Ordinary Extraordinary

The Empress Needs New Clothes

After a week of comparatively serious posts, I would like to take this opportunity to talk about clothes.

Specifically, the fact that I need some.

For some reason it didn't really occur to me that training for a marathon might have some impact on the shape of my body. I knew that I'd be getting fitter and therefore would probably be losing weight, but I didn't follow that thought process all the way through. As it turns out, clothes do not shrink in relation to your body. Who knew?

It is really disheartening to get out of bed feeling better about your body than you have in years only to get dressed and realize that nothing you own is flattering to your new shape. Even my favorite go-to outfits, the ones I could always count on to look great no matter how I was feeling, no longer fit properly. My slam dunk first-date sweater, the one that was tight enough to be titillating (pardon the pun) but not so tight as to be obscene, is too big. Now what am I to wear to bring the boys to the yard?

Oh, right, at the moment I can't get a date in this town to save my life. No need to really panic about the date wardrobe then. Ahem.

I know, this is what my father would call "a high class problem," don't cry for me too much. But the fact remains that I need new clothes and I am in no position to purchase any.

*sigh*

I need a Fairy Godfather.

Still looking for something serious? Fine: Oliver stone blasts Bush and points out that fanaticism is the result of our overreaction to 9/11.

Introspection

In a blog post about introspective rituals, my magic friend Taliesin had this to say:

This time however, I brought myself further up into the places within myself where I make connections with whatever I find. I took a step further than I ever had, and then I fell. There was nothing.  A black bottomless pit of parasites and carnivores. No voices. No visions. No magic. No god. No Self. Just a thick tar of separation and loneliness.

Thankfully, I am a god damned magician. I knew what this was, knew it was natural, and steadied myself to endure the illusion of separation. This is the great fly trap. The thought that can trap you in a sea of grey. The religion of murder. Initiation. The test. The last cave that demands nothing, so you must enter naked. Many enter this room of the palace infinite and panic when they find no one home. Some walk away battered and bruised, giving up a life of magic. Some, like Manson, embrace the black as the final secret and delve head first into mania. And a few Like Leary go on to see what's in the next room.

Important to remember of course is that your whole life is spent in the waiting room. Entering, exiting, and waiting in no particular order. Initiation is a moment to moment choice. Do you bow to the sword? Do you crumble to the weight? Do you ignore? Do you betray? Do you deny? The test is a constant. Failure is a constant. Victory is a constant. Pick yourself up and head to the next room, there's only one room anyway.

Discuss.

Privacy

I have a relatively unpopular view of privacy where celebrities are concerned; I believe that they should have some.

Celebrities become famous through the love and support of their fans so yes, they do have an obligation to be gracious and thankful. When they walk the red carpet at awards shows or embark on press junkets to promote new projects, absolutely they should be smiling, waving, glad handing, and signing autographs. All of that is part of their chosen profession; those things count as being "at work."

That does not mean that we, the general public, are entitled to know every single detail of their lives outside of work. Would you want your co-workers knowing the minutia of what you and your boyfriend did on vacation, or how awful you looked when you ran out to get coffee in your pajamas Sunday morning? Would you want them to approach you at a restaurant and ask you to "just look over this file real quick" while you're eating with your family?

No, of course you wouldn't. You enjoy your privacy.

It is a celebrity's responsibility to be aware of their behavior whenever they are in public, that is the cost of fame. You want to get busted for driving drunk then scream racial epithets at the arresting officers? Well, that's pretty much on you.  Want to reveal the intimacies of your relationship on national television? You don't get to cry about the public mocking you with the information you've willingly provided. And if you are ever stupid enough to let someone record you having sex? I will personally slap you for being shocked and hurt when those tapes inevitably make their way to the internet. These are all issues of common sense (and common decency, for that matter).

But the paparazzi have become ruthless in their pursuit of celebrities who are just going about their daily lives. Hiding in the bushes outside a daycare to snap photos of Maddox Jolie-Pitt, pursuing cars driven by celebrities and causing accidents, egging on stalkers to confront their famous prey in a public forum, all of it makes me angry.

It's the interest in celebrities' very personal affairs, though, that makes me furious - the attitude that the public is somehow entitled to know intensely private information.

This morning's coverage of T.O.'s "suicide attempt" made my blood boil. Most specifically, these two sentences:

Watson and fire department spokesman Joel Lavender cited privacy laws for the lack of information they could provide. Lavender said more details could come from the 911 call. The Associated Press filed a request under the Freedom of Information Act to get the contents of the call.

and

At the police news conference, Watson released a version of the police narrative with certain sections blacked out. The full report was obtained by several news outlets and reported first by WFAA. The AP received the full version from WFAA.

The Freedom of Information Act applies explicitly and solely to federal government agencies. Unless the F.B.I. was the first agency to respond (doubtful), the police report & 911 call transcript are not federal documents and are therefore not subject to the Freedom of Information Act. I wish I could say this was the first time that a media outlet has invoked the FOIA in order to get more celebrity "dirt," but it's not. This happens all the time.

Lyndon Johnson signed the FOIA into law as a means of enforcing government's (now, largely theoretical) subservience to the people; it is not supposed to be a tool with which the media strips away an individual's right to privacy. As a patriot, I deeply resent it being used as such.

To the Associated Press and WFAA: Fuck you. You are nothing more than vulgar ambulance chasers. How could you possibly believe yourselves entitled to such information? A man may have just tried to kill himself and you'd like to smear the details of it all over the evening news?

Seriously, fuck you.

See Alyssa Be Petty

It's no secret that I'm not a fan of See Alyssa Date, Glamour.com's version of Sex & the City.

Candace Bushnell's column (and the resulting television series) managed to be at once sophisticated and light hearted, intelligent and entertaining; Sex & The City had both depth and relevance. See Alyssa Date, on the other hand, is vapid and poorly written. Take this sentence, for example:

LA is gorgeous and "chill" and I feel very serene and inspired there-- I write better, move slower and "enjoy the moment," much more than the busy Big Apple.

After the generous application of grammatical and punctuative rules, the sentence should read:

L.A. is gorgeous and chill; I feel very serene and inspired there. I write better*, move more slowly, and enjoy the moment much more than I do in the busy Big Apple.

What a difference the MLA makes.

The only thing that sets Alyssa apart from any other flighty woman who has ever whined about her dating life is the fact that Alyssa is getting paid to do it.

You want well-written tales of dating adventures? Go buy Candace Bushnell's book or peruse Hilary's archives. I guarantee that you'll find both of those women's writings more interesting and more entertaining than you will Alyssa's.

Until recently, my distaste for See Alyssa Date was passive. I read the blog when it was first introduced, I sighed that such poor writing was being rewarded with a paycheck, and I moved on. I think it's safe to say that unless someone brought the column up in conversation, I didn't bother to think about it at all.

Then she swept one of my friends into her serial dating whirlwind. We all know what happens when one of my friends is treated poorly, right?

My friend, known as "Boston Boy" on her blog, went on several dates with Alyssa, all of which were inaccurately chronicled on her blog. (We'll just chalk up to creative liberties, shall we?) The day after their last date, she  surreptitiously dumped him via blog and defended her actions by saying that since they only went on a few dates she didn't "owe" him an explanatory phone call or email.

It's simple courtesy to let someone know that you're not interested in future dates. This is called being an adult. If you don't want to be left standing around wondering if the person you're interested in got hit by the bus, don't do it to other people.

This is triply true if you write a dating column for a glossy magazine. Particularly if you have told said person about your column, therefore insuring that they will read it. Boston Boy did, of course, read it and voiced his opinion in a follow-up thread. Unsurprisingly, he received equal amounts of support and opposition after piping up and her response was largely to whine about people needing to "cut her some slack." Slack for what, exactly? Personally I think Boston Boy is well rid of her.

In all fairness, her blog did have one moment of truth and insight: her Sept 22nd self-assessment that she is an overgrown teenager desperate to be popular.

_____
*You are supposed to be a writer. Can you not come up with a more effective comparative than "better?"

Continuum

I downloaded John Mayer's new album, Continuum, from iTunes this weekend and I am in awe; I've had it on repeat for two days. John Mayer has said of this project "CONTINUUM is not a shot in the dark, it's not a guesstimation. This is the first endeavor in my entire life, music or otherwise, that I did not cop out for a second on." His focus & devotion shows in every track.

This album is intelligent, complex, and soulful without being overbearing. There is no unecessary noise here; as in many visual art forms, the "negative space" in these songs is just as important as the positive. The lyrics, too, are direct and uncluttered - a straight shot to both the heart and the mind.

is there anyone who ever remembers
changing their mind from the paint on a sign?
is there anyone who really recalls
ever breaking rank at all
for something someone yelled real loud one time?
oh, everyone believes
in how they think it oughta be
oh, everyone believes
and they're not going easily

belief is a beautiful armor
and makes for the heaviest sword
like punching underwater
you never can hit who you're trying for
some need the exhibition
and some have to know they tried
it's the chemical weapon
for the war that's raging on inside
oh, everyone believes
from emptiness to everything
oh, everyone believes
and no one's going quietly

-John Mayer, Belief

Continuum is undoubtedly Mayer's finest work to date. I'm loking forward to watching, and listening, as his music continues to evolve.

I'm Moving

Of course tonight's two-hour season premiere of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition made me cry; I cry during every episode. However, it also made me realize something.

I'm moving.

To Alaska.

Why?

Because apparently all of the lumberjacks in Alaska are under 35, drop dead gorgeous, and wield large and heavy tools with authority. It doesn't hurt that most of them teared up during the reveal, either. Strong, manly and sensitive? Yes please.

Plus, they can all climb a fifty foot tree in under twenty seconds. I don't exactly know how I'd put that skill to use, but I'm sure I'd find a way.

Sign. Me. Up. I'm on the first flight to Fairbanks.

Seriously.

Bannable Offenses

On a gloomy Friday when I am busy feeling sorry for myself after having been confined to my bed for two days due to Plague, Bannable Offenses is a soothing snarky, drunken balm for my soul.

[GM]Dave for the win.

Go. Read. Pee first.

Canyons of Steel

Autumn in New York, why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York, it spells the thrill of first-nighting.
Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds in canyons of steel;
they're making me feel I'm home.
. . .
It's autumn in New York.
It's good to live again.
-Billie Holiday, Autumn in New York.

I miss New York.

I've lived in Southern California for eleven years now and for the first time since moving here, I'm homesick.

It's not specifically my family that I miss, or my friends, it's the city herself. I can keep in touch with my friends and family via telephone or email, not so with New York. There's no way to reconnect with her but to set my feet upon her sidewalks, feel the wind whip past me up 7th Avenue. Though I grew up in northern New Jersey, I spent a lot of time in the city during my formative years - there is something about New York that just feels like home.

New York breathes, she pulses with the life force of her eight million residents. She is a living city, the creation of all who are native to her canyons of steel. She exists unapologetically. Nothing more, or less, than exactly what she seems. Stand on any corner and you can feel her heart beat in the rumble of the subway, see her eyes blink in the glint of sun on glass and steel.

There is something comforting in her vibrance, her perpetual motion.

E.B. White once said of New York: It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky. I don't believe New York has that power. I think, rather, she strips you of your own barriers, makes it clear that you are the only one who has power over your destiny. Luck has nothing to do with it; you are free to do whatever you choose. Live, or die. Succeed, or fail. Your choice matters not to her, but she will force you to make it.

If we are to think of Los Angeles as Aphrodite, then New York is surely Athena.

I don't know what brought on this bout of longing.

Perhaps it's the fact that my writing partner lives in New York and I can hear the city's voice in the background every time we talk.

Perhaps it's the change of seasons. It's been cool enough for a blanket lately, and tonight I lit the candles in my fireplace for the first time in months. (I'm glad to be living in my stubborn foothill community; we almost have seasons this far up the mountain.)

Perhaps it is simply the fact that my future has been broken wide open and I long for the clarity that New York provides me. An hour or two of walking her streets and the answers are always there, waiting for me.

Her voice is soft, but insistent. I'll be there soon enough.

Dreaming

I don't dream very often. Or at least, I don't remember my dreams very often. I have the same short vignette of a dream every night while falling asleep but after that, nothing. When something does stick in my memory, it's usually one of two things: nightmare, or prescience. Early this morning, however, I had what I would qualify as a very "normal" dream - one which fell into neither category.

I dreamed that I was on some kind of tour for work. I'm unclear as to whether it was a live show or a movie, but we were changing venues every few days. Though the project was definitely work, all the people involved were friends of mine and we were happy to be getting paid to have fun and explore exotic places.

Side Note: There were dozens of people in this dream, all of whom had faces, voices, and distinct personalities. None of them were people that I know in my real life. Isn't it odd how your mind can create such convincing realities out of whole cloth?

The dream was quite long and involved, but the part I've been thinking about today is a scene where a group of us were in a hotel suite, exhausted after a long day of travel and trying to sort out the next morning's plans before going to bed. I was standing in front of a couch & coffee table talking to the people sitting on the couch, on the floor, and on the table. My dream-boyfriend came up behind me and put his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder while we all talked. At some point he had to leave the room for a minute so he took my left hand and kissed my palm before he left; I could smell his cologne as he leaned over and feel the touch of his lips on my skin. Later, when I panicked after discovering there had been a mix-up with the reservations and I didn't have a hotel room of my own, he stroked my hair to calm me and said that of course I would stay in his room. The last thing I remember before waking up was him tucking me into bed next to him and kissing my shoulder before we fell asleep.

What stands out about this is not the fact that I had a boyfriend in my dream, but that his presence exemplifies everything I miss about being in a relationship. The unconscious gestures of affection, the physical closeness, the trust that there is someone who thinks about your well being as much as they think about their own. I can go to the movies alone, attend weddings without a plus one, and find plenty of things to do with my Sundays that don't involve lazy mornings in bed, but I miss having someone on whom to rely.

Yes, I have friends. I love them dearly and wouldn't trade them for anything, but my friends fill a different place in my heart. There is something unique and special about a romantic partnership that can't be duplicated by even the closest friendship.

For now, that place in my heart is empty.

Ground Control

Home from work and in my pajamas by 6pm.

Bliss.

Now before you think to yourself Oh dear, not even 30 and she's living the life of a retiree please understand: I'm so happy to be in my pjs at 6pm because I was out until almost 3am last night and got a whopping total of 2.5 hours of sleep. On a Monday night.

You see, yesterday was the inimitable Chow Yun Smut's birthday and we celebrated at Ground Control, my new favorite spot for alternative karaoke. Seriously, when have you ever heard Cartman's version of Come Sail Away, Suffragette City, The Rainbow Connection and Gay Bar all at the same karaoke night? That's right, you haven't!

Teece, Tag and I arrived bearing bukkupcakes (that's a story for another time) and gift cards to make our long-overdue first appearance at GC. With the exception of the cover and the fabulous & heavy-handed bartender, Ground Control feels more like karaoke in your best friend's basement than it does a Nightclub. Friendly and talkative people, laid-back vibe, and much general silliness (and cowbell).

Of course, the one person I couldn't manage to strike up a conversation with was the cute and vaguely mysterious guy who was sitting a few stools down from me at the bar. He struck me as a cross between Ferris Bueller and Elvis Costello (I know that doesn't sound like a good thing but trust me, it was). We did lots of eye flirting but never managed to exchange more than a few words. Since he started to leave right after he sang, I scribbled my name and number on a song request slip and pressed it into his hand with the explanation that I'd love to have the opportunity to talk to him in a slightly quieter environment. My boldness was rewarded with a big smile; we'll see if it's followed up by a phone call.

Since it was CYS's birthday and I know how she likes people to make asses of themselves on her behalf, I crossed another thing off my 101 in 1001 list and sang Out Tonight from Rent. Considering the fact that it had been a good two years since the last time I attempted that song, it went pretty well. Next time, though, I'll make a point not to wreck my voice by spending the hour and a half before I sing screaming and cheering.

Also, I will have more Jack Daniels first.

Teece had everyone wishing they'd brought their rollerskates with her rendition of Xanadu and CYS brought down the house with her flawless performance of Evanescence's Bring Me to Life. Though the party raged on, the three of us bowed out after that as we were all well past pumpkin time.

My cell phone rang super early this morning with a work crisis so I've been running on coffee most of the day, but it was worth it. Happy Birthday, Bug!

Birth Control

I laughed so hard at this commercial I nearly cried. Word to the wise: turn the sound down, particularly if you're using headphones.

It's a shame I didn't see this a few months ago, a couple of people I know really should have watched it.

Missing

My duvet is missing. Not just the cover, the entire queen-size duvet. I put it away in the spring and now that the weather is cooling off, I thought it was time to dig it out again. The problem is, I can't find it. I remember washing it and folding it in the spring and I remember putting it on the top shelf of my linen closet. It's not there. Aside from that shelf there are only about two place in my house where it could be and it's not in either of them. I'm very puzzled, and more than a little concerned that my house may hold a black hole large enough to swallow not only stray socks, but whole duvets. I'd better keep a close eye on the cats.

Lunchtime Politics

Across the street from my office is a cluster of six restaurants, the only ones for several blocks. The crosswalk in front of them is, therefore, prime proselytizing space between the hours of noon and two.

I've been assaulted by every possible special interest group while waiting for the light to turn in my favor: Save the Whales, Free Tibet, The Clean Water Initiative, the International Vegan's Association, you name it. Out of curiosity, I listened to their spiels the first few times. These organizations' reps are categorically uninformed and ill-equipped to answer questions or engage in conversation; they're more like automatons spewing sound bites while robotically offering pamphlets. So it's become a bit of a game amongst the lunchtime regulars to see how fast we can shut these people down.

Today, my challenger was a perky young recruiter for the Democratic National Party.

She: Hi! Help the Democrats take back Congress this year?
Me: No, thank you. I'm a Libertarian.
She: We really need to take back Congress, though, can I talk to you for just a second?
Me: I'm not interested in helping the Democrats monopolize Congress.
She: What, why not?
Me: I am a Libertarian. I don't support the Democratic Party.
She: But, what? We have changes that we need to make!
Me: There are only two changes I'm interested in making right now. One, getting that shrub out of office, and two, loosening the stranglehold that the nearly-indistinguishable Democratic & Republican parties have on our government.
She: . . .

Open Letter

Dear Cathy Gould,

I know you are outraged that Madrid's Fashion Week has banned unhealthfully-thin models, but I call foul on your accusation that these measures will harm the careers of "naturally gazelle-like" models.

No such species exists "naturally." Do you see the model pictured in the article linked above? She has no breasts, no ass, and her collarbone, sternum, ribcage, and humerus are all clearly visible. That's not natural.

Allright, maybe three or four women on earth maintain such a slender physique due to genetics, but the rest maintain it through a variety (or combination) of absuses: drugs, eating disorders, extreme exercise. That's not natural either.

This is not about discrimination; this is about the fashion industry taking some measure of responsibility for the "ideal" that it presents to the world. You cannot parade these women around as the absolute pinnacle of fashion & grace and then act surprised when millions of young women and girls destroy their health emulating them. Is it entirely the fault of the fashion industry? Of course not, but that does not mean that your industry is blameless.

This is also not about censoring the designers' creativity. If clothing designers are so concerned that the artistry of their design will be ruined by human curves, I respectfully suggest that they change careers. Perhaps a perfectly smooth, flat, canvas would be less offensive.

Or, they could always send their creations down the runway on an army of mechanized mannequins - all of the personality with none of those pesky human flaws!

The fact is that runway models are now so far removed from the "average" woman as to be ridiculous. No one is suggesting that designers start creating clothes for 5'7" size 14s (though I'd love to see that) and sending them down the runway; this is simply a move towards projecting a more healthful image of women. If we're going to objectify, why would we pick a sickly-looking target?

Madrid is not alone; the Mayor of Milan has already said that she will campaign for a similar ban at Milan's Fashion Week. It won't be long before this new, more healthful version of the runway model spreads throughout the industry.

Your only course of action is to grit your teeth, suck it, up, and order a few sandwiches for your models.

Best,
Amandarin

Loose Women With Morals

I spent most of yesterday avoiding the major media outlets (a bit difficult when you work in television, let me tell you). Even five years later, the wound is still too fresh, the nerve endings too raw. So I did what I normally do on September 11th; I wished Boober a Happy Birthday and went on about my day.

Bendy called me mid-morning and invited me to her house for a 9-11 memorial to be followed by a wine & hors d'oeuvre gathering. I vascillated about whether or not I wanted to go. On the one hand, I always enjoy spending time with Bendy - there's something about her presence that is both welcoming and comforting. But on the other, I wasn't sure I was ready to rip off that scab.

Ultimately I decided to go and I'm glad that I did. There were nine of us all together, seven women and two men, sitting in a circle on Bendy's front lawn. Three Jersey girls, one ex-marine, four people who had friends & family in the city on 9-11, one who was there herself, one who'd lost friends in the Tower, three who had never been to New York, five of us strangers before we all sat down together.

We each lit a candle and said a few words before joining hands and sharing a moment of silence. A woman walking her dog past Bendy's house stopped to tell us that her sister had been in the Pentagon that day and had been lucky enough to escape unharmed; we lit a candle for her, too.

We left the candles burning in front of a picture of the New York Skyline and a printout of the victims' names and headed inside to uncork a few bottles of wine. There was nothing morose about our gathering, nothing sad. We remembered, and then we moved on to enjoy ourselves immensely.

There are few problems in the world that can't be righted (at least temporarily) by the combination of good friends, good food, and good wine. Notable quotes from the evening:

Me: You know, as I was driving over here I was trying to be in my place of peace and remembrance, but it's really freaking hard when I'm wishing death on half the population of Burbank so I can find a freaking parking spot.

She: I got the best compliment of my life today. Someone told me that I'm a loose woman with morals!
Me: Can we just shorten that to "slut with taste?" Fits better on a t-shirt.

She: I'm sorry, did someone call me?
Me: No, but we were talking about loose women with morals...
She: Well now at least I know what you were calling me!

She: You never know, there could be sex at the end of nachos.

He: When we left the house I had to carry her down the stairs she was so drunk, then after a sip of Coke and one french fry suddenly she's stone cold sober. How does that work, exactly?

She: Why are you channeling Jerry Lee Lewis right now?
He: I don't know, because it seemed appropriate?
She: That's never appropriate.

I think it's a testament to the human spirit that last night a handful of people could come together and share a moment of remembrance before spending the rest of the evening laughing and talking. Connecting.

My father still works in Manhattan and he told me that yesterday was eerily like 9-11-01; the same bright sun, the same cloudless sky, the same crisp breeze. He noticed, though, that there was a different vibe to the city. People were meeting each others' eyes on the street, chatting on the subway, taking that extra second to smile or hold a door. Connecting.

In the end, what I've learned from 9-11 is that those connections are the only thing that will save us from drowning in the deluge of hate, separation, and fear-mongering.

That laughter? It's the Universe.

When I began the AIDS Marathon Training Program for some reason I was under the delusion that if I stuck to the program by doing my maintenance runs and participating in all the long weekend runs, the whole process would be a snap.

What on earth was I thinking? Training for a marathon is hard. REALLY hard.

Particularly when the Universe is out to get you.

• During the 10-miler, I was ambushed by a sprinkler and took a nasty fall that resulted in my having to go back to base camp to nurse my swollen knee.
• At mile 6 of our 12-miler, that same knee gave out and I found myself back at base camp again.
• I had to work the Saturday of our 14-miler so I missed that one completely.

I was bound and goddamned determined to finish the 16-miler on Saturday, even if it killed me.

Things were going pretty well at the beginning of the run: the weather was cool and beautiful, the course did not include the Hill From Hell, and the Libby Hickmans were in good spirits. We sang, we danced as we waited for lights to turn (hey, you have to do something to keep moving), we kept moving. I was feeling pretty good as we jogged down Beachwood, heading for the 9 mile marker - more than halfway there, woo!

Then I felt a tear, and an odd burning sensation along my inner thigh.

I'd blown the seam on my running pants and my right leg was unraveling rapidly.

I turned left at the bottom of the hill and headed back towards the park; everyone else turned right, on to mile 10. By the time I'd hoofed it the two miles back to base camp, my right leg was basically naked and I'd worn most of the skin off of my inner thigh. I was so angry, though, and so frustrated that I didn't care. I drove home, changed my pants, and went right back out my door to run 5 more miles.

Take that, Universe!

Now I'm going to work on finding a way to get out of this chair without using any of my leg muscles. Ow.

Sweet Orange Salvation

Emotional Drama + Work Stress + PMS = Recipe For Disaster

Enter my salvation:

This stuff is manna. Creamy, not too sweet, no weird aftertaste, and not at all bitter. Pure heaven.

Although I wanted to go back to Organic to Go and buy every single one that they had in stock, I managed to limit myself to a single bar.

I must stockpile some Sweet Dark Orange reserves - something tells me that they will be instrumental in my making it through Live Events season without killing someone.

The Return of Saturn: The Departure of Apollo

Saturn returned to me this weekend.

I knew he was coming; I'd seen the warning signs, tasted the blood on the wind, but it was culfinglin who calculated his exact arrival: Sunday night.

Right about the time that I was standing outside Apollo's house, watching tears well up in his eyes.

Cronus is not known for his subtlety.

There have been endings before of course, and they have been followed inevitably by more beginnings. This one was different.

I walked knowingly into a trap, ready to fight, but when I comprehended the full scope of the betrayal and dysfunction, I chose instead to withdraw. Had I stayed and engaged the annihilation would have been complete, but the victory hardly seemed worth the effort of the fight.

Apollo followed me to my car in silence. When he did finally speak it was obvious that even he didn't believe the words falling from his lips. When I asked him if he understood the magnitude of the choice he'd made, he responded that it was epic. I told him that I hoped he could live with it because he would never see me again.

When I looked in my rearview mirror, I could see the tears glistening on his cheeks.

Tragically, there was no nobility in The End; mighty Apollo was brought low by the one thing to which I thought he'd never fall: a cliche.

Never Say

10 Things You'll Never Hear Me Say (via Cinnamon Girl & Chronic Listaholic)

01. Bungee jumping? Sounds great!
02. Uh, ohmygodeeeeeew a spider! Eeeek!
03. I wish it was a little hotter out; I have a chill.
04. I would kill for tickets to Oprah's show.
05. High School was awesome!
06. Yum, soft shell crabs... my favorite.
07. Can we watch "Jackass" or "Viva La Bam?"
08. Go UCLA!
09. Get on a plane tonight? I couldn't possibly be packed in time.
10. Yes, Apollo, I will marry you.

Crikey!

R.I.P. Steve Irwin At least his death was fitting... he didn't get hit by a bus or die peacefully in his sleep.