and 4 months later.

whatever. i'm bad at keeping up with things like this. and this post isn't funny, and i'm all sorry about that. and eventually i'll get back to BIPSBAT and finish that guy.

but i went to church today for a thing and got my cookies all frosted. here's a poem i wrote a few years ago that i want to fix and revise and make better and more immediate and less dorm-room debatey (a conversation about religion that doesn't make you sound like a pissy teenager? no way!) . i want this to grow up, basically. like, a lot. but at the same time, i want to say it outloud. i think it merits a voice.

An idol threat,
idle, yet ever present,
ever converting,
--or, if you will--
perverting the pious.
i don't pretend to understand the man who
(JESUS, I LOVE JESUS!)
preaches to the open hoping for pieces of him.
public lonely boys should marry such a god.

and nuns are the epitome of something that i can't quote put my finger on.
intimidation, perhaps?
or drunken whores on sunday, emotionally overeating the body of christ.

LUFF.

howtobearetronaut.com is obsessionworthy stuffs. Mostly composed of everything, it's a visually driven collection of cultural ends and oddities, things that make culture and things that culture has made. Pretty darn nifty, too.

There's this one collection of a rotting new orleans amusement park that breaks my heart to look at, but offers so much to talk about. I want to say a million words about it (there are at least a billion in there). I just have to find the right ones.

http://http://www.howtobearetronaut.com/2011/07/new-orleans-amusement-park/

BIPSBAT: iii.

Oh man. I have to rethink this title font. Again. in legible english letters and roman numerals--BIPSBAT: iii

So. Okay. Here's an issue that should either be addressed head on or never talked about ever again as long as any of us are alive:

I find Wolf Blitzer to be drop-dead handsome and I'd probably make out with him given the opportunity.

He's old. He's pretty cranky most of the time. And I question his suit choices on regular occasion. But you know what? All non-issues. I'd call him a silver wolf, because that would be all clever of me, but in most sincere honesty, I think the dude's more of a silver honey badger. Wolf Blitzer just does. not. give. a shit. Also, maybe sometimes he eats snakes probably.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=szJvyaylJww

Incidentally, if you put a sweet potato in my supersonic nuclear war weapon microwave for any longer than 4 minutes, terrible, awful, smoky things happen.

Reworking the Spin Class monologue. ( most masochistic excercise ever. hateful and wrong.)

Seven or eight minutes into it and my legs are threatening secession from the rest of my body. A wone woman civil war fought on a bicycle that doesn't goddamn go anywhere. I hate spin class. It's so stupid. I HATE spin class. It's SO STUPID! My leg muscles are totally petrified, horrified that I would put them to such monotonous and cruel work. I can feel them commiserating, tightening and forming alliances in there. The muscles have thrown in the towel, yeah. Yet the bones keep going--my legs keep going, and the former have no choice but to go along for the ride, spinning and spinning and spinning with so much wild abandon, trying to get nowhere as uickly as possible with as much speed as they can drain from the rest of me. Rightleftrightleftrightleftrightleftrightleft! No one should go this fast, I think, unless they're being chased by much bigger people. And the big people want to kill them. My legs just keep going, and going, and the pain is a fiery cold snowball, spinning and rolling and building and burning and getting bigger and becoming my legs. They fade in and out of numbness, feeling nothing one moment and an intense and scorching rippin burn the next. My legs are going to fall off and I won't even know it. It's like having a rug burn on the inside. Or when someone twists both their hands around your forearm in opposite directions--the Indian rope burn! INside my legs, throughout my legs, some slick bastard has managed to wrap his hands between the muscle and bone of my thighs and is twisting in opposite directions. Probably Satan. And this spin class instructor guy is in on it, too, i 'm sure. I suspect he knows Satan. They were probably roomates once.


If I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I would swear to you I've lost my knees at some point during this hellacious 45-minute ride that doesn't go anywhere. I'm trying! I'm trying! Spinning and spinning and spinning. My heart knows we're in a terrible place and it wants to abandon ship, banging, POUNDING on the inside walls of my chest with all the enthusiasm and terror of a conductor trapped inside a train about to fly off the tracks. The imaginary hills ARE THE WORST. He's making us stand up. Are you INSANE, guy?! Stand and pedal with your lifeless stiff legs, ladies! And so I stand on legs I'm not even sure exist anymore. Still spinning. I'm standing, they're spinning and dizzy and hating me. Trudging up steep stairs made of heavy wet clay and giving a piggyback ride to a baby elephant. At 4 miles an hour, please, ladies! The room is thick with heavy, sticky air. Evaporated, syrupy air. Like if you take the trees out of the rainforest in the middle of July on the hottest day of the year and replace them with bicycles that don't goddamn go anywhere. I have expect to hear monkeys howling along the the abrasive techno shit blaring from all four window-less walls. A little box of hell. Hell is a little botx of dense, moist heat and I am inside of it.


I was wearing a light gray shirt when I'd started eighteen minutes ago, and the room was a cool 72 degrees. I know because it felt like my house when I arrived. I was smiling then. The world was a kind place. Now my shirt is mostly dark gray and clingning, damp and drenched, to my arms and my stomach and my back and my chest. I in turn am clinging to these horrible rubbery handlebars, which were certainly not made with warm wet palms and slippery fingers in mind. Fumbling, scrambling to hold on to these horrible effing handlebars. I am NOT smiling anymore. There IS no santa claus. I am sweating. No, no. I am RAINING perspiration. The moisture has in fact coated me, my once light gray shirt, and my ponytail that I really wish I had worn high now that I feel it plasted to the back of my neck, holding on for dear soaking wet life so as not to fall off this bicycle that still doesn't seem to be going anywhere.


How much time is left. Where's the clock. WHY DON'T WE HAVE A FUCKING CLOCK?! I can feel thel signle bead of sweat slide down my forehead, and I can feel it hanging from my eyebrow, plotting its launch into my open ey---OH MY GOD WHY CAN'T I SEE?!?! And my right eye is clenched like a violent fist wrapped around a salty sting that won't go away.

http://http://www.fanpop.com/spots/its-always-sunny-in-philadelphia/videos/3775579/title/always-sunny-philadelphia-spin-class

Running

is a thing i used to do on a regular basis. Like, 4 days a week, at least 2 miles a day regular basis. And i hated every goddamned minute of it. BUT. The overwhelming satisfaction buzz I got after each complete round was totally worth it. I stopped when i moved to chicago in favor of y'know, way too many cigarettes and a baby elephant's weight in whiskey. And as a direct result, my face no longer looks like my face. For flippin real. Puttin on some pudge in the cheeks and it's just annoying me at this point. SO. This past weekend I got my gym on and this morning I ran sprint intervals for 2 and a half miles along the lake. And it felt soooooooo gooooooood. I will do it again tomorrow. Aiming for a monday, tuesday, thursday, friday routine. Saturday I work, Wednesday I sleep in, and Sunday I rest like Jebus.

Speaking of Jebus, JESUS this is a boring post. I'll make it up tomorrow. Or who are we kidding. The next time I make it back here.

Also, I think JAY Z should come out with a cleaning album and he should call it Housekeeping with Hova. Because that's what's up.

overheard on the corner of clark and addison at 8:30 a.m. on a tuesday:

"...as long as it isn't urine or gasoline, i think you'll be fine."

meh meh something about clocks

Of opulence and heart attacks
Uneven hands snap invisible fingers
against a rhythmic moment.
Steady, dark, and sweet components
digress, outlasting only twelve
crushed against a wall and nailed
to
morrow.
Only hands.
Deaf and dumb and
eyeless face.
Only hands
cradle that fire (in which we sunbathe)
with such a sad, hot, tight embrace.
Tickling ivories: the clicking soundtrack of lives.
Talking.
Not talking.
Talking again.
Stillness is a myth.

Concerning the Brat Pack

So. I've been wanting to do this for a while now. Mostly because I laugh out loud every time I think about how much fun it would be. I want to do a series of paintings/sillyfun multimedia portraits with those timeless teens as robots. Or maybe just one great big mantlepiece-worthy family portrait. I was considering getting a kitten a while ago and had (still have) my heart set on naming it Robot Lowe. Because...well, seriously. Like I have to justify naming something Robot Lowe. And then I was all, yep. This is happening. And then I moved and got distracted ( BAD liz) and abandoned the idea. But I've made a promise to myself to start working on Android McCarthy this weekend. These are the names I have so far: Robot Lowe, Android McCarthy, Ally Sheetmetal, and--my personal freaking favorite--TIN CANTHONY MICHAEL HALL. Emilio Estevez, Judd Nelson, and Molly Ringwald are, as of yet, without robot names. Any suggestions are welcome suggestions. Especially for Estevez. Estevez or Estevaz? I don't know. Anyway, if you're starting a band, you should name it either Judd Nelson Mandella or Anthony Michael Hall and Oates.


The end.

Tomorrow (according to my practicing definition): n. An undisclosed day in the future. Apparently.

So since it's tomorrow, I'm going to hammer out day TWO of BIPSBAT. Ready? Go.

NUMBER FOUR: Gil Grissom, aka William Peterson, aka the dad from "Fear". William Peterson is an old man. He is also chubby. Also, he has a history of taking on characters who collect maggots and hate on Marky Mark. There's nothing admirable about either of those hobbies. HOWEVER, as we all know, this man made a lengthy appearance in the cinematic gem Young Guns, which might potentially negate all of the aforementioned blahness. And might be (read:totally is) the subconscious foundation of my two-year-long need to watch CSI marathons back to back to back. Not healthy, and I know it. One time I followed a man around a thrift store in St. Mark's Place in NYC waiting for him to put down a CSI shirt so i could buy it. It was a weird time in my life and I'm sort of horrified I just put that information out into the world. But not too horrified to delete it.

oooooooooh

While starting entry 2 of BOYS I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE ATTRACTED TO: EPISODE FAMOUS ( or BIPSBATEF if you want to make a fun pneumonic word to remember it by, which, let's face it, you did)--wait. Where the eff was i going with this. OH. ha. WHILE starting the entry, I got distracted and fell in love with this lady's handmade purses. So pretty and sweet. I plan on buying at least two. I'll finish up ol' bipsbatef when I wake up. After my oatmeal party.

It started with Axl Rose in 1987. Or you know what--that's a lie; no, it didn't. It started with Scott Howard in 1985. The latter was a real boy who went to pre-school with me. We were engaged and he wore sailor suits and used to run around with Q tips jammed into his ears. The former, though responsible for "November Rain," is insane and hardly an appropriate crush for a six-year old. A sick pattern emerged way back when, and after some serious (not REALLY serious, though) soul searching, I have decided to finally acknowledge it out loud: I have questionable taste in boys. Like, seriously. Over the course of 24 years (starting with the Q tip bandit, remember), I have managed to accumulate an impressive (not REALLY impressive, though) who's who track list of lunatics and dudes my friends meet and rightfully say things like WHY IS HE DRINKING WINE OUT OF A BOWL. I definitely have a type. And you know what? It isn't just limited to real live boys. It extends into the celebrity realm, which is pretty goddamned big, you know, and houses a lot of people who look perfectly normal from a distance. Even there, good sense and judgment is totally lost on me. And honestly, though probably symptomatic of some grave come-to-Jesus speech I need to have at myself, I find the whole thing wildly entertaining. I have decided today (who not) would be a a good time to start talking about it. Here I have assembled a top five list (a la Rob Gordon, who, incidentally, does not qualify for any position whatsoever on the list (bless his neurotic little fictional heart)) of famousish men I have found attractive throughout my life for reasons I don't even want to understand. I will call it BOYS I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE ATTRACTED TO: EPISODE FAMOUS


Acknowledgment of the problem is the first step to recovery.

We won't start at the very beginning ( although one time this nun was all, it's a very good place to start). Rather, I'll spend the next five days counting down backward 54321 lift-off style from what I deem the most acceptable to the stuffs that interventions are made of. Aaaaaand the winners are (drumroll, please)...

5. Billie Joe Armstrong looks like a hungover woman who didn't take her makeup off before passing out on the kitchen floor with one hand stuffed into a bag of Funyuns and the other wrapped around a phone. (It's true. And if you do not think it is true, you are wrong. The man is not attractive.) His eyeliner is a smidge to calculated (smudgy in all the right, strategic places), and his silly hair is a little too black for his age ( or for his species) and a pinch too perfectly mussed. This man takes time to look like he doesn't care. And that is a problem in my book. Because I bet he wears MAC makeup. And I'm sure he smells like roses. He's Hot Topic with feet, this guy. And yet, for some reason, I sort of want to make out with his faux-dirty face. It's weird and wrong. Also, his music is shit.

walking a mile and a half to target to buy weights:

i've had better ideas.

The south. Is home. Is less cold. Is warmer in tone. Is yellow. Is saltwater. Takes its time. Is Scarlet O'Hara isn't Scarlet O'Hara at all. Is my grandfather's house. Is the azalae bushes outside my grandfather's house and in the park in April if not March. Is moss that you don't even realize is there it just is. Is stiff drinks and sweet drunks. Is music. Is pink and gray and green and bricks and shadows. Is cemeteries. Is no liquor sales on Sunday. Is related to itself. Holds the door. Is irreverent. Is reverence. Is 2011. Is a puppet show. Smiles behind your back. Has electricity (it runs on gossip). Likes to dance with strangers. Is tailgating. Is wars and shit (it's history). Reckons. Is old. Is there. Is sunburned. Sneaks out of her house and steals the car. Is beer battered and deep fried. Is which Fogarty are you, Beth's daughter? Is every now and then a confederate flag. Is backwards. Moves forward. Is MLK Blvd. Is dirty. Is magic. Is hurricane evacuation routes. Holds a grudge. Has teeth. Is beautiful and smells like something perfect. Is gravy. Is real. Is far away. Is manners. Is violent. Is Wal Mart. Is stubborn. Lost its ass in a war. Is chicken. Drives fast. Is that time I saw a horse at a gas station. Is old money. Is poor. Is hilarious. Is moribundity in motion. Is history (it's wars and shit). Is Athens in November. Is married at 23. Isn't banjos. Is trouble. Is dirt roads. Is highways. Stings. Doesn't sound like that. Remembers. Is incestuous. Is muttonchops and pleated pants. Is art. Is porch swings. Is nice to your face. Is sweat and the sound crickets make when you're sweating. Is bugspray and the way bugspray tastes. Is crosses and coffee and doughnuts on Sunday. Is chains you can't see. Is words you don't know.

so i moved to chicago

i haven't blogged in over a year. last entry was in 2009. a lot has changed since 2009. i still don't like to capitalize sentences, though. that hasn't changed. so, yeah, i'll recap for you. 2010: the short and dirty version... in april my little sister got married. in may i finished grad school and am now the proud owner of a shiny master's degree in rhetoric and performance studies, which is, for all intents and purposes, really cool but mostly useless. i sold everything in my apartment and moved the heck out of louisiana. (i have a special place in my heart for louisiana, but i don't want to live there.) moved back to savannah for three months before packing two suitcases and moving to chicago with no job or apartment and, like, 2 friends. and now: i have a sweet apartment with a lovely roommate in a douchey neighborhood; i'm back behind a bar working with some of the sweetest, most interesting people i've ever met (i truly love these guys); feel like i've made some incredible lifelong friends; i tutor one day a week at an AIDS ministry; i'm trying to write during my downtime ( looking to join a writing group to help me focus); my romantic life is still a source of constant entertainment; i fell off the exercise wagon and am ready to get back in shape. a lot; i miss my dog; i miss the ocean; i probably drink too much; i love walking everywhere i go; i finally watched arrested development; i buy a lot of books; i still wear black all the time; and there are other things, but i'll save those for other times. right now i have to go eat some popsicles.

misery is:

driving through the florida panhandle.

driving through the florida panhandle backroads.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads ( i keep trying to write backGROUNDS, ps., so if a G shows up in the next few sentences, you just ignore it) at 35 mph.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, at night.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog, while honking your horn every five seconds because hitting a deer with your car is one of your, like, top three irrational fears in life.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog, while honking your horn every five seconds because hitting a deer with your car is one of your top three irrational fears in life, BECAUSE....wait for it...

your immune system was like, bite me, i'm out, and you got the STOMACH FLU HALFWAY THROUGH YOUR 12 HOUR DRIVE HOME and you had to detour to your sister's house in middle-of-nowhere west georgia.

OH MY GOD that sucked so much.

how many drunk strangers does it take to unlodge an orange cone out from between my car and my front tire?

Three. The answer is three. Three drunk strangers and one seriously inconvenienced valet parking attendant.

what the sicilians have done for me lately: mad props to that part of italy that isn't really italy but is still italy.

(...appropriate Janet Jackson intro music fade out)




Listen. Over the years. centuries. whatever. Sicily has offered us a veritable smorgasbord* of decadent candy**for the eyes, ears, and tummy.



Par example:


1. An exhaustive laundry list of very slippery organized criminals with funny names.

2. A really big goddamned greasy pizza sprinkled with meat. For some reason, whenever I'm even exposed to the word "sicily," I think I smell pepperoni.

3. An outspoken octogenerian with a penchant for punchlines. Running all kinds of amok in Miami with her very tall daughter, a slut, and Betty White. Wreaking geriatric havoc in syndication on Lifetime until the omega of time.

For all these three epically iconic things, Sicily, we thank thee. Grazie mille. For real.

But as much as we all love Sophia Petrillo (and, if you're anywhere near these words and do not share this sentiment called love toward dorothy's mother, you just leave now. I have no place in my heart for the likes of you.), I'm afraid she may have to scooch over a little on the couch of cool shit from the place I am about to take you. Because OH MY GOD I WANT TO SIT NEXT TO THIS GUY:

http://www.italylogue.com/food-drink/sicilian-gelato-sandwiches.html



That's right. You saw it with your own eyes who love you for exposing them to that information. And your eyes went, NO! It cannot BE. They DIDN'T. And the creamy ball of gelato peeked out from its little bread house to look back at you from the other side of the screen and was all, I AM AN ICE CREAM HOT DOG. It's like, taking one of the biggest, most controversial decisions in my life and and making it for me. I no longer HAVE to choose between the two. For now I know they can coexist in sweet, bizarre harmony. Any time of day ever. Being excited about this whole discovery has honestly worn me out today.

So I just want to say, Sicily, that while Italy, that brutish boot of a land mass, may continue to forever kick your delicious island into the mediterranean in a violent scene cemented into geography books in 5th grade backpacks the world over, while those same backpacks are worn on the dorsal sides of children who, despite having taken geography (the dumb ones twice) will grow up to have no idea where the hell you are, while sometimes I still manage to get your name confused with Cecily Tyson's (her name comes up more often than one might think) and vice versa,

Damn it. I don't even remember where i was going with this. Wait. Nope. There was a thank you a' brewin' in that mess.



Wicked thanks, Sicilian people. So wicked are these thanks that they're borderline evil.




And I heart Sophia Petrillo. The end.











* three now constitutes a smorgasbord.
**pepperoni: meat candy.

and it's thursday.

I bought some paper towels on tuesday. So far, they're working just fine. Which is good, because i threw away the receipt.




I'm going to sell the rights to this post to hollywood as a JCVD vehicle.

a cinematic slice of inspiration for day 1.

also, it's been stuck in my head for, like, 2 hours. (thank you, brianne.)
SO. hey. grab your formal legwarmers , pull out that leotard wedgie, and dance.

for the love of god, people. DANCE.