Sunday, June 26, 2011


So, NPR is the bane of my existence these days. I wake up to it at 5:30 as a starting point to stumble into some workout gear so I can get tortured for an hour. (What? You think this body makes itself? Ho, no. I am now the squat master.)

Usually at that point in the morning, it is a women with a crisp British accent detailing the latest fun in the Middle East, but on the way back the more colorful stories emerge. A bar near DuPont Circle is now offering an $80 48-ounce martini. You can request a ladle. Seersucker suit day is still going strong. Weiner's weiner got the best of him. My mind is already overbrimming with useless information, now the useful stuff is headed for the hills as I consider downloading another podcast.

Thankfully NPR did me a favor the other night and interviewed Alina Simone, my new obsession.

Here's a nice little ditty from her new one:

And here's a ditty from her old one in which she is covering Russian punk artists. I still think Russian is one of the most beautiful languages ever to spring from the throats of human beings. Which reminds me I need to get back to the books, or Rosetta Stone. Or maybe go on a date with that Russian guy with the dog who lives around the corner. It was very encouraging when he said: "Your Russian is off to a good start and would allow you to either buy a home in Romania or order off the menu in a Chinese restaurant in Tajikistan."

Ahem, song.

And here's the original, also awesome.

Sunday, June 19, 2011


In those days, I know, I was shallow.

I thought of little more than
Liquor and words,
And how the sky
Would be made of us one day.

And when I whispered to you
That I was strong,
I knew that you believed it
Even when I did not.

Then it was enough, silly afternoons
With me reading aloud
Under the shade of trees
My voice in character, my thoughts scattered.

Perhaps I should have kept them
Safe in the space between your shoulder blades.
Except when you whispered your strength back,
I knew you were a liar too.

These things are done.

The trees are distant, the shade is gone.
My voice is home, safe with my thoughts.
And my strength no longer depends
On trying desperately to believe in yours.



"Don't be reckless with other people's hearts.
Don't put up with people that are reckless with yours."

Sunday, June 12, 2011


Sweat Factor at 9am = High

Reward level: Decadent

For the next six weeks to improve my running and reduce my coveting of burlesque dancers' bodies, I have decided (along with apparently 10,000 other Groupon junkies) to get up at 5am and head to boot camp. I am really not sure how I feel about this idea, because it conjures up ideas of having a large marine step on my stomach while doing "six inches" much the way my high school soccer coach was fond of doing. But I think for six weeks, a little bit of discipline can't kill me.

I loaded up on three huge bags of epsom salts and some ibuprofen.

Ready, sir!


Last night I went to see a wondrous woman whose acquaintance I had the pleasure of making last fall over a cigarette and a bitch about how weddings no longer guarantee single men and hot nights like they did in our twenties. Her show was rawly funny, honest, vulnerable, emotionally hard and then, before it all feel to weepy regretful pieces, resolved. Highly recommended. If she's in your town sometime soon, go and see her. There, Desiree, free plug. I am a woman with taste. People listen to me. if they have been drinking and are lonely. You're set.

Anyway, her show got me thinking about "the list" - you know the one. The one of the men you've let into your bed, and on much much rarer occasions into your head and heart as well. I have not even thought about making a list in a long time - largely because the last time I attempted it, I tried to do it chronologically and kept forgetting people. "Oh yeah!" I'd say, and draw a little arrow with their name in where they fit. And then, in wonderment at my own amnesia, "Hunh."

The hard part about the list is how many people on it really turned out to be a waste. Like you should have been out doing better things, letting perchance do its perchancing its way into happier motifs than "live and learn" - or in my case "you really should be learning at some point in this process, you know."

Frankly, the list, whether or not I actually write it on paper, hurts. It hurts because it has taught me to be cold and hard and resentful. As it grows, so do my own problems with letting people into bed, head or heart. And on Sunday evenings like now, when I am preparing for a hard week ahead, I long for people far away, or dead to me and after that longing, I long that I could simply erase them from the list and maybe relearn a few things after reliving.

Of course, it doesn't fall out that way, but I suppose you can decide to start over at one point, from scratch if you're really determined to do so.

Following the "Adult Petting Zoo" extravaganza last night, which involved a lot of free beer, foot long hotdogs, hilarious insights into the takeover of preganacy and a burlesque number that left hanging the haunting question "did she just pull her beads from her ...?", a friend and I decided to visit the "Before I Die in NOLA" wall, a project that was pointed out by this funny fella a few days ago. Sadly, it was really dark, we were pretty drunk, and equipped with shitty camera phones that just did not do the collective of one sentenced bucket lists written on an abandoned building justice. So bear with this rendition.

This is what the wall looks like at 2 in the morning when the humidity factor is high.

Here is a sampling of some of the entries. Turn your brightness way up.

The concept is that the wall is written in chalk, and erased so more people can add to it the next day. However, one real desire deserved a permanent stamp:

While my friend bent the rules a little by chalking up a bulletpoint list, I thought about this one strong desire - Before I die I want to LOVE.

I have loved. It's hurt me, but I'm still here ready to give it. And the living and learning aren't so bad either.

Behind LOVE I write "without a waiver."

Universe, I'm open.

Come and get me.

Thursday, June 9, 2011


An inspirational post from this dude got me to do two very unusual things today. One of which got me very excited. The other, not so much.

1. Joined the postcrossing project. And will hopefully be patient enough to wait in line for international stamps.


2. Checked out if there are any mail-order husband websites. The results were disappointing, and not just because none of them seem to be Russian.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Endorphins (II)

Test today.

Guy on bike when I am walking Nita this evening : "I like your tits!"

Why, thank you. I like them too.

Yeah, I think I'll keep on doing this.

Monday, June 6, 2011


Until recently, and a new resolution to get up early and run, I had forgotten two things.

1. Summer New Orleans mornings with the mist clearing under the rising sun as you run through a park are breathtaking, and don't make you feel guilty you spend the rest of the day avoiding the relentless humidity as much as possible; and

2. Running is like Pringles. Once you pop, you can't stop.

That is, for the endorphins. Not the trans fats.

I know a lot of people blog about running, and I know that most of the posts about running are the most boring fucking things you have ever read. The logs of miles, the dietary concerns, the pre-race prep, the right running shoes ... blah. I mean, all I really want to know is whether you shat yourself during that marathon. And for the record, that is like the ONLY thing keeping me from running one. The only.

Anyway, I highly doubt that this blog entry is going to be much different. The real reason I run (because I am already on the right side of the BMI, so suck it) is for the E. E for endorphins. And the more I can run, the higher the E. In fact, I am able to guage my running performance (and how much more I need to perform) based on answering the question "does this piss me off?"

It is kinda hot.

Meh, it's summer.

This woman in front of me is driving really slow.

I'm in no hurry to get to work.

Louisiana Department of Transportation sent me my registration seven weeks late and forgot to include the decal and I had to spend 20 minutes on the phone getting them to fix it.

These things happen. The woman was really nice. I bet she has a tough job.

I'm going to have to work this weekend.

I'm glad I have a job that lets me afford to do fun things.

Your unleashed pug dog ran across the street to come after my dog, and I rescued it by grabbing it before a car hit it. When you finally retrieved your dog from me, instead of "thank you" you said "just keep going" as somehow the whole situation was my fault.

I called you a dickhead and said I was fine where I was. Because that's not even a real dog.

So, assessment = add 1/2 mile to daily run. Or add evening run before walking dog.

Running in NOLA has its big payoffs, and that's alcohol. While the Hash House Harrier's Red Dress Run is always a big hit, the HHH themselves aren't as prominent as in other cities where I knew them. That's because there are plenty of people here who like to get weird, drunk, wear costumes, and could care less about all that mapping lingo.

A couple of friends and I ran in the New Orleans Track Club's Free for All Wednesday last week. Despite the simmering pavement, and no rain for days, you make it through for one thing - that cold cold free beer at the end. Since I mostly run not to murder other people, the calories in the cold beer do not affect me. In fact, I like to think of beer as internal epsom salts, soothing my muscles and my mind as I marvel at just how unattractive I am as a sweaty person.

It's pretty bad. But not bad enough to have the jello shots they broke out on top of the beer (because you haven't seen anything until you've seen a post-race yuppie mom with a push stroller filling up her purse with those, oblivious to her toddler trying to do the same.)

So, now we have begun a tradition of a Saturday morning run with its own reward. Last week was the tracks then Cafe Rani for strawberry and cucumber mojitos. This week, track and a loop, then bloody marys at the Avenue Pub. My "" page is starting to looking like a bar crawl.

Beats the hell out of those stupid gel things.

PS - If I am ever lame enough to post a picture of me post-running, it will be after the Spillway Run on July 3. Three miles through muddy ditches, and then firemen hose you off while you drink. It's like an awesome version of World War I.