oh, the books I could fill with these babies...

stupid customer: "Can I please have a ticket for Savvi?"

employee: "Excuse me?"

stupid customer: "Savvi?"

employee: "um...could you point to the movie you want?"

stupid customer ::points to Saw VI::

employee: "Uh, oh. You mean Saw VI?"

no thanks

I've been sitting with this keyboard perched on my lap for 20 minutes now. In that time I have typed 3 opening sentences to this entry, all of which were frantically deleted into oblivion. Fuck me.

I won't reduce my recent lack of productive writing to any conveniently packaged "writer's block." In truth, it's tied more to a state of being that I loathe more than Stephanie Meyers. (In all fairness, I've never read Twilight. I am actually just that much of a snob.)

It pains me to even bring up the word. It's so ugly. But if you have to know, I haven't been writing because I am so damn BORED. Phew. I haven't said that since the fourth grade. It feel so juvenile to admit to boredom at my age, which is why I'd never ever say it aloud. Can you imagine what that would sound like? A twenty-three old woman who is supposed to be starting out, enjoying everything life has to offer...and she's what? Bored?

But I am. Bored with Buffalo. Bored with babies. Bored with cold weather and facebook status updates and people who talk about their cell phones.

You see, boredom is a killer precisely because it allows you to see how empty your life really is.

But, I think, if you can get over the fact that your life is mostly empty (or that you see it as mostly empty) then you can make a change. So that you won't be so bored. And then you could be excited about life again. And then you could get back to writing. And writing, in any amount, might be enough to keep you in the game.

santa's little helper

I don't give a hoot about all the negative crits out there. I thoroughly enjoyed Men Who Stare at Goats. George Clooney+Jeff Bridges+Kevin Spacey+Ewan McGregor...could you ask for more? Apparently, you could. But I wouldn't.

I am tempted by the following ad I found on Craigslist:

Santa's and Elves Wanted!

You bring the Jolly- We'll bring the suit!

Want to make some extra cash for this Christmas? Up to 20+ per hour?

Do you love performing and interacting with young children?

TEC Entertainment is an entertainment company looking for great people to portray popular christmas characters this winter at parties and events!

We provide the costume and supplies, you bring your amazing acting abilities!

If you have your own costume- it's a plus- please send us a photo. Each job ranges from 1-2 hours or more. Jobs booked by an on-call basis.

No previous experience necessary! Will train! We are currently scheduling interviews reply today!

ahead by a century

Because she had the requisite bob haircut, a co-worker decided to go as a flapper for Halloween. Chatter about cigarette holders, swinging necklaces, and high heels ensued. I gushed about how much I love 20's fashion.

And then it occurred to me:

By the time I have grandchildren of my own, I won't be able to say things like "I dig '50's nostalgia" or "'20's fashion is resurfacing" (not that I'd ever want to say things like that).

As a member of a generation that essentially straddles 2 centuries - one foot planted firmly in the tumultuous 20th, another tiptoeing tenuously into a new slew of undefined decades - there will come a time that requires us to specify not only a decade but also a century in casual conversation. Our grandchildren will identify with their OWN 20's...a decade that will, I'm sure, diverge in every way possible from its 20th century counterpart. We'll have to disengage automatic associations and rewire the way we define the 30's, 40's...even my beloved 60's. With time, those decades will have to be permanently fastened to their "19__" prefix in order to make any sense.

It's strange, to me at least, that my generation will live through decades I associate with history textbooks and vintage art posters.

And since I opened this post with a reference to Halloween costumes, I feel like it's ok to jump back a bit and say that, after much deliberation (too much, really), we went with Team Zissou apparel. Easy, cheap, hip.

another case of the crazies

That's it. I am so over delegating this year's costume search to Google. One more exposed bosom falling out of gray sweater combo that looks like it was swagged from the closet of a sluttier version of Hermione Granger, and I am going to upchuck the remnants of my spaghetti and meatballs dinner all over this laptop screen.

And Patrick's baptism? One quick anecdote should sum it up -

(I should preface this by stating loud and clear: my sister has more than one major mental illness. So family events are, as a rule, synonymous with uncomfortable conversation, wardrobe malfunctions, and wack-a-doos galore. I do not say this to be uncouth or insensitive. It's just the way things are.)

I am sitting at the kitchen table, munching on broccoli, trying to ignore the odd few people in the adjacent dining room as gracefully as I can. Who are these people? Where did they come from? I often ask myself how my sister ever manages to meet anyone (if you've met her once, you understand)...but then I remember: the people that she "facebooks," the people that she is perpetually texting while her children run wild, the people whom she considers worthy of a baptism party invite...these people are, for the most part, as crazy or crazier than herself. Which is why I was keeping myself occupied with broccoli. Broccoli is safe. It doesn't wear purple spandex pants or fanny packs. It doesn't hypothesize that the Swine Flu originated from aborted fetuses. And it certainly never snorts when it laughs.

Broccoli and I were enjoying ourselves just fine when one "them" crossed into our territory. I'm not a total snob nor am I lacking some sense of social decorum, so I said "Hello." Cheerfully. With a smile.

Apart from her peculiar getup and eyeliner run amuck, this girl seemed...OK.

Not so.

She says hello or its equivalent. Then...THEN - she grabs a bottle of wine. Scratch that - THE bottle of wine, the one and only for this particular occasion. At first, I don't think anything of it. That's what wine is for. It's on the counter for everyone's enjoyment. She pours a full glass, takes one sip, throws the rest in the trash. Without a word.

Horror! Charlene makes her trademark "only in our family" face and the girl leaves the room. At which point Charlene whispers, rather harshly (it was her wine, after all) - "that's the third time she's done that!!! She takes one sip, then throws it in the trash!!!! I can't believe it!!"

"I can."

It didn't take long before my mom hid what little remained of the bottle. Enter crazy girl again (sorry to call her that, but I don't remember her name). She rummages briefly around the counter, mumbling about how she wants some more wine, but she just has to be careful about how much she drinks. Too bad we don't have that luxury, sweetie. Even cheap wine costs moolah.

I remember having at least one conversation with this girl over the course of the afternoon. It was weird.

She also helped herself to a Labatt she found in the refrigerator, which was apparently enough to get this poor girl drunk because for the rest of the day she was glued to a kitchen chair, eyes roaming, head drooping -she really pulled out the works. Then she stood up and nearly fall flat on her face, practically taking the chair with her. To which she giggled "haha, I was just kidding."

i'm turning myself into a demon

Fleet Foxes song titles are perfect for Fall. And their music... hot damn. This year, they are my go-to band for sunny Autumn afternoons (however far and few between they've been this season). I practically knocked over my second glass of beer when a local band started playing "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" at a bar last Friday. Then they stopped after like 3 lines!!! Big wtf moment! I was so out of my mind that I marched right up to the singer and demanded an explanation.

"Why did you stop playing that song!?"

"Um, the drummer doesn't really know it."

"Well...can you just sing it then? You've got a guitar."

"Yeah. Uh, I think we're heading out though."

"Oh. You guys are awesome. Really, really good."

"Thanks."

"K. Bye!"

"Bye."


I'll be back later in the week with a run-down of baby Patrick's baptism. There's much to be said whenever the Halls gather under the guise of Catholic tradition. (teaser: one bitter divorcé, vomit, houseful of mentally deranged kooks)

Must go faster!

It could be the scads of zombie/horror/slasher films that necessarily arrive with the dawn of October that triggered this thought:

I wonder what it's like to run for your life.

I mean like really, really running top-speed from what could be, potentially, a gruesome bloody end. A limb-tearing, flesh-shredding death. Involving, I dunno, a T-Rex...or a guy in a hockey mask.

The fangs of death dripping at your worn Keds.

Lungs bursting, your throat catching.

I mean, what would you be thinking about? Would you be kicking yourself for skipping out on the gym all season? Would you ever reach the point where you just couldn't take it anymore and you'd gladly choose a quick death over running one more second? I personally loathe running (I wish I liked it) so this would be an awful way to go. Running and running and running and then - dead. Damn.

Thankfully, it mostly just happens in the movies.

i'm feelin' you, walt

This is what you shall do:

Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body. . .

Walt Whitman

this kid knows what's really important:

raccoons. one of many joys awaiting you in Clarence.

We've been having a raccoon problem lately. And by "we" I mean, of course, my mother whose birding (yep, that's a verb) obsession has drawn a good deal more than Cardinals and Nuthatches to the backyard. I'm actually surprised that she has the sense to label this a legitimate "problem" instead of following what I know is instinctual for her and embrace it as an “adventure.”

The thing is, we’re (again, why am I using plural pronouns?) – she’s not particularly choosy when it comes to bringing a new life into the Hall household (human or otherwise). Our house – and yard – operates under a sort of revolving door policy. People, babies, animals, furniture, food, etc. always going in, always coming out. Can’t say I share her sentiments, but my mom welcomes all of God’s creatures with open arms and loads of leftovers. Including skunks. Including stay felines with more diseases than a homeless prostitute from 18th century Europe. So.

So. I was surprised when she finally broke down and admitted that, although cute and cuddly from the distance of her wildlife magazines, she could no longer tolerate a 20-pound scavenger who was destroying her birdfeeders and devouring her birdseed.

I don’t like to think that I ever take Paul for granted, but it’s times like these when I especially appreciate his masculine I-can-put-this-together-in-5-seconds-flat approach to life. He set the trap with almost frightful eagerness, offering to grab his bowie knife, you know, in case my mom wanted a bloody pulp of fur to deal with in the morning. Thanks, Paul!

8 am comes around, and we race to the yard like tykes on Christmas morning. Yow-za. We had caught the Goliath of raccoons. And boy was he pissed-off. He was sputtering (in a non-rabies way…) and clawing, and there was no way in hell I was going near him. Naturally, Paul, being the can-do kind of man that he is, swooped up that cage (with gloves on, of course) and threw it into the back of his Volvo to trek it out to the country.

Relief. Except, maybe, for my mom who “felt bad for the poor thing since he might have a family in the area and now he’s going to be thrust into a foreign environment where he won’t know any of the other raccoons.”

Yeah.

That was about 3 weeks ago. And apparently Rocky still has some friends carousing the streets of Clarence because my mom’s birdfeeders continue to receive thrashings in the night. We set the trap again last Saturday. This time I was the one who felt guilty: “but it’s pouring rain, and what if he drowns!? Or catches pneumonia!??”

He didn’t catch so much as a cold. Because we didn’t catch him. No, we caught something much, much better. After a night of Monopoly and alcohol (always a good mix) at my sister’s, I knew something was up when my mom told us to check out the cage.

Hello Mr. Skunk.

Now what do we do!?! I literally had to google “how to release a skunk from a cage when you’re too moronic to get rid one lousy stinkin’ raccoon”

So, he’s still on the prowl. Demolishing one bird lover’s paradise at a time.

son of a bee sting!

I am staring at my left thigh, about three inches above the knee - a dime-sized splotch of swollen pink skin with a red pin-prick of a dot in the center. I can't believe it - this weekend I got my first ever, ever bee-sting of my whole life. It didn't hurt as bad as I imagined it would, it just itched for a few minutes.

I'm mostly dissapointed that I've forever lost one of those rare "distinguishing facts" that you can use to introduce yourself in a group setting. "I've never, ever, ever been stung by a bee" works a lot better than "my favorite color is blue" when you're asked for your name, hometown, and "something interesting about yourself." Which I've always thought was a wretched, self-important way to start off any class/seminar/orientation/training etc. What difference does it make if you're double-jointed? How does that fact make you at all more interesting than the person in the next desk? I know such introductions are meant to be ice-breakers or a tool for instructors to remember your name. But they still suck. And now I have to go back to being that girl who's remembered by her favorite flower. At least until I can think of something better.

On a more postive note, I received the sting while lounging outside a coffeeshop in Cleveland yesterday. Paul and I spent the weekend visiting his great Aunt, who I can best describe as OLD. All mortifying restaurant fiascos with grumpy disatisfied old people aside, it was a delightful trip. And she was a delightful lady. (even though her gentleman friend, Dee, made me want to fall through the floorboards when he started giving our waitress hell... I thought I would die. I wanted to die.)

But it was a good chance to get away. To that end, I didn't care where we went. Or how many waitresses we upset.

Job? Apartments? Stable life? Puh-leeze.

It's nearing 2 am. I can't drag myself away from Craigslist. Must. Find. An. Apartment. Tonight.

the horror! the horror!

“Zola goes down into the sewer to take a bath; I, in order to cleanse it.” – Henrik Ibsen

I’ve re-entered my modern drama craze. I’d almost forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Also, had a fleeting temptation to re-read Heart of Darkness, but thankfully it passed. Two rounds of Conrad is quite enough, thank you.

Buffalove

Overall, this has been what one might call a very “Buffalo” summer. Probably because it was Paul’s first in this “jewel” of Western New York and we had to show him the sights, so to speak. To keep him from jumping on the first plane home.

So, in our most Buffalonian way, we packed June to August with Labatt’s, Bison’s games with distant French relatives, city garden walks, zoo treks with too many babies and not enough hips to carry them.

There was the gluttonous Taste of Buffalo (too many people and smells, if you ask me) and the “oh-that’s-soooo-Buffalo” rainout of the much-anticipated Neko Case concert. (I’m still shaking my fist at the sky)

We did make it out to ArtPark to see Pink Floyd tribute band, The Machine, which was the most fun I’ve had in ages.

trippy laser show!

There were romantic dinners on Elmwood, awful dinners on the porch with screaming toddlers. There were parties in the country where we drank box wine and played washers. And, yes, there were about 600 times where I was mistaken as the mother of Marek, Gabriel or Michael.

But my favorite moment of summer? This award goes to my finally fulfilled goal of finding Rick James’s grave in Forest Lawn Cemetery. I especially liked the honorary 40 of Bud placed among the flowers.

Classic Buffalo.

ok, ok. Here's your post!

At the behest of my sole reader, I am going to try to bulk up this blog with some actual writing.

Speaking of writing, I have been on FIRE the past two evenings. And by "on fire" I mean like 5-6 pages worth of half-decent story-ish stuff. Which is a lot for me because I'm the slowest writer this side of town.

David Sedaris is coming to UB October 1st. Tickets are like $36. More than my tightfisted self is willing to pay for almost anything these days. So I tried coming up with reasons why I should go:

1. I could take Theresa as a birthday gift. But then I realized if it was really a birthday gift, I'd have to buy her ticket, which would double that 36 bucks.

2. Ok. I could go with Paul for our anniversary (which we've decided pretty much coincides with Theresa's birthday). But then I realized he's never read a single Sedaris book, except for Holidays on Ice, which I bought him as a Christmas gift before I knew Paul well enough to know he has very different taste than me (at least as far as humorist books go). So that would be a pretty crummy anniversary present, for him anyway.

3. Well, dammit, I could still go. Then I did a little youtube action and found Sedaris reading on Letterman (a video that this blasted internet is not letting me post at the moment). Anyway, if you've never heard Sedaris speak - check. it. out. He has (I'm sorry) the faggiest voice on the planet. After listening to him for all of 4.2 seconds I decided I like him in book form better than in person. Still contemplating the splurge to see him, though. He is one of my favorites, after all.

What else?

Becky had her baby, so congrats to her. I apologize if it sounds off center for me to open my first blog in over a month about books and Sedaris readings and gay voices when my sister just had a baby. A baby being born should be a much bigger bit of news than a dry fruitcake reading at UB, right? Yeah, well. Babies are about all I deal with on a daily basis. So I have to talk about books and things that I actually like to keep my head on straight, if you follow my meaning.

Anyway, his name is Patrick Ryan, he's a little peanut, and he's a healthy little peanut.

...just kidding - this isn't a real blog post.

Reasons I haven't been keeping up with this blog:

1. It's sunny out! That's a first.

2. Babies.

3. Lately, I've been focusing any meager scraps of writing oomph I have left into different areas. Only time will tell how that goes.

A real entry should be forthcoming. Hopefully a more compelling one. I just don't have it in me. There's a lot of family chaos and I feel like the shit's gonna hit the fan bigtime pretty soon.

I'm exhausted.

Stay tuned...

the continuing saga of a life with babies

My sister, on Cheerios: "I sprinkle that shit like birdseed. On the carpet, the couch cushions, the damn toilet seat. It's like come and get it, feeding time!"





But seriously, Cheerios have overrun our home. Help!


(*note: I just googled "cheerios" and this baby picture popped up. No idea who she is. I'm well aware of the creep-o factor here. But it just worked for the blog, so stick it.)

It's gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day

Neko fucking Case is going to be at Thursday at the Square on July 23rd!!!! Be very, very excited!!!

and the rest of the line-up:

May 28: Gomez with Steel Train and Alberta Cross
June 4: An Evening With the Disco Biscuits
June 11: Robert Randolph & the Family Band with the Dana Fuchs Band
June 18: Better Than Ezra with Tyrone Wells
June 25: Los Loboswith Hill Country Revue
July 2: Zappa Plays Zappa
July 9: Los Lonely Boys
July 16: George Clinton & Parliament/Funkadelic
July 23: Neko Case
July 30: The Avett Brothers with Cornmeal

penny for your thoughts

“Liz, tell me something.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. Tell me anything. Tell me something mind-blowing if you can.”

A few nights ago, I received the preceding request from a fellow co-worker. It’s a simple enough question. I could have said anything. I’ve never seen Karate Kid. I’m staunchly against texting. I think moral relativity is killing our nation.

“Um. Well. Gee. I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me something instead?”Ah, the ever evasive route of the wimpy copout. But she wasn’t letting me off the hook that easily, so she countered: “Ok, I’ll make it easier. Just tell me something you believe in.”

“Like religious beliefs?”

“Doesn’t have to be. Whatever. Just something you believe in.”

“Well,” I faltered. “I believe in God, I guess. Um.”Then it was silent for a while as I fumbled for something – anything – that would not lead this person to believe I was completely dead upstairs. It’s hard, of course, to be quick on your toes when you’re put on the spot like that. Still, coming up with one statement, be it a slice of petty trivia or some life-altering philosophy, should not be that overwhelming of a challenge. Right?

I could not think of one damn thing. So I said so. At first, this didn’t bother me. Did this girl actually expect me to pull some useless information out of my ass just because she was bored? And why couldn’t she think of something? I mean, it’s not like she was totally serious about the question anyways. I was under no obligation to perform.

But then, as I had nothing else to do really, I continued to grope around in my mind. The more I did this, the more unsettled I became. Why couldn’t I think of one interesting thing to say? Was it because I’m so uninteresting myself? Has my brain atrophied to the point where it no longer processes fascinating information the way it used to? When you’re in school (for the most part) your mind exists in a continual whirlwind of new concepts, new opinions. Your ideas are forever being modified, your beliefs are challenged, sharpened, or tossed by the wayside. Have I lost that?

Don’t I even think anymore?

That, my friends, is a frightening question. One that, once raised, calls into question the entire future of your intellect and creativity.
My co-worker’s request unfulfilled, I busied myself in work, letting my anxiety bury itself in the tedium of my duties.

Then I helped some customers who were, for lack of a better phrase, dumber than the crap that comes out of my ugly Shih Tzu’s ass. And I felt a little better about myself.

And then I came home and had a beer and finished Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club (an exquisite, gorgeous novel), and I felt a lot better about myself. And I asked myself all sorts of questions about motherhood and relationships and memory and storytelling and cultural identity.

And guess what? My brain still worked.

And guess what else? Just because I couldn’t come up with something to say tonight, well, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a store of things to tell the world.

All in due time. All in my own way.

And that is more than ok.

really?!

It's way past my bedtime, but this just defines my life at the moment:

I worked all night, I'm beyond exhausted, and when I go to brush my teeth there's a fucking GREEN SPIDER on the bristles of my goddamn toothbrush!!!!! Why me?!

What really gets my goat, though, is that of the trillion places in the bathroom he could have chosen to park his green ass, he had to pick the fucking brush bristles....not even the handle.

Now I'm too infuriated and tired to look for a spare brush, which probably does not exist. Bah.

That was a whole corndog!

2 days ago, my mate and I went to see Adventureland. When it was over he leaned across the armrest and said, “That’s not at all what I thought it was going to be.”

Without the benefit (or detriment, depending on your angle) of any flashy previews for this film, we weren’t sure what we were getting ourselves into. Paul was going on my word that it would be good, and I was going on Jeff Simon’s glowing review in the Buffalo News, a typically unreliable source as far as I’m concerned. But still, I had faith. And for once, praise God, I was not short changed in any way.

Adventureland is a really special movie. Instead of the bland teen-comedy my mate was clearly expecting, we were treated with a little piece of charming nostalgia.

The year is 1987, and James Brennan (Jesse Eisenberg) has just graduated from college. Financial difficulty forces James to put his plans to tour Europe on hold and get a summer job. The only place hiring, of course, is Adventureland, a crappy amusement park where James will learn more about life than his hefty Renaissance lit anthologies could ever teach him.

The reasons this movie works are many, but one biggie is the fact that it never resorts to irritating teen melodrama. It doesn’t pull any tasteless gags. It gives us young people in a way that they’re rarely portrayed on the big-screen: as real people. Not just poptarts looking to lose their virginity on prom night. But scared, vulnerable, vibrant kids who are figuring out life and like to smoke pot on occasion.

There is a sentimentality here that, thankfully, never gets too sticky-sweet. It’s the best sort of coming-of-age story. One that’s affectionate, delightful, and subtly funny. I left the theatre in very high spirits. And that is always a nice thing.

I still like to read

David Sedaris is not a great man. A petty, sometimes shallow, pathetic man. An out-and-out asshole, even. But without a doubt, my favorite asshole in the world.

This is just the type of cheeseball thing that Mr. Sedaris would dump on in one of his essays, but here it is – I love him because I feel very much akin to the man. I don’t, regrettably, share his enormous wit, but I do share almost every one of his snarky prejudices and his self-serving musings (a declaration that adds nothing to my credit, I know). The way he pretends to be knowledgeable about art as a teenager and is distressed when his parents become enthusiasts themselves…I get that. The way he purposefully self-eulogizes while imagining himself dead…I get that.

Probably not a good thing, to align myself with the most egotistic qualities of another, but then, we’ve all been there. If we’re honest with ourselves, I think we’d find that what’s so appealing about Sedaris’s writing is that he presents himself the way he actually thinks, the way he actually interacts with others. And ugly as it usually is, it’s the way we all think and act.

I know it came out a year ago, but I finally got around to reading Sedaris’s latest book, When You are Engulfed in Flames. I think my boyfriend wanted to chuck it right through the window after I shrieked for the 17th time: “God, David Sedaris just gets it!!! He gets everything!” He does, though. He really gets why certain things are funny, even when most of the world so easily forgets why. He makes me absolutely giddy.

This is on a wholly personal note, but I also enjoy reading about his relationship with Hugh. Strange that a male homosexual relationship should remind me of my own mate, but it does. It’s not fair to say, maybe, but there’s this cutesy grownup/child dynamic going on there with David, of course, as the huffy, sensitive adolescent-type and Hugh as the responsible mature adult who pays the utility bills on time. The way Sedaris becomes exasperated whenever sensible Hugh “rains on his parade” – it smacks of a scene in which my mate is hovered over the TV tray, his brow furrowed in deep concentration while I attempt luring him into a cuddling position.

“But why do we have to do our taxes now?”

“Because, Liz, if I don’t do your taxes now, you’ll never do them yourself.”

“So?”

The last quarter of the book, entitled The Smoking Section, follows Sedaris through his first bummed cigarette 3 decades ago all the way to his recent struggle with quitting the habit. When I saw that this struggle would take Sedaris to Japan, I smiled, knowing what good material this kooky (sorry, had to say it) country would supply for the humorist. And supply it did.

Viva la Spring

I've got to get myself back into the habit of writing everyday. It's funny - you know, I don't even always enjoy the actual process of writing. Really, I don't. It's hard and I slave over every freakin' word and it takes me over an hour to plod through a measly paragraph and then I backspace the shit out of it leaving myself with one word, if I'm lucky.

Mostly what I like is the finished product. It sounds indulgent and bigheaded of me, I know, but I get pleasure from reading some of my polished work. Oh, I wrote that, did I? How positively clever! How quaint! If that sounds dick-ish, well, I don't care.

I saw Monsters Vs. Aliens last week, and I liked it OK, but I think I mostly liked it because we saw it in Imax 3D, which was just top-notch.

I’m excited for warmer weather so I can bike like a maniac. I will just bike and bike and bike until forever. Until my lungs explode.

I also would like a tattoo. Soon, but not too soon.

Burn After Watching

They say good things come in twos, and I can’t think of a more fitting justification for this platitude than the varied body of work that is the Coen brothers’ film repertoire. Time and time again, the duo has tickled our funny bones while offering that something extra for the finicky tastes of moviegoers whose palates desire a little “oomph”.

That being said,

I hated Burn After Reading.

I mean, I really, really hated it. I hated it for much the same reasons that I hated the film Juno, though that hatred exists on an entirely different plane (don’t even get me started on Diablo Cody’s dialogue). The hype circling these two movies was such that I expected nothing less that 4-star treatment. Instead, what I got was a lot of confused plotlines and too many character names, the combination of which left me yawning to high heaven for 2 monotonous hours.

Generally, I dig quirky oddball movies, but this was just boring with a capital B. I kept waiting for it to get better. To at least match the hilarious previews with which I was bombarded all Fall. I'm lost - why did people think this movie was so great again?

The one thing I did enjoy was watching Brad Pitt rock it out as a dim-witted fitness trainer glued to his iPod. That one really got me. (always a sucker for Brad - how can you not be?)

Other than Brad though, well, this movie can go suck it.

Fiction/Poetry Update

Volume 2 Issue 3 of Sub-Lit is now live!!! You can still check out my story "Reincarnation" in their archives.

Also, these just in -

3 of my poems appear in the current issue of Clockwise Cat.

I have a short piece of fiction, "Nude," in the current issue of Mud Luscious. (scroll towards the bottom)

And lastly, my short story, "Performer's Lot" appears in the April issue of The Battered Suitcase.

wild thing, you make my heart sing

Before you do anything else, it's pretty important that you watch the following:



Spike Jonze, you do me right. And if any preview uses Arcade Fire, I will see that film by default. Even if it's, I dunno, another freakin' Disney Hannah Montanah abomination (they're that good).

Anyway, everyone will say how they just looooved this book as a kid. But my most recent memory of this story was getting really stoned and lying in bed while my sister read it to me -you know, teacher-style. When we came to the end of the book, I was silent for a while.

"But there's no moral."

"What do you mean, there's no moral?"

I mean, there's no fucking moral. The kid's bad. He's sent to his room and goes on this crazy adventure shit. And then he's back in his room with no dinner."

"Shit, Liz. Why does there have to be a fucking moral? It's just a story."

"You don't get it - certain books have morals. This is the kind of book that would have one. And it doesn't. I feel jipped. "

"You're a shithead."

where in the world is carmen sandiego?

There’s no excuse for a 3 (almost 4!) month gap.

And it’s not just my riveting blog that’s been suffering from neglect. I’ve read a grand total of two books since December. I can’t even remember what the first one was. Unforgivable.

Here’s the thing -

Getting the itch to write is like embarking on a novel dieting routine – at first, it’s all gung ho, fire up the engines and plow straight ahead. I’m going to chuck those dimples on my ass once and for all, gosh dammit. Then the cravings kick in full-force. And with them, the carbo-loading at Dunkin Donuts (or Tim Horton’s for all you Upstate New Yorkers – holla).

And you let yourself sleep an extra half hour instead of free-writing.
And you look at the world lazily instead of keeping a sharp look-out for new leads.
And all earlier ambition that had been so fervent you nearly gave yourself carpal tunnel, that ambition has sizzled out like a dud on the Fourth of July.

But still. Other than making tomato Quiche and alphabetizing my modest library, writing is the only thing I’m quasi-good at. So, there’s really no acceptable excuse for shelving it. But – just for kicks – I’m going to try to come up with some.

For one thing, life post-college has been so preposterously dull, I haven’t the heart to let you in on it. I live with my mom, I have a shitty job, I babysit my nephews most days when I’m off. True, any half-decent writer can put an interesting spin on life’s most trivial crap. In fact, I often enjoy doing so. Just not lately. Maybe it’s my own disappointment with the monotony of my pathetic life. Maybe my brain is still adjusting to life without professors, Elizabeth Browning explications, and long night sessions with articles on modern theatre.

More likely, I’m just lazy.

Secondly, my long-distance lover has finally bridged the great divide and found his way to my hometown (and with him enters a whole slew of complications regarding our future. More details in another note, maybe). When I am not working at my shitty job or babysitting my nephews, I am spending time with him. Twirling his luscious curly-cues, making him sandwiches, reading him David Sedaris excerpts. All much more important (and satisfying?) than gathering worthwhile submissions or proofreading. Blame him! I’m weak in the presence of that gorgeous head of hair!

Thirdly, when I have an hour or two to spare, I’ve been channeling all literary efforts into reading for Sub-Lit (A subversive online literary journal that gave me my debut in the publishing world – check it!) Not an overwhelming task, to be sure, but I like to take my time with peoples’ submissions. Since I’d expect as much, myself.

So - the pot may not be boiling over in a brilliant gush of wit, but at least it’s starting to bubble. That’s half the reason this blog exists in the first place – to keep me on top of my game. I don’t know what the other half of the reason is, but the point is (do I ever have a point?) the POINT IS: the writing bug is back, and however schizo my writing may appear to you –

at least it’s appearing.