Can't say I've been feeling like writing. Listless I guess.
I've been reading religiously. I've read so many good (and one or two not-so-good) books this year. Just finished Helter Skelter by Vincent Bugliosi and am now reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. Two completely different genres, so it's pretty odd to go from one to the other, but that's how my reading is these days. I am totally non-discriminate with the exception, maybe, of romance novels or trashy suspense, which I will not read unless it is absolutely the only thing available to read. I have read a good deal of both fiction and non-fiction, from contemporary to relative classic.
Helter Skelter was amazing. My dad sent me a copy recently after he went to an Alumni gathering at UCLA and saw Vincent Bugliosi speak. He bought the book and had Bugliosi make it out to me. That was pretty exciting in itself. But the book blew my top. I have never read a true crime story as thoroughly accounted in such exact detail, as to the circumstances of the murders and the investigation and the trial and every single thing in between. It really is a masterpiece. Maybe It sounds naive, but probably because law has been a huge part of my life for as long as I can remember, (mostly due to the number of family members in that field, and the fact that I also chose the legal field as my business), but I was deeply impressed by Bugliosi's ethics, his profound cool, and his genuine desire to perform every single task before him with diligence and tact and integrity. I highly recommend the book. At 670 pages with hundreds of footnotes, it is a mildly intensive endeavor, but well worth it in order to understand that particular story. It is a wild one.
Now I am reading Lolita. This book is pure perfection. The prose the man wrote was (and still is) ingenious and hilarious. It has the flair and slight theatrics of Oscar Wilde. Not to mention that it hits really close to home. A friend lent me this book specifically because they felt that I could really identify with it. And on one level, I really, really do. On the level that when I was 13, I fell in love with a man 23 years old. I know. I know. Gasp. Horror. What on earth would a young man want to do with such a little girl? Well, aside from the fact that I wasn't exactly the average 13 year old in that I was very tall, had a lot of sexuality brewing and I was in a huge hurry to grow up and be independent (that being the only thing I ever really wanted in life), I guess there was that strange allure between a budding, gawky young girl and a determined young musician who just happened to be ten years apart in age. And that was it. We were together for three - tumultuous - years. I was his "virgin princess." He was my "rockstar." I was young and stupid, he was an insufferable, but not unemotional, creep. We had no business being together. But we were together, and no one could say anything about it because that is how strong was our will to be with eachother. We felt like Romeo and Juliet. Or Elvis and Priscilla. It was crazy. He even wrote a song about me that ended up on an album that he made with RCA. Track number eleven. Titled for my middle name, Luz De Luna.
Point to that whole tangent being that Lolita is an easy book for me to get inmeshed in, for all of the things about it that I really connect with. It brings many curious memories to mind.
Like a time when I was sixteen, standing outside the Old Ashland Armory where my parents rented office space and where there was also an auditorium that frequently featured shows and live music. I was smoking a cigarette (back when I was dumb enough and desperately cool enough to smoke Lucky Strike filterless) and observing the warm summer night (most likely wearing an impossibly short skirt as I often did as a teenager), when I was approached by my parent's office landlord. His last name was Pugh. As in Pepe Le... He tried to start a conversation and mid sentence he stopped and stared at me. I thought he was going to lecture me. For what, I don't know. But the words he uttered were unexpected. He said "God. You are smoking that cigarette harder and faster than I'm growing older." He sounded both incredulous and enchanted. Such is the power of a long legged, trash mouthed, cigarette smoking lolita. Something about the obvious badness of it is so appealing. I later told my mother and she told me Mr. Pugh was a little bit of a perv. On a different occasion, one of my dad's clients said to him "wow man, your daughter really knows how to turn on the magnets..." Luckily for him, my dad is a very laid back fellow who was able to laugh about it with me. I saw that same client on a different day and he offered me a ride in his shiny forest green jaguar. I allowed him to give me a ride to my destination and reveled in the obvious fact that he was absolutely dying as he watched me get out of his car. He was no good at hiding his interest, despite his supposedly being a devout muslim and having what looked to be two wives (my family and I once visited their house for dinner). Strange...
Another memory I have is of a brad-pittish fellow of about 22 who did some construction work on my parent's house (often shirtless). I thought he was irrisistable and at 14 (despite my boyfriend) I hung around when he was working and occasionally made bedroom eyes at him and swooned over him like the crazy teenager I was. He was not that stupid and did not give in. Well a few years later, when I was 17 (sans boyfriend), he did succumb to my so-called charms. I messed with his head for a couple months, whereafter I promptly discarded of him. He was satisfactorily despondent. It was completely Evil. I still feel bad about that. Not nice at all.
Of course, I don't see myself in that light presently. It is but an entertaining and sometimes even slightly uncomfortable memory. Now I am a grown up. No longer an unruly lolita, but succeeding at being a relatively decent young woman, a professional in my job, a faithful girlfriend, a good cook, an avid reader, writer and sometimes artist... I still curse like a sailor. I still cause an occasional bit of trouble. But most of the short skirts are gone, the skinny, shiny, childhood limbs are gone, the devilish joy of inspiring desire in older men is definitely gone. But I am still the same bad bad girl I guess. You can't wash that away.
I posted this on another blog earlier, but felt compelled to share it here on my personal blog as well. I rarely do that, but this was a special exception to the rule.
On the train this morning:
I board at 14th St. Union Square. I conscientously (as I always do) cover my mouth as soon as a small cough escapes my lips. A girl sitting five feet away who was not even looking in my direction, waves her hand in the air, muttering loudly.
Rude Bitch: Eeew. Don't be coughin your nasty germs all over me.
Me: I didn't cough on you. That's why I covered my mouth.
Bitch: Pssssigh... Nasty white girl coughin on me. I don't need nobody coughin they nasty germs on me. Especially some white germs. Hell no.
Me: You really have an attitude problem. I was careful to cover my mouth so I don't know what you are getting yourself all worked up about. What is your problem?
Bitch stands up, puts her stuff on the seat and advances "all up in my grill." I look at her in the eyes.
Bitch: I'm getting an attitude because I don't need no fuckin white bitch coughin her nasty germs all over me.
Me: First of all, I covered my mouth. Second of all, you're the one starting shit with me so why don't you take a fucking seat and I'll go back to reading my book. How's that?
Rude bitch is getting really mad because I'm talking back. She doesn't like it. She threatens to hit me. I don't stop eye contact. Tell her to go ahead. She decides to keep flapping the giant hole in her face. Maybe because she can tell that if she touches me I am going to fuck her up to the very best of my ability, despite the fact that we are on a crowded train and I should probably be bigger than that.
Bitch: Go ahead and read you cheap ass book you white trash bitch. Why don't you cover your mouth when you fucking cough. I don't need those nasty germs.
Me: (this is getting a little old...) I did cover my mouth.
Bitch: Well I didn't see you.
Me: I know you didn't see me. That's because you were too busy catching a fucking attitude. And if I was all up in your face making racist remarks you already woulda hit me, so I suggest you knock it the fuck off.
Bitch sits down crosses arms, makes more hissing, muttering, pissed off grumbling remarks. Thank god, train arrives without delay at Grand Central. We both get off and she mugs me real hard (a/k/a giving me the evil eye) as she walks away. I ignore and go back to reading my book. Crack is whack kids. Just remember. Crack is whack.
We watched a bootleg of the new "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" last night. It was really good and scary.
Because of my overboard Crime Library fascination and having read nearly every account of every serial killer or weirdo they have ever featured, I was familiar with the Ed Gein story and the similarities that appeared in the Chainsaw film. Unfortunately for viewers thirsty for true gore, the whole chainsaw thing never really happened, but it sure is fun to watch. Most of the movie is without dialogue, you hear alot of the grinding of a chainsaw and screams of the victims, but I have to say the scenes where there was dialogue were damn scary too. The murders were unfathomable. I had to cover my ears a lot to block out some of the heebie jeebies I was getting. That family was fucking psycho, that's for sure. That's another thing that's really unnerving about the movie, the thought of a whole inbred family of homicidal maniacs that includes the local sheriff and there's no escape because everywhere you turn there's another one. And boy were they ever inbred... Nobody wants to think about a thing like that.
In reality though, Ed Gein acted alone and mostly dug up dead bodies from the graveyard and made various arts, crafts and appliances out of body parts. He also killed a few people...he had this big huge house in the woods that he lived in with his brother and his domineering, religious zealot of a mother who verbally abused them and did everything possible to control her boys by brainwashing them into believing that women are loose and sex is a sin for which you will be cast into hell. It's pretty well established that Ed Gein killed his brother when they were kids. Ed bludgeoned him to death and led the police straight to him stating that he had been killed in a fire. The police decided not to investigate further and just accepted that it had been an accident. His mother eventually died after a series of strokes and Ed ultimately blocked off about 75% of the house to preserve exactly as his mother had left it. And then he went about a life of pure insanity and gruesome acts of the most heinous kind before finally being caught and living out the remainder of his days in a mental institution where he was perfectly happy and well behaved until the day he died. The bottom line psychologically, was that his mother had really, really fucked him up.
By. Tracy Chapman
you in your fancy
material world
don't see the links of chain
binding blood
our own ancestors
are hungry ghosts
closets so full of bones
they won't close
call it upward mobility
but you've been sold down the river
just another form of slavery
and the whole man made white world
is your master
you in your fancy
material world
create in your own image
a supreme god
your virgin mary
your holy ghosts
claimed to be pure of heart
have hands that are stained with blood
you in your fancy
material world
don't see the links of chain
binding
I have a personal radio station on launchcast. Have a listen!
One Hundred Things About Me
1. My name is Maria Luz De Luna Carreón
2. I will turn 30 years old on September 15th in the year 2008 on a full moon.
3. I live in Brooklyn, New York.
4. My boyfriend is Rob. We've been together for many years.
5. I am revising the list below on April 24, 2007.
6. I was born in southern Oregon.
7. My parents are still married after more than 30 years.
8. I grew up in Los Angeles for ten years. I still miss California sometimes.
9. I love everything about the ocean.
10. I have heard a lot of rumors about myself. Some of them weren't true, most of them were.
11. I like to commune with nature.
12. I cry when I see things that I think are really beautiful. I also cry when I'm laughing really hard. And I cry when I'm sad. And I cry when I'm mad. I cry a lot.
13. I can be a tough girl with a bad attitude, but directly beneath the surface, I am a total baby (see above).
14. I have been arrested on several occasions, but have no criminal convictions.
15. I am 5'9" and I have long hair.
16. I am half Mexican and half German, by descent. But I am mostly an American.
17. I home schooled in the 6th and the 8th grades.
18. I love music. I like rap, punk rock, rock n' roll, folk, funk, disco, R&B, pop...the list goes on and on.
19. I recently started writing poetry again.
20. I am a passionate "liberal." Fuck the label, but I wear my bleeding heart proudly on my sleeve.
21. I love clothes and makeup and other girly things, but I don't believe in trying too hard. In other words, I'm not high maintenance.
22. I type about 75 words per minute.
23. I miss my brother.
24. When my older brother was 9 he was afflicted with a rare disease caused by pesticides poisoning and was in a wheelchair for six months.
25. My little sister is a genius.
26. We were raised Tibetan Buddhist. When I was growing up we had a sign on the fridge that said "Tibetan Lama to Visit Soon." A lot of big dharma events took place at our home in Santa Monica, CA.
27. I have filled more than thirty journals. I've lost at least seven.
28. I love to swim.
29. When I was 13 years old I ran away from home for a week to see a Greatful Dead show in Sacramento, CA. I returned a slightly different person.
30. I really put my mama through hell when I was a teenager. But now I make her proud.
31. I have a lot of fun with my parents now that I appreciate them for how awesome they are.
32. When I was a little girl I wanted to be a ballerina. I used to practice all alone in my room. I still love to dance.
33. I love to cook and I think I'm getting damn good at it.
34. Quite a few of my friends and family members have died too soon. I miss them.
35. My grandmother drowned before my eyes when I was almost four years old. My brother and I were unable to do anything to help her. My mom jumped into the swimming pool to try and save her life, but it was too late. She's always with me.
36. I believe that love shall conquer all.
37. I once lived in a really haunted house.
38. I believe that heaven and hell are each a state of mind.
39. I am afraid to die even though I know I don't need to be.
40. When I was 16 I drove to L.A. with my best friend, got a tattoo on Venice Beach, went to TiJuana, drank margaritas and tequila shots, lost all of my money and slept in my best friend's car at the border until we were sober enough to go home.
41. I have been in more fights than I can count.
42. I wish I had a video tape with all of those fights recorded on it. I don't know if I would laugh or cry. Maybe both.
43. I have only been punched in the face once out of all of those fights. It happened at the Troubadour on Santa Monica Blvd and I'm pretty sure I was asking for it. I called her quite a few nasty names.
44. My friends can always count on me to stand up for them.
45. I got expelled from the entire Los Angeles school district. It was not easy on my parents.
46. I used to hate school, but I love it more than anything now. I'm so glad I decided to go after all.
47. I flipped off my high school attendance lady when she told me I'd never amount to anything.
48. I think I have been through a lot for my age. I'm proud of myself for who I've become as a result.
49. Darcie, Jenni and I were driving in Darcie's VW bus at about 5 in the morning and the gas tank caught on fire. We hopped out onto the side of the road and watched it burn to the ground with many cherished possessions inside.
50. We hitched a ride home with a trucker from the site of the blaze. He had Bon Jovi's "Blaze of Glory" in the car. We popped it in and the trucker let us smoke all of his cigarettes. It still makes us laugh to remember that day.
51. I love myspace. I can't help it. I just do.
52. I shared an apartment with my big brother once for awhile when I was 18. We fought so much, but now I miss those days.
53. Did I mention that I miss my brother? He was a great artist. He left behind a legacy of brilliance.
54. I love to ice skate. Central Park is the ultimate.
55. My best friend competed as a pro ice skater for 8 years. One of my favorite things in the world is watching her skate. It's magical.
56. She and I have the same tattoo of an Ankh encircling our bellybuttons.
57. I spent 3 months in Mexico when I was 11 years old. I had my first kiss there from a 15 year old boy. He drove me on his motocicleta. My aunt, who was my escort in Mexico, was not happy. She chewed me out for wearing too much mascara and hanging around with teenagers.
58. I saw Mtv for the first time in Mexico. I saw the "Boys Don't Cry" video by the Cure and "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" video by U2. I was hooked.
59. There was a treehouse in Guadalajara that me and the neighborhood kids would sit in and watch the sunset.
60. I'm finally learning to accept myself...or maybe it's just an illusion that comes with age.
61. I started smoking when I was in the 9th grade. And I haven't quit yet, but when I do, it's going to be so great.
62. My first real boyfriend was a musician. He wrote a beautiful song about me. I still think highly of him, no matter what.
63. I like to keep secrets.
64. I also like to gossip, even though I know it's a big sin.
65. Writing is my life.
66. I believe in legalizing cannabis.
67. I can sometimes have a short temper.
68. I have been procrastinating about finishing this for a long time.
69. I like high heels, silk and frills. Maybe I was a hooker in my last life.
70. I am an adventuresome eater.
71. Even as a child, I've always been pretty sexually amped up.
72. I sometimes miss having a car, but riding the subway makes me feel like I'm doing something good for the earth.
73. I commit many seemingly insignificant things to memory because I find them beautiful or just too profound to let go of. That's why I write. I am obsessed with remembering.
74. Sometimes I like being an adult better than I liked being a child because it feels good to be independent.
75. I hate being told what to do.
76. when I was a kid, all I ever dreamed about was being a grown up and having a little corner of the earth to call my own.
77. My dad invented an imaginary world for my little sister and I. It was called Chanduland. My sister and I were Chandus and there were imaginary bad guys called Wuggles. My sister and I would go out in to the yard and pick berries (Chanduberries, as my dad called them) and bring them in the house before the Wuggles got us. The Wuggles lived in the trees.
78. My dad plays the flute. Some of my favorite memories are of him walking in small circles with his head cocked sideways, while sweet notes hopped and danced out of his shiny silver instrument.
79. My sister and I had a lot of fun "Playing Pretend" when we were little girls. I.e. dressing up and acting like rock stars or princesses or whatever.
80. We used to splash handfuls of water up into the air when we were in the swimming pool and then let it fall back down onto our smiling faces. When the droplets of water shimmered in the sun as they showered down onto us they looked like diamonds falling from the sky. That is one of my favorite memories. We would laugh and exclaim "look at all the diamonds!"
81. When I was little, my friend Angela and I were hiding under a rug that had been hung over the railing of the second story of our apartment building. As we crouched there, waiting to be found, she asked me what a "virgin" was because she'd heard it in a Madonna song. I told her that I knew what it meant but I couldn't tell her because it was dirty, when in fact, I hadn't a clue what it meant.
82. I'm still friends with Angela. I don't know if she remembers that.
83. My favorite birthday was when I turned 7 years old. My party was at Overland Park in L.A. I felt like such a big girl when my mom gave me a little blue purse with a red flower on it. Seven is my lucky number ever since.
84. That's the last birthday I can remember clearly up until my 13th.
85. On my 13th birthday I lied to my mother so that I could go to an L.A. Guns/Ratt concert at Irvine Meadows. I ran out of the house and left about fifteen of my friends with my parents because I didn't want to miss it. My mom sent me off with a piece of chocolate cake. I dressed up in a trashy outfit and rocked out at the concert with my best friend. We had a limo to take us home. It was really cool. I still love L.A. Guns.
86. I am grateful to my mother for not murdering me when I got home from that little escapade.
87. I never waste an opportunity to tell my parents how much I love and appreciate them.
88. My favorite place to be is immersed in water, floating, sun shining down on me, everything silent and beautiful and sparkling. I wish I could breathe underwater.
89. I used to have an old mannequin named Riga Mortis. She was beautiful. I liked to dress her up like a giant doll. My roommate hated her.
90. I have two cats, Chloe and Matilda.
91. One of the most decadent experiences of my life was Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I stayed at the Ritz Carlton, partied and tossed beads from a balcony on Bourbon Street and was escorted to the Endymion Ball in a thousand dollar party dress.
92. I got 8 lap dances in a row from a stripper at Rick's Cabaret.
93. My best friend and I accidentally ended up in a seedy "sex bar" in Las Vegas one time. We hightailed it out of there. But not before being totally grossed out by the sight of public masturbation.
94. We bathed buck naked in a freezing cold river in Canada one time. A trucker drove by and sounded his horn for us. I wasn't the least bit embarrassed. In fact, I've never felt so free. We're lucky we weren't both murdered on that trip.
95. I got married when I was 19. It only lasted a couple of years. I wish I would have been a little less impetuous about such a big decision.
96. If someone had told me then where I would be right now, I never would have believed them.
97. My middle name translates to "Light of the Moon." It used to bother me that my middle name was a sentence. Now I feel lucky.
98. I was born at home with a midwife.
99. So was my sister, three and a half years after me. I remember waking up in the morning and seeing her next to me for the first time.
100. I hate hiking, but I love wandering aimlessly in the forest as long as there's a body of water at the end of my journey. That's my ideal notion of death. Finding water at the end of the journey and floating...endlessly.
Every single day I read numerous horror stories in the news. But I wanted to cry when I heard about this little boy who drowned at the YMCA in Jackson, Mississippi due to the negligence, incompetence and unethical conduct of the staff.
Here's the gist: The parents entrusted their children to a local youth organization/daycare center. The daycare planned a field trip to the YMCA without obtaining permission from the parents for the children to go. They allowed the children to enter the swimming pool without obtaining permission from the parents. (Child did not even have a bathing suit with him). There was little supervision with over 175 kids in the pool at one time. The child in question drowned. No one noticed because the water was murky. When adults did notice and retrieved the boy from the bottom of the pool, they did not perform CPR because they were not trained or knowledgable on how to do so. Even the defense attorney admits that the YMCA is at least partially at fault for not having proper supervision for the children.
Do these people who failed to perform CPR (even though they are required to be CPR trained, by law) get to keep their jobs? I think they should be fucking arrested. It makes you never want to leave your kids anywhere. How are people supposed to work and feel comfortable that their children are going to be taken care of by the "trusted professionals" that they are being left with during the day when shit like this is always happening? Who are you supposed to trust when practically every government-run children services organization in the country is corrupt and irresponsible, when you can't trust individual caretakers any further than you can kick them down the street most of the time and you can't trust these organizations or facilities that are supposed to look after your kids? Most of the time you pay these people. And what do you get for your money? Not a sense of security, that's for damn sure.
I feel so terrible for these people and every other parent who has lost a child due to the negligence of another person or agency, especially those who were supposed to be caring and watching after those kids. Treating them with the same care and vigilence that they would their own. Unfortunately, that is too often not the case.
I don't believe for one minute that Jessica Lynch was raped. I think this is another attempt to demonize Iraqis. "Look at them. Look at those savages. Look what they did to this woman...they're animals" Same thing that the Klan used to do to black men. Just lynch him and claim he raped a white woman. Then no one will blame you because he deserved it. It's disgusting.
The imbellishment and twisting of the true story that kicked this whole thing off is disgusting. The glorification of her "rescue" in the media...("Saving Jessica Lynch"???) It's shameless. And then there is her biography full of alleged occurrences and horrors that she can't even recall but has the nerve to publish as fact after some story-hungry scumbags have pumped her head full of ideas of what kinds of horrible things might have happened to her..."We think those savages raped you Jessica, what do you think?" "Hmmm. Well I really don't remember a single thing except waking up in a warm bed and being treated with loving care and then witnessing my fellow soldiers come busting in like it was an action movie, but sure, rape sounds good..." I think the entire thing is fabricated. Those Iraqis saved her life and all she and the media can do is trash them. I am sickened more and more as each day passes and Americans stoop to new lows in their perception and portrayal of this war. New lows in general. Not even just with regard to the war...
Why would Iraqi doctors viciously rape a woman who was teetering on the brink of death from a horrendous carwreck where she was the only survivor, and then nurse her back to health? They could have left her for dead. But no. Her rescuers were so eager to have brutal sex with this horribly wounded, mangled girl that they took her to a hospital so that they could further torment her before saving her life?
"We only had a few minutes to save her life. We found a vein in her neck to give her fluids and blood..."
"The thought did not cross my mind. Her injuries were consistent with severe trauma, a car crash, nothing else. Her clothes were not torn, her boots had not been removed. There is no way (she could have been raped)."
Dr. Mahdi Khafazji operated on her fractured right femur. He cleaned her body before surgery and found no signs of sexual assault. "I examined her very carefully," he said at his clinic in Nassiriya's center. "I cleaned her body including her genitalia. She had no sign of raping or sodomizing."
Lynch's wounds were so bad a sexual assault would have killed her, he said. "If she had been raped there is no way she could have survived it. She was fighting for her life, her body was broken. What sort of an animal would even think of that?"
"They attacked the hospital at night. There were explosions outside which broke the windows. The patients were terrified," he said. "The Americans knew the Iraqi military had gone so why they didn't come for her quietly, I don't know."
Hazbar, now hospital director, said he was shocked by the rape allegations. "Who is saying this? In our culture, we protect women," he said. "Everyone was very sympathetic toward her. In our culture it is very unusual -- a woman, a soldier"
And what about her fellow soldiers who are dead? The ones who didn't make it? I feel for everyone out there in Iraq and I don't mean to dismiss her service or valor in the line of duty, but I think that this media circus around her rescue and her movie and her book is an outrage. It seriously undermines the suffering of so many other families who have lost loved ones and the people over there who are losing their lives as we speak. It also paints an ugly picture in people's minds which I think is just one big run-away tale.
I cannot believe this piece of shit got away with murder. What a stupid, stupid jury. Robert Durst killed his wife. He killed his best friend. He killed his neighbor. Not even manslaughter? Nothing for chopping up his neighbor into little pieces and tossing him in a river? He admitted it! He killed the guy and he chopped him up into little pieces! And these dumb motherfuckers acquitted him? I have worked in the legal field for a long time and been privy to many disappointing jury verdicts, but this one takes the cake. This is worse than OJ. This twisted, demented killer is going to run free. All on account of twelve morons.
Originally By. Jo Stafford
See the pyramids along the Nile
Watch the sun rise on a tropic isle
Just remember, darling, all the while
You belong to me.
See the marketplace in old Algiers
Send me photographs and souvenirs
But remember when a dream appears
You belong to me.
I’ll be so alone without you
Maybe you’ll be lonesome too---and blue
Fly the ocean in a silver plane
Watch the jungle when it’s wet with rain
Just remember till you’re home again
You belong to me
____________________________________
For those of you who didn't see the movie, Bob Dylan does an amazing rendition of the above song on the "Natural Born Killers" soundtrack, which is how I fell so in love with it in the first place. That particular version brings back a lot of memories and every time I hear it, feels like everything inside me melts instantaneously. Long before that, in the 1960s, it was done by The Duprees, but, naturally, Bob Dylan's voice brought the song a haunting, deeply sad quality that is unparalleled.
What is the world coming to when kissing in public has become a crime? Whattsa matta Moscow? Feelin a little frigid?
I hate it just as much as the next person when I see some shmarmie couple sucking face on the subway, but to outlaw it? I am not totally against rules stating that people should not suck face on the subway, since others are basically trapped in there with the face suckers and don't have the option to move away from it if they find it offensive. But to threaten jail sentences for those who hug or kiss on the subway or in other public places? What are these people doing? One person claims "Our children are getting love lessons all day long from what they see around them." Is it really that bad if a child sees two people kissing or hugging? Is it going to degrade their morals to an ungodly degree? Maybe it is better if children never witness affection and are just taught that tender physical interaction is bad and ugly, that it is a crime...something to be hidden behind closed doors and kept secret? Of course, this is in Moscow and I don't think it would go over in New York, but you never know!
And since when are governments and agencies responsible for enforcing so-called morals on the public to this degree? Since they decided to? It kind of reminds me of this Onion article with the headline "Americans Demand Increased Governmental Protection From Selves": "Alarmed by the unhealthy choices they make every day, more and more Americans are calling on the government to enact legislation that will protect them from their own behavior..." I guess maybe the same is going on in Moscow?
This son of a goat's ass finally confessed to killing those 48 women out in Washington. Reading his entrance of guilty plea sent shivers up and down my spine. Fucking monsters. You really have to watch out for them.
I don't know why any woman would become a prostitute, just for the simple reason that there are people like him running around who will see you as a walking target. Hi, would you like to get in my car? Okay. *gasp>gaggg----*
I'm trying to make light of it, but the reality is that women need to be really careful of these predators. There are more of them than we think...and even if you are not at such a high risk as the average prostitute happens to be, it's still important to watch your back and be extra cautious. I never seem to stop being horrified and amazed by how many men are out to victimize women in whatever way they can. We all know that men are natural aggressors and my belief is that since the dawn of the human race men have been trying to reinforce their own power, convince themselves that they are in control and stifle the natural power and strength of women by violating them in every way possible. Dehumanizing, enslaving, abusing, degrading, murdering... So far it's worked out pretty well for them. Therefore, it is always imperitive that we women watch out for ourselves and eachother because there is always some sick motherfucker out there looking to take your freedom or your life away from you for the simple fact that you were born a woman. And that's not just boiling hot feminism. It's awareness.
Anyway, I'm really glad they caught Ridgeway and he finally confessed. I have been following this case for quite awhile and it's satisfying that he came out with it all so that the bereaved families can finally try to find a little bit of peace in knowing that he's not still out there victimizing more women. This whole thing just made me think of that song "Ted Just Admit It" by Jane's Addiction. I'm pretty sure Perry Farrell wrote that for Ted Bundy. "Sex is violent! Sex is violent! (If you're a fucking psychopath that is...!)"
I am so sick and tired of getting ridiculous email hoaxes. Why do people refuse to check these things out before they send them? There are tons of websites out there that you can visit to debunk all of the "horrifying stories" that you receive in your email box. But do people use these resources? NO. They're so damn email-happy, they just click on the fucking forward button and send away. God it is so annoying...
The worst is the same people who do it repeatedly despite my continuous responses citing resources for debunking: friends of mine who I have told succinctly that I do not need to receive unsubstantiated email "scares" and to please investigate by visiting a website like snopes.com before sending them to me. But do they listen? NO. They send me more emails. Emails that say "I don't know if this is true or not, but it's better to be safe than sorry..." and then goes on to warn of whatever is the latest bullshit scare, perfume samples that are coming in the mail that contain deadly biological substances, kittens that are killed for the purpose of creating "bonsai kittens" (kittens stuffed into a cute little jar. PLEASE!), men slipping women Progesterex as a date rape drug which causes them to be infertile FOREVER... the list goes on and on. Better to be safe than sorry? How about "it's better to make sure that the warnings you are sending to all your friends about various horrors (that the news is supposedly not reporting on) are validated before cluttering up email inboxes with bullshit." Do we not get enough bullshit in our email? Is anyone here lacking in the spam/bullshit email department? Anyone wishing they were getting more cheesy inspirational emails and chain letters and urban legends? That's what I thought.
Do we not have enough things to worry about? Are there not enough bad things happening FOR REAL in this world that morons sit around making up stupid chain hoaxes to circulate on the internet, getting simple minded folks worked up into a sweat about some fabricated story? Does the term "get a fucking life" mean anything to these people? There are so many horrendous things going on...crazy personal nightmares that people experience daily. And that's not enough to satiate a person's morbid appetite? We've got to cry wolf every ten minutes on top of that?
And wouldn't it be nice if my friends would not perpetuate this horseshit by sending it on to everyone they know including me, the person who investigates every baseless email I get by taking two and a half seconds to punch a couple of key words into google before having a heart attack and sending it on to the next sucker? It makes me want to disown people. Like "you know, you're stupider than I thought, let's not be friends anymore, okay?"
Of course, I can't do that. I can only politely send back an email stating "sounds scary, but fortunately, this story is not true. You can investigate such hoaxes yourself by visiting www...." But they just keep coming. And I'm losing my fucking patience. Pretty soon. I'm going to stop being nice about it. Wise up people! Stop being such gullible zombies who will believe and forward on every single dumb thing you read in your email box. Get a mind of your own. And use it for god fucking sakes and spare the rest of us the aggravation!
What a crazy weekend. Beginning on Thursday night, it just didn't stop. The party on Friday night was really fun. It turns out that the "shocking and controversial presentation" was really quite something.
We walked in around 11:30 right as the big moment was about to begin. We made our way through the slightly narrow wharehouse-style venue that was packed from wall to wall with people dressed head to toe in black and witchy garb (that was the theme: Witch). We got to the open bar and ordered some drinks. We were happy to be at a private party where the drinks were free and we could smoke and do what we pleased without worrying about bouncers, beefy security or state smoking bans.
Finally, the doors closed and the lights went out momentarily and everyone became as quiet as they could in all their excitement. J, our host, appeared in the front of the room on a small stage wearing what looked like a satanic robe and big black mad max sunglasses. A black screen was lowered from the ceiling and on it appeared a pentagram and a booming voice which permeated the room. J looked up at the screen and over a period of fifteen minutes, he beseached God and Satan each in a spooky sort of performance art style. Then he addressed his guests in a passionate and intense manner with some political thoughts and issues that were really important to him and some spiritual thoughts and feelings, during which different images would appear on the screen above him. Sometimes it displayed a pentagram during which confetti showered down on the crowd from above, sometimes a big green dollar sign during which J would shout "are you going to vote for the almighty dollar when election time comes...? I'll bet some of you will! I'll bet some of you will betray me!" and fake money would come cascading down from above, and finally, the Wizard of Oz...Dorothy and her friends, and the good witch, all appeared on the screen and the movie's theme song played while fake snow and feathers drifted down onto the crowd, during which J clicked his heels and chanted "there's no place like homo...there's no place like homo." I got the impression that this was all very deep rooted symbolism for him and I respected the way that he put it out there and shared it with all of us. There were moments when it made me feel like we were in a room full of cult members as he would say a word or phrase and everyone would chant in unison, (at one point he had everyone saying "Witch, witch, witch, witch....") and at the same time it was exciting and fun and crazy and completely bizarre.
After his fifteen minutes had elapsed, the music pumped up to an ecstatic volume and the room went crazy while J presided over the party up on his pedestal, like a king, waving his arms and grooving with the crowd. Everyone was given a witchy hat and a little blinking magic wand that looked like the one the good witch has in the Wizard of Oz. Sexy performers up on mini stages, danced and gyrated and simulated sex acts in their skimpy Calvin Klein underpants while soft porn played on the wall.
We danced and drank the night away, enjoying the open bar and some conversation with strangers. One girl was so drunk that she teetered all night on these clackety little heels. I don't know how she managed without falling over. At one point she came up to us and started a conversation in her drunken slur that began with "myyyy husssband issan attorneyy..." I don't know what she said after that because my ears shut off like a light switch, but we did meet some other people that were fun. Eventually we decided to leave and go to Metronome, a club where some other friends were having a party. We stayed for one drink and a little dancing there before heading home. We stopped at McDonald's on the way and I don't think it has ever tasted that good before. We got home around 5 a.m. and slept until noon Saturday.
Saturday night was another party for a friend of Rob's at a place called "Mission" down in the Bowery. That was an outrageously good time. It was a funny place because when we walked in to the upstairs portion, it was literally a sea of Asians. Not a problem. I do not, however, go to Asian clubs for the most part. A tall blonde girl and her brazilian man don't exactly fit in. It's just like if you are a punk rocker and you walk into a cowboy bar. Same thing. But downstairs, it was a lot more our speed. Down there it was mostly black or white kids and a couple of stray Asians who would drift in occasionally from upstairs before drifting back up to their own domain. We danced and danced and danced and it was the best. Again, didn't get home until 5 a.m. This time we stopped at Gray's Papaya for grilled hotdogs. Mmmmm. Sunday slept until 1:30. I felt like a serious sloth, but that's okay.
We took a walk and the weather was BEAUTIFUL. We got bagels and coffee and spent the rest of the day being utterly lazy. I couldn't bring myself to sit at the computer and bang on my keyboard though. My brain was just not in that kind of working order. I'm still slightly recovering.