RAWR!

these comix call themselves "rawr," but i won't hold that against them. they're sweet little scribblings, featuring a very grouchy dino.

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one certain benefit of having a memory as puny and pocked as mine is that i can read agatha christie novels again and again without ever recalling whodunnit. (but i just read the poirot books, never that miss marple dreck.)

i know christie's tepid, tally-ho prose isn't high lit but that's part of the comforting charm. and her mysteries are mysterious, man. kim, especially, takes the piss whenever i cuddle up with a christie. but this article in the guardian has got my back:

"Christie's language patterns stimulate higher than usual activity in the brain," said Dr Roland Kapferer, who coordinated research undertaken by neuro-linguists at the universities of Birmingham, London and Warwick. "The release of these neurological opiates makes Christie's writing literally unputdownable." Narrative speed, the "mesmerising" use of familiar phrases, and "minimum cognitive distraction" (aka lack of Flaubertian detail) were all cited as reasons for her extraordinary success.

mmm, mesmerising.

you count on rawr to post stuff like this, right?

this snow is--well, i can't explain it. and i love explaning stuff. i guess i'll settle for "it's astonishing."

i just called sarah, a fellow skyscraper-serf, so she could share a yes-this-snow-is-astonishing moment with me. but she wasn't too into it, reminding me that this sort of snow happens "at least once a year." but it's okay to be annually astonished by something, right?

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a magenta-blooded, meat-munching roarer like me is happy to hear that:

i taste like filet mignon. i am the epitome of fine taste and everyone knows it. i am pricey, well-aged and in demand.

what do you taste like?

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i had just met thomas forty minutes earlier, when allie had brought him by the co-op and asked me to escort him to the corner liquor shoppe while she finished up some chores. (this is one of the thing co-op living is particularly good for—obtaining random, timely favors.)

as we pondered what libations to purchase with allie’s debit card, thomas expounded upon the qualities of malt liquor. then we did the dance from TLC's "waterfalls" video when the song came on the radio behind the counter. so we were pretty tight, for recent strangers, by the time we had this conversation:

r: you got any tattoos, thomas?

t: nope.

r: did you say nope?

t: i said yope.

r: oh. well, where and what are they? i can’t tell with that huge hoodie you got on.

t: okay, i got one here [points to right bicep] that’s for my babymamma. i need to get rid of that one, though. she’s crazy. maybe i’ll get a black panther as a cover-up.

r: as in, the group?

t: the what?

r: the group, i mean, the black panthers? you want to identify with them?

t: nawh, i just need something big and black to blot out that babymamma’s name.

r: understandable. any others?

t: okay, i got one here, that’s the name of my son. thomas, jr. right next to my heart. and i gotta get my daughter somewhere, really big. or here [points to left forearm].

r: awww. i don’t have any kids.

t: and i want to get my back covered. the whole back.

r: with more relatives?

t: nawh—with a tupac quote.

r: geez, everybody does that. that’s totally generic, thomas.

t: is that what you’ve got, then?

r: err, nope. i have a little turquoise tattoo on my shoulder blade. it’s some stars, the constellation of leo. because i’m, you know. a leo.

t: i got this gang tattoo right here [points to left bicep] that i got in prison, and it need to go. i was thinking of covering it up with a scorpion. because i’m a scorpio.

r: then we’d both have zodiac tattoos! we’d be like twins.

t: yope.

my coke can is decked out with the coca-cola polar bear (say that outloud, a few times, and tell me you don't feel goofy-good) and also this holiday-fonted banner: "give live love." erm, what? i can only surmise that it's the beginning of one of those word puzzles, where you can only change one letter at a time and try to end up with a pre-designated final word. let's see where this gets me . . .

give

live

love

lobe

lube

cube

cuke

coke

! / i so rock this brainwashy soda game.

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i started a new temp job yesterday. it’s okay: i sit in an uncluttered cubicle, am cheerfully ignored by my non-colleagues, help myself to all their holiday candy jars, and proofread till my eyeballs deflate. this place is a financial publisher, so i’m not proofing much of interest. but if any of you cunning cats want to discuss claims adjustment theory or advanced estate planning, i could probably keep up with the conversation better than i could yesterday.

two sublimely absurd sentences i’ve come across this morning (and didn’t bother editing, even a bit):

“thus, in a legal sense, children can be considered natural objects of a testator’s bounty.”

“premium-setting strategy is fascinating and engaging, as a topic.”

i did manage to land an interview for that dream job i posted about a couple of weeks ago. it’s on wednesday afternoon. phew. i can’t decide if i’m more nervous or excited, more intimidated or confident.

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as i hope most of you lennon-loving leos know, thursday was the 25th anniversary of john’s death. i marked the sad occasion by playing the full white album during our house dinner and scoring a hundred percent on this quiz.

i also called mom and asked for her story of that night. she told me:

she was in bed but not asleep yet. i was next to her, since my stubborn one-year-old self tended to avoid my own bed. dad was still around but wasn’t home that night. mom’s high school boyfriend (named mike, just like dad, and just like mom’s next husband, and i know it’s off-topic BUT CHRIST MOM ENOUGH WITH THE MIKES) called to make sure she’d heard the news. her response was a common one—sputtering, aching disbelief.

just three few months before, she’d first heard just like starting over, the single from john’s latest record, double fantasy. mom had had to sit down on (my little un-used bed) when she heard it. it filled her up; she thought it was one of the most perfect songs she’d ever heard.

and she might have guessed, but couldn’t know, that john was responsible for my first musical memory: when i was three and four, i’d beg her to put on the plastic ono band album because at some point john screamed COOOOKIE! and i thought that was about as cool as it got. i still do.

   

    

if there's one thing that would get me to watch the grammys, it'd be an obama acceptance speech.

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thanksgiving is prime time to relax with your family and count your blessings. here's some pictoral proof that i did just that this year.

here's me and sister rebecca, relaxing in front of a most prehistoric computer game. (vanna's image is reproduced with six green and four pink pixels.)

and here's dad, making me recognize the cherished blessing that involves his not doing this very often.

is it just me or—never mind, i really don’t want to preamble this post like that. what i’m wondering is whether other people often find themselves being told, “oh, that’s just like you,” or “you would.”

i’ve been getting loads of that type of rejoinder lately. and i’m mostly baffled. i’ll say or do something relatively random and be informed that it’s actually an obvious, central fixture of my personality. maybe living with (and getting to know) twenty people is putting me at higher risk for these sort of flash judgments.

now, bear with me. aren’t these bizarre examples? aren’t they?

friend: did you know you can take tours of downtown on segways?

me: ooo, i love segways!

friend: well, i’m not surprised.

old lumberjack, who i just met: let me guess, you’re the one who built up that campfire to fill the whole grate?

me: yeah—but how did you know it was me?

old lumberjack: i could tell just by lookin’ atcha.

new friend: . . . but that would mean giving more money to bill gates.

me: hey, let’s not badmouth bill too bad. i mean, that man has single-handedly funded the most effective, relevant world health initiatives going right now.

new friend: hah, you like bill gates. of course you do.

me: yeah, i thought american pyscho was a great, crazy. flick. hilarious nuance.

friend: that’s so like you, to like that movie. jesus.

friend: i call this my rory hat.

me: it’s cool. but, i’ve never had a hat like that.

friend: no, but . . .you would.

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awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. i get so glad when the world can welcome a new lioness.

will write more soon, upon my grave, honorable mother's pinky. but first, here's some pix from a few weekends ago, when kim visited and then my mother (see above) et al did too.

abi discovers some her-size tubing at the nature museum:

mom, me, abi and kim . . . errm, i can't remember what we were doing:

me as a madonna:

all of us, plus my cheeks:

“winter is not a season—it’s an occupation.” ~ sinclair lewis

i sorely wish i could be paid for reflecting upon / fretting about / fighting against winter, as i’ve been struggling to get paid for doing anything lately. but on this first day of december, i’ve unfrosted and unfrazzled myself. forcefully. i’m drinking madagascar vanilla red tea (both for its antioxidants and the beatific lion imagery on the box) and wearing soft felt trousers. pressing my left thigh against a rickety-warm radiator. not thinking or writing much about:

the CTA making me too late for a container store interview that i was both embarrassed and relieved about.

deadwood. the last thing i need is to pledge my devotion to another HBO series.

the fact that i can’t even afford to keep rawr running right now (which is why i didn’t post much in november—i kept getting shut out for not paying my monthly fee).

anything i can’t do a rootin'-tootin' thing about right now, this afternoon, here.