I had an unsettling thought today. I'll admit it was born of my lame habit of considering fictional characters' lives as though they were real, but no matter. This is serious.

So, think about it. A guy like Angel, from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (shhh, fans, I know he has his own series)... no last name, like Madonna, Cher, Sappho. Sure, it's all fine and well for women. But what if some one-named guy meets a nice girl, finally understands what his dad meant by tradition and responsibility, and wants to settle down? What if this girl cherishes custom? What if she's been waiting all her life for a white wedding, a white picket fence, and her husband's name? What then??

Does she just drop her last name too? There is nothing to unify them. And what of the children?

Did you ever think about that, Fabio? DID YOU?

(I seriously doubt it.)

This week, Ranjit is tucked away in a mountainy vacation home with his family, the dog, and his teensy baby nephew. I will kidnap the dog, the baby, and the mountain, thank you. Anyway, I know I said I'd stop being so poemish, but I wrote this for him, for Christmas, and it's so cute I could scream. And so should you.

The air, she is snowing,
with snowblowers blowing
the air and the snow all about.

The babies are giggling.
The puppies are wiggling
and nudging the babies with snout.

The presents are holding
their breath and they're folding
their paws as they wait to come out.

And you, in your cabin?
I hope that you're having
the merriest Christmas around.

A couple years ago, Todd and I made a fan page for our boss, because we truly loved him and wanted to humiliate him. I think this did the trick!

If memory serves, poems 1,2,4, and 6 were mine. The brilliant Perl and Godzilla haiku were the handiwork of Mr. Kennedy.

Oh, and all the pictures were mine. You may all admire my mad skillz.

I apologize for my excessive rhymestrousness these past couple days. I blame the television. It's a reasonable response to the constant bombardment of horrific Cat-Hatting images -- I could withdraw, or turn to violence, but I see commercials for Linda Richman's coffee-talk affront to children's literature, and I can't think to do anything but reclaim verse for the triumph of good over evil.

I haven't completely ruled out violence, though. Seriously. Are none of my childhood memories sacred? I tell you right now, if they ever lay a big-budget HAND on "The Great Space Coaster," there is going to be hell to pay.

Pretty unlikely.

Another poem, for Lauren, who had a bad day.

Do you ever get an insult unwarranted?
On the train today, my good friend Lauren did.
She met a bad egg who said something uncalled for!
(She won't tell me what, but it truly appalled her.)

His heart is in need of a checkup!
Society has gone to the pups,
And his foul mouth has rabies,
(someone think of the BABIES!)
Oh, that rotten man had better shape up!!

or I'll find him and give him a knuckle sandwich.

The baby jesus is wont to cry,
And more to the point, so am I.
The fraudulent rats use my credit card number --
Those bastard web pirates, they rape and they plunder!
They buy their web porn with my scant "hard-earned" dollars,
Those thieving no-goodniks in S&M collars!
I'll have them for breakfast! Their guts will be garters!
I won't let them wheedle, nor beg, bribe or barter!

The baby jesus and I are laden with scorn
For those unholy, low scoundrels who robbed me for porn!

This poor little fairy took a wolf's advice on a shortcut to Kirk and Mo's party and ended up lost in the forest!

"Ryan, why do I think I'm hilarious and you think I'm STUPID??"

"You wouldn't understand."

Best... person... EVER.

This is my sweet giraffe friend, who lives at the Yankee Candle Company, hanging agreeably from a plastic tree branch. I think I'll call him Waxwell.

So, I was in Amherst this past weekend (from Saturday through Monday) to see Dan and Ryan. Something about that town makes me feel all at-homey, even though I suppose it should be tainted to me. But it's not. It is simply the home of the crunchiest leaves and the best pizza and the sweetest air and the closest proximity to a CREEPY CREEPY CANDLE FACTORY. (Or should I say OLFACTORY?! And it has ANIMATRONIC THINGS. Not naming any names... YANKEE.)

And I love Amherst dearly, but it pales against my love for my friends. Ryan and Dan are two of the finest people a body could hope to know. They are so warm and familiar, and I have fun with them no matter what we do. I like to sit around debating pointlessly, and I like to sit around debating pointfully, and I like to just sit around, with those boys. And even CREEPY CREEPY CANDLE FACTORIES are fun with them.

Okay, I'll be honest. The candle things were creepy, but also oddly charming. Though my sense of smell is damaged permanently.

The Continuing Trial of The World vs. The End of the World

Your Honor, with the court's permission, at this time the defense would like to introduce the following into evidence:

On Friday in Brooklyn, Ranjit and I walked over to the Park Slope Halloween Parade. We passed a small band of costumed youngsters and overheard among them a disenchanted little witch (Or ballerina. Or tin can. I didn't get a close look.). "This is stupid. Are we just gonna, like, ring every doorbell and ask for candy? Someone's just going to come out with a knife or something. Lame."

Oh, woe. I believe you will agree when I say it suggests this girl has never been trick-or-treating. My midwestern upbringing yowls, like an October banshee, in protest.

Hiatus? It's such an ugly word. Let's not say things we can't take back.

Anyway, I'm back with a completely spanky-new interweb site, and I'll be much better about writing from now on. Honest. Look around, preferably with anything but Windows IE, and tell me what you think. But only if it's nice. I HAVE NO TIME FOR YOUR CRUEL BARBS.

This is dedicated to Jess, who will laugh at me.

Anyone who's been in my house (or read my journal) knows I'm a filthy, filthy slob. I don't really understand the value of the clothes hanger, and I think bookshelves are very pretty but so far away.

I also have a particular quirk of buying things and leaving them in the bag. Say it's a new shirt --it's not like I'm going to hang it up, and why throw it on the pile? So it stays safe in its bag until I'm ready for it.

Now combine that with an unholy mess, and occasionally, the new things go missing in action. "Woe is me," I think, if I actually manage to remember I *had* a new thing at all. Which I usually don't.

And that, my tragical memory, is what makes my bad habits such a blessing. I've been rotten poor this month, with a hunger for shopping and no way to feed it. This morning, while collecting laundry from the piles of clothes and empty bags that have collected in the two months since I last threw some out, I picked up a shopping bag that was not empty. "Hello," I said. "What's this?"

A new shirt, tags still on, and a lovely one at that. Like shopping on my own bedroom floor. My filth and forgetfulness got together behind my back and went in on a perfect birthday present. Thanks, guys.

This morning, Bud showed me a website mocking baby-naming message boards. I read it with growing horror, trying to steel my soul against the truth of our world: We are on the dawn of a new era, led by more Ansleighs, Karsyns, and Makynzis than you could hope to shake a stick at. Or should hope. Don't shake sticks, just run for your lives.

I read it all, heart breaking, and was finally moved to make art.

A haiku:

Poor Sharmonica,
your mother is the devil.
Kill her in her sleep.

Me to Ryan, in 7-11:

"My last chance just blew away in the wind, and I want this cherry pie now."

At my wise and wizened age, I can already tell you that life will be a limping, constant country song of heartbreaker, heartbroken, heartbreaker, heartbroken, heart failure. If it were my birthday, I'd blow out my candles and wish for inner peace. As it is, I'll simply take some Advil and get on with my day.

It's really hot out.

On the subject of first kisses:

Brooke: It was summer camp and his name was Marlin. Marlin. With an 'i', like the fish, not like Brando. His middle name was Popeye. His last name... McFate. McFate. The kiss sucked.

Ryan: (hysterical laughter) But you had to kiss him. It was your McDestiny. It was written in the McStars!

Priscilla: Ryan, breathe.

Ryan: It was (more hysterical laughter)... MCPROPHESIED!!!!

Priscilla: What happened?

Brooke: I was 13, and he was, like, 6'2". I'd never kissed a boy before and he was ostensibly a pro. I was (neck motions to indicate great straining upwards) trying to reach his head, and he grabbed me and (forcibly twisting own face to one side) said "You have to tilt your head." And then it sucked.

Ryan: "This really hurts, 'cause you're like 7,000 feet taller than me. But I have to kiss you. Because it's my... MCFATE!!!! (more hysterics)"

Priscilla: Ryan?

Brooke: And the worst part was, he tasted like dirt.

Ryan: Was he eating cilantro?*

Brooke: Oh my god, YES. You have cleared up an ancient mystery. Marlin Popeye McFate was an avatar of cilatro.

So there you have it, the story of my first kiss.

 

* It is a well-known fact within my circle of friends that I hate cilantro with the white hot passion of a thousand burning suns. It is horrible and tastes of dirt. Ryan disagrees passionately.

Side note: in trying to figure out how to include this piece of information without disturbing the flow of the narrative, Ryan and I considered many options. When I mentioned the use of an asterisk, Ryan informed me that it was, and I quote, "The best idea [I've] had. (pause) Ever." Great.

Addendum, 8/31/04: In defense of Marlin, he was also 13 at the time. I'm sure I was also dreadful. I've no doubt that he's grown up into a marvelous adult person with perfectly lovely dating skills. Frankly, I wouldn't know, since I haven't seen him in 15 years. Thank you for asking, and good day.

So, I'm in the shower and I get to thinking about fear dot com, as you do.

(Spoiler ahead, if you're an idiot and you actually care)

The movie suggests that feardotcom.com is a site run by a psychotic woman-mutilating murderer who tortures his victims until they beg to die. We see him talking to his web audience, and we know that the murders are all web-cammy. The "twist" is that "the fear site" our hero visits is not the self-same — it's run by the ghost of his first victim.

Ahh. You can't make that stuff up. Anyway.

Either way — serial killer or vengeful wraith — I have this image of them tapping furiously at register.com. "what do you mean fear.com is taken? Oh, man."

"Okay, fear.org. Damnit."

"Fear.net."

".biz."

".tv?! No fucking way. Fear.tv is NOT taken! Jesus, I'm gonnna kill EVERYONE! FINE. I'll take feardotcom.com or is THAT taken too? Yeah, I didn't think so. Fuck you, internet."

Clearly, they should have included that scene. The movie would have been so much better.

What can I say? Unemployment breeds indolence. I am often disinclined to put on pants and behave like a grownup. But I figured it was about time I got around to wishing everyone a happy new year. I'm not lazy.

This economy makes me really quite crankers, but aside from all this onerous free time, I couldn't be happier.

I had a delightful New Year's Eve in the lodgelike comfort of Kirk and Mo's house, and chased it with a weekend at the cabin with my people, which was completely super. Limerick, Maine, at this time of year, is a winter wilderness wonderland. Truly, I haven't seen such snow in years.

The trip began with one minor misfortune after another, including water leaks, uncertain heating systems, unplowed roads, hungry bellies, and sundry calamities. Eventually, we were all snug as fed bugs in the heated cabin, with a roaring fire courtesy of my eminently capable boyfriend. It's funny the things you learn about people in atypical situations. It turns out that Brad is something of a perpetual boy scout superhero. Seems like anytime I observed a problem, Brad had already noticed and was halfway to solving it. Amazing.

We all sat by the fire, roasted a chicken, became saturated with the musty smell of a summer cabin locked up for the winter, played numerous games (with varied results), and no one fell in the lake. All in all, I'd say it was a great weekend.

And now we're back, and I'm still high from the fun. So, yeah, I don't have a job, and the money's running out fast. But at least I have great friends. And if I lose my apartment, my boy scout can probably build me some sort of emergency dwelling in the woods.