baby_boomerang

I watched this movie about nine times in sixth grade. The whole thing is on youtube.

reposted for the enjoyment of non-ljfriendlisters.

Friends only till I get it together. Log in to be bored by old entries.

A short list of things I have done in 2009:
reread CLOUD ATLAS
drank a bunch of wine
smoked too many cigarettes
worked a lot: run up the stairs, run for your life
got a promotion
eaten many plates of nachos and lots of ramen
thought of things to write about
avoided writing about them
written a metric fuckload of emails and texts
hibernated
healed up from spider bite
made a couple of mixes as very tardy xmas presents
discovered that sfsu is not allowing post-baccalaureate work due to budget cuts
and still not crossed off the to-do list: figured out what the hell I'm going to do about school

Salty dogs, quiet metal and trivia tonight.

Wiled away a half hour in the bookstore yesterday looking at Bob Gruen's photos of the New York Dolls. I can't really listen to the Dolls much anymore as I played their albums TO DEATH over the years, but the images turned me starry-eyed. I mean, David Johansen? I would have loaned him all of my dresses and shoes, no problem.

In the world without stars in eyes: I'm still one letter of rec short, because my editor from the Guardian is not answering emails. Most frustrating. How do I remedy this? Fraud? Bribery? Firearms? Grad school seems like a gigantic, stupid, EXPENSIVE crusade of idiocy right now. Maybe I should just open a bar. Or jump off a cliff. I HAVE ANGST!

Other than that, I have a new love for salty dogs from Koko. They squeeze the grapefruits to order, and they are cheap during happy hour on Mondays, which is also when you can hear the quietest metal in town. We have been following up this delightful waste of time with Rock Quiz Night at Minx. Mondays are currently my favorite night of the week.

It's Thursday. Sigh.

(Agent Provocateur ad, Peaches Geldof on the right)

Dear God,

Please God stop my carcrash fascination with Peaches Geldof. This is definitely NOT subverting the celebrity obsessive dominant paradigm, even if she is wicked cute and way too easy to mock. I moved to New York when I was 19, too. There the similarity ends but I have a vivid imagination and a memory soaked with holes rent by Long Island Iced Teas ("I like my drinks like I like my women, full of liquor and from Long Island!" --Kat, Coney Island High, St. Mark's Place, 1999) so that helps.

Anyway I'm overdramatic about My Life Path as usual just now-- writing personal statements and chasing down letters of rec have left me in a total deer-in-headlight state of catatonic paralysis-- so googling Peaches Geldof is a very, very convenient and distracting way to misspend a Wednesday morning.

(Wish I could afford Agent Provocateur. Speaking of, am I ever enjoying the recent decrying of consumerism by fashion bloggers. It's cute, if just a shade disingenuous. Consumerism. . . is sort of why? You write? Because you are writing about BUYING CLOTHES? Did I miss something?)

I keep meaning to actually post things that have to do with my actual life away from the Google and the Flickr and the Gawker and the Youtube

(oh God:)



but I haven't yet learned how to spin fascinating tales of my humdrum adventures, or perhaps this is a knack that I had once and tragically (though gradually and thoroughly) lost. I think I will put regaining that knack on my to-do list, but not at the top, obviously.

Love,
Dona

Or, why I am obsessed with metal, slutty outfits, feminism, and beer.

My hairdresser the beauteous Jenny Kim has flaked on me for the second day in a row. She was supposed to make my gorgeous snarly over-bleached blonde locks a sensible dark brown. Is this fate telling me to STAY GOLD? I thought I'd darken up for a while, mostly as an anthropological experiment (it does seem to me that blondes with big racks are treated differently, hmm?) but also because I can't currently afford new clothes so my hair is the only part of my appearance that I can alter and like most Americans I hunger for change. What do you think?

Anyway I am left now with quite a bit of time on my hands before work, and I sure as hell won't be spending all of it studying for the GED. . . ahem, I mean the GRE. No no no! I need to sharpen my facilities and get mentally acute before I crack the study guides. So! To make us all smarter! I present some metal and lite-metal videos from way way back in my sweaty, awkward, braces-n-glasses pre-adolescent years.

I have been watching a lot of VH1 Classic's "Metal Maniacs" on the TiVo thingy, and anyone joining me inevitably gets annoyed because I fast-forward through many of the videos having seen them all 2038472 times. Below are videos they do not play on "Metal Maniacs," and they should, not only because I am got-damn tired of seeing "Livin' On a Prayer" (on a show what calls itself METAL?!? Even Headbanger's Ball didn't play Bon Jovi videos, that I remember) "Rock You Like A Hurricane" "Lick It Up" "Holy Diver"
and on and on and on,
but because these videos all provide insight into gender and class issues by featuring objectified, sexually voracious women. Or something.

First we have "Tease Me Please Me" by the Scorps, which uses the LADY CHATTERLEY'S LOVER trope to wonderful effect. This video features a rich bitch who despite the demands of changing her sexy outfits eight times a day AND making orange juice and iced tea, time-consuming to say the least, still somehow fits humping the handyman in every conceivable location into her busy rich bitch schedule. She seems to particularly enjoy her working-class bang on top of a grand piano (you can tell because she hits the high ivories like the female, gettin it on' version of Henry Cowell.) MTV played this video like a motherfucker (that is to say, a lot) when I was what, ten? I hear my warped mind is pretty fun when I've had too much to drink.

( more video vixens )

Think on this and tell to me your thoughts: why so many rock songs with my name in them?

I know mine's spelled D-O-N-A and probably should be pronounced DOH-NA but I can't deal with people calling me a donut in Spanish, also my mom who was the original intentional misspeller has always pronounced it DAH-NAH (well, she's from the South so it's more like DAW-NUH.) Point being: it's pronounced the same as in all the songs, therefore, it's my name.

In other news, today in San Francisco the Folsom Street Fair was another clusterfuck of bad skin and naked genitals in the sunshine. However, some dude was dressed as Dr. Rockzo which made my whole empty, meaningless, puny little life completely worthwhile. The outfit was ambiguous enough so that I wasn't completely sure whether he intended to look like Dr. Rockzo or if he was, in fact, a rock n' roll clown gettin' high on cocaine, but either way I was thrilled, and inspired about this year's Halloween costume.

P.S. Mirror now up at http://dona.typepad.com/
Once it looks the way I want it to, I'll be posting there more than here.

Who wants to have a Linnea Quigley movie night with me?

More on dead girls: io9.com's discourse on "zombie feminism" as a horror genre which touches upon a couple of things that will dwell in my subconscious even when I forget my own name, like Laura Palmer and THE RIVER'S EDGE.

News has reached me from outside of the existentialist bubble in which I dwell. I am deeply afraid of the bailout described on the front page of the NYTimes today. Jim's soapbox is much bigger than mine.

Too much serious talkings? Diesel's SFW porn ad caused me to laugh when sent to me this morning. Dig with caution if you are somewhere around people who hate sex, it's not all that safe.
Cartoon humping ahoy.

Does anyone want two cats? I have a couple of extras.