Life is a Carnavale
Friday is glorious. Trapped in my ergonomic chair I spin and rail at the computer, keep one eye peeled on the clock and the other tracking the sun across the horizon. My inbox is full of missives from the French contingency, they are planning a brief incursion in May, I am delighted. Cinco de Mayo chez moi, and it looks as if Franny-Pants is coming as well. The prospect of une bonne gallipete looms large.
Friday night, Super T and I are out on the town, in search of trouble. Finding none we fight the urge to repair to the our favorite dive bar, the one populated by aging queens and the last vestiges of the Irish in the Castro, instead we visit the Mission. Every soul in the City is out in the weather, we conclude that we need a wing man.
Saturday. I had big plans that included sunshine and sunscreen, a book and a beach, however, the weather decided to thwart me (shakes fist at sky, fucking weather) and fog over. How like June. So I pottered. And puttered.
And stayed in with a big bottle of water and a Shark's Tale. Fucking awful. Since when does a fish resemble a simpering Will Smith, and since when did fish get horizontal. The film was an exercise in celebrity self indulgence, I haven't had such a negative experience since I tossed The Infinite Jest into a corner out of pique for Mr. Wallace exercising complete intellectual git-ism. I would have stamped on the DVD, save for the fact that the good people at Into Video would not have cared for my rebellion.
Sunday. The sun divested itself of the fog, but the chill breeze lingered. The same chill breeze that mold thrives on, the same chill breeze that discourages the baring of legs. Curses. You will still need sunglasses to behold the cold, glaring white of my legs.
Down to P&M's for my Sunday dose of television. And. Carnavale! oh! I could lick that show like cotton candy. Also, have the hots for Brother Justin, you'd think that I would know better than to truck with the devil. Apparently not. Even back in the way back, I can remember preferring Hans Solo to Lukewarm Skywalker, I guess those patterns gel early. Alas.
At some point we were talking about the new crusades movie featuring lovely, but perhaps, overrated Orlando Bloom, drools, and M was saying that they are remaking all of the epics of the late fifties... well, yes. That has been an on-going debate between Z, P and I for awhile. Appointment in Samarra, anyone? But P is taking it back a notch and I have to fully agree, especially with the passage of the bankruptacy bill. It's more 1850's London. Debtors prisons. Can I have some more please, Dickenensian, tatters everywhere. Naturally I am very pleased. I intend to cash out my kitty and open an opium den, and my bust is well suited to the whole heaving bosom thing, and I have always wanted to swoon in public with a case of the vapeurs. Plus, I like horses, a lot. Crinolines, gloves and hats, whale bone corsets, cinched and pinched. I'll have to grow my hair out, and given it's pixieish state, that's many years of awkward length and clips. Oh but the hats! And beads of jet! And pearls! If you think that I will subscribe to the Victorian sensability, you my reader have choked on your fish fork, let us all band together to collectively subvert, to pervert, break the bonds, break the banns, they might want to laquer me up like a deranged doll, just remember for all the finery, I have still got teeth and nails and the tongue of and asp and I shan't hesitate to claw your eyes out if you back me into a corner that I didn't ask for.
Friday is glorious. Trapped in my ergonomic chair I spin and rail at the computer, keep one eye peeled on the clock and the other tracking the sun across the horizon. My inbox is full of missives from the French contingency, they are planning a brief incursion in May, I am delighted. Cinco de Mayo chez moi, and it looks as if Franny-Pants is coming as well. The prospect of une bonne gallipete looms large.
Friday night, Super T and I are out on the town, in search of trouble. Finding none we fight the urge to repair to the our favorite dive bar, the one populated by aging queens and the last vestiges of the Irish in the Castro, instead we visit the Mission. Every soul in the City is out in the weather, we conclude that we need a wing man.
Saturday. I had big plans that included sunshine and sunscreen, a book and a beach, however, the weather decided to thwart me (shakes fist at sky, fucking weather) and fog over. How like June. So I pottered. And puttered.
And stayed in with a big bottle of water and a Shark's Tale. Fucking awful. Since when does a fish resemble a simpering Will Smith, and since when did fish get horizontal. The film was an exercise in celebrity self indulgence, I haven't had such a negative experience since I tossed The Infinite Jest into a corner out of pique for Mr. Wallace exercising complete intellectual git-ism. I would have stamped on the DVD, save for the fact that the good people at Into Video would not have cared for my rebellion.
Sunday. The sun divested itself of the fog, but the chill breeze lingered. The same chill breeze that mold thrives on, the same chill breeze that discourages the baring of legs. Curses. You will still need sunglasses to behold the cold, glaring white of my legs.
Down to P&M's for my Sunday dose of television. And. Carnavale! oh! I could lick that show like cotton candy. Also, have the hots for Brother Justin, you'd think that I would know better than to truck with the devil. Apparently not. Even back in the way back, I can remember preferring Hans Solo to Lukewarm Skywalker, I guess those patterns gel early. Alas.
At some point we were talking about the new crusades movie featuring lovely, but perhaps, overrated Orlando Bloom, drools, and M was saying that they are remaking all of the epics of the late fifties... well, yes. That has been an on-going debate between Z, P and I for awhile. Appointment in Samarra, anyone? But P is taking it back a notch and I have to fully agree, especially with the passage of the bankruptacy bill. It's more 1850's London. Debtors prisons. Can I have some more please, Dickenensian, tatters everywhere. Naturally I am very pleased. I intend to cash out my kitty and open an opium den, and my bust is well suited to the whole heaving bosom thing, and I have always wanted to swoon in public with a case of the vapeurs. Plus, I like horses, a lot. Crinolines, gloves and hats, whale bone corsets, cinched and pinched. I'll have to grow my hair out, and given it's pixieish state, that's many years of awkward length and clips. Oh but the hats! And beads of jet! And pearls! If you think that I will subscribe to the Victorian sensability, you my reader have choked on your fish fork, let us all band together to collectively subvert, to pervert, break the bonds, break the banns, they might want to laquer me up like a deranged doll, just remember for all the finery, I have still got teeth and nails and the tongue of and asp and I shan't hesitate to claw your eyes out if you back me into a corner that I didn't ask for.
posted by emma at
10:05 PM
1 Comments:
I think everyone liked Han Solo better than Luke Skywalker. At least once we were faced with a choice between the two. I've always felt that Lucas fucked with me: I ID'd with Luke at the outset of the trilogy. And I rooted for him getting the girl once he blew up the death star. It seemed like a sure thing. But no. Blowing up the death star did not win the Princess's heart. She went instead for the bad boy. I can't say i blame her. My own bad boy life began not long after the Empire Strikes Back chapter. Seeing a connection now!
Each man has a different path. Luke gets to become an awesome warrior and learn telekinesis. Han gets the Princess. It seemed like a no-brainer to me.
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Anonymous, at 8:54 AM PST
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