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  i'm your napoleon and you are my josephine

when bratmobile met elastica at a cure concert, this happened.
  ¶ 9:05 PM

  nanowrimo gets shot to hell

so, between this visit and that, plus this thing and the other, i never got my 50,000 words in. but i had a good start, and i see no reason not to finish the thing. maybe by christmas.

i've been thinking about stories so much since i started to write this novel. a great writer once told me that the five things you must remember when writing are these: sex, family, money, mystery and god. just remember this, he said: "'my god,' said the banker's daughter. 'i'm pregnant. i wonder who it was.'"

i think that's what makes it's a wonderful life so enjoyable. and the Bible, too, come to think of it.  ¶ 7:56 PM

  when you need a lift

if you're a girl . . .

come see me at the 71st stop Victoria's Secret in Queens and i'll sell you a very sexy push-up in red satin.

if you're a boy (or you just can't make it to NYC) . . .

see joe dirt: especially if you're from TAC. camoes of santa paula plus an all star cast including christopher walken and the "jump to conclusions" guy from office space.

you'll go to bed happy.  ¶ 9:37 PM

  laid bare

i didn't write this.

you sillyhead! who are the first and second best men he has ever met? because you know, it's so very important to me! no joke sillyass. listen, marian! i'm at the crossroads right now. i have to decide what the heck i'm all about. what am i going to do after TAC? give me advice- you owe it to the rest of humanity! no man is an island unto himself, marian. ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee! listen! what's your NAME? look, marian! it would appear that history deserves not one sigh. listen, you are silly. you have been for as long as i've known you . . . the patio light lights up the right side of the birch in the window. it's sweating profusely. it's covered in water. somehow i know it's moving down - but the rain is only white when it catches the patio light. i cut off sight, open sounds and hear the most organic music. motion. wet. a spilling out. a covering - touching everywhere. you can't dodge or move from it's reach. it's subsiding now. i'm catching my breath. my heart is slowing and becoming even. control switches. look, i'm thrown about. listen, it's not not. here, let's make it simple: what had control? what has control? what will have control? what should have control? give me all four answers. NOW!!

john marie wrote that. new years, approx. some years ago.  ¶ 6:13 PM

  for when you feel old and tired

This drink is called the Happy Youth.

1 oz. cherry brandy
3 oz. chilled orange juice
1 tsp. sugar
top w/ chilled champagne

Best with PG Wodehouse.  ¶ 1:21 PM

  if you're a boy, don't read this post.

"i hate the TV" -- violent femmes.

okay. i have never lived in a house with cable TV before i moved in with pat and rich and i have a question about commercials- why do tampon commercials always show tan, happy, thin girls in pools splashing around, basically saying "yay!!! i'm luckier than paris flipping hilton!!! i'm on my period!! wahoo!!"

i sit in my cold apartment drinking cheap beer and smoking expensive cigarettes and scratching my head.

i just don't understand advertising.

corollary: last night i was in H&M and they had a live DJ spinning, a la Zoolander -- "relax. spend money. relax. spend money." that wasn't what he was really saying of course, but that's what he was supposed to *say* to us.

. . . . and i'd like to thank my parents, who do not know about this blog, but who always told me TV was evil. they were so right.  ¶ 5:58 PM

  subway

this morning the subway was particularly filthy, the floor covered in some unidentifiable fuid, leaves of newspaper everywhere.

the ads that ran around the top of the car said "savor every detail."

i'm savoring, i'm savoring.  ¶ 11:40 AM

  modest radio city music mouse

radio city music hall is a grand old theater up the street from st. patricks cathedral. its winding staircases, mirrored lounges and mezzanines make you think of balls and operas in russian novels. gorgeous.

the ceiling of the theater is a huge golden dome, concentric art deco circles eminating from a stage. walking up to a third row seat is like being invited up to olympus for tea, and having ares as your ride.

the first band was a trio of british soldiers. i can't remember their names. they were terribly charming, from the their spitshined boots to their handlebar moustaches. they played punk rock music the way it was meant to be, the way it was before blink 182 was a twinkle in their daddy's eye: loud, fast, pure. heavy blues influence. they covered hendrix and the who. like the white stripes, only talented, and less gimicky.

then modest took the stage. they got float on out of the way immediately, and played a medly of old favorites before closing with an extended, raw, velvety version of cowboy dan. (john marie smiled.)

boy was i ever floating. if you ever get the chance: see modest mouse, or radio city music hall, or st. patricks, or all of the above.   ¶ 9:20 PM

  confetti

the real queen of new york city (pogues, fairy tale of new york) is getting married this saturday. my heart is with her.

  ¶ 9:28 PM

  nanowrimo and my other job

10,071 words. but i'm going to be late for work tomorrow, i can just feel it. i'm going to look like a secret victoria shoulda kept.

cool word:

mo no to no us

best word:

pants

love word:

face
  ¶ 9:25 PM

  healthy & wealthy & wise

look out kid/it's something you did/god knows when/but you're doin' it again . . . keep a clean nose/watch the plain clothes/don't need a weather man to know which way the wind blows . . . .

-- dylan

an old man sans teeth crooned songs on the subway platform. i took out my headphones, just to see. sure enough, the guy was good. i was actually fighting back tears during his rendition of moon river complete with a harmonica solo.

a mother gave her big eyed boy a dollar to drop in the man's guitar case. "where's your guitar today?" she asked.

the bum drew himself up and adjusted his shabby belt. "it was stolen from me," he said. "a man came running down here like he was on --" he glanced at the boy "-- on some kinda substance-- a' he took my guitar . . . my only guitar, an' i ain't getting another until i gotta place to lay m'head. an' i ain't gettin another guitar, understand, til i gotta place to lay my head an' the guitar is right there next to me safe. b'cause it meant something to me, that guitar, an' i don't like to put those things in danger. an' i don' wanna nother til i got a place to lay m'head." tears sprang to his eyes. "that guitar was all i had, an' i don't want another just yet, and . . . don't even say nothin' to me bout guitars."

a one-armed bum with his own change cup came wandering by from the other side of the subway.

"hey, jerry," he said, conversational, one bum to another, like coworkers everywhere. "hey jerry," he said. "what happened to your guitar?"

  ¶ 7:43 PM

  pop quiz

what's worse than PBR?

PBR with the tops of the cans so dirty your fingers turn black with one swipe.

what's worse than that?

beer that tastes like soap.

what's worse than that?

writing for NaNoWriMo sober.

what's worse than THAT?

realizing you're probably an alcoholic.

what's worse than THAT?!

recognizing you're probably not going to do anything about it anytime soon.
  ¶ 7:21 PM

  it's a sin not to do it

if this book is really true to the doctrine, it's probably worth it's weight in gold.
  ¶ 9:59 AM

  rip

amen.  ¶ 8:35 PM

  nanowrimo, baby

1543 words so far.

i just hope they're good ones.  ¶ 8:30 PM

  three shorts regarding voting

Mom, Kansas City.

mom: . . . so, let's see, i'll pray that you find your real dream job, and i'll buy you a ticket home for christmas . . . was there anything else? oh, yes. vote.

me: but i don't want to vote! i don't believe in abortion OR war.

mom: oh, marian.

me: i think i might vote for the pope.

mom: well, i'm sure he would be a great president, but he has too much on his shoulders as it is.

me: that's true . . .

mom: just don't vote for kerry.

Boyfriend, Monetery.

me: what do i do? all my artist friends, including my grandmother, will look at me, stricken, as if to say how could you?! if i vote for anyone but kerry. but i might get disowned by my parents and kicked out by my roommates if i don't vote for bush.

peter: that's why the booths are private, marian-face.

me: i'm in agony. i don't know what to do. i'll only vote if you go to confession.

peter: that wasn't the deal. if i go to confession, you have to come visit.

me: i want a new deal. i think this is more fair. i'll only vote if you go to confession.

peter: no deal. but you have to vote. how would triumph the insult dog feel if you didn't?

George, aged about 12, Santa Paula.

george: hello?

me: hi, is austin there?

george: no.

me: oh. well, this is marian, i don't know if you remember--

george: marian! hi!

me: hi. happy election day.

george: thanks.

me: i was calling to ask austin's permission to vote. see, we never have, and we sort of had a pact, but i think i'm going to vote, so i just wanted to tell him that.

george: oh. you should come visit. i haven't seen you in forever.

me: i'd like that. well, i guess i'd better go vote, then.

george: okay. i love you.

me: i love you, too. bye.

  ¶ 1:06 PM