and do it. conclusion: they hate me, yes?
6. fourth of july weekend i drove to irvine to see my little cousin perform with the kingston trio and pat sajak. i don't think a ten-year-old should perform with such old people. it's causing permanent social damage. while driving he badgers his mother until she puts on the smooth jazz station. i think this will lead to premature balding.
7. i'm almost positive i heard a "barnyard animal fashion show" advertised on the radio. i wonder if i should i drive 45 miles down to orange county to see if i was right?

Most Boring Post Ever From France It Comes

I have not actually left the house much in the past, oh, month or so. I have been reading novels of my own choice and flagrantly declining to write a 10-12 page paper on the theme, symbolism, allegory, etc. in any of them. This I have greatly enjoyed. I have enjoyed it so greatly in fact that I forbade myself to go to the library again until I finished the story I am writing, because novels distract me terribly. But then my story started to go awry (when you start making people pass out just to see what the other characters will do, you have a problem on your hands) and so I'm thinking a trip to the library is in order. Also, it's air-conditioned there.

Yesterday I had a grand old time reliving the making of Alice in Her Own Personal Literary Hell with Matt and Adam and Dan. Chiefly this consisted of remembering who got hit on the head a lot (me), who fell from great heights numerous times (Matt), who gave me the most persistent case of the giggles EVER (Adam), and who had red hair (Dan). He still does.

Then Justin graced us with his presence and we badgered him into singing the Dandelion Song that he made up during filming. Imagine a kid walking down the street in a ragged Where's Waldo costume strumming an out-of-tune three-string banjo, getting suspicious looks and frightening the small children (and their parents) at the nursery school. That would be Justin. Four years ago, he did this all the way through town from the creek to Matt's house. Then he sang the Dandelion Song, which goes:

Don-day-lyon from France they come.
They grow in a garden, they can't be . . . cultivated.
They're indigenous to-o-o France.
Dandelion.
Pronounced don-day-lyon.

In typical Justin manner he changed it all around last night and wouldn't do the same thing twice, but it got stuck in everybody's head anyway. Those of you who don't know the tune, consider yourself spared.

Our unusual behavior may be explained by the fact that, in the course of the evening, we ate cookies made from pre-mixed batter from a freezer in an abandoned warehouse that Matt's brother found and stole and Matt's mother made. There is apparently some debate over whether the warehouse was actually abandoned or not, but I don't see how that makes a difference. Either way, Matt "forgot" to inform us of the origin of the cookies until Adam and I had each eaten about five. Then, when we didn't die, Matt tried them. It's good to have friends. Who will let you test their food for poison before they eat.

Anyway, I haven't laughed that hard in some time, so either the cookies or the company really had something going for them. Or the wine.

Blog Blues

I hate it when I check my own blog and realize it is I who have not updated.

Yeah. I hate that.

"It's Venice, man. Ghetto by the sea."

so this post was originally about the "Venice League of Hobo Rollerskaters" a group of degenerates who get together and roller-dance to remixed usher songs, but they've been lazy lately and i don't think they deserve my blog attention. i'm here to tell you about the hot new venice attraction: the "Venice Mutant Seagull"- a breed of gull raised solely on boardwalk food and second hand marijuana smoke. these birds smell food from miles away and have frightening psychic abilities. i know this is true because they somehow manage to congregate en mass the moment the thought "what the hell am i going to do with all these chicken-cheese fries" forms in your brain.

now, this week's mutant gull encounter is brought to you by "big daddy's burgers and more" a fried food restaurant that boasts "free meal with any t-shirt purchase!". and we all know how excited i get whenever the words "free" and "t-shirt" are thrown into a sentence, so you know i inquired about the t-shirt/food combo plan. unfortunately the shirts only came in XXL and i refuse to pay $12 for something that will resemble a day-glo tent once i'm wearing it- but i wasn't ready to give up on the t-shirt dream. i measured the intern and it turns out he's tall enough to wear an XXL and not look like a circus-freak. it was decided he would buy the shirt and get the most expensive meal on the menu for free- the double fish and calamari combo, and i would buy some chicken-cheese fries and a beverage to supplement the meal.

and we discovered we're wimps. halfway through the calamari and fish i felt very full and slightly ill and i think the intern felt the same. i'm betting it had something to do with the fish looking more like a fried corn dogs than anything removed from the sea, but that's just a guess. so the game changed from eating food to throwing food. of course we already had a loyal following of mutant gulls so that was easy. for some reason when things are too easy, you feel the need to take them to the next level. we started throwing larger portions of food. whole potato fries, big calamari rings... and the mutant gulls just swallowed them. so it was decided we would throw the last piece of fish; a piece of fish about six inches long, two inches in diameter. i tossed the fish and a mutant gull that was OBVIOUSLY on steroids LAUNCHED himself at the fish, caught it, and SWALLOWED IT WHOLE. have you even seen a bird eat that much fish at once? i for one have not, and i'm not entirely sure the bird knew what it was doing because it looked panicked for a moment while it figured out exactly how it would move the six inch piece of fish lodged in his throat down to his stomach. his neck bulged like those snakes on wild america after they eat a whole raccoon. i wish i had a picture. it waddled around looking concerned (i can only assume because it couldn't move its head to the left or the right) and contemplated digestion. the other gulls were jealous so we threw them the remains of the cheese fries, but I don't think it gave them the same kind of satisfaction. when the food was gone there was nothing left to do but mock the rollerskaters and wonder if "The World's Greatest Wino" makes more money singing "jingle bells" on the beach than i do in the television industry. but that's venice for you... ghetto by the sea.

a rough wednesday for friday

i recently saw the movie "crash" and sat through an interesting opening scene where don cheadle tries to make a case for traffic accidents in los angeles. "It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something." yeah, that's great. wonderful. sentimental. thanks, don. but in this city of completely irrational traffic patterns, the real reason people crash is because when the opportunity to reach a speed above 7mph presents itself, you take it- because everyone in la knows that in five seconds a butterfly in the amazon could flap its wings and cause a five car pile up with a semi on the 405 south and when that happens, you might as well accept the fact that you're just going to spend the rest of your life on the freeway. pack a snack. so you have thousands of people speeding, trying to outrun a potential traffic accident so they can make it home in time to watch "house" next tuesday and it's stressful. and yesterday was no different. the 405 south was fine for the first 13 miles of my commute... decent speeds- 60-70mph. Friday, (my car) was really enjoying the freedom of the open road. and then the traffic stops. and it starts. and then it stops. and then it starts and we all move and then the person in front of my slams on the brakes a little faster than i would have liked, and i manage to stop with a good inch between our bumpers and i was in a process of self congratulation and breathing a sigh of relief, when i heard the car behind me screech to a halt... and slam into me. do you know how much i hate the sound of my car coming into contact with another car? a lot lot lot. so i weave across five lanes of bumper to bumper traffic and pull over. and i look at the car and it's fine, and the other car weaves across the traffic and gets out and her car is fine. and she's shaking and i'm shaking and we just give each other this look like "i'm so glad we didn't do any damage because i can't afford to pay my insurance deductible". and we shook hands and went home. i laughed for a long time... mainly because if there are any problems with my car, i haven't washed it since i bought it and her license plate number is probably stamped in the dirt on my back bumper. so there you go. my first la crash. and it had nothing to do with my latent desire for physical contact. suck on that, don cheadle.

Flashback Part 3: Oxford

It's a rainy day and although no one could possibly be as interested as I am, I'm posting my third and final flashback. I spent a few days with Liz at Oxford in the middle of June last year, and she got me into all the pretty colleges that you don't get to see unless you're a student. Such as Merton College:



Very nice, Oxford, very nice. We were there to see an outdoor student production of Macbeth which was memorable not only because it was extremely good, but because Macbeth somehow managed to be very sarcastic and I enjoyed it immensely.

Outside Merton, there had apparently been a bit of a party. The city of Oxford always makes a fuss about confetti and silly string and spraying champagne at the end of the year, but I did not see anyone paying any attention to the rules. I was there the weekend that the third-years were taking their huge final exams, for which they are required to wear academic dress. (Yes, it was just like Hogwarts.) Also, in that group of people standing by the car, there is a rather handsome young man in full Scottish dress. Maybe having a knife in your sock makes sitting an exam less stressful.



I hope Liz does not mind that I've posted a picture of her toes on the internet.

At some point that weekend we decided to go punting. Then, having watched a few people try it, we decided to rent a rowboat instead because at least one of us knew how to row, whereas neither of us had ever punted. Plus I felt I couldn't get into character without a punting hat. Anyway, it was really pretty and would have been quite relaxing had there not been so many other people who had no idea how to steer. This goes for ducks as well.



So that's Oxford. It was a very surreally lovely place.

Ode to Ivan

Yesterday I received in the mail a rather large package from LA. In it were many charming presents for my birthday, the actual date of which all parties have agreed not to discuss. If you receive a letter from me on exotic-looking paper, you can thank Lindsey for inspiring me to keep up with my correspondences. If I begin to incessantly quote Hitchhiker’s at you, Lindsey is the person you may blame. She has kindly rectified the fact that Fate has denied me a copy of the omnibus for far too long.

In order to thank her for these and other useful and amusing gifts, I have decided to attempt a poem in her honor. It shall be a haiku, because of earlier precedent. It shall be called, “To Ivan, on the Occasion of the Arrival of my Birthday Presents, which were Highly Enjoyable and Very Nicely Presented and in all ways Delightful and included also that Magic Substance called Chocolate for which we share a Great Fondness, in Particular when Frozen and Consumed alongside Fancy Cakes and Washed Down with Mulled Wine, the Heavy Alcoholic Fragrance of which, After Simmering, we had to Pretend Not to have Noticed when your Mom asked What It Was, and By the Way I Meant to Ask You, is that Bottle of Wine Still in your Kitchen Cabinet? Because She’s Going to Wonder About That”

You can’t be conservative with the title of a haiku because the poem itself is so limiting. Here is the Work of Art:

To Ivan, old friend,
(I mean longstanding, not old)
--shit, I wasted it.

Okay, well. Like I said, limiting. But um, really, thanks, Linds. You are a wonderful friend and also, it’s true, the only person I can talk to about how Richard Taylor just burns me up inside.

Full of Errors andn PAthos

My kybard has not been working properly for some timme now. A fewe day ago, I took about 65% of th keys off and cleaned undr rthem. There was an incredibl amount of dust. And hair. And crummbs. It was disgusting. I cleand it all out. For the rest of that day, even my delete key and down-arrow key weere fully operational. The next day,, it was alll back to itis usual tricks. Doubling ltters. Skipping letters. Inserting a ltter five seconds after I type it into sosmething three words down. I cannot express the evl of aggravation i a feelling. I wonder if Ombelin is getting revengefor that llong period in which I calld her "it" becaus i didn't know if she was th samme computer (see earlir post on Ombeline). Or maybe she is slowly killing herself so that sh can join my xternal hard drive in lectronic heaeven. At the end of school, th hard driv started mmaking wookiee sounds. It was funny, but not really. Or maybe it is th haet. It was 97 in the sun at tn o'clock this mmorning. That's ridicuous.

The point isi, I rersent the fact that my keyboard is making me look like I amm not the quality English ajor that I lik to pretendn I am. Ombeline, whatver I did, I a sorry. Pleas stop boycottingn mm.

P.S. I wouldlik to add: typing in passwords is hell. Please excuse mme if I don't read/respond to your -mail. It's bcaus I ca't gt into th dammn account.

because simon and i are really good at both these things

i am currently doing random assistant editor, bitchwork things for someone's non-profit documentary. i've worked on a couple of these and they're usually about kids in the inner city trying not to get gang-raped and mourning the loss of multiple immediate family members. they're depressing. but the today's documentary is a ray of hope in the gray inner city skies. to keep kids off the street, build self esteem, and promote academics, this program combines (drumroll please) MATH and (i can't believe i'm typing this) BASKET WEAVING. now simon and i happen excel in both these subjects. there's not much to do in the deep suburban wilderness we call home, so one dull vacation day we cleaned under the bunkbeds and lo and behold, found a basket weaving kit! it was perfect. very genesee country museum meets anne of green gables. it practically screamed "weave me"... and we all know, if you weave it they will come... so we wove it. damn fine basket. we filled it with something basket-worthy... like cookies... or peanut butter cups. and as soon as we finished it i can remember sitting down and saying "lets do math, because after i make a basket, that's all i can wrap my brain around". those were the finest quadratic equations i've ever completed. it makes sense for kids in rural america to combine basket weaving and arithmetic. our parents like things like that- decorate the house AND ensure ivy-league acceptance. win win. but really, i can't see why your average inner-city child needs a set of wicker... well... anything. i'm sitting here listening to them sing "i believe i can weave" to the tune of r. kelly's "i believe i can fly". i can just see these children being held at gunpoint in a 7-11 crying and mumbling the only comforting song they know-- and it's about basket weaving-- and it's smarmy. only in la.

This kind of weather is why The Great Gatsby ended in disillusionment and bloodshed.

It has been said by SOMEONE (hey Becky, sup yo?) that I "barely" post. Since she took time out from her European cruise to pass that along, I feel I cannot really deny it. But to be quite honest I really have not done anything of interest lately. It is very, very hot. My main pastimes have been sitting at my desk writing and (usually simultaneously) trying not to pass out. I think my blood pressure goes down six points for every degree the temperature goes up. I would never make it living in the South.

Yesterday I went over to Matt's and talked to him and Adam about our upcoming film. In the course of the evening, we thoroughly explored the grocery store, visited the spy warehouse, ate pudding, watched the evening primroses pop open and spread their petals, and then finally got around to doing pre-production work.

From filming and writing research in the past three days, I have learned about shoe polish, turpentine, clowns, how to care for a string of pearls, the history of the word "halcyon," the packaging and promotional offers associated with both Cheez Whiz and Easy Cheese, what "nihil desperandum" means (it means maybe), spitzes (in dog form and hat form), and I believe that's it. Oh, and twenties-style headgear.

Now you see why I blog-dodge like I do.

why i am not cooking ever again... or at least for the next two weeks

i am in love with a nepalese sandwich artist. his zest for bread, meat and vegetables, the joy he gets when i say "sure, i'd like it toasted", the smile he has when i agree to pop and chips for only two dollars more-- it's irresistible. i've diverted my entire weekly food budget to one subway meal a day. this is convenient because the stove in my apartment has started to lurk. its been lurking ever since the forces that control the universe sent me a strong "please don't ever cook again because you are very bad at it" message. i was making grits. i took off the cover to make sure they weren't burning or turning green or doing anything else grits shouldn't do. they exploded in my face. the grits exploded. grits should not explode. they are a bland, passive food... bland foods don't explode. it's a rule. i hate grits. i love the new subway "chicken bacon ranch" sandwich. sadly, as fate would have it, this will be a brief affair. my sandwich artist is returning to nepal in two weeks and the subway on sepulveda and victory just won't be the same. no one adds cheese like he does. ::sigh:: maybe the stove will stop lurking by then.

Flashback Part 2: Scotland

On this day a year ago, I arrived in Stirling with my friend Mike. Guidebooks call Stirling the "gateway to the highlands" which is, despite being a seventh-grade-textbook description, apparently true. The Ochil Hills, as in this picture, positively leap out of the flat ground a bit north of Stirling Castle. You can see them from basically anywhere.

Ochil Hills; Stirling



I took this picture on the way to the Wallace Monument (yes, that's William Wallace of Braveheart fame) which you can't see here, but which is right in front of the line of these hills. Mike and I didn't actually have a map, as I recall. We just walked out of the hostel, got the Monument in sight, and started toward it in as straight a line as possible, telling ourselves, "If we can see it, it can't be that far." And after making a trek so extraordinarily beautiful that it quite surpassed the surreal--and took about two hours--we arrived in time for the sunset.

The next day we set off for St. Andrews, which is probably an hour away by bus. On this bus we met the Minnesotan Pete, with whom we spent that day and the next. Besides being good company, Pete had the brilliant idea that we should stop at Tesco and buy a gallon of ice cream and since we couldn't find spoons, we should just get a bag of cookies and scoop with those. Mike and Pete between them finished most of the gallon. I myself had an egg mayonnaise sandwich and tried not to look. Anyway, St. Andrews is quite charming. This was taken at the ruined cathedral:

St. Andrews Cathedral; St. Andrews



I'm pretty sure a real Scotsman wears a kilt, not plaid golf pants, but I'll forgive him since I guess golf was invented there or something. And the music was nice. (Sorry, Ivan.)

Mike had class and had to go back to school, but I elected to skip a lecture and stay another two days. I had gotten back into the Lymond Chronicles and rather desperately wanted to go back Lymondville, otherwise known as Edinburgh. There was a Dorothy Dunnett exhibit at the Writers' Museum in Edinburgh that I wanted to see (again), which I thoroughly enjoyed (again) and took illegal pictures of (dude, I didn't realize they were illegal at the time and then it isn't like I could have deleted them off my...digital...camera...) Anyway, it turned into a rather pleasant day and I took many many pictures of various portions of the Royal Mile, of which this is one:

Down the Royal Mile in Edinburgh



Shortly after this I made the mistake of going into the Children's Museum by myself right before it closed. If you ever go to Edinburgh be sure to avoid being alone in a room on the third floor of a silent museum with really old, yellowing dolls whose owners have long since grown up and probably been dead for a hundred years already staring at you with their creepy beady little eyes. I was not surprised when, two days later in my Modern British Drama class, the Edinburgh Museum of Childhood was brought up in connection with a play about a serial killer.

But um, Scotland is lots of fun. To illustrate this I will tell you the following joke in Scots:

Whit has fower legs, a big bahoochie, an mair tales than it can coont?

An itchy coo.

I really don't know how I was able to leave.

Library renovation destroys soul of town See page C6 for details

Yesterday I went to the library nearby that I haven't been to in about four years, in which time they've done massive renovations. It looks really nice and has a huge chess set for kids and much more space, but it doesn't smell the same and doesn't have the same charm. I miss the little wire chairs at the little kids' table that had padding on the seats in eighties-style shades of orange and yellow. I miss knowing exactly where the Peanuts comic books and Baby-Sitter's Club books are. I loved Ghost at Dawn's House. It had a secret passage in it. I always wanted a secret passage. Anyway, I also miss the high ceilings and mismatched furniture and generally shoddy feel. Now it's clean and streamlined and heartless. The same thing happened when they renovated the library downtown, only worse: they took the ACTUAL SECRET ROOM out. I mean, how COULD you? It was the coolest thing in the world and now it's like the map room or some foolishness. People just don't know how to treat libraries. You have to withhold their money. That's how they retain their old-fashioned charm. It's a good thing, a very good thing. I'm switching my voter registration to Republican as we speak.

skill sets

in an attempt to actually enjoy my days in los angeles (i know, "enjoy" and "los angeles" in the same sentence... blasphemy) i've been hiking. the hiking is great and enjoyable and we've actually discovered several unpaved, smog-free sections of this wretched city, but hiking here is nothing like hiking at home. for one, i have not found any toxic waste and two, at home i hike with someone tiny. simon is five foot something and her parents bound her feet so they are small too... this is not the case in california. here, due to my fear of falling into a ravine and missing so much work i can't pay my rent, i have been hiking with Very Tall Person*. very tall people are fine and all but they don't seem to understand that not everyone shares their vertical advantage. when simon and i went on hikes, she would remember branches that hit her in the face and hold the offending twigs till i could take over. Very Tall Person forgets, and all the branches that hit him in the shoulder whip back and hit me square between the eyes. this makes hiking a very edgy, hardcore activity where i have to focus on not falling into a ravine AND not losing an eye. also, Very Tall Person does not understand my leg span is not that of a pro basketball player. if there's a river to jump across, i will probably not make it to the cut off rock and just end up soaking wet. at home, simon would be rational and suggest we walk AROUND the body of water. but i suppose twig dodging and river leaping are skills i need living in this city... twig dodging... just like dodging bullets on the freeway... river leaping... will come in handy that day i finally snap in traffic and start jumping on the tops of cars. thank you Very Tall Person, for preparing me for a whole new level of los angeles enjoyment.

*previously known as intern, tape librarian formerly known as intern, graveyard ae, bagel bringer and that kid who refused to buy the keg

There is no point to this post.

My sister having moved into her own house (notice the ablative absolute, the "Rolls-Royce of Latin constructions"), I have moved into her old room. It is considerably larger than mine, but somehow, flagrantly defying the law of conservation of matter, the stuff from my tiny closet of a bedroom does not fit into the galaxy of space in which I now reside.

The problem persisted after I threw out many things as useless as and including two pounds of writing utensils that were neat-looking (i.e. shiny, sparkly, pink, purple, holographic, or possessing any distinctive properties whatsoever), 99% of which have not fuctioned in their intended capacity for, I would say, approximately fifteen years. It has been a tedious job, and I have not even mentioned yet how annoying a process polishing a miniature silver tea service is:



Lucky for me, this sort of thing is my only job. I am now, officially, an unemployed English major. I feel fairly comfortable with this. I don't want to live in a world where people who can read Beowulf but don't understand the stock market are readily employable; that seems almost immoral. I think reading Neil Gaiman's biography of Douglas Adams may have had a detrimental effect on my attitude. I now think it is proper and right that the life of an English major should begin with an extended period in which he or she fails to find gainful employment. According to this model, things are going precisely as planned. What a relief.

Paradise Lost Indeed

When I was a kid I used to spend a lot of time playing in the woods at the edge of the neighborhood. I did very charming summery things like climb trees, follow deer paths, look at weird bugs, and get lost. Later on, Ivan and I (or possible Simon and I--I forgot which of us is which) went on numerous exploratory missions and set some very nice multi-seasonal picnics there. We named the landmarks. We took pictures. We discovered, christened, and quickly forgot the location of the rock Herman. It was like Eden. Granted, an Eden with a hell of a lot of bugs and suburbia encroaching on every border, but whatever, it was nice.

Now I find that this childhood paradise, this arboreal refuge, this flower-laden natural garden has harbored a dark secret all this time. A deadly secret. A secret no one could have imagined. Before the developer bought the land, before my parents bought the house, before I was even born, some jerk looked at the vernal landscape (which I suppose was, at the time, grassy disused farmland, but that's no excuse) and thought, "Now, this vernal landscape/ugly field looks like a great place to bury toxic waste!" Then he came up with another genius idea, which was, "Golly, now that we've buried toxic waste here, we should sell it to a developer so that people can build houses on it! Yesssss!" Then he did chest bumps with his buddies and they all lived happily ever after, cheating on their taxes and kicking puppies.

Until the government investigation. Suckers.

So I've been thinking, what can I blame on the slim possibility that I have been in some way affected by the contamination of a water source that I never used or by particles of lead dust that very likely never circulated in the air? Braces? Poor motor skills? No. Let's go for something bigger. This is it, people. THIS IS THE SOURCE OF THE ALIEN BABY SYMPTOMS. Surely nothing induces nausea like lead poisoning. Surely nothing breeds hunger like tromping around in a nuclear forest. Surely it is plausible that I might sustain a mysterious bruise from such a catastrophic, by which I mean rather minor, toxic waste spill, despite the fact that I was a couple hundred miles away at the time.

So you see the toxic waste spill in the ferny playground of my childhood is all for the best. In fact, thank goodness for the reckless irresponsibility of others. Let their thoughtless misdeeds be praised, until the government can gather enough evidence to PAVE OVER THEIR MORTAL LIVES.

happiness is:

one dozen blueberry bagels... from wegmans. bliss.

Flashback Part 1: Paris

On this day last year I arrived in Paris with mon amie Christine. Because we were tourists, we of course went up the Eiffel Tower to see what all the fuss was about. The fuss was at first about standing in line forever fearing that the creepy guy next to me was going to pick my pocket. Then the fuss was about cramming into an elevator FULL of people who were likely to pick my pocket. At long last, however, we discovered that the fuss was about a bloody good view. So we took some pictures. Thus:



Shortly after taking this picture we got assaulted by drunken Italians who insisted on getting pictures taken with us, no doubt while trying to pick our pockets. Somewhere there is some Italian guy who's confused because in this picture he seems to be at the top of the Eiffel Tower with these two girls and he doesn't remember it at all. Sucks to his asthmar, at least we got a story out of it.

lazy?

a story about my neighbor as told to simon:
Ivan (8:44:03 PM): haha, i have a good la story to post
Ivan (8:45:38 PM): well, it's not a real story story:
Ivan (8:45:55 PM): B is my neighbor
Ivan (8:46:04 PM): B drives a porche
Ivan (8:46:16 PM): B drives his porche to work
Ivan (8:46:19 PM): B drives his porche to work at fox
Ivan (8:46:24 PM): the neighborhood shares a wall with fox. i could pole vault there if i wanted to.
Ivan (8:46:34 PM): end of story. welcome to la la land.
Ivan (8:46:55 PM): see, not a real story
Ivan (8:47:09 PM): my armpit hurts

That's Telekinesis, Kyle

The alien baby is giving me special powers. The other night after Becky and I watched Independence Day, I had a dream that aliens were taking over the country. I mentioned this to Becky and she was rather surprised because she had had a very similar dream. But of course we had both just watched the movie, so it wasn't all that shocking.

Then, two or three days later, I had an alarming dream that I was mysteriously pregnant. I told my dream unto Becky and lo, Becky had had a similar dream. Well, that is strange, I thought. Becky and I seem to be tuned to same dream channel. Still, we do live together and see each other every day, so maybe it can be explained that way.

BUT NOW, I have just received the information that MATT has been dreaming of aliens as well and CHRISTI has been dreaming of bizarre pregnancies.

Clearly the only explanation is that the alien baby is telephathically imposing my dreams on others, or stealing others' dreams and feeding them into my unsuspecting brain. So I'm pretty sure that within a couple of weeks, I will be able kill a yak from 200 yards away . . . with mind bullets. I can't wait to see what powers I get in the third trimester!

of scots and six car pile ups

TRAFFIC IS OUT OF CONTROL. every single morning it takes me an hour and fifteen minutes to get home. i've mentally prepared myself for this trip. it's always this way. it's a law of los angeles "thou shalt not travel south from the valley at a speed exceeding five miles per hour". my thoughts on los angeles traffic: traffic is bad. ok fine. road rage under control. breathe. between the hours of 8:30 and 9:45am i will sit in my car and practice patience. of course the moment i came to terms with the traffic, the heavens started to tremble with rage. ivan cannot be happy on her commute. no, she must be miserable every single moment she sits in her car. yes, the very moment i accepted traffic into my heart, the Powers That Be decided something must be done.

it was saturday. i was driving. i was perfectly happy. it was 3 o'clock in the afternoon. traffic was not bad. i noticed something in the distance. cars began to slow. "it's ok," i said to myself "probably just a stray rain cloud." traffic is worse on cloudy days. i told myself the congestion would clear up quickly. i swear i heard the forces that control the universe start to cackle with glee. i saw the road block. and then i saw the parade. and then i heard the miserable, wretched sound. it was the sound of small animals being slaughtered. fingernails on a chalkboard. the sound of bagpipes. the god of traffic sent me BAGPIPES. i hate bagpipes. my roommate junior year was a bagpiper. she liked to break them out at parties when she was drunk and play amazing grace. she liked to blame me for the fact that she could never practice. "ivan hates the bagpipes so i can never play them in the house". IT'S NOT JUST ME. NO ONE LIKES THE BAGPIPES. actually, they came in handy once. the neighbors were having some sort of all night rave on a tuesday and we asked them to turn down the music. they said no. the roommate went to war. she broke out the pipes and within two minutes the neighbors had turned off the music and were lying on the floor in the fetal position begging for it to end (and she said i never let her practice). so yes, there i was sitting on pico in the middle of the afternoon staring at a full on scottish pride parade, or a funeral, or a braveheart reenactment... i have no idea what it was. it was unnecessary that's what it was. i finally found my way onto a side street and drove around the kilt-wearing, plaid-loving bastards. since then i've had to deal with six car pile-ups, street cleaners, heavy construction, camera controlled intersections and general los angeles idiocy. it's ok. i'm ok. the scots have given me a whole new perspective on driving in los angeles: traffic is bad, but as long as there are bagpipers in the world, i am constantly reminded my commute could be much, much worse. and now that i've accepted this, i wonder what the Powers That Be will come up with next... i'm betting it rains oatmeal rasin cookies.

Alien Baby

Symptoms:
(1) strange bruise of unknown origin on inside of upper right arm
(2) persistent nausea
(3) extraordinary appetite

Possible Diagnoses:
(1) This condition is clearly the result of exam week; students often cease to eat balanced meals and become overtired at this time of year. Bruise coincidental with other symptoms.
(2) This condition is clearly the result of having toxic mold in the walls. The bruise shows that the mold has already infected your body (cf. X-Files episode 4x11, "El Mundo Gira," a.k.a. "The One With the Mold Man").
(3) This condition is clearly the result of alien abduction. The bruise is the mark from an alien needle; the nausea and increased appetite are due to the fact that you are going to have an alien baby. Alien babies are notoriously hungry little rascals.

Treatment:
(1) Stop eating crap and get more sleep.
(2) None; you are going to die.
(3) Throw a baby shower.

Of these choices, I pick the alien baby. It has more style than plain exhaustion and isn't deadly. Plus, Maeve agrees with me that alien impregnation is the only explanation for the bruise. So if someone could notify the Inquirer for me, that would be great. In the meantime you're welcome to buy gifts. The alien baby likes books, movies, and tea. I'll happily provide an address to which gift certificates can be sent.

The Lone Bongo Drummer

On the subject of the Lone Bongo Drummer: There is one. And he is outside my window. And he is not talented. And it is 1:28 in the morning. Rock on, Lone Bongo Drummer, rock on. Because outside of College Reality, people will call the cops on you when you do stupid things like this. And wherever I am, I will laugh the laugh of vengeance and vindication.

The Saga of Dune is Far from Over

Becky and I have been watching the Sci-Fi Channel's adaptations of Frank Herbert's novels Dune and Children of Dune over the past few weeks, and we finished today. As Inigo Montoya would say, You killed my father. Prepare to die. . . . No, that's the wrong one. What I'm looking for is, Let me explain. No, there is too much; let me sum up:

In Dune, the following things happen:
William Hurt and family move to desert planet. Hurt gets hurt. Sulking son Paul fulfills prophesy as savior of planet known as Muad'Dib, becomes considerably hotter in process of doing so, due to spiking of hair. As Becky would say, Shizit! Also features many wild hats and wicked cool worm-riding. Most Horrible/Awesome Moment winner: Liet's death-by-spice-blow. But Frank, I liked him!

Anyway, the saga of Dune is far from over.

In Children of Dune, the following things happen:
Muad'Dib continues to be unbearably attractive, produces unbearably attractive children. Some stuff happens with rebellions, the obese floating man reprises his role from the original series, and a lot of people we liked go insane and/or die and/or wander off into the desert at various points. But the saga of Dune is far from over: the actor who played Liet is recycled as a completely different character. The worms, thankfully, reprise their original role. But the saga of Dune is far from over! There are still approximately three hours of footage of Muad'Dib's perpetually half-naked son! Even with worm-skin, it has to be said: shizit.

[I want to mention that despite the fact that Muad'Dib's son looks like a well-built 16-year-old, he was actually 24 at the time of filming. I will cut anyone who mentions Jeremy Sumpter . . . or Rupert Grint. I am having an alien baby and my hormones are all over the place. Watch yourselves.]

Anyway, Children of Dune was, I think, even better than the original Dune, as the acting is superior, Alec Newman being particularly impressive, and the villians are not as asinine (although I have to wonder who thought Susan Sarandon deserved those bangs. What did she ever do to you?) Also, it was interesting to see how the magnificent revolution in the first series fell apart in the second, and how Leto, O Inexplicably Naked One, brought Muad'Dib back to the status of a human being. I personally think Muad'Dib's loss of divinity was a direct result of his spiky hair going flat, but that probably isn't a sound religio-political analysis.

Thus, as The Beckly Hath Commanded, I have written of Dune and Children of Dune, the Sagas that are Always Far from Over No Matter How Close They Are To What Is Actually the End Until they Make Another and If They Do I Hope It Includes Flashbacks of the Spiky Hair.

Vote Beeblebrox

There are three series of books I love so much that they make my heart hurt. I shall list them for you:

1. The Lymond Chronicles
2. The Lord of the Rings
3. Douglas Adams

I would like to rhapsodize now, for a moment, on the third. Let us revisit my history with Douglas Adams. I believe I first encountered him when Ivan made me read The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul when I went to Cape Cod with her family. Incidentally that was the same trip during which Ivan's mother drowned me in sunscreen and made me sit under an umbrella all day because I'm an ice princess. But that's okay. I wanted to sit and read anyway.

I think it was after that that Ivan called me one weekend and told me to turn on the radio because the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio show was playing. So I listened to that religiously until it ended all too abruptly.

I read the five-novel trilogy during my senior year of high school. I have very distinct memories of having that huge blue tome in my lap when we drove through this very campus and I decided I wanted to go to school here.

There was a bit of a lull aftr that. Then, one day while I was shelving books in the library listening to my walkman, I ran across part of the radio show that I had partially taped over. It was the part where Zaphod is put into the Total Perspective Vortex. The fairy cake part struck me as particularly brilliant and I thought to myself, "Alas, I wonder whatever happened to that show."

My love was renewed when I went to England and met Helen and discovered that she and I had an admiration for Douglas Adams in common. I reread the Guide, and the partial novel Adams left after his death (thank you, Ivan), and after Helen went back to the States, she miraculously got ahold of a copy of Dirk Gently's Detective Agency, and I was dazzled by that, too. Then I saw a two-disc edition of the radio show on sale in Blackwells. I went into that store on probably six separate occasions just to look at it, the only copy they had. And then one day I found the courage to fork over twenty pounds and IT WAS MINE. And it was only after listening to the show several times, and randomly meeting Mark Wing-Davies, that I really began to understand Douglas Adams's brilliance.

It's pretty clear that he's a funny guy: "It is no coincidence that in no known language does the phrase 'As pretty as an airport' appear." I personally like Heathrow, but whatever, it's true. I can testify to the fact that Newark sucks; they even made putting rocking chairs in the terminals into a failure of an idea by getting the kind that, if you actually use them, irreversibly mangle your spinal chord. Anyway, yes, the person who came up with Bistromath, the Meet the Meat scene, and the line "Yes, well, that's just what we want to find out: do people want fire that can be fitted nasally?" . . . of course had an extraordinary sense of humor.

But what kills me every time is how he can make the total insignificance of the human race perfectly clear, reveal and dwell on all of its absurdities and flaws and outright failures, and postulate that Earth is in fact nothing more than an organic computer and that the human race is actually descended primarily from telephone sanitizers -- and then turn around and celebrate the hell out of the entire ridiculous and inconvenient arrangement.

My favorite part is in the first book when Slartibartfast is discussing with Arthur the rather tragic demise of Earth before it was able to reveal the meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything. He says, after all that, "Well that's bureaucracy for you." I've never read another book so concerned with the meaning of life that concludes with such glee that there is no point and isn't it truly wonderful. This has been endlessly consoling and alerted me to the fact that where religions feed off distrust of the human race, atheism requires an enormous amount of faith in it. And that makes me, a plain, inoffensive heathen, very, very happy.

Plus it's incredibly satisfying to think everyone I don't like will at some point be descended upon by a businesslike little alien with a clipboard, and roudly insulted. This, I feel, is very satisfying indeed.

with your nose so bright

i have some sort of cyst/zit/growth/welt thing on my nose. it's very noticeable. it's very red. i'm feeling rather self conscious so i swear to god, if you see me, and ask me to guide your sleigh tonight, i will END you. fair warning.

and so the problem remained; lots of people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches

well, it took three weeks of sleeping 16 hours a day, seven days of a normal schedule, a week of insomnia and one friday night for it all to come full circle. i was so tired yesterday i decided to take a nap and twelve hours later, wow, sleep schedule RESET. wonderful. good to know it's THAT easy to get back to where you were. so i've traded in being terribly alert and annoyed during the night for being terribly alert and annoyed during the day and frankly, i'm not enjoying it one bit. california daytime people annoy me. seems like the sun brings out all the wackos and my cheery disposition causes them gravitate in my direction. saturday, on the third street promenade i was approached by a small asian man with a card full of questions "what question interest you the most?" he asked. i scanned through the list, which looked something like this:
1. Why are carrots orange?
2. Why are goats so entertaining?
3. Should you keep the cat your roommate is allergic to on the chance that is lying about his problems with feline dander?
4. Are bunnies cute?
5. Does God exist?
6. What's for dinner?
five stood out, so i (stupidly) said "five". the small asian man launched into a whole dissertation on the presence of god in our lives and after every long, long speech he would stop and ask "what do you think?" and i would say "about the existance of god?" and he would say yes and I would say "i have absolutely no idea" and then we would repeat the process. finally i was so fed up with the whole conversation i blurted out in the surliest way possible "god was disproved by the babel fish, the answer to life, the universe and everything is 42, the world is run by mice and frankly, i am sick of this conversation and need to go drown my annoyance in the gap sales rack." he left me alone after that. i blame myself. if it were not for my spastic internal clock i would still be on the "terribly alert and annoyed at night" schedule and we could have avoided all of this.

my new-found inability to sleep

hi, my name is ivan and i'm an insomniac. yes, i'm tired. no i cannot sleep. no i haven't had any caffeine. no, i haven't been taking speed. no, no cocaine either. i have eaten a crap load of red vines, but i doubt that has anything to do with sleep deprivation. i'm feeling rather mean. let me tell you what i'm going to do if i go another day without a few more hours of quality sleep. first off, i'm going to tell the night editor to fuck off and then tell him he makes me want to jam a pencil through my forehead and then i'm going to jam a pencil through his forehead. how's that for diversion. it's gonna be great. next, i'm going to adopt the cat that lives outside my apartment. the only thing that's been keeping me from doing this is the allergic roommate, the one who just announced he's moving out. wow, wait, this person has just proved himself inconsiderate and annoying. what's that you hear? purring? wow, it's nice to have animals in the house. you know what else makes me want to jam pencils through things. eggs. fried eggs. i can't flip them without breaking the yolk. anger. i feel anger. my cat is meowing. did i mention it's nice to have an animal in the apartment? it is. i can't think any more. there are more things that i want to be mean about, i just can't remember them. i'll address them tomorrow during all the hours i'm awake, not sleeping, not drinking caffeine, eating red vines, trying in vain to flip eggs and petting my cat.

Anybody want a peanut?

In professor's office with professor's three-year-old son:

Professor: Watch this. He just makes stuff up. What rhymes with book?
Kid: Pook.
Professor: What rhymes with hair?
Kid: Mair.
Professor: What rhymes with Avignon?
Kid: Ma-uh-mabavingyon?
Professor: Yeah. He's exploring the language.

this totally counts as a post on account of its being pretty. eh?

because woman cannot live on cookies alone

i'm pretending to be a morning person. maybe someday i will join the ranks of the uber-healthy, early-risers; that special group of people who don't consider cookies and diet coke a real meal... but for now i am content to pretend. my new weekend sleep schedule leaves me totally alone and terribly alert in the wee hours of the morning so i've taken to hanging out with bonafide morning people while i run stairs at 6am. my other early morning activities include rollerblading, beaching, reading, reading, reading, watching tv, calling people on the east coast (my mother actually thinks i wake up this early) and ::drumroll please:: going to work. no, star trek was not the height of my dorkiness. i actually went into work this morning so i could play on the avid all by myself.

but i was not alone. an editor arrived shortly after i did and said he was going to seven-eleven for some breakfast. climbing stairs made me very hungry so i put in an order for "something substantial... i will accept a hot pocket or some cookies". i trusted the him to return with something edible. i knew there was trouble when he gave me back all my money and said "i went out on a limb, you don't have to pay for this". he handed me (very tenatively) a hot dog box. by now it was at least 10:30, so a hot dog was an odd, but totally acceptable purchase. when i opened the box, i was greeted not by an oscar meyer product, but by a giant turd. "it's a cheeseburger dog... i know. it looks like i scraped it out of the backyard". yes, editor friend, you managed to purchase something looking exactly like excrement. why? he stuttered for a bit and failed to find an acceptable answer, so i ate the thing. it had cheese whiz on the inside. a turd filled with processed cheese. who thought that was a good idea? i finished mine and looked at him, and keep in mind this is a 38-year-old bachelor who consumes fast food like its his job, and he looked back at me and rejected the burger/turd dog! after i ate the whole thing, he turned and threw his in the trash! i thought we were team! then he looked at me with a mix of awe and disgust. "your stomach must be stronger than mine," he said. and he's probably right. i spent a whole month of college eating nothing but ramen noodles and freeze pops. and this is the exact reason i am only pretending to be a morning person. cookies and diet coke will always be a meal to me and seven-eleven purchases are a welcome breakfast. long live the turd dog and down with 6am workouts.

the tape librarian formerly known as intern

yes, this whole post will be devoted to righting wrongs related to the the tape librarian formerly known as intern whom i will refer to as"intern" for this whole post, just because i can. you probably remember the intern from such posts as "dear intern, stop telling us you're going to bring a keg to work. you are such a liar and i am sick of getting my hopes up." and "dear intern, we should have let you drown on lankershim boulevard because you are too tall and take up way too much space in the back of the civic", or the most recent post "dear intern, why can't you understand how freakin' good cookies are". I stand by those last two posts, but the intern has requested, no demanded, that i print a retraction on the keg post. his exact words were "...I keep my word. I expect a retraction in the blog". and they say i have an attitude at work. this whole "full time employee" thing has really gone to his head. but i do retract the keg post. the intern left me a heineken "keg can" in the bottom drawer of his desk. joy! what a good intern. and for this one small act of awesomeness, i will forever after refer to him as "that guy who can't seem to organize the tapes and used to be an intern". upgrade!

that special moment when you realize just how dorky you are

so i was flipping channels yesterday and realized my new schedule allows me to watch like, eight hours of star trek "the next generation" a day. imagine my delight. i've always kept my trekkie-ness on the down low because no one likes an out and out levar burton fan, and frankly there's no need for anyone to know how traumatized i was when tasha was eaten by that scary black goo. so i'm watching yesterday and i'm totally overjoyed because it's an episode that i somehow haven't seen and Q is on and bad things happen when Q is on the enterprise and all of a sudden jean luc makes Q mad! jean luc, what the hell are you thinking! Q's powerful! even whoopie goldberg is like, dude, picard, don't go there, and Q snaps his fingers and BAM, they're in another galaxy, light-years from where they should be. son of a bitch. what to do. so they're poking around the galaxy and all of a sudden they come to a new "planet" and data is describing it and all of a sudden they throw it on screen and it's THE BORG. and i'm like, why aren't they running?! what's going on?! no, don't probe them! no, no, don't hail them! and i realize, i'm actually yelling at the screen. wow. yes. the neighbors are probably wondering why i kept screaming, TURN BACK, DON'T YOU KNOW RESISTANCE IS FUTILE with such urgency. well, i suppose there's a chance they understand. i mean, if the enterprise is taken over by a colony of evil, same-minded, partial robots today it means there's absolutely nothing to do tomorrow at two o'clock. and i would almost rather sit through tasha getting eaten again than have that happen.

a gaggle of goats

why must texans talk so slow? i understand by living in texas they've never been exposed to things like literature, history and cars without F-150 logos, but this is no excuse! if i can accelerate your voice to double it's normal speed and still hear you drawling along YOU HAVE A PROBLEM. on the east coast they call it a speech impediment. spit it out! t-t-today, junior! ARGH! i can speak to you freely about the evils of texas because the first episode of our kick-ass reality show premiered last week. what?! you didn't watch it?! how could you miss such an exciting television event?! you are no longer my friend! ...actually i forgot it was on too, but as of episode seven, i think i actually get a credit! do i want my name associated with a show that forced eight of its contestants milk goats? well, we all know how i feel about goats, so of course. you can't have reservations about a show with goats. and if you accelerate the sound of a goat to twice its normal speed it resembles a satanic munchkin on helium. what's not to like about that? it's better than the texans. satanic munchkin on downers. laaaaaattttteeeeerrrrr yyyyaaaaallllllllllll.

work! sleep! cookies!

i apologize to all three of our readers (four including katie) for not blogging in a long long time. i switched to the graveyard shift and though this brings me great personal and professional satisfaction, i've learned that the internal clock is not a forgiving thing. i have spent the last two weeks doing almost nothing but sleeping, working and eating cookies. i told this to the tape librarian formerly known as intern and he said it sounded like a terrible life. i thought it over and took the time to explain that the number of cookies i have consumed easily cancels out the bitterness i feel for my complete lack of a social life. i also have no energy to exercise or read. in my non-working hours i lay (lay? lie? lye?) in bed and think about all the things i could accomplish if i didn't sleep for 2/3 of the day. but don't worry about me yet- save your words of hope and wisdom for next week- that's when the oreos go back to full price.

A Spiffing Wheeze

I don't want to give the impression that I don't have anything to do, but I cannot conceal that I just spent half an hour playing around on the BBC's creative writing website. At this fount of wisdom I learned a lot of useless stuff about copyright laws in the UK, but that is beside the point. The point is that I took a quiz on grammar and at the end I was told: "You are in touch with the positive forms of grammatical energy within you and you have discovered a new and exciting concept of your Self."

I'm pretty sure the BBC was making fun of me for taking a grammar quiz on their website.

Intellectual Food

Here is what I learned today while I was working on my Milton presentation. The presentation is on how Eve's desire for knowledge is sinful according to Milton. So far this is the information I have gathered:

1. Snuffleupagus was only able to be seen by Big Bird until 1988 when the writers on Sesame Street decided that this sent the wrong message to children.
2. "Snuffleupagus" is the name of the species. Snuffy's actual name is Aloysius. Aloysius, I recall, was also the name of Sebastian's teddy bear in Brideshead Revisited. The fact that Sebastian had a teddy bear while at university may have contributed to his becoming an irredeemable alcoholic. I myself would say that is the wrong message.
3. The word "orange" did not come to be used for the color orange until 1542. Before that they called orange "tawny" (or "tenne" in French). There is suprisingly little information about medieval names for colors on the Internet. Very disappointing.
4. The song "Ring Around the Rosy" has nothing to do with the Black Plague. I secretly still believe that it does too.
5. The mucus you spit up when you get the plague has a name, and that name is "sputum." Dah-licious.

And that, my friends, is why you should never disobey God.

Names, dates, translations, and other information included above may be incorrect.

no "do you like david bowie" is not an acceptable pickup line

i go to the grove to be alone. it is a place of many acceptable being alone activities. a place of reading, movies, food... a place where i can quietly make fun of the emaciated lady in the pink coat walking her whippet whom she managed to dress in a jean jacket trimmed with a faux fur collar. what a great place. so when i'm sitting in barnes and noble drinking coffee and reading the new series of unfortunate events book, i don't want to talk anyone. no, offense. even if alan cumming came up to me i would probably say "please leave me alone, 'the grim grotto' is just getting good".

alright, that's a lie. i would totally have a conversation with alan cumming. i would probably run away to scotland with him if he asked... but i would finish my chapter first! gotta have standards. so yes, there is an exception for alan, but not for the guy who initiated the following conversation:

guy: hi, i only have thirty seconds because my friends are waiting, but do you like david bowie? because my cousin is really into david bowie right now and i'm beginning to seriously doubt the people she's hanging out with.
me: no, i do not like david bowie.
guy: wow, what do you do? no, wait. let me guess. you're studying?
me: no
guy: you're a nurse. definitely a nurse.
me: no
guy: well, you're definitely from the midwest, right?
me: no
guy: well, let me read your palm... i bet you have a short love line.
me: no
guy: i see it. you turned your hand when you picked up that coffee. it's a short love line. real short. only two or three boyfriends, right?
me: no
guy: so my friends are real cool and we're only in la for the night. do you want to hang out?
me: no
guy: so can i have your email address?
me: no

a whole conversation where i revealed nothing about myself and acted like a bitch and this idiot is still talking! all i want to do is read! leave me alone! that or bring alan cumming to the table... he can read my love line any day.

Thrilling Account of What I Am Not Currently Doing

I am currently at work. I have been at work for 1.5 hours and have another two to go. It has been very slow and my bosses are not here to assign me mindless tasks. I have finished all the homework I brought with me and have nothing to do.

When I say I have nothing to do, I am of course lying. I have all these creative writing pieces in front of me that I'm supposed to comment on for class, and I can say things like, "Please indent when you begin a new paragraph," and "Please capitalize proper nouns," but what else can you say when the story doesn't mean anything? I've become Mr. James. Jesus bloody Christ.

I also have a prospectus due for my research paper on astrology. I began it while under the power of The Weeklong Headache and finished in the haze of The Drugs That Make Me Feel Like I've Inhaled Laughing Gas, so I'm going to assume it doesn't make sense and should be rewritten. I'm trying to think of ways I can quote Slartibartfast in this paper. It's my last chance to use Douglas Adams in an academic work. I'm sure there's a way to make it totally appropriate.

But I am not doing these things. I am thinking about how I'd like to go home and have a cup of tea and get back to Good Omens* (which is fascinating to read alongside Paradise Lost, by the way) and then maybe take a nap. I think I will avoid The X-Files today as I was sincerely creeped out by the human-fat-eating serial killer yesterday, but I may not be able to resist Mulder's hot 1994 poofy-hair.

*Kindly acquired for me by O Honored One Who Will Watch The Lord of the Rings With Me For Twelve Hours In a Row VOLUNTARILY Without Making Really Very Much Fun of Frodo and Sam at All Except When It's Impossible Not To

sniffle

i sneezed twice on the way to work. it rained a lot yesterday. frequent readers (all two of you) will assume this entry is about another soggy crossing of the river lankershim, but you're so wrong. we in the post department watched the rain all afternoon. it poured. it was the worst i've seen it. the parking lanes on both sides of the street were totally underwater. and then the thunder and lighting started. and the power went out. and there was an earthquake... well, the earthquake was in like redondo beach or something, but THE APOCALYPSE IS COMING. anyway, we didn't have to cross the street because our boss was nice enough to ford the river in the honda civic he parks underneath. it was oregon trail. the water was almost at the doors. the cattle were drowning. we almost had to throw the intern out because we were running low on provisions. i think i caught dysentary on the way... it's the only disease that accounts for all this sneezing.

take you down to chinatown

so angela escaped the land of the dirty snow and came to los angeles for a week. we laughed, we cried, we ate in n' out burgers, we sat in the sun and we shopped... it was so southern california. i called yesterday to make sure she got home alright and she said "lindsey, there's something i should tell you. when john and i were in chinatown, we saw a lot of little animals in cages. all of the cages were full except one, the one that said 'giant python'.... that one was empty.... just thought you should know." thanks ang. as if it wasn't bad enough fighting eight thousand black bmw's on the way to work, now i have to factor in large, hungry snakes... socal just keeps getting better and better. guess it beats dirty snow.

Whitby, from the middle of the Ninety-Nine Steps

Cheers, Mate . . . Nope, it just doesn't work when I say it

So I've been sitting here a while making myself sick with pictures of England. I like England a lot. I miss England a lot. I think it has a lot to do with school feeling like a colossal waste of time, but I'd like to believe I'd miss it even if my classes were . . . good. Here is a tiny list of my favorite things about England, because everyone wants to know, in no particular order:

1. Boots sandwiches
2. The statue of Constantine outside the Minster
3. The pound sign being used as an E, not an L as I'd always thought logical
4. The bakery section of Sainsbury's
5. The Sherlock Holmes-themed tube stop at Baker Street
6. Football scores being announced over the PA on the London Underground
7. Daffodils
8. Tripping over history everywhere
9. How Guy Fawkes Night is really Guy Fawkes Month
10. Those giant chocolate drinks at Evil Eye
11. How I experienced more hail there in nine months than I have in the rest of my 22 years here
12. How I still managed never to buy an umbrella
13. The Peter Pan statue in Kensington Gardens
14. The York library's copy of The Ringed Castle and how I had time to read 600 pages straight through twice in a row and then to take a trip to Edinburgh as a supplement to my reading
15. The way that 100% of the native population can pull off saying, "Cheers, mate."

Phantom Stoplight

To begin with, I have never approved of driving. What has the automobile brought us? Nothing but trouble, that's what: Holes in the ozone layer. (More) War in the Middle East. Road rage. About seventy-five thousand new ways to die. And the Honda Element. Henry Ford, you have much to atone for.

Furthermore, there is the matter of the unemployed horses. Unlike wealthy showhorses, workhorses rely on a good economy. By taking away their prime employment, i.e. pulling us around, we're forcing the Amish and Budweiser to support the entire horse job market. Not to mention the societal danger of down-and-out horses loitering on streetcorners and getting into trouble. Any day now there is likely to be violent political upheaval if horses aren't kept occupied.

Besides, I think there is much to be said in favor of the stagecoach. The danger and excitement. The neat leather luggage with buckles. The fancy feathered hats. The rugged, dusty men. Think of the reading you could catch up on while someone else is driving. And since stagecoaches only travel through the old West and places ending in -shire, you're sure to see some great sights on your way to San Francisco or ----shire. Think how smart anyone can look in a coach-and-six.

My other favorite forms of transportation are bicycle/tandem, sloop, and camel, camel being basically the top of the list even above horses. You know what they say about camels. And so do I. But the main thing about these low-tech types of vehicles is that they don't come with rules. Your bike doesn't have an engine light. You don't have to get super unleaded wind for your sloop.

And the roads on which you travel in your coach-and-six don't have flashing red stoplights that you can see from two miles away and keep trying to stop at because you really can't judge distance in the dark and finally when you get used to the fact that no, this floating red stoplight does not exist except in your imagination like a rural suburban will-o'-the-whisp and you will be trying to stop at it for the rest of your life if you don't just accept its presence and move on, that's when suddenly BAM it's right there and you have to slam on your brakes so hard that if you had been on a camel, you'd have shot off over its head, and you think to yourself, of all the things in the world . . . why?

i got a new way to walk (walk, walk)

i've always lived in cities where the whim of pedestrian was king, where the world was my crosswalk, where the streets were safe for noble non-drivers! growing up, my running partner and i would play a game called "they'll stop", where we would run across the street whenever we felt like it because chances were, the cars would stop... and if they didn't, our town was so small that a wave of community outrage would prompt the construction of at least two or three commemorative crosswalks complete with flashing stop signs so that those following in our footsteps could cross as they pleased. boston has a similar flow of pedestrians and if it was near class time, or lunch time or say, nap time and we had more than three people waiting to get across the street, we would just cross because the "they'll stop" principle still applied. as much as people dislike college students-- real people with absolutely no responsibilies except drinking all the beer in the fridge on a tuesday afternoon-- vehicular manslaughter doesn't usually appeal to your average commonwealth avenue driver. blood with that kind of alcohol content could peel the paint right off daddy's bmw. there were reasons not to hit people in rochester and boston, but los angeles, where i'm pretty sure i've never even seen a pedestrian, the act of walking is a sin. since walking is a sin it will be punished by whatever vengeful god claims this smoggy city. jaywalking on the other hand is out of god's hands and will be punished by powers that be at the lapd. i should have thought of that before i crossed the street separating our office from The Parking Lot of Death. the nearest crosswalk is a mile down the road and frankly, i do not feel the need to spend an extra ten minutes on the same side of the street as my cockroach infested place of work just so i can get from one side to the other "safely". as i crossed the four lanes of lankershim, i smiled at two cops watching the The Parking Lot of Death. i was happy they were at The Parking Lot of Death since i heard several cars were stolen and someone was knifed a few weeks back. "hello, friendly cops," i said and instead of a nice "hello" in return, i received a firm talking-to from a forty-year-old member of the lapd with braces. it's very hard to take someone seriously if they have braces. i mean honestly, braces? shouldn't you have taken care of this a long time ago? a time before you took a position of power within the community? braceface babbled on about los angeles jaywalking laws while i contemplated throwing myself back into the four lanes of traffic. apparently i can walk to the nearest corner and cross at a broken white line- the lapd considers this a "makeshift crosswalk". i on the other hand, think this is crap. if i was not aware of the "makeshift crosswalk law", the cars won't be aware of the "makeshift crosswalk law", and why would i want to spend an extra three minutes on the cockroachy side of the street to just to play my normal game of "they'll stop" all the way down at the corner. besides, if i die crossing the street i want the commemorative crosswalk going straight from the office to The Parking Lot of Death... no one with braces can influence pedestrian traffic!

Improved Flavor!

Narrator: A while ago I bought this tube of toothpaste that boasted an IMPROVED FLAVOR! It was so improved, in fact, that it basically burned holes in my mouth. Improvement in this case evidently involved making a perfectly good toothpaste 50% nitric acid. The plaque comes right off. So do your gums.

This fearful consequence was what I thought of the entire time I was fixing Simon and Ivan's blog. Am I flooding perfectly good HTML with the corrosive, flesh-eating code more or less made up by a completely incompetant imaginary figure? Will Simon and Ivan fire me and fill my vacant post with Osternet Webling, Famed Viking Webmaster of Old? Will I ever be able to make the background and text anything other than clashing shades of purple and green?

At any rate, the current color scheme has a little something for everyone. I noticed after finishing that it looks very Easter-y. That is very nice for people who like Easter, which constitutes maybe .01% of our prime demographic. For the rest of you, it also has a vaguely ice-cream-parlor look to it, and probably 100% of you like ice cream, discounting Simon whose lifelong disinterest in ice cream has always been a disappointment to family, friends, acquaintances, and any strangers who happen to hear of it. So I guess when I said "a little something for everyone", I meant we were catering to a probably nonexistant following of religious persons and persons who are particularly fond of vanilla ice cream with sprinkles, and have completely excluded Simon, who falls into neither of these categories, even though Simon is one of our most frequent contributors, loyal readers, and pays my salary.

And I'd like to extend a gracious welcome to my successor, Osternet Webling.

the best part of waking up

i'm not a morning person. mornings are the smoggy time for sleeping and watching new jennifer lopez and kelly clarkson videos. things that should not be done before 12:00pm include cooking, showering, replying to emails, getting out of bed and ironing. actually, ironing never needs to be done. if your place of employment has a cockroach problem, ten to one no one cares if your clothes are wrinkled. i broke one of my cardinal rules yesterday when i tried cooking breakfast. i accidentally set the microwave to 30 minutes instead of 3. if bacon can be reduced to a foul black paste in five minutes i wonder what happens if you cook a barbie on the "popcorn" setting? or your roommate's bobble-head collection? i told people at work about my awful morning and they laughed when i said "i burnt my bacon". i can't understand what's so funny. they would not laugh if they smelled it. it smlled like rotting dead people.

the mornings are getting progressively worse and it's only tuesday. i keep setting my alarm too loud because the radio's broken. when it went off at 7:30am it scared me so badly i tripped on the corner of my bed, cut my foot open and fell flat on my face. i screamed so loudly my landlord must think i slaughter small animals for breakfast... which i don't... that would involve cooking things before noon.

sunny and 70 HAHAHAHAHAHA

well, the rain has stopped, the sun is shining and all the chapstick in my car has melted. who knew "new car smell" would mix so well with "skittles banana berry". now that temperatures are back in the 70's i can oficially post my "dude all of you that live in snowy places suck and i win" entry, because dude, lets face it, you guys are lame. sitting with your laptops to keep you warm. just move out here! you know you want to! i won't gloat too much, as we just survived another week of record-setting rainfall where my hair reached a new level of evil frizziness and my pants were again sopping wet. lets recap.

i went out with friends the day before my aunt's wine tasting party. the original plan was to drive out when the night ended. traffic is usually kickass at 3 in the morning. my aunt gave me specific instructions "call before you leave", but it was 3am... calling sounded like a bad idea. believe me when i tell you your aunt is just as paranoid as your mother, and she will lock the doors of her picture perfect house in her picture perfect suburban neighborhood if she doesn't think you're coming and you will have to drive another 40 wretched (but traffic free!) miles back to your apartment in the middle of the night. i made it back the next day for the wine tasting and realized i was the surprise babysitter of the night. i wasn't sold, but with the promise of no life guarding and as much wine as i wanted, i quickly warmed to the idea of a quiet night watching superbabies 2 with a quality reisling. the night would have been fine but for an evil evil evil ten-year-old who quickly taught the four-year-old how to say "fuck you" and then drew all over his face with a felt-tip marker. i found it ironic when sirens went off and he said "wow, sounds like juvenile hall". yes, child, you will know that sound well. second favorite quote "have you ever smoked a brisket?" to which my uncle replied "i've smoked a lot of things, but never a brisket..." realizing i overheard he added "um, please don't repeat that to my son". oh uncle, just wait... my brother is 3,000 miles away and the easiest person to corrupt is dear, dear cousin. i suppose i'll only tell if they stop feeding me gourmet meals.

in other news, it was raining in la, and as we all know, the rain makes traffic ever so horrendus in this pretty city, and as MGDub can attest, i have the worst road rage ever. i scream and bang my head against the wheel and pray to every god imaginable and i still get stuck in eight lanes of bumper to bumper bullshit. but this week i found the answer. cake. CAKE! CAKE! CAKE! no, not short skirt long jacket, but chocolate and buttercream! oh glorious cake! with cake on your side, you are immune to the terrors of the road! that woman driving the brand new hummer, drinking her decaf venti non-fat sugar free vanilla latte with her perfect southern california blond hair WHO WAS TOTALLY TAILGAITING THE WHOLE TIME, had no effect my mental state. The department of water and power truck that went 15mph up the canyon road... no problem. the fact that there was a mudslide on that same canyon road and little Friday had to climb it... just a pleasant adventure. oh cake, you are my special friend.

while traffic went slow, the work week went quickly. alas, i feel the need to comment on the new intern. the intern is a good intern. he dubs tapes well, he makes labels with a special flair, he's generally a good guy. the intern came up with the genius idea of bringing a keg to post. (we work with cockroaches, we deserve a keg, ok) the intern researched places to buy the keg, he's 21, he has money for the deposit BUT HE WON'T BUY THE KEG. he keeps saying, "tomorrow, tomorrow". i am beginning to think he's a fraud. intern- you are off the hook this week because you are drinking heavily in mexico, but next week you had better make good on your promise.

the reason the beer-free workplace is so lame is because i really needed to be intoxicated for the pat metheny concert I attended on friday. dear god. that man a) needs a makeover and b) needs to not play smarmy three hour concerts and proclaim at the end "I would love to tell you we played one song off our new album... BUT THAT WAS THE WHOLE ALBUM!" and the crowd almost peed their pants they were so excited. i seriously contemplated killing myself when my aunt leaned over and said "wow, isn't this the most amazing harmonica player you've ever heard". oh. my. god. so that's the news from lake wobegon, where are the women are strong, the men are good looking and all the poor, poor civilians are stuck in traffic.

A moyste Marche and wyndy

I am blogging now almost entirely because having the computer on my lap keeps me warm. I used to use my laptop as a heat source quite often in England when my radiator didn't so much work and it was blustery beyond belief outside and I only had two blankets because, if you can save a good twelve pounds, why not gamble with death?

We have broken out the space heaters and the blankets and the kettles for boiling water: the hot water heater is malfunctioning. Again. I am very fond of the hot water heater because it never runs out of hot water except for those times when it breaks and takes out not only the hot water but the entire heating system, too. The water from the faucet is about 33 degrees. That scene in The Lion in Winter when Henry has to break the ice on the water to wash his face now has special meaning for me.

Happily, my parents and I spent several hours yesterday at my sister's new house where she was kindly willing to put us to work in exchange for us using her heat and shower. She painted the downstairs bathroom while my dad put up trim, my mother steamed off wallpaper, and I washed the de-papered walls. Here is the thing about the wallpaper steamer: if you hear it before you see it, it is easy to imagine that it is a giant creature with a giant snorkely proboscis* and a cold. In other words, I was quite convinced at first that Snuffleupagus was helping my mother remove wallpaper. Here is the thing about wallpaper glue: it is the devil. Here is the thing about people who paint the walls of their hallway guacamole-green: WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? I think we can agree that while guacamole is a tasty treat, spreading it all over your walls is something to be avoided.

Today I have accomplished: (1) getting up, (2) reading a little, (3) cleaning my room, and (4) appropriating a space heater for my room. If there is any prospect of a shower that will not give me hypothermia, I may go for a run. You might also add (5) blogging, but I think this is really too boring to count. I think it's time for someone to update us on the rain situation in LA. That's all you, Ivan.

*For the information of .M who is the only person who would be interested, that's apparently Latin and Greek, only the Greek is proboskis. The Greeks are cute.

13th Way of Looking at a Blackbird

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
-WALLACE STEVENS-

brotherly love

little brother: hey sis, how's the weather?
sister: the weather is bad. you're obviously watching the news.
little brother: yeah, it was so cool, we saw some woman's pool fall into the neighbor's house.
sister: yeah, real cool. you sure know cool when you see cool. hey wait, aren't you supposed to be in canada right now?
little brother: yeah! we're here. it's awesome!
sister: and you're calling me from your cellphone?
little brother: yeah, i love this phone!
sister: you're calling me... from canada... from your cellphone?
little brother: yup
sister: are you by any chance, roaming?
little brother: hey... yeah.
sister: so you're making an international call... while roaming... while you're in peak hours?
::pause::
little brother: shit. i have to go.
::click::

::ring ring::

sister: hello?
little brother: dude... please don't tell mom.
::click::

something tells me mom will find out about this one...
sidenote: while typing this entry i kept putting bother instead of brother... i wonder what this means

my pants are sopping wet and i am angry

i will never again wish for rain in southern california. now that we have more rain than SEATTLE and houses are literally falling into the ocean i have decided to give up "wishing" for lent. i've posted cute little stories about lost shoes and wading to work but we're past the point of cute.

the post department is not only forced to work on the second floor- a place where all the windows are tinted gray and there are COCKROACHES hidden in the corners, but we have to park across the street in the evil parking lot of death. the said parking lot is about two inches wide and ten feet long and THEY make us cram about fifty-seven cars in there while THEY valet park in the spacious lot below the building. after leaving your car in the Parking Lot of Death, you still have to play frogger while you cross four steady lanes of traffic. not only do we not have health insurance but THEY can't even give us a crosswalk!

i can assure you everyone working here is bitter for a host of reasons, but the parking lot just brings us that much closer to commiting acts only deranged postal workers should have to commit. i wouldn't be so outraged if my pants weren't soaking wet and hair wasn't turning into its natural scary-white-girl afro. the street in front of our building floods on a regular basis and employees of the second floor usually plan ahead. we bring golashes, use plastic bags and learn to jump amazing distances. it's usually an exercise in creativity. USUALLY. but now it's personal. i know there are spots open in the nice underneath garage. two people just left the company and no one has been hired to take their place. i took a special trip upstairs to ask about garage spots and a very DRY executive had the gall to look at my sopping wet clothes and tell me the lot was full. my ass it's full! "you're probably asking because you have hypothermia" she said with a giggle, her DRY little dog nipping at my ankles. "maybe we can get you a spot when we move". when we move! when we move ! that's a month away and the rain is never going to stop! never ever ever ever ever! this is the apocalypse!

::sigh::
dude, be careful what you wish for.

Become an Esteemed Intellect of the Italian Renaissance!

It's easy! This is all you need to do:

1) Be a man. Women who read are shrews and whores.

2) Come from an ancient aristocratic family that has fallen on hard times, so that you can understand the common people, yet treat them all with condescension.

3) Study law until you realize it's really boring, and then give in to your political and literary ambitions. During this time it is best to be a profligate youth. You should try, if possible, to fall in love with a married woman with whom you have no actual interaction whatsoever, so that you may celebrate her perfection in sonnet form, unsullied by, you know, a relationship of any kind. Best to pick someone who will die while still reasonably pretty.

4) Get forced to flee from somewhere. Being banished from Florence is popular, but Rome will do. This is best done by publishing metrical epistles to the Pope in which you state that the Pope's soul "is already in hell while his body on earth is controlled by Satan." Very effective. Also: always pick the losing faction in a struggle for control of the government. Seething bitterness and extraordinary self-righteousness are great motivations for writing.

5) While in exile, come under the influence of a Great Thinker (dead or alive). Give away your fortune and renounce your mistress(es). Burn the sonnets you wrote about that pretty dead lady.

6) You now have four options:
(A) Catch the plague and die.
(B) Become a monk and die shortly thereafter, before you have really done much; if you choose this, be sure to show sufficient early promise.
(C) Become a monk but continue to father illegtimate children.
(D) Retire to your villa and write a very long history of something. Really anything, as long as it is based on Herotodus or Livy. Then die.

Optional embellishments include nagging a city until its citizens offer you a crown of laurels for being Best Poet Since Dante, writing autobiographical pieces in which you make no mention of any of your vices (i.e. having those bastard children after joining the ranks of the Holy Church), going grey at a very, very early age, and writing poetry that later historians will say is an "epic bore".

Please understand that your name will live on mainly through being printed in bold letters in ninth-grade textbooks and you will basically be known for your one hit single, which will be acknowledged only with demeaning qualifiers. For example: "He won a Lifetime Achievement Award in the category of Works For Italian Theater Written Between 1250 and 1550 By Tall, Handsome-Though-Prematurely-Grey Men From Middle-Class Families With Pretend Lovers Who Were Once Profligate Youths In Law School And At One Time Also Had A Small Dog Named Franco."

You should also realize that position of Best Poet Ever will be taken by Shakespeare and held indefinitely, so there's really no need to try that hard. In short, this is a no-pressure kind of club and you should feel free to be as misogenystic, egotistical, and morally dubious as you please. Don't pull a muscle wrestling against vanity or the sins of the flesh; your reputation will largely be carried by Da Vinci anyway.

frustrant

things that currently anger me:
i live in southern california.
i live in southern california and for some reason the heat is constantly running in my apartment.
i live in southern california and i can walk outside in a t-shirt WHY THE HELL IS THE HEAT ON IN MY APARTMENT.
i live in southern california and i get called a "fucking bitch" for turning the heat off in the apartment. who DOES that?
my absolute inability to parallel park.
my absolute inability to meanuever my car in the "reverse" position. i was at a gas station and everything was full except one pump but it was the cheapest gas i could find so i went to the free pump even though i had to BACK into the spot. it took like four tries for my brain to process which direction i needed to turn the wheel. you could see fear in the other drivers eyes as i pulled forward and had to try AGAIN. what's wrong with me?
the fact that my tofu never cooks right. should it be this mushy on the inside? do i need to charbroil it or something? i'm almost positive flame-cooked tofu is the answer. hand me my blowtorch.
i cannot find a post office where i can mail my valentine's day presents. saturday: post office closed due to a power outage. sunday: all post offices closed. monday: post offices close at 5:00, who knew? tuesday: post office i was going to vist on monday was actually demolished a week ago. this is getting out of hand.
a spider drowned in my shower. this should have served as a warning to the EARWIG that camped out all night behind my shampoo bottle (doesn't anyone read this blog?). i even checked for this vile beast before i got in. i am not a cold-blooded killer but if you are going to sit like a COWARD behind a tube of brilliant brunett you deserve to die. darwin approves.
i put my license plates on all by myself. i put the front one on and realized, wow, i'm missing the back one. where could it be? oh wait, yes, i think i screwed them both onto the front. so much for saving time by doing it right the first time.
my mother is a lunatic. i hope she finds happiness before she ruins all our lives.
chocolate is good. it's so good i stopped at vons to buy a bag on my way home. it's so good i had to eat half the bag in the car. whoops.
i ran 189 stairs 5 times to counteract the half bag of chocolate i ate and now i can't walk. i look absolutely deranged whenever i try to go down the stairs because my calves sieze up and i feel compelled to roll the rest of the way. such issues...

Dream

Last night was the first night in a long time that I haven't woken up at least three times for whatever reason (it seems usually to have something to do with trying to save myself from being smothered by or getting hyperthermia from my monstrously huge comforter). So finally I get some real sleep, and this is what my REM cycle brings me:

The library is a department store. I still work behind the desk in the reserve room. It is going on as usual. Then this kid turns in a book and I go put it away. Then Rebecca comes in and tells me I am doing something wrong, and I realize, oh no, I have shelved that 600-page biography with the Gummi Worms! So I have to slip out of the reserve room without Rebecca noticing and run to get the book from the library's candy section. On the way I pass clothes racks, linens, and parents with strollers containing very cute children. When I reach the book, there's a kid there who wanted to eat it but his father explains to him that it is there by mistake. It is not a Gummi Book.

Then, as I'm walking back to the reserve room, I realize the place is crawling with FBI agents who are dressed like a SWAT team (yes, I realize that's like saying ATM machine) but are carrying Storm Trooper guns. They all kind of point their guns at me as I pass and I see that they are in fact toys with little flashing lights where the laser should shoot out.

When I get back to the desk, I discover that Dana Scully has dropped in. I guess something weird was going on and she was trying to help, but then she told us we should restrain her because she was about to lose her mind or something. (It is this kind of foresight and common sense that might have made certain X-Files episodes more believable.) I am suddenly inside the reserve room with her and various co-workers when an alien craft lands outside the desk and, while we are distracted with Scully, nabs one of our reserve desk patrons.

At that point I started laughing in the dream and then I woke up.

Gaudiam et utilis indeed.

In the words of plasticann, the following is a reconstructed conversation between me and my Latin professor, whose anonymity we shall preserve by calling him Ernie:

Me: Hey, Mr. Ernie, do you happen to by any chance possibly still have Life of Brian out of the library?
Ernie: Yeah.
Me: What, seriously? For three months? Five months? Since October?

Ernie looks taken aback.

Ernie: I really don't go to the library. I have research assistants.
Me: Well they failed you.
Ernie: Well, it was probably me. You could have seen it at the Bardovan, they were showing it.
Me: I don't have a car.
Ernie: You have feet.
Me: To the Bardovan? People get mugged on the path to the THs!

Brief pause.

Ernie: Do not fear the world.



It turns out that by returning Ernie's movie for him, I have saved him the indignity of getting the price of the movie removed from his paycheck. For Life of Brian. I mean, how embarrassing. I should get an A for this.

"beverly glen" or "how to maximize your mileage"

i've always had a terrible sense of direction. i panic as soon as i think i'm lost and i'm almost always lost so i spend a lot of car time sweating and shaking and going over landmarks in my head. being lost in small town upstate new york is not a big deal... being lost in boston is a bigger deal. as soon as i got to boston and realized the entire infrastructure was based on bovine feeding patterns i almost cried. what kind of city paves cow paths?! i spent the whole summer getting to places hours after my estimated time of arrival, dangerously close to a mental breakdown, muttering to friends that i would be camped out in their apartment until the train opened in the morning.

things changed a little when i moved to los angeles. the rental car was a challenge, but we crossed that bridge and i found i had a pretty decent sense of north, south, east west. too far west, you're in the ocean... too far east... you're in one of those other states, too far south, mexico, north... the valley. not too hard. of course with my new apartment there is no good way to get to work. either i have to take the hellishly congested excuse for a freeway called the 405 or else take a curvy, scary canyon road all the way up to the top, pray that i don't launch myself off a cliff, and somehow manage not to hit anyone when i get to the parking lot. that's a lot of pressure before 9:30 in the morning. this is the reason i usually brave the 405 and inch along some road in the valley until i reach the parking lot of death.

the other night i was fed up with the stupid freeway and decided to take a road called "beverly glen". sounds nice and sweet, like fern gully or something, right? this road cuts all the way down to my apartment. it's practically door to door service if you survive. i twisted and i turned and i made it down the canyon and i was so proud of myself! yeah! no death! of course the party stopped when i reached the intersection of sunset and beverly glen. now, all the signs say "beverly glen right lane" but what they really mean is "beverly glen, right lane, then please haul your ass across four lanes to get into the left lane so you can make the actual turn: we sincerely hope you got that from the sign". i always miss this turn... always. it's a mental road block. so, as usual, i found myself in a boston-like situation where i didn't really know where i was or where i was going or how to get back to a road that actually led to my apartment. my first instinct was to return to beverly glen. i was like a homing pigeon without an actual sense of direction.

i took a road called hilgard (sounds like a not-so-fierce viking warrior, this should have been my first clue that i was making a mistake) hilgard took me to rochester street which i knew crossed beverly somewhere so i took it, but it curved and i was on something else and the i was on national and i crossed wilshire so i knew i was going the wrong way and i took veteran to get back and then all of a sudden, i was back on sunset! what?! how?! who?! i have no idea how the hell i got where i was going. eventually i got back to beverly glen and made it home. this was two hours later. i was shaking and sweating. i have vowed never to drive again. who wants to let me crash at their apartment until the train opens up?