Thursday, November 29, 2007


my favorite part of tuesday night.

was when we were reintroduced, and it turned out i was from new york, and he lives in new york, and he said, why did you move? for work? and i said, no, for school. i'm getting a ph.d. oh, he said. a ph.d. in what?

in rock, i said. a ph.d. in rock.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007



that one of you of which i spoke has apparently tagged me to answer some questions. i feel like a dork doing this, but i like being picked for things.

six guilty pleasures no one would suspect me of having:

well, i don't know about no one, but . . .

1. pretending i am being interviewed on NPR. sometimes the reason i have to go to the library to study is the desire to work out my theses out loud, as if being interrogated by terry gross. i use my radio voice and everything.

2. online settlers of catan. do not judge. it's soothing. and i am very good at it. there was a time i thought casual computer gaming wais the domain of the balefully dayjobbed, but no. i sometimes see the little tiles as i fall asleep.

3. not all the time, but sometimes i drink a lot more than you think i do. i don't know if that counts, but i do think you'd be surprised.

4. not all the time, but sometimes when it can be found: actually hot, legitimately queer lesbian internet porn. get ready for my stats to jump!

5. after five years of courtship, my husband has succeeded in nerdifying me in perhaps the one way i didn't think was possible: i like star trek.

6. get ready to shut up: i watch The Hills. wait! i know everyone who will admit to repeated exposure probably claims they watch it with some kind of ironic distance, but i found it on television without ever hearing about it or its pre-cursor, and i was completely flabbergasted. i honestly couldn't tell if it was the worst writing ever or if people were supposed to receive it as some kind of actual documentary experience. it's nothing but a picture of privilege, of youth and beauty and wealth. it doesn't even masquerade as something else--except also, it is also fake, and is sort of okay with that. it sort-of purports to be "real," but abjures the usual stylings of reality television and instead presents itself as a kind of evening soap opera. the lack of direct address, even the camera angles--it looks like melrose place and sounds like the real world. it is presenting real fakeness as constructed reality. it is a bizarre franken-hybrid, and i cannot put my finger on what is so compelling about the proposition it makes. i am fascinated, and i am writing an article about it which may or may not get published or even finished, but oh my god it is so weird, in the old sense, in the sense of space aliens and freud's uncanny.

space aliens.

shut up.

and now i pass on the cooties, right? dorothyboo, i tap you, but i don't know what address is really you anymore. and maybe you've already done this, in which case i may be the loser who spoils the game because i'm not sure which of the blog-possessed still frequent this joint.


cure for the stony lonesomes.

this may only be of interest to one of you (and given the paucity of posts lately, i'm relatively sure that readership no longer constitutes the third person plural), but i'm on the guest list for the mike doughty question jar show at the hotel cafe next week. thanks awfully, scrap and erica.

Sunday, November 18, 2007


have a cold, watching teevee.

you know, i am generally happy these days, but once there was a young man who was mean to me, and occasionally the spontaneous thought of him, now not so young, being nice to anyone else makes me want to rip up all the sofa cushions.

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