The Life & Times

Here is what has been taking up MOST of my time.... 

Beatrice, the short film directed by Javier Hernandez, spends a day in the life of a bourgeois housewife, who, reconciling herself to the end of an affair, realizes that in its absence, her marriage cannot continue.

    Who was the first person to give you info -- correct or not -- on how to "make babies"?
    Submitted by Manon-It-All.

When I was in the fourth grade the word 'blowjob' was introduced into my vocabulary as I had begun to overhear this mysterious word seemingly everywhere within earshot at school: in the cafeteria, the halls, near the bathrooms, by the water fountains. The 5th and 6th grade boys were the primary culprits.  Using this word in tandem with a girls name would set them off in a surreptitious fit of laughter.  I knew this word was taboo.  I knew it was bad and that I would get in trouble for saying it.  I knew there was something "sexy" about it but I had NO idea what it meant or how to come by this information. In a tizzy to finally quash the query, I turned to my sweet catholic ESL mother for guidance. 

After school one day I went into the kitchen as my mother was making preparations for dinner and sat down at the table.  Without introduction I blurted out "Mom, what's a blowjob?".  She barely flinched as she looked over her shoulder at me and paused for a second.  Calmly, she walked toward the drawer where we kept our collection of clear vegetable bags from the produce section of the grocery store and extracted one.  She then sat across from me and stared me dead in the face.  I was starting to get a little scared.  She looked so serious, as if I had asked about raising the dead, as if she were sending me to my doom.   "What have i gotten myself into?"  I thought.   "How bad could this blow job thing really be?"

Without diverting her gaze in the slightest, she slid her hand over the flimsy & limp clear plastic resting her grip around the top.  She brought it to her lips, and proceeded to inflate the bag.  To, well, blow.  Air began to fill the space and I noted how cylindrical those little bags really are.  Once the bag was fully inflated and quite firm she pulled it away from her mouth holding it tight in her left hand so as not to let any air out and said "That" her right hand slamming and popping the plastic bag, the sound jolting me in my seat, "was a blow job."  And without any further explanation she got up from her seat and went back to chopping vegetables.

Over the course of the next year, knowing that my parents were no help and too embarrassed to talk to anyone else, I became obsessed with the things I had no answers to.  Everything was changing in me and on me and around me there were signs everywhere that people knew the things I didn't: that there was a whole lexicon of things sexual and physical that i wasn't privy to, that people were doing things scantily clad in dimly lit rooms and casually making grown-up asides about the events after the fact while smoking a cigarette or sipping on brandy or some other bullshit adult charade.  I would see the allusions in movies.  I could see the answers on the screen but, as if these were in written in Sanskrit, I couldn't decipher their meanings.  Actors knew.  Teachers knew.  All adults knew but didn't want kids to.  Kids thought they knew or would pretend to know but really just wanted to know more. 

All these assholes knew the secret, meanwhile, I was waking up with strange things happening to me.  I swear I just woke up with pubes one day.  I have no gradual memory of this.  One day there was nothing and the next there was and it scared the fuck out of me. I was frustrated, pissed off, confused.   "What is sex and why is it hijacking my body?"   Fed up one weekend, I biked to the library.  I wandered the isles and rows until I found what I was looking for:  SEX, PUBERTY, MORE ABOUT SEX.  I pulled about fifteen books that seemed to reveal the 'mysteries' I had for so long been in the dark about, checked out, and rode home.

In a haste, I took the camping gear out of the closet, ran to the back yard, and erected a tent under the avocado tree.  Only later would I recognize the pun implicit in this little self-discovery camping story.  My parents asked what I was up to:  "Homework" the catch-all reply.  I devoured the information on the pages.    Gonads. Hormones. Sexual Maturation.  Nocturnal emissions.  Menses. Ovulation.  Heavy petting.  Intercourse.  Clitoris.  Orgasm.  Ejaculation. Sperm.  Uterus. Enlightenment.  Food was brought to me so I stayed for two days reading, only coming out to use the bathroom, which, overnight, had been transformed into a magic chamber for me to observe these new findings about my body.  Now I knew.  I was reaching 'sexual maturation'.   Babies wanted to get made in me.  Men wanted to spend time in me.  I was a hot commodity.  If Whitney Houston was right and the children were the future then I had the future in me.  My body was sacred.  Fifteen books worth and all of a sudden I had all the power in the world in my teeny body. 

Lady Tigra has been M.I.A for too long.  Fans of The Cars That Go Boom rejoice!  She's back, sans bunny, and in full bass effect.  Here's her new video:

I have my tunes on shuffle and this song comes on.  It catches me off guard.  I catch my breath.  I am instantly transported.  I am a scrawny mosquito-bite-chested girl.  I am laying in my bed, eyes puffy, and surrounded by crumpled Kleenex.  I am hurt like I never knew the hurt could hurt.  I am listening to this same song. 

I experienced my first stab of betrayal, I mean real, genuine, stomach-emptying, vitriol-producing, bad poetry-inspiring, tear-jerking, tissue-box-emptying betrayal, when I was 14.  This song was my recovery song, on repeat like a band-aid mantra until I nursed myself back to functionality.  The heinous feelings bubble up from the past and reach the surface and, as I'm in a maudlin state today, they take the shape of a tear that rises and spills from its duct like a tilted forty to the homies who long ago bruised my heart.  Thanks for the memories.

Circle

Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

I had my first Production Assisting job today (extra cizzy) and came home with 7
blisters on my feet!!!! It was great!  I say blisters are a sign of good living...They only show up when you travel, dance like mad, work good and hard, or walk in fancy shoes...what could ever be wrong with that!?!?!?!?!

razbliuto: noun. The sentimental feeling you have about someone you once loved but no longer do. 

Supposedly the word is of russian origin but the word is in controversy over whether or not it exists.  I find this confusing because, at present, it is a word people know, and can easily find, with a commonly agreed upon meaning.  Wouldn't this suggest that while the word may not have existed before, it does now. 

Either way, I vote yes for this word!  The english language is lacking in words and phrases  that truly convey the minutia and sublety of the human experience.  Other languages have these.  Ours lacks florid descriptive phrases for the sentimental world.  Perhaps we speak a passionless language.

Here are a few other examples off the top of my head:

verguenza ajena:  Spanish phrase.  Often translated as 'spanish shame' means to feel profoundly embarrassed for another person.  Like sympathy pain but for shame and embarrasment and awkwardness.  Amongst my friends the very UN-PC term 'retard tingles' has been adopted to convey this sentiment.

l'esprit d'escalier:  French phrase.  Often translated as 'staircase wit' (or as translated on the late Theresa Duncan's blog 'the wit of the staircase') refers to thinking of the 'come back' or perfect retort not in the moment but rather unfortunately later when replaying the exchange in your head: "The witty repartee you thought of as you're going downstairs to leave."

katahara itai: Japanese. The action of laughing so much that one side of your abdomen hurts.

bakku-shan: Japanese. A girl who appears pretty from behind but not from the front.

Kummerspeck: German compound word.  Literally means grief-bacon and describes the excess weight gained from emotion-related overeating.

Drachenfutter: German compound word. Literally translated as dragon fodder.  The peace offerings made by guilty husbands to their wives.

Hygge:  Danish word and way of life.  The term is difficult to translate, but it is often, inadequately, translated as coziness.  Uncomplicated, unexaggerated and informal are some of the ingredients in hygge.  I think one of the best and easiest translations is 'good vibes' or 'good times'.  The term hygge is widely used and connected with different situations. For instance you can have a hygge-evening and a hygge-weekend. You can have a hygge-chat and you can even sit in a hygge-corner.  It is closely associated with having a good time together with friends or family and with eating and drinking. It may include a long dinner at home with a group of friends who know each another well, going out with some few friends for a cup of coffee on a Sunday afternoon or listening to music, playing board games or just watching TV together.  I love this word!

If you can think of any foreign words or phrases that are missing from the english language please comment.

(Thank you urbandictionary.com & The Meaning Of Tingo - a collection of words and phrases from around the world by Adam Jacot de Boinod into)

I have always wanted to sing this song Karaoke.  For my 24th birthday, sometime in the earlier half of the decade, I rehearsed my very own version of The Cure's Boys Don't Cry with all the Me's & I's converted to you's and vice versa.  The idea was to overcome my karao-phobia and start my year balls to the wall.  When I got to the Venue (the Mint on Market in SF) much to my chagrin they did not stock my song.  It was a disappointing birthday to mark the beginning of a disappointing year.  We left the bar and I don't remember the specifics of the rest of the evening.  Several weeks later I ended up singing back-ups for my friend Kymmy's famous rendition of Proud Mary (the Tina version).  Shortly thereafter, I was manning the mic myself without fear, doing everything from Beast of Burden to Lola to 18 & Life to Heart of Glass.  I was hooked. 

Now 5 years and several dozen karaoke bars later, I have yet to sing my altered version of my favorite Cure sing-along publicly and it's not for lack of trying.  My hopes of singing this karaoke died and rising from from the ash of that dream was the desire to record my own version, a cover, of the song.  For my birthday this year a couple of my friends got me a MIDI because I'd been messing around in garage band making a crap song here and there (I have the baddest-ass friends around..) and they are very supportive of my creative endeavos, as trifling as they may be (isn't that sweet).

Anyhow, my insomnia this evening has allowed me, in a very round about way, to perform this song publicly...
here goes nothing!...from me to you...the vocal stylings and musicianship of ALINA GATTI doing Boys Don't Cry..

P.s Pardon the airy vocal track....i have to sing directly into the mic built into the back of my desktop computer.  If you want to mail me a mic...i'll accept.

Boys don't cry

alina gatti

How many discount cards do you carry in your wallet and where are they from? 
Submitted by danatmedog.

REALLY!?!?!?!  THIS is this question of the day? 

The folks behind vox are thinking this is a worthy question that needs answering.  What a sad day for the vox readers.  WHO CARES where people shop, let alone get discounts from?  That is not a rhetorical question, I am genuinely curious if ANYONE at all really wants to know where his/her peers are getting prices slashed or what plastic trash is clogging friendly wallets.  Of all the interesting things to ask a person, of all the interesesting anecdotes that could arise with as little provocation as a question, today I am given this.  This question reeks of small lives, forgotten dreams, championing mediocrity.  In summation, this question is a load of tripe. 

After all the recent season and series finales, what are you watching on TV these days?

I sold my television in a yard sale for $20, along with a lot of other post-separation junk.  I moved into a smaller apartment and now watch movies on my big ass mac screen.   I prefer life without TV.  When I need the fix or hear of a good show, I'll watch at a Tivo household cuz that's what friends are for (kinda).  If not, I'll wait patiently, like a big cat stalking prey, for the DVD release of the coveted show. 

Now, in the silence of my new home, without the high pitch squeal of the TV, my mind is left to wander.  At this juncture in my life, introspection is key.  How did I land myself here?  Somedays, I can't escape the feeling that I am in a real time game of Shutes and Ladders and my foot fell carelessly in a square that set me back four years.  Other days, I feel on top of the world, in control, perched to see those things bigger and better coming in from the distance.  Most of the time I have a new emotion  every five minutes.  Such is life.  I prefer it without  television.