Sweetney

struggling mightily -- against the current -- to get to my happy place.

wanna put your worries and troubles (or termites -- more on that later) in perspective?

like, woah.

termites.

one word. a world of pain.

[bangs head rhythmically against wall]

todd & heather=daddy & mommy.

emmett, declan and calia, welcome to the world (such as it is).

if there were more cute babies in the world, i think we'd have a real shot at world peace. thanks to the new parents for doing their part.

rockheals update.

over yonder.

this week's 'yes, i really am this snide' post. enjoy!

peoples of earth, i have an actual toddler and even i won't go out looking like this.

she'd best get ahold of herself right quick. to my way of thinking, one isn't allowed to fully relinquish care of personal appearance until *at the earliest* the 5th month of gestation*, at which time sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt should be considered de rigueur, while bathing, oral hygeine, and haircare beyond the classic top-of-the-head-ponytail (known amongst top stylists as the 'you-did-this-to-me') are thereafter recognized as being wholly optional.

*in the case of multiples, divide number of gestational months in half once per each additional fetus.

umm...guys?

you might wanna sit down for this one.

Sumatran Quake Left 'Scar' on Earth's Gravity

no. seriously.

thanks to gwyd.

hibiscus (gesundheit!).

NOTE: all spoken for as of today (sorry, but you snoozed).

we're clearing out some backyard space for rock-n-romp -- as well as for the backyard playcenter-type thingy -- and so we have a couplea gigantor red hibiscus that must go. we're keeping one, and one has our neighbor's name on it, which leaves a single, solitary hibisci (?) looking for a home.

if you will love it and care for it and call it george, it is yours. email me at sweetney AT sweetney.com.

ps: adoptive party must unearth & transport george. and the sooner the better.

PS: george looks something like this. and the flowers really are this big.

tussin.

here's my deliciously masochistic recipe for how to make your experience of a shitty spring cold even more painful:

1. don't eat a single real meal during the day (note: half a cereal bar does not constitute a meal).
2. liberally dose yourself with echinacea and green tea extract. do not bother to read dosage directions and warnings.
3. drink a ton of fruit juice and -- hell, why not! -- several gallons of green tea. you can't overdose on green tea....right? REMEMBER NOT TO EAT!
4. take ibuprophen every 4 hours, because its just THAT GOOD FOR YOU... and quite gentle on the stomach, might i add.
5. I SAID NO EATING!!!
6. finally, add to the mix the maximum suggested dose of expectorant cough syrup (i bought the safeway brand precisely because it is labeled simply “Tussin.” as a result, i had some HILARIOUS hallucinations involving Chris Rock and excerpts from his “Never Scared” concert film). repeat X-TREME dosage every 4 hours, or until loss of consciousness occurs. dude.

now lie down and try not to tear your skin off because it feels as though a thousand tiny insects are crawling all over your body. who needs sleep when you're having THIS much fun?!?!

[i'm feeling better now, thanks.]

[sarcasm font]a little something to brighten your day.[/sarcasm font]

[note: i started writing this a couple days ago, but just found the piece from the new yorker online, for your edification.]

last night i read a piece in this week's new yorker on the subject of global warming, and it really scared the bejeezus out of me. i know, how early 90s of me, eh? but seriously, shit's fucked up. i mean, beyond fucked up. we have effectively destroyed this planet's environment, and are -- when you get down to it -- preparing the stage for our own extinction, yet everyone acts like this is old news not worth talking about. i'm sorry to be all soapboxy, but it blows my mind that we're collectively so keen on facilitating this planet's (and our own) demise. is it just some sort of mass denial? an unspoken agreement that we all pay no attention to the man behind the curtain?

by the way, that piece is the first of three on the matter that the new yorker is publishing. i can only imagine how desolate i'm going to feel after reading the next two.

i may weep.

when i checked my email this morning, i found the following note from a former michigan state student of mine waiting for me:

=====

[introductory paragraph wherein former student jogs my memory about who they are, etc., has been omitted to preserve anonymity.
note: the course referred to here was one in american history & culture in which i did all kinds of crazy-ass things involving postmodernity and modernity...i basically gave them a crash course in postmodernism, made them read “the wasteland,” showed episodes of the simpsons, played some laurie anderson for them, made them analyze pepperidge farm chessmen cookies as works of art...and on and on... it was pretty fun, actually.]

Dear Dr. Gaughran, [dude, *DR.* gaughran -- couldn't you just DIE?!!?]

I recently just got back from the Peace Corps about a month ago. Since I've been home I've been analyzing (..almost to an obsessive unhealthy level,) America, culture (I majored in anthropology), and myself. I've run across some old papers I wrote, and thought I'd share with you how much I enjoyed your class. It inspired my critical thinking skills and desire to major in anthropology...which lead me to volunteer for the Peace Corps. I want to thank you and let you know how much that class, and you as a teacher affected my future. (This is where my paranoia of sounding cheesy comes into play...) But nonetheless, I thank you, and wish you all the best.

=====

this, my friends, is THE HOLY GRAIL of teaching. THIS is what teachers live for -- to have a student, five years later, track you down to tell you that you impacted their life. if it weren't just repulsively self-aggrandizing, i'd print this out and frame it.

though my lungs are filled with mucus and i have a titch of a fever today, my day is now officially a good one.

i feel like i took an unhappy pill.

today i keep checking and rechecking and re-rechecking weather.com's forecast for baltimore in the vain hope that it will STOP FORETELLING MY DOOM (currently the magic 8-ball sayeth: chilly, rainy, dismal....for DAYS).

presently, were it not for having M_ to take care of, i'd be lodged permanently in bed until this bullshit weather passes. i'm not kidding.

seratonin officially tapped out. anybody got some extra they can spare me?

help a sista out.

jamie's company -- threespot -- has been noM_ted for a webby award for their work on the cnet: digital living site.

they're also eligible for a people's voice award. this is where you come in.

go to: http://pv.webbyawards.com and put in a vote for the digital living team (in the marketplace: consumer electronics category).

if you love me, that is.

maybe the hitler youth thing was just the tip of the iceberg.

uncanny resemblance: Pope Benedict XVI and Emperor Palpatine.

ZOINKS.

[courtesy of dear xine.]

spreading the good word.

of impending tripletdom, that is.

let the countdown commence.

purple tree in our frontyard.

a love letter.

i don't even know where to begin with this, except at the beginning:

i met my best friend john around age 15/16, through a fanzine he was writing about the band the smiths. i know, i know -- but let's keep in mind that this was the mid-80s, m'kay? i stumbled across a copy of it at the local record store in grand rapids, michigan (where my family was living at the time; john lived in detroit, about an hour and a half away). we began a correspondence....god, remember actual LETTER writing? i was mad good at it back in the day (if i do say so myself), and must've penned a good 20 pages a week to john. i was 16 years old -- what the hell did i have to write that much about? anyway, john started sending me these amazing mix tapes, all of which i still have (and there must be 40 or 50 of em'). he was one of those people who had a copy of every rare import release before it came out, had intimate knowledge of every obscure-but-soon-to-be-hot new indie band... hence his later positions as art/music critic, writing reviews for spin and salon and so forth. he was (and is) a great writer, and he had that 'hunter/gatherer of art' impulse i lacked -- coupled with amazing taste -- and so opened up an entire world to me over the course of a good 10+ years that i don't think i'd have been privy to otherwise. all of what he exposed me to really shaped who i am today on so many levels [winks to john]. i'll never forget listening to the first tape he sent me -- full of stuff i'd never even heard of before like the go-betweens, sugarcubes, mccarthy, close lobsters, beat happening, and (most importantly) throwing muses -- and feeling like i had found another version of my self in him, feeling kindred and understood somehow. just listening to kristen hersh sing “a boy who was tangled in his bike forever / a girl was missing two fingers / gerry ann was confused / mister huberty had a gun in his head” was like having someone take hold of my tangled 16-year-old identity and unfurl it before my eyes. i sat on the edge of my bed and cried.

and on and on: we visited one another every few weeks while i was still in high school. eventually i moved (briefly) to detroit to live in a house with him and a couple (the male of which i was secretly in mad crushdom with, the female of which was COMPLETELY FUCKING CERTIFIABLY INSANE... need i explain why this arrangement was doomed?). shortly thereafter john and i took a two-week trip to london together (i think i was 18 or 19 at that point), during which i was mugged and had the crap physically beat out of me (simultaneously). the night this happened, john stayed up with me until the crack of dawn as i had what can only be described as a catastrophic psychological meltdown, held my hand (literally), and convinced me i was going to be alright. and of course i believed him -- he was john. if i didn't believe him, then i believed nothing and in no one. he was my better self, my doppelganger, my not-so-evil twin... and during this time period i loved him and trusted him far more than i did myself.

but despite my self-doubt, he loved me for some unidentifiable reason or other. he told me i was good, that i was talented and smart. and i trusted his word enough to begin chipping away at my self-disregard because of that. i know all of this is mush mush mush (apologies), but i just can't stress enough how instrumental he was in shaping my developing sense of self, how truly i would not even *be* myself as i know it now without him. besides, we had ridiculous amounts of fun together. we shared the typical young adult-ish alcohol/drug experimentation experiences (involving hilarious escapades like a hallucinogenic night out driving around detroit FOR SIX FUCKING HOURS STRAIGHT, listening to the pixies and talking like two psychotic wind-up dolls who'd been set to run at warp speed), the rock shows and shmoozing with stars until all hours (john had back-stage access to just about every detroit rock show, so i got the chance to rub elbows with then-heroes like my bloody valentine and throwing muses), the movies and books and art, and our intensity regarding them (john and i saw formative stuff like “heathers” and “down by law” together, and he introduced me to john waters and amy gerstler and jenny holzer and, well, just about everything art-wise that i really gave a crap about until i was at least 25).

random: i don't know why this springs to mind, but i remember during one visit to detroit being left alone in an apartment john was sharing at the time with some friends, and stumbling across a copy of nirvana's nevermind (this was before it/they broke). i put it on for a listen, and when he got back from wherever he'd gone to, john commented off-handedly about it: “yeah, that record is going to be HUGE.” funny, but i remember that he sounded less-than-pleased.

so at some point john moved to san francisco and started working full-time as a writer. i went on to grad school. we continued writing and talking on the phone...but here's where the strings come in. you know how it goes: distance, coupled with full lives, coupled with time... slowly we talked less and less, though i believed then, and still do now, that our feelings about each other hadn't really changed. it was just life, just the way things go. sometimes, despite ourselves, we somehow manage to lose touch with the important people that we shouldn't lose touch with.

so i got that email yesterday and it made my heart ache. it forced to the surface all of these things i've written about, and many more i haven't. i must be old -- here i am, talking history and reminiscing. back around the time i met john, i never even thought i'd live to see thirty. but here i am: married, with a daughter and a house and all the trappings of well-composed adulthood. here i am -- alive and happy and full and intact. and with that in mind, i guess what i really want to say here -- what all of this is driving at -- is simply this: thanks, john. and i miss you.

fishing.

what one cd would you recommend i add to my collection (if i don't have it already, that is), and why?

ONE cd, people (double albums accepted, however).

hi, johnny!!

the following radness is courtesy of my long lost best friend john huston, who just emailed me out of the blue.*

behold.

*i had not spoken with john since...well, since i was pregnant with M_, i think. we met when i was 15 (16?), and i consider him to be the single most influential person in my life, parental units aside. clearly i need to write something about this...more later today.

zeitgeist.

Zeit·geist (tstgst, zt-) - The spirit of the time; the taste and outlook characteristic of a period or generation.

an ever-evolving collection of subjects, objects, predictions, and commentary regarding or reflecting the above.

all in my humble opinion, natch.

i need projects. apparently.

complete with soundtrack.

at some point during yesterday's power-tools-n-alcoholfest (wooo-hooo!) someone addressed the issue of having an 'online persona'. now, as someone who thinks of identity as pretty fluid and constructed in all contexts -- 3-dimensional or not -- this got me thinking about both how people may read what i write (with a certain tone or attitude -- constructing their own versions of me as they do so), as well as how we each presume that the way we see ourselves -- our sense of self -- is primary, and somehow more valid than the version(s) others see (on- and off-line).

relative to this thinking, i'm curious: for those of you who know or have known me in real life, how closely would you say my online self and real-life self (assuming difference) resemble one another? and if there is a difference between the two, what is it, exactly?

do you see yourself as having an online persona? if so, how is it different from your 3D self? do you think others see you as you see yourself, online and/or offline?

my inquiring mind wants to know.

accompaniment
They're lining up To mad dog your tilta whirl 3 shots for a dollar Win a real live doll All the lies that you tell I believed them so well. Take them back Take them back to your red house For that fearful leap into the dark I did my time In the jail of your arms Now Ophelia wants to know Where she should turn Tell me...what did you do What did you do the last time? Why don't you do that Go on ahead and take this the wrong way Time's not your friend Do you cry. Do you pray Do you wish them away Do you still leave nothing But bones in the way Did you bury the carnival Lions and all Excuse me while I sharpen my nails And just who are you this time? You look rather tired (Who drinks from your shoe) Are you pretending to love Well I hear that it pays well How do your pistol and your Bible and your Sleeping pills go? Are you still jumping out of windows in expensive clothes? Well I fell in love With your sailor's mouth and your wounded eyes You better get down on the floor Don't you know this is war Tell me who are you this time? Tell me who are you this time?
“Who Are You?” - Tom Waits.

yesterday i woke up sucking a lemon.

a few little notes-to-self:

- people need to stop asking me how M_'s potty training is going (the question in and of itself is presumptuous, implying that by now of course she's begun or completed her course in defecating-in-places-other-than-your-own-pants), and/or i need to stop humoring this question when asked. you *really* wanna know how its going, peoples? it isn't. its going nowhere. and i'm fine with that. i'm not going to force things and go through some huge drama with her over this issue just to make other people happy. i'm not worried about it, jamie's not worried about it, and for the moment M_ seems quite content with crapping in her pants. bottomline: she'll indicate when she's ready, and when she's ready we'll do it. got it?

- i need to cool it on the anxiousness regarding house-related stuff i think i should be doing. i've spoken volumes about my love for this house (and yes, if i could i'd marry it), but a nearly 100 year old house requires some serious upkeep. that, coupled with the upkeep of three cats, a dog, a toddler, and a jamie, frequently puts me in the position of feeling like i don't have a handle on anything, and that i'm doing everything badly. secretly i know this is bullshit, and that everything is fine, but i've got a strong streak of perfectionism... evidenced by my inability to rest if there are dishes in the sink, or if there's too much clutter about (a vague-to-others-yet-clear-to-me threshold), or if there are visible dust bunnies scurrying around the corners of our rooms. things like that set me on edge, and i just can't seem to be comfortable knowing things are undone somewhere. being this way produces a kind of background-noise-level anxiety internally that pervades each and every waking moment and colors all experience, and i need to stop doing that shit to myself.

additionally, in brief:

- i need to have a backyard party.
- i need to take more afternoon naps.
- i need small extravagances.
- i need to admit when i'm wrong.
- i need to be nicer to myself.

the finished product.

the stage, she is built.

voluminous gratitude to all those who came out yesterday to help put the stage for rock-n-romp together. she's a beauty, and we couldn't have done it without your muscle and know-how.

extra-special heapings of thanks and praise to brian, the brains of the operation. you are a god among men, sir. dude not only took me to home depot at 11am yesterday, did all the math involved to figure out what we needed, and loaded and unloaded everything from his truck, but also directed the assembled troops and did a remarkable amount of the actual labor of the day. all this, while i drank beer on our deck. and did i mention he doesn't even have a kid?

brian, we at sweetney.com loves yous, and you are welcome to have beer and burritos in our home any time (and i promise i won't put you to work).

ps: i have also said, on numerous occasions over the past several months, that brian's writing is the best of the baltimore lot (myself included), so check the guy out.

contagious media showdown.

this could be rad.

there are no words.

none.

attention: blug.

whereforeartthou, blug?

(apologies for using this blog as a message board.}

i've got the power tools baby, you've got the motion, if we got together we'd be causin' a commotion.

to do: build a stage for rock-n-romp

when: this sunday, april 17th, at 1pm
where: casa de gaughran-perez
how: with the help of many generous volunteers (you?)

there will be beer and lunchy-type vittles for all! if you're interested in helping, hit me email stylee at sweetney AT sweetney.com for more info.

get your red hot remix here.

alright, quit yer whinin' -- here's the america we stand as one remix.

but shhh... don't tell anybody, k? this is an exclusive for sweetney.com peeps (who i'm willing to sacrifice great gobs of bandwith for, such is my love).

PS: ctrl + right click & download pleez.

beware the ides of april.

finally got our VA taxes printed out today...a mere 4 hours before the date they're due.

this is the first time in my life this has ever happened -- that i've waited until tax day to mail them. i used to be so type-A about crap like that, i'd get them done before the end of january. *early february at the very latest.*

having a kid really hinders one's ability to be as suffocatingly controlling and OCD as one would like to be.

i was waiting for this.

an awesome remix of that horrendous “america, we stand as one” video.

oh, it just makes my heart sing.

baby, one more time.

the best thing about all of this is the forthcoming UPN reality tv show.

i think this calls for the creation of a new tagline for the network. here are some suggestions:

UPN: Oops! We did it again! (okay, that was a cheap shot)
UPN: Ranked #1 in Trailer Parks nationwide!
UPN: We're the assholes who brought you The Mullets and WWF Smackdown!
UPN: The Scrapple of televised entertainment!

and so forth. please add your own in the comments.

rockheals update.

this week's goodness now available here.

to: you know who you are.

sometimes, when misfortune befalls people, or when there is discord or unhappiness, there are individuals -- wholly unrelated to and outside of the bad circumstance -- who descend upon the scene like a flock of vultures. they revel in heated exchanges, animosity and bad blood. they are parasites, feeding on others worst moments, sucking on the energy though it may be cancerous.

it is to these people that i dedicate the following (by Amy Gerstler):

Fuck You Poem # 45

Fuck you in slang and conventional English.
Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.
Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.
Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.
Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.
Fuck you humidly and icily.
Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.
Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.

Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.
Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.
Fuck you puce and chartreuse.
Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.
Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.
Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.
Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.
Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.
Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.

Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.
Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.
Fuck you at low and high tide.
And fuck you astride

anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,
bathrooms, or kitchens.
Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.

And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,
that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.

understanding that last line -- and having gotten that out of my system -- i now leave you to your lives of pitiable vampirism.

ps: [in voice of cartman]: KICK ASS!!!

developmental milestone achieved.

jamie just got M_ to say “i love booze!”

as you can imagine, we're very proud.

baltimore bloggity blog bloggers happy hour thingamajig.

lifted from the blog of ACW:

The April Happy Hour will take place on Wednesday, April 20th, from 6:30pm until who the fudge knows, at the Club Charles. They do indeed have food there (I double checked for y'all) and upon a “refresher” visit, I feel we should all be able to fit into the lower or upper levels easily.

Once more, here's the deets-

Who: You
What: Booze with Bloggers
When: Apr 20, 6-?
Where: Club Charles
Why: For the sweet escape brought on by alcohol, and the pleasure of the company of others

and yes, i'll be going. werd.

backyard playcenter-type thingy of the gods.

i slept from 10pm last night to 9am this morning, yet still feel tired. think i'm iron-deficient or something? or, you know, DYING? of (in whispery voice:) the cancer? huh.

in comparatively better-than-yesterday's-crapfest news, we bought M_ a swingset-type dealy. behold the glory of outdoor fun and frolicking to come:

don't those kids look like they're having FUN? and won't our life be incalculably better and richer and happier once we have this monstrosity erected in our backyard (beavis: heh. she just said “erect”)? well nay-say all you like, but i for one am a believer. since it has to be shipped freight-style, we probably won't get it for a week or two....and then it'll probably take a week or two for us to put it together...but STILL! man, late May is gonna ROCK! woooooo-hooooo!!!

okay, that enthusiasm took a lot out of me. time to take a geritol and go lay down.

uncle.

today just kicked my ass. witness:

1. i woke up at 3:30am and was unable to get back to sleep, so i got up, yet was unable to do anything even vaguely productive with all that precious extra morning time (unless you count chain-smoking as some sort of achievement).
2. turns out we have a regular ol' wasp infestation. INFESTATION, people. so i had to get fucking exterM_tors out here today to nuke the fuckers, which -- because wasps are the Grade A Psychotic Assholes of the insect community, and would just as soon sting your ass as pollenate shit or whatever -- cost us a hefty $350. to.get.rid.of.fucking.bugs. THREE-FIDDY. i cannot even articulate (without spewing an oil tanker's worth of spittle and bile) how infuriating and unjust this whole thing appears to me. stupid bugs. gah.
3. M_ refused to nap. you fill in the blank.
4. the content of my edit here then dawned on me. meh.
5. the tired, napless M_ then proceeded to meltdown, refuse dinner, do the cry/scream tantrum thing, and thus got put to bed early, sans bath. whoopdeedoo.
6. i feel a little flush...a fever coming on, is it? I HATE EVERYTHING.

its campari & soda time, pardners.

this is atrocious.

i'm almost speechless after viewing this. so horrendously bad on so many different levels, the mind boggles.

we can only hope the daily show does a parody of some sort.

this is your brain on jamie.

i just stumbled across the following email from my husband jamie, sent to me in the fall of 2001 (at that time we'd only been married a few months). reading it over, i think it crystallizes so many things about the mind of jamie that i would not be able to adequately render through mere mortal description.

this (below) all came from a running joke that we had with our friend jeff (and the longer it ran, the funnier it got) about Kurt Cobain being [insert disaffected 16-year-old boy stoner voice:], like, a prophet for our generation, man.

the thing to understand is that -- and i'm crappin' you negative here -- jamie comes up with some new incredibly detailed, mapped out idea like this EVERY.SINGLE.FUCKING.DAY. some new project, some new series of poems, some new and fantastic and funny and unlikely plan, on a daily basis. it kind of makes me feel, well, not very creative-thinking, i guess. like, at all.

[note: this email was cced to the aforementioned jeff and the artist friend he refers to, john]

From: jamiep@

“i just wanna be loved -- is that so wrong?”

after well over a month of being supposedly 'potty-trained,' truman started falling off the wagon this past week...WITH A VENGEANCE. at first i thought these were simply 'accidents,' until saturday morning when we came downstairs to find him in his crate (which is the sacred dog zone, where they pretty much won't crap or pee unless they're about ready to explode), slathered from recessed mushroomy nose to freakish curlicue tail with poo and piss.

it was then i realized: he's making a statement.

and yes, i'm slow. shut up.

so this weekend's experiment was to apply liberally and work into a lather a heaping dose of the L-U-V, accompanied by the patented tough version of the L-U-V in the form of standard-issue displays of doggie doM_nce when warranted (flipping him on his back and holding him down until he stops struggling... essentially the non-violent version of beating him into submission).

and voila! different dog. no more accidents, and his overall behavior has improved measurably just over the course of two days. which means, essentially, that we've been horrible, neglectful dog parents up until this point, not giving him the attention and affection he needed... in fact, not even giving him a sort of baseline, subsistence-level of attention and affection -- merely enough to keep him from filling our home with excrement. were there a CPS for puppies, truman would've been carted off and placed into doggie foster care long ago.

in conclusion, to sum up, in brief: we SUCK at this dog thing. HARD.

trust no one.

would i be considered, like, x-files-level paranoid if i told you that i'm made *just a little* uncomfortable by the number of people who visit this website from a computer at some sort of government-type institution?

okay, so most of them are from the smithsonian and national art galleries, but still. the moles of The Man are everywhere.

have i mentioned recently that i know kung-fu, and that one of my shoes is a phone?

come over to the dark side.

you know you want to.

[insert echoplexed peels of fiendish laughter]

yet one more step toward sucking all the joy out of childhood.

what a ridiculously self-conscious buzzkill of a bad idea. someone must pay.

ps: i hate america. have a nice day.

the mr. t experience.

can this be my new theme song?

i'll wear the tube socks and everything.

edit: wow, i actually beat stereogum to this. my mad web skillz must be improving.

can i just make a wee suggestion here?

check out blug.

i recommend looking through the categories. to begin with.

april is, in fact, the coooolest month. dude.

see, life gets better: i'm out on our FRONT PORCH typing this, while our babysitter shannon tends the M_kins. now if i could only sneak a glass of wine out here somehow...

it is GORGEOUS outside today. 83 degrees, bright blue sky, the sun making everything glow. everywhere in our garden leaves are sprouting, soft buds are pushing out of their protective casings, and all day i've watched the newly-sprouted flowers (of today's photo) slowly arc to follow the path of the sun above them. with all this life reemerging -- literally raising itself up from dirt -- its hard to not feel a little giddy.

aside: i've been infected with since-you've-been-goneitis. finally. that song is CRACK, man.

in a little over a month i'll be 35. it seems landmark enough that i should do something to mark it, but i have no idea what. suggestions?

you've probably all seen this already. kinda spiffy.

i'm just rambling, i know. the point of all this is: today things are good. today, at the very least. i'm sitting here on the porch of this house i love, listening to the chirping of my daughter's laugh resound from its windows, feeling warm and full and light.

in lieu of a thank you card, i post this.
because i'm lazy as shit.

thanks, xine.

apparently there's a sitcom in the works based on anthony bourdain's kitchen confidential.

its a great book. so i can only imagine that they're going to royally screw that shit up.

stupid FOX.

some great new stuff over at rockheals, including a recording of M_'s first number one hit, the alphabet song.

you know how there are songs that you identify with so strongly that they almost feel like a part of you? like you wrote them (or, rather, like they compose you)... like they are so revelatory about your person in some inexpressible way that playing them for someone makes you feel kind of vulnerable, exposed? well, one of those songs for me is this one.

[part one of two:]

i just rediscovered this song today.

damn, i dunno about you, but that gives me chills.

enlighten me, dearest interweb: how is the pope's death still, and i quote, a “developing story”?

i mean, the guy's dead. there's not really much “developing” beyond that, right?

well, unless the pope visited this page recently.

this may well be the most disgusting thing i've read in some time.

and, to be frank, i make a point of reading lots and lots of disgusting things. daily. just so you know.

anyway, good work, steve!

billy joel's “we didn't start the fire” is REM's “its the end of the world as we know it and i feel fine”.... for your dad.

pearls, people. with love from me to you.

while i'm in no way opposed to constructive criticism and/or commentary regarding stuff i post here, let me just say that from this point forward people who post comments here using a clearly fake email address and/or URL will have their comments deleted immediately. its a personal pet peeve of mine -- how the potential for anonymity on the interweb allows people to say crap they wouldn't say to a person's face and to not have to take responsibility for their own thoughts and words -- and i just won't deal with that kind of bullshit. say what you like -- bring on the heat -- but at least own it, and don't be a coward about it, okay?

werd.

what is going into shock?
anal probing
fucked up ladies
wet shit
reenacted with bunnies
and -- praise jeezus -- BLACK ROUND ASS!!

i think these terms adequately reflect the overall quality and substance of this site's content, no?

[snort.]

i need to get me one of these:

i just submitted our tax returns online.

and now of course i'm having fits of “did i do that right?”* anxiety.

crap.

*meaning did i fill out all the forms correctly, and the correct forms correctly, using the correct numbers, etc., not did i submit them online correctly. i'm fairly sure of my facility regarding the latter point -- i can push a freaking button, people.

this morning jamie took M_ over to tiny town (a large padded kiddie playland located in a local mall that is perfect for rainy day excursions), so i decided to take advantage of the downtime and [pregnant pause] ACTUALLY SHAVE MY LEGS. woo-hoo! (have no fear, this entry is going somewhere far beyond my shameful lapses in personal grooming.) so anyway, i take this long lovely shower and manage to not open a vein, but when i step out onto the rug in front of our tub i notice...something. a big black smear on the stark-white folding doors of the bathroom closet (i'm practically blind without glasses/contacts). so i throw my glasses on and behold a HUGE ASS hornet/waspy-looking thing -- masquerading as a big black smear -- just kind of hanging out in our bathroom WAITING TO KILL ME.

fucker.

okay, so i do what anyone else would do: i leap in my full moistened nekidness out the bathroom door and slam it behind me. then i realize: i'm nekid, i'm wet, and all my clothes are still in there with THAT THING. so i crack the door, franticly shovel all clothing items out, grab an absorbent robe (handily located right next to the door, for hasty retreats such as this), and again slam the door. then i began the long, frenzied search for wasp/hornet killing spray (which we do actually own, because i HATE these things -- can you tell? -- and refuse to live my life unarmed against them). i check out on the deck. i check in the basement mudroom (which was, back in the (turn-o-the-century) day, a coal room, but now serves as our lawn & garden crap dump storage area). i check under the kitchen sink. at this point, having been unable to find the right weapon, i decide: fuck it, i'm going lysol on his ass.

and thus, ladies and gentleman, was the monster slain... with clean linen-crisp freshness.

as an amusing follow-up to my earlier post...

i have, in the past 48 hours, reached some kind of breaking point wherein exhaustion literally shut me down. yesterday afternoon i just kind of *stopped* -- like a wind-up toy that finally and completely unwound. its weird to hit that wall -- to reach the outermost limits of what your body and brain can handle, to suddenly realize that you simply can't move, can't construct a complete and coherent thought.

turns out that there was something behind M_'s public freakout on wednesday -- she has an ear infection, the scourge of toddlerdom. i took her to the doctor yesterday morning, and the second we pulled into the parking lot she started to cry. and as we walked toward the building, into the building, into the elevator, and finally into the actual office, the crying escalated until it reached piercing shrieking status. by the time the doctor actually took us back into the exam room she was no longer my daughter, but instead some bug-eyed, hyperventilating feral animal, straining and clawing and howling, trying to escape at all costs. it wasn't embarrassing -- it was HORRIFYING. her terror was so over-the-top, so nearly psychotic, that i was at once mortified and in awe.

of course the second we walked out the door of doctor's office she again shape-shifted back into a small, adorable child. all the way home she discoursed on the lollipop she'd received from our doctor. “its WATAMELEN, mama!”, “mmmm!”, “its sticky!”... and later “its gotta hole in it!” (when the stick finally started poking out through the candy) and “its fuzzy!” (after rolling it around several times on her sweater). as i drove home listening to this, i could feel myself shutting down. for over a week i'd been on toddler duty 24-7, and this whole doctor business had exhausted the last of my energies. done, done, done.

and i'm still there, i guess. i need this weekend badly. i need to reconstruct myself somehow, to get back to functional. supposedly jamie has some crazy-ass kung-fu movie for us to watch tonight, which may help.

{begin IM transcript:}
me: what's the kung-fu movie called?
jamie: Master Killer
jamie: very hard to get the non-fucked up one (limited release) that Woody has
me: best kung fu movie ever made?
me: is that what you said?
jamie: often you get the US edit called “36 Chambers”
jamie: not nec. the best... one sec
jamie: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078243/
me: oh of course, Shao Lin san shi liu fang!
me: why didn't you say so!
me: heh.
{end IM transcript}

nothing helps rejuvenate the mind and body like some good old-fashioned asian ass-kicking, man.

this week's anthem of self-negation.

“it saves lives.”

can i just make a wee suggestion here?

check out blug.

i recommend looking through the categories. to begin with.

eliot had it wrong.

april is, in fact, the coooolest month. dude.

see, life gets better: i'm out on our FRONT PORCH typing this, while our babysitter shannon tends the M_kins. now if i could only sneak a glass of wine out here somehow...

it is GORGEOUS outside today. 83 degrees, bright blue sky, the sun making everything glow. everywhere in our garden leaves are sprouting, soft buds are pushing out of their protective casings, and all day i've watched the newly-sprouted flowers (of today's photo) slowly arc to follow the path of the sun above them. with all this life reemerging -- literally raising itself up from dirt -- its hard to not feel a little giddy.

aside: i've been infected with since-you've-been-goneitis. finally. that song is CRACK, man.

in a little over a month i'll be 35. it seems landmark enough that i should do something to mark it, but i have no idea what. suggestions?

you've probably all seen this already. kinda spiffy.

i'm just rambling, i know. the point of all this is: today things are good. today, at the very least. i'm sitting here on the porch of this house i love, listening to the chirping of my daughter's laugh resound from its windows, feeling warm and full and light.

i [heart] my poncho.

in lieu of a thank you card, i post this.
because i'm lazy as shit.

thanks, xine.

good morning, sunshine.

kitchen confidential.

apparently there's a sitcom in the works based on anthony bourdain's kitchen confidential.

its a great book. so i can only imagine that they're going to royally screw that shit up.

stupid FOX.

rockheals update.

some great new stuff over at rockheals, including a recording of M_'s first number one hit, the alphabet song.

SOTW (part II).

you know how there are songs that you identify with so strongly that they almost feel like a part of you? like you wrote them (or, rather, like they compose you)... like they are so revelatory about your person in some inexpressible way that playing them for someone makes you feel kind of vulnerable, exposed? well, one of those songs for me is this one.

song of the week.

[part one of two:]

i just rediscovered this song today.

damn, i dunno about you, but that gives me chills.

still sans pulse. details at 11.

enlighten me, dearest interweb: how is the pope's death still, and i quote, a “developing story”?

i mean, the guy's dead. there's not really much “developing” beyond that, right?

well, unless the pope visited this page recently.

Huitlacoche. which, oddly enough, sounds just like the noise made when one hacks up a big wad of mucus.

this may well be the most disgusting thing i've read in some time.

and, to be frank, i make a point of reading lots and lots of disgusting things. daily. just so you know.

anyway, good work, steve!

a little something to up the randomness quotient of this here blagh.

billy joel's “we didn't start the fire” is REM's “its the end of the world as we know it and i feel fine”.... for your dad.

pearls, people. with love from me to you.

fakeemailaddress@fakeurl.com.

while i'm in no way opposed to constructive criticism and/or commentary regarding stuff i post here, let me just say that from this point forward people who post comments here using a clearly fake email address and/or URL will have their comments deleted immediately. its a personal pet peeve of mine -- how the potential for anonymity on the interweb allows people to say crap they wouldn't say to a person's face and to not have to take responsibility for their own thoughts and words -- and i just won't deal with that kind of bullshit. say what you like -- bring on the heat -- but at least own it, and don't be a coward about it, okay?

werd.

recent searches that led folks to this site (deux).

what is going into shock?
anal probing
fucked up ladies
wet shit
reenacted with bunnies
and -- praise jeezus -- BLACK ROUND ASS!!

i think these terms adequately reflect the overall quality and substance of this site's content, no?

[snort.]

because yes, i'm just this snarky.

i need to get me one of these:

beware the ides of april.

i just submitted our tax returns online.

and now of course i'm having fits of “did i do that right?”* anxiety.

crap.

*meaning did i fill out all the forms correctly, and the correct forms correctly, using the correct numbers, etc., not did i submit them online correctly. i'm fairly sure of my facility regarding the latter point -- i can push a freaking button, people.

noxious vermin must die.

this morning jamie took M_ over to tiny town (a large padded kiddie playland located in a local mall that is perfect for rainy day excursions), so i decided to take advantage of the downtime and [pregnant pause] ACTUALLY SHAVE MY LEGS. woo-hoo! (have no fear, this entry is going somewhere far beyond my shameful lapses in personal grooming.) so anyway, i take this long lovely shower and manage to not open a vein, but when i step out onto the rug in front of our tub i notice...something. a big black smear on the stark-white folding doors of the bathroom closet (i'm practically blind without glasses/contacts). so i throw my glasses on and behold a HUGE ASS hornet/waspy-looking thing -- masquerading as a big black smear -- just kind of hanging out in our bathroom WAITING TO KILL ME.

fucker.

okay, so i do what anyone else would do: i leap in my full moistened nekidness out the bathroom door and slam it behind me. then i realize: i'm nekid, i'm wet, and all my clothes are still in there with THAT THING. so i crack the door, franticly shovel all clothing items out, grab an absorbent robe (handily located right next to the door, for hasty retreats such as this), and again slam the door. then i began the long, frenzied search for wasp/hornet killing spray (which we do actually own, because i HATE these things -- can you tell? -- and refuse to live my life unarmed against them). i check out on the deck. i check in the basement mudroom (which was, back in the (turn-o-the-century) day, a coal room, but now serves as our lawn & garden crap dump storage area). i check under the kitchen sink. at this point, having been unable to find the right weapon, i decide: fuck it, i'm going lysol on his ass.

and thus, ladies and gentleman, was the monster slain... with clean linen-crisp freshness.

stuck in rehab with pat o'brien.

as an amusing follow-up to my earlier post...

back in black.

i have, in the past 48 hours, reached some kind of breaking point wherein exhaustion literally shut me down. yesterday afternoon i just kind of *stopped* -- like a wind-up toy that finally and completely unwound. its weird to hit that wall -- to reach the outermost limits of what your body and brain can handle, to suddenly realize that you simply can't move, can't construct a complete and coherent thought.

turns out that there was something behind M_'s public freakout on wednesday -- she has an ear infection, the scourge of toddlerdom. i took her to the doctor yesterday morning, and the second we pulled into the parking lot she started to cry. and as we walked toward the building, into the building, into the elevator, and finally into the actual office, the crying escalated until it reached piercing shrieking status. by the time the doctor actually took us back into the exam room she was no longer my daughter, but instead some bug-eyed, hyperventilating feral animal, straining and clawing and howling, trying to escape at all costs. it wasn't embarrassing -- it was HORRIFYING. her terror was so over-the-top, so nearly psychotic, that i was at once mortified and in awe.

of course the second we walked out the door of doctor's office she again shape-shifted back into a small, adorable child. all the way home she discoursed on the lollipop she'd received from our doctor. “its WATAMELEN, mama!”, “mmmm!”, “its sticky!”... and later “its gotta hole in it!” (when the stick finally started poking out through the candy) and “its fuzzy!” (after rolling it around several times on her sweater). as i drove home listening to this, i could feel myself shutting down. for over a week i'd been on toddler duty 24-7, and this whole doctor business had exhausted the last of my energies. done, done, done.

and i'm still there, i guess. i need this weekend badly. i need to reconstruct myself somehow, to get back to functional. supposedly jamie has some crazy-ass kung-fu movie for us to watch tonight, which may help.

{begin IM transcript:}
me: what's the kung-fu movie called?
jamie: Master Killer
jamie: very hard to get the non-fucked up one (limited release) that Woody has
me: best kung fu movie ever made?
me: is that what you said?
jamie: often you get the US edit called “36 Chambers”
jamie: not nec. the best... one sec
jamie: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078243/
me: oh of course, Shao Lin san shi liu fang!
me: why didn't you say so!
me: heh.
{end IM transcript}

nothing helps rejuvenate the mind and body like some good old-fashioned asian ass-kicking, man.

song of the week.

this week's anthem of self-negation.