emma b. says

Thursday, December 30, 2004


It's unbearably quiet here at the Massive Bank and I probably should not have had that glass of wine with lunch, just excacerbated my torpor. I counterpunched with two cups of coffee and now I am just antsy.


Ants in pants.

and I have been gobbling up news, photos, amature videos taken of the tsunami, it's such a magnificent tragedy, I can't help but be in awe. I suggest a visit to waxy.org for some home videos.

when I think of our Feckless Leader sniffing about how unpaltry the initial sum of 15 million, upped to 35 after much hemming and hawing compared to his 40 million inauguration blow out I start to wonder about disconnect. When I hear the two Bush slags cooing about their Badgley Mischka's and their Galliano's when... oh I just can't.

fuck it, I am going to play Text Twist for the next few hours on the companies dime.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

and that hiccup, last night at 40,000, tonight at 80,000 souls washing up on beaches, rotting under the sun.

it's cold here, cold tonight. Nothing to do in the office, I watched the burgeoning storm form from the window.

T minus two long days at the office 'till the state sponsored drink a-thon that is NYE.

And here I am still partying like it was 1999.

It is New Year's Eve 1999, I have finished bartending, I am covered in silly string. My lover gives me a ride to the party where I am to join my friends and my husband. I only hope there is enough drugs, because I am wearing him on my clothes and I am certain that I reek of lust. And D and I smug in our lovers skirt each other like pick pockets, revel in the artifice of that much cocaine and the sky is beginning to lighten in the east. And in 1999 when rosy cheeked dawn broke over the bay D and I with our convenient friends tracked the coming sun under Sutro towers with a bottle of crappy drugstore champagne and insufficient cigarettes, and I have trouble grasping that that was six years ago.

NYE 2000, such an anticlimax, I think I spent he better part of it in tears.

And here we are five years later, the rain keeps blowing my pilot light out and I have zero expectation for the New Year, the best I can hope for is a connived bump from someone's zealously guarded stash and maybe a furtive kiss, which means that I am getting old, or dowdy, or, god help me, both.

Side bar to former spouse, D, I watched Collateral tonight. SOOOOO much better than Heat, don't shoot me, K? also, if you loved Heat, and I know that you do, lordy do I know that you do, see Infernal Affairs, it rawks.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Just Because

Because when I run into you we are precise as diamonds, and you cut my cheek and you cut me to the quick.

Because I left you on the corner, because it was raining and I preferred to get wet.

Because I poured too much tequila and too much salt into the lemon meringue pie. because my mother poured out my lemon juice, I burnt her pie crust.

Because the Earth hiccupped 44,000 people perished, because I can't stop dreaming of water, and the water recedes and then I drown.

Because you sparkle and you crackle and I cannot have you, so I will squelch your embers with the heel of my palm. Because I do not feel pain.

Because every truth I thought was True has been disproved, because I thought I might hide for a long while.

Because I am foolish.
Because I am a fool.
Because a fool would not have it any other way.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Merry Christmas

Emma wishes you all a very merry, merry. It can't be bad when Pere Emma begins the evening's feedathon with a lovely bottle of '38 Gevery Chambertin. Even if our team lost the Annual Christmas Trivial Pursuit challenge....

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Cake, or Death

Researching some minor physical ailment, most likely due to stress - thanks George! - I noticed a peculiar trend on WebMD. You will input your symptoms and it will offer you a relatively benign diagnosis followed by the Or Death clause. This gave me pause, and then much mirth as I could not get Monty Python out of my head.

Cake, or Death, sir?

erm, cake?

Cake, or Death, sir?

ahem, cake?

Cake or Death, Cake or Death???

mmm, Death, I mean cake!!!

My Grinch is bigger than your Grinch

I think I have made my distaste for the season abundantly clear. And I have nothing further to add. So I intend to amuse with a random sampling of emails that I have sent from work today.

my freshman year of college I took a sociology class taught by a black professor who maintained that the divide between the races would be bridged before the divide between the sexes. It was a novel idea to my eighteen year old self who didn't think there was this gulf, as I had not been raised that way. Over the years I have witnessed this inequality, professionally, but not really personally, because I still think that men and women are fundamentally different creatures and as you say what we bring to each other is exchange, parity, separate but equal.

it was one of my high school girlfriends who introduced me to the Dirty Sanchez, she was saying that she and her husband had been telling the DS to some friends while in Hawaii and the next morning came into the room with a chocolate moustache. We roared. I think what is charming about these jokes is a sort of lack of malice, a complicit filthiness that appeals to the latent 13 year old boy in all of us.

Of course I could be dead wrong. Maybe I am just choosing to ignore the greater implications of debasement as sexual politics.

what I liked about that site was specifically the lack of razors in hoohoos and woodchippers, but acknowledging that sex is about exchange, messy and dirty and fun.

this is not to dismiss the crimes committed against women all over the world, excision comes to mind in sub-saharan africa... am I mistaken to see that as a separate issue of acculturation or maybe I am just a poor feminist.

hear that snap, crackle, pop - no it's not cereal it's my synapses misfiring...

M just had me read one of Cooke's letter from America from 1956 entitled "Politics and the Human Animal"... some quotes

"Nobody has sharpened this point better, in my view, than the late Justice Holmes when he said that the purpose of civilized argument between friends is to arrive at that point where you agree that some day it might be necessary to shoot each other. Until that day is unavoidable, 'the democratic process', both in public and in private, is no more but no less than an acceptance of the notion that in important issues you may be wrong"


"Politics will undoubtedly bedevil us all till the day we die, but... even the prospect of early annihilation should not keep us from making the most of our days on this unhappy planet. In the best of times, our days are numbered, anyway"

and a snatch of a Frost poem in the essay

"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire.

But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."

The more things change, the more they stay the same
Let us eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.

I really lekke shecalit Eistir binniis, beet I hite brussil sproows

I think it's amazing because it underscores the tenuous nature of civility, the prospect of violence always looms large.

heehhhh, raughhhhh, herrrrmmmhhh
that's zombie for non, j'y crois pas!

just rereading the mos blog


hulee feckeeng crapp!

mittens instead of poufs!

cannot stop playing dragon game - need. help

I am having a Lost in Translation moment - frankly I think it would be (!!!) huge...

Friday, December 17, 2004

Silver Balls, Bourbon Balls, Deck Your Halls, Wilting Poinsettias

This post is designed to allay any fears on behalf of my most cherished former spouse that Emma has not lost her last marble. I have three left before I shoot the moon and I am guarding them jealously.

Tis the season of the fucking office party and I have been to two this week. P's was decidely fabulous, how could a girl not feel like a dissedent russian princess swanning around a suite at ten grand a night. Did I mention that the billiard room looked like a turkish bath, and shh internets but I will tell you a secret... My P, my compatriot and partner in crime actually illicited me to commit a truly criminal act.... yes, you wait with baited breath as I explain that I nicked a book from the fabulous library of the 10 grand a night suite at the behest of P who felt that she deserved this book. I risked a booking and a cuffing for this woman, which underscores my iunesteemable esteem for this woman.

And so this evening we went to Incredibly Lame Banker Party at Deliious Restaurant, my goal was to pour as many free cocktails and stuff many duck spring rolls as I could into my gullet before the obligatory retarded power point presentation commenced. Mission Accomplished. Also Friday will undoubtedly herald the fifth consecutive day that I have shown up for work with a hang-over , I console myelf with the notion that at least this year I did not play air guitar to AC/DC's "givin' a dog a bone"

That I reserve for the very special, if occaisional members of my living room club, which is decidedly empty tonight.... hello BOB!!!

Sunday, December 12, 2004

You Don't Love Me

This is my mantra as I fall up the hill.
You don't love me, though I spent a sleepless night wrapped in your arms, and you wrapped me up, and you wrapped me up.
but you don't love me, and so I fall up the hill, and it's so steep tonight, and your back was so broad, like spanning continents.

and you wrapped me up, you wrapped me up and cut me loose, and only a very foolish girl would let you anywhere near her blood red, throbbing heart.

And I fall up the hill in December, and my heels catch on cracks, and there are jeers from the peanut gallery and I will meet their gaze . And as I fall up the hill, I am falling back into and under your fingertips and you can't have me and I can't have you, so at an impasse, I pour all of my sweet, succulant desire into words and my sheets will swallow me and I shall be warmed, and the flanks that were so warmly cool in your embrace reach for the far side of my empty bed.

Because you are not ever going to love me, and I am never going to love you back, but fool that I am, I will let your beard burn my cheek, I will seek you in the dark and disappear into your hand, carry your scent on the back of my hand, covet you in the recess of my office, lay you down in my dreams flank to flank, but because I don't love you and because you don't love me I will stumble in my heels and sleep like the dead.

But maybe if things were otherwise, maybe if we blew up the dam, or if you could feel, fuck, if I could feel, maybe I might fly to you, maybe your arms would be open. Maybe I might get lost in the expanse of your torso, maybe you might get lost in my skin, maybe somewhere between lips and tongue and rhythm maybe there is a space, maybe there is a space.

though I doubt it.

And because you do not love me, and because I do not love you I perfumed my sheets for my benefit and the candles shall remain unlit.

Thursday, December 09, 2004


it's one of my favoite words, and it has been stolen, corrupted, flayed of it's essential meaning. They took it, like they kidnapped morality, like they hijacked religion, but I still believe.

I am underground, now. They have driven me and my faith underground. But I still believe in faith, and I still believe in justice, and I still believe in morality, without it, I am nothing but another TV wraith.

I would write more, but I have not had enough sleep.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Prospero's Winds

The trees are dancing, we are sure to be tempest tossed. From the back seat of the taxi, the browning leaves skate through traffic, and plastic bags skirt the eddies. I never notice them, I never notice until a ghost branded with a Safeway logo skips on the breeze past my passenger window. And then there is that moment where the old Salvation Army store has metamorphised into a fast food Thai restaurant, and you realize that the promise of a fixed geography evaporates like the sigh on the window, and the winds are blowing cool and wet off the Pacific, and the sky is swelling and my companion and I are headed towards two seperate beds and two seperate peaces, and I only hope that I make it before the rain comes, as I am without an umbrella.

I like nothing more then to be home when the rain comes to rattle my panes, lick at my cracked kitchen window sash, leaving a bright blossom of mould. I like nothing better than the chatter of water off the tread of tires on Haight Street, and the heavier splash of the eves disgorging their watery burden, and the steady beat of the pipes in the lightwell, ping, beat, ping, beat, ping.

And so I shall draw a bath and shave my legs to the fine, quiet music of the tempest tossed, and I shall raise a glass of reddish plonk to all of tomorrows clean streets and browning leaf, former ghost of a shopping bag clogged gutters. At which point I will curse the brackish water, not having weather proofed my suede shoes.

Friday, December 03, 2004

one thousand words, one thousand empty spaces

and all I can think, or sing to myself is an Old Whore's Diet, gets me going in the morning.