Rocket Science

The other day, Karl and I were discussing million-dollar homes. Specifically, why in the name of all things good and proper would someone with a million dollars to spend on a home would choose a run-down, two-bedroom, terraced, rat-infested toilet just because it's in the middle of a large city. Specifically, London. London is a city that always seems like one discarded prophylactic away from Victorian times. Every time I go there, I feel as though I could have been wading knee-deep through feces and murdered prostitutes as recently as last Tuesday.

A few months ago, I was dispatched to the house of a well-known and beloved athiest to deliver a manuscript. Oxford is infinitely more pleasant than London, but it still blows my mind that people of means voluntarily sandwich themselves amongst the potholes and puke puddles of urban centers when they don't have to. When I think of million dollar homes, I think of space and green and circular driveways, not wobbling through gravel and cat shit to reach the door of a whatevery brick structure that stands approximately six inches from the next whatevery brick structure. Karl said, "His neighbors can probably hear him thinking." I mean, seriously.

For a rich genius, it seems awfully stupid.

The Earth is round.

And RX is glorious.

Well HELLO!

I think tomorrow I'll go for the orange lipstick.

Waxing Nonsensically and Unwhimsically About Masks Because it's Halloween or Something

I've always maintained that I am sorely lacking in star-power. Nothing about me translates into "fabulous". I know a lot of people who have it in abundance, who get showered with bursts of rose-petaled adoration by everyone from their family members to total strangers on the street, and I always watch them like a newly-hatched baby hawk. Slack-jawed. It's beautiful to contemplate, but so mysterious and incomprehensible that it might as well be quantum physics. As someone who has never made it past the first round in anything, who has plodded uninterestingly through life amongst the throngs of the profoundly ho-hum, I often find myself wondering what it's like to be so dazzling. A commander of attention. A winner of hearts. An earner of admiration. A brusher of luxurious, flowing hair. A breather through an adorable, button nose. The people who have these things aren't talking. It is the first rule of the Fabulous Code to swath oneself in silky, translucent modesty. I learned that when I was five and my best friend, Sarah, told me that my hair was prettier than hers. It wasn't true, of course--my flyaway, albino fuzz was practically dust compared to her lustrous handfuls of chestnut curls--but it was the first time I became conscious of the phenomenon, and even more conscious of the fact that I wasn't a part of it.

Honestly, it's not an affliction tragic enough to earn much sympathy. I think the main component is some kind of superhuman mental energy that I'm not even sure I'd have the strength to summon, let alone maintain. One time I watched the movie and Barbra Streisand said to Lauren Bacall, "What was it like to walk into a room and KNOW that you were the most beautiful woman in it?" and Lauren Bacall said, "It was...really nice." and I clutched my chest and went *gasp* and my eyes brimmed with tears.

And then I felt tragically stupid for the whole rest of the evening.

Spider John Koerner makes me want to marry Minnesota.

For a sleepy, snowy, non-newsworthy state, my homeland sure has produced an impressive little collection of adorably-accented people who have made my life worth living.



I got to see Spider John at a festival a couple of years ago, tucked away from the main stage in a less auspicious tent where 50 or so people sat on fold-out chairs or in the dirt. For me, he was THE stand-out in a three-day marathon of stand-outs.

Love.

Blessed are the weak plot lines.

Last night, I caught the last fifteen minutes of My Science Project on TV and, I have to say...wow. Just...wow.

For one thing, I hadn't seen it (or even thought about it or even remembered that fragments of it existed in the cobwebbed annals of my memory) since about 1986. Secondly, it was really interesting to find out what happened to John Stockwell, who was everywhere in the 80's, and with whom I was, therefore, in love with by default. (According to IMDB, John Stockwell always wanted to direct.) You remember My Science Project, don't you? John Stockwell needs an A on his science project or he flunks the 12th grade? His best friend is the Italian stereotype guy? Dennis Hopper, in a wildly uproarious lapse of judgement, is the science teacher? So they go to a military junk yard and find a laser ball, the kind they sell at Spencer's? And they don’t know what the fuck it is? And they play around with it in amazement? And they figure out that it’s a time machine? And the crossroads of the space-time continuum localizes in their high school? And Dennis Hopper uses the time machine to go to Woodstock? So then they have to save the town? And John Stockwell uses his really fast car to outrun an electrical current? And then he falls in love with the nerdy girl? And in the end, he gets the A? It’s like, Weird Science minus Kelly LeBrock plus Fisher Stevens taking itself way too seriously.

It is tremendous.

It is late-night popsicle entertainment for the seasoned insomniac at it's fragrant best.

Me and my magic man, kinda feelin' fine.

Uriah Heep and a particularly lucious week on Geekologie (the headline of this entry alone was enough to reduce me to a spasming pile of high-pitched, wheezy, inhaler-giggles) has made for the most pleasant Monday that I can remember in a while. It's all downhill from here, of course, but at least I can revel in my own, personal feel-good cache of opulent cheese for a few brief moments before succumbing to "Come on, your knees don't hurt that much, do they?" personal-trainer hell.

Whilst cleaning out the refrigerator this weekend, the OM and I were waxing lyrical about what makes the music of the not-born-yet(-or-just-too-little-to-care)bygone era so vastly superior to anything else in the history of the universe. We came up with a lot of things, but my favorite was the assertion that even the most cheesy, horrible, commercial, vulgar display of shallow musical trickery could still be rocked out to, and with minimal guilt.