Last minute shopping

Before jumping back into the holiday fray after everyone's naptime is over and their hunger returns, there's a very special shout-out I want to give today. It's not to the people I love, who I try to talk to directly at this time of year if no other; it's not to the people I hate, who I don't hate anymore because December 21 is the Let-go-of-that-shit Day in the Church of La Spliffe. It's not to people at all. It's to my tits.

After a brutal workout this morning (trying to get my hunger sharp enough to truly appreciate the culinary delights awaiting me) I had a pure moment of amour-propre-tetons as I undressed and saw this sweet-ass pair in the mirror. I know there are nicer breasts out there; don't get me wrong. But my darling tits, I want you to know right now: I wouldn't trade you for any goddamn rack in the world.

We've been through almost everything together. Remember the day you'd sprouted out of nowhere and made my family laugh because your undersides got covered in breadcrumbs when I leant over the table? Remember where we bought our first whore-y bra? Remember the hours of fun we've had when our favourite men have had fun with you? Remember the orgasmerrific denouement when we posed for that British artist we had a crush on in Italy the day before we left town forever? That was you, ladies. You, just by being you, got us what my brain was too smitten and stupid to ask for. I love you for it.

I know that as the years go by, gravity and the fulfillment of our biological destiny will change the way you look and act, but if anything I'll love you the more. If I ever lose you, I'll try to pick up the pieces of my life and move on. But then if I lose you, I don't know how much longer I can move on for, because there's not a cure right now. I'm convinced that in the not-too-distant future, people will look back on our ways of dealing with cancer, particularly those specific to women, and shudder at the barbarity, guesswork, and pissing-in-the-dark of it all. I hope the three of us can make it through until then. Never leave me, babes. Please. I fucking love you.

And to those of you who happen upon this while panicking because you haven't bought all the crap you need for some special lady, why don’t you consider making a donation in her name? Hmm? Hmm? You wouldn’t even need to haul your ass off the chair, and it's a great present. Because I don’t know anyone anymore who hasn’t cried themselves to sleep over the ‘c’ word. Not to mention the lady in question, no matter how fucked up her body image is, probably loves her tits, deep down, just as much as I love mine. And we hope you love them too.

Dee dee dee dee dee dee dee-dee-dee dee-dee-dee dee-dee dee-dee dee dee

Please do yourself a fucking favour. Stop paying attention to Mariah Carey carols, the shit-pot over taking the Christ out of Christmas, and whatever bullshit toy whatever bullshit anything is promoting. And tell yourself that Christmas in particular and the New Year in general is about the magical, renewal, and making this world a little more beautiful.

For me, the best way to do this seems to be the Nutcracker. Maybe I ate too many mushrooms during my undergrad, maybe I'm insane, or maybe Wednesday's dream analysis session peeled back a few more layers than I was expecting. But the beauty of the National Ballet's production last night made me cry, and I wasn't the only one. I'm still too enchanted (and fucking exhausted - this week has been a cocktail of heavy work, heavy drinking, heavy cannabis consumption, intelligent conversation and emotionally cathartic experiences so I'm a little spent) to dip into it.

Instead, a plea. Please treat yourself to the combination of flawless music, artistry of human movement, and communication with all the most beautiful parts of the human unconsciousness that a good production of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker can provide. Failing that, pay attention to something else that reminds you of the divine in us.

And you've got a one-joke limit on the 'nut' in the title, infant.

Ohhhhhh kiddies

Hold tight. Almost holidays. No time to write. So discuss: Militancy in the women's movement was the inevitable consequence of a default in a tacit Western gender balance contract (i.e. women's accepted roles had little political or economic power, but also small likelihood they and their under-age children would be wholesale slaughtered during martial conflict). The recent and present blurring of traditional Western gender roles is a result of an effort to balance this default and of the self's will to survive rather than a simple civil rights issue.

L8ers.

Equal and opposite

Yesterday work pissed me off something royal. FEB told me: 'the blues will pass'. Blues? thought I. What the fuck? I'm angry! But is there a difference? My blues are reactive. I wasn't raised to sit and mope - doesn't make the blues less the blues. I'm not sure sitting and moping is all bad. Some snap decisions I've made while having the blues could have used a few moment's reflection.

Anyways, yesterday's snap decision was to start looking for a job more in line with my aptitudes, aspirations, attitudes, and other none-insulting A words. I have two interviews already. We shall see what we shall see. It doesn't feel like it was one of the bad snap decisions, like contracting that Swiss asshole. But that could be because when Miss C showed up from Van City last night at 1, we killed a bottle of wine and some bowls, discussed the human mind for hours, and are now too tired to be self-critical.

Nonetheless. It's been awhile since I understood reactions are still decisions. In a North American bourgeois milieu blaming the world, the people we love or hate, or our age for what we choose to do is totally counterproductive. I just wish I could remember that all the time.

As Lady constantly says,

SUCK IT UP!

The Quick and the Dead

To those of you considering gifting me: please don’t. My profligacy adapted to my income and I’m broke. If you do, don’t buy me opera. It's fucking expensive and getting something I already have is likely because of the way the repertory works. If you buy music, buy somebody who gets royalties and who you reckon I’d like. But not these, which in my fiscal discipline I ordered yesterday:

Kanye West, Late Registration: Ever since Mr. S played Gold-digger for me, I’ve been wondering if I should buy the whole album on the off-chance the other tracks might be even a fraction as good. How can he be saying ‘Get down girl, go head, get down’ with that much resignation and still make me want to dance? Then on Saturday night when Lady’s gingerbread was in full wheresmyface flight, Mr. S played Diamonds in Sierra Leone. It was as good. Maybe better. So there we are.

Astrud Gilberto’s Finest Hour: I’ve had a soft spot for Astrud Gilberto ever since hearing Thievery Corporation’s remix of ‘Who Needs Forever?’ Such a pretty voice, and so APED. Aped by a generation of ‘intelligent’ folk-renaissance singers who were supposed to sound stripped down and just sounded flat. But calling Astrud Gilberto flat is as apropos as calling Stolichnaya colourless. This weekend someone told me she was alive so I decided it was time to stop 'sharing'.

K-Os, Joyful Rebellion: My brother has hot friends, or at least they were hot during my formative years and will therefore be Forever Hot. Just like Magnum PI. Last time I was in my hometown, one of my brother’s hot friends played K-Os for me – Man I Used to Be – saying “I know you’re musical so I know you’ll like this”. He was right. I like boys who know I’ll like things and don’t get all dumb because of my opera hang-up. Especially when I really like the things they know I’ll like. And I fucking liked that an awful lot.

Here are some people who aren’t dead whose things I thought of buying this morning and didn’t because of my awesome fiscal discipline:

Blossom Dearie
The Meters
Nick Cave (pre-Murder Ballads)
Al Green

And even though he’s dead, I guess Serge Gainsbourg things should be bought. I can imagine he’d have a plethora of children out there who need the money from the royalties. Fuck, only in France could that man have got the action he did. Brigitte Bardot, for heaven’s sake! Fucking France.

Speaking of gifting and Brigitte Bardot . . . you may want to think twice before giving any of your younger relatives a certain iconic plastic doll. And check out what FEB suggests he's sending me.

Soundtracking

1. Listening to a well-played harp is like eating a tray of reefer brownies and nailing someone you care about. Just – so – nice. I wonder if heaven was inspired by the sound of harps, or if the religious people thought heaven was so awfully pretty that harps would have be there. Kristen Theriault, the harpist from last evening, looks angelic when she plays. Anyone would, I think. Plucking with long fingers, pulling delicately away from the strings to get some lovely reverb or placing the hands gently upon them to dull the sound. Renie's 'Fountain' in particular was darling. Ah, when I’m rich I’m going to have a wicked ass funk band follow me around everywhere, and a harpist to play me to sleep.

2. This week will be retarded with busy-ness (Hah! Busy-ness! Business! I just caught on this very moment. Well, I’m a moron) until noon sharp on Thursday. Then, I predict everything taking a turn for the better. Fingers crossed. I picked up the Nutcracker tickets yesterday. Damp with anticipation.

3. A little Statcounter Bust:

Germany
G0812.g.pppool.de (80.185.8.18)
Costume JewelryCostume Jewelry
search.msn.de/results.aspx?q=dragon ball fucking&first=41&FORM=PERE4

Not cool, you sick fuck. I'm sure you can find enough standard anime porn online without seeing childish characters from a children's show fucking. Geez. It's shit like this that gets the world thinking Germans are all naughty.

4. Bolivia elected Evo Morales with a higher margin than alot of people were anticipating. I find it hilarious that in the American media, it's Morales' coca stances that get most talked up when his election was due to lots of important things like tension between European and indigenous people, poverty issues, and the economic organization of the entire country. I guess we know what's important to Americans - cocaine, and lots of it. Lots and lots and lots. Don't tell me there aren't literally hundreds of thousands of people there whose noses are a-twitch with glee this morning because they think cocaine prices are going to take a tumble.

Spirits

I've been having a shitty attitude all weekend. I haven't yet entered into the spirit of season and am feeling the bare minimum of good will towards men. To fight this, at twilight I'm off to listen to a soprano and harpist do seasonal things at a caker church. Gotta say the Catholics are sucking for the sacred music this season. Catholics are sucking generally. You'd think they'd have to counterbalance all the nuttiness with this new German dink by doing lots of pretty music. But nooooo.

My art-pusher, who I had a good chat with whilst buying things Picasso for my brother (having to order Bum, nobody seems to have it, which is shocking), may have a line on a part-time job for me that lets me listen to three TSO concerts a week. Some extra scratch wouldn't be remiss considering all the ways I run through my income, especially as I need to save money for the thesis trip and the notion of saving money is completely counter-intuitive for me. Also, three concerts a week, fuck. And they finish early enough to carry on with one's night afterwards. Still, how? What habits can I give up to get time to do this? I'm thinking either thesis or paying attention to boys.

At Lady's do last night (which came nearer to getting me into the spirit of the season than anything else so far) Mr. R talked up his frustration about not having time to write. I sympathize. Besides dream descriptions, I'm not writing anything (including, incidentally, my sisterfucking Christmas cards). I can't complain the writing phase of of the thesis is finished, oh heavens no, but at least it provided justification for not writing properly. So what habits can I give up to get back into it again, if 'thesis and paying attention to boys' time goes to the symphony? I should outfit my bike for winter - knock 40 minutes a day off the work commute alone. But that's counter-intuitive too - fucking winter. I fucking hate fucking winter.

By the by, did you know Word, while recognizing ‘fuck’ as a verb (I fuck, I am fucking) and as an adjective (fucking winter), won’t recognize it as a verb modifier (I fucking hate fucking winter)? Fucking Word. I think I know what the programmers need to listen to.