Supafine!

One piece at a time.

Finished "Reefer Madness" by Eric Schlosser [author of "Fast Food Nation"]. If I had any doubts about decriminalizing marijuana, they're put to rest now. I don't advocate smoking it, because it's a general waste of brain cells, but for god's sake, let the punishment of possession fit the crime.

Interesting tidbit: My homeland, Ohio, is near the center of the Marijuana Belt -- where the vast majority of America's pot is grown. This explains a lot.

Another interesting tidbit: It's estimated that a person would have to smoke a hundred pounds of pot a minute for fifteen minutes to induce a lethal response. That's a fucking lot of weed.

More drugs: Still trying to track down a copy of "Prozac Nation," having just read Elizabeth Wurtzel's "Bitch." I understand they're making a movie based on PN. [These things are a lot harder to keep track of without television, so bear with me.] I enjoyed "Bitch," but I think perhaps it was misnamed. A lot of it was about women acting outside societal norms -- including just being single. Perhaps not mind-blowing journalism, and it was a bit tangential and self-absorbed, but that's how I like my books.

Kind of surprised I hadn't read it yet.

Anyway, my pitiful library branch still only carries assorted Danielle Steeles, so I've been having a rough go of it, 'specially since I can't bring myself to pay hard money for books. This is sort of related to the New Deal that Iain and I have worked out, in which we both are living like ascetic, spartan monks in order to save up for a freaking house down payment.

I thought we were being frugal before, rolling our own smokes and decorating with milk crates, but apparently we may as well have been chartering jets and holding parties in the VIP lounge.

But all is not lost, dear Reader. Once I ditch the cell phone next week [take that, Verizon, you corporate bossy-butt!] and break myself of the habit of eating [just kidding] it's smooth sailing.

Stay tuned for more details of my newfound obsession with city life ... I've decided I want to live like Gordon and Maria on Sesame Street. How sweet is that? Researching brownstone apartments as we speak ...

"How Do You Fight Loneliness?"
Good weekend.

Thursday evening Iain helped me write a story about home-buying for 210 west magazine.

Friday we went to Artscape, an arts festival in Baltimore's Cultural District. As a result, I have decided I would like to move to said Cultural District. I'm already planning curtains.

The art was OK. The best part was probably the free book table, courtesy of Baltimore's Book Thing and the Enoch Pratt Free Library. I came away with something about journalism and politics. Oh, and of course the people-watching was nearly unbeatable.

Saturday we went to a "Fresh Mex" restaurant in Annapolis called Chevy's to meet up with Iain's cousin Alison and her wife, Jo, who are visiting from Wakefield, England. Great to talk to, great senses of humor. They stayed with us last night, and we drove them to the airport early [like, 7 a.m. early] this morning. They're catching a flight to Minnesota.

Today is our marriage's first birthday. Hard to believe it's been a year -- it seems like less, honestly. Scary. And, upon doing the math, it turns out I've known Iain for five years. That's even harder to believe. But they say the first year is the toughest, and we've made it through fine. That's all -- I save the more personal analyses for Counselor Jen.

In lieu of juicy details, I'll leave you young couples out there with "Six Keys To Marital Happiness," taken from "How To Be Happy, Though Married," by Tim LaHaye.
1. Maturity (aw, crap)
2. Submission ("subjection is not slavery"? ... okay ... )
3. Love ( duh! )
4. Communication ( duh, squared )
5. Prayer ( hmmm...)
6. Christ ( hmmm...)

OK, two out of six ain't bad?

If you want to ogle the chapter on "Physical Joys," a.k.a. The Marriage Act, you'll have to get a copy of this treatise for yourself ... it's a definite must-read.

I gotta hand it to Carrie for finding that little 1968 gem and sending it my way. It's even got little cartoon married people, who look like blobs of jelly.

Finally.

Okay, kids. All y'all non-voting bitches: Get on to Howard Dean's web site and read about your new candidate. Here is a guy who's unflinchingly pro-choice AND supportive of LGBT issues. That, in itself, is reason enough for me. But also check out his stances on education, labor, civil rights, and health care. Can't go wrong here.

I'm-a be watching the polls this fall, and I better see you there, voting for Deanie-boy. We've had enough of this President Cowboy bullshit, wouldn't you say?

And while you're online, check out truth out. I'd like to thank Matt for this one. Well, and the tip-off to Dean, too, while I'm at it.

Ritual de lo Habitual
Monday night means: Getting drunk on the back porch, talking about Life, The Universe, and Everything. Since work is done [and early!] I'm gonna get on home and get on with it.

Tick-tock, ya don't stop, y'all.

So I made the mistake of looking through my old high school yearbooks the other day.

Ouch. Oooh. Eeek.

I'm not just talking bad hairstyles [plenty of that, though, and if you call me Mushroom Head I'll kick your ass].

No, no. I'm talking bringing it all back: the loneliness, the isolation, the taunting, the depression, the worrying. That is one place I really, really don't want to revisit. I don't know about you all, but Lord, did high school suck.

Sucky McSuck. And pretty much I worked myself into a state all over again -- looking back at the yearbook I helped to create, remembering all the hours I put into it, seeing my name in tiny embossed letters on the cover, and remembering how much I felt like an outcast, a loser, a fringe person. A misfit.

That kind of shit doesn't really go away, does it. No matter how well I did in school, no matter how much fun and how many friends I had in college, it still all boils down to that same lingering feeling, that sense of being on the outside.

Of being most definitely, irrevocably, without-a-doubt not special. Funny, isn't it, how we all harbor a tiny fragment of "specialness," how we all figure, somehow, that we're different -- and that one of these days, the world is going to realize our genius. Sure, we may be stuck in crap jobs, in crap towns, with no glamourous future in sight ... but dammit, we've got potential, huh?

'Cept we don't, not really. We're never going to be famous, never going to be on television or written up in Vanity Fair. We're never going to be the stuff of hushed, reverent talk or a name to go down in the history books.

We're Americans, the common folk, the proletariat, the regular ol' men and women that we think exist somewhere else. The same people who go to work, come home, shop at Target, go to sleep. Not special. Not extraordinary.

Just the masses.

So this thought really got me down for a while -- all those top-notch grades and extracurriculars and above-average gifts, the talent in sketching and the way with words, the compassionate ear and the avid interest in -- whatever. It boils down to the same old thing: Average. Or average-ish. Unremarkable, indistinct, generic.

So -- that's it, then, and I'm going to run with it. Maybe my job is part-time and not vital to the operations of my company. Maybe I'll never write a book, edit the New York Times, live in London, drive a Beamer. Maybe no one will remember me in 200 years [maybe? har].

So what? I won't be around then anyway. What I do got is a nice place to live. I've got a washer and a dryer, a man who loves me, my health. I've got friends. I've got an intact -- though vivacious -- family. I've got a library card, dammit. The CIA's not after me, I don't fear the drug cartels, my scandals don't make the front page news, and no one's put a price on my head.

An ordinary life is a blessing, indeed.

Final thought: Is it growing up or giving up when you decide to accept your fate as Everywoman?

Won't you be my neighbor?

Welcomed a Luna Invasion [great name for a band, no?] last night. Natalie and her dog swung by on their way to Cleveland. Some beers, some chatting, some discussion of colonial costuming, a city's reputation, quirks of marriage and life with the dogs, among other things. It's always nice to have company, to catch up on the gossip and the folk of days gone by!

Mismatched wood paneling: That's just one of the "attractions" of an apartment Iain and I checked out the other day. Damn, but he's a good sport. I got it into my head that it's time for us to move out of this crackerbox and found an ad in the Sun's real estate section: "Ground-floor apt., util. inc., spacious LR, DR, quiet neighborhood." I called the number and talked to "Noel" -- like Joel with an "N." I agreed to show up in the next ten minutes -- apparently, the place is a hot commodity -- and dragged Iain off to see it.

I was envisioning a stately old manse, beautifully landscaped, with a spacious first-floor apartment, hardwood floors, original moldings, huge windows. What we saw was a few rooms in the basement, an artificial dropped ceiling that only just cleared Iain's head, the aforementioned paneling, spiders, industrial carpet, and fading yellow fluorescent lighting. Pittsville. Granted, the old guy only wanted $525 a month for it, which is a veritable steal 'round these parts, but Jesus. You'd have to pay me double that to live there. Plus the "quiet neighborhood" was a dead-end street walled off by sound barriers blocking noise from the Beltway and sandwiched between an auto dealership and a crab shack.

Not quite what I had in mind.

So within five minutes we were backing out the door, calling "No thanks!" over our shoulders and hightailing the hell home.

Ice, ice, baby: The gods, better known as the HVAC experts, made a house call Wednesday. The miserable stuffy closet we live in, whose air-con has been woefully absent during these 90-degree days, is suddenly a blissful icebox of comfort. They replaced the filter, which is apparently as old as my high-school sister, and Voila! We got AC like normal people now. We're using it just because we can. And after the dreadful debacle that I call Summer in Sandusky in a Crappy Old House With No Ventilation, you best believe I'm gonna git that sucker pumping. 'Specially since our old box fan makes noises that set area squirrels to chirping and dogs to wailing.

Enter and win! My campaign to import friends to Baltimore hasn't been very successful. [Why's that, I wonder?]. So I'm gonna up the stakes a bit. If you quit your job, break your lease, move out here, wallow around in our hideous job market, and drink with me at The Barn, I'll make it worth your while. Grand prize: space on the futon and a year's supply of Natty Boh [a.k.a. National Bohemian, B-more's drink of choice]. First prize: An old Oriole's ball cap and drinks at Fells Point. Second prize: Two tickets to the Blacks in Wax Museum. Third prize: a three-week old copy of the City Paper with Shaka N'Zinga on the cover.

Write your name and address on a post card [preferably a tacky one] and mail it to me, c/o ... well, Iain. Winners will be notified by screeching telephone call.

The Hearse You Came In On: So this guy, Tim Cockey, wrote a book, and set it in Charm City. I love when people do that. Plus, the book was fairly good ... if you're into that sort of thing, which I am. I've moved laterally this week from Trashy British Fluff to Murder Mystery Fluff. Hmm ... which reminds, me, I've got to update my reading list.

That mystical, magical being
Boys and girls, I finished all 870 pages of Harry Potter's fifth super-duper exciting adventure. Murder! Mayhem! Crushes on girls! It was all I could have asked for in a children's book. Highly recommended to anyone. Hell, I'd give you mine, but it's Carrie's, and I gotta mail it back to her; god bless her for lending me a copy of the book i'm too much of a cheap-ass to buy.

La la la: So, I think y'all need to visit Precious' Korner and tell me what the hell it all means ... And after you do that, tell me, please god, that you know who the hell Corey Feldman is ...

Steak an' Taters: The convivial hosts that Iain and I are, I tell you what, people should be so lucky. Karen and John came over for dinner last night, stayed for 500 Rummy, ice cream and beer. Karen, of course, won, because she's an Ohio girl at heart and we all know only true Ohioans kick any sort of ass at cards. Don't tell Iain I said that, because normally he's very good and he only lived in Ohio for a wee little bit.

Coffee and Donuts: Sundays are only good for one thing, and that's eating Dunkin' Donuts and reading a trashy British fluff novel on the sofa while the sun shines brightly and guilt-inducingly outside. So that's what I'm doing.

Bugs and Boxes: Just a quick hurrah to Carrie for surviving her hellacious cockroach-decorated trip to the fuse box last night. We're all so proud of you!

Pens and Ink: A super-secret shout-out to Alexa Rae for her daring adventures ... can't wait to read all about it!

OK, I'm tired, I'm silly, I'm ramblling, and I must find out what happens to Cath and James!

For customer assistance, press 1
Sprint Corp. can suck my big toe. Both of 'em, for that matter. But the story ends happily: I got all $251.49 taken off my bill. 'Course, the bill was for a phone I owned for exactly a week.

At any rate, Service Representative #NCOL25434 now has a big fat piece of my mind to call her own.

Gah.

Hey, little bird, fly away home: So Lonesome Dove was well worth the six hours. I cried .... big surprise. True Romance was good, too, as was The Hours.

Hmm. Haven't left the apartment for a few days .... but this is a Good Thing. Maryland weather still hasn't given up on the "constant rain" fad, and I'm not complaining.

When your honey returns from an extended leave-taking, you tend to want to stay in bed.

iTunes, I wanna have your baby. So it's apparently very difficult to find an open bar at midnight on a Monday night in my neighborhood. All I wanted was a cold beer and some good conversation with a tall, dark and handsome fella. What I didn't realize was that I could have that on my back porch: a six-pack of Rolling Rock, a pair of orange milk crates and Eminem on the iMac, pumpin' the jams. Speaking of Apple: iTunes has put a smile on my face. Now when I get that damned Junior Senior song stuck in my head, I can just listen to it. 'Stead of belting out "Move your feet" in an off-key alto.

Awright, ladies, I'm out ... got a smoke and a game of Rummy callin' my name.

Love, love, love.
Back from Appalachia now, not much time to write; am at "work," waiting for work to do.

Southern Ohio was great. Got to see Carrie in Chillicothe, see her new digs, meet her friends, chill at her bars. Had an excellent day of hiking in Hocking Hills -- simply gorgeous.

Eeek! Guess who came back early?! Iain. Such explains my absence here. And the rest of the week is pretty much booked, too, with catch-up time and hangin'-out time and everything, so be good, I likely will be too busy to post, and I'll catch all y'all on the flip side.

Hungry eyes

I think I'm going to faint dead away. Coca-cola does not a meal make. I can't tell you the last time I had more than peanuts as an entree.

On a slightly bizarre yet related note, I am at my target weight of 109.5 lbs. Of course it doesn't really count, because starvation due to culinary stupidity is not a valid diet plan.

Other news: I'm off like a dirty shirt, gone til Sunday night, don't cry and don't come a-knockin'. More stories when I return.

Real World: Chicago

Phew! Back from vacay in the Windy City, where I hung with Jen, Kristalyn and Jeffy in the tres-chic neighborhood of Lincoln Park, home to the well-dressed and world-weary.

It was Fucking Awesome.

A sample itinerary, because I really have to go to bed, and some select quotes.

WED: Depart BWI 9:30. Arrive CHI 10:20. Fumble with train ticket, ride to apartment, drop stuff, drink and catch up with Jeff and Jenn at the Beaumont [a returning player in the weekend's events].

THU: Lunch on the Chicago River at Sorriso's with Kris and Jeff. Shopping on the Magnificent Mile. Slobbering at Urban Outfitters. Dinner at BW3 with J,J, and K. Later: Drinks at Uffa, where the dark and mysterious Sergio played a wobbly rendition of a DMB song. Several more drinks at Kinky's -- oh, about five more drinks, eckshully. Tried to pick up boys for my friends, my duty as The Married One. Had several interesting conversations. By the end of our stay there, I was being dragged kicking and screaming from someone I believed to be Jason Lee.

Much later: Eighth and final drink at The Beaumont. Then home, somehow, where I puked and passed out.

FRI: The worst hangover since sophomore year of college. Train to Taste of Chicago downtown, where we gorged ourselves on the best dishes Shy-town has to offer and caught Erykah Badu singing. In the evening, a hike to Boystown where we tipped a few back at Roscoe's.

SAT: PrideFest in the AM ... lovely Dykes on Bykes booth. Then a nap, and a guilty screening of Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Rounded out the evening with drinks and dancing at the Beaumont [Chicago's most versatile bar, apparently]. Busted moves to Vanilla Ice and the likes. A hideously drunk boy offered to make out with me and then pretty much fell down. Kris and I did shots of Jager, which mostly ended up on my shirt. We stumbled home at 4:30 a.m., had an impossibly deep and meaningful conversation, and passed out.

SUN: Hangover time, yet again. Soothed with Chicago-style pizza and the series finale of Dawson's Creek. Depart CHI at 9:30. Arrive BWI at 12:30. Arrive home at 2:30. Fall asleep.

Helpful words and phrases:
"So I says to Mabel ...."
"Speaking of sheep ..."
"Peanuts!"
"I hope not sporadically..."
"Meanwhile ..."
"What!?!"
"Jokes! Jokes ..."

It was an inside job. We had fun. I haven't partied that hard in a long time.

In other news: I got a letter and a phone call from Iain today. He's been out in the Wyoming woods since last Saturday. He sounds like he's doing well.

Dear lord, I miss him. That's part of what Chicago was good for: taking my mind off it ... in addition to expanding friendships and poking Jeff in the ribs.

OK, must go flagellate myself in contrition for the Sins of Culture i committed ... Vogue, Cosmo, a McG movie, The Gap, heavy drinking, picking on the beautiful people, lusting after Cynthia Rowley dresses, Dawson's Creek, MTV HITS, VH1 ...

I'm sick of being a hippie-snob. I miss being a girl. Being a girl was fun, dammit.