Watch this movie, it's excellent: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0476643/


such a slacker lately. Haven't even done a mission for agoraphobic maps, much to HHM's chagrin, I'd imagine. Sorry, dude.

I feel like someone is pushing a hot poker through my jaw and into my right eye. Is this cancer?

Speaking of cancer, I had a weird memory about my father. After my Dad got out of the military he was a private contractor for the military for several years, in some kind of firm. To this day, I really don't know what he did, I know it had something to do with teaching war tactics and creating war games, maybe simulation games? I don't know. That's beside the point. He had an office, and sometimes he would take us there. I would golf in the hallways. Once, when I was about six or seven I wandered into the office of one his colleagues, and starting looking around. The guy had a calender on his wall of extremely obese women in bathing suits. I thought it was hilarious and asked my dad about it. I remember him telling me that some people like women that big, and some people think these things are funny.

Anyways, after that he had to go to the courthouse, (probably to pay off some DUI charge) which was situated next to the boardwalk and fishing piers on the beach. It was pretty cold, as it was November. It was the only time I walked on the beach in fall. Afterward, he bought me lunch. One of those kids meal type things. It came with a pound puppy and a pound kitty, remember those things? I was pretty happy.

I don't know why this memory came to me, or why I am so nostalgic and girlish on a blog. I guess that is the nature of loss. Sometimes the need to express it is overwhelming. I don't do it often. But I fucking miss him. He wasn't a bad man, but he wasn't a good one either. He was terribly human, and I am a lot like him.

I don't believe in afterlife, or ghosts, or supernatural things. But I swear sometimes if I squeeze my eyes shut and just concentrate, I feel like he is still around.

Is he a misogynist:? Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Dong

Okay, maybe misogyny is a little dramatic, but many intelligent ladies are wondering, is that man sexist? Maybe he is your best friend, maybe he is your boyfriend. Either way, you need to know, cause you did not spend two months trudging through Simone de Beauvoir for nada, right? Maybe he is simply a sexist, which might be okay for you. So here are some hints to help you figure him out!

1. Has he asked you to sew, knit, darn, patch, cook, saute, bake, glaze, microwave, or clean anything?
If so, he is a sexist.

2. Has he, almost a total stranger, told you in the same sentence, that you are in fact, stupid, and that he wants to cuddle with your breasts?
If so, he is a misogynist.

3. Does he have, or is he pursuing, an advanced degree of any kind, but particularly one in the liberal arts?
If so, he is a sexist.

4. Here is a little test you can try. Misogynists and sexists are terrified and repulsed by anything to do with your period. Ask him to bring home some tampons, pads, menstrual cups, menstrual belts, whatever, from the grocery store. Does he complain, whine, shiver, or outright refuse?
If so, he is a misogynist. If not, well, he's probably one anyways.

la secousse avec la prévision

J'ai pensé j'écrirais un blog pendant que télécharger le nouvel album d'Oiseau d'Andrew- donc le titre de ce blog. Je tape ceci en français parce que je veux parler des Apocryphes de Fauteuil, et je sais que je dirai suis un peu privé, donc quiconque ennuie pour traduire ceci l'est probablement que je n'aurais pas des objections la lecture ceci :

En particulier, la chanson « les Fauteuils, » une chanson d'amour tout à fait parfaite

j'ai rêvé vous étiez cosmonaute de l'espace entre nos chaises et j'étais un cartographe des enchevêtrements
dans vos cheveux

et

vous pas vous avez écrit pas l'a appelé n'a pas traversé votre esprit à tout et par les vagues les vagues de
vous hurle du matin ne pourrait pas sentir une chose à tout vous êtes cinquante-cinq et trois-huitième grand



De toute façon. Vous savez qui vous êtes

Ahh, fuck it

All the world like a woolen lover
once did seem on Henry's side.
Then came a departure.
Thereafter nothing fell out as it might or ought.
I don't see how Henry, pried
open for all the world to see, survived.

-John Berryman

Life is good

I don't proofread

Last night I had the misfortune of catching an episode of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit. For those of you sans cable addiction, this show is specifically dedicated to sex crimes. Last night's episode was set in a prison where women were being abused by guards. The lead detectives on this staff are played by Christopher Meloni ( remember the guy who seduced everything with legs in Oz? and Mariska Hargitay who I wouldn't know from Christ). Anyways, these two attractive and simpering characters find that their investigative skills suck (possibly because they spend so much time simpering), and so send Mariska in “undercover.” You probably know where this is going, don't ya? The episode basically panned out like a scarier version of that subset of pornography about women in prison. But that brings me to a point that I have bitched about for years while people turned the radio up and made imaginary phone calls- why is rape or sexual humiliation always the inevitable bad ending for women? I am not just talking about this show- I mean, movies, television, and even the back (or front of our minds?). Anyways, I am going to start compiling a list of evidence as I watch movies, tv, etc. Here is the first one I noticed this morning: In Welcome to the Dollhouse: Dawn's sister is kidnapped, then found alive- the first question Dawn asks “Did he rape her?” The first question the media asks “Did he touch you?”


Rape, like violence, or sickening romantic comedies, clearly has its place in entertainment. I mean, without it, we wouldn't have movies like Teeth. Or rape/revenge movies. What is the point of a rape scene? It's not to shock, but to titillate. Generally filmed in a an erotic way- the rape scene attempts to a) give viewers the pleasure of viewing something they cannot admit they enjoy. b) sexualize something which is essentially very un-sexual for the purpose of point a. I would go on with the theory that it perpetuates the idea that the greatest horror for a woman is to be corrupted sexually, but I bet you haven't even made it this far- and I don't blame you. Anyways, there was no real reason to have Mariska's character go undercover to uncover sexual abuse, and I doubt there is much of a precedent for that in reality.

Now that I have ensured that no one will read this blog again, ever, let me say that I was feeling particularly mournful this morning and decided to listen to an album from my pathetic adolescence- and if you can name this without googling it, I owe you a beer

Geeks do not have pedigrees
Or perfect punk-rock resumes
Or anorexic magazines
It smells like girl, it smells like girl
She walks over me
She walks over me
Hold you close like we both died
My ever pressing suicide
My stupid fuck, my blushing bride
Oh, tear my heart out, tear my heart out
She walks over me
She walks over me
I shut my mouth with you for a rag
I use the rest of you for a gag
I shut my mouth with you for a gag
I use the rest of you
Kitty, Kitty
Please come here
Don't, Don't you touch me, don't you dare