Blah Blah Blog

i was just thinking about the absurdity of making BIG plans. right now, there is something about BIG plans that feels really cramped. on the other hand, my small plans to be near water at least once a week, to be outside everyday, to listen to birdsbugstreesleaveswindbarkslaughs in the park as i watch the sunsetmoonrise seems pretty large. eventually i'm gonna have to return to the land of big plans, but i hope, this time, to bring the small plans along for the adventure.

Peace from The Lise

Comma Man

You will have to excuse my previous blog. I've gotten into this [bad?] introspective habit of being really heavy and analytical lately. I really ought to get a snapshot of myself pulling my underwear out of my ass or swanning out of a pubic bathroom with long ribbon of toilet paper stuck to my shoe to undermine the needless pathos. It's summertime fercrissake. In the mean time, perhaps this will do, sort of. While I am clearly showing off my new yogic powers (this is pretty much the sum of my accomplishments for the year 2010, thusfar) at least you can see how my undies might become lodged in the glutial fold in the first place.

So back to my gravitas. It's like I should end every sentence with ", man" as in. "It's been a rough year, man." Dju see it? OR "I don't know what's happened to me, man, I used to be so much fun." I snuck it in there in the middle - literary device alert - of the sentence [, man] And while I don't actually say "man" after a brief pause (as indicated by the comma,) it's definitely there, like the silent "h" in a lot of French words. Oh, how's this for heavy: "I've really got to work on not being so heavy" (silently) comma man. See how it Pepe Le Pew's me bigtime (silently)?

Moving along. I plan on blogging about tomatoes in the near future. I think it will be rather light and include a recipe for Gazpacho, man.

Compromises

I was thinking about Love and all the bargains made between lovers. How awful to ask One to be less than their glorious Self to appease the insecurities of the Other; and the soul killing that happens when that demand is met. I don't think that is love. I met, briefly, one Beloved whose sole message to me, in a single kiss, was a plea to never, ever enter such a contract. The Messenger is gone but the Message has taken root. I think how cheaply I've sold the things that I treasure most about myself in order to be acceptably and safely lovable. I think I'd rather be alone the rest of my life than to enter in to another such arrangement.

Surely there are Other Ones whose fealty thrives on a daily renewal of freedom.

I'm just saying...

Om Back!

Dear Reader (that would be me)

Everything changes, something is constant. I can't seem to remember my last post, when it was; I'll have to check. Any...I'm in an excruciating period of re-prioritizing my life and with that comes a not knowing that feels frightening. I'm trying to write as if no-one but me is reading this, which is very likely the case. So here goes. I've read about ego death so I'm familiar with the concept, in fact I've read accounts of this so-called death from a number of so-called adepts: Irina Tweedy, Hafiz, Mevlana, Gurumayi, Swami Muktananda and a few regular people, meaning they have not written any books and are known to few, but you know that in their own quiet u. So I'm now having the experience of this and It's - that's right It's with a capitol "I" or, is it capital "I?" And come to think of it where does the end quote go? Before the question mark, like so: "I"? or after as above. As all of this is playing out I'm noticing that I am frantically trying to distract myself from any form of present moment. Feels like I'm falling down a steep slope, everything saying "No, no no!" ("!"?) And then the Present Moment bursts in on me in the most peculiar ways at the oddest times, in really ordinary places. It's like being ambushed by timeless bliss.

Love Hurts, yeah yeah

This blog started over three years ago with me dissing Michael Jackson's face [while he was still alive, mind you] to celebrating Earthsong which I still just love to bits, even though Lee thinks less of me for it. But this is not about Michael Jackson - who I am convinced has gone to a much kinder, safer place.

And so to Love. Love is crazy-making. Brutal. I just don't know how people do it. I've sort of walked to the edge of Love and gazed longingly at that deep reflection of Self. It makes me bonkers. You see, I'm Needy. I'm Needy like Sunday morning [but you would almost not spot it as I have perfected the art of betraying myself and deceiving you in the process.] So here I am in Love and I'm just watching myself and this big drama unfolding all around me. The Highs, the Lows [ah, the distracting elixir of drama], the flatness in between [horrible, horrible with nothing but a small timorous self.]

I had a dream that I was lying next to my lover in the green, green of Spring grass. I wanted nothing from this Beloved and and nothing was wanted from me; we were equally happy in this place of rest. I awoke smiling and sitting up. It was - I had the feeling that - I brought the dream into real life or real life pulled me into the dream. I was beautifully disoriented. But I had this sense that Neediness is slipping out the back door.

In this whole process I'm noticing that my whole operating system of cynical witticisms [OS Cougar Hiding Its Craftiness, or OS CHIC] seems to crash an awful lot. I find it difficult to know what to do when Identity fails me. On the one hand there is a feeling of recklessness and on the other the spectre of annihilation is something more than terrifying.

Life Haiku

About two years ago Unseen Forces began divesting me of my material possessions and after the initial shock and the knee-jerk reaction to being materially denuded, I felt a natural freedom, a huge sigh of relief.

Life Haiku.

For example:

(Okay, Haiku is relative, so just keep in mind that I'm up to 70% reduced in some areas, I'll try to give a running estimation)

Wardrobe:

Running shoes/trainers x 1

Converse:

Chuck Taylors x 1

One Star Sequined loafers x 1

One Star slip-ons x 1

Boots x 3 (none of them practical for extreme winter weather, but they all rock and the black high heeled ones are really comfortable, I mean walk all day in them comfortable)

Heels x 8 (3 black, 2 brown, 1 pewter metalic, 1 ballet pink, 1 purple T-straps,)

Berks, gladiators, flipflops, peep toed sandles x 1 each

Blahnik mules x 1

Flats: 1 black, 1 aubergine

Loafers: are you kidding me? Okay, I have one pair of Todd's that I borrowed from my Mom

OK, shoes still need some work, but there are a total of twenty-something items of footwear in my closet; compared to the average woman of today we can safely say that in the foot wear department I am haiku-like.

Instead of listing items I'll just give linear measurements:

6 feet of rack space, ie, one double sized closet, and that is summer AND winter clothes and outer wear.

Drawers: 24 feet of loosely loaded drawers or two 5 drawer chests of drawers: T-shirts, sweaters, socks, underwear, sports wear, accessories, including handbags and 4 jaunty hats.

Books: 5 book boxes of beloved reads, including The Oxford Concise Dictionary of The English Language

Decorative: 5 boxes, including photos of friends and family and a 1930's small Italian chandelier

Art Collection: 1 painting, 5 prints, about 10 sculptures of various sizes, 5 drawings.

Office/Desk/Tax Returns: 2 orderly book boxes

Furniture: 1 full Tempurpedic mattress, bed and headboard, pair of bergere chaises with foot rest 1 antique side table and a mid-century console and lamp of the same vintage.

Electrical: video camera, digital camera, laptop, wireless microphone

Kitchen: set of All-Clad pots and pans, 2 Henkles knives and 2 boxes of assorted other kitcheny stuff.

Ummmm, that's it really.

Excluding the furniture, all of my worldly possessions* fit in 2 Suburban loads, and the rest can follow in a flatbed with the tailgate down.

*There are a few lingering items in London

Oh, and make-up, if you are a woman then you will really appreciate this:

Everything, everything, make-up brushes, hair-dryer, brushes combs, creams, band-aids, toothpaste, etc all in one box. One box, and not a big box, but a regular book box sized box. I got rid of all shades of red lipstick: there is not one shade of red that does not make me look older and I accept that there never will be. I now have 3 Mac Viva Glam lip glosses, one Viva Glam lipstick and one Rimmel lip pencil and Bert's Bees chap stick for home, office and handbag. Now that is Haiku in the lip department, just ask any lady.

Apart from the clothes and a few desk items it is all packed up an ready to go. I'm ready. Other loose ends are being tied up as I write. Or after I write.

I thought that was going to be funny, but it's not. It's not sad either. It just is interesting for me to see what I have, what I don't have, what I miss and what I don't miss.

Of one thing I am certain, I don't miss the dread of moving.

Life Haiku, by Lisa Prior

two Suburban loads

a bed, chairs, Viva the Glam

London lingering

more Haiku here at the Haiku Generator

http://www.everypoet.com/haiku/default.htm

For expert decluttering visit my friend Annie:

http://drdeclutterservices.com/Site/Welcome.html

The Will to Blog

When I have work I blog. When I don't I don't. I just, you know, don't.

Untitled Sadness

That's the statue behind the ICA, in between The Mall and Pall Mall in London. It commorates the Crimean War. There are British and Cossak soldiers and a plaque that does not say "This statue sponsored by Big Corporation."

.

I miss London. I miss my friends. I miss the weather. I miss the culture. I miss the dry humor. I miss the public transportation. I miss the tea. I miss interacting with strangers on busses, sidewalks, I miss sidewalks. Can you imagine that sidewalks. I miss walking for that matter. I miss the intelligence. I miss people who could give a fuck about granite countertops.

I miss public places  that are actually used by the public. I miss parks that have tea rooms and walking paths and lovely gardens. 

Come on Justin, Crimea River.

Poor me. Crimea River

I hate it when...

I hate it when I have a really great idea and then I misplace it like sunglasses or car keys.

For example, I was heading down the I-35 at 70 m.p.h. to Sulphur, Oklahoma for my weekend yoga retreat when I finally punctured through one of the last remaining blocks on my comedy pilot. As I recall it was a brilliant piece of physical theater that neatly tied in with something in the cold opening. And because of its unarguable brilliance there was no need to write it down. No need, whatsoever. Especially not doing 70 miles per hour in rural Oklahoma, at dusk. I mean if I had had a wreck I would have found myself in a Stephen King novel, and who wants that, especially when you can have a yoga weekend instead? Comedy pilots don't get finished in Stephen King novels, in fact comedy in all its resplendent forms is banned in Stephen King novels. So if a purveyor of fine humor is found trespassing, even by (car) accident in a Stephen King novel the consequences are quite severe. And that's an understatement. Let's just say that Kathy Bates and her sledgehammer is just a warm up. Caan gets off lightly. Seriously, If Jack is all play and no work, where's the story in that? Shelly Duval shivering in a meat locker with a knife makes perfect sense because, a.) meat lockers are cold, and b.) you need a knife to hack off a shoulder of mutton. It's just not scarry, unless you are a vegan. But then you would react with outrage, not fear. You would sublimate all that white middle-class guilt that made you want to be a vegan in the first place into organizing a grassroots campaign. And you would drive to the protest that you and your college buddies organized in the Honda Civic Hybrid that your parents are making payments on, wearing the Simple Shoes your grandma bought you at the mall last summer. And there's just no story in that. None.

The Temp

Well, I'm temping so I thought I would use this time wisely to update my blog. Seriously. I keep asking my superiors what to do next b/c anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am a bit of a whirling Dervish. I'm still working on the kindergarten basics of "sit still, keep your mouth shut and get your hands out of you panties." Add to that that I am a bit paranoid at times so when I am "not looking busy" I feel guilty and instead of guilt it looks like nervousness. This has its upside, though. I tend to achieve a lot, although I often head into that dark place known as burnout.

So my blog has been really lame recently. Apologies to all 8 of my regular readers. I had to resort to cutting and pasting emails from my friend Lee who provided all of the interesting content. He is much smarter-er than I. BUT! I am smart enough to get him. In fact my sitcom is based on our friendship, or was in its first version, but now with the re-write for the US version he has been written into a corner, sort of. Withall, he is my muse, which does not sound right as he is a bloke, so he is my man-muse.

I'm in full throttle on the final draft of my sitcom pilot, working title: Hotpants which means early AM wake ups (between 3-5am) to write before going to work at 8. My deadline (the deadline is for me) is 28 November which is also my birthday where I will be # years old. (My God it's come to that, I'm # years old and I don't want to tell you and I don't want to lie, although anyone who is reading this probably knows that I am # years old.) It is my present to me. And, my mentor will introducing me to "her people" in the new year. So I have to start working on my spec script right after that. I'm deadlining a beatsheet for the first of the year. Hands full.

Today was a 3AM day, which would not be too bad, except that I stayed up way late packing to go away for the weekend. I am overtired and headed for burnout which is good as I am going on a yoga retreat. This is in part to rest and relax and also to practice the many yoga, raw food, Esselen, Hoffman & etc. weekends that I will no doubt be doing when I am hired to write on big TV comedies. Just another example of what an over achiever I am, I'm practicing resting and relaxing. I plan to be a really good at this when I get that job.

And on that note

iDork 8.0

Me to Lee:

I am listening to Earth Song again and secretly liking it even though I know I shouldn't (esp. with lyrics like "what about flowery fields?"

I can see the wind machine going and the fake fog, but no zombies. This is not Thriller, after all. I see little children in my minds eye (and my recollection of the Brits)

But now he is going "hoo" and then I think of that comedian...cant' remember...wotsit with ginger mane? Does that make me less of a dork if I imagine ginger guy with the wind machine???

Anyhow, I hate my life.

xlisa

Lee to Me:

maybe you would hate your life less if you weren't listening to earth song so much?

we had dire straights on in the shop today. so however much you hate your life, at least you're not me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

f.f.s.

Me:

I blogged you...with love

xlisa

Lee:

i'm never sayin "heh" to you again. paul anka? f.f.s. dead to me

x

Me:

o...kay

ffs? I don't know what this means.

I love imagining hearing you say "heh" what would it take lee, what would it take?

Paul Anka album, Rock Swings

he basically takes grunge songs and makes them into snappy little swing numbers, cf, Smells like TS, and Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun.

Sort of takes the wind out of their self-important, heroin addled sails. Kinda makes me say "heh" when I hear them.

On youtube with everything else.

Lee:

heh.

f.f.s. = for fuck's sake :0

i know that paul anka record backwards  - it was playlisted in borders when i first started there, and was played on constant rotation alongside - and i'm not even shitting you - jamie cullum, alicia keyes, katie melua and david gray - for two weeks solid: tow of the worst weeks of my life. my neurons stopped firing, i couldn't pick things up.

xxx

Me:

Can I lift that line for my script, the not picking things up thing? I'm having a bit of writer's block. It's like funny has gone on a cruise to Cancun with a bunch of geriatric jews wearing orthopaedic footwear and high blood pressure med. (taking the meds, not wearing, that is)

Or at least will you keep corresponding with me so I can do this lazy blogging thing. I have no content at the moment.

ffs, I'm desperate.

xx

PS: thanks for saying "heh" again

Heh

Here are the last 25 downloads to my iPod:
Ratatat: Mirando
Port O'Brien: A Bird Flies By
Jeff Hanson: Nothing Would Matter At All
Paul Anka: Smells Like Teen Spirit
Shantal: Disco Partizani
Laurie Anderson: From The Air
Okkervil River: Plus Ones
Chet Baker: My Funny Valentine
Israel Kramakwiwo'ole: Somewhere Over The Rainbow/What a Wonderful World
K'naan: What's Hardcore
Plants and Animals: Bye Bye Bye
Thompson Twins: Hold Me Now (but without irony)
The Accidental: Knock Knock
Grateful Dead: Eyes of The World
Laurie Anderson: O Superman
Jane Siberry: Everything Reminds Me of My Dog
Serge Gainsbourgh & Jane Birkin: Je t'aime...mois non plus (see previous blog on Birkin)
Jeff Lewis: Heavy Heart
Au: rr Vs. D
Laurie Anderson: Language is a Virus
Cansei de Ser Sexy: Music Is My Hot Sex
Dr. Dog: Today

Actually I have two downloads left plus 25 cents to hook me into the next download card. So, I'm thinking Culture Club: Do You Really Want To Hurt Me? and something by Cliff Richards just to see if can make Lee say "heh" again in an email.

Dear Lee, Dear Lisa

2 September, 2008 - From me to Lee:


Hey There,

just listening to The Cure (The Catarpillar) at work (yes, praise the Lord (PTL) I finally have a job, writing training manuals) and thinking LEE! Oops, now it's gone: EWF & The Emotions are singing "Let's Groove," so the moment's gone. Although, on second thought I can totally see you getting down to EWF. Three tracks ago I was listening to my dirty shameful secret song that I like: Michael Jackson's Earth Song. Hate me. Just hit me now. But I like it. It's got a good beat. Lyrics are crap, I have no argument with that. What? I'm just saying...No, you fuck off! I don't even know why I bothered to email.
x


3 September, 2008 - From Lee to me:


Heh, i don't know what i need to add to that, you pretty much covered everything : )


funny though, as i was listening to an old cure record (faith) a few days ago. it's one i probably haven't played for maybe 15 years, because it's one of the really doomy melodramatic ones that i overplayed when i was a doomy melodramatic 19 year old, to the point where i felt like i could probably never hear it again without being overcome by a tsunami of cringing. i was wrong. it's still a really good record. it just doesn't make me want to knot flowers into my hair and go drown in a river anymore.


unlike earth song.


xxx

Panty Hosebag

I am currently working at a company where the women are REQUIRED to wear skirts AND pantyhose. It is a privately owned company so they can do this. The CEO thinks it gives a professional appearance. The guy in R&D who is in the next cubicle watches porn all day long. So I guess that is okay in terms of professional appearance. Whatever, I am in Oklahoma. The buckle of the bible belt. While this perv watches porn ALL DAY he is surrounded by photos of his wife and kids. Nice.

Now on to pantyhose. I've already blown through 2 pair, at four bucks a pop.

I HEART Ari

I'm currently NetFlick-ing while I wait for the 2008 Fall Collection of TV Comedy to be rolled out.  This is a good thing because I have been an American in Absentia for the last 12 years (mostly) and without a television aparatus of my very own for about 4 years, but by no means tv starved. More of a TV diet as reality shows, while quite appetising in day-old  leftover cake kind of way, leave me feeling strung out and wanting to drink a lot of milk. That didn't come out right, what I mean is: the part of me that could sit down and eat a whole pie and get a big sugar rush only to crash really fast and then have to lie down in a queasy torpor with a distend belly likes reality TV. It's something I avoid. Anyhow, I am the last one to the Entourage party. And while the enthusiasm of many of my fellow countrymen and women is largely on the wane, mine is definitely on the wax. And I just love Ari Gold. I think I have an inner Ari Gold. Which is very weird, because he does not fall into the "write what you know" category, if you look at my life. 

I was just Googled "Ari Gold." Did you know that there is a gay rapper of the same name? And also a 1970's Soul-looking musician? See if you can spot the difference.

I'm a TV Professional

Okay, here is my assignment, broken down step-by-step for the next 8-12 months. I have to complete each step before I move on to the next step, like taking a standardized test with a number 2. pencil or playing Mario Brothers. Except that if you get really good at Mario Brothers and start to get a conceptual feel for what makes it a great game and how you could make it an even better game you might grow up to be veeery wealthy, maybe even a m/billionaire. If you ace the the Number 2. pencil thing you could be clerk or work for The State. Wahey! I was crap at that Number 2. pencil thing, by the way. BUT my circles were always filled in completely inside the lines, and the graphite was very evenly distributed and there was always a wonderful sheen that was mesmerizing, at least to me. But apparently it was not a beauty contest.

Lisa's Cosmic Fabulous Assignment for the next 10 to 12 months!

Step One:

Watch as much comedy TV as possible between working hours. Yes, that's right, watch TV. And not just any comedy, but top-rated comedy. Cable and network. And keep watching until I find a show that I really, really like.

Step Two:

Watch every episode of the show, you know, the show I really really like. Watch every episode, it's an assignment. And there's more: read every script of every show of the comedy show that I really, really like. I have to do this. Oh twist my arm.

Intermission: Before I go on to the next step...

In the last two years I have hardly watched any TV at all. In fact I have not owned a TV for about 4 years now. I have lived in places where there is a TV, it's not like I'm a Luddite, I mean here I am on the Internet and everything, and as I type my iTunes is pumping out Gainsbourg/Birkin singing Je T'aime Moi Non Plus which I downloaded from the iTunes store. Jane is having her orgasm right now. So it's hardly like I am a purist. Oh, okay Jane's done now and here's Amy Winehouse and she is going to go Back to Black. But back to Jane Birkin, before I get back to the thing about why I don't have a TV. This is a huge digression, in fact it is a digression from a digression which would make it a quadression or disordered thinking on my part. But here is the story. About 4 years ago, OK, it's not disordered thinking! Yeah! It's all related and cosmic why Jane Birkin has something to do with me not having had a TV for 4 years how come I wrote a sitcom.

My father died just over 4 years ago and I left London, where I had a TV but gave it away b/c I thought I was leaving London forever. I moved to Houston where I was born, but not raised. It was a decision made out of grief, and it was the right decision for the time, but despite my nascent connection to Texas we are just not a good fit. Anyhow, I was working for an interior designer while in Houston. But not just any interior designer, she is a designer to the Super Rich. Her biggest client was the wife of an oil baron. She was in the process of making atonement for the disaster of the house bought and decorated while the ink was still wet on her husbands newly made fortune. In short she was eager to prove that after 5 years of marriage and no longer eaking out an existence on $30k a year as an office worker, she was officially "Old Money." So this new and improved house was demonstrating that she had come a long way, baby. And I am all for any kind of profligate spending that benefits me. And just to put things into perspective the client had already been billed for about $750,000 for antiques, fabric, design fees, etc. and the job was only about half done. So I was at her tacky first house dropping off some fabric swatches or something and she had two miniature schnauzers, which I love. I asked her their names as I let them jump all over me because I love dogs and let them do that to me. Here is how the rest of the conversation worked out:

The Client: This one is called Joy and this one is called Birkin.

Lisa: Oh, as in Jane?

The Client: No, after the bag.

Lisa: (beat, then) The bag.

The Client: From Hermes (pronounces her-mees)

Lisa: (beat, then) Which is named for Jane. Jane Birkin.

The Client: Jane Birkin?

Lisa: Jane Birkin, like the Kelly bag is named for Grace...

At this point I am trying to remember that she is the Client, and I am not supposed laugh or make eyes of disbelief or any outward gestures, movements or utterances that express what I am thinking. If I hadn't already emptied my bladder in her tacky powder room I would have wet myself trying to hold this panoply of emotions in. So I change the subject.

Anyhow, The Client provided lots of material for my sitcom.

Step Four:

I've forgotten what step four is because I am still reeling from the memory of Lifestyles of the Rich and Stupid in Houston. Oh, okay write a new beat sheet for the spec. script

Step Five:

Write it.

Then I don't know what is next. But so far we have a sitcom inspired by Jane Birkin, no not Jane Birkin, but a handbag named after Jane Birkin because she wanted a (Grace) Kelly only bigger, so she could, now this is this is purely speculation on my part, put a few extra things in her bag for assignations with Serge. Maybe some dirty magazines and some vegetable oil.

Pick Your Rick

Alors...

I was recently e-ntroduced to someone named Rick. It was one of those dodgy offers that people make but you can't turn down because you don't want to be rude and you are usually hoping that the person on the other side of the equation is going to ignore you and you can both just pretend like you never got the e-mail and life can just continue as it was.

Well, a friend of mine here in OK City has a friend who has a son who lives in LA and is trying to break in to show business. And I'm thinking "Okay, here we go." Because I already have my person in LA and she has not only broken in to show business, she has become so successful that she had to break out of show business. Anyhow "Rick" took courage and got in touch and sent his phone number. So my hand was forced and I called him. Turns out he is not a total moron. So we will be using one another as a resource to bounce ideas off of. Unless he thinks I'm a total moron. See I hate these things.  Anyhow as I'm a visual person I need to have a face to go with the name "Rick." I have gathered an initial list of possibles.


Top Row: Rick Springfield, Rick Noreiga, Work of American-born British Architect Rick Mather, Rick Soloman with Pamela Anderson, Rick James, Rikki Lee Jones

Middle Row: Work by Tattoo artist Rick Lohm, Rick Zeron, Rick Jacobi (some business man in Galveston), Desi Arnez as Ricky Ricardo, Steely Dan's Rikki Don't Lose that Number.

Bottom Row: Rick Astley

Waxing

When I call my friends in London, Aspen, LA or anywhere but here I always announce myself as follows: "Hi, it's your best friend in Oklahoma." Which is true and makes me feel really special. But in the case of the lady on the right she is my bestest, mostest friend among a constellation of superlative friends.  Lisa Gunther who is just wrapping up a 22 month round the world TWICE Odyssey managed to squeeze in three days in The Homa. In London we are known as The Two Lisas and particular she is known as Lisa Om and I am know as Lisa Dog. The former because she often sports a big gold Om on a chain around her neck and is pretty cosmic, and the latter because she (meaning me) is a bona fide Dog Whisperer of some renown. So Lisa Om managed to sandwich a trip to Oklahoma City, (where progress is near), after Goa, Bang! Cock!, Bali, Australia, New Zealand, LA, OKC, LA and will be going back to London day after tomorrow but promises to be back in LA in the autumn before fucking off to Hawaii in December and then heading back to Goa after a brief Holiday stopover in Spain. Not that I'm jealous.

Anyhow, I'm sure you all got the news that there was an earthquake in LA yesterday. So after her eyelash extension appointment Lisa Om was in the back room havin

g a Brazilian when the 5.8 rocked the city. She thought the technician (I find it funny that a person removing ones nether hairs is called a technician. But then again, considering that they work in an area that might involve yeasty cultures I guess it sort of fits the bill and it sounds really euphamisticy) had fallen over. The Technician had fallen over, not Lisa Om. But then she saw the ceiling undulating as the "Technician" was yelling "Earthquake! Earthquake!" I did not hear how the story ended, because I'm sure that hundreds if not ten of thousands of Brazilians are performed each day in The City of Angels, so I just had this visual sequence of A, B, C and D list stars, some of them men (George Cluney), running out of treatment rooms all over the city from Santa Monica to Topanga Canyon covered in wax and muslin strips with all of their bits flapping in the wind. But then I thought it being LA they might have a speci

al "Earthquake Brazilian Emergency Towel" hanging on the back of the door, and that the Technician, before asking you to get naked and put your ankles behind your ears would do an airplane-like demo: "In the not so unlikely event that an earthquake should take place while I am farming your Beav-Hairs..."

What are they offering to Blow dry anyway?

So back to Janet's story...

Just so you know, Janet is my biggest fan and my only regular reader. Which makes me like her more than I already do like her, if you know what I mean. If I like you already and then you like my writing and think I'm funny, it's like dousing the friendship with gasoline and dropping in a lit match. It is a "friendship accelerant" in the same way that a CD mix and a back rub are a sexual accellerant.  Except in the friendship thing no one gets naked. Usually. 

Anyhow. Janet, who has already lived nine lives and is currently carving out life number ten, was telling me how the intern in her office, a recent college graduate, said that he did not have a very big vocabulary. So Janet suggested they have a word of the day. Now keep in mind that Janet is in what should be her retirement years and is often turned out in a crisp linen shirt and khaki capri pants. So  when you hear the rest of this story just hold tight to that image. Her first word of the day for the young Intern was "impeccable". The Intern did not know the meaning of "impeccable" so Janet provided him with the following definition: Impeccable means that something can no longer be divided. And just to be thorough Janet provided the etymology of "impeccable": the word derives from the time when we were still an agrairian society. When a grain had been pecked by domestic fowl to the point where it could no longer be pecked, ie the grain was too small to be further divided it was called "impeccable" from the latin root, pecare. God I love this woman. Because I make up fake words too, so when I told her the definition of cantilever was a guy who is pussy whipped she paused for about 3 seconds before laughing. Three seconds and no explaination required on my part. Janet then relayed the following story that was the intended subject of my previous blog but never got around to because I got distracted, and I will presently relay, but I need to give you some background information. 

Janet's son Clark (which is a totally gay name by the way) is gay and lives in Paris. I KNOW. Let's not state the obvious. Anyhow he and his partner flew to California last weekend to take the matrimonial plunge. An old friend of the family from London had also flown in for the celebrations. She is a writer named Anne or something, and Janet keeps wanting to put me in touch with her, but London seems like a total Ghost of Christmas Past at this point which makes me really depressed because all of my London friends except one have utterly abandoned me. That's not true, one full friend has stayed in regular touch and about 4 friends have only half abandoned me because they call or e-mail occasionally.  But the ones who have totally abandoned me (I seem to be getting farther and farther away from the Janet story, but I'll get there eventually) I hope they rot in one of the mildly uncomfortable Aligherian rings of hell but not one of the really bad ones, and only for about half and hour, 45 minutes tops, because I love them anyway and understand the whole out of site, OOM thing. So this London writer friend was talking about Sing-A-Long Sound of Music which you can see at The Prince of Wales Cinema off Leicester Sq. It's one of the things that I never got around to doing in the 12 years I lived in London and if I ever get back there I vow I might get around to it or not. But I will definitly look up Janet and Clark's friend Anne or Mary or Jane? I think it is Jane, because she was talking about the scene where Mother Superior calls Fraulein Maria a cunt face. That's right, a cunt face. Apparently it is in the scene where MS asks FM to be brought to her after FM has been in seclusion after running away from her governess post, or rather was chased off by that snooty, jealous Baroness beeyatch in the marvelous red dress, and MS is asking why FM has left and FM is saying she can't go back toThe Von Trapp's because she is all muddled up about being a nun in training and wanting to jump Christopher Plummer's Weiner Schnitzl while Hitler is anschlusing the Ostereich (that O should have an oomlaut over it, btw) And then Mother Superior says: "Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?" But you have to say it with that faux British accent that American movies substitute for any kind of foreign accent, except for French accents, we seem to at least take a stab at doing the French accent. So try it now with the faux British accent, say it aloud: Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?

Cunt wait to see it again.