Things You Thought You Heard Wrong, but Didn't

Haa hahaaahaaa hhahahha haaa aha hoo. Gulp, whew.

I was sitting here typing an e-mail when James, my work-study kid, starting making weird sounds behind me. "Damn you, fanny-pack," I thought I heard. I swivelled in my chair and found James trying to stuff a paperback into a teensy-cute le Sportsac fanny-pack.

"Oh, that's what I thought you said." I eyed his pack with derision and amusement.

"Someday. Someday, they'll come back in and I'll be cool," he said.

Damnit, that kid is cute. [If he ever reads that sentence he will hate me forever 1. for calling him cute, 2. for calling him a kid--he's 19.]

And the Wiener is...

I promised undying love to the person who sends me a photo of the Pope's true face and low and behold, it was my boyfriend who accomodated me. Sigh. However, I did not pee at all. I think my heart palpitated and my innards feel gooshy, but no pee. Whew. So without further ado, I present his Evil Mon ChiChi Holiness, Benedict XVI...

Vocab, American Past-time, the Pope, Some Blasphemy, and Nickels

I am having a really hard time with the words "complement" and "compliment." My brain struggles to differentiate. I know I should just look the fuckers up and expand my brain, 'specially since I'm sitting in a library, but I want someone else to tell me.

Here's what I think:
--Baseball, sunshine, barbecues, and beer are very complementary. As are red and purple, biscuits and gravy, Hall and Oates.

--However, I am not fishing for compliments when I say that I am a lazy sot.

Hmmm...

Baseball--drunken cheers, hot dogs with breath-killing toppings, bat cracking, mitt slapping, tight uniforms, umpire ass. Oh my effing lord, I am so excited.

Speaking of the lord, a girl came into the library looking for a picture of B16 [the new pope.] I gushed about how creepy he is and she said "I know! Everytime he smiles I think he should have pointy metal teeth and a black tongue..." Bliss. If anyone sends me a glorious photoshopped image of this i will love you forever and probably pee myself with laughter and fright. If you happen to catch a photo of the real thing... Lord help us all.



Here's something weird. I pulled this nickel out of my pocket today:



It's from the Westward Journey nickel series. It's amazing to me how the government loves to commemorate the "triumphs" of the settlers over the land and people. It's icky, just icky.

Look into the light...

Okay, I know I promised, but this one is artistic. I don't know how Ben got them to stay on the scanner, but it worked beautifully.

The Squeaky Twins

ChimChim/PocPoc
Originally uploaded by SerenityRose.

So we got two kittens. They don't have names yet but we call the smaller one ChimChim and the bigger, darker one PocPoc. We can tell them apart, but I have a feeling that no one else ever will. sa nn ssddddaaa5 (That was PocPoc helping me type, but he likes the spacebar too much, so I made him leave.)

They don't mew at all. Instead, they squeak. Like a rubber squeaky toy, they emit a teeny peep. Unlike a rubber squeaky toy, it is very cute.

PocPoc decided to pee in the large plant by the window and ChimChim came to check it out. Ben tried to move PocPoc, but he'd had a lot to drink so he ended up peeing on ChimChim's head.

Hopefully we can come up with some better names because it would be a wee bit embarrassing if these ones stuck. I know how annoying it is when all people do is talk about their pets, so I promise to only do it if something spectacular happens. Such as ChimChim says "propaganda," or PocPoc learns to breakdance.

Tchotchkes

I am reading peoples' web-journals and thinking that instead of being blown away by the mundane, trivial, and quotidian things about which everyone writes, I am enthused and touched by these things. Sometimes life is mundane, but the random smile or found quarter or drinks with friends make the quotidian aspects much much more bearable. I know that no one really cares that I love the scent of paper goods, but Ashley thinks they smell like chicken poo. But when I read about others' excitement, or disappointment I feel... good. Think about how amazing it is that thousands of people are willing to share weird little factoids, their sadness, seemingly random occurences. No one may ever read what they write. Many may read their words. Journaling on the internet is a funny little leap of faith.

And so. I am reading journals and sipping a strange concoction of Seagram's 7 and ruby red--could have been a horrible mistake, but it's not too bad. Today Ashley gave me some paper and an idea. The paper is slightly rough to the touch, its caramel colored fibers breaching the surface here and there. It has grid-lines in green, I think, and they are very small. Someone donated two teeny books filled with Japanese No masks. Ashley thinks we should make a very small book of portraits. I like it.

On monday I head south to visit my sister in her new pad--heehee--and attend the opening of two friends' BFA exhibitions of photography. I am very excited to see the art and the sister, but not the Eugene. Cheers to old towns of pain and suffering. Oh wait! Here's to Sean, Meghann, Toshi's Ramen, Rennie's, um, Spencer's Butte...

Gut flop sickness.

Yesterday was beautiful. Sun, a few puffy fluffy clouds. I sat. And drooled stupidly into my book. I was insulating myself from the scary world. This is a stupid fucking pattern that I fall into when I am depressed or unmotivated. I need to find a second job. I sent an email to one of the dream establishments in my neighborhood. I should've followed up with a personal visit yesterday. But I didn't. I sat like a fat idiotic toad and read. It was a very good book.

Today I sent off two resumés via e-mail for postings I found on craigslist. Yay. I really need to swallow my fear and bullshit and actually talk to people. I am not good at that. Once I have the job, I am excellent with customer service, but whoring myself for the position is scary. I know it's not really whoring because seeing a face and having a chat makes all the difference. It's just that I have a problem with blushing and then sweating and then feeling like a complete idiot. Fuck.

What's the secret? Just do it? Fuckin' Nike.

So today I will go to work and be professional and pretend that this job that I love is enough, pays enough, is sufficient for living.

On another note: "Sail On" by the Commodores is a very good song.

XVI

Oh ~~*sigh*~~. I was just reading someone's blog (I think he's in high school) and he refers to the new pope as B16. That is simply beautiful. I'm sorry kid, but I am so stealing that.

The Ague

I find myself sitting at work and humming Depeche Mode. The older tunes. My palms are clammy and my brow is hot. I can feel the virus-ey buggers infiltrating my mucus membranes and slowing down my immune system. My epidermis crawls and small sounds make my entire being pulsate.

White blood cells, Red Alert! Department of Homebody Security reports Current Threat Level at Orange, quickly rising to Red! Alert!

Usually I fight off the cold with sheer cussedness and garlic capsules, but today the only effect I feel of the garlic is the occasional stinky burp. I hate being sick. Perhaps I can summon the elemental who can will it away.

Here's what I think:

1. Jhonen Vasquez is a brilliant graphic artist! His publisher. Also published "my" comic, Serenity Rose. Too bad that one sucked.

2. I need some citrus. Maybe I have scurvy.

3. I love Wikipedia.

4. I am really hot. Not like "woohoo, I am so hot!" I am roasting. Ashley thinks I'm going through menopause. Ha ha.

5. The new pope is scary. And I think he's a fascist. Literally.

Sometimes this world scares me.

Oh, I feel sick.

Oregon "Justices" nix 3,000 licenses.
[my quotes...]

The Water Closet from Heck

Once upon a time I thought it would be fun to make a coffee table book of Les Toilettes de Paris. (If anyone steals this idea, I will be very very displeased.) But after last night's experience, I begin to think that I may review and rate bars and nightclubs based upon their ladies rooms...

My Vinyl is So Black. Industrial/Goth music at Ararat. Actually, it was more like 80s music that no one ever danced to--even in the 80s. There were a few waifish belles doing the defiant flop, but for the most part everyone was too fashionably melancholy to submit to the indignity. [For those who know me, you will be surprised to know that I did not dance once, besides a demur head wobble and booty shake in my chair.] Either I was not drunk enough or I fall into the aforementioned category because at no time was I tempted to join the defiant floppers. Due to my aloof sitting I was able to slurp a few Bud Lights and watch the delicious show. The downside: Lots and lots of peeing. I had used the Ararat Ladies room on my previous trip, but I think that my BAC was sufficiently high to warrant convenient memory loss.

Upon entering the bathroom I noticed the office/hospital white and pink paint-scheme as well as the papier-maché/wasp's nest look of the walls and stalls. I chose the larger stall [with the door]. The door was giant square of pink and white that was hung on runners with a small brass handle in the center.

I tugged the door, but it resisted. I gave the door a nice yank and it came off its bottom runner and threatened to crush me. Once I realized that it was still attached at the top, I gently pulled it shut and commenced my business.

I am not an extremely strong or beefy person, but either I was running on Hulk strength or everything in that restroom was just on the verge of breaking. The toilet paper dispenser slid precariously when I pulled on the tissue and hung off the wall by one screw. I looked into the garbage as I was zipping up and there was a glass picture of a cartoonish peacock at the bottom of the bin, its frame yanked from its staples. What kind of crazy place is this?

A girl came in as I was fighting the violently scary water-faucet and she chose the doorless stall. When I tossed my paper towel in the bin I noticed that she was hovering 6 inches above the seat. [I really despise this "sanitary" practice since drunk girls usually end up peeing on the seat and leaving it for the next unsuspecting sitter.]

I really like Ararat, but I have decided to use the men's' room and lock the door from now on.

What is it with Portland bars having such deplorable peeing places?! There's a favorite PNCA watering-hole where the stall is so teeny, I had to leave my bag outside and sit with my knees crammed up against the door. I have oh so many more examples, that perhaps I should write a book or long essay. But would it help? I'll still go to Ararat and Yur's and so will the rest of the regulars. I guess that knowledge is helpful, but I'd really rather not plan my night around where I will and will not be able to pee. Dang!

Codename: Canary

Oh wow, I found this guy's stuff and it is amazing. We just got the new issue of Juxtapoz at the library and I always find really fun things. Click on the image below to see more kooky art.

Descent into Hell and Other Fun Things

This morning, in a fit of agitated hair-hate, the scissors appeared and I gave myself a little trim. Nothing shocking, but when my bangs get a little longer I should be able to prepare a lovely Charlie's Angels feather. I am desperately trying to grow my hair long, but it is trying. Oh yes, trying.

My mom says that the demons are pissed because Jesus went into hell and riled them all up. I love the Anastasis. This must be why the hair is sorely testing my patience. And if the Eastern Orthodoxers and the all the other Christians are right, Jesus just made his second descent of the year. (Pascha, or Eastern Orthodox easter is May 1.)

After enlivening my chi, I ate a beastly breakfast: scrambled eggs with fresh dill and parmesan on toast. Mmmm. Finished my inky coffee and got myself ready for work. So despite the demons, I am in an extremely good mood.

Here are some good things on the horizon:
I have been offered a space to show my photography in August. When I said "but you haven't even seen my work," he replied "you think I saw that guy's stuff before he hung it?!" Haha.

My friend Matt and I are now talking again.

The preview of Ramona is on Saturday. Directed by my friend Andrés Alcalá, and starring the illustrious Jessica Zodrow. (She's not Ramona, but her aunt.)

Summer hours for my library begin mid-May--hooray! No weekends! Glory.

I have delicious dhal and basmati rice for my work "lunch."


Detail from a 19th century Russian icon showing The Resurrection and Descent Into Hell with Feasts. haha. With Feasts. Yep, I love them icons.

Roses and Glaze

mug
Originally uploaded by SerenityRose.

I am drinking coffee from a satisfyingly cute mug. It's rotund little belly fits snugly in my palm and the narrow mouth gently regulates the flow of liquid. 'Course my drawing doesn't do it much justice. Perhaps it catches the inner nature of the mug.

Somehow this reminds me of a dream I had last night in which I was helping/dating (?) a man with a small child. I think she was his daughter, but he did not ever seem too interested in her. That's a shame because she was really very smart and funny.

Ben and I are considering having children. Furry, purry, snuggly children, that is. After my last pet fiasco, though, I think I am a bit gun-shy. I 'spose a mini-pinscher puppy is a lot crazier/difficult than a couple of kittens, but you never know. You never know.

Two points for the answers to the universe.

Recently I came across a pop quiz given to some students at Portland Community College. One of the questions in particular stood out with alarming alacrity.
The Class: Anthropology 103—Cultural Anthropology
The Question: What is Science? [Emphasis mine]
Knee-Jerk Reaction: Outrage, Hysteria, Indignation

But Why?
I actually had to ask myself why I was offended. Was it because, in high school, I would have still been offended, but too timid and Big Brother abiding to question the question? I would have respectfully decided that the teacher had knowledge that I did not and asking such a question must mean that they knew something secret and mysterious.

Now, at 28.5, my Bachelor of Arts reaching its 1st birthday, I am seriously annoyed that anyone would have the audacity to ask such a question of ADULTS! Granted, the “quiz” was given at a community college, but hadn’t I spent 3 years at said institution expanding my small-town atrophied meat-mass and learning the beauty of cheap school and critical thinking? We’re back to the other question: why am I so offended?

Is it a reflection on my intelligence and the gnawing fact that at 28.5 I still don’t encyclopedically know the answer to the question “What is Science?” My mind races with imagery of microscopes and pipettes, the solar system, mathematical equations and Linnaean taxonomy. And yet, I don’t have a definition. Sure, I know that science is that body of knowledge that deals with the physical world and uses ye olde scientific method, or empiric observation. But does that really answer the question?

Again I ask, “What is science?” One can’t simply define this concept as if creating a block in Jeopardy. I might as well ask “what is art?” Uh-oh.
Uh-oh meaning:
--That last question prompts me to digress/regress/egress into my most-loved diatribe/propaganda/rant about art, but I won’t. Not now.
--How on Earth/Saturn/Hades can one answer for a pop quiz, for 2 points, for a 100-level college course—What Is Science?!

Perhaps I read too much into the brain-numbing absurdity of this busy-work Anthropology quiz. Maybe the average student in this class—I’m guessing 17-20 years old—does not know, or really even care, about what science is. Whatever. I still find that for 2 points of 34, the vague yet enormous query “What is science?” is very offensively overwhelmingly inappropriate.

I {heart} Ryan Blomberg

My friend Ryan is the most beautifully painfully amazing artist. He made this little book once that made me cry. Just line drawings and a few words here and there. I have a copy of his 'zine "Take heart, with pinky raised," which I have added to library's 'zine collection. I have not seen much art lately that plucks at my nostalgia for a time that I never knew, reminds me of being a child, and the pangs of having to be a grown-up. His photography is inventive--sweet but prickly. I could go into what makes Ryan's art, his message, his psychology. But why? Why ruin such beauty with bullshit speculation? If you want to know what makes Ryan tick, why his imagery is such that it is, ask him yourself. I am content to look and love.

Ink and Silver

Oh lordy what a gourd!

Every child learns that it is impolite to stare. You mustn't stare at the invalid, the handicapped, the deformed. The world is full of rude people who will stare and make the less fortunate feel uncomfortable or sad. You must not stare.

I stare. I am curious. Mostly about things that I find strange. I am not interested in the man in the wheelchair, except for the cute one that I saw the other day. I have no need to ogle the woman with the fake leg, except the one in my neighborhood that I think is the local smack dealer. I stare. I do not do it to make anyone feel bad, it's just that some people are so weird I can't help myself.

Here are a few examples:
Men with ponytails. I'm not talkin' cute Asian guys or my friend Jason's pigtails. I mean the 30-something, hippie/REI patron who for some unknowable and, I'm sure karmic, reason chooses to wear his hair in a style that went out with powdered wigs. I think it's creepy. I spent some years in a town where the men [no matter the age] wore socks with birkenstocks, tie-dye, and ponytails. It's time to give it up. If you want the flowing locks, think Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire.

There was a woman in the library tonight attending an opening of an alumni show. She was rail thin but her head seemed enormous. "Look at the size of that melon," I thought. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the monstrosity was due entirely to her hair. A wig? A severely matted ratted sprayed infested wig? I just couldn't get close enough to tell. I knew that my incredulous staring would give me away as a gawker. An uncouth, impolite, rubbernecker. Well, she approached the desk to ask a question all the while tucking her chin to her chest and her eyebrows to the ceiling. Was she trying to keep the wig on? At one point she used her index finger to wipe away a strand of her bangs, I saw a few wisps of greyish hair at the scalp, but the wig did not move. Was it her real hair? All I can say is that wig or au naturel, if you wear hair like that, prepared to be looked upon with some awe.

[As a result of my extreme cowardice and parsimony I do not have any photos to share. I didn't want the scary lady to eat me if I took her picture, but I wouldn't be able to upload it anyway because I didn't pay extra for the service on my celly. Silly me.]

The longer I stare, the longer it seems to me that these strange lookers are strange doers as well. I guess it's down to the eternal question: which came first....? Do they behave strangely because they look strange and people stare? Or are they already strange and their appearances are just physical manifestations of their intrinsic nature?

I think I need to think.
Je pense donc je suis?
Je suis, donc, je pense?

Addenda:
Mullets
Large boobs
Tattooed faces