for music nerds only

hehehehe

how lorn got her (feminist) groove back

Two things today that caught my attention.

First: This is no surprise, but studies show women are less at risk from breast cancer with an active lifestyle. Simple activities, such as walking or doing chores, are on the list, although chances improve the more strenuous or frequent the exercise is.

Now, the Washington Times put a lovely little spin on this. I have a mental image of a group of writers or editors reading through this article, and being fairly bored by it until they got to that little bit about housework. "Aha!" they said, grinning maniacally. "Proof that women should do the chores! It's good for them!" They choose a writer to put it to text and lean over his shoulder snickering wildly. Now, I would think (and I may be disastrously wrong) that your chances of avoiding ANY kind of cancer would be improved by physical activity no matter what your gender. I also wonder, as a housewife/husband, how much do you counter those positive effects of activity by working with bleach, tile cleaner, ammonia, detergent, and wood polish?

Both links, and a much better commentary, are available at Echidne.

Second: When I was in pep band, I LOVED playing for the women's basketball games, because it was exciting to see women tearing down stereotypes and getting physical. Not to mention the team was way better than the boys. Well, win one for the ladies of the court: Candace Parker has become the first woman to win the McDonald's High School Slam Dunk Contest. This girl sounds like an all-around player- her last and winning shot was done with her left arm covering her eyes. She's Ms Basketball of Illinois, and she'll probably never have breast cancer. [Link: Ms Musings]

I like to play basketball too, but my best move was never a slam dunk. I'd like to think it was punching Adam Harry in the nose and knocking off his glasses. Yeah, that was pretty sweet.

it's like i need caffeine, only not

My dad just said "True story" in relation to something (one of his boring recaplets of something golf-associated), and I was immediately filled with the irresistable urge to watch the movie Clerks. It's so strong I might have to go out and rent it, ASAP.

If I'm feeling frisky I might get Chasing Amy and Dogma, too, but probably not Mallrats because I've seen it 80 gazillion times (okay, more like 10).

There I go, exaggerating in multiples of 8 again. It seems to be the only way I can exaggerate, I do it 64 times a day, for Buddha's sake! And then I eat almost 144 muffins! After the muffins, I run to the bathroom at 800 miles an hour!

Okay, I'm done.

okay, i'm grown-up. what do i want to be?

I'm getting a little sick of my life having so many possibilities.

1. Miracles happen. I get into McGill.
-the positive: I have a direction, a justification to continue learning my music trade. Montreal is an amazing city, and I would become fluent in French.
-the negative: If this isn't what I want to do, should I waste more money and years in it?

2. I move to New York with Jerry.
-the positive: Jerry. New York. All for the sake of..moving to New York. Marisa! Could become respected free lance artist. Could intern for feminist organization, change the world.
-the negative: Expensive, I would have to work at something not music related, likely, and not have time to practice trombone. Besides, where would I practice? I've never been to NY, is it wise to move someplace you've never visited first?

3. I get a gig like Chris's in Texas.
-the positive: I'll be making money for playing trombone, and I'll be nearby a lot of musical wealth (UNT, etc). I won't have to worry about my cactus and jade hating me because I moved them back to farty weather. Plus, Chris McGann, and Jason if he goes to UNT. Good times!
-the negative: Texas. Also a place I have never been, but unlike NY, not a place I have heard wonderful things about. Again, unlike NY or Montreal, I would not be nearby Jerry, and I don't know if I can withstand another year of that. Again, opportunities for other careers (feminism) limited.

4. Summer in Madison, hang out in the fall and apply for spring admission.
-the positive: Everything about Madison in the summer. Friends, beer, bike rides. A town I know, love, and that isn't too big I can't figure out what to do with myself on a Friday night. A comfort zone, in other words.
-the negative: My crowd is leaving. There will not be the same atmosphere as my undergrad years. Winters suck. Bars suck. Shouldn't I be experiencing new things?

5. Arbitrary city: Portland, Oregon.
-the positive: Sounds like a cool place people go to if they want to start over. Lots of punks and hippies and crazy fun stuff to do. Cheap living, and lots of beautiful scenery.
-the negative: Again, I've never been there. I'm only interested in it because I read the two page spread in the last issue of Bust and was intrigued. What are the music opportunities there? I'll have no friends from the getgo.

Numbers 6, 7, and 8 can be done in any location, and are not completely mutually exclusive within themselves or with the above options.

6. Hans thinks I should be a writer.
Sure, I can turn a phrase and spell it correctly, but what kind of story teller am I? I suppose you never know until you try. With writing, I can still be a musician.

7. Become a lifeguard trainer, learn pool management.
Jerry might criticize my limited career history, but I say, if you find something you're good at AND enjoy, you shouldn't cross it off the list. Especially when it makes you more money than the average sales job. With this I could be aquatics manager at a community, university, or private pool. I could also become a swim coach.

8. Learn more web development.
Whore myself out to companies because they are always looking for web designers. I could combine my feminism with my web skills and work for Ms or FMF or something. My blog would be fantastic and world-famous. With this I could also continue music, or writing, or both, on the side.

So there you have it. The directions my life could turn in are endless and confusing. I think I will pursue no. 8 regardless, and 6 is highly likely. Because no. 1 is a longshot, I'm torn between 2 and 3, with 4 lagging, but not too far behind. Please feel free to elucidate any concerns, comments, or advice you feel you might have in this matter, as I'm always looking to add more pros or cons to the list.

Well, If I'm going keep music as an option, I'd better go make sure I can still play my trombone, at the very least.

remember the alamo rental car license number

They seriously made a movie about The Alamo? I thought...but, wasn't it a bad thing? Slavery? Er?

I have done my web research. This here page says the Alamo is not quite the legend everyone thinks it is (but then, it wouldn't be a legend if it were true, would it?). The brief history at the official website of the Alamo reads like a sixth grader's oral presentation. Here's a timeline of events from the Daughters of the Republic of Texas (sounds like a party if I ever heard one).

I don't know about all of you, but I'm a little bit weary of historical events getting blown up into big and heroic embodiments of the "American pursuit of freedom" or whatnot. I know it's human nature to idolize and legendize things, but geez. It's like anything's an excuse to make a sweeping motion picture tear-jerker I love America movie. Actually, I'm tired of those kinds of movies anyway. Miracle comes to mind.

Oh yeah, and they're always about men. Men embodying the American pursuit of freedom and showing those dirty foreigners not to mess with Texas, or hockey. Going out and being manly. Other movies don't have to be about America. Like The Last Samurai. Or Dances with Wolves. Oh, yeah and Troy (although I am tempted to see it for the hottie fest it is). It's all such a crock of shit. And it's not like I want to see women in these roles, it's just that I'd like movies to being so inanely patriotic. Can you feel us getting dumber?

And yes, I will be exercising my political dollar and not seeing this movie. Or any of the other ones. I can't be any more eloquent on this topic as the sun has fried my brains. But I think you get what I mean: Here we have a historical event that has been blown out of proportion, given a fish eye lens, and allowed some major Hollywood stars to be big brave men. Yippee!! America is great! Coming out in 2169, September 11th starring Kevin Costner's head as George W. Bush and Al Pacino's head as Osama bin Laden! (obligatory Futurama reference) Actually, it probably won't take that long. I predict...oh, 20 years or so. Fred Savage's dramatic acting debut as our beloved pResident.

employment

Arggh.

This job is not me. I mean, I guess I can do it. It just takes so much energy and bugging people and self-motivation, that I have discovered that I am the kind of person who needs to have structure. A schedule, a list of duties, and payment for them, by the hour.

That said, right now I'm pining away for a lifeguarding job. Water, sun, sitting, bam. All I need. The perfect job. I've called Frog's Club, where I applied earlier, to see if they were still interested in hearing. Left a message. Boo. I have some applications for other pools filled out that I hadn't turned in because I started doing this petitioning shit. Perhaps I will turn those in. Really, it doesn't matter. A steady paycheck. That's all I want. And wearing a bathing suit all day is a bonus. Swimming, bonus. Covered in sunscreen, bonus. Telling people not to run on the pool deck, bonus.

lubrication

Banana Boat After Sun Lotion, you are my god.

Seriously folks, have you tried this stuff? It will take away your sunburn overnight. And leave you with one of those radiant golden tans. But I knew this long ago, so why I am blogging about it just now? Well, I haven't used it in a while, because I ran out this summer at Blue Lake and never replaced it (well, I came home and there was this bottle of Caress in my bathroom, and I thought, what the heck). Lo and behold, my father is using it. My sunburn has succumbed to its allmighty power. Amen.

I'm sorry this is like the stupidest blog topic ever (and I'm sorry for apologizing as well), but I'm super tired. Day Two didn't go so hot, owing to the rain and also the locations I chose (people at Home Depot have serious issues, man). Tomorrow I shall hit up Escondido. Haha! You can't hide from me, Escondido! (pun, intended)

The plan is to work Sat, Sun, and Monday, and take Tuesday off. That will save me some running around looking for a Kinkos (I have to make copies of people who register Republican, so they can pay me. Heehehe!) at the last minute like I did tonight. You'd be surprised how hard it is to find a Kinkos when you need one.

Anyway, the whole point of that paragraph was to tell you that blogging will be light, and likely uninteresting/unsubstantial. You are warned. As a send off note:

Things I would like to receive in the mail ASAP!:
1. Natatorium W-2s, so I can do my freakin' taxes!
2. McGill letter, yay, may, or nay
3. Letters from friends
4. Davis' surprise present! OOOOh. I'm excited.

burninated!

So, my first day on the job! It went fairly quickly, and I did well. Not as well as I had hoped, but I owe that to the fact that the guy didn't give me as many petitions to start out with (a trial run, he called it), but I definitely could have filled in more. I did get almost all of them signed (oh, and by the way, my math was terribly wrong yesterday about that. Are you surprised? I'm not ;), and tomorrow I go in to pick up more forms. I registered a handful of voters, met alternately pleasant and crabby-assed people, and got a vicious sunburn on my left arm and neck. (Note to self, don't forget sunscreen!)

Get paid on Tuesday.

Margaret Cho is going to be at the March!!! She has a few shows that weekend, but they are all sold out. Still, I can't imagine she'd be in DC and not come support something she's so vocal about. Excited? You bet.

Okay, I will hire you to rub lotion onto my poor torture shoulders. Owie!

i'm not a bum any more, guys!

I got a job today. And it was the easiest job getting ever. In the whole history of job getting. All I had to do was sit through an hour's orientation, fill out a W-9, and pick up some forms, and I'm set.

The best part is, I'm going to be making bank. Bank, I tell you. (said in Dr Zoidberg voice)

And what's my job you ask? Well, I'm a petition circulator. You know those people that sit in front of grocery stores and get signatures to put things on the ballot...well apparently they're not volunteers, and they're making serious dough. For every signature I get, depending on the particular petition, I get anywhere between $1.50-3.50. There's ten spaces on each petition, I have two sheets of seven different petitions, and if I get just one person to fill out all of them, I get $15.50. If I fill out all 140 slots...well, you do the math (psst...it's $2170). Bank! BAAAAAAAAAAANK!!!!

And, it's given me the only legitimate reason I can't think of to like the Republican party. For each person I register to vote that checks Republican on their form, I get $1.50. Heee!

I can go back and get as many forms as I want, work as long as I want, and get paid twice a week.

Also, this all has to be finished in 5 weeks, which would be just about when I'll be making plans to move (wherever that may be), and if I average $500/day (which they said was absolutely reasonable) 5 days a week for 5 weeks, I will have $12,500 to my name (Davis, if 5 never was my lucky number before, it is now). Feasibly, I could just chill this summer, or just travel all over the fuckin' place. Hells yes.

Again I say, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANK!!!!!

I start tomorrow. I'm trying to decide where I shall sit. I'm thinking Ralphs, or perhaps the Albertson's over in Carmel Mountain. On Saturday it would be extremely profitable to be at Home Depot, but it doesn't seem to me that they have room in front of their store what with the 2X4s and the palm trees. It seems like it would be a good idea to take a trip north and chill in Temecula or San Clemente, as San Diego is pretty much covered. Hey, the gas'll pay for itself. I like to think of this as a big fundraiser, only I'm the charity and I get to keep the money.

So far, the best part of all of it is, I got to make huge ass posterboard signs, and play with sharpies. I love sharpies.

When I get my first paycheck, I am going to buy myself Futurama Vol 1 as a "you rock my world, me" present. And maybe a DVD player while I'm at it. And this apron, for Jerry.

Not to mention, now I can pay for my trip to DC. Oh yeah, and go to Colorado for the Brass Institute. BAAAAAAANK!!!!!

fighting the battle of who could care less

I can't think of anything to blog about. Sorry to those of you who come here for the way I deftly and intelligently handle the issues that face us all in the world today. I promise, I'll be back on top in no time, giving it hard and fast to the haters. Meanwhile, I feel more like being silly and irreverent, or at times charmingly observant about our current version of popular culture.

Speaking of popular culture, guess what I'm listening to?

That's right, it's Fiona Apple's Tidal.

Just basking in the high school, feeling angst-y and mind-numbingly deep all over again.

And you'll notice that the title of this blog is a reference to yet another classic CD of my past (chocolate to the first contestant to guess correctly!)...I blame Erica. Add to that OK Computer (Radiohead), Bringing Down the Horse(The Wallflowers), and Odelay (Beck) and you've got a recipe for young, spunky, and carefree Lorn dancing about while eating yogurt. Ah, high school. God bless you. Maybe that's why I want to go punk again. Not even 23 and I'm reclaiming my lost youth. Too bad I'm stuck here in this youth-forsaken place, making myself Baileys Hot Chocolate and watching reruns of the Cosby Show.

book update

It's going back. I'm only halfway. I flipped through the last couple of pages and failed to arouse myself into any sort of concern for the characters. An utter and complete lack of desire to care. Felt by me.

Some other time then, Mr Bellow, when you've decided to be interesting.

In the meantime, I have decided not to check out any more books (although I might change my mind when I get to library), but instead, I will practice my trombone whenever I feel the desire to read. Therefore, I will begin to acquaint practicizing with the enjoyment I get out of reading, and thus, get better. Sure, I've had a lot of cockneyed schemes, over the years, to get myself to practice more, but this one'll work I can feel it! (Totally sarcasm there, just to warn you)

Truly though, I should practice. I'll never be able to decide if I want to keep playing if I don't actually do it. Plus, the longer I sit on my metaphorical non-practicing ass, the more out of shape my chops will be and thus it will exponentially be less fun to play.

Case in point, my lower lip is having a freak-out session right now (you know, a muscle spasm), and it's likely because I played for about an hour today (and that's a hour longer than every other day). It's mad. Muscles get mad at you when you do stupid shit like that. They are not to be trifled with.

Apparently I did get one thing out of attempting to read More Die of Heartbreak. Inspiration to not read, and work harder at my chosen profession. Not a bad trade, eh?

what's that you say, realone player?

I am frequently amused by the genre classifications RealOne player will give music (ex: Johnny Cash has been labeled "Outlaw Country").

But I'm more than a little baffled by this bit of music trivia that popped up while it was playing "Shrove-tide Fair" from Stravinsky's Petrushka: "Stravinsky's music evolved to encompass every major movement of the twentieth century. Sexy."

The first statement is technically correct. Sexy? To me it reads like, "*intellectual sounding woman's voice-over* Stravinsky's music evolved to encompass every major movement of the twentieth century. *switch to husky voice* Oooh, that makes RealOne player sooo hot. I've been eyeing your newest 12-tone composition all night and it's driving me insane with desire. How about you and I go up to my place for a coffee? (but I don't drink coffee) I haven't got any. *later* Stravinsky you naughty, naughty Russian you, take me now, make my equalizer quiver with delight!"

It's just that...I think you've got the wrong man, RealOne Player. I think you want Ravel. Or Bernstein. Think about it. Petrushka's an ugly puppet. Sure, it has its sexy bits, but um...no. I suggest giving Fancy Free a try. That always gets my motor going.

coal miner's ewan

Really, there is no movie more suited to Lorndom than Brassed Off (there were better links than this one, but I want you to look carefully at the URL and you'll see why I chose it. Top 'alf only, ya know).

It shines in all of the necessary categories to make it a genuine winner:

1. Use of musical instruments/themes: A+++
a. (sub category)Brass instruments, heavy feature of trombone: BONUS!
b. Musician jokes ("She blows flugel like a dream" "Really Danny, at your age"):
BONUS!
2. Ewan McGregor: A++++++++++ (++)
3. English accents: A+
4. Strong political themes: A++

Truth be told, however, I would like it just on the basis of this dialogue alone, which I consider to be the best pickup line in the history of film:

Gloria (Tara Fitzgerald): Would you like to come up for a coffee?
Andy (My baby's daddy): I don't drink coffee...
Gloria: I haven't got any.

However, I would just like to point out that, although it appears that most of the actors took a few brass lessons and had some idea of how to play their instruments, the conductors were terrible! Pete and Jim, I'm ashamed of you. Only choir directors conduct like that. Not a legitimate pattern! Not a legitimate pattern!! AAACK! (Beverly Taylor flashbacks, no, *sob* please, no, stop the madness!)

Well I'll be off then. Ta-ra!

curl up and dye

I want to grow my hair out to look like this. I don't think it'll take too long, maybe two months or so. Just in time to be extra hot for summer.

And while I'm on the Franka Potente kick (and she's darn well worth it), maybe a little Lola red is in order. Or purple. At any rate, I'm feeling the urge to go punk again, especially since it doesn't seem apparent that I'll have to be "graduate student professional" any time soon. Live while you can, eh?

birthday greetings

go out today to my dear old friend Daniel Wheatfall, aka Spike aka Dan Dan the Mute Man. wOOt!

I still have that card, when I was number 2 on your list. Boy, did I get mine! ;)

"i can't read"--ralphie

I am struggling so hard to finish More Die of Heartbreak by Saul Bellow. Jay-sus, it's driving me crazy from boredom. I'd rather play Pairs II on my cellphone (and I do).

So, why not stop torturing myself and just put it down? Truthfully, though, it's not entirely boring. It's got some action, sort of. In fact it reads as one long stream of consciousness from the point of the narrator, and I get it, it's not hard to understand. It's just so bloody long, for such a simple storyline, not as bad as Ulysses (which I also had to force myself to finish) perhaps, but bad enough. I feel like I should give it the benefit of the doubt, and maybe it'll get interesting or at least life-affirming.

At any rate, it's due back at the library on Tuesday. If I haven't managed to get past the 2/3 mark by then or if it suddenly becomes the best thing I've ever read (whichever comes first), I will return it and check out something more enjoyable. Like the concise military history of Tangiers, for example.

dammit i burned the popcorn!!

Lazy me, I have all the ingredients for a supposedly delicious stew, and I just can't get up the urge to put them all together. And I do this every night. Soon, my cabbage will go bad, the tomatoes are already sketch (that's okay, I don't have to use them...eww, tomatoes!), the potatoes will start growing, and my bell pepper will rot.

First night I was going to make it I found that my mom had eaten the potatoes. Two nights ago I went to make it and I couldn't find my ginger root. Today, my mom found it, sitting in a puddle of peach iced tea that was leaking out of the container. Now all the ingredients are present but...eh. Yes. I feel eh about cooking. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the absolute last day I can use that cabbage. The thing is, I selected this recipe because I used cabbage for another stew and I didn't want the rest of it to go to waste. Looks like I'm just a loser.

Passing the time until I go party with Blather, which is the band belonging to Chappie, Haber, Dave, and this guy Julien that I met once (kinda cute, eh?). I'm supposed to be totally hard at work on horn charts for them.

So, just sitting, eatin' my half-burnt popcorn, laughing (sadly) at my dog, who can't control his hindlegs anymore while walking on slick surfaces and just crashed majorly on the plastic beside the computer chair. Poor Chipper. He's not long for this world, so I try to spend as much time as I can stand his bad breath giving him some attention.

While I brush my teeth and tart myself up, here's the first 10 songs to play at random on my realone player for your enjoyment of my impeccable musical tastes:
1. Bilal-Soul Sista (Shakin' the boot-ay)
2. Brad Melhdau-London Blues (This guy sounds just like Dave Brubeck, Jerry!*sarcasm*)
3. Ruben Gonzales-Tumbao (Ruben is the cutest old man, ever)
4. Youngblood Brass Band-Culture: Envy: War (Ain't no party like a YB party. Seriously.)
5. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds- Crow Jane (This CD scares me. Moving on)
6. Sergei Prokofiev/Issac Stern/Philadelphia-Violin Concerto No 1 Mvt 1 Andantino (pretty, but too long. Let's skip to...)
7. Beck-Debra ( Yes!! Going out to the Billings Point girls, I said ladies, step inside my Hyundai)
8. Modest Mussorgsky/Philharmonia Orchestra-Pictures at an Exhibition Promenade/Il Vecchio Castillo (Orchestral literature's best saxophone solo)
9. Ben Folds Five-Underground (I was never cool in school either, Ben. Let's rock!!)
10. Joni Mitchell-Morning Morgantown (let's take in down a knotch. Everyone sway with me!)

dear sweet buddha in nirvana

Don't hit me. I have that Britney Spears song, "Toxic," (I won't link to it, because I'm afraid of the repercussions) stuck in my head.

And the thing is, I'm enjoying it. Even with that cliched Indian riff.

It makes me want to dance nasty.

and the competition narrows further

I got a thin little envelope from Michigan today. Thin is bad.

Okay! So, that leaves McGill to be heard from, and honestly, I'd be very very surprised if I got in there. Very.

Doncha think it'd be nice if the schools would pay you back for all the money spent applying, traveling, and auditioning if they decided they didn't want you? Man, I could use that $75 app fee back. Seriously.

the friday five

If you...

1. ...owned a restaurant, what kind of food would you serve?

I would open a 24 hour breakfast place on State Street (or nearby) in Madison, WI. How many times have you wanted breakfast, dear Badgers, but Sunroom was no longer serving and Cleveland's was oh-so-far-away? Also, because sometimes you just gotta have breakfast for dinner. You just gotta. (Although, that place in Montreal was sketch-definitely sketch)

2. ...owned a small store, what kind of merchandise would you sell?

Feminist bookstore, all the way.

3. ...wrote a book, what genre would it be?

Likely non-fiction, some sort of analysis or thesis-y type thing. Although, I would write science fiction in a heartbeat if I could come up with some cool ideas.

4. ...ran a school, what would you teach?

I've toyed with the idea of a feminist-inspired school (co-ed) that would be based on principles of equality, etc. More discussion-run classrooms, proper sex ed, co-ed sports, hands-on stuff, real history lessons with emphasis on societal factors (racism, sexism, etc) that make history the way it is, etc. My music program would include a solid ear-training technique, conducting skills, composition, musicology, etc. Conservatory-like.

5. ...recorded an album, what kind of music would be on it?

My totally kick-ass brass quintet, playing classics, arrangements a la Rhythm and Brass , and my David Bowie Fame-Golden Years-Fashion medley.

On a totally unrelated note, I had Futurama dreams last night. I was Leela, and Fry and I finally got together. It was very sweet and I woke up all warm and fuzzy. I must say I don't think I've ever dreamed in cartoon before. I highly recommend it.

exciting news, everyone!!

Last night I made it to Level 4 ("Labyrinth Zone") of Sonic the Hedgehog!!!

Of course, some of you who are not aware of the legendary Sega machine that is in my possession are like "Wha?" because you beat that game back when you were thirteen and moved on to better and brighter gaming systems.

Well, I stopped (and began, for that matter) with my Sega, which I saved up the money to buy, and for which I have 5 games (two of them given to me by Jerry last year). I have beaten only one of them, and that is The Lion King. I had the help of one Ms. Sarah Morgan, and we celebrated joyously after tossing Scar over the cliff and taking our rightful place in the Circle of Life. Twas a beauteous day.

On Sonic I could never get past the second act of the second level.

When I finally did (last year, aged 21), I died consistently when the guy, at the end, that you have to fight, would spike me. I can't even remember his name, if indeed I ever knew it.

Well, last night I beat that sucka into the mofuckin' ground! I blew his shit up! Yeah! Oh wait, I have to do it again at the end of the next level. Fuck.

The Labyrinth level is a happy little place with drill-nosed bear creatures and underwater adventures. Sonic makes a cute little sound when he gets air from the air bubbles. The music is even more delightfully 80s than the previous levels. All in all, an enjoyable time.

And, you'll be happy to note, I am well on my way to defeating this level as well (I made it nearly to the end of act three with the fighting and the devilish guy before a trident killed me because I had no rings--that happens often, the lack of rings), so I will notify you of my entry into level five and the pleasures hidden therein.

Also, if anyone could please tell me just how many levels there are, I'd be grateful.

creativity

I may have gotten myself in trouble last night when I told Hans that I've written some beat poetry. He demanded to read it, and I was hard pressed to find any I'd written that were any good in the slightest, as opposed to silly little pieces of girly fancy. Not to say that there is anything wrong with girly fancy, as in this brave new world of feminism we are supposed to support all things created by girl, but well, anyway, they're shit.

Considering I have this blog, and I update it daily (sometimes with serious, thought-provoking pieces, other times not so much), you would think that I like people to read what I write. Here's the deal: no. Not always. Blogging here has made me feel a little more comfortable with sharing my ideas to the world, but only because it forces me to post, edit, reread, edit, and then sit and bear the weight of your criticism (and man, you guys should really just lay off, jeez) without the blind cowardice of, say, handing in a term paper without asking for advice, proofreading, or even making any major revisions myself. Part of this stems from my arrogance that I am, really (and Hans, you haven't help this), a competent and intelligent author. Lots of work is to be done, naturally. Thankfully, I no longer end papers with some sort of all-emcompassing, awe-inspiring, beautiful sentiment as I used to when proper construction of essays was being drilled into my head (that hourglass figure of introductions and conclusions, start big, narrow down, pan out to the big picture again at the end). I would share, but, unfortunately (awww), I have no papers handy.

However, when it comes down to poetry, or any kind of expression that doesn't draw on my stronger powers of analysis and criticism, I feel extremely intimidated by the outside gaze. To get over this, I must practice.

*ahem*

*drums bongos*

You, world.
Big wide and angry
Full of information technology bright lights and jabbering mouths not listening to the soulful tune of a quiet night
I feel your self-importance when I go to a bookstore
And stare at all the books that I'll never have time to read
Not in a million years
Everyone's got an opinion
A rushing gaping mind that longs to fill the void
To get fifteen minutes
To shoot Andy Warhol
To Drown Out the Sorrows
And who's to say you aren't worth it?
Me?
That's a laugh.

"et tu, Brute" your best friend conspires
You've got dark thoughts dark hearts and dark towers
Hidden away is that thing you'd really really really
Like to do, poor little lost soul.

A few of my favorite things can't compare to the struggles and desires of billions of people wandering the streets of this earth thinking what is the meaning what the purpose where is my family how will i feed them when will they notice am i a star do i look good am i the boss of me where is my paycheck does he love me is she cheating what shall i read next when shall i write it do i need to diet am i overweight will i pay extra for that airplane seat am i gay am i a woman or a man do i have aids or cancer or high blood pressure or will i live to see tomorrow when will it end what bomb will destroy me what fatal coup what intense hunger what is the purpose what is the meaning...of this?

You can't stop the flood
It just keeps flowing over and over the bodies of us
The meaning of us time strips away and leaves nothing
It's only a game anyway, survival of the fittest or smartest or quickest you've got to
learn.
Keep up with times or don't you
Pr/lay for the team or don't you
Fight for your rights or don't you
Don't you care?
Make the most of what's living and dying hugs and laughter tears and sorrow do what you want it's ALL tomorrow there is no chance to stop and think you'd better just do it.
While you can.

Love for the children who grow up and learn from us understanding that death is a tool for control for power for bombs for oil.
You can save their lives
but what thoughts do you put in their heads with your
wars
and
Enrons.

My american dream is something much softer something more satisfying
unique and undying
It's not kids and a house in the 'burbs
It's not riches and rides and bitches
It's not total control of a wounded populace
It's not that. none of that. But I can't tell you what it is
because I don't know.

But still I say, you do what you want. You do it now
Your personal freedom isn't a matter of dispute.
As long as you are not gay
or female
or a person of color
or poor.
Have you taken drugs? You're off the list too. Your personal freedom
Is on the line. Someone else is making the decisions, the big bucks
And then hypocritically abusing every rule they've made.
But still, do what you want!
They say, damn the man.
Invent your all-purpose kitchen gizmo, write your pop song, go ahead even, write that book.
I'll read it.

to do today

-wash car and remove rat nests from engine (poor ED is so dirty!) (not any longer she's not!)
-clean closets and drawers of things to donate (an added plus: vacuumed floor!!)
-transport pants/skirts/shorts etc. from broken drawers to new temporary plastic dresser (am now wondering what to do with broken drawers)
-clean bathroom (a definite 10 on the "ewww" factor right now)
-obtain large boxes from Ralphs for donation items
-practice? (only a little)
-celebrate mo'fuckin St Patty's day!!

Speaking of Ralphs, how did I miss that the grocery strike ended? No one told me!! Whatever, I'm still shopping at Henry's. The only reason I'll go to Ralphs now is probably for OJ, because Henry's...eh, not so hot.

Today's Recommended Listening: Dvorak String Quartet No 12 in F major. So pretty! It makes me wish I were a hearty peasant lass doing a jig with robust and handsome young Lars from the farm down the road. Lots of beer involved.

Time to get to work!

it's a radiohead kind of day

The kind where you just lie on the floor, staring at the ceiling, while OK Computer is washing over you in thick electronic goodness. Skipping Fitter, Happier, of course.

I've also decided that, until they fall off me, I will not take off my rainbow pants. This is, understandably, not a reasonable option, as there are some situations (be it extreme heat, job interviews, or concert-dress settings) that require me to wear something else on my lower regions. I just want you to know that I won't be happy about it, because my rainbow pants kick ass and take names. Despite their sweatpants-esque material and waistband, they are bellbottomy and make my ass look hot. The rainbow stripes, of course, top off the whole ensemble. Forever I will hold Most Holy the day I bought them for under $10 at Ragstock.

My desires to loll about in rainbow pants and awash my aural sensors in Radiohead (barring Kid A, because it always brings back shitty memories) are just side effects of my general "blah" feeling right now. "Blah" to just about everything, including my dirty car, my dirty bathroom, my clothes all over the floor, my trombone, reading books, surfing the internet, exercise, masturbation, and even, I am sorry to say, Buddha Stew. "Blah" to everything in this world except sleep and mind-numbing TV programs.

It is very sad that I feel burnt-out, because I really do nothing. Nothing at all, that requires me to be stressed, challenged intellectually, or otherwise bothered. Nothing. Just me, chilling. Blah.

on this day in history

Soothsayer. Caesar!
Caesar.Ha! Who calls?
Casca.Bid every noise be still; peace yet again!
Caesar. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, shriller than music,
Cry, 'Caesar.' Speak; Caesar is turned to hear.
Soothsayer. Beware the ides of March.
Caesar. What man is that?
Brutus. A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.
Caesar. Set him before me; let me see his face.
Cassius. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar.
Caesar. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again.
Soothsayer. Beware the ides of March.
Caesar. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass.

From Act I Scene II, Julius Caesar by Wm. Shakespeare

44 B.C.

Gaius Julius Caesar, dictator of Rome, is stabbed to death in the Roman Senate house by 60 conspirators led by Marcus Junius Brutus and Gaius Cassius Longinus.

1820 Maine enters the Union

As part of the Missouri Compromise between the North and the South, Maine is admitted into the Union as the 23rd state. Administered as a province of Massachusetts since 1647, the entrance of Maine as a free state was agreed to by Southern senators in exchange for the entrance of Missouri as a slave state.

1917 Czar Nicholas II abdicates

During the February Revolution, Czar Nicholas II, ruler of Russia since 1894, is forced to abdicate the throne by the Petrograd insurgents, and a provincial government is installed in his place.

births

Ruth Bader Ginsburg (1933- )
Supreme Court justice; born in New York City; the second woman (after Sandra Day O'Connor) to sit on the nation's highest court.

Fabio (1961 - )

Sly Stone (1944 - )

Harry James (1916 - 1983)
Jazz trumpeter, born in Albany, Georgia, USA.

Buddha Stew (2001- )
Weblog, located at www.salamandastron.blogspot.com, maintained by proprietress Lorn, then university student and aspiring trombonist. Originally for use as public journal, Buddha Stew has evolved into a mix of personal stories, political commentary, and feminist rhetoric.

Happy Birthday, Buddha Stew!!! I'm very proud of you. Here's to another three years!

in/significance

here it is, this blank blogger page for me to full with words.

the thing is, i feel my head is just as muddled and uncertain as my life is, and i can't seem to find a place to start.

i'm not settling. i can't decide what i want to be when i grow up. if it were biologically possibly, i would be a tree, my aspiration at age 3.

being a tree would be fun. being an ent would be fucken rad. hroom hrroom!

the fact is, i can't be a tree. i have no inclination to be a doctor, lawyer, veterinarian, actor, scientist, or politician. a degree in music performance, trombone emphasis, suggests that maybe i should be a musician.

hm.

yeah i'm not so sure about that one, guys. kinda bumming on the whole musician thing.

i haven't practiced since i got back from canada. and i'm not missing it at all. if i had other source of income, i might not be going to coach at all. i'm a musical liability.

but what else would i do?

i can't get excited about any of the options america offers to me as a means of gainful employment.

but maybe i wouldn't mind being a lifeguard forever.

yeah, i could do that. maybe i'd graduate to head guard, and then aquatics supervisor.

everyone needs lifeguards. and hey, i'm good at it.

maybe better at it than anything else i do.

the broken sentences are coming at you fast and hard because i can't seem to keep a thought flowing in my head long enough to sponsor another one that deserves to be in the same sentence. i feel broken thoughts, thus, broken sentences.

i'm feeling down because it's the american dream, hammered into my head since childhood saying ambitions, horatio alger, 2.5 children, pursuit of happiness, that i can't accept. that i don't want the american dream. no kids or a house in the suburbs for me. i don't need loads and loads of money that i would feel compelled to give away. it's ambition i don't have. i'm not striving for anything.

except...

no, i do want happiness. contentment. peace.

what would be the consequences of me becoming a buddhist nun? i think i would enjoy it. much like being a tree, it suggests quietude, calmness, quiessence.

it's true, there are things i want to do. i experienced a bit of nostalgia for the music world today when thinking about pit orchestras (maybe not everyone's favorite memory), but i can't find it now.

it's a mood, it'll pass. all the good stuff, all the dreams and desires are buried under the doubts and anxieties. and the dullness most of all. it all comes from how sluggish, uninspired, and lonely i feel. not the "go-getter" i was, rather, my go's on the get. Just floatin' getting by. waiting for the stream to pick me up again and take me down the rapids. no excitement here. move along, folks.

fahmer's mahket

Yesterday I had meant to go to the RB Farmer's Market to buy a bouquet of flowers for my mom and some of that delicious wonderful exquisite heavenly salsa (yes folks, it's that good). However, at 3 pm, when I actually remembered I had intended to go, it was too late. So, it being my mom's day off, I took her to the one in Poway, which worked out, as she paid for everything. The salsa lady was not there, unfortunately, but there was a hummus man. And he was cute. At least, I got some sort of culturally significant dipping sauce. I am content. We ended up with two bouquets-one of daffodils (my second favorite!) and the other an assorted mix of stargazer lilies (reminds me of Jerry, happy), roses, cosmos and daisies.

And...hallelujah...it's strawberry season. I am doing the Toyota jump right now- because I love what you do for me, strawberries.

Before we headed home we made a stop at a nursery to pick up some herbs so that I will not have to keep buying huge bunches of things like cilantro and parsley and having most of it go bad because I only need like one stalk of it. I feel very very very bad when that happens. Very. Thus, it would be more efficient and better for my general happiness if I started to grow herbs. We got two kinds of parsley, italian and the regular old tooth-cleaning kind, cilantro, thyme, rosemary, garlic cloves, sweet basil, and sweet marjoram (how do you say it? my mom says "marajam" but me, I learned to read phonetically so I'm doubtful of this). Dug up one of our side gardens and planted them with hopes that they will flourish and cheapen my weekly visits to Henry's. Huzzah!

Weekends kill me. Especially when I'm looking for a job and have to wait two whole days before I can pester managers again to hire me, meanwhile my bank account threatens to die of asphyxia. Holding out on the airlines to lower prices on flights to DC next month makes me nervous, but I'm giving it one more week...Davis, what's your decision? Today I'm meeting Cara, who commented back on my post about IWD hoping to have someone to travel with to the March. We're going to split the cost of a hotel, which is perfect. Speaking of which...time to wipe the garden dirt from my face and get spiffied up.

what's in a name?

I've been toying with the idea of changing my AIM name. While llamas remain fascinating and cooler than most animals, I've outgrown that phase of my life (the obsession-that-defines-me-as-unique-and-special mentality) and it's time to change and reflect more who I've become.

Sure, it's just an IM name. But admittedly I have an ongoing quest for self-expression that requires me to put thought into the tags that describe me. Buddha Stew is a perfect name for my website and I couldn't be prouder of it (although what it has come to mean for me was unintentional in the beginning), but it's not really a description of me per se but of the things I put out into the world for mass consumption. The trick is to find a screenname that describes me, but yet doesn't limit my description to a narrow category, such as llamas.

[I predicted that raising this discussion with Jerry would lead to him suggesting a screenname for me that contained in some form the word "poopy." I know my Jerry. The following is a transcript of the pertinent aspect of our conversation:
Llama721: thinking about maybe changing my IM name
Skrtch4brkf: ooo
Skrtch4brkf: to what
Llama721: hmm
Skrtch4brkf: pooperdoodoos

I rest my case.]

Before my present incarnation as Llama721, my screen name was the Les Miserables-inspired "Enjolrasse," a feminization of the character Enjolras, leader of the student revolutionaries. At the time I was mad about Les Miz, having seen in London on my 17th birthday. I spent a great deal of time on the official chat board making up fanfiction and being a general dork (however, I am grateful to my general dorkiness for making me a friend of Hans who retains his Les Miz screenname). I was one of those LM fans that scorned the tweenagers for their variations on Eponine nicknames and their numerous grammatically incorrect exploits into how much Cosette sucked, they loved Marius, and Eponine deserved him more. I, however, chose to be a little in love with Enjolras, but more so I wanted to be him, because I thought he was fuckin' rad. Hence, "Enjolrasse."

Now that I think about it, it still holds some significance. I'm all girl power human rights activist now, why not? Also, it lacks numbers, a plus.

Part of me is a little cautious about switching names just now though. I'm at a crossroads; I can't honestly say that I feel defined by my trombone as much as I used to, but I can't replace that drive with anything else just yet. I'm floating around in an eddy just waiting to join the stream again. So, do I forge ahead and remain Llama721, or backtrack and claim my Enjolrasse roots? How about an entirely new name, like bodhisattva or pooperdoodoos?

Feel free to vote on this important issue. Likely I'll think about, get distracted by something else, and forget about, thus solving my problem. Really, I only talk to...maybe five people out of 47 on a regular basis. Probably the same five people who read my webpage.

what the...?

Prepare to be baffled. Either he's been watching too much Monk or he's got some sort of Mad King George complex. Is his pee black? [Link via The Republic of T]

Also, I admired Gavin Newsome before but after reading this article in the U-T today he's my new hero. And he's got San Diego pegged, unfortunately:

Even if he was interested in replacing Feinstein some day, he says, that would mean seeking votes in more politically conservative areas such as San Diego County.

And right now, "I imagine in San Diego I may not be the most favored person."

Yeah, probably not. I love ya, Gavin!

getcha thinking

Some insight into your head today at Alas, a Blog. In brief, PinkDreamPoppies is exploring the ways we read and hear voices in our head corresponding to either knowing the gender of the speaker or making an assumption based on what is written. An example:

When most people read they hear the written words spoken in their minds. A disembodied vocal of authors, narrators, and characters fills their minds' ear acting out plays and essays, novels and poems. Blogs are composed with words and so are no exception to the rule, so chances are that you're hearing a voice right now.

Sometimes the voices that readers hear are the voices of actual people. Mothers speak with familiar tones in letters to their children, and stories traded between friends are still heard as though over the phone even if read alone in silence. Some actors, even, can take over a character so that no matter what voice readers may have heard before they cannot help but hear the actor's now. How many Harry Potter fans will always hear Alan Rickman when they read Severus Snape? How long with Lawrence Olivier be Hamlet?

Usually, though, the voices people hear are new, unique, and private. Each reader hears his or her own version of a character's voice that is created from the reader's perception of the character's gender, age, race, ethnicity, personality, history, and personal appearance and how these things interact to create a whole person. These perceptions on the part of the reader can be the difference between a sympathetic character and one the reader hopes gets side-swiped by a bus. Everyone bring prejudices to the table while reading; people will inflict their views of blacks and whites and Hispanics or men and women or the rich and the poor on the characters.

Honestly, this has really got me thinking. It's made me focus on how I read and understand what's in front of me, and I'm still a little baffled as to how I hear things in my head.

I'd like to think I read, regardless of gender, pretty fairly and giving the author the benefit of the doubt. Since I commented on the post in question, I've changed my mind. There, I said that I was consciously aware of how I interpreted the other commenters based on the apparent gender of their name. In retrospect, I've discovered it takes a genuine effort for me to truly hear a gendered voice in my head; even when reading someone whose speaking voice I am accustomed to, such as Jerry, I have a hard time imagining his voice to go along with it. It is not that I can't remember the sound of his voice, but rather that the two, his writing style and his speaking style, are disconnected in my brain. I can bring to mind something Jerry has said to me and hear it in his voice, but it is not so with his writing. On IM, when speaking to a close friend, the same is true, although it's easier to bring their voices to mind. It might have something to do with the person: Jason's voice I can easily bring to mind, and Sheena's, but with Val I have a harder time. This is arbitrary, I'm not sure why it works that way.

In any case I think I might be a bit of an exception to the rule. Since learning to read, I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book in hand, and my early social development was slow and rather intellectual. This didn't always go over well with girls and boys my age, and as a consequence I became less sure of my social ability, retired to my books, bam, vicious cycle. Even today, when I have become more sure of myself and my speaking abilities, I have trouble relating or carrying on a conversation with people whose social development has focused more on vocal communication.

But, I can't deny that knowing the gender, race, or sexual orientation of an author will affect my perception of that person. Fortunately, I've developed a modicum of fairness in my own thoughts in regards to race and gender and so on to not so much as judge said person for their background as look at them as having a unique perspective on the matter at hand. This has taken loads of work, overcoming whatever socialization I've had about blacks, hispanics, gay men, literary women, etc., to the point where I definitely favor and agree more with, say, a black woman talking about the effects of racism than a white, scholarly type (man or woman) using the same topic. Of course, that's to say that experience is just as valid, or more so, than research and statistics.

As far as reading a novel goes, unless the author gives a detailed description of the character I have to build scenery and appearance in my own mind before I can give that person a voice. For me, it always starts with the visual and then goes to the aural. This might tie into my struggles with ear training and playing by ear in music; unless I can see it and play with it visually, I have trouble immediately recognizing certain pitches and so on. Not to say that I can't learn to do these things-I have some varied history of actually being good at sightsinging or dictation, but these occurred when I was actively working and concentrating almost solely on aural skills. I think that's why I did so poorly in theory- I had a hard time switching back and forth between the analytical and intellectual aspects of Hyer (bleh) and the brief episodes of ear training that were thrown inbetween without a firm aural base to begin with. Which just goes to show you, I'm no good at multi-tasking mentally. Can't be sitting here blogging all day either, and then expect to do math with any kind of accuracy. Blog everything in my head when I don't have a social life of any equal measure to the time I spend on the internet. Nerd.

Hmm, I realize that PDP's post was much more thought-provoking and all. It's more of a stream-of-consciousness here. Said in my head, of course, in my own beautiful voice which I realize sounds nothing at all like my actual speaking voice. Which when played back for me, is annoying and squeaky. Naturally, everyone hates their own voice, yeah? You never sound like you really want to. But that's a post for another time.

bodhicitta on the brain

In a recent post, I got a little angry and frustrated with our (p)Resident. Davis, rightly, pointed out that it's easy to use one person as a scapegoat when they might represent the views of many people who are equally ignorant. Nevertheless, these people have a say in governmental policies and their representative owes it to them to understand their ideas.

The past couple of days, I have been examining my anger toward Bush and how it fits in with my buddhist leanings. The idea of bodhicitta, the ultimate in compassion, the very essence of which is needed to attain perfect buddhahood, has come to my mind frequently. With bodhicitta, a bodhisattva (one who is destined to become a Buddha) must look at the world and wish not to achieve enlightenment for his or her own sake, but for the cessation of suffering of all people. The first step to attaining this calling is to begin to see all beings as having been one's mother.

In a buddhist world, we have more past lives than there are grains of sand in the Ganges. Thus, when we look at the people in our lives, hell, even the ants and birds and lemurs, we see souls that have been any myriad of things, the mother of our then-incarnation included. A mother is the ultimate in kindness and unselfishness, and therefore we must love everyone as we love our mother. [Let's ignore for the time being this idealization of motherhood and save the feminist analysis for another time. In cases where one has not known the kindness of a mother, one is encouraged to bring to mind a being who has in some way shown them great compassion and love.]

Simple enough. The trick is in the remaining six steps to Buddhahood. Second, you must find within yourself the urge to repay this kindness your "mother" has bestowed upon you, which is followed by the intense feeling of love, a desire to make that person happy. Happiness, it follows, is freedom from suffering and thus in the fourth step you develop compassion for your subjects. If you have compassion for all beings, you have "intense intention" which leads to bodhicitta, the awakening mind. Step up on up to be the next Buddha. It's all you, baby.

Professor Dunne would share the following story to describe to us the essence of bodhicitta:

The monk Asanga was traveling one day when he came across a worm-ridden dog, still alive, lying on the roadside. Feeling intense compassion for the plight of this dog, he carefully removed the worms and cared for the dog's wounds. As he was doing so, he realized that he must care for the worms as well, whose sustenance had just been removed from them. Therefore, he took a knife and cut from his leg a long strip of flesh and placed the maggots on it so they could eat.

In fact, the dog was a form of the bodhisattva Maitreya, who was putting this challenge to Asanga to demonstrate compassion. Buddhists teachers, the Dalai Lama included, teach that one seeking compassion should treasure those in our lives who make things difficult, because without this struggle we would not truly begin to see all beings with equanimity and love. In other words, it's easy enough to be kind and helpful if everyone you meet is a peach to live with. It is the true troublemakers that will help us attain bodhicitta.

Thus, it is my challenge to find compassion for the people in my life who aggravate me. My father, for one. Is he a bodhisattva in disguise, urging me to find the wellspring of love I desire? Bush, for another, which is hard and complicated, because in his own right he is harming many people. From today's Daily Wisdom by the Dalai Lama:

According to the Latin root of the word, "religion" would mean "to bind again." Now how does the concept of binding or tying up come to be applied as the common term for all our various teachings?

The common enemy of all religious disciplines, the target of all moral precepts laid down by the great teachers of mankind, is selfishness of mind. For it is just this which causes ignorance, anger, and passion--which are at the root of all the troubles of the world."

My attraction for buddhism comes from this simple idea of compassion and the cessation of suffering for all people. If one understands it properly, it is impossible to make an action that is founded on what one sees is best or most fit for other people. Instead, one looks at the consequences of suffering in situations as drastic as war or embargo, as sweeping as intolerance and ignorance, and as mundane as gossip or backstabbing. Thus, Bush's actions are to me rooted in great selfishness parading as unselfishness, the most dangerous kind. I would love to see him awakened and enlightened as to the nature of suffering, surrounding by buddhist monks filled with love and energy. For now, I must work on seeing him as my mother.

your afternoon assignment

If you want a taste of some truly disturbing right-wing thinking, take a look at this column, via Feministe. (Also, it appears that Ms Lauren has been invaded by a particularly hateful little man with a Dixieland band. Neat.) If you can get through the Card column, I salute you, and will bake you a cake of your choosing (I get to have some, because I sat through it too).

If I were to thoroughly critique this particular piece of shit, it would take me days. Therefore, I am just going to make fun of it.

This quote is fun, because it's so sad:

In the first place, no law in any state in the United States now or ever has forbidden homosexuals to marry. The law has never asked that a man prove his heterosexuality in order to marry a woman, or a woman hers in order to marry a man.

Any homosexual man who can persuade a woman to take him as her husband can avail himself of all the rights of husbandhood under the law. And, in fact, many homosexual men have done precisely that, without any legal prejudice at all.

Yes! Finally, someone who understands that obviously it's not the person you're marrying that's important, but rather the very act of getting married and reaping the tax benefits.

I would like to see some hard evidence for this:

And yet, throughout the history of human society -- even in societies that tolerated relatively open homosexuality at some stages of life -- it was always expected that children would be born into and raised by families consisting of a father and mother.

Somehow I think that can be refuted.

God Forbid!:

We also expect our spouse to behave, as a parent, in the way we have learned to expect from the experiences we had with our opposite-sex parent -- that's why so many men seem to marry women just like their mother, and so many women to marry men just like their father. It takes conscious effort to break away from this pattern.

Were I to marry a man like my father (in fact if I were to marry at all!) I would probably commit suicide. One Ed Husting in my life is plenty, thanks.

Also, Mr Card (and he is a card, ain't he?), while acknowledging that some societal factors go in to our current standard of gender roles, is very keen on biological essentialism to make his point. Behold! The ever useful "Men can't keep their pants on and must spread their seed amongst many nubile females, who choose them for their relative strength and ability to provide meat and fire. Grunt Ugh!":

Civilization requires the suppression of natural impulses that would break down the social order. Civilization thrives only when most members can be persuaded to behave unnaturally, and when those who don't follow the rules are censured in a meaningful way.

Why would men submit to rules that deprive them of the chance to satisfy their natural desire to mate with every attractive female?

Why would women submit to rules that keep them from trying to mate with the strongest (richest, most physically imposing, etc.) male, just because he already has a wife?

And What Will Happen, Prophet Orson, If We Let Our Children Grow Up Without Homophobia?:

Already any child with any kind of sexual attraction to the same sex is told that this is an irresistible destiny, despite the large number of heterosexuals who move through this adolescent phase and never look back.

Already any child with androgynous appearance or mannerisms -- effeminate boys and masculine girls -- are being nurtured and guided (or taunted and abused) into "accepting" what many of them never suspected they had -- a desire to permanently move into homosexual society.

In other words, society will bend all its efforts to seize upon any hint of homosexuality in our young people and encourage it.

Seriously folks. Are we so adjusted to the idea that there always has to be a dominant pressure, a societal push, whether it be male superiority or spread the good gay gospel, that we can't see a world without such oppressive boundaries? It's the same kind of argument that leads people to believe that feminists seeking to change the reality of patriarchy are going for the reverse, a female-dominant society.

More hard evidence, please:

The dark secret of homosexual society -- the one that dares not speak its name -- is how many homosexuals first entered into that world through a disturbing seduction or rape or molestation or abuse, and how many of them yearn to get out of the homosexual community and live normally.

Finally, all this talk about "activist judges." What the crap? Um, yeah, they have the power to decide what is constitutional and fair under the law. They were elected or appointed. So were the men and women in Congress, and our President (although it remains open to debate). When I make a fuss about how Bush is not representing my interests and those of the people around me that share my feelings, I'm unpatriotic and a bleeding heart. I protested the war in Iraq. I seethed when Bush made his "I can't be swayed by a special interest group" comment. So, I guess I can understand why some opponents of same sex marriage feel they've been taken advantage of by the actions of the Massachusetts court. However, they in fact were acting with people in mind, with people's right to the pursuit of happiness and so forth. In my opinion Bush led us into a war we had no business even thinking about, and sent Americans to fight it. Whose interests are really being represented here? I ask you this.

Ready for that cake? I might as well learn to make one in training for my natural role as a wife and mother. After all, I plan to have a traditional, God-fearing, heterosexual marriage just like my parents, because they've been such good role models.

[A Final Note: You can also laugh at Orson, because on top of being silly and misguided, he can't spell, either. Two of the three genuinely mispelled words in my post came from his quotes. Tee hee. I win! ;)]

who is bored?

i am. and sleepy, because of my 8 AM coaching session for which I awoke at 6:30. I had one of those nights again (actually, it's almost every night), where i'm super tired but falling asleep escapes me. I tossed, turned, and thought blank thoughts, but it took a while. Thus, sleepy today. It is, of course, a beautiful day and I have the option of going swimming or perhaps for an afternoon bike ride, but the sleepy is discouraging me from this. I think perhaps I will go swimming when I am done here, or at least go to the pool and fall asleep in a chair.

I didn't want to jinx it by blogging about it, but it appears I have jinxed it by NOT blogging about it. I'm waiting on a call about a lifeguarding job, at the community pool where us nautical RB Broncos had our swim practices and home meets, and a year later where I worked for the summer as a swim instructor for the little rodents of suburban families. Rick the Dick, thankfully, is no longer the pool manager there. I sauntered over last week to see if they needed lifeguards or at least just get my name in and have an ap on file. It appears that they do, actually, need guards, so lucky me. However. The man has not called me back, and he said he would do so before this past weekend. Should it happen that he does not call during the remainder of today's business hours, I will call him first thing tomorrow.

Getting anxious to hear from Michigan and McGill, and also to find out what egg-sac-tly is up with T-Mobile not getting my last phone bill payment. Grr. I now owe them for two months, but I paid before I left, I swear! Damn you, postal service!!

Muriel Spark is a very funny author. Evidence to such:

"He looked as if he would murder me, and he did." -from "The Portobello Road"

and

"As a provisional measure, I worked it out that either he was mad or that he was not mad." -from "The Playhouse called Remarkable"

Brilliant!

i would have thought it'd be more

37.5 %

My weblog owns 37.5 % of me.
Does your weblog own you?

something new for you to visit

jerry and i are starting a joint blog. for your enjoyment, we give you we have cute butts.

blogging has been light today...

but jilling off has reached an all-time high. Seriously. I am horny. Damn. Spring fever like crazy. All I want to do is go out, dance, drink, and go home with some lucky chick. I might take a guy if I'm desperate, or if said man bears a resemblance to Benecio del Toro or Edward Norton. However. Girl is on my mind.

Another part of me is saying, in ever-so-soft a voice (mostly drowned out by the extreme randiness), that the spring weather would be a perfect time for those warm-fuzzies, heightened-heart-rate, spine-tingling crush/romance moments. Sitting on the porch swing in the moonlight feeling the anticipation in the air. First tenative kisses. Lying in bed (after the randiness has been momentarily dispelled) with legs intertwined and listening to crickets chirp outside.

It's been a while since I've had a crush. Well, two years! Although most (if not all) of my crushes have been tainted with the fear of rejection and insecurity, I feel my recent desire for the physical and emotional effects of crush-mentality, coupled with its concurrent horniness, could be an effective recipe for a non-holds-barred flirtation, with none of the nasty unrequited love side effects. I also feel that since I seldom feel so sexually-inspired I should run with it and make good use of it while it lasts. Before it runs out and I return to my regularly scheduled low-sex-drive program.

I swear it's the weather. I'm going crazy, but it's definitely fun. I'm currently taking applications for persons willing to party rockstar-style with me this weekend. You will all be accepted. Unless you don't live in San Diego, in which case you are lame and should come visit me so we can seek the hot lesbian sex out as a team.

Note: It will be interesting to see how many new visitors I will get because of this entry. Bring 'em on, Google.

HAPPY INTERNATIONAL WOMEN'S DAY!

March is Women's History Month and today, March 8th, is International Women's Day. It has meant a myriad of things throughout its 93 year history, from an event for socialist causes to strikes and marches for peace and women's rights.

A holiday is what you make of it, so take a little time to celebrate IWD in the way you see fit. Champion a woman in your life for her achievements. Write a letter to your congressperson asking for the resuscitation of the Equal Rights Amendment. Protest a violent or misogynistic ad on TV. Buy something woman-friendly; a magazine (no, not Cosmo or Seventeen. Bitch or Bust!), any Ani Difranco, Dar Williams, or Tori Amos CD, a book by a woman author (but stay away from Ann Coulter or Laura Schlesinger...for as much as women's liberation has allowed them to shine and succeed they sure are bitter). Make a button. Sign up to go to the March in April.

I haven't decided yet what I will do today. I coach at noon, would it be risky to wear my Save Roe (a hanger with a slash through it) button to a high school? Perhaps today is my day to officially declare that I will be in DC next month, with Marisa, Jerry, hopefully Davis, and 3000 other people fighting for women's rights.

Whatever you do, let me know about it!

hanging out in the wet swimsuit, for old times' sake

I had a very good Sunday, and it's only going to get better.

I woke up bright and early (it seems to be a recent trend-haven't slept past 9:30 at all since I got back from Montreal), bummed around, did some yoga, and made a cheese sandwich, which was delicately placed in a baggy and packed, along with waterbottle and book, into my backpack. Got my act together and went for a hike. Los Penasquitos is quickly becoming my favorite place to go...it's quiet and not that many people hike there, the stream and waterfall provide some great scenery, and it's not uphill or anything (hurray!). Since I've been there last (Jan, with Jerry), spring has steadily begun to take over and it's a different place already. Three cheers for nature.

I didn't make it all the way to the waterfall this time; I decided to stop at the shady glen about two miles in and eat my sammich and let my feet frolic in the stream. It was hot, and my leg was cramping a little, so it's all for the best. Plus, the waterfall was likely a popular spot and not many people can find the shady glen.

While I was there I started to wish I had a picture phone and a moblog, like Shaun, so I could share the nature lovin' with you. Actually, his two most recent pictures appear to have been taken in a similar area to Los Penasquitos...eh? Weird. I saw two woodpeckers and a heron.

Also, I couldn't stop thinking that the shady glen would be a good place to make out with someone. Man, I'm so randy lately. All I can think about it sex. On my way back I was passed by a girl on a bike who gave me the most gorgeous smile. Swoon. Later, a pleasantly scruffy gentleman also on bicycle made eye contact with me for a few seconds and I had to restrain myself from knocking him off his bike and dragging him off into the underbrush for some nookie. Daaaayamn he was fine.

I made it back to my car with out assaulting anyone. ;) Went to the pool to cool off, and now I'm home for what promises to be a super evening. My parents have just left for dinner, which means I have the rare opportunity of an evening alone, sooo nice. I am going to make the Tunisian vegetable stew from my Moosewood cookbook, and listen to Jeff Buckley. And tonight it's just sweet, sweet Adult Swim and some Thin Mints. Ooh baby.

my life is so pathetic

i've only been back for five days. i'm lonely and bored already. is anyone reading my blog? leave a comment, i need love.

sad. such a beautiful day too. i think i shall go for a walk and kick rocks about. sigh.

hypocrisy part deux

Today is a 100 on the Wisconsin Frisbee Index.

This means I woke up, looked outside, and thousands of little bells in my head went off, triggering an irresistible urge to frolic outside. The WFI runs on a scale of 0-100 (0 being bone-shattering wind conditions and slushy ice rain), influenced by such factors as sunshine, sky hue, and relative previous weather conditions affecting ability to frolic outside (read: spring fever). Thus, a mildly brisk, partly cloudy day can trigger a high WFI simply because it occurs after months of slogging through snow and slush wearing every piece of clothing you own. It could be 50 F. You can calculate the WFI most effectively by counting the number of students who are tossing a frisbee, lounging on the half-dead grass of Bascom Hill, or just generally skipping class while enjoying an iced beverage at an outdoor cafe. Someone will open their dorm window and blast Dave Matthews out of it. This indicates an especially high WFI; only nudged farther up if the music in question is Bob Marley.

Thus, although I have spent the majority of "winter" in mild, usually sunny climes, my personal WFI has reached an all time high. It is a combination of spending a recent amount of time in the Midwest, watching the transition from winter to spring begin, being holed up with my parents and no job/friends for several months, wanting to get more physical exercise in the form of frolicking, and a very specific knack for knowing just exactly what the difference is between one San Diego day and the next. Most people are baffled by this, but when you live here, you know. Perhaps it's a general brightness to the colors and sounds. A warmer breeze. Whatever it is, it's subtle but its message is clear:

IT'S SPRING!!

Side effects of my high WFI include:
-horniness
-parading about in skimpy bathing suit
-dusting off Sublime CDs (I just can't listen to them in good conscience in winter)
-girly clothing
-painting toenails

Yes, I am preparing myself for the mating ritual that spring is. I can't deny it, it's an age-old, instinctual tradition. Time to get my groove on. Tap that ass. Shake what my momma gave me.

Sweeeeet.

hypocrisy

Everything about the weather today says: It's Friday, the weekend, go to the beach, take a hike, smell the flowers. Even I, in my pathetic non-week-vs.-weekend based existence, am excited. The weather says, citizens of San Diego, I dearly love you, here is a beautiful weekend for you to play outside. I wish I could show it to you. I know most of you would kill me, or fly out immediately to visit (the latter is preferred). Despite what weather.com says, there are no clouds. It's at least 70. It's all I can do right now to resist donning my bathing suit and heading to the pool (I assure you, I will as soon as I am done here) without delay.

And. The big one. And...the flowers are blooming. It's spring. The pink jasmine have arrived, which couldn't make me happier. Pink jasmine is my absolute favorite smell in the whole wide world. It's right here, in my own backyard. It's fabu. Other flowers that are blooming include iceplant (swathes of orange, red, and purple adorning the highways and hillsides) and daisies (yellow fields and lawns!). It's only the beginning. In the next two weeks, everything will be crazy and chaotic with color.

The hypocrisy of my post lies thus: In spite of my distaste for my city's politics, suburban sprawl, and traffic-riddled streets, you can't beat the weather. You just can't. Maybe tie it, or come in a close second...but you can't beat it. Hands down the best weather ever.

Days like today make it hard to think of leaving. Days like today I can forget that I'm stuck behind 20 cars at a red light because I'm singing Ani songs at the top of my lungs with the windows down and my besandaled feet tapping. Days like today I remember why I hate being a lifeguard anywhere else. Days like today you can't help being young, and hopeful, and free. Days like today...you'll find me at the pool.

See ya there.

do you ever get the feeling...

that your parents are making fun of you? And not just poking harmless, well-meant fun, but rather nasty, jive-ass, ignorant remarks?

I do.

It has been evidenced to me in the following ways (and yes, I know well enough the adage "an eavesdropper nevers hears anything good about himself"):

The "Lorn's an ignorant Gen-Xer" comment:
Scenario-I at computer, looking at one my daily reads (was it Buzzflash? or even Margaret?. Not to toot my own horn, it could just have easily been The Onion), I overhear my parents having a discussion about the questionable intelligence of one younger "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" contestant, who is unsure about the location of Harley Davidson. They are mocking her "because everyone knows this" and not just baby boomers from the greater eastern Wisconsin area. She "watches MTV instead of the news, and doesn't know anything about America. All these kids these days [a little too cliche for my taste perhaps]. Look at Lorn-all she reads in the newspaper are cartoons."

Ahem.

I shall not refute that; tis true! I ignore the heavier sections of the paper for the funnies, and on a rare occasion have been noted to skim the day's headlines. I stopped getting my news from mass media sources not long ago, what with the inferiority of TV and the loss of the Chicago Tribune at my breakfast table. The time I spend on the internet is a mixture of catching up the VERY intelligent blogs I read daily and following up on the stories they report.

Regardless of what I actually do on the internet, my father's offhand comment is merely the tip of their big ol' denial iceberg of my politics and social consciousness. It has been recorded in the past. They do not want to hear my "liberal whining" or at best, maintain that "I'll grow out of it once I leave that bleeding heart activist factory." I will be the first to admit that politics will change, and should change, evolving with your interests and needs. However. I wave my private parts at their aunties. Bah.

Scenario 2: Ah fuck it.

I really want to bitch about how my dad's an overbearing, sexist, opinionated, wino ass clown.

Disclaimer: I hold the utmost respect for the ideals my father raised me with (to be strong, confident, smart, and not to take shit), through teaching me to wrestle, requiring I perform feats of mathematical agility without exception...well, the confident he led by example? And the not to take shit? Well, he didn't. Guess he's a good role model, albeit a strict one.

He doesn't listen. He gives my mom a second shift of dishes, cooking, vacuuming, etc, but wants endless praise or assistance for the chores he undertakes (today, he did dishes with much aplomb: big sigh, clatter clatter, groan, clatter clatter-in Family language that translates to: "I hate what I'm doing because I'm missing this episode of Perry Mason I've already seen, I should be sitting in my chair while LORN (girl) doesn't the dishes, let's slam these plates together to show my disgust for housework"). Should my mom or I be doing chores and create any sort of disturbance, we are evil satanic bitches. We get glared at. My dad's glare is something I have learned to handle. We end up having staring contests. It's where I learned to raise one eyebrow and look amused yet not-shit-taking.

He loves to have things his way (heck, don't we all?). Should you thank him kindly for his suggestion but not use it, infidel! Ingrate! Should you refute his logic or attempt a friendly banter, bitch! Ingrate! (I get a lot of that one around here) Poor Chipper, who has but a breath left in his tortured body, gets the worst rap, worse than I even. Beware, you are not immune. Jerry has stories. My friends have stories.

And were I my mother (perhaps it's a good thing I am not), I would have snapped long ago. It wouldn't have accomplished anything. My father has an Autobahn-sized stubborn streak. It is ALWAYS your fault. Nothing makes me feel more stuck in the past, teenager style, unable to grow up and realize my life, than this. I have a college degree, for fuck's sake.

I may not get into Michigan or McGill, but hell if I'm staying here another year. Another six months even. Fuck that shit. Heads would roll, Lizzie Borden style. I'd be on your evening news. But I'd probably be smiling.

they need a surgeon general's warning for this kind of thing

It is not advisable, for whatever reason, to get pesto sauce in your eyes.

The action will be followed by several minutes of blinding (literally) pain, tears, and you will face difficulty in driving safely past the children streaming out of the nearby middle school. Should you indeed feel it is in your best interest to daub this basil creation upon your unsuspecting orbs, do so in the safety of your own home. After preparing a meal with said product, be sure to wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water.

You may muse, dear reader, at our unflinching and selfless desire to acquaint you with items that are not recommended for eye consumption. We have reviewed here for your benefit all the ill effects of such products as toothpaste, green tea, and hand lotion on your visual sensors. It is a long-standing commitment of Buddha Stew to bring to you the foremost in research documenting items unhealthy for your eyes. We promise to do more of the same in the future, because we truly do care about your eyes.

Thank you,
Buddha Stew Research Specialists

right on, woman. now step up, men

I'd like to point y'all over to Ms Lauren's particularly lucid discussion on rape and rape culture today, and especially encourage my male readership to pay close attention. This is for you, boys, you're responsible today whether you like it or not.

I'll wait.

Oh, you're back? Okay, now it's my turn.

Her points are all valid, and well-made, thus I don't feel like I can accurately reproduce them here. In my life I have been incredibly lucky to escape any major incidents of sexual assault or abuse. I say lucky, because many women have not been. 1 in 5, and that report is from 1996. Add to that the fact that many women do not feel comfortable reporting a sexual crime in our culture's atmosphere of blame and responsibility centered on women. Because I have not been subjected to sexual assault (besides the ever-annoying catcalls and the like) and the statistic is so high, I am on guard when I find myself in certain situations. I take pride in being strong and healthy, therefore in some ways equipped to resist a potential attacker. I could further my confidence by taking self-defense or carrying mace or a weapon (self-defense would be more likely, in my case). But, as Ms Lauren points out, rape culture is not only a "woman's issue." I would like to see the numbers on that statistics sheet reversed, to show how many men commit sexual assault or rape. The onus is on men, in that case, to stop seeing women as victims but men as victimizers. There's a difference. A victim can play the card, or recover and become a survivor, but it was not his or her choice to become a victim, regardless of his or her behavior, dress, or physical location. Important to note here is that men are victims of sexual violence as well but that perpetrators are almost always men. [both links via Feministe]

It's the little things that make rape culture less powerful. Not laughing at a violent (toward women or gay men) or homophobic joke, and making a point that it is not funny, is one small way. Using language that places responsibility where it belongs is another, such as saying "men rape" rather than "a woman was raped." It means understanding more fully what's happening with both the University of Colorado and the Kobe Bryant case. It means learning to see women as people, not sexual objects. Protesting violent ads or movies (I learned from Cunt that 1 in 8 major Hollywood movies has a rape scene. Most of them are eroticized.), is as simple as not giving your money to these institutions. If you know a man who disrespects women (or gay men, or even "effeminate" straight men) in a sexual or violent way, socially boycott him. Let him know his behavior has cost your friendship.

And please, never never never EVER say shit like this:

There is a connection between the increasing disrespect shown to women in our society and an ultra-feminist ideology that pushes teenage girls to play a brutal contact sport with teenage boys.

A boy on a coed football squad -- or playing against a coed squad -- faces an irreconcilable conflict between his duty as a man and his duty as a player. As a man, he must never strike a woman. As a player he must strike teammates during scrimmages, and opposing players during games, fairly and within the rules but with all the force he can muster.

[...]To do that safely, she has to practice hitting and being hit. For a boy to play football with a girl, the boy must become habituated to hitting girls.

That is not merely un-American, but uncivilized. There are many endeavors where men and women rightfully compete on the same playing field (I'd pick Margaret Thatcher to run Great Britain over Tony Blair any day), but the football field is not one of them. American schools should ban girls from playing football, and do it now.

Excuse me, but that makes ME feel violent. Rat bastard.

thunderstorm thunderstorm!!!!

hurray! Nothing I love more in the world than a thunderstorm, and in southern CA we don't get them very often. I'm excited because it's probably the best thing that's happened to me today (two rejection letters, being told I couldn't vote in the presidential primaries because I'm registered non-partisan and didn't know to request a ballot).

I got some more books at the library, although I have yet to finish Body Outlaws and The Blind Assassin. Err...gonna go easy on the trombone playing, I guess. :)

All of these books were recommended reading and/or an integral part of the book Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi, which is invaluable for its insights into classics of Western literature (Lolita, Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice) from the viewpoint of a different culture and system of oppressions. The books I checked out are:

Baghdad Diaries: A Woman's Chronicle of War and Exile by Nuha al-Radi
The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields
Short Stories by Muriel Spark
More Die of Heartbreak by Saul Bellow

Speaking of Lolita, you can mosey on over to Feministe and take a "What Classic Novel Am I" quiz. I was Lolita. Before I read Nafisi's book, I would have been a little freaked out. But she takes it to a new level...not to be taken so literally as a tale about child sexual abuse but as an allegory for the abuse of persons by an oppressive government such as the Soviet Union or the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The other funny thing is, Lolita is a version of what my cousin used to call me, "Little Lo." Dude.

rejection letters. weeeee!!!

I'm home. And it's anticlimatic. I've already been rejected from two schools.

One of them was DePaul.

I want to go there most of all.

Shitty.

I'm not terribly heartbroken or anything, although that audition did go the best of the four...and it's Chicago and it's Mark Fisher and everything else wonderful. ASU is the other rejection, which I'm not surprised about. So that leaves Michigan and McGill, and...

So, I'm prepared to start fielding ideas about what I should do with my second year off. New York with Jerry? Dallas with Chris? Someplace totally random, like Fuji, and never play my trombone again?

Fuck.