I like to call this my Fergie Hat....

Check out my totally sweet new Kangol angora visor...

My mighty awe goes to: toothpaste for dinner
Worship them, worship them good.
www.toothpastefordinner.com

Holy friggin' crap.

Man.....
Here I am...
I was looking through google image search for some cute little picture to put on my list of managers' meetings, 'cause... well... that's what I'm up to today...
Well, I came across this lovely comic...

www.toothpastefordinner.com

you can't help but love them...

Almost as much as I love visiting my friends down at the coffee cart. I was saying hi to Kim (hi Kim!) one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, catching up, leaning on the coffee cart while she served someone a cafe au lait.
I had plenty of time to observe him, since he wanted to know what every espresso drink was, cafe au lait, macchiato... He was tall; perhaps half a foot over six feet, and skinny enough to be nearly living on espresso products. He was wearing tight black jeans -- they may have had pseudo lacing up the sides -- and a black leather belt that was about four inches wide. The belt had no buckle; instead both ends had eighteen inches or so of fringe, and the fringe was tied together in a square knot under his navel. His shirt was tight as well, and under one eye he'd drawn two black spots of eyeliner, while the outer corner of his other eye sported two swishes of the liquid eyeliner brush like eyelashes.
He was very friendly.
He didn't quite understand that, for a cafe au lait to be a cafe au lait, you have to leave some room in the cup for the steamed milk to fit in.
Other than that, it was a fairly normal transaction. Kin made his coffee, handed it to him, took his money and gave him change.
And then he shared with us a little tidbit about himself.
He said that he'd not become tall until he was seventeen.
He clarified, "My growth was stunted because my babysitter fed me human blood when I was a kid."

He thanked Kim for the coffee and headed off down the street. Kim and I stood looking out across the pastries for a moment.
"Did he just say his growth was stunted because his babysitter fed him human blood as a child?" I asked her.
We stood for another moment of silence.
"Yes. ...yes he did..."

... ahhhh... San Francisco...

This is a picture of me in front of New York, New York that John took on the Sunday that we took forever to leave Vegas.
Not that I was complaining; I was quite happy to hang out, although rather tired. There's a suggestive picture of him with the Luxor obelisque, too.. I hope he posts it... heh heh heh.. 

On the way to Vegas.... I can't believe it's been a month!

Strange to think it was a month ago that John and I were in Vegas. I guess that's what happens when I wait for him to post the pics for bloggy motivation. Anyway, as I was saying in the caption to the pic above...

We'd gotten to Vegas the evening before, after a morning of getting vaguely lost in MacArthur Park in Los Angeles as we were trying to get away from the traffic laden highways. The morning in LA was actually a success in the end; despite our detour, we found a Walgreens and I pumped myself full of Airborne for the rest of the day, saving myself from the horrifying cold that my housemate's ladyfriend had been willing to share with us.
John and I finally got out of town and headed off through the desert. The plants were green and covered most of the sand, so that only small patches of the Mojave's signature aridity seemed visible. We stopped in Calico to visit the ghost town; it seemed like the right thing to do, despite having started later than expected. The wind was warm and dry, and it was lovely to stretch our legs. The entire town of Calico had been bought and was being run by Knotts Berry Farm... every building was either empty or a concession stand, and nearly all of the buildings had been rebuilt with fresh, smooth wood. John and I were rather disappointed in this, both of us having memories of visiting Bowie when we were younger. We both remembered the cemetery, and so we wandered over to the Calico cemetery. Unfortunately, it was locked, but John took some pictures from the gates before we headed back to the car. And I had an amusing time crawling up a dirt cliff in my heels; of course, there had been a road we could've driven up, had we realized. But in all truth, despite the thorns and the dirt sliding out from under my feet and into the insoles of my shoes, I really did appreciate those few moments of differing physical activity.
The best part about visiting Calico was that we saw real tumbleweeds. The kind you see in Western movies. They are super fast, and they are yellow like cornsilk, and super bouncy. Rather than just rolling along, they bounce at every touch to the compacted sand, twisting slightly as they rise into the air, and whirling the other way as they rise, like a backtwisted ball ricochets off of a young tennis star's racket. Except, of course, that he tumbleweeds don't rise very far from the ground; they seem stuck to it; tripping over their own shoes. We stopped in the sandy parking lot before packing back into the car, cheering on the tumbleweeds as they rolled towards the hills and the abandoned silver mine, where tourists leaned over a shute, trying to pan for gold that the Knott's Berry Farm may or may not have deemed necessary to include in the attraction's water.
We drove out of Calico listening to Nirvana's Nevermind, which John was correct in suggesting was good music for the desert. Who would've guessed that grunge works with or without the rain?
At the border of California and Nevada, we ran into the first casinos; a large cluster of oversized buildings poking out of the flat desert like a wart. We drove to the minimart to make a pit stop, but the only thing they were selling was soda and lottery tickets.
And it was packed. People were standing in three lines, each 10 people long, to play the California lottery. John noticed while I was in the loo that all of the employees were Eastern European because of their thick accents, which only added to the surreality of the experience. A near empty minimart, packed with serious-faced couples, singles and people with children under ten (most of whom were screaming), had driven out into the middle of nowhere to give their money away to another state.... and they didn't have any salsa.

links of joy

For all of you who are bored:

Check out my friend Siobhan's birthday cake, the lucky girl!!!

http://phoom.blogspot.com/2005/07/corpse-cake.html

And also some lovely anatomy art:

http://www.nlm.nih.gov/exhibition/dreamanatomy/da_gallery.html

Here is the photo that Katerina was going for, in exchange for my headshots. I love it. Go buy some of her prints, 'cause she's friggin' awesome!!!!!!!!

http://katerina423.deviantart.com/

Here is one of the headshots that my lovely, wonderful new photographer took of me during our photoshoot just before I left town. You can see more of her work at:

http://katerina423.deviantart.com/

This picture is for Shannon, who insisted that while in New Mexico we stop at her favorite fast food place and get not only some cheddar jalepeno poppers, but also that concoction in front of me. I don't remember what it's called, but I do remember that it was so huge that the styrefoam cup slipped out of my hand just afterwards and spilled all over the floor, and that I still had 30 oz of it, even with 14 of those ounces splattered all over the restauraunt. It's a Dr. Pepper, with added vanilla syrup, cherry syrup and half and half. They were supposed to go easy on the ice, but didn't (this wasn't so bad, since it was crushed ice,) as well as marachino cherries and whipped cream. It was pretty good anyways, and since we'd gotten to Roswell too late to see the alien museum, this extraterrestrial drink was a welcome jolt of sugar to push us the last hour to her mom's house... I must admit that I was both disappointed and releived that they didn't have any hedgehog burgers. 

After spending the night in Flagstaff, AZ, we were back on the road again. We'd worked up quite a habit of drinking way too much Rockstar (depending on one's opinion of too much), and I had already discovered that finding Diet Rockstar was not always as easy as I'd hoped. So we stopped at a large supermarket to stock up and get some more ice. Even with the A/C on constantly, your drinks don't stay cold in 100 degree heat. The night before we'd stopped for junk food, where the clerk had taken me perhaps a little bit over-seriously about my request for tons of katsup. So when I opened the cooler the next day, I discovered that we had our own little pond of cooler tadpoles. Aren't they just adorable, swimming around the yogurt and Hershey's bars? 

Ah, the Journey Mural. We stopped rather often after our night in Vegas. Probably had something to do with the fact that we stayed up 'till dawn in our hotel room after seeing Zumanity and walking up and down the strip a few times, checking out the different casinos and playing lots of video poker.... but more on Vegas at a later time. In any case, we were in Arizona, and we saw the signs for Chloride, which was in my book of Eccentric America. The mural itself is entitled, "The Journey, Images From an Inward Search for Self". I suppose this should have given us a clue of what to expect.... The book told us that Roy Purcell painted this mural, "using automotive paint bought for him by a freindly miner," and that "some of the images tower 75 feet above you," and that despite the fact that you have to drive 1.3 miles down a bumpy dirt road, "it's worth it." Getting into the town was sort of a journey itself. From the highway, it looks as though Chloride is only a mile away, but as you drive along the road to town, someone has set up little signs every tenth of a mile that say things like, "don't worry"..."you have reached a town." Not surprisingly, the town itself is a small artsy community; every yard has found art sculptures and twinkly lights. There are tiny little adorable bunnies everywhere with little fluffy white tails; I'm not sure if it was just young bunnie season or if Chloride is infested with dwarf bunnies. I wouldn't mind living in a town infested with dwarf bunnies; except when they dash across the road and fill your mind with flashes of burning in hell for running their tiny little fluffy tails over. We got to the bottom of the road and, after a mere 50 feet, figured out that it was no longer suitable for anything to drive on besides ATV's. So we got out to walk, figuring we could use a touch of excersize. Of course, it wasn't 1.3 miles, and the sun got to setting, which was gorgeous, but since John and I had gotten nowhere near the distance we'd intended to that day, it was a little nerve wracking. But the cute little bunnies guided our way up the hill through the rocks, and after the fourth time we were sure we'd gone the wrong way, we came upon the murals, which were most certainly not 75 feet tall. And we both looked at each other and said, "what the fuck is this hippie shit??!!" Apparenlty whoever was so obsessed with this guy's work had never lived in Berkeley, where there are hippy murals on the back of every third mini-market. The desert walk and sunset were quite lovely, in any case. More pictures of that to come when John posts them.... including the picture of the tadpoles we saw in the creek on the walk back, which inspired the next picture.... 

This is the Hoover Dam itself. You can just barely see the blue of the water on the far side of it, dark blue and oddly cold looking in the red desert. We could tell immediately a difference in the landscape here at the Arizona border. All through the Mojave, the desert ground had been yellow-brown sand and low, green brush. But just as we entered into these mountains, the soil became drenched in rust. Even the cement changed, as you can see from the parking lot I'm in.... The reason I like this picture so much is because Jesse left me a voice message today, knowing that I was leaving Vegas. He quoted Hunter S. Thompson: "So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look west, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high water mark -- that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back." And you can see it here in the picture; where the water has bleached the sides of the mountains that have beaten it back. 

This is a pic I took of myself at the Hoover Dam. The dam itself was closed, so we just paid $5 to drive up to the top of the parking lot, where we could take some pictures and stretch our legs and smoke. 

Industrial Ibiza!

Hooray for pool parties!
Full of rivetheads!
In black
without tans
IN A POOL
IN THE SUNSHINE!
Whoot!

http://photobucket.com/albums/b277/nurseglitch/Summer%20at%20Resort%20de%20Bockstiegel/?

AMBER AND JOHN's ROAD TRIP ITINERARY

Hello Everyone! I look forward to seeing you all in the next couple of weeks!

Friday 24th: Drive to Los Angeles, stay with John's friend, and also my friend, Nicole.

Saturday 25th: Drive to Las Vegas, stay at the Luxor. Bask in the pools there, ride the roller coaster at New York New York, see Cirque du Soleil's Zumanity at 10pm.

Sunday 26th: Drive towards Roswell, and camp out somewhere on the way. We'll be taking the US 93, I 40 (a.k.a. Route 66), US 285 south, US 380.

Monday 27th: Stop in Roswell NM for a snack and try not to be abducted by Aliens, then drive one more hour south to Carlsbad to stay with our friend Shannon Lark Estes' mother, Patty Joe. Eat sopas.

Tuesday 28th: Drive to Austin, where we will be visiting my friends Zoe and JP, and their new son, Max. We'll either be staying with them (their baby still wakes up in the night,) or with one of the lovely ladies whom I met at their wedding two years ago, Chryssa or Miranda.

Wednesday 29th: Drive via Houston, where we will hopefully stop for lunch and a peek at this weird “Orange Show”:

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/attract/TXHOUorange.html

…and then via the I-10 to New Orleans!!!! We’re staying at a B & B with wrought iron balcony railings and a gas-lit courtyard only one block from Bourbon St. Hooray!!!

http://www.andrewjacksonhotel.com/

Andrew Jackson Hotel
919 Royal Street
New Orleans, LA 70116
504-561-5881

Thursday 30th: We'll stay in New Orleans through Thursday at the same B&B, have beignettes and chickory coffee at the Cafe du Monde:

http://www.cafedumonde.com/

... take a guided cemetery walk. We will heed the locals' advice to only go with a guide, and this looks like the best choice so far:

http://www.neworleanstours.net/candv.htm

also; ride the street car and do the river walk:

Friday July 1rst: Drive to Memphis via the I-55, hopefully stopping briefly just outside of New Orleans at the UCM Museum:

http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tips/getAttraction.php3?tip_AttractionNo==3667

We don't have reservations in Memphis, so we'll probably just stay at a small hotel and check out the Elvis fans at Graceland:

http://www.elvis.com/graceland/

and perhaps Beale St.:

http://www.memphisguide.com/directory/dir00168.htm

Saturday July 2nd through July 3rd: Driving past Nashville, through the
Appalachians, and camping somewhere amidst the trees and hicks. Looks like, generally speaking, the I-40, I-440, I-81, I-66, I-495. (Yes, we'll have many versions of more specific maps!! This just seemed the easier way to describe it in general terms.)

July 3rd: Arrive in Baltimore area and spend time with my friend, Kati, and John's family.

July 4th: Independence Day party with John's uncle?

July 5th: John and I fly back home and arrive in Oakland late at night.

Flight 217 H
Depart BALTIMORE-WASHNTN (BWI) at 07:50PM and
Arrive in OAKLAND CA (OAK) at 11:40PM

the wisdom of late afternoon IM...

me: Holy shit! The end is in sight! It's 4:15!
me: Heh; that just goes to show that it's only teens who appreciate 4:20
Danielle: I appreciate 4:20, but not nearly as much as I appreciate 5:00.

I love my reseservations......

I just made reservations at the Andrew Jackson Hotel on Royal St. in New Orleans for less than $70 a night... It's one block from Burbon St, and it has wrought-iron edged balconies and a gas-lit courtyard...
eeeeeeeeee! I am so excited!!!

http://www.andrewjacksonhotel.com/index.html

Now I just have to decide how much I want to stay on the strip in Vegas... I already bought tickets to go see Zumanity. Unfortunately, we'll be in row B, which is sort of three rows back. I want the dancers to come out and tease us... that's much easier when you're in the front row... Oh, well...

And I have to look for a decent hotel in Memphis, near Beale St...

WHoooooooooooooooooooo! Only two weeks 'till vacation!

scary rodents...

Recently, I have come across a few little interweb videos that share the theme of terrifying rodents.

I think it's the stars aligning, telling me that I should buy my own personal copy of Meet the Feebles.

First:
A commercial for Chicklets.

http://www.visit4info.com/details.cfm?adid=7183

And a lovesong from some interesting porcupines.

http://www.rathergood.kewlio.net/flash/thinking_about.swf

And, for those of you who aren't yet familiar with Meet the Feebles:

Well... You're out of luck, cause I couldn't get any trailers to work...
I guess you'll just have to rent it...

Aren't you now even more tempted to see Shannon's film? This is from the shooting of the trailer last weekend. 

What I'd look like dead....

The lovely Heathur took photos at the filming of the trailer for Shannon Lark's upcoming feature film, Indignation.

You can see the pics at her website.

http://heather.magnesium.net/gallery/indignation_trailer

Now I know what I would look like if I were abducted and killed by aliens.
It's spooky.

heee!

Smells like pussy! 

I totally want this!!!!

Check out the Juicy Meat necklace, barettes... And the glass heart brooches below, with the little stuff in them....
Yes, please!!!
I wonder if she'd make a glass heart necklace with a steak inside!!


http://www.faeriesmak.com/jewelry.htm

Yey, Birthday! Come to my freakin' party!!!

"he completes the circut" 

The MEAT hypnotizes you... You muuust come to my birthday party at Neurogenesix...  

COME TO MY BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!!

Well, I'm turning a quarter century this year, and thanks to the generosity of the WerePad, who are hosting a Neurogenesix club on May 6th, and the wonderful DJ Blau, who was so kind as to share the birthday-ness of her party with me, I get to have a huge birthday party!!!

Invite whomever you want!
$5 cover,
Cheap Drinks,
Come and help me celebrate my 25th Birthday!! Damn it, I haven't had a party in five years to celebrate, and this is a big one!

The WerePad is @
2430 3rd St.
Between 20th & 22nd

The WerePad has such a lovely high ceiling, the non-smokers won't be bothered by the smokers. There are also huge video screens, with fantoozle multimedia!!

DJs
Blau,
Glitch,
Orgnsm,
Sei'ichi
& Penguinoid
will be spinning dancing madness from Noise to Industrial, and even into the realms of some ridiculous remixes of hip-hop and pop...

Yeah; if you don't usually, you might feel more comfortable wearing black, and of course if you feel like dressing up like a zombie, you'll make me a very happy girl.

But mostly I would just LOVE to see all my old friends, and to have my folks from many different sectors of my life show up to help me celebrate.

Blog-reading strangers are also welcome, as long as you aren't sketcy, scary, or don't know how to not blatantly stare at women and not hit on them when they aren't giving you the green light. If you suck, we will kick you out bodily.

If you can't make it, consider spending lots of money on me (Amazon list for Amber Steele, or you could get creative... I like Mark Ryden and Jesus crap, or anything that looks like it came out of the Gray's Anatomy book), or maybe coming out to dinner with me on Saturday. But really, you should come and shake your bootay! WHoot!!

Sonny Barger, Hell's Angel Phoenix Arizona, 2002; the head of the Hell's Angels Oakland Chapter at the time of Hunter S. Thompson's book, "Hell's Angels" 

CULO!

Here's what I sound like when I'm bored, and IMing a friend who may or may not be online:

I'm bored.
me: And I was bored all afternoon at work.
me: and my housemate is out of town, so my boyfriend said a couple of days ago that he would use this evening to "fuck [me] all over the house".
me: But instead, he is at his house doing laundry.
me: I suppose I shouldn't bitch, since I've been getting it once or twice a day for the past few weeks, but I am bored.
me: BOOOOORED.

I'm fascinating, non? Hee hee..
Well, at least I can blog at you folks. I'm listening to "Culo" by Pitbull. WHoot! CULO! I don't even know what that means. Herm.. Maybe I can find a dictionary of Spanish slang for you... Well; I did, but it isn't quite as detailed as I might've hoped. Here goes:

culo (noun, masc.) ass

CULO! How appropriate.

On a more serious note, I did have a Hunter S. Thompson's work hits real life moment. I'm reading "Hell's Angels" right now, which is weird because it's an early work of his, and so it isn't very Gonzo. But a good read, nonetheless. A lot of the book deals with the Angel's image as created by mass media, and the reactions to it that both general society and the Angels had. For the general public, this was, of course, an extremely negative association. But this book was written about the 1960's; in fact the main events covered in the book happened 40 years ago, almost exactly. And I am aware that the Hell's Angels are still known as the toughest motorcycle gang around, but also that they don't really exist in the way that they used to back then. You certainly don't hear about gangs of bikers wreaking havoc on a town anymore. Now the hoodlums of the decade are gangsters in the sense of African-American people from the ghetto.

Yet today, up on Parnassus at the hospital, a huge man riding a Harley. He was clean, wearing light colored clean clothing and a skull cap, with a large cigar hanging out of his mouth. He looked kind of jolly with all of his belly and his open face. On his bike, he moved gracefully over to the side of the road, talking to the people on the sidewalk, asking for directions. I realized that H.S.T. had been absolutely correct about the way that these men were entirely different beings off of their motorcycles than they are on them. Of of his bike, this man's weight alone would make him lumbering, perhaps slow, perhaps slamming each heel down in front of him, giant like, joints squealing under the stress. But on his bike, he flowed, comfortably sitting upright, a friendly voice curling its relaxed American tenor around his cigar. I couldn't hear what he was saying at first; he was about five yards from where I was sitting, stuffing my face with my classic tuna sub. But I could see the body language of all of the twenty- and thirty-something med students and residents as they steered themselves away from the curb. Heads dropped, and the motorcyclist began calling out to specific people as the crowds tried to walk an extra two feet away from him.

The biker called out to a young man, probably approaching thirty, with a healthy head of curly brown hair, a strong body, broad shoulders and nearly six feet on his frame. The young man looked down at the sidewalk a couple of times before he could no longer avoid the attention he was getting, then walked over to hear the biker's question. He shook his head, not knowing whatever the biker had asked him. The biker had removed the cigar from his mouth, but people were still finding him unintelligible, probably because they were too afraid to make eye contact with him, or to let themselves hear what he had to say, and therefore feel obligated to answer him. It occurred to me that he should get off of his bike; he was in a loading zone, and people were obviously intimidated by his presence on the motorcycle. The biker pulled a couple more yards down the street, only to get the same treatment. Just before he pulled away and drove off down the street, the wind blew a bit of his question into my ear, and as he roared off politely, I realized what it was he'd been asking for.
I heard him say,
"505 Parnassus?"
The last person said the number of the building I was sitting in front of, so at least he'd tried, I suppose. But 505 Parnassus was the giant hospital right across the street. The main hospital. The biggest building there. The building that probably every employee and student has to go into at least once a week for something or other. And they'd all been so afraid of this tender-looking, brightly t-shirted, clean Harley rider. Not wearing colors. Not wearing any darkly symbolic insignia. Just a big guy with a skull cap and a cigar, riding a Harley, asking for the most incredibly simple help. He was probably trying to visit someone.
Culo-holes.

Check out my HAWT rubber skirt. YOU LOVE IT!! but not as much as I love Bonni!!! 

Here are John and I in our hot uniforms. I am soooo happy that he's my man. Yey!!! He's my favorite munky, and he rawks. Beware of our imminent fashion takeover. 

Here is The Last Rabbit by Mark Ryden. I am not very interested in the woman in the picture, but I am madly in love with the sad, sad, bunnie. How could you not be? I think he should become friends with the little girl from the Butcher Bunny. 

This is Butcher Bunny by Mark Ryden. More details on my tattoo plans at the bottom of the preceding post.... 

Today, spring broke like the water of a woman two weeks overdue. I just walked home from BART in the soft evening sunshine, nostrils full of the warm scent of wisteria and jasmine in full, manic bloom. The small roses have all bloomed, and there were giant, white-tipped red tulips straining up at the baby blue sky... It made me realize once again how rarely I get home in time to enjoy nature. Not that I dislike coming home at night, but the smells and colors of a dwindling afternoon are much appreciated after months of strutting home in the nervousness of shadows with the idea of a rapist still in the area.

On a lighter note, however, I went to a talk this week that was taking place at UCSF. It was called PIERCED, INKED, & MODIFIED: BODIES & IDENTITY, presented by Dr. Victoria Pitts. Since she was having problems with the projector at first, she gave us the sense that we were missing lots of pictures, but I really didn't see as many as I expected when the problem was finally fixed. Here's an excerpt from the email I sent to my friend who let me know about the talk:

The speaker was a young woman doctor who did a pretty good job of looking at differing viewpoints on body modification. But in general, it was rather too broad of a talk for one hour. She had a really nice stance about insisting that plastic surgery, electro peels, diets, etc. were also forms of body modification. She set the public acceptance of these actions against piercing, tattooing and branding in order to point out the rational disconnect in society's alienation towards "alternative" body modifications. At the end of the talk, an older woman was just pushing at her with a question, trying through repetition to get Dr. Pitts to state that there is sickness (mental) involved in body mods. Dr. Pitts answered rather nicely that her rule was whether the body modification expressed or produced suffering that was the measure of whether it is unhealthy.

Oh, I wasn't very saucy... i could've piped up... My rule is always whether people make sure that they heal properly, and whether after going through an experience that causes pain and changes the body, do they respect their body more, care for it, keep the wound sterile, and honor what their body has allowed them to experience? Because lots of folks don't take good care of their piercings/tattoos. Lots of folks just get the same tattoos as everyone else, and treat the ritual/act of body modification like accessorizing with make-up. That seems to me to be a rather disrespectful and careless way of treating one's body. On the other hand, through respect, one's body modifications can be celebration of individuality and the power of self.

Another thing that I noticed was the focus on appropriation of other cultures' (those that white westerners think of as tribal) symbols and texts, and how that plays into the same exoticising of foreignness that we've been guilty of since colonialism. This is an interesting (but obvious?) question. And I wonder more about what it means to intellectually/academically ignore the majority of tattoos, which are in fact based on plenty of very modern american things. This seems to me to be another sign of "whiteness" being considered a cultural blankness. Sure, there is a wealth of cultural appropriation that takes place, but what about the trends in realistic tattoos, celtic tattoos (of course, this could be considered cultural appropriation as well), pin-ups, fantasy, gothic, metal, biker..... And yet those are all ignored for some reason...

I'm super excited about my next tattoo. I'm either going to fill my arm with the heart on it in so that it's a short sleeve, or start in on my left upper arm with a lovely collage of Mark Ryden's work. I definately want The Last Rabbit, as well as many different parts of The Butcher Bunnie; the little girl, perhaps holding out her hand to touch the last rabbit's ear instead of Abe Lincoln, the meat, some of his bees.... I'm super excited. Yey! Here's a link to Mark Ryden's site, if you'd like to know what I'm talking about. I would theive a pic with this link, but they're pretty well protected, so....

Ooooh! I just found a place to snatch them from; I'll post them for you all to see...

(by the way; Mozilla isn't letting me use the spell check, so please forgive me...)

Ahhh.... nothing like googling oneself... hee hee..

So; for shits and giggles, I googled myself. And low and behold, someone was confessing their crush on me. So I posted back. Hee hee... I can't wait to see the responses from here....

And to share them with all of you!!

http://www.fahrvergnugen.net/archives/2004/06/29/zombies/

this is what Bonni's music feels like....

My friend wrote me that she feels like s&m has walked out the door of her life, and that it just takes honesty to get inside of her, instead of having to break down the walls with pain. But I feel like I am going backwards from that space; the walls are building themselves up inside of me, like a little girl is crawling up into my stomach and hiding herself in the wet walls of my insides. And it seems like there is nothing but the tearing of those walls that would make her come out and scream and cry and feel the fresh air so that I could feel young and free. There is just so much I don't want to deal with right now. My whole life has been changed, at least for the next year. All of the schools said no, so I won't be moving, won't have a reason to quit my job and travel, won't have an arbitrary situation that cues me to finally call 'bullshit' on John for disappointing me... It's like I'm in the middle of a lake, and all I want to do is float here in the water, where nothing can reach me except for the soft motions of the tide, and if I let my head slip underwater, I can't hear the people and obligations that are screaming for me to come back to the shore. And it's so calm underwater, but my fingers are pruning, and my hair is getting tangled in my face, and I can't move myself quickly with the water pushing all around me. But it's so quiet, and so calm... and I know I should come back for air, and let my skin dry so that I don't rot, but I just want to sleep, to float in the comfort of unconsciousness.

watch what you mutherfucking wish for.

I just heard from UCSC today. Nope. That makes all three of the grad schools I applied to. All of them. And I can't even tell you about how awful the situation that Bonni is in was. I'm trying to advocate for her a little bit; I called the news today, hoping that they'll get down on that shithole that they sent her to. It's outfuckingrageous. We sat all day with her on Friday, watching the med assistants and orderlies come into her room and look around the curtain at the 101 year old deaf and mute lady with a look on their face that said, "I think... uh... she looks... uh.."

Yup, she was dead all day. And it took them all day to bring other people in to check to make sure that she was dead. They're also denying Bonni the drugs she's prescribed half the time (maybe because they're taking her oxycontin and dilaudid themselves, hmmm?), but sometimes giving her the shot in her leg to thin her blood three times instead of two per day, (maybe because no-one is washing her properly or moving her every couple of hours, so she's at risk of bed sores and staph infections, hmmm?)... Well... that's only the beginning of the crap. Like when they emptied her catheter and didn't close it, so by morning time her piss was all over the floor. How about that, huh? Or the doctor who didn't call her perscription in to the pharmacy? And then came by and told her she'd be getting speech therapy. That girl has absolutely nothing wrong with her speech. She talks more than a speed freak, and is still as incredibly fucking hilarious as she's ever been. She made us laugh about all of that crap most of the time we were there. But she can't fucking move herself or walk. What the fuck does she need speech therapy for, huh?
I want to kill. Tomorrow I'll be contacting M.A.D.D. Who would have ever thought that, huh?

This week makes me violent.

But you should buy Bonni's album; it is fucking amazing. Swans and Twin Peaks influences can be heard, samples, and her amazing performances... I love it.

www.fearofdolls.com

This site will also link you to the fund for her benefit, although you can donate at any Washington Mutual to the account for the Benefit of Bonni Suval.
Do it.

distractions....

Oh my goodness... what in the world am I going to do without livejournal??!! It's so intensely sad that I am freaking out over my lack of LJ... damn maintenance. SHeESH!
And now that I've read CURLY GIRL already today... Herm...

It's pretty sad when you're waiting for work to come in. I suppose I can find some more poop to do... I think there's still a pile of mystery paper somewhere for me to go through and sort... Herm... Or I could triple re-sort the drawers... Or play with ACCESS... Maybe that's what I'll do; I'll try to make a query to find out what paperwork I can send far, far away to the land of storage. Ah, work. Dontcha love it?

At least tonight I can go to ~hopefully~ the new Burlesque class with my lovely super-friend, and then we could go and shake it at DG... Oh, the bumpin' and a-grindin' tonight. We're gonna dance the cooch!

I am really enjoying HBO's Carnivale, for those of you undecided about whether or not to watch it. It does start a bit slowly, but it's picking up nicely, fun to watch the characters... I like it. I wanted to put in a picture of the girls doing the cooch, but I can't seem to find one...

Okay; I'm going to jockey some database, baby.

See me dance!

So, upon request, here is the reel that I am in for the dance class!!

http://pthproductions.com/demos.html

It's quicktime only right now, but there's a link to free downloads on that page.

Where's the hope for White Chocolate?

I heard from the women that I took self defense class with that the man who has assaulted one woman on her doorstep and beat the shit out of her, and raped another woman at gunpoint three blocks from my house has raped another woman. And yet a careful of young men thought it would be a good idea just now, in the pouring rain and darkness of my corner, to stop their car at the intersection and yell at me, "Hey there, white chocolate!" and not drive away. And I really didn't feel like running into a different apartment building or something, like perhaps I should've so that they wouldn't see where I live. But now I'm thinking of taking the IMPACT Weapons course, so I'll have a better idea of what to do if I run into that guy.
There are some things that I just don't want to think about.
I was on my way home from a meeting with my dance teachers, who brought all of the dancers together to make the possibility of paid work seem more real, so that they can get a better sense of commitment from us. It made me feel scared. I think it is because I'm at a place in my life where everything seems so up in the air; my whole life can change based on how my grad school applications are responded to, this puts my job and relationship in jeopardy, and makes me feel crazy because I feel most safe when I can plan things in my future. But I can't plan much, because I don't know whether I will have to possibly start school in the summer or fall. And I don't know if I can rely on my relationship, I don't know what to do about having a job that wants to be able to make me commit to it, but won't know for months whether they can commit to me, and I don't know if I will be able -- or want to -- commit to it. And here come my dance teachers, who I want to respect and trust, dangling the opportunity of a dream life of performing, even just part time, that may or may not happen, that I may or may not be able to commit enough to depending on where my future may or may not lead me. And it's terrifying for them to say to me; trust us; give us your all; when I really want to, but know that it isn't certain. It makes me super emotional and scared.
But, on the other hand, I do know that I can rely on myself. And what they are asking from me is mostly that I discipline myself; commit to getting back into shape, and stay that way. It certainly isn't the idea of committing to rehearsals and performances that weirds me out; when I know I have a show going on, then being there for rehearsals and changing my life to work around that schedule is a given. What is really frightening to me is putting my hope on the line. Probably because I have so much hope out there already; school, relationship, moving, traveling.... And all of these things are somewhat out of my control right now; I've done most of what I can in those situations, for the time being. But to hope for dance; it requires such an immense amount of discipline and hard work and sweat and tears and pain that it's really hard to commit to without supporting that commitment with a large amount of hope and exaggerated expectations.
I suppose that I should take my own advice from earlier today, and think of my friend who has come to the bay area and created for herself the beginnings of a career in film, from which she is actually making enough money to get by on. It's stunning, really, what she's done. And I am nervous about putting myself in that venerable position of testing how good I am, since in some ways that feels like what I am doing with my grad school applications.
Isn't there some way I can flush some of this fear and anxiety out of myself and get back to the bravery that I know is inside of me? I know there must be... I just feel like my soul needs a hot sauna and a thorough scrubbing. But how?

"Did you see what God did to us?" ~Dr. Gonzo, Hunter S. Thompson

No more Hunter S. Thompson. There was a lovely article in the SF Chron today about HST, I particularly appreciated David Kipen's acknowledgement of the time it will take for HST's literary reputation to recuperate after his suicide. The conservative bastards who will waggle their chicken-greased "I told you so's" and crumby cruciform "You see what happens when you break the rules??" all over the glory of his writing for many condescending years to come. Ironic that the iconic flaunter of freedom from America's pressures to conform should be so impinged upon by the expectations of society in regards to such a basic, personal freedom as the choice of life or death.

The moral of this story is: You should read his books. And if you need reminders as to why you should read his books, you can look at some of my older entries.

http://curlyripemeat.blogspot.com/2004/07/moore-mad-thompson-please.html

http://curlyripemeat.blogspot.com/2004/07/whats-wrong-with-america.html

Herm... I was just re-reading some of my stories from my visit to Vegas. I really, really want to go back there, and soon. I wish the hotel roomage were cheaper. I need to make friends with some folks who work in a Casino. I want to go and see Zumanity again. And there is a large road trip in honor of HST leaving San Francisco and Los Angeles for Vegas on March 24th. They're encouraging people to rent red convertables and REALLY do it up. I'm tempted, actually. I suppose I should email the guy... Here was the post I saw on LJ:

"We're leaving San Francisco and Los Angles for Vegas on Thursday night (March 24th, 2004]. Meeting up in Barstow. Thursday night.

Then on to Vegas.

Bring your own red convertable and ether jar.

No really. We're doing this. Email: propaganda@thoughtpolice.com

I'll see you before the bats see me.

Forward this. Put it on your blog. Post it somewhere cool.

I haven't had a two-week hangover in a few years.

Let's party and show the man we'll miss him."

Now, doesn't that sound tempting?
Hermmm.....

I heart bonni.

I'm sitting at work with nothing to do, and so I am pretending not to be blogging by writing this out in an Outlook email. Heh. It's been a little bit ... foreboding-?- to think about writing about Bonni. The sad truth of the matter, if you haven't already heard from me, is that she was hit last week by a car while she was crossing the street, and now she's in the hospital in a full body brace. She's going to be okay; she broke lots of important bones, but somehow managed not to splatter her innards, which is good.

There was a cabbie who saw it happen, and chased the hit + run Cadillac through town, onto a highway, over a bridge at 85 mph, while radioing in to the cops, who caught the guy because of it. And it's pretty fabulous that the guy will go to jail for what he's done to one of the most amazing, talented, beautiful women in the world. But he's been arrested before for drug offenses, driving drunk, driving without a license... So there doesn't seem to be much chance that he will somehow have managed to get insurance that will help with Bonni's plight. And Bonni was a retail slave, so she certainly didn't have any insurance. The hospital is trying to help her, there have been talks of bands playing benefits for her, and there is an account that people can donate to. Please, please do!! You just go to Washington Mutual and ask for the account under her name, Bonni Suval.

But all of these things won't even begin to cover the frustration and anger she has at having her life fucked up. She was just starting to make things work for her in New York, she had come to Seattle to play a show with her band in honor of their CD being released, and things were finally going good for her. And she deserves things to go well for her. Her quota of shit for this lifetime had been filled years and years ago. So, she finishes her concert, and crosses the street just a few hours later to be smashed into with a "sickening thud," after which she flies through the air and lands on the sidewalk and refuses to wake up. Who would want to wake up after that? I'm sure parts of her wish that she were in a coma through this healing process she's embarking upon.
He broke her tailbone, her back, her femur, her arm, her scapula. He fractured her ribs and her skull. And now she has to be in the hospital for probably at least three months, where well-meaning nurses try to change her body-brace, not realizing that it's attached to her leg. Bonni is a hardcore motherfucker. When she is sick with pain, you know she's not talking about some measly triple-root-canal-/quintuplet-birthing sort of pain.

You sick, sick fucking world.

And here I am, lusty with my drive again. Last night was the first time in 8 months that I've smiled in the middle of painful dance class exercises. And it felt good. I thought about the results of my grad school applications, and realized that I will be okay no matter how they turn out. Because, if I don't get in, I'll just apply to another school, and another school. And maybe it will take me an extra year to actually get to grad school. But there just isn't any reason for that to freak me out. In a couple of weeks, I will be next to my broken bonni, and I get to tell her that her life is going to be okay again, and that she can pull it back together after being tied to a sterile rack for three months. And I better believe it. That is my job. I can handle a possible postponement of my schooling, even though I've spent the last eight months thinking that I would lose it if it doesn't work out the way I want it to. But that's just ridiculous, because it could've been me walking across the street and getting hit and run. At least I have insurance, and job security. And I can handle some changes of plans.

I think that being reminded of that is making me feel a whole lot better about life.

She used to "trick" me into these situations... this time we had to do a photo shoot. Another time, it was for her performance art. Ah; the art of Bonni.. 

This is the Vampire Bat that my cousin, Cooper drew. His lovely mommy sent it to me as a Valentine. Yey!!! See, my influence stretches even though I haven't seen him in two years!! Hurrah! 

The Bonni is beautiful. Even when La Bete has scratched her nose. Schtinky wouldn't let that happen to her. 

Me and the lovely Bonni showing off our then-brand new tattoos... I love the Bonni!!! 

Crayzee watch...

On Tuesday? I think... I had a day full of crazy ladies. And not in the rollicking, vodka-drinking hotties sort of way, either. The first one was at work. She was really sweet, and really, she wasn't that crazy. It was mostly that she was about 40, and wearing pink pants with little dirt stains on them, and a banana clip in the side of her greasy, brown hair, diagonally holding a clump of hair behind her ear. And she talked sort of like a ten year old girl. She and her-- husband? son's baby-mama's (giving birth that day, which was why she was there,) daddy?-- were hanging out in the smoking shelter, and she commented on my shoes. She said things like "those are really cool. I like them. Those are cool. Yeah, I like cool shoes." And she was missing some teeth. In fact, she was missing almost half of her teeth. EVERY OTHER TOOTH was gone. Not a whole clump of them in one spot, but every other tooth. It looked kind of like she just had some really big gaps between her teeth. Man; at least floss wouldn't get stuck in there.
Later, I took the shuttle to the BART station at 16th and Mission, and there were some characters there, too. Immediately as I stepped on the sidewalk, an Hispanic woman came trundling past me, yelling, "those black bitches better stop talking shit! They better shut the fuck up! Those black bitches! They better stop talking shit!" She was wearing a knee-length skirt, and seemed to be totally speeded out of her mind. And, on each shin, she had at least 7 nickel-sized, black abscesses.
Then, I crossed the street, and stood next to a big young white boy-punk who had a little natural-red mohawk, and was playing electric guitar with a little amp in his backpack. He was playing Sabbath riffs, which was pretty damn sweet, so I stood next to him. Over his chords, I heard the voice of the next lady in question. She was tall, over-skinny, and African American. She was wearing clean clothes, but looked fairly cracked out, and got very excited about discovering an abandoned sleeping bag. "I got soooo much boogers!" she said, "I got boogers for sale! Come get your boogers for sale! You can pick 'em out! All kindsa boogers! Boogers for sale!!"
Ahhh, commuting.....
On a good note, the guy who I'm not working with has been deemed unable to return to work by his doctor. He'll be out at least a month, and he wants to go on disability, so this is good for him, too. They're putting me up to full time, and letting me be fairly flexible with my hours, although I will have to set them. eew. I'm great at working, I just don't feel very excited about having to worry about being late, ya know? Especially when I have a commute that varies by up to an hour, depending on whether I walk to BART, which train I catch, and whether--like today, both ways--I miss a shuttle and have to wait an extra 20 minutes for the next one. Poop. But all in all, it's a good thing, and if the gods of bureaucracy smile down upon me, I will get yet another raise/promotion. yey!
Here's hoping....

I like to torture myself, you see. And so yesterday, I went to the Berkeley Humane Society and pet the kitties. I pet so many kittes!!!!!!!!!! Weeeee! But then I came back to the cage where these boys were. They looked so scared and shy when I first looked at them, but when I turned to go, Issac mewed at me; a little purry-meow, softly, a few times. So, I got permission to close the door and open the cage, and they poured out of the cage and curled around me. Issac touches his nose to your lips when you make kissy-face. He also comes when you ask him to. Alexander likes to play with rainbow colored string-on-a-stick (see? they really are in love), and both of them let you pick them up and hold them and put your face in their fur. I love them so much, I would've adopted them on the spot, but I can't have kitties until I move. WAAAAAAaaaaaaah! 

R.I.P. Cat

My fishy died on Saturday of a horrible, disfiguring fungus. His name was Cat, and he was named after the creature that evolved from Lister's pregnant kitty after a million years on a radioactive space ship called Red Dwarf. I love my fishy. He was a beautiful goldfish, black with sparkley, golden belly scales, a flowing, luxurious tail, and big googley eyes. He was a gregarious fishy; he loved to swim up to the front of the tank and stare back at his visitors. When I would come in every morning to feed him, he'd be all perky and full of love. People who came to visit often noted how he was the sweetest, prettiest, most wonderful fishy they'd ever seen.
I miss my fishy.

I wish I had a picture...

So, my friends Siobhan and Danielle and I were driving down San Pablo, back to my house one evening after a shopping trip, when we saw the not uncommon sight of a sex-worker standing on the meridian. She was tall, gangly, and wearing jeans, a low-cut shirt and a parka to fend of the cold. Her hair was blond, stringy and hanging to her shoulders, and she looked like she'd been hooking for about ten to twenty years. She was also wearing a necklace. A gold chain, with a three-inch pendant, which lay askew on her chest. It was a heart of gold.

the Backlog...

So, the picture below represents only about a fifth of the backlog of things that I am updating in this office. There are probably about 40 files there. The guy I work under just doesn't do anything. He only has to work four hours a day, and yet he only manages about three work-related emails and a fourty-five minute cigarette break each day. He surfs the web, spends time clicking on all twelve of the "click here and we'll send money to the rainforest" websites, checks the weather in his home town...
The pile of paper below may all be trash, accidentally sent to our office. All he has to do is plug in a number off each 3-25 page clump, and then write a little note on the post-it that I've already attached that says, "yes" or "no". Then, we can throw out all of the "no" papers, and I can do the rest of the job. In three weeks, he has looked at 2. (I have done 100, plus five other things to each one.) Then, after whining about whatever comes to mind for 25 minutes on the clock, he goes home and takes a nap.
We have to share a desk most of the time, and it's covered in dust, piles of unorganized papers, his hair and his cat's hair.
YUUUUCK.
Man; I so deserve his job.

Sooo... I am working for a guy who is on half-time disability for unknown reasons. Really, I think he's a whiner who has burnt himself out enough to have physical reactions.