I think I've been asleep for the better part of a year, and I'm just now waking up.

I didn't want to leave Boston. Life wasn't always good there, but it was almost always easy. There wasn't a lot of thought involved: I knew where to go on Saturday nights, and where to shop, and who to see, and everything else. I knew every inch of my house with my eyes closed. I knew the numbers for local delivery by heart.

Baltimore isn't easy, or at least it hasn't been for me. The first few months were like suspended animation, wherein suspended animation includes a mind-numbing amount of cable television. The people I met were... not right. The restaurants were not good. There's no Newbury Comics. There's no Newbury Street, for that matter, and nothing like it.

I'm not sure I'll ever stop being homesick, but things are finally falling into place. I've met people now who are totally right. I'm grateful for the reasons they give me to turn off the tv. I'm grateful for my job situation; It's starting to move uphill again. I'm grateful for the strange moments that remind me I'm really alive.

The restaurants still aren't very good, but I've found some favorites. It's important to have favorites.

2004 was a lonely year. I'm glad it's over. I think 2005 will be better. Happy New Year, everyone. I wish we could all be together tonight.

Brooke Tarnoff aime:

• arracher de grands morceaux de papier peint
• songs with a barely audible spoken track. examples: "God" by Tori Amos and "Perfecting Loneliness" by Jets to Brazil
• songs that sound like a sad carnival. examples: "Brighter Day" by Jellyfish, "Animals on Wheels" by Sam Phillips, various songs by Black Heart Procession
• doing dishes in roller skates
• snagging hangnails on satin
• being touched on the collarbone
• friends who know small details, such as how she takes her coffee or her childhood nickname

Brooke Tarnoff n'aime pas:

• avoir les plis des draps imprimés sur la joue le matin
• being hugged by strangers
• the sound of styrofoam touching other styrofoam.
• the feeling of deodorant on fingers
• ridiculous names for dishes at restaurants

On another note, I found more cassette tapes I recorded of friends and myself in college, and have come to the following conclusions: I was very stupid, and in no way did I resemble a profound thinker when I'd too much to drink. In fact, I resembled a moron inebriate. Very, very closely. Good to know.

I also found a video tape of me singing, and I've managed to capture the audio here for you. It was a high school music revue, and our director made me sing a duet from Phantom of the Opera all by myself. Creepy! Please listen if you like, but don't judge me too harshly. I was 15, and even so not nearly as off-pitch as I sound. The tape is almost 14 years old and in sad shape. I offer, as evidence, the crapaoke back-up music, which was once soullessly perfect and now sounds like drunk violins playing through 2 feet of Irish whiskey. The quality is understandably poor, but I thought it was worth it, if only to hear me struggle against my midwestern accent with varied results.

I find the phenomenon called Livejournal.com positively fascinating. Part journal, part community, it breeds an intimacy that I don't think is otherwise possible. There's currently a thing circulating, it goes a little something like this:

1. Reply to this post, because I would like to say a couple words about you.
2. I will also tell you what song(s) remind me of you when I hear it.
3. I will also tell you what celebrity/public person/fictinal character/image you remind me of, either personality-wise or looks-wise.
4. I will also give ONE WORD that I associate with you when I think of you.

The thing I find interesting, which may not be true for anyone else, is how much easier it is to be effusively affectionate when I know I have an audience. I'm not really sure what that says about me. I fear intimacy? I have no idea. All I know is that I'm certain I'm being sincere and certain I'm not grandstanding, but I can write in a public forum things I can't picture saying in person or even in an email. I want everyone to know how incredible I think my friends are, but the thought of telling them face-to-face makes me panic a little. Maybe it's because professing love feels a little creepy, but telling other people about it is just plain sweet.

Friends, know this: I do love you, so much. I'm just shy and prone to getting hot around the ears when I try to tell you.

If you'd like to see some nice things about my friends (and some of the wonderful things they've said to me, too), please do.

It's time I make use of my ridiculously excessive webspace on photogratify.com. Have a little clip of my last night in Boston!

The sound is less than ideal, so let me help you with a transcript:

Brooke - "It's a little song to help you learn about the river*. Well, the stream. Or the... the..."
Jess - "It was our own private Hurricane Isabel."
Brooke - "Also Idaho. Also Jesus. Also... dancer."
Jess - "Also Jeebus."
Brooke - "Jeebus!"
Dan - "Also, I don't want you to leave."
Brooke - "I know. I don't wanna — well, I do, but then I don't. I do and I don't... Oh, my God! That was my tushie!"

* I will never adequately explain this in-joke, but please believe when I say the origin is among the funniest moments of my entire life.

I love Ryan. Love. Love him. Because:

Lupschada: at least it's nice to know I've still got it.
Moraulf: I suspect you will never not have it.
Moraulf: You have mental "it" in addition to physical "it". This makes you invincible. You're like an "it" superhero.
Lupschada: jkshdsgdsjh;fkhjl;gkj';gljk

And a million other reasons. But that one's pretty good for today.

I never claimed to be normal.

A couple years ago, I decided the funniest thing in the world would be if Pippin the hobbit showed up on one's doorstep and indefinitely commandeered the television. He'd be perfectly lovely about it, but he'd never relinquish the set. He couldn't be lured away, and he'd decline every invitation with a lilting "No, I don't think so." I can't explain why I found this funny, but I wasn't the only one. The Dread Ex loved the concept, and when we'd see fit to answer in the negative, it was always "No, I don't think so," in a vague hobbit brogue.

I've always wanted to see an in-joke come to life, so when the Dread Ex got a job in England, I took the opportunity to make magic as a going-away present. Please note: Billy Boyd has never been in my house. I made the D.E. pose for some photos, and the web provided me with a few different angles of the actor's noggin. Photoshop and I married the two, and I'd like to share the webbified results with you, my friends.

Read about Pippin!

I'm having such a day. It begins like so:

The alarm sounds at 7:30. I snooze, I snooze, I snooze, until it is 8 AM and I drag myself from bed and get dressed. I have 15 minutes to get out of the house. I throw on jeans and a shirt that looks suspiciously like Loretta Lynn's pajamas but 4 degrees cooler, I hope, woefully underdressed for work. I begin to feel dizzy, and I sit down on my bed, which is exactly where I am 30 minutes later. Sitting upright, fast asleep. Traffic is kind to me and I am only 10 minutes late for work, but there you go. Happy Tuesday.

As it happens, driving 15 hours from Wisconsin to Maryland is tiring. Who knew?

during layover today, I got a snack which made me feel ill, and I overheard the following:

totally random customer to roy rogers employee: do you love Jesus?

roy rogers employee to totally random customer (pleased): yes

totally random customer to roy rogers employee (blissfully relieved): me too!

then he looked at me and I shook my head solemnly.

THE END

p.s. My hotel room is... the best thing that ever existed. Ever. EVER. There is a kitchen. With free popcorn and cocoa and candy. There's a little sitting area with a couch and some armchairs. There's a HUGE bathroom and dressing room. And ethernet! I've never seen a thing like it, and it's 3 floors away from the rest of my family. It's like a fort, if forts had kitchens with breakfast bars.

In a recent comment to Ro's livejournal post, I claimed to fear: deep water, heights, cars going at least 20 mph over the limit, crawling bugs, pilot light ignition, housing complexes with multiple structures of the same design, singing in front of fewer than 20 people, ghosts, and the restaurant Pu Pu Hot Pot. I'd like to add one, if I may. And it's my website, so I may. Thank you.

I had an MRI on Friday, and it turns out I'm a little claustrophobic. It turns out, in fact, that being locked inside an alien-egg white tube with my arms pinned to my sides for a half hour is among my least favorite activities ever, right up there with eating Pu Pu Hot Pot take-out in the deep end of a pool in a haunted raised-ranch suburban development.

As if my eerie glowing plasticoffin were not disconcerting enough on its own, the MRI is louder than the wrath of Zeus. We can clone sheep and give people perfect vision with laser beams but can't figure out a way to quiet down our magnetic imaging? If Maytag can do it, I believe the medical community has the resources, and they should use them. Because the only thing worse than immobility in the tube of phosphorescent purgatory is immobility while an angry cavalry rides over you and wields chainsaws in the basic vicinity of your HEAD.

The MRI was ordered to figure out the deal with my sore back, which hurts barely at all this week. As Alanis Morrisette would say, incorrectly as usual, how ironic!

Idly watching Lord of the Rings with my mother, who says: "Why is Frito crying? Doesn't he know Gondola's a wizard?"

I am heartbroken. I believe those who voted for Bush will get what's coming to them. Unfortunately, the rest of us will also get what's coming to them. Four more years is nearly unthinkable, but equally bad: I didn't want to admit how vile our country had become. But really. Fool us twice and that's a fucking shame, or whatever the hell our commander-in-thief said. We gave Bush the thumbs-up, knowing the kind of man he is, for all the world to see. I'm so ashamed.

Okay, what the HELL? Watching tv and they're showing yet another fictional makeover that consists of popping in some contacts and letting down the ponyail. Look, she was a hottie after all, under all those glasses and hair elastics.

You know what I want to see? I want to see one goddamn tv show where they sex up the girl by putting glasses ON her.

In college, when I was merely a member of my comedy troupe and not yet the Almighty Ruler And President, I played a Bond girl in a show. I wore a red lycra dress with a rack from here to Havana -- my body was the body of a 19 year old, and I looked plenty fine, let me tell you. The director, Ross B, pulled me aside about an hour before the show. "You look great," he said, "but can you lose the glasses? The character's supposed to be sexy, you know?" It was weird, because in his personal life he gravitated toward the bespectacled. I said, "Not unless you want me to trip and break my nose. That would be considerably less sexy."

So I kept the glasses, obviously, and I got plenty of woo-woos from the audience, which I listen to on tape sometimes when I feel lonely. But I never forgot what Ross said, and I'm still waiting for the Sexy Librarian who gets to keep her glasses on.

Three Incisive Questions by my Clever Co-working Cohort Elizabeth, Three Answers by me!

1. Would you choose to pursue the artist's life if you were guaranteed after death to be lauded in the pantheon of history's most influential artists, but at the price of being misunderstood and unknown in this life?

Well, that's simply an excellent question. Yes, and then no. If I had my druthers, I would choose to pursue the artist's life regardless of renown. I wish it were not so that my motivation is in constant, direct conflict with my priorities. The things my lazy bones place higher than my desire to make art are the following: the ability to eat on a regular basis, the need to live in my own apartment, the luxury of buying shoes, books, and new releases on DVD.

We can all agree on the first, I think -- you, my bones, and my heart. But the thing is, my parents were never insistent upon a normal career. They'd have been happy as clams if I'd gone to a conservatory, or tried to make it as a professional writer. If I told them I needed to live at home and paint 12 foot canvases with my knees and some pudding -- and they happened actually to believe me -- I really think they'd welcome me with open arms and a pot roast. So I'd have to forfeit the independence and the shoes. My lazy bones protest.

However, I'd prefer to take my chances with some small recognition I could live to enjoy than give up the possibility for sure fame in the afterlife. It would be a burdensome legacy for my children and theirs anyway.

2. Do you consider yourself a leader in any aspects of your life? Do you consider yourself a follower in any aspects of your life?

I seem to have a contagious vernacular. Many a time, I've written an odd phrase or used it in conversation, only to hear it again from a different mouth some weeks later. Sometimes I become annoyed and possessive. That's not nice of me. Clearly I would make a bad leader.

I had a friendship in college that meant a great deal to me, and went sour due to a perception of command. She was fairly quiet, and I, as you well know, am loud loud loud. At 18, people didn't know well enough not to pigeonhole us to our faces. Some morons called her my sidekick. It was full of crap and it hurt in my guts -- really, if anyone, she was the smartycakes. I don't remember feeling like a follower, but I knew for certain that I wasn't leading. It came off that way, maybe, but only because I couldn't shut my fat yap. Anyway, it wasn't good for us.

That didn't really answer your question. No, I don't think I'm much of either. If anyone's following anything I do, they should probably stop posthaste. It doesn't seem prudent.

3. Pretend I'm James Lipton: What turns you on? What turns you off?

What makes you think I'm just starting to pretend you're James Lipton now?

I get hyperventilly excited when I hear a new living band that sounds in any way like the Beatles. Heart-quickened moments of the past five years have included my first earsful of The Shins and Olivia Tremor Control.

I also get excited by made-up words. Like hyperventilly. And retardeur.

I am turned all the way off by the reunion of church and state and the rampant regression of the United States' tolerance and intellect.

I was reminded of this story a few days ago. I wrote it in high school! Or maybe the summer after high school. I don't know, I'm old. Enjoy!

the princess and the flea: an allergory

Once upon a time, there was a very beautiful princess named Allergia. She had the fairest of skin, and hair the color of vibrant embers. But, alas, her beauty was hidden to all who knew her, for it had one tragic flaw: her lovely skin, the gentle white of goose down, was covered with sores which rose from her skin and steadfastly refused to heal.

Poor Allergia would stare in the mirror every day, striving to catch a glimpse of the fine nose and high cheekbones under the rough terrain of her blemished skin. And she would weep, knowing that everyone, soon even she, would forget that those lovely features ever existed at all.

And she was right. When Allergia would go for her daily walks (for even though her face was disgusting, Allergia saw no reason to let her body go to hell), children would taunt her, chanting,"Allergia, Allergia! Her face is the color of bad sangria!" While the princess reasoned corrently that the children sang this rhyme because their parents were blubbering drunks, the barbs cut deep. She would try to close her ears to their song as she walked on, hurrying past the wicked revelry of villagers who were once her friends.

O, it was a sad existence, indeed! Every night, Allergia would crawl up fifty mattresses to the top of her bed (contrary to popular opinion, there is no reason for this, aside from excellent back support. We, in this modern era, tend to attribute the multi-mattress theory only to royalty because not many farmers, cobblers, and tailors could afford fifty mattresses for each member of the family), stretch out, and weep 'til she could no more. Exhausted beyond measure, she would fall into a deep sleep (and the deeper the better, because light sleeping often allows for sleep-walking, which was the death of many wealthy people in that day).

Well, one night, Allergia found that she not sleep at all, even lighty enough to half-conciously roll over and fall fifty mattresses to her doom. Allergia was wide awake, and she pressed her face into her nine pillows, still trying to drown out the cruel voices of the village children (but taking care not to her smother herself; she was depressed, but incredibly rich, and quite aware that skin problems tend to clear up much faster than death), when she distinctly felt someone take a firm bite out of her ear. Being as how her ears were really the only parts of her head yet flawless, she was furious.

"Who did that?" she demanded.

A tiny something shrieked right next to her."Oh my!"it said, in an extrememly high voice. "You scared me to death. I thought you were asleep!"

Allergia looked all around but couldn't see anything. "I scared you! You're the one biting people on the ear. And where are you? Show yourself immediately," she said, with all the authority a girl in pajamas could muster.

"Down here," said the voice, and Allergia looked closer at the source of the sound, and saw a small flea cowering on her pillow. "And I certainly wouldn't say I'm biting people. Really, it's only you."

"For god's sake," replied Allergia, exasperated. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

"I thought maybe you'd realize that I only do it because... well, because..."

Allergia slammed her hand down on the bed, and the flea jumped back in alarm. "Because what?"

The flea scuffed his tiny toe on the pillow, and Allergia might have sworn she saw him blush. "Because," he stammered," because I love you."

Allergia gasped."But my skin!" she cried."How could anyone love this face?"

"Perfect," said the flea, "Just like the rest of you. And if it makes you unhappy, I will never, ever bite you again. Just promise me that you'll let me look at your beautiful face while you sleep."

Allergia was charmed, and she promised the flea that she would let him share her bed, provided he would not be fresh, and he assured her that he was simply too small to be fresh enough to matter. And the flea kept his vow, and never bit the princess again.

Well, it was not three days later when Princess Allergia's skin began to clear. And it cleared so rapidly that by one week later, Allergia's skin was once again as soft and white as goose down. She was the most beautiful girl in all the kingdom, perhaps even in the whole world.

She was so grateful to the flea (who had loved her at her worst), and so dismayed by the rest of the kingdom (who had not), that she committed to the most co-dependent relationship in all the land and married the flea, simultaneously shunning everyone else she'd ever known. She and the flea lived in extremely close quarters for ever and ever, and the flea was very happy because his wife was amazingly beautiful. And the princess was well aware that her husband was a flea. And when the kingdom's only allergist returned from his year at sea, he felt very cheated, indeed.

The End

Bean the Besty Prototype ®: what i don't understand is how kerry gets flak from the press for being TOO SMART
Bean the Besty Prototype ®: oh SORRY THAT IS A PROBLEM THERE
Lupschada: he's a nerd. we beat up nerds
Lupschada: my president beat up your honor student

Dobbin-upon-Moo:

They say boys are cads -- well, it's true.
But that's not why they're so bad for you.
In fact, they're so charming their charm is disarming.
I now have one arm 'stead of two.

five whole questions by Mo, five answers by me!

1. What was your favorite toy when you were a child? Do you still have it?

You've seen my pack-rattage in action -- I inherited it from my mom. An acquaintance of hers once said to my mother, rather rudely in my opinion, that keeping her children's things in boxes in the basement indicates trouble letting go of the past. My mother answered, "No, keeping my children in boxes in the basement would be trouble letting go of the past." Go mom.

So I still have Colorful or Lips the Llama, a little two-foot plastic rocking horse with a nauseating pattern of multicolored splotches all over him. He looked like Rainbow Brite vomited all over him, but I loved him. Deep down I knew for sure he was a horse, but I wanted to cover my bases. I wrote a poem about him in June!

2. Do you still hope to move back to Boston, or are you settling into Baltimore?

Well, I was never positive I wanted to go back to Boston. I was always leaning a little more toward New York, though I'll admit to frequent, crippling homesickness. Just the thought of... like... driving through Watertown Square makes it hard to swallow. I miss the Trident on Newbury. I miss Wilson Farm in Lexington. So right this very second, yes, I want to move back to Boston. But generally, I waver between staying here for a while and moving north, and I honestly don't know if north would mean Boston or New York. I like my friends here, I miss my friends there. Like I've said many times before, I'm not really a planner. I go for opportunities as I see them, and I tend to find out what I'm doing when I start doing it.

I know I'll be re-applying to schools this year, cause damn, if I got wait-listed at Emerson, there's got to be at least a chance I could get into a slightly bigger, less competitive program. And I think I'll have to be a little less picky about location this time.

3. If you won a million dollars but you weren't allowed to keep any for yourself, what would you spend it on? How about if you won $100?

That's a good question. I feel like I should say I'd give it all to charity, but that's not true. I'd want to reward the emotional generosity of the people I love. I don't know all that many people with the means to be financially generous, and I think those who are do not wish to be repaid. But I know a great many people who give and give in other ways, and I would like to make a little wish come true for each of them. It shocks me that a million dollars doesn't go all that far in this day and age, but surely I could get ten people each something really cool. And whatever's left over, I'd give to the Massachusetts Coalition Against Sexual Assault and Domestic Violence.

4. What is your favorite childhood memory?

The day I was adopted. It was my 9th birthday, I wore a lavender dress, and my dad got me a corsage. Also, my brother called the judge "Your Royal Heiney." Not to his face, but still.

5. Pick someone that you'd like to reward for being a fabulous friend/family member/role model/rock star. How would you reward them?

My mom is the only person who falls into each of those categories. I couldn't even begin to know how to reward her. Someday, I'll have a baby and move close enough to her that she can come over every day. There you go.

I spent a horrifying amount of money on a good school, read every book I could get my mitts on and climbed the rungs of an intellectually respectable career exactly so I could answer the phone calls of web-tarded elderly Republicans who don't remember their zip codes but still feel obligated to spell words for me like "stone," "fence," and "lane."

I'm smarter than their grandchildren.

Don't listen to THEM. The economy still sucks.

How can we really know each other if all we ever show is the best-of compilation of our quirks? Let's open up a little, you and me. Shake off some of the varnish. Keep it, as the kids say, real.

Here, I'll start.

• My current favorite show is Degrassi on the N. I watch it every weeknight at 10 and 10:30 because deep down I am a twelve year old girl.
• I sing along to Ashlee Simpson when her song plays on the car radio and I know all the words.
• When I was nine, I would approach my sleeping dog, making grim faces and spooky noises two inches away from his nose. I would then "wake him up" and tell him it had all been a nightmare. And comfort him. Issues.
• I was genuinely excited when Cosmo Girl magazine said legwarmers were back in style.
• I was reading Cosmo girl.
• In my defense, I wore legwarmers to a Violent Femmes concert in 1997 before they were cool again. Two goth teenagers squealed over them in suspiciously bubblegum voices. Maybe the resurgence was my fault. You can thank me later.
• I saw the Britney Spears movie in the theater. It was only kind of ironic.
• In my defense, I did not see the Olsen twins' movie.
• I thought about seeing the Olsen twins' movie.
• I didn't really get The Matrix.
• I don't think riding a bike is "like riding a bike."
• I once sat next to a girl on a train, all the way from Boston to Baltimore, and made up every single detail of my "life" to alleviate my boredom. She asked me when my birthday is, so I picked one out of the air. I swear this is true: "Oh, my God!" she said, "That's my birthday too!" It was. She showed me her license. I didn't show her anything to disprove my claim. I didn't have a license. You know, because... I'm completely blind in one eye. Just don't ask me which.

That wasn't so bad! Now it's your turn. Tell me your secrets.

I finally put my money where my mouth has been for the past four years — I donated money to get Bush out of the White House. On Mo's recommendation, my cause of choice was MoveOn PAC. If you haven't already, I think now is a great time to make a contribution. And if you have a blog or even just a mouth, encourage your friends. A whole bunch of $25s makes a whole bunch of noise.

All eight weeks of my new puppy:

She's called Dobbin.

Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home again. That's not strictly true. You can go home whenever you like. I'm just not sure that you should.

Okay, I know, what Wolfe meant is that in deciding to venture back, you will find that you don't fit the way you did. Home, whatever that means to you, could be a shrine to the past, every detail pressed flawlessly in the pages of time, but your experience of it will never be the same. You are too tall or too jaded. You can't sit in your childhood swingset because you spill over the sides and you've developed a sense of mortality. We will never feel the freedom of flying again, uncolored by the knowledge of broken things and bruises.

I went home last month. I flew to Milwaukee and traveled through my childhood chronologically. I'm not insane. Well, I am, but that's not why I did it. My parents' twenty-fifth anniversary passed recently, and my brother and I crafted a true masterpiece as a gift. We made a video documentary with interviews of our family, friends, and each other at various locations of family milestones. It made more sense to move sequentially, and we did, driving Andy's swanky British sportscar through the halcyon days of youth.

It was lovely to be home and more than a little painful, and my childhood homes felt like movie sets, to varying degrees. Memory, the collage of recollection and photographs, wasn't enough to tie me to the space around us. The houses looked the same, the air smelled right — everything was there but the piece of me I thought I left behind. I could remember being there, but I couldn't remember what it felt like, and I was acutely aware of all the ways I didn't really fit there anymore.

In any case, it's a good thing I went. The video was a hit. My mom started crying about 30 seconds in, and my dad made noises that were supposed to sound like allergies, but we all knew better. They think my brother and I are the best children ever. Anyway, Thomas Wolfe also said "Look homeward, Angel," so it's not like he knows what he's talking about.

Scott came to visit me eleventy thousand years ago, and we had a grand time. Something about his camera was amiss (or just missing; I can't recall) so we shared mine. The film lingered in my camera all this time, and I finally got around to getting it developed. I like this one best:

In other news, I added a few new pictures to photogratify. You can see them if you like!

Last year, I invented a superhero/villain named Dr. Susan, a podiatrist who saves children or menaces society (depending on which version of my legend you hear), and I wrote a song about her:

you wake up again in the middle of the night
you reach for the switch, desperate for light
because the darkness tastes like fear
her voice is swirling 'round your ears
she's waiting on the other side.
you won't close your eyes again tonight.

I know every nightmare's like the last one
you see her coming and you try to run
those flailing arms outstretched
you're sure they're going to catch you
and you're done.
Maybe she'll catch us one by one.

here she comes — it's doctor susan
she's fast as a crane that's 9 feet tall
she's coming for you — you must be losing your mind
what will she do when she finds you?
9 feet's a long way to fall!
she's doctor susan!

but oops! you fall asleep and you dream of her again
she's going for your feet now with a clipboard and a pen
you're frozen in your fear
and all you seem to hear
is that voice running circles round your head
her name is everywhere and then

you wake up again in the middle of the night
you reach for the switch, desperate for light
because the darkness tastes like fear
her voice is swirling 'round your ears
but sleep tight.
She won't won't find you here tonight.

oh, but here she comes -- it's doctor susan
she's fast as a crane that's 9 feet tall
she's coming for you -- you must be losing your mind
what will she do when she finds you?
9 feet's a long way to fall!
she's doctor susan!

Oh, am I tired. Tired like a fattened, erstwhile Olympian. Tired like the poor eagle sent to feast on Prometheus every damn day. Tired like a king of Corinth with a redundant boulder. Tired like something else Greek and exhausting.

Anyway. I have nothing new to tell you, but I did manage to update the other sections of the website. You know, the ones you consistently ignore: the dramatic comedy, the open window, the shipwreck, and island of perpetual bliss. The updates range from barely noticeable to big-big, so do me a favor and check them out, lest I get to feeling a bit more Sisyphean.

Happy birthday to me
I live in a tree
I look like a monkey
Or a nice chimpanzee!

I am 28!

Three Questions by my marvelously peculiar coworker Jay, Three Answers by Me

1. How would you define the word "meaning"?

meaning (mEn´·ing)
v.
To practice malice, spite: The school bully was meaning upon a classmate, until the classmate suddenly grew superpowers and ate the bully's face.

2. What's your favorite sauce, what public monument would you most like to pour it on, and why?

When we moved to Rhode Island in 1987, my family suffered a collective malaise born of the incomprehensible native accent and puzzling, xenophobic disposition. We were friendly strangers in a rude, strange land. One night, we were moping around the house, and my dad (our knight in shining flannel) abruptly ordered us up and dressed. We tidied ourselves pleasantly, in a suburban way, and went to dine at a little place my dad had half-noticed in Newport. Well. We knew we were in trouble when the maitre-d' tactfully offered my brother a tie and jacket.

My dad being the generous sport that he is, we stayed, and I don't know if the meal was so good because it was good, or because it was a ludicrous, decadent treat for no good reason. There I was, in a red cotton skirt, a blue and white striped sweater, like a tacky little flag, eating filet mignon that cost more than anything an eleven-year-old should ever eat.

And it had this sauce. I don't even remember what it was, maybe a red wine sauce of some kind, but I know it was delicious. So delicious that for years after, I would sigh rapturously and murmur, "That sauce!" and they'd all know just which sauce I meant.

So that's the sauce. And I think I'd pour it on the Arc de Triomphe. The Arc de Triomphe is already quite nice, and what isn't better with a red wine sauce?

3. Have you ever imagined me wearing a flamingo suit... if not, why not?

Well, no, but I have pictured you dressed as Dr. Teeth of the Electric Mayhem. So when the Muppets sing "Can You Picture That?" — the answer is yes. Yes, I can. I hope the flamingo within you can forgive me.

I'm getting old. I know, you think I look so young. You think I haven't changed. Look closer. I'm not dancing at the party with a lampshade on my head; I'm in the room below now, cracking the ceiling with a broom handle. My head is going quickly silver. My joints creak.

I went to a concert with Elizabeth the other day, to see Ben Folds, Rufus Wainright, and Guster. (Let me use this quick aside to ask what divine providence granted me a tour with three previously unrelated acts I've loved for years. It's not unlike the day Aimee Mann and Michael Penn joined forces matrimonially — what did I do to deserve that?) There were some people my age, some people older, but the bulk of the crowd was young and whippersnappy. They wore short pants and caps and bounced around with boundless, teenaged energy like foul-mouthed puppies on cell phones.

The concert was amazing. Ben Folds had me on my feet, flailing and making devilhorns, obediently screaming profanities at his command. There's still the glimmer of crazy youth in my heart, doggedly shining on. And yet, I won't pretend I wasn't glad for the relative calm of Rufus and Guster — sitting in a pleasant breeze, resting my old bones.

I interrupted my own zen periodically to glare at the youngsters, who chattered in oblivious conversational tones through the slow, sweet songs. If they'd kicked red playground balls into my yard, I'd have kept them — kept them all — letting them pile up in my locked toolshed, collecting dust and losing their bounce. Who even knew the kids were listening to this music? Ben Folds Five put out their first cd when I was 19 and Guster played at Brandeis all the damn time, when they were fresh out of Tufts. This music belongs to me and mine.

It's hard to believe that it's been so long since I was their age, sneaking into my brother's room and stealing his Pixies records. "Doolittle" came out a good 4 years before I got my hot little paws on it, and now they are me, coming in late to the game and taking it over with their shrill pubescence. I should look upon them fondly, knowing all too well the journey they are just beginning. I should think of the teenagers kindly, remembering the terrified posturing, the desperate independence they are drowning in. But no, I'm going to be the old lady who gives out bad Halloween candy.

Please don't think me unkind. My schadenfreude comes with my advanced age, like cellulite and afternoon naps. I didn't mean to find this funny, I swear I didn't — in the middle of Ben Folds' set, two girls came stomping down the aisle next to my seat. One was atop the other's shoulders, a giggling totem pole, obstructing views with wild abandon. They were dressed identically in tube tops and those unfortunate drawstring abercrombitrocity miniskirts. The one on top looked okay, but the one on the bottom was about 4 Olsen twins across — in other words, not fat, but no little wisp of a thing. As Elizabeth put it, "just because you're 15 doesn't mean you have to dress like that."

And I muttered "trip, trip, trip" to myself, craning my neck to see the stage, naturally never believing my mantra could work. But work it did. Their collective legs stumbled over the step right next to me and they faltered, listing to and fro. In her panic, the girl on top kicked out for balance, taking much of the bottom girl's tube top and most of the skirt with her. They didn't fall, and the crowd laughed, and in retrospect I wish I'd felt bad for them. But I didn't. I laughed, thought "serves you right, jackanapes," adjusted my dentures, and settled in to enjoy my unobstructed view.

Saturday was Ranjit's birthday, and I spent the weekend in Brooklyn, singing creative new birthday songs (happy birthday to you, you brunched with a Jew, etc. etc.) The weather was perfect and the animals at the Bronx Zoo were very happy to see us. Especially the tiger who came up to the glass, turned tail, and sprayed. That was a special treat.

On Sunday we broke out the new silk screen and made t-shirts featuring French Surrealist visual puns, because we are huge, huge dorks. I am wearing mine today, and every time I have to explain it, I feel like a bigger loser. Here it is:

You have to admit, as French Surrealist visual puns go, it's pretty funny. We collaborated on Ceci-n'est-passing, but the peep idea was all Ranjit's. But the design was mine! The font was lifted right from the Magritte painting!

That's not making me look any cooler, is it?

Anyway, we were very crafty -- you can also see pictures of the quilt I made for his present at the Dramatic Comedy. It was a good, arty weekend, and I am itchy for the next big project. Luckily, I'm flying to Milwaukee tomorrow to start one. What could I possibly be doing in Milwaukee, you ask. I CAN'T TELL YOU.

Three Questions by Karen, Three Answers by Me

1.How do you stop hiccups?

Frankly, I don't. I only get hiccups when I'm laughing too hard, and I find they lend a special something extra to the mirth. You might find my position unusual, but consider Charles Osborne of Anthon, Iowa for a moment. He hiccupped nonstop for 68 years. According to the Guinness World Records, "During the first few decades, he hiccupped up to 40 times a minute, slowing to 20 a minute in later years. He finally stopped in 1990... and died the following year." He stopped hiccupping and he died. I want to LIVE!

On a related note, people who spell the aforementioned word "hiccoughs" are sick, sick little monkeys... not to put too fine a point on it.

2.You wake up in a dark room that has no apparent doors or windows. You don't know how you got there, and there's no way out. In three words, how do you feel?

Frozen. Mute. Horrified-that-you-even-planted-this-scenario-in-my-head-you-devil.

3.If you could wrestle anyone, who would it be? And what medium would you wrestle in? (jello, mud, pudding, etc.)

Do you remember Glomer from the erstwhile cartoon disaster that was Punky Brewster? Man, I hate that thing. I want to kick every inch of his ass. And forget medium, I will end him anywhere, anytime. But I guess a little pudding wouldn't hurt. You know, for if I get hungry after.

When I was very young, I had a rocking horse named "Colorful, or Lips the Llama". Not one or the other, always both. It was understood (by me) that Colorful was his horse name, and though he clearly was a horse, I was unwilling to conform and commit. I wanted to cover all the bases.

I have written him an ode. Here it is:

Colorful or Lips the Llama:
rockingthing when I was small.
Plastic hollow, smelled of Barbie,
Pastel splattered, 2 feet tall.

Llamaful or genus dama,
equine, bovine, ursinal —
I never asked him what he was;
It seemed to me too personal.

A morbid Thursday poem:

I fear that I once knew a girl
Whose habits would make your toes curl
Young Countess Bathory
Would get herself lathery
In the blood of her handmaiden Pearl

See that? Educational and rhymey.

It's my brother's birthday today. The big 3-0, which means I'm not far behind. We're all getting old and creaky.

Give Andy a little gift of your own, and visit his site. Learn about Milwaukee. Click on some ads or something.

I will preface by saying: I do not have gonorrhea of the throat, or of the anywhere else.

And yet! My new StatCounter web tracker teaches me all sorts of wonderful things, like what search terms are being used to get here. And it turns out that, thanks to a minor misspelling, not one but TWO totally different people from different parts of the world got to Lupschada.com by searching the term "gonnorhea of the throat."

Go ahead. Google it. I am third on the list. THIRD.

It sounds worse than it is, I swear. I need to learn how to spell, or maybe be a bit less colorful with my anecdotes. But I'm very proud. I am the blog of choice for people who have throat ouchies and suspect their antics have caught up with them.

I'd like to thank my producer, the endlessly talented cast, and most of all God, without whom none of this would be possible.

Addendum: I will clarify in response to some confusion. My web stats tell me what part of the country you're in, not, like, your home address. I'll have to wait for better technology for that. Ha! Kidding!

Or am I?!

Three Pertinent and Impertinent Questions by Scott, Three Long, Long Answers by Me

1. Do you like road trips? Assuming you do, where would your road trip be to and through and what and who would you include in this?

I do, I love road trips. We are a family of road-trip takers — like many Midwesterners, we think nothing of a long drive. It's par for the course if you want to get anywhere.

One of my fondest memories from childhood involves a family road trip. I was eleven — we'd just moved to New England, and it was our first trip back. We had a huge maxi-van that year. We called him Tank. He had carpeting. And curtains. There were fold-down seats in the back, bigger than my bed at home. We drove twenty-one hours straight through, and I remember the sounds of my brother breathing, able to sleep through anything, and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" through headphones. It's a melancholy memory, though I couldn't say why.

What does it say about me that most of my favorite memories are melancholy?

Where would my roadtrip go? Who cares? As long as it involves a Hostess Cherry Pie (A. delicious tradition, B. calories don't exist on the road) and good music, I'm all set. And who? As long as you don't turn on crap music, you don't give a damn if I get lost, and don't mock my Hostess, you're all welcome. Bring sunglasses. And go to the bathroom before we leave, please.

2.According to lore, most girls apparently plan their wedding when they are, like, 10. Many of these weddings include unicorns. Did you plan your wedding already, what are these plans, and how have they changed between when you first starting thinking about it and now?

This is a tricky question. I can say right off that none of my plans have ever involved unicorns (unless you count that one Vegas heist, and I don't). But okay. I don't think I had any plans for my wedding when I was ten, except that I was damn well sure I wanted one.

Now, hmm. What you may not know, in asking this question, is that The Question has been posed to me, and there was a brief window wherein I'd not yet figured out that it was not The Path for me. So, yes, I have purchased a bridal magazine, and made some rudimentary plans, but I think it falls into a separate realm from unicorns and pink fluffy dresses and what have you, in this case. And the truth is, I never got very far. I want to wear a dress. It will be somewhere in the white family. And, like, there will be a groom.

I was leery of this question, because I think I have a couple exes who will think I am referring to them. Let's put it this way: if you know I think you're an idiot, it's not you.

3. If someone were going to write a book for you, who would you want to write it and what would you want it to be about? Would you want a movie adaptation made and, if so, who would you want to direct it?

Again, funny you should ask. My best friend from School for the Arts, Dana, actually did write a book for me. About me. But that's seriously another story. Seriously.

I don't know if this question implies the book would be about me, but that's how I read it. And that's my choice, narcissistic as it is. I'd like someone gifted to find a common thread in my life, give me a theme or a purpose. Make me a more sympathetic character. Clean up my language. Edit out some of the stupider choices.

As for who, I don't know. Dana was great, and you are too, but you're both biased. Some graceful stranger with a deep, forgiving fondness for girls like me.

God, that was long.

From Sir Lillian: "Now, what are the *real* answers to your questions?"

1. "If we were made of cellophane, we'd all get stinking drunk much faster."

2. Episcopalian overnight camp — Pascoag, Rhode Island, 1990. Yes, I said Episcopalian.

3. Lookit.

Three Answers by Sir Lillian, knight of the Disproportionately Ugly Table, Three Questions by Me

1. Mass psychosis was the diagnosis, so we all cashed our checks and went wild.

If the Squirrel Nut Zippers ran rampant through the streets with a sudden outbreak of Mad Brain Sprue, how would they describe it?

2. Guam, Idaho. The Pope was there, goat-sitting for me, and when I returned I was surprised (though why I was surprised I still don't know) to find that JP had dressed all of my goats in lace and had taken to calling them his Altered Boys.

Where was your first kiss?

3. I think that it involved paper airplanes, round tables, and a Harrison Fjord impersonator named 'Hans'. I'll have to consult my notes to get all of the details in order.

What were the circumstances of your first kiss?

Three Awesome Questions by Lauren, Three Answers by Me

1. If you had to pick one Olsen twin, would it be Ashley or Mary-Kate?

You neglect to specify what I would be choosing her for. It all depends on whether I'm using her as a drying rack or my personal shopper or a roadie or what have you.

No, I'm just funning. It's six of one, half a dozen of the other. I can't tell those little monkeys apart.

2. If you had to choose between remaining celibate for the rest of your life or being able to have sex but only to Spice Girls music, which would you choose?

L. Boogie, you have seen me shake it* spastically to lesser musicians than the Spice Girls. You have seen me make pop star hands while singing "Don't Let Me Get Me." You have seen me show public appreciation of Ace of Base.

As Scary Spice once said,"Zigguh ziggaah."

3. If Ewan Macgregor asked you out would you refuse him under the principle that you could never date someone that your friend is in love with? Or would you say yes?

In this specific case, I would surely say no. A dear friend of mine, not naming any names, has a long-burning ardor for "Sweet Teef" Macgregor. I would sooner die of a glamorous wasting disease than get in the way.

However, I don't think a person should make sacrifices of the heart for people who wouldn't do the same. I would never knowingly betray the trust of a true friend, and I am loyal to those who are loyal to me. I'd like to believe I can tell which of my acquaintances genuinely care.

As it has been said, the greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.

* I mean DANCE, dirtyheads.

Three Very Long Questions by Andy S, edited out of concern for you all (sorry Andy), Three Answers by Me

1. You could be either A) the world's best ninja (or similar silent mercenary-type), or B) the best-in-the-world at any instrument. For the purposes of this inquiry, we are assuming the choices to be mutually exclusive. Which would you be, and why?

I wrote a limerick in February about a ninja who lost his passion:

There once was a ninja named Hawk,
who exhausted his hunger for stalk.
He hung around bars,
throwing loath stars,
unusually willing to talk.

That being said, I choose option B. I would be a master of guitar, since the life of a ninja only can end in desperation.

2. When you become a multi-millionaire, where will the secret passageways in your mansion lead?

A lovely, lovely garden with trees and flowers and a sickly English boy.

3. If you had to give up your name in favor of a numbering system, what would your number be? Each person is allowed to choose their own number, of any length, in any form. If you so desire, you can opt out of the numbering system, by way of imprisonment or other such stigma.

718. It's my birthday, and gives me a happy feeling. It's also the area code for four boroughs of New York City, and who doesn't love New York City? I am very fond of my name, but it's not worth serving hard time.

Three Questions by Kirk, Three Answers by Me

1. Can you share a good story idea?

Oh, totally! It's like, the future, and the government decides everyone should be completely equal. And since they can't improve the people with natural deficiencies, they hinder everyone to meet the lowest common denominator. Ballerinas wear leg weights to cripple their grace and masks to hide their beauty. And geniuses, like the protagonist, are struck by mind-scrambling gongs at regular intervals — the smarter the genius, the smaller the interval. But our hero rebels, with sexy results!*

But you can't use that story idea, because Kurt Vonnegut already wrote "Harrison Bergeron" and it kicked ass.

And no, I can't share one of mine, because I don't have as many good ideas as Kurt Vonnegut, and he was *still* poor until he was middle-aged. I have to hoard the few I have.

2. What do you suppose your purpose in life is?

I'm still working on that. I think... well...

In college, there were some black days, let me tell you. There were weeks when I barely made it out of bed. I didn't bother questioning my purpose; It was enough to remember to eat every day. Maybe it was post-adolescent angst. Maybe there was something terribly wrong with me. (I think there was something terribly wrong with me.) But if I ever thought of ending it all, or running off anonymously to Nebraska -- and I wish I could say I didn't -- I never got very far, because I love my mommy. She's the trampoline that mysteriously appears under every window from which I might leap.

I think the greatest honor I could hope to achieve is to be the lifeboat if someone I love ever stands on the deck of a sinking ship.

Oh, and I want to be the super funnest guest at parties.

3. When are you coming back to Boston???

If you mean a visit, I swear I'll come back for a weekend sometime this spring, come hell or high water. If you mean when am I coming back to live, your guess is as good as mine, my friend.

* Thank you, Homer Simpson.

Three Questions by Ranjit, Three Answers by Me

1. If you had a secret compartment, what would you keep in it?

I think, depending on the size, a secret compartment would be a good place to keep my horribly deformed, malevolent twin sister. She could bang on the walls sometimes and frighten away guests who've overstayed their welcome.

It would need to be big enough for her to stretch out and lumber around. Barring that, a secret compartment would be a good place to keep love letters or lucky trinkets or fancy chocolates.

2. What would the best neighborhood in the world (for living in) be like?

A lot like yours. But with a good Ethiopian restaurant. And a few cool dress shops. And that wonderful yarn store.

3. What book do you most want to read that you have never gotten around to?

The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schultz. I've had it on my bookshelf since I was 20, and I give it a halfhearted try every couple years, to no avail. I just can't get into it. But SOMEDAY.

Three Questions by Dan, Three Answers by Me

1. Do you believe in fairies?

When we were kids, my brother had a "no fairies" sticker on his Vision Gator board. Looking back, I don't think they were talking about wood sprites. But what did we know? It was the '80s. We couldn't spell homosexuality. We kids all called each other queer while listening enthusiastically to the gayest-looking bands in the history of the world.

I get it now, though. I'd punch that sticker in the face. Anyone can skateboard with me anytime.

But you weren't talking about that. Uh, no. I don't believe in fairies.

2. What is your first memory?

Evidence suggests I have hazy memories of my second birthday. But my first really clear memory is of my parents' honeymoon, two months short of my third birthday. They took Andy and me along, 'cause they're cool. We stayed at a lodge at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I best remember the non-slip blue flowers in the bathroom, and the amazing Holly Hobby Colorforms (complete with mind-blowing two foot Holly Hobby cardboard house) my dad got me to keep me amused.

3. Will you marry me?

I always dreamed I'd marry a wealthy man*!!!!!

*Dan, while filthy rich in charm and compassion, is not rolling in the green. Also, I never dreamed I'd marry a wealthy man. I did once dream that I married Peter from the Monkees, but that's another story.

This is making the rounds on the interweb. I fulfill my duty by copying it here:

"I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions — no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. Then I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this, allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything."

Email your questions to brooke@photogratify.com; I'll post your questions and my answers, so long as they're not pornographic. Or somehow encourage me to confess to that hobo murder.

Um, what? Hobo?

*nervous laughter*

I just had the best conversation with my grandma, in which I tried to explain DVDs to her, and she waved me away, saying "Go enjoy your DVC... QARs."

My grandmonster kicks ass.

Poem for a Workday:

   Here I sit, quite nearly napping,
barely working, barely working.
Pen and desk converse by tapping
their coded warnings of long hours lurking.

   The minutes pass for centuries,
barely ending, barely ending.
I'll be wearing denturies
by the time this evening's pending.

 

It never occurred to me that he'd come back, until he did. Four years later, I see him again, on the Mass Turnpike, driving home from work. I am singing with the radio, thinking of summer, and I notice the car behind me trailing too close.

I switch lanes to get distance; I don't see yet that it's him. The car merges left when I do. I'm a nervous driver, and I need space on the road, so I switch lanes again. He follows. Then he follows twice more, and it isn't a coincidence.

I can't see the driver's face in the sun's glare, but I know who it is with the sudden clarity of disaster. I've planned for this day the way one prepares for an old grandparent's death, someday, someday. Never today. I try to outrun what's coming. I panic, hyperventilate, speed home.

In my bedroom, in its sacred place, I find his business card, hold it like a talisman. Someday: it's a unit of time. It never gets closer, every day it's pushed back again, untouched. I tame my wild hands, steady my breath, and pick up the phone.

It rings through a thousand miles. I pray, "Be there, be there, be there," and the secretary answers. "Is the doctor in today?" I manage. She answers, "Yes, may I ask who's calling?" and I hang up.

My father is in his office, in the Midwest, not on the turnpike. Not walking up to my door. Someday. But not today.

This is the gift he gave me: four years of looking behind me on the street, of numb, frozen flutters in my first glance toward every tall man. I carry his inevitability like a cold torch. I am still waiting, quietly, for the day he comes to open me up again.

My freshman year of college sometimes feels like it was last week. It's still too soon to write about parts of it, a decade later, but I'm getting there. You all know bits and pieces, anyway, if you know me or you've read back.

But high school, a scant season earlier? It barely happened. I can't remember my teachers without serious effort and please don't ask me to come up with any last names. I could do it, but I think it would give me a headache.

It wasn't a great time for me. I'm deeply suspicious of people who remember high school fondly, as I think it's a breeding ground for everything awful about humans. Adolescents are just trying on their cruelty and their cattiness, to see how it looks. (Take it off, Teenagers. It does make your ass look big.) I went to a performing arts high school, where everything was just a shade worse.

Consider this: every high school has some kind of artiste extraordinaire. Try to remember yours. She was the girl in chorus who gave an annoying nickname to the music teacher, like "Mr. La" or "Chuck," and clamored for solos, singing "What I Did For Love," with an earnest, blissed-out face. Maybe it was the guy who played Sky Masterson in your school musical, tried to woo the ladies with an embarrassing Marlon Brando impression, and referred to acting as his "craft."

You knew him, he was a drummer. Or maybe she came to school covered in paint. If you were lucky, they managed to be cool. But whatever they were, they got a ton of special attention from their teachers, their parents, probably other students. They were one in a million... or at least one in five hundred.

Then you give them an audition and stick them in a school with 299 kids just like them.

I was one of those kids. Now, I didn't give nicknames or refer to anything as my craft, and I can't say if I managed to be cool or not, but there it is. I was one of the roughly 10% who auditioned, and was accepted to be a prodigiously competitive, alterna-wearing, teenaged artiste.

Maybe I'd have been happier if I were better at it. I wasn't abundantly pierced, I bought most of my clothes at the mall, and I didn't have a knack for clamor. The only solo I had, I gave away to a girl who wanted it more. I was too soft for the world of back-stabbery, and it wasn't good to me.

Putting high school behind me seems pretty normal. I imagine glory-day reminiscence is reserved for former quarterbacks. The trouble is, my new job is half a block away from my high school. I look at it every time I leave the office, and suddenly, it's a hot topic again. Everyone I work with knows I'm a singer.

It's like high school all over again — I'd meet someone, tell them where I went to school, and invariably I'd be asked for a song. Other people say, "I went to This Town High School," and it gives no hints about them, says only they are a high school graduate. But to admit where I went, it gives away too much, it is like saying, "I am a monkey! Watch me dance!"

Well. This monkey is through with dancing. If you want a song, you have to buy me a milkshake first. Yeah, it's bad for my voice. But I don't care anymore!! I've moved on!!

Okay, Chuck, maybe just one verse.

My first job out of college was production assistant at the Houghton Mifflin Company in Boston, next to the monster teddy bear on Berkeley Street. (I'm not being strictly honest. It's the first job that counted. The one before that... It's too shameful. The world's oldest profession. Human Resources Assistant. We won't speak of it again.) It was a contract job, paid three grains of sand a week, offered no health care, and for the most part consisted of putting paragraph tags in miles-long documents. What kept me there? Youth, a low opinion of my employability, and most of all, Wacky Web Tales.

Wacky Web Tales, the Houghton Mifflin online version of Mad Libs, the best part of any job I've ever had. They were stories written by actual human children, with certain parts of speech removed by the same small people, with hilarious results.

My duty was to test them, verify that each was functional... and the only way to test them properly was to fill them out. I wasn't remarkably busy, and no one much seemed to care how fast I did them, so I took my own sweet time.

I never looked ahead to the story itself to find the funniest possible word choices. They were all beautiful accidents. I kept a few of my favorites, and I offer you now the best, a collaboration between me and some anonymous kidlet, circa 1998. Please pay close attention to the punctuation and capitalization*, which will be reproduced exactly to reflect the brilliant nuance of her work.

My bitter friend Delirium and I had a sleepover. We got up and went to the kitchen to get a glass of juice. I said,"What kind of juice do you Want?" I want hemlock juice! I went to the fridge. I looked in and there was no hemlock juice, so we had milk instead!

*My favorite parts are the capitalized Want (the peculiar emphasis it implies never fails to amuse me) and the fact that "I want hemlock juice!" is not, in fact, attributed to her bitter friend. It is without quotes, as though she asked Delirium for her beverage preference as a formality. She herself was interested in hemlock juice, and emphatically. Personally, I suspect her bitter friend Delirium was a figment of her imagination.

THE TRIBAL COUNCIL HAS SPOKEN

I was choking on the vitriol last night, reading about Bush's response to the Massachusetts Supreme Court decision.

Above all his other idiocies, I seem to take this one the most personally, when he gibbers on, spouting about the sanctity of marriage. First, it seems a bit dotty to say the marriage of two convicted heterosexual murderers is sacred but the marriage of two homosexual peace corps doctors is an atrocity.

More to the point, fundamentally, it scares the crap out of me that Bush still doesn't realize it is specifically NOT his job to decide what is sacred. It's a little separation we like to make, constitutionally.

Oh, and if I may add: Mitten Romney, hold on to your tiki torch. The tribal council is looking at you funny.

ambulance: wicked expensive
three doses of intravenous Dilaudid/Demerol*: wicked expensive
ultrasound: wicked expensive
CAT scan: wicked expensive
kidney stone: unbelievably painful
living in a country where affordable health care is a right and not a privilege: man, that would be priceless

* brands of narcotics subject to the fuzziness of my drugged memory

I couldn't sleep, so I played with Photoshop instead, as any reasonable person would. I think this looks like a bird, but really it's my eye. You know, with a beak. And some other stuff not usually found on my face.

It's not my fault. It's late.

The truth is, I'm all written out. Thirty pages of writing sample just about did me in, and I've been so consumed with applications that to do anything else with my time seems frivolous anyway. But here, Impatience McNags, I'll throw you a bone to chew on while I finish my work.

There were all sorts of things I meant to write about while I wasn't writing:

New Year's Eve, counting down in Prospect Park while eyeing the Manhattan skyline warily, wondering what, exactly, I was counting down toward. Only 2004, it turned out, and a little girl behind us went "EEEE" every time the fireworks popped, in fear or glee. Hard to tell. A happy new year to all, from me and the little screaming girl.

An alpaca sneezed on me. A few hours later, a Chatty Kathy at the Weepies show worked my last nerve with her stupid, splotchy, talking face. Who goes to a show and talks the whole goddamned time? And loud, too. She and the alpaca were clearly both raised in a barn. They tried to ruin my day, but I managed to put them out of my mind and enjoy the music. After the show, getting my cd signed, I chatted with Steve Tannen about Baltimore. And Deb Talan was NICE to me!!! I love them ever more. But let it be said, if I ever run into that striped-shirt prattler, I will kick her in the teeth.