emma b. says

Monday, February 21, 2005

On Politics and Site Meters, since we speak of birds of a feather

and really lets forgo all of the politicking for the birds, peacocks, plummage and whistling terns, and turns and turns. Dove, dove-tail, parrot, parrot and then again, blackbird sing, blue jay, jaded green, great heron, mima bird, crested heron, sea gull, jonathon livingston sea gull, robin red breast, the wild parrots of telegraph hill, a toucan, a dove, dovetail, messy politics, birdshit, big bird, wild pheasant, wild turkey, the chicken, the cock. Crispy fried duck.

And though I have buttoned my sweater into a super hero cape, I honestly can't bring myself to write about politics, I am not so well informed, even though I sit here is my periwinkle woolens ready to take over Gotham in a great sheet of somnolent hues of blue, fear not, narcoleplsy girls is poised to take the helm, would you mind terribly, no, nudge her, well, of you must, here is the sledgehammer, that and the disco tune ought to get her engine humming...

yes, well that engine, we don't speak of the rudders that no longer churn, we ride the swells indifferent, we have become dumb to the pull of the tide, and the waxing and wanings, we hear, only the hungry call of the gulls, high on masts, masticating if they can as we sway, attached to our orange buoys, as the call of the sea laps at our stern...

And praise be to the euphemism, parse it as you will. Parse it well.

And now we will pause our regularly scheduled program of slightly immoral turpitude for a movie critique, takes slug of wine after donning critical dunce hat.

After much hemming and hawing on the part of the erstwhile critic, I went to see Sideways with K and R this afternoon. I left the movie thirsty.
Oh, and it was so frightenly real. The truth is that I am one of those effete wine snobs, I nearly threw a montrous fit at Viansa once upon a time. I have mentioned worn saddle leather in decribing wine, but when I was on fire, and going for a good sale on a wine I wouldn't pay 15 bucks wholesale for, I would tell the man, always the man, this line doesn't work on women, I would decribe whatever overhyped whine, I would say that it tasted of desultory cherries, and I would fucking nail them everytime, you drop desultory in conversation with a man that gets the definition, and, baby, he is yours, or at least he's your mark.

And so the site meter.

Yes it's true, I have allowed my credit card to be charged a nominal fee to satisfy my ego. Sadly, my rapacious ego remains unsatisfied, Emma readers, come one, come all, hit me baby one more time and all that... Holy shit, has it been a year, I think it has nearly a year, should not I throw a party, should I not get good and drunk, I think I might need some celebrants, shall we not all end up in the warm corners of forsaken alleys with our sumptuous bottles of ninety-nonetywhatchmacallit with the fancy pedigree, hoping, God, only hoping, for the slightest bit of company, for the slightest bit of hyperbole.


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