Piracy in the land of three rivers, French style!

This is the city of Saint Louis. Named, surely, for one of the King Louis all of whom I love so well (endless French history, politics, and art history and architecture classes). There's a Kingshighway. There are beautiful Catholic churches towering tall above the city, rivaling the skyscrapers. I love getting off of 70 East at the first exit for Grand (north) and then driving into South City through downtown. Coming in on Broadway takes me past the breweries, smelling of yeast and wheat and malt and hops, churning and brewing and vibrant with life. Statues at the corners, gremlins and goblins and gargoyles supreme, Anheuser Busch style.

Pirate Festival STL out in Rotary Park in Wentzville (45 minutes from South City, sort of) was a smashing good time, in spite of early hurricane and flooding and other trouble the first weekend. I had the privilege of being there for the second and third weekend, working a bit for a short-handed English pub (Fish n' Chips! Bangers n' Mash!) and loving on beautiful Hanwei Paul Chen swords. I had a chance to explain SCA-edition fencing and rapier and directed some young pups (yeah, ancient here! so ancient! and by young pups I mean 16-18) to various SCA and midrealm and Shattered Crystal websites to research and ask some queries. I do like fencing, and I do miss it. My muscles were all oooh, nice balanced blade. Lunge and parry and back step and one two three. It felt good.

I had such a surprising array of food that it was accused that I was "pulling it out of my ass" leading to much discussion of the time/energy to generate a chocolate cake. M. was convinced that she'd rifled through all the tasty groceries I had brought (she absconded with the mini Snickers bars intended for the s'mores later). It turns out that dark and campfire to teens means marshmallows, while it meant whiskey and rum for us grown ups. Funny how that works. (Hey! It was cold! Whiskey was warm! ... so was wool.)

I do love to sleep under trees, even with the mold count through the roof. We were all hacking and coughing and scritchy-voiced in the morning. It was charming. A Pirate Festival full of pirates coughing up left or right lung, depending. I met some Calontiri Landskenects (argh, germanic spelling fail) who are garb creators/merchants. They had incredible garb; I had mad garb envy. The governor tried to abscond with me, but the pirate in charge of me (yeah, kidnapped by pirates, are you surprised? How do you think a pirate out of Marseille and the Mediterranean ends up in Martinique after all?)

This pirate though is already part of a crew and is a regional Magister, so I suppose there are some sort of principles of piracy involved? I hope? If not, the blacksmiths' default handcuff size is too large for my tiny wrists and hands, so escape was quite easy. Shhhhh! Don't tell.

I am deeply infatuated with this city in all of its gritty glamor though. Mmmm blogger doesn't like the British spelling of glamour. I believe that's valid, yes? no? I am trying to distract myself from Sarah Palin right now, something I'm failing at given that my blogosphere is having a violent allergic reaction to her lack of intellect. Yowza. Want to upset the blogoverse? Fake intelligence and foreign policy experience, for starters. I'd rather have the pitbull on my left in lipstick and running my country; she would do a better job.

Dog chow for all! No more dog fighting! Also, lots of love and kisses and lapsitting and occasionally horseplay. I love Bomb Girl's bat ears and whippy tail. She's made of solid muscle, surely weighs more than me, but is convinced of her lapdog status. Now she's in alpha prime position, sitting in line with me on the sofa, glaring at the pup and the others. Pack lead! At least I'm the alpha female here. Does this make me top dog or top bitch... hrm...

Reading mainstream media, always a challenge...

There's this one doctor's advice column, and he was a-okay-ing the use of Splenda. And in the spread on honey in the Post-Dispatch they were all, "It's just like white sugar. It's health benefit is not at all."

ARGH!

I feel guilt.

1) For putting my own needs first.
2) For no longer focusing on building "our" nest, but instead choosing to focus on building "my" nest.
3) For not helping with any more rehab-centered projects, because I never do them right/good enough/in the right order.
4) For only washing dishes and doing normal cleaning.
5) That I ever did his laundry.
6) For not coming home until late last night, even though I was having a marvelous time.
7) For the fact that he hadn't smoked or drank all evening, and was actually sober at 11:45 p.m. when I arrived home; the first 11:45 p.m. he's been sober since my arrival.
8) That when he suggested apology sex that morning I just didn't respond -- not a yes or a no, just a void.
9) When he put on Firefly during lunch as an apology, I only dropped in for five minutes.
10) Because I sat on the porch, glued to my laptop, instead of hanging out with him, all day.
11) I needed to yell at Dede. A lot. To make her behave. And now I feel bad, because I know her old family used to abuse her a lot. But she wouldn't stop whining, and she wouldn't go home, and she wouldn't stop harassing the kitten and after 4 non-stop hours of whining, I was so angry I accidentally sliced open my thumb by slamming it between the fridge and freezer top/down drawers.

So now I'm bleeding, and the dogs are pouting, and no one is happy, and there's no nargile tobacco in the house, but if I leave, Dede might come in and eat the kitten. And I would return home to fur and blood.

I feel guilty for:

Wanting to move out.
Wanting a room of my own with a door that closes
Having cat dander, which he is allergic to, even though I'm allowing the dogs and their dander into the bedroom, which I am allergic to do.
When he made me a nice directional map, but then accidentally locked me out, for being angry and not accepting his nice apologies.


I've lost it. I've lost all desire to hop in his lap, to cover him with kisses, to snuggle up next to him on the couch. I don't care about what he's thinking or talking about; he never remembers anything I tell him anyway -- he's too drunk. I slept next to him last night, but it was a body lying there; the soul had vanished, long ago. I wanted to not feel that corporeal/spiritual disconnect, I had wanted it to be about me.

I wanted to have sex without being drunk; I wanted to feel fully and experience fully. He won't take me seriously, he won't listen, he doesn't value the work I'm doing around the house, even though it is physically and mentally and emotionally taxing.

He also pulled the, "I'm the one who pays rent/bills around here," line Sunday night. At which point any and all emotion I had for him, interest whatsoever, fizzled into a fluff in the air, dissolving instantly. I've heard that before; I refuse that. I have valor and value and I am doing exceedingly useful time saving things. I have offered to do all sorts of extra tasks and work and am trying quite hard to accept and follow his schedule and to do things as he thinks they should be done.

It's somehow never good enough.

wickedness, or evil rehab 1.0

I've promised a fellow pirate that we could enter Evil Rehab together in order to become better pirates, humans, etc. I'm not entirely sure what this entails, right now, besides costuming projects. However, given that I've been introduced to the Church of Google, I'm too spunky and thrilled to mind. I like this new list of 10 Commandments.

Also, STEAMPUNK for Requiem's Halloween party at Dante's. Because, any day that there is an excuse to be steampunk is always a good day, and a fancy party? May require that I finally mod that corset so I can breathe/dance (I know, not fair!).

Pirate Fest this weekend seems to be bringing a version of me in Belly Dance attire to coordinate with a fellow faire-goer. This is comic, because of prosewitch I've been feeling inadequate, even though I know she is a many-years-strong belly dancer of the professional variety. If nothing else, I may jingle, or at least glitter. Perhaps even an exposed belly button, heaven forfend.

mold.dust.durt.dogfurrz.

NOW! With scented laundry detergent. So today? I get to go and re-wash all of my laundry. And the sheets. And the towels. 'cause THAT WAS WHAT I WANTED TO DO. Was to go and pander to a chemical allergy. *sigh* Nice gesture, epic fail.

blogging instead of drinking v...12.1.0.5.

The Apple Guys took a peek at my vintage ibook. The baby safety battery in the Logic Board is now dead, so my computer just collapses and loses date and time info. The wall-charger is back to charging, I actually just need a new battery. So instead?

Who doesn't want Missouri plates just yet? Me! Who doesn't want to fix the tail-light/body damage? Me! Who didn't really want to pay western medical professionals anyway?

*ahem* Guess it is time to go and seriously job-hunt and dye this blue-green dreaded mop into some semblance of dignity. Also, battle the fracking computer into giving up my nicely designed business cards. Time to go look Mundane. Time to go pretend. Time for acting; only not as a pirate. *sigh*

Everyone retail is hiring seasonal X-MAS help, so first I'll see if there is a real-honest-to-goodness-at-least$10/hour or good tips job; then I'll see about a fun job or volunteer opps. I am rather glad that STL is more affordable than btown, Chicago, or my other options. Also? warmer than the Twin Cities, though further from my CLV mafia.

What is it that I am doing? Oh, that's right, I'm going to temporarily sell my soul to the Apple Kingdom in order to afford a new magick musick and writin' and webternetz scrying box/bowl/mirror. They keep getting cheaper, and I don't need the purtiest. I'd totally take a rehabbed or used one, so long as it was clean of squick. When this laptop finally goes to the great graveyard in the sky, I will cry many a tear; it has been everywhere with me.

NPR! whywhywhy

WHY are you making me angry first thing before I've had my coffee? I am not awake enough to make my own damn coffee or toast but now I hate McCain and my country and its hypocrisy and stupidity already?

It is 7h30, I think. And by hate, I mean I strongly disagree with him, his actions, his politics, his persona, his campaign, his tactics, his running mate, and I DON'T WANT TO SEE HIM RUNNING MY COUNTRY.

not now, not ever.

I AM AN UNMARRIED WOMAN IN A SWING STATE AND I VOTE.

Nothing like NPR to make me hate Sarah Palin first thingi n the AM

Sarah Palin:

I do not trust you.
I do not like you.

Women in Wasilia who were raped? Had to pay for their own rape kits. I think that is wrong. I think that is true. I think someone trying to cut corners would make a victim pay. Because WOULD YOU go to the media and say, "Hello, my name is Jenny and I was raped. Now that you think I'm a whore who deserved it in her short skirt and her red lipstick? Now, that you think I am worthless because I made a mistake? I want to alert you to an injustice -- I had to pay for my rape kit, the only legal way I could seek some form of justice in this country."

We just don't run this place.

Hey, wait a minute, this is familiar...

the matrix is broken. It's 4 a.m. and allllll I want is a ginger ale. a ginger beer. a giinger wine.

So, *rolls die* erm *rolls D-20*. If I get a 1-5 I go North. If I get a 6-10 I go South. If I get an 11-15 I go East. If I get an 16-20 I go West.

What, what do you use to make vital decisions like WHICH WAY TO GINGER ALE at four a.m.?

casa arkana. still trying to kill me. also, set me on fire.

i am not surprised he went crazy here.

dogs = more klutzy than me.

WHO KNEW.

oh godz. thar is television.

with slick advertising to tell me how ugly and smelly and imperfect and fat I am.

have you seen these thighs? yeah. reviving ophelia was like listening to my girlfriends talk. I plan to militantly knit and make art and write for anarchist newspapers.

BECAUSE HONESTLY? all this work was confusing the cia fbi and other mysterious top sekrit agencies into thinking I was, all ... respectable.

the things we do for poverty.

Dear Cherokee Art District:

I felt awfully lonely and crazy. Thank you for sending me someone to talk with who was just as lonely as me.

Well, actually someonez.

Thanks for sending a rescue net, because I was slipping through the cracks. Also, apparently am now nocturnal. It's quieter at night. Also? less traffic? more efficient gas usage.

ALSO, ALL THE ASSHOLES WORK 9 TO 5 AND THEY GET IN MY WAAAAAAAAAAY.

dear god, it's me, pasqualina.

Thanks for sending Tokyo and Bogota to me tonight. I needed someone who would understand the truth and tolerate my zaniness.

Thank you.

Also, I love them both, very much, and have for a very long time. They have both been endlessly patient with my failings.
They also forgive me of my sins.
Bless and keep them both.

the internet loves olivia.

and by internet? i mean flickr.

flickr <3'd skitten. i miss her.

I hope she is happy in this life or reincarnated into the next. She never came home.

olivia also? loves me.

so much that she didn't KILL spot outright.

it was awfully grand of her. she also? didn't slice me up with her claws. BECAUSE SHE IS EVOLVED AND WELL TRAINED or because she trained me.
erm. we don't talk about the details.

Olivia is also in love with Basement Jaxx and Neko from the New Pornographers.

She also loves Ani diFranco, Dar Williams, and beautiful male cats. She's mostly straight, but I think she just likes having someone else to alpha and do her dirty work.

olivia is in love with shirley manson

and i can't blame her.

pavlov has been blamed with me and v2.0 maybe.

you can ask Nick Ardizzone about that if you want.

dear god,

it's me, pasqualina. and this? this is not acceptable. some divine intervention? just a smidge? more?
plz oh god plz?

YOU KNOW HOW OFTEN I PRAY, WHICH IS EVERY SINGLE FUCKING DAY. many times a day. I have prayers for yellow lights. I have prayers for safety while driving. I have chants for driving in the city. I have chants for cooking in the kitchen. There is an altar to you in my car. There is an altar to you in my studio. and one in the kitchen and one on the back porch. AND I LEFT MY ALTAR TO YOU AT THE CASA DI OAKENFOLD because it wouldn't fit in the car.

they didn't like my purple hair at your house of god. they didn't like my politics and they STARED DOWN THEIR NOSES WHILE I MADE BEAUTIFUL MUSIC. so i found somewhere better to pray. under trees, admittedly, but THEY PROMISED ME, YOUR MINISTERS. THEY PROMISED ME YOU DIDN'T CARE WHERE.

so if you want me to go to mass and pray in your house, i will. but it better be in latin.

they would have fed me adderal if i wasn't raised by republican conservative christian dirty poor hippies.

BUT WE DON'T HAVE PROBLEMS WITH THE CHEMICALS IN OUR BRAIN.

we don't take pharaceuticals pills for our depression and anxiety.

THAT IS TO ADMIT THAT WE HAVE FAILED. WE HAVE FAILED WE HAVE FAILED.

we do not seek counseling. we do not see therapists.

WE FAIRE AVEC. WE SE DEBROILLER.

blue collar to white collar to ? my sister is a religious misisonary and house mother to an army of troubled teenagers. She works for Jesus; so does her husband. We are poor together.

My sis works for her god. I work for mine. We're entirely okay with this. THEY DO PRAY FOR ME AND I THANK THEM FOR IT. so does my grandmama. at night. before she goes to sleep.

*sobs*

because if whiskey won't fix you. then maybe god can be arsed to intervene.

insomnia blogging. brought to you by....

www.iucu.org
www.discovercard.com
Coca Cola
Monsanto
Mold
Mice
Illness
A SERIOUS FUCKING SHORTAGE ON THE SPOONS HERE.
Gordon Burns.
www.dukeenergy.com or something like that
www.vectren.com or something like that.

we just don't run this place.
we just don't run this place.
we just don't run this place.

GASCONADE : killing animals DAILY

Starving Ethiopians.

Fistulas.
AIDS/HIV children and broken families and the epidemic in subsaharan Africa.
npr.
John McCain
Sarah Palin
I AM SO AFRAID.
I AM SO ANGRY.

but you can't fix violence with violence. well, i want to but i am AWFULLY SMALL TO fix the world.

I love to tell stories about my ancestresses, all of whom were serious badasses. what I don't tell you is that they were the whores (of babylon). this blood is not blue. this blood is mongrel. this girl is mestizo. this girl is genetically impure.

she is likely the bastard of half-a-dozen lords and ladies. and that, is that. WE ARE VICTORIAN AND WE DON'T TALK ABOUT OUR HISTORY. WE WORK HARD AND WE CLOSE OUR EYES. WE ARE THE THREE MONKEYS OF THE FUCKING APOCALYSPE.

the end is now.
the future is here.
and me? of course I have a jetpack. do you think I'd use it when someone was looking? then I'd have to arse myself to patent it.

and you thought I was joking about the batcar. hahahahaahahahahaahhaahah

also, i seem to have lost time.

I don't know what time it is. My computer thinks it is in March 2001 every time the battery dies (at about 35 minutes these days, it is getting old).

And then? and then? It thinks it lives in Quebec City or Montreal. This is my fault. I was trying to graduate. I NEEDED THOSE FUCKING ACCENTS. fucking keyboards that aren't universally qwerty. argh!

It is used to being on NYc_EST or Chicago/TwinCities_CST. or, y'know, WHATEVER IT PICKS ON ANY GIVEN DAY.I have some bad news. It's too late to apologize. Too late. It's too late to apologize. Too late.

You all used to call me for apologizing for everything I did and everything everyone else did; anything that went wrong I would wince, like a beaten dog, and say, "I'm sorry" as quickly and profusely as possible. Like Dede, if you want to shrivel me you just honestly have to tell me that I'm a hypocrital horrible human and that you, you personally are disappointed in me, and so, so is Barack Obama. That would make me cry; actually it has. Yes, someone has told me that.

I am afraid of e-mail. I am afraid of voicemail. I am afraid of text messages. I am afraid of comments left on blogs.

You can't see the bruises of decades of careful emotional abuse. But when your family tells you that you will fail at everything you love and that no one will pay you money to follow your dreams?

For 24 years?

That you should forget journalism, theater, French, cooking, art? That you should just forget? Because the daughters of engineers and accountants DON'T GO TO ART SCHOOL. just like the daughters of Persian expats don't work for not profits and they don't work the Clinique counter and they're not actors and they don't sing and they don't paint and they don't live. I loved Emil because we shared the same prison bars; hello family, I fail you every day I still breathe air.

Thanks, I love you too.

and you had the gall, matriarch mine, to ask me what had happened. you asked where I had gone, what "someone" had done to me how "someone" had hurt me.

i love you too. i love you too. i love you too. You also don't have this blog URL and anyone dumb enough to know who I am and to know who my blood-relatives are that don't have this URL? If you think for one fucking instant that I will regret them seeing any or all of this? NO NO NO But I am trying to win some inheritance money to pay the bills, so IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND AND NOT MAKE MY GRANDFATHER STOP LOVING HIS PERFECT SCHOLARSHIP WINNING - COLLEGE GRADUATING - PUBLISHING INDUSTRY WORKING GRANDdAUGHTER? oh god plz. and if you really want to fuck up the church's money -- BECAUSE, GIVEN THE RECENT UNIVERSE AND ITS FATE AND MY KARMA -------- call him up and tell him I'm gay. yep. go for it. tell him you used to screw me and my girlfriend. yep.

honestly, i would, 20 years from now thank you for it. but i don't get a housewarming and i don't get an engagement ring and i haven't made great grand children and i don't seem to be getting married any time soon, because they are all taken or gay or crazy or abusive or ... so, give me all I have left, which is that we're fooling grandpa. He was born in 1923. He won't understand. I don't get free housewares because I live in SIN and because of that I can't wear a white wedding dress? or a veil DID YOU KNOW THAT? that it would upset them if my dress was really white or if I wore a veil.

sometimes, i wonder that I am not crazier than I already am.

all i want is GINGER ALE. st. louis, fuck, you. ALL I WANT IS GINGER ALE.

also, i can't get orsino until 9 a.m.

dear monday morning.

GET HERE YESTERDAY.

I need to call banks! I need bank accounts! I need to call credit card companies! THESE ARE ALL THINGS MY BANK WILL NOT LET ME DO ON THE WEBTERNETZ BECAUSE THEY ARE MADE OF FAIL.

yes, that was the sound of a gun with a silencer. *sigh* and to think I was scared in SUBURBIA? at least in the city there's someone to hear you scream, and if you're really really really lucky, a neighborhood gossip will call the police.

Also, renting the Casa Arcana from the resident block owner and dedicated next-door hedgewitch? and living with a healer right next door? and then a crazy sanfrancisco uprooted military brat? who has been alive since eternity?

and that sound? is a rat or a mouse or a raccoon or a squirrel or a thief. great. now I'm paranoid to boot. Dear Mary, mother of Jesus, guide this country mouse in this city. kthxbye.

Dear Saint Louis...

I understand that I didn't sacrifice enough baby bunnies earlier tonight to thank you for wireless internet.

I AM TEH SORRIEZ.
I was a fetal ball on the couch. I couldn't move? Because of last night? That trick? really? fuck you, Saint Louis, now I'm afraid of the bath tub at night until we hack out that wall and figure out why the sewage lines are busted because it smellz like ass and man piss and it's not the toilet because I scrubbed it and it's not the sink because I scrubbed it and it's not the bathtub because I scrubbed it and we're throwing out the molding shower curtains because I insisted. and so I go outside and hide from the motion detector light and I piss in the bushes. 'Cause if 5 dogs do it all damn day long? Y'know, it'll be fine.

I pretend it's Pennsic.

It's a game we play.

But to remove, by MAJICKS most foul, black and unsettling EVERY SINGLE BRAND AND EVERY SINGLE FLAVOR AND type and style of ginger ale to be found on south fucking grand boulevard?

I THINK THAT WAS UNCALLED FOR.

just thought you should know.

with love,

Pasqualina.

hey! i feel well enough to drive to schnuck's fer ginger ale! hey ginger ale! hydration! water with bubbles! BUBBLES.

also, crackers. nice, white floor saltines. salt. also, pickles.

epic communications fail. also? you should probably never call.

also? yep cell fone werkz grate.
but 'cause I don't have 6 chargers for it, you heard it -- THAT'S RIGHT I HAVE HAD IT FOR JUST ONE DAY AND ALREADY THE IMPS TOOK THE FRACKING CHARGER.
it was awfully unfair.
I need to sage smudge the whole damn joint. HEY MONDAY'S FIRST PROJECT, ALONG WITH CALLING THE BANKZORS AND DELIVERING THE JOB APP DOWNTOWN.
and trying to look expensive enough to pay for art. or to make it. you should see me strip down to chemise and underskirt/pj pants when i hit the front door.
anyone have a spare KATANA CHARGER? dear webeternetz, tell me you make spare chargers on ebay for like, um, pockit change?

this parody haunts me.

http://xkcd.com/472/
because I was on the great sausage gravy and biscuits quest this summer.

DRUM ROLL
best biscuits and gravy (tie)
1) Runcible Spoon-blmgtn IN (meatiarian) and Shangri-La Cherokee St., Stl(made of soy bits and wheat gluten)
2) The Majestic. stl

everywhere else used powder or made them artifical or used cheap flour or bad grease or something WAS WRONG WITH THE GRAVY. IT IS FUCKING GRAVY. don't fuck with the vegan's sausage gravy, okay? she doesn't eat it often so you had better well do it right if you're going to charge her $10 for the privilege.

Do you know what its like to eat bad gravy? Like get up and leave bad; except that my cell phone never charged fast enuf and so I would wait and wait and wait and play with my food UNTIL MY PIRATED ELECTRICY HAD DONE ITZ WORK. also car? needz fuses.

i looked at the gin in the freezer.

and then I checked my head.

then I checked my heart.

then I checked my liver.

SO I DECIDED TO BLOG ALL NIGHT ALL BY MY LONESOME BECAUSE I AM TOO SICK AND TOO POOR TO LEAVE THIS HELL HOLE BETTER KNOWN AS MY HOME.

ALL THERE IS ARE BOXES.
ALL THERE IS ARE STRESS.
all you need is love.
all you need is love.
all you need is love.

and that? i've got five dogs, no waiting. there's love HOT AND COLD RUNNING LOVE and slobber, all DAY LONG.

i put her on the secretary. and now she won't come down.

awwwww fuck me running.

she is too smart for these reindeer games.

also, maybe when I am not terrified of dying I will consider sleeping, or possible monies for the doctarz. I promise you, netarwebz, if I still can't eat solid food tomorrow, I will go find a witch doctor who will let me work for I don't know, something.

i don't know what's wrong with me, but I wish it was something else

Well, okay, I do:

1) dust
2) mold
3) dog fur and dander
4) dirt
5) cockroach protein
6) st. louis
7) trees. grass. pollen, ragweed! plants, green things.
8) also, mold.
9) modern chemicals
10) rat poison under the floor boards
11) high fructose corn syrup
12) processed meats
13) cane sugar
14) white flour
15) cooked vegetables
16) I am too ill to take care of myself properly and I am doing the best I can because I just learned that you can't trust anyone else to take care of you or your cat.

because back stabbing? oh so TRENDY

nooooooooooooooooooooo!

more animals

this is where i SWEAR IN ABOUT 18 LANGUAGES

Donc, tout est casse. C'est encule, quoi. Tu comprends pas? Le raison est:

1)I have broken 3 zip ties since my arrival. This is akin to seeing duct tape fail.

2) However, I have met! Steel reinforced zip ties. Also STAINLESS steel zip ties.

3) I bet those are more expensive. I believe I can solve this problem with the proper application of MOAR ZIP TIES.

4) Also? not combining concussions with Hurricanes and Tropical Storms and STL flooded. Yes, yes it did. Yes, I DO STILL LIVE ON A HILL because I am not that stoooopid. cheap rent iz cheap rent. so there's some mold. also, some more mold. also, more mice.

ferme ta bouche, quoi!
tiens, je parle a toi! JE PARLE A TOI. je te parle. je te parle.
fuck you and your untouchable face. YES YOU.

5)Quand j'ai achete de la Pastis, erm, je veux dire, le pernod. j'suis desolee pere davico. JE SUIS DESOLEE. j'ai tout gache. j'ai peche. jai des peches. tu me pardonneras? la dame la bas a trouve mon portefeuille en DUCT TAPE to be amazing.

she'd never seen one. my sarah? YOUR ART IS APPRECIATED. SO IS YOUR SUFFERING. ALSO totally how I convinced the guy who wanted my number that I was a lesbian.
BECAuSE DUCT TAPE WALLETS AREN'T MADE BY OR FOR STRAIGHT GIRLS sorry. they're just not.
the revolution will be copyedited.

aaaaaa. espece de merde. tu sais? pendant le jour? j'ai 5 chiens CINQ. FIVE DOGS, NO WAITING. no fucking waiting. aaaaaaargh! I( hate them they smell they are muddy they are unclean THEY EAT MY FOOD THEY EAT MY BACON. at least my cat has the grace to hide when she takes it so I think I FORGOT IT.

Les chiens sont si STOOOOOPID. THEY even made me a lolcat.

http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/09/11/funny-pictures-god-why/

LOOOOK: http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/09/14/funny-pictures-out-the-window-in-3-2-1/

this one is mine.
well, I would make it. or someone, thinking of me, sent it to me by fairy magic dust.
also? this is mai life: http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/09/13/funny-pictures-hisseh-fit-in-321/
FIVE DOGS PLUS LOADS OF MICE PLUS ONE PRINCESS WHO LIKES TO CHASE BUTTERFLIES IS made of fail. my cat was wandering s. grand blvd. yeah GOOGLE MAPZ THAT, 'CAUSE SHE ALMOST KILT HERFUZZY SELF.

this? iz me tomorrow. TOMORROW THIS IZ ME. TALKING TO BANK MANAGERS IS MADE OF FAIL.
http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/09/13/funny-pictures-is-important-to-us-please-continue-to-hold/

I LIVE IN LOLCAT. I must speak pidgin 'cause the dogz don't speak the king's english. what is their fucking problem. and it's not that they speak french or german or ANYTHING. not even hebrew. no. they're illiterate.

Oh, their problem? They were starving, flea infested strays hit by cars and sent to the pound to die who were found wandering in alleys, infected and abandoned. They were abused? If I yell in the house, Dede shakes. Bomb dog doesn't understand that you can't climb hoomins. and baby? baby is the size of an elephant and she is convinced that she will starve to death even though she eats dinner twice a day. all she can eat. she steals all mah dinnehs.

my neighbors have straydar and i have a soft heart

so now? with moar dog wrangling!

also. the utility room is rotting.

WINTER PLEASE DON'T COME UNTIL I'VE KILLED ALL THE MOLD IN THE UTILITY ROOM/WALLS/SUB BASEMENT/CRAWL SPACE OH PLZ OTHERWIZE I WILL HAVE TO MOVE OUT!

plz? moar bleeeech?

I can tell this is true 'cause it got cold today and I put on a wool skirt and everything was fine except that I was wet but I threw a fit and had a nice SCADIAN cloak delivered to me.

there wasn't any mercy. not that I have any for him. it was made of count 'em! 2! navy wool army blankets. IT IS NOT PERIOD, BUT IT IS PRACTICAL AND HAS UTILITY so rot in hell.

ask and it shal be given unto you. seek and ye shall find.

WWW.DANAH.ORG

thanx webeternetarwebz.

I knew you would be here for me.

knock and the door will be opened unto you.

yeesh. PROGRAMMING

my victorian and puritan software running on this CATHOLIC/Methodist dual-booting hard drive is really making my life unnecessarily complicated.

yes, this? these are the lyrics I was looking for. ANALYZE THIS, ANALYZE ME.

ANALYZE THIS, MIGUEL DE SANTIAGO
these are the lyrics I was looking for.

also, these droids? totally mine. yeah, and I don't share my droids. YOU WOULDN'T ASK A CHEF FOR HER KNIVES OR A MECHANIC FOR HER SOCKET WRENCH SO DON'T TOUCH THE STEAMPUNK PIRATE's DROIDS, OKAY? they open pickle jars for her when she's too hungover to do it for herself.

internetz, WHY IS THERE NOT A CONVENIENT, EASY TO FIND WAY TO SEARCH LYRICS ESPECIALLY ANI DI FRANCO ONES BECAUSE I NEED THEM ALWAYS AND I AM SICK OF YOUR FRACKING POP UP ADS.

coming up.

coming up

our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
solicit graffiti until
he needs the land i stand on
i in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange
loose change and a key
ask me
go ahead, ask me if i care
i got the answer here
i wrote it down somewhere
i just gotta find it
i just gotta find it

somebody and their spray paint got too close
somebody came on too heavy
now look at me made ugly
by the drooling letters
i was better off alone
ain't that the way it is
they don't know the first thing
but you don't know that
until they take the first swing
my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
i'm getting bold in my old age
so go ahead, try the door
it doesn't matter anymore
i know the weakhearted are strongwilled
and we are being kept alive
until we're killed
he's up there the ice
is clinking in his glass
he sends me little pieces of paper
i don't ask
i just empty my pockets and wait
it's not fate
it's just circumstance
i don't fool myself with romance
i just live
phone number to phone number
dusting them against my thighs
in the warmth of my pockets
which whisper history incessantly
asking me
where were you

i lower my eyes
wishing i could cry more
and care less,
yes it's true,
i was trying to love someone again,
i was caught caring,
bearing weight

but i love this city, this state
this country is too large
and whoever's in charge up there
had better take the elevator down
and put more than change in our cup
or else we
are coming
up

Hello, You've Reached the Complaints Department...

It's me. There have been mutterings, murmerings, grumblings. I hear ... that my facebook/LJ icon/profile pic ad nauseum -- they don't look like me.

This is actually unintentional. There are shots in the Collins LLC yearbook of myself that I didn't recognize. I think it's the funny hair color thing. I am not intentionally obscuring myself, but eh, voila. So, here, for those damn whiners:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/727302506/
This photo is dated. It's from summer 2007, for one. The glasses are different. It's still mostly me though; chin dimples and pointy face and all. I hear that someone or somefolk stole my soul over the summer. So if you're wondering what I look like now, you'll have to check with them. That or see if google image search works. It used to! p.s. thanks to Brett Mason, who kept me as the number one result on google image search for 5 days, bless his heart. I think maybe it was a technical accident.

Your barista misses you. And you. and you . and awww, you too.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/1195180135/

she worries about you? and she hopes you are well. She no longer supplies your addiction, and she hopes her replacement is sufficiently skilled.

THE EMPIRE STRIKES FIRST

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/567193770/

Because it can. I'm converting my damn car to fast food grease. Anyone with me? P.S. I think I might need help with this. Also, those Missouri Plates? I have to hahahahahaahah fix the body damage first. The $3,750 body damage. Anyone up to barter? I babysit, cook, clean? I mix drinks, throw parties? I have utility and I fix things but I can't open pickle jars? I can't pass the exam without repairs, therefore no plates. The emissions Honda will fix for free. The shattered rear tail light is a $4o part new, but the metal entour? ..... Tedious.

argh. Missouri drivers license, you come next. Devil is in the Details.

The tool kit is in the freezer. Also, the utility room.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/567194458/

No, I don't know where you put the drill. You put it away. How do you expect me to know where it went? You put it away. I found the crowbar. And the tool box. I don't know here a charged battery is. Also, should you be operating power tools? Rufus and I don't think so....

We haven't found the drill. Or the battery. We have the charger? This does not work to hang the 1 foot tall silken red hanging with the Lenin silhouette and the sickle and hammer. Rufus is a communist. I think A. is a socialist or at least an artists and NPR aficionado. Hell's Bells. Me? Machiavellian anarchist who believes that benign or benevolent dictatorship or monarchy is the way to go.

draco invictus, p.s. I might be living in Calontir, but draco invictus. Got my car all the way to Pennsic, so, voila! Got my car all the way here. As the spoils of war, I can't really talk. No, the angle-saxon tried to bring her home from WW. No, he offered. She had this honor complex and had to take care of her shire and her company and broken girls. Also? Cecily spent her night in the ER. IN THE ER. youch!
There's a reason Pasqualina got drunk before she went to that party. Didn't trust the Shadewes Co. to mix her drinks.

Then she thought about him for a month. Then she ended her contract, drove to Poor Man's, drove onward to Pennsic War! She drove from Bemidji, MN to Pittsburgh, PA for him. Spoils of War At 2 a.m. in a rainstorm she couldn't find him; his yurt, his encampment. The next morning? Afternoon? No luck.

At 5 p.m.? She found him. She happily came back as war booty. Please keep me, said the Marseillaise. She wasn't complaining. She still isn't.

Memo to the thief who stole the espresso machine from the back porch that was missing parts that was a present from the vegan baker.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/1435937132/

I don't need to punish you. Karma can find you.

I love you, but I've chosen darkness.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/35027371@N00/2563572569/

Lauren had this shirt. She chose love. I ran into her a year later, with the same girlfriend, at a Tegan and Sarah concert. They didn't see me. Knowing they were still a couple rocked my socks.

I spend a lot of energy every day choosing love.

Not choosing darkness. Not again, not ever. Choosing love.

Replaced.

It's happened so often; this old familiar feeling.
After all these years, it still stings.

There is nothing quite like knowing you've been replaced.
I hope you miss me.

It just makes me try harder, you know. To be unreplacable. irreplacable. You can replace me, its true. I hope she or he is more beautiful, more intelligent, more desirable, sexier, funnier, a better cook, a better lover, a better friend.

You always deserved the best.

When in Rome...

The toilet seat stays up: when dogs are bound to use the toilet as a water bowl, there is a guarantee of toilet H20 and slobber spread all over the seat. So there it is -- the seat defaults to up.

The zucchinis, cucumbers, red and green peppers and pickles are girl-pirate fodder only.
The broccolis, spinaches, cabbages, and green beans are communal.
The man-beer and man-sausages are not to be interfered with. The lentil vegetable stew had the addition of Polish kielbasa to make it tolerable for the Y chromosome for dinner. The un-vegan couldn't resist crumbling in the sheep's milk feta imported from somewhere scary.

One of the brewmasters at the Schlafly's Bottleworks (Pumpkin Ale? nom. Blackberry Cider? nom. Fresh from the tap at the Bottleworks? Double nom) actually works in a kilt. I'm going to drop by and ask if it is a Utilikilt. Maybe... maybe it's even a leather Utilikilt. I thought they were a joke from the comic Dykes to Watch Out For. They're not. I've seen D. wear one. Adorable!

I am super-excited about the CERN project particle collider. OMG THE FUTURE IS NOW. I think I may need to receive whatever Science-y Weekly magazine the 2230 used to get. If anyone knows any tasty vaguely read-able by non super science academics (or erm, food chemistry and biology experts completely incapable of jargon) science blogs, I would love some links to add to the blog roll.

St. Louis has a curious selection of import and native vodkas.
From Kansas "Most Wanted" Vodka is most certainly not. It mixes fine when frozen but is not for martini making. Or at least, not the first three martinis.
From Canada "Polar Bear" is rubbing alcohol in a bottle when warm. Maybe I used up all the ice cubes and couldn't get it cold fast enough. So I mixed it with Jumex's Strawberry Nectar (which contains sugar OR high fructose corn syrup, sob!) which made it passable. Polar Bear, thusly, is fine for making girly drinks. I don't doubt it would serve well in a Bloody Mary as well.

Also, careful research reveals that Minute Maid, Old Orchard, and sketchy Schnuck's store brand lemonade, no matter how 100% the juice is all made with a 1st ingredient of high fructose corn syrup. So, fuck that shit. Back to Soulard, to buy my own damn lemons and limes, juice them on the Thrift Shop juicer, and sweeten with agave or honey or at least simple syrup made from turbinado. I want it to taste like citrus, not like ick squick sweet.

Also, the closest dirty hippie food store? Not a Co-op. Also, totally over priced with a miserable bulk food selection and too-pretty cashiers who were not nice/polite at all. Going to go see if the anarchist vegan bakery is hiring later today, they're all of a 5 minute drive from the house. Their staff was polite and cool when I bought a Minnesota-style chocolate oatmeal bar from them at Soulard. I should attempt first to undo the patina of dog fur in which I am coated. They all need bathes. Or hosing. Or maybe I should just chuck them in a pond/lake/the river.

hands full.

New town. New space. New faces. I used to pretend that I would create a new definition of me when I moved when I was a child. That this time I would be the popular bubbly one, and that this time I would be the serious musician and this time I would be pagan and not a good proto-Methodist-Church-member. I never did, I never could. When I was young I was too tightly laced to the truth to be able to lie about what was important to me.

So there I was, the bookworm, the human dictionary ('cause Encyclopdia Brown was already the human encyclopedia), the smart girl, the girl in glasses. My mother dressed me like herself -- overlarge jeans with elasticized waists, turtlenecks from LL Bean or Lands End, sweaters. I still own sweaters that I used to wear when I was 10 or 12 or 14. Some of them I still wear. I won't tell you which.

At the end of the day, I don't have the energy to pretend. I had my co-workers and bosses entirely fooled at my last job, until the stress cracked me and the "real" Lina came out. HR's assistant director was concerned -- I was wearing too much black (orly?!) as opposed to the pastel-coloured button down shirts and blazers and dress slacks. My bosses wondered what had happened to super-nice, always bubbly, smiling Lina. I explained that working 80-120 hours a week was a bit draining, going on into the 4th month. It flew about as well as a wet paper airplane.

Who am I, who will I be, in this new town with these new people? I'm not the same girl who moved to Bloomington heart broken after her 16th birthday party. I'm not the same girl who moved into Collins LLC and was the quota-filler for her scholarship. Nor the riotous protester with purple hair, speaking and organizing against the government and its race in 2003 to upset Sadam. I'm not the same girl who was left broken /enabled herself to be broken by a guy before flying off to France, nor the same girl who came back. Not the Lina who lived on Cascades, brilliant drugged into oblivion while reading the Federalists and crying over linguistics, touching scenes in Sex in the City and eating Le Mai's brilliant culinary masterpieces and Cody's Mayonnaise Cake. I'm not the thin and pale post-grad working 3 jobs at 80 hours a week to pay medical bills, unable to buy groceries and buying gasoline for the car in 13-dollar increments, counted out in 1-dollar bills in tips from bussing drunken cheese sauce and ranch dip off of tables. I'm not the corporate whore to the publishing industry, nor am I am boheme who spent the summer driving where the road took her, working where she could, sleeping where she pleased.

Somehow I'm not her. or her or her or her. Rather some amalgam of all of that -- all of that pain, all of those tears, all of that pleasure, all of that reality, thick and unpleasant, dark and smooth.

Hello, Saint Louis. It's a pleasure to meet you.

Can't taste it yet, but it's awfully close...

Boxes and bags are packed. Floors and tubs are scrubbed. Loads of laundry are finishing up churning and drying. The furniture is being re-homed and sold and transported thither and yon. There's a skeleton of a kitchen, of a home. It's surreal and dense and leaves me with butterflies in my stomach.

I dropped by to visit the Harlos House. Pat and I discussed adventures, and it was good. I recommended an iUniverse book for her younger relatives. Scott Sanders seems to be on sabbatical (can't blame him) and it seems the persimmon tree in the front yard near the driveway has finally been aged enough to be cut down. I had wanted to pick and eat one in his honour, but I believe there will be time and opportunity for that yet.

This afternoon will include a visit by FRIT and Ballentine and another City Bakery detour to chill with Rob Himmel in the afternoon. Still so many loose ends, as soon as I finish one list, I generate a new one. Always more nitty gritty details.

I picked up coals and a starter pot of tabac for the nargile, for fear that prices are vastly inflated in the fair city of St. Louis. That and I <3's me some 10th St. Market, enough that I braved traffic at 9:15 to secure parking in the Lennie's plaza for errands (and of course, they don't open 'til 10:00...).

Tonight will hopefully find me chilling at shift change with pizza beer and I'd like to join the AuthorSolutions crew for lunch, but it depends on their schedules. A few deep breaths, an extra cup of coffee -- I can do this. I've done this every 2-3 years of the first 18 years of my life, then every 2-6-8-12 months since then. Moving is easy. Living is hard. Settling is hard. Building a nest is hard. But moving? Moving is easy.

Last hurrahs, possessions to be sold/bartered, the end of casa di oakenfold as it was know here...

Are you in Bloomington proper? Do you need kitchen accoutrements? Do you need housewares? Did you know you can barter or buy them from me to prevent me from moving too much stuff south? Yes, yes you can! Please do e-mail or comment, 'cause I have a case of TOO MUCH FUCKING STUFF.

halpz. halpz.

So many boxes. Not enough car/truck space. So many boxes.

Midwestern Pirate Relocation!

In seek of terrain with more opportunity and adventure, I'll be relocating to St. Louis in the coming weeks. I've been struggling to achieve escape velocity from Bloomington's gravity well since I finished school. I even tried to run away for school, but was lured by scholarship cash (not something I regret). I look forward to native tour guides, a vibrant food culture, and the opportunity to learn a new place and meet some new faces. Also, my charming room mate and his adorable pups. Yes, the crazy cat lady will be living with the crazy dog guy. Stop rolling a disbelief already!