emma b. says

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


just finally.

On days that merit some sort of historic reckoning you think back four years and then eight and are slightly astonished by the passage of time. Where was I and what did I do, where was I and what have I done.

Four year increments, I could have gone to university all over again, twice. Or high school. Twice.

In a conference room full of engineers, ranging in age, ranging political affiliation, we all watched a little bit of history being made. David Brooks, not my favorite pundit, described as wintry, and he was right. It is the winter of our motherfucking discontent. Is it apt that is was clear as a bell and cold as hell, who could not be moved by all of those people who stood up in the darkest hours before dawn broke to be a part of history on this day. If only to tell the story, to be passed down and embellished upon - I was there. I was there.

In talking to my father earlier, he said maybe I can start being less angry, uh huh, I said, and maybe I can start being a little less poor. I am a by-product of the sixties and the legacy bequeathed unto me is one of relentless optimism colored at the edges and the middle by the most cynical, cynical cynicism. So many opportunities squandered, the indomitable rise of the greed monsters and the passing glee in their fall as you watch your own livelihood disappear. The unemployment rate in Oregon just swelled to nine percent.

I wish you good luck, and I will support you how I can, I can measure my grace in ounces and I will promise compassion. I will sacrifice where I can for the things that I believe in. The right of good and free education. The promise of reasonable health care. The freedom of choice. The freedom to love whom you will, regardless of gender, regardless really of any societal constraints.
I will do this while I scrimp to meet my mortgage, when I look back on heady days of 1998 when everything was all about shoes and champagne. But I did get to have that, so there is that.

Shall I throw caution to the wind and flap wildly on the wings of exhilaration, I wish I could. It's still the winter of our discontent, the road will be hard and long. Lest the wheels not get stuck in the Spring thaw. If we are a little bit willing to take up the yoke and bare our knuckles to the elements, slough off our television complacency, then maybe there is hope for us yet. Either that or we are all Cylons. (for the geeks, no I couldn't resist)

In local news, my company party was this weekend. Did I play air guitar to Back in Black on a stage in front of the entire company. Yes, yes I did.

Yes we can.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

The Gold Standard of Trash

Thank you VH1. Just when I didn't think the bar could be dropped any lower you brought us Brett Michaels, his glorious weave and a double bus load of Ho-bots. Sweet cheese on crackers, vagina shots? EWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

If that bus went off a cliff (oh please, oh please, oh please) it would float on clouds of flammable extensions and cushions of super-inflated breastisises. I swear to God it's enough to make me surrender my ladyflower. Talk about your rode hard and put away wet.

Of course I can't stop watching.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

True Confessions of the Wishful Louche Kind

So it turns out that I have been celebate (excluding the marvels of the internets and battery powered miracles) for almost a year. It'd be a joyful occaision if I were born again, or even remotely tittalated by extreme piety, alas, alack, nyet. All I am is wistful for all of the sex I have not had with boys and men, glorious boys and men........

...... Which brings me to point number two.


I have been on a fairly rigorous (weddings exempted, sorbriety caveat) non dating plane since the engineer. We could get into it, but I imagine that most are astute enough to realize that I have been sheltering my poor shriveled heart ---- c'mon really, two years later, still shriveled, not robust?? yeah, fuck you, still shriveled, step off, conscious. And then my dumb brother had to go ahead and shatter my carefully constructed mirage by signing me up for Match.com. Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.



Do I hafta, really?

and yes, yes I do, I have to at least try.