Don’t suppose it would be cool if we hung out.


Knots like riding a bicycle. Music louder than necessary, sitting in a drift of letters, this apartment doesn’t feel like home. To be fair, neither does his, though I almost lived there once. I can’t manage to properly wake up. A framed moment of the sound of how he moves in his sleep. My hands smell like boy and soap. My clothing slept on his floor. Contact points. A brief repair of desire. Nothing’s changed (except that I’m better at this than I used to be). We still love each other. We’re still unlikely to call.

Film 1.

I got my kittens yesterday. Two sweet black females, two months old. Tanith is fluffy as all hell and curious as an antique shipwreck, and the other one, whom I haven’t named yet, is sleeker, with eyes that look like they belong to a fantasy painting. I’m addicted, but they have to live at Andrew‘s until I get the theatre, as my roommate is allergic.

It’s Media Monday there tonight. You’re invited. How The Grinch Stole Christmas, show up any time after 6:00pm, movie starts at 8:00pm. at 13th & Clark (5 blocks from Broadway & Commercial). Call 778-229-0942 for directions if needed. I’ll be there, visiting my kittens.

Film 2.

My darling Mishka is in town for a concert – this poster here on the right – Bryan’s Plastic Acid Rock Orchestra. My comps are for Tuesday, anyone want to come? Beth is in it too. The band played Vancouver in May too, but I missed it. A farcical error – it was near my birthday, part of the gig was dedicated to that, so everyone involved assumed that obviously I’d already been invited. Whoops. I love that girl.

Eight years later and Bryan’s kept the name. (Makes me feel almost loved, that does, excepting that I know him too well). Our original incarnation was named Acid Reign, which is what we thought might be kind of cool when we were fourteen. Thankfully, we’ve recovered. Or at least, Marissa and I have. We’ve all known each other since I was ten. I was the girl that moved in next door. They were playing with garbage can lids in the back when I found them. She was sitting on one end and he was jumping onto the other, launching her into the air. It looked fun, I said hello.

Film 3.

tonight theater begins until sunday

water play
Originally uploaded by lightpainter.

Jimmy Buffet, a musician of some sort according to the blurb on the back, has managed to write novels that blissfully survive every bookshelf razing I’ve had in a decade. Back in 1989, he wrote Tales From Margaritaville, a collection of short stories about cowboy sailors and being in love with the ocean that gave me cravings for fish, which I’m allergic to, and sailing down in Florida. I mention it because I’ve just re-read it for the Nth time and it still carries the same effect. It’s all flying-fish sandwiches and satisfying endings, people in a poisonous paradise doing the best they can and remembering to enjoy when they’re puzzled. He makes me care about football, fishing and golf. It’s a little crazy. I’ve been to Florida.

Though of course, it makes for a great escape from the rain that’s outside, persistently threatening to dissolve the front windows of the store with basic erosion. It’s almost so much rain that it seems unrealistic to try to describe. There’s more rain in the air between me and the opposite side of the street than would be required to fill a backyard pool. It’s like a joke. How much water was there? This much, and then you point to an ocean or a Great Lake and cackle like a demented child. Bloody ridiculous, really.

I’ve been finding solace in the must-see media of the week, Un-Pimp My Ride, a gratifying short series of advertisements from Volkswagon that feature a gang-signing german scientist, (“V-Dub representing Deutchland”), who actually made me laugh out loud. This video was last week, though still wonderful.

And by request: Warren, on his birthday, shamelessly flirting back and forth with Joss Whedon.