Superinky Fixations

I hate the Oscars. They’re stupid Hollywood self-congratulation. Blech. Same as the Golden Globes, the Grammies, the SAG awards and blah ditty blah blah insert-ridiculous-award-ceremony-here. EWW. It’s just gross to me. And Oscar movies are kinda boring and/or try to be too serious and self-important. And try to convince everyone that they are important when really they just, for the most part, blow and just make over paid actors and directors feel like they’re actually doing something important. I like my movies how I like my music; off center, daring, frequently dirty and subversive, raw, and real.

My sister got the most beautiful wedding dress. She’d kill me if I posted a picture of her, but I’ll tell you what, I will email you a link if you contact me. She 5′10 and a perfect size 6. Think about that for a moment. You can’t imagine how gorgeous she looked yesterday. In fact, when she found and tried on The One, I actually choked up and my eyes filled with tears. My little sister, she was such a vision. She went with a non-traditional Sue Wong cream colored beaded gown. Oh god! You can’t believe how beautiful she looked in it. I want her to have everything she dreams of. EVERYTHING. It must be a big sister thing, wanting my little sister to be happy. She was such a cute little kid, too, what with her long wavy hair and those tiny glasses she had to wear from the time she was 3 or 4 years old.

So it’s Sunday night again. Fucking Sunday night, the night that depresses and stresses the hell out of me most weeks. The blues aren’t terrible tonight. I’ve got a nice bottle of red wine to look forward to once Brett gets home. If nothing else it’ll numb relax me to the point where I can fall into bed and get a decent night’s sleep. Hopefully I won’t start obsessing about my dead end job and the glass ceiling that exists in the crappy institution I work for that calls itself so liberal and a bastion of opportunity. Oh well. Fuck it. I’m so sick of torturing myself with those thoughts. If I really wanted change, I’d get my ass in gear and find another job. So there. Shut up and quit complaining.

At least I have a shitload of new music to listen to and that makes me very happy. So much new music, in fact, that there are several dozen bands I’ve never heard before, or even heard of before. I’ll keep you posted. As of today, I’m still hooked on Arcade Fire and, of course, that other band, whose name shall not be spoken, but if you know me at all, you don’t need me to spell it out and probably don’t want me to mention them ever again.

That website I use to track my steps, Trainster (you’ll have to go directly from here: http://trainster.net/, because for some reason, I can’t do a hyperlkink), well, there was a news story on KGW the other day about it. And I can tell cuz I went from being consistently in the top five, to dropping down to about 14 or 15, so it obviously  attracted a few new participants. Oh well, it’s all good. I’d like to think I’m not much of a competitor and that it’s really just for my own personal inspiration and motivation. Of course, that’s pretty much bull shit, and now I’m going to have to find something else to make me feel good about myself.

Guess what we did last night? We scored free tickets AGAIN at the Doug Fir and saw Climber and Bettie Serveert. Climber, I must say, they completely charmed and impressed me in a way that just doesn’t happen very often. I shall make it my business to spread the word of Climber’s greatness throughout this wicked world. Now it’s Thursday night and we’ve pretty much partied out way through the whole week and I’ve drank too much and slept too little and I’ve got to work tomorrow and I am just about ready to fall down from exhaustion and I’m writing horrifically long run on sentences because I’m too tired to give much of a damn.

April is coming down tomorrow so we can find her a wedding dress of some sort. She has this vague idea of a non-traditional gown, or at least she did a couple weeks ago. I’m impressed with the zeal in which she’s planning her wedding, so perhaps by now she has a clear idea of what she wants. And when the right dress appears to her, she will know; it will fit like a dream, she’ll shell out the cash dollars and off we’ll go to an extravagant and expensive lunch (on her) to decompress. Ahh. At least that’s my vision.

Someday I hope that Anton A. Newcombe catches a cold and gets bored and Googles himself and finds himself smattered all over my blog because I believe in Anton A. Newcombe and the Brian Jonestown Massacre Movement and social consciousness and fuck the govenment and damn it, you can listen to just about every single one of their songs for FREE on their web site and there’s some awesome stuff and today’s favorite song is a little ditty called "(You’d Better Love Me) Before I Am Gone" (so cute! Miranda Richards, your voice is just the sweetest thing)) from an album I absolutely adore, "Give it Back"(hello! You can listen to the whole entire album on their website!!!). So decide for yourself: the best band in the world? Or the 2nd best band in the world? Or maybe, if you’re really critical, the 3rd best band in the world?

Last night Brett brought me home a whole crab; cooked, thankfully, and dead, but completely whole. I unwrapped it and looked at it for a few minutes, got freaked out, then left it alone in the kitchen for a while. Then I got hungry and I started to think about Dungeness crab in all it’s tasty glory so I ripped off a couple legs. Within a few minutes, I was back in the kitchen ripping off a few more legs. Then I ripped off all the remaining legs. Before long I had a glass of wine and had torn into the body of the crab where huge delectable hunks of white meat lie waiting for me to enjoy.

Eating crab out of the shell is quite a sensuous experience, actually, if one can get over the fact that one is cracking open the body of a creature and eating it’s insides. Ewww!  That’s so nasty. And there’s large sections of a crab that I won’t touch and have a hard time even looking at for extended periods of time.

I felt strange in a way, because on the news yesterday was a baby Grey Whale that had got itself tangled up into a bunch of crab lines off the coast of Somewheresville, Oregon. And here I am eating a crab that was probably caught the day before or so off the coast of Somewheresville, Oregon. I’m ethically challenged by this notion of endangering mammals and depleting the natural balance of crab in man’s quest to quench his taste for the crustacean.

I can’t promise I won’t eat a crab again. But I’m going to think on this for a while. As a long time vegetarian, rediscovering fish has been a tricky, sometimes icky experience. Food from the sea feels somehow so primal. Perhaps primal isn’t really the word I’m looking for… And you know what, I’m not even going to try to justify it. It is what it is.

I can’t help myself. I’ve got an addictive personality anyway, but the constant stream of new blogs keeps tempting me. And I keep giving in. What I’m finding is that most bloggers lead about as exciting a life as me… which isn’t very exciting. But there is something profoundly gratifying about surfing along and lurking in other people’s blogs and realizing how banal we all are deep down. And trust me, that’s not a bad thing!  At first it kind of put me off, but like any good addiction, I tried it some more and really got hooked. Brett reminded me that the sheer banality of our existence ties us together & makes this blogging phenomena so compelling. Here I go again with my Blog-talk. GOD HELP ME I bore myself. Please enjoy.

Little Della Claire King, born February 19th. Weighing in at 3.5 lbs, entering this crazy world a full month early. Little girl, I am thinking and thinking and thinking about you and I love you sight unseen. Get better soon little cutie so that we can come down and visit you in Berkeley and give you a hundred kisses. Best to my wonderful and loving cousin Nicole and her husband Josh. You two are fabulous people, and I know you’re already fabulous parents.

Hunter S. Thompson, he just offed himself. CNN just reported it like 24 minutes ago. What is it with suicide these days? Self inflicted gun shot wound no less, found by his son. Gross. I’m reminded of the time Brett and I ran into Spaulding Gray and his son in a bar in Rhode Island. The first time I dropped acid was at the Evergreen State College and Carmen and I watched ‘Swimming to Cambodia’ and Spaulding tripped me out with his rambling frantic monologue and he was always kinda in my radar after that moment. And seeing him in the flesh, what a trip. He looked so young, and his son looked identical to him. Then last year he killed himself, the poor depressed bastard. He jumped off a ferry somewhere in NY. WTF? But anyway, Hunter S. Thompson. I didn’t really know him. I saw that Johnny Depp movie and I knew he wrote for Rolling Stone. Somehow I think he was more famous than Spauling. Those writers, I tell ya.

I’m oddly hung over today; a little lethargic and out-of-sorts. Not hating it by any means, but those martinis caught up with me. Oh, but they are so delicious, what with those olives and oysters on the half shell. I’m sure I could have eaten a dozen on my own. I’m proud of the fact that so many people are grossed out by raw oysters, yet I love them. Oysters and vodka. Strange, I think I actually felt myself salivating just thinking about the combination. You know, come to think about it, I’m proud of the fact that I love sushi, too, and I just indulged in several pieces earlier today.

It’s weird, I don’t eat beef, or chicken, or pork, or game of any sort. But fish, oh, how I do love fish in it’s infinite varieties. Somehow eating it raw reminds me how close I am to death. Which would explain why I love the vodka, too, I suppose.

Guess what we did last night after oysters and vodka? We won tickets, AGAIN, at the Doug Fir. We watched Suckapunch perform and they pretty much rocked the house down. And I’m proud to say that when Brett walked over to the Albina Press this morning for a lb of coffee and a couple of their outstanding and drool inducing lattes, he exchanged pleasantries with none other than SUCKAPUNCH, who all apparently live nearby. We’re neighbors.

Anyway, I hope the Doug Fir doesn’t cut us off with the free tix. It’s this beautiful karmic exchange I’m feeling, and it’s completely in line with one of Brett and my New Year’s Resolutions. Since we love live music anyway, we want to expand our horizons and see bands we wouldn’t ordinarily see, or haven’t heard of.

Can Doug Fir help me exercise more and lose weight?

Maybe it’s because it’s new and clean and there’s no smoking allowed indoors so it doesn’t have that sickening stench of hundreds of thousands of cigarettes hanging in every crevasse; perhaps it’s because we’ve won tickets to 6 different shows and I’m feeling a cosmic connection to them now. Whatever the case may be, I’m definitely enamored with the Doug Fir Lounge. We’ve even paid for a show or two and I’m still impressed. Though some of my most favorite shows have been at Berbati’s (!!!, Franz Ferdinand before they whored themselves to the Man, The Kills, Brian Jonestown Massacre…) and Dante’s (Peaches, Helio Sequence, Secret Machines, Elefant), Doug Fir is winning me over with the free shows and the intimate atmosphere.

I don’t know what it is exactly, but his sideburns drive me crazy. Crazy crazy yum yum, don’t get me wrong. Maybe I’m ashamed because I just can’t get enough of American Idol (Anwar? Anthony? Scott, my wild card… and the girls… Nadia, Blah Blah ? and Slubidy Doo cuz the girls just don’t stick out at all and I can’t remember their names) and I need to convince myself how fringe and alternative I think I am and how far removed I am from mainstream society. And obviously fringe and alternative folk like me are only attracted to wild, sexy hippy types with outrageously predominate sideburns who happen to play guitar. Or somehow I’m just twisted and sick in a way that defies explanation and my fascination and absurd attraction to men’s facial hair is an obvious indication of my neurosis. Either way, it matters little. Those sideburns. Those sideburns. Those sideburns. Come on! Anton, you’re killing me. mmmm mmmm mmmmm.

How many steps did you do today? My pedometer says I did 12,083. It may sound like a lot, but it turns out to be only 4.56 miles and about 650 calories. Not that I keep track of those things or anything.

Wow. Most blogs are boring. Except for the ones with half naked, girls squatting uncomfortably - they pique my attention for a few seconds anyway.

I’m so intimidated. Here I thought I was being so clever. Oh, I heard rumors of the staggering throngs of us blogging on-line. But I really had no idea just how much was out there in blogville. And I’m amazed at all the stay-at-home mommies and daddies blogging religiously about their toddler’s bowel movements, and the plethora of sites that are open letters to anonymous strangers "Dear Disgusting" and "Dear Neighbor with Horrible Taste in Music" jump out immediately. Yet I’m strangely jealous of the apparent ease in which these blogophiles post their photos and track their comments and have clever sidebars. And to think I thought I was so cool that I figured out how to do hyperlinks and crap if I say blog or some derivative of that word again I think I might barf.