Saturday, February 18, 2006
what about the jews? is affirmative action effective? are you seeing anyone?
eat, drink, get undressed. walk, sleep, think, talk. listen to music, watch movies, drink wine. play with cats, walk the beach. eat at restaurants, attend lectures, draw pictures. brush teeth, do laundry, stare out the window, drive through the country. make love, read sartre, throw rocks at tree stumps. listen to npr, put on deodorant, water the plants, take digital photos, curse the president. cry, write research papers, drink beer in the afternoon. sautee mushrooms, change the oil, ponder the progress of science. wash the dishes, go to matinees, envy those more fortunate. wear sweaters, juggle, drink coffee on sunday mornings. nap, think, argue. walk in the rain, pay taxes, change your life.
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8 comments:
i don't think so, tim
Once I ate a whole bag of Chips Ahoy Cookies in one sitting.
I can't say that I understand you Hzablog, but I do understand "drink beer in the afternoon."
to answer your questions -
what about them? i think so. yes.
it is my contention that this post is lifted word-for-word from trainspotting
The last line makes this post sound like an after-school special. But I like it, makes me feel good.
here is your internet update:
someone in cayucos came to CM by googling "justin housman"+calpoly. And then they looked at like 15 pages. :/
April 3, 2006
Don’t get alarmed. It’s not going to hurt. It’s just me, Chloe Dove. Again. Don’t start on me about how I said I wouldn’t be back then I was back then I said it again, and now I’m here. I don’t need that kind of pressure. I know what I’m doing. I need to talk.
There was a hit NBC series entitled ‘full House.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It starred Bob Sagat, an apparently funny yet perverted comedian of sorts who vied for the part alongside hunky John Stamos and funnyman Dave Coulier, the alleged subject matter of Fellow Canadian Alanis Morrissette’s hit single ‘You Oughta Know’ (in an unrelated matter, the line ‘Does she go down on you in the theatre?’ is supposed to make you imagine former Mousekateer Alanis performing some sort of ritualistic healing powers on Uncle Joey while in a darkened room dimly lit by something big like ‘Robin Hood: Prince of Theives’ or maybe ‘Jurassic Park 2’), as well as twins Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen who would grow up to later have eating and drug issues and dress like vagabounds on account of the apparent trauma of being a child star. Not unlike the girl from ‘Who’s The Boss?’ or Corey Feldman. Anyway, I wanted to let you know that the theme song of ‘Full House’ goes like this:
Whatever happened to predictability,
The milkman, the paperboy, the evening TV?
You miss your old familiar friends,
Waiting just around the bend.
I want to ask you those questions myself, only I want to be more direct and forceful: What the F*^!K happened to your GD blog? Where the H@*#L have you been???? Honestly, I don’t understand why you want to be into this blog, talk all about yourself, purposely want people to read it and about you and to find you online and then you’re just all “Oh, I’m not going to do that anymore. And I don’t give a S&^%T about what anyone else is hoping for or expecting. THEY DON’T MEAN ANYTHING TO ME ANYMORE.”
I don’t have to be a rocket scientist or Dr. Phil to know that those thoughts are inhabitating your body the way a baby is living inside Katie Holmes, fiancé and better half of Hollywood It Couple Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise, aka TomKat, aka strange religious freaks with a penchant for silent births at home.
What happened?
I understand that you are living life, that you are trying to make All This worthwhile. Your last blog questioning most Things makes me aware that you often feel like you are floating above the life you’d like and are having a hard time weighing yourself down with trust long enough to touch the ground. That’s quite transparent and apparent and I don’t know what to tell you, accept to ask you not to forget about the people here on Planet Earth who are searching too, and beg you not to try to make the discoveries alone. Were here too, especially me. And I’m not sure of anything either. That’s why I wanted to do a mirror exercise. That’s where I’ll do a little sample of writing that’s like yours’ only not the same, though the same style and it’s me you’ll be looking at in the reflection instead of me looking at me, and how I looked at you last month back in the Old Days of black and white TV and horse covered wagons, back when you had the time and heart and soul and love and trust to blog. Deep breath. Here goes:
Should Jennifer Aniston get the house in the settlement? Is Kelly Pickford faking her dumbness on ‘American Idol’? If there is a shortage or poverty of money in the US, why can’t the federal government or Arnold Schwarzenagger just pass a bill to print more money on those big money-printing machines and we’d have a bunch more, and then we’d get out from under debt?
Open door number one. Look inside. Found what you wanted? Nope, not yet. Keep trying. Walkjogsprint, but drink a gulp of water on youre way. Don’t think. Just do it. Nike. Eat a snack that fuels and stokes your cosmic fire. Open the trunk of your car. Is It there? Nope, don’t give up. It’s there somewhere. Smell the flowers. Count your money. Count your fingers- still have ten? Nothing wrong. Sleep to rest to prepare for next search. Wake up, tapping the alarm clock as if it were a child’s head, a child bringing home good news or drawing of sailboat he wishes to take out and away and float on a water of youth not grownup not issues not scared not thinking too much but enough not hurting and waitingwaitingwaiting can’t tell WHAT’S NEXT. Rise and shine. Brush your hair, are you losing strands? Don’t worry, it’s part of it. Open the fridge. Is It there? Nope, but the pickles are, but they wont’ get you far. Or will they? Go to school, someone might know everything and they’ll teach it to you in fifty minutes. Don’t miss class or you might not learn It. What is It? I don’t know, fool, that’s what I’m looking for. We used to have lockers to store stuff like It, but not anymore. It’s open season after That. Open the car to drive home, but It’s not there either. At least tonight ‘Idol’ is on. Maybe one of them knows. But they don’t. Eattakeashower (no, It’s not in the tub), think about It before the eyes shut before they open tomorrow. What about tomorrow? Maybe tomorrow?
Maybe.
We’ll, it’s a semi-mirror, maybe more like a compact. I’m glad you can see now I’m not just a poet laurette, but someone with other stuff, too. I wanted you to know that I can understand and also relate and help out with all that debris that’s sponging your heart.
On an unrelated note, I was in a car accident. I guess you could say I had a brush with death, which has left me more insightful and helpful and maybe a little slower in speech. I don’t know if you’ve ever gotten close to dying before, but let me tell you, that other than the spiritual journey, it’s no picnic. You have to be pretty strong to resist the hand that invites you to join the underworld. I guess all my sit-ups have been paying off.
What happened is that I was on the freeway, on my way to work (where, incidentally, I had recently won a contest for the person who sold the most amount of child-sized sundaes in combination with birthday kid club memberships. This all resulted in a special nametag that says ‘Ask me how I can make YOUR kid feel good!’, which Ronnie said sounds like something for ‘that queerass motherfucker Michael Jackson and his faggoty sidekick, Culkin’, which I think is sad, because it just goes to show how ignorant and judgemental America and Ronnie can be), and a car, full of an ignorant, bigoted, wannabe racecar driver-driving, undoubtedly escapee from the law cholo guy, in his lowered car, undoubtedly as low as his pants and standards, cut me off so he could pass in front of me fast enough to get to his freeway offramp. That’s the part of the freeway that goes off toward the left area so you can stop being on it and be in the town you want to go to. So, he bumped me hard on my car left front and I wound up involuntarily moving and skidding and it was like my life flashed before my eyes and I wasn’t aware of my movements or purpose on earth, I just had to make a subconscious decision to be smart and I had to put on the brakes and try not to hit the wall that’s on the area where you get off the freeway. I swerved the way they do in movies and at that moment the company or people or person who brought me Here was like “Chloe, are you ready to die? Are you done?” (by that I believe he/they meant ‘are you done with life’), but I knew better than to fall into that trap of giving up. So, my car did not tumble or turn over or anything. The next thing I knew, I was veering off the freeway, guided by a higher power’s safety net and my own resistance to my own demise. I saw ahead of me the cholo guy’s purple lowriding vehicle pulled off on the side of the offramp thing. At that time, I was trying to gather my thoughts and mentally remember everything that had happened when death knocked on the door of my Integra, and I did not notice that I had pretty much not stopped yet, and even though I wasn’t swerving, my car was still going, and then, all of a sudden, I rammed into the Cholo man’s tricked-out ride (that’s how hip kids say stuff. I think it sounds pretty good). There was a medium-sized crunching noise like a soda can, and I noticed then that I had smushed the back of the cholo-mobile. Oops, is what I thought. I tried, at that moment, to remember if there was already some crunched out part of the car before, like maybe something one of his gang members had done with some sort of bat or small dog or something as part of an initiation ritual we all know those kind of people have. I was thinking about that when the vato-ese-hommie- kind of guy got out of the car, naturally, in a white t-shirt down to his frigging thighs and those socks up to his knees and a crispy hat backwards on his shaved head, where there was undoubtedly some sort of machismo scar on his skull. I’d put money on the fact that there was probably a puffy Raiders jacket in the backseat. Anyway, as he was coming at me, I realized that I was supposed to gather some sort of pertinent information about him and his vehicle and insurance. I realized also that I didn’t have any paper or a pen, so I put my foot on the gas, and swerved around him, and gave him sort of a look like ‘Sorry,’ and put one finger up like ‘I’ll be right back. In a jiffy!’ And then I just went to work.
It was as I was scooping some strawberry cheesecake yogurt that I noticed that I had a sharp pain in my neck. And it wasn’t the new girl, Sophie, who drives me nuts by telling me all the time that she’s gotten fired from no less than fifteen jobs because she’s been caught on security camera sucking the dicks of each of her former bosses at the aforementioned jobs. Like she’s all proud of it, too. Anyway, I had a genuine, bonafide pain that I knew was a result of the cholo car accident, most likely an extreme case of whiplash. I told Yolanda about it, and she asked if I had gotten the guy’s information, and I said no, but told her I could pick him up out of a lineup with no problem. I told her about what he looked like and stuff to show her how attentive I was and she said, “It was probably one of my fucking cousins.” Only when she says ‘fucking,’ it sounds like ‘bucking.’ Linguistics are really neat. At least I now know that if it was related to Yolanda, his name is either Raul or Francisco, which makes it easier to remember, even though she’s got, I think she said, 19 cousins. How smart to name them all the same so no one would forget.
I got home the night Raul or Francisco had hit me with his car and told Mom and Dad how I was experiencing extreme pain. They were very upset with me that I had not gotten the cholo guy’s information, and I didn’t understand what the big deal was. He was the one who needed his car fixed. By the hand of God or some other Big Force, my Integra had been spared physical repurcusions, though only it and I will know the power of Chance that had been filtered in that car’s interior. Ronnie said I was ‘a Smooth Fucking Criminal hit and run bitch who would go to jail and find the love of my life in some huge bulldyke with tat’s and piercings who would make me her bitch.' He predicted this woman’s name would be Sherilyn or Cass. I sort of got scared then, not necessarly of becoming a lesbian woman’s bitch, but that I was, indeed, some sort of ‘bad girl’ who had become involved with the law and escaping the law and had performed a heinous crime of hit and run. I told Mom I was suffering from post-traumatic-stress-disorder and that I need months of physical and emotional therapy to recover from what had happened. She told me to get a life and that I couldn’t drive my Integra for one month.
Then, I realized the positivity of becoming a bad girl. I began to tell everyone that I had gotten away with murder, figuratively, by ramming a gigantic sized Cholo man’s car, had escaped from his threatening glances and movements, and lived to tell about it. No one really cared, but I sure did. Whenever someone got mad at me, I’d be like, “Get off my back!!! I was involved in a hit and run accident!! I’m not well!!!” Or if they were annoying me, I’d be like “You better shut up. I”ve hit and run a pretty big gang of illegal Hispanic aliens and I’m not afraid to beat your shit up, too.” I realized, sooner or later, that no one cared at all. Finally, I got my Integra back, but I’m still pretty fearful that Raul or Francisco will find me and rip me off or physically assault me or maybe even make me their bitch. I look behind my back a lot now, if you know what I mean.
Well, I only thought it was fair that you know The Whole Story of why I seem more on another level than you and why I’m a little bit skeptical and cautious about all things spiritual. I’m not tripping off drugs, just reeling in the effects of a very stressful and traumatizing situation.
But, I get back up and keep going at it, just like I did with all that stuff that happened between us. You know?
But it doesn’t let you off the hook of where you’ve been and if you’re coming back and who do you think you are. Cause I’m still not sure about any of the above.
Your understandably miss understood though not understated or underdeveloped underdog, Chloe Dove
PS: I didn’t really mean what I said earlier about being nonchalant about being Sherilyn or Cass’ bitch. There’s really only one person whose bitch I really want to be. Know what I mean?
PPS: Do you think Nick Lachey is seriously dating Kristen Cavallari from ‘Laguna Beach,’ because she’s really really young? Curious. That’s all.
PPPS: Have you ever hit and run someone?
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