Je sombre dans le puits profond de mon âme pourrie.
(I sink in the deep well of my rotten heart.)
All posts by Licketysplit
Just because
Mr. H has a Dennis Kucinich AIM icon, and so do I. So every conversation must begin:
Hello Dennis Kucinich, I’m Dennis Kucinich. Say that enough times and it loses all meaning.
Go Kucinich, Go.
I wish there were a Dennis Kucinich AIM bot to talk to. I guess I could pretend RecipeBuddie is Dennis Kucinich.
That’s not an endorsement, he’s a bit tetched. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like him. And I like YOU too. There, aren’t we off to a good start? It’s snowing upwards outside my window. There is always an updraft in that alley.
-xxoo
Come away with me… to Erotic Ireland
Pointless search terms clip show, past month or so:
bea arthur
girlhood
john currin
kitty winn
a magzine about littering
boymeat
brazillian flip-flop
conway savage
cowgirls
curlers
dior ipod cover
green tea anal leakage
guatemalan ponchos
hello my honey hello my baby
how to get lizzie mcguire hairstyles
how to papasan chair problem cushion slip
carson kressley horse
marabou christmas tree
pink marabou tree
nine layer dip recipe
snake and jake’s
pop you in the pooper
3 dots on knuckle tattoo
fair spanish ladies
a list of all the lipsmackers
boston cat lady heidi erickson
amex centurion card picture
If there is a rumor about Carson Kressley and a horse, please send me detailed mail. I am all a-twitter, does it mean Catherine the Great style cavorting, or a heroin problem? Although I doubt Carson would do anything so bad for the complexion. If you find out how to do your hair just like Lizzie McGuire, let me know that as well. If your papasan is slipping all over the place, try not having sex in it. And remember, we are tops in anal leakage.
-xxoo
It’s more fun to commute
Yes, I have a new thing to bitch about. You must all be thrilled. But no one’s making you read this, bucko.
I don’t mind the length of the train ride to and from Lowell at all. I enjoy spacing out and staring at the industrial squalor out the window. Funny, there are no NICE houses along train tracks. Why is that?
But getting the train home in the evening is a bit of an ordeal, because it pits the regular “we don’t run enough trains because we are capricious and terrible” MBTA against the German precision of the Commuter Rail, which is apparently run by another concern that contracts with the MBTA. And they are fined when they are late. I missed a 5:45 train by 2 minutes last night, and that was with a mad dash from the Green Line. I think I hurdled over a twin stroller and kicked a seeing eye dog on my way, but my only reward was the painful squeezing of my still-recovering lungs and the sight of a train pulling away.
Now you’d think allowing 35 minutes to travel 5 stops would be more than enough time to get me to North Station from Arlington street, but not when there are sports fans involved. It aroused my ire still further to see that the same people who insisted on jamming in the doors at each stop so the train could not proceed were even too early to be let into the Fleet Center proper. The escalators weren’t even unlocked, but it was so important to be first in line for an event for which they hold ticketed seats that they could not cede their spot on the subway to someone who might be trying to just go home.
So I sat on a bench in the cold for an hour, under the monitor that details which train is at which track. It became a bit demoralizing because people would rush in and start swearing in my direction when they realized they were too late. Women tend to say “Jeez” or “Dammit!” but men really cut to the chase with “Shit” or “Fuck!”
Oh well. I am all for self-interest, except where it violates my self-interest. I try to remember “other people have lives too,” but surely their lives are not as shiny and valuable as mine! Then again, I don’t mind having the excuse to leave work any earlier. Today: 4:30, unless Alex goes ballistic as promised.
-xxoo
bang up indeed
I beg to differ, Lambchop, Allston did not used to be Berlin. That is wishful thinking on Allston’s part. But everyone knows that Lowell is the new Prague! I am trying to convert people to move up there and open a transvestite disco with me. And I say “up there” like it’s the great Arctic circle or something, really it’s 30 minutes from Boston. Why, you could all hop on the train and be wearing a lampshade in my living room in no time. As soon as I have a living room. And some lamps. Speaking of lamps, Happy Fun Lamp has a spiffy new design.
Also, Lambuel forgot to mention one other shared fond spot for us: drinking under bridges. Why, when she was accepted into graduate school at Yale, what did we do? We shared a bottle of grape-flavored Mad Dog in a paper bag, nestled under the Swan Boat bridge in the Public Garden. Also, we had plastic knives. For protection. We met a lot of wackos that day, go figure. There was the guy who staunchly believed in the Kirlian camera. A brigade of fur-coated women mincing along with tiny dogs glared at us.
Oh, and then the next week there was an official celebratory brunch. We stayed up all night doing things that are bad for us, and popped out for the New York Times and a box of Munchkins as the sun rose. As the various roommates woke, we were doing the crossword puzzle and polishing off our 40s. Then during the brunch, the omelettes started talking to me. I had to excuse myself.
-xxoo
Big Science
I broke the blog. Sorry! We are back now. In other news, I haven’t tweezed my eyebrows in two weeks on accounta being sick. I glimpsed myself in the bathroom mirror, and it was like staring at a Yeti. I have managed to totally discipline one brow, but the other is like some sort of bizarre control group.
other ephemera:
Now I am a Commuter, on the Commuter Rail. So you’ll pardon me when I cut out early, saying, “I have to catch my train.”
I am listening to Laurie Anderson again. Aw, just like high school.
My bachelorette party is finally scheduled for January 30th thanks to my friend Melissa. Yes, I did get married 4 or 5 months ago, but who had time then? See me for details if you want to go, there will be flaming drinks and flaming men.
Vomitola and your morning coffee
Make that Diet Coke. Ho hum. It’s afternoon already isn’t it. According to a dramatic shadowy figure not unlike the Phantom Gourmet, Vomitola is better than the New York Times. That’s not tooooo hard to do. That consarned Liberal Media! I am halfway through Lies and the Lying Liars…, and I have to keep putting it down because I become enraged at the fact-twisting that Mr. Franken uncovers. And he’s armed only with a modicum of common sense and a team of Harvard grad students! Just think what the Vomitola staff could accomplish, given an unlimited supply of Dr. Pepper-flavored LipSmackers.
But I have to really put the book down for a few weeks, as I packed it somewhere especially mysterious. The big day is tomorrow. We even returned the cable box and modem, although we forgot the remote. It’s worth $16.50 to not go back to the horrifying Ministry of Cable.
And to add insult to injury, we’re not even moving into our yuppie loft. That’s not ready for another 2 weeks or so. So our grubby possessions go into storage, and we end up at Casa de la Carpeted Kitchen, a.k.a. Mr. H’s ancestral home. I will take lots of pictures. People really live this way! And shop this way. I just don’t see how a carpeted supermarket would fare much better than a kitchen.
-xxoo
My true calling
It ain’t packing, that’s for sure. Last night I realized I had diligently sealed up all the plates and utensils 3 days in advance of the big move. Eating was a barbaric undertaking, right out of Tom Jones.
But my real life’s wish? To be a rich eccentric. “Oh, now that I’m retired, I mainly race a stable of pigs, ridden by monkeys.”
Glad we sorted that out. I don’t think it’s *that* odd that I have no desire to hold down a job. Both my parents didn’t work when I was a child. A steady diet of seeing your formative role models doing whatever they damn well please may adversely affect one’s inclination to take orders from fools. Unfortunately, they spent my trust fund already by not working. That and some ill-advised day-trading.
-xxoo
bodies, rest, and motion
I’m taking a break from packing, my face blackened and smeared from newsprint. I make a great guttersnipe. In other fashion news, I accidentally dyed my hair burgandy. Does “Brazillian Bronze” sound like burgandy to you? Me neither. The picture on the box looked frigging chocolate brown to me. This is my karmic reward for taking matters into my own hands. I thought I’d save a few bucks (now that I’m unemployed in the future) and cover my sadly grown out highlights. I just never expected to turn into Shannen Doherty! I know this is a highly prized color amongst filing secretaries and teenage girls, but it’s just not right for me. So back I shall slink to my colorist. She will twit me mercilessly and leave me under the dryer a bit longer than necessary. Spiteful witch.
We’re down to the pile of strange wires and incomprehensible electronic bits and discs, so I’m letting Mr. H take over. I already packed 6 million pounds of glassware. You know how we roll. Like Crate & Barrel, apparently, with a sheet of butcher paper on the diagonal. Speaking of rolling, I also found a long forgotten bong! And my highschool yearbook! I’ve been throwing things away ruthlessly, because I realized my number one favorite pastime is trading stuff in for better stuff. Even Mr. H has caught the fever;I just saw him fling a framed baby picture of his neice into a Hefty bag. “I know what she looks like.” Applause! Applause!
-xxoo
The true holiday miracle
No, not oil in a lamp or loaves and fishes or the great pumpkin. I lost four pounds since Thanksgiving. My pants fit again.
Thanks, lack of interest in things I previously enjoyed. Including snacks and booze. And I suppose some credit goes to trudging to work in the snow instead of driving, because we can’t give up our precious parking spot to actually use the car. Oh no. Someone might plunk a busted-up chiffarobe in the space, and if we move it when we come back, we’ll lose our windshield to a brick. It’s Somerville, not some medieval fiefdom. But you wouldn’t know it from all the lawn chairs. And the best part? The snow is pretty much gone. The douche bags down the street who never use their garage and driveway will be claiming street space until motherloving April.
I was going to make a holiday card, but maybe not.
-xxoo