Category — frenz

At approximately 4:15 this afternoon, Melissa Lion and I will be making fun of disabled people discussing Fair Trade and things at The Nightlight Lounge on SE Clinton with a cold chocolatey martini in front of me and a fistful of dollar bills to shove into the jukebox. I plan on playing the entirety of Bruce Springsteen’s Nebraska and then maybe moving on to some Belle and Sebastian. I will go nowhere near Steely Dan because that is soooooo 2007 but I might play a little Nick Drake. Or Nick Cave. Or Stevie Nicks. One of the Nicks. I would play some Camera Obscura because I am obsessed with them right now or Eskimo and Sons, but I don’t think the jukebox at The Nightlight (or probably anywhere except my own fantasy jukebox) has either of those. Maybe someone who works there will read this and stick one of their cd’s in there and also, while I’m wishing for things, maybe the New Yorker will ask me to blog for them and pay me $500,000 a year to do it. That would be nice for me and, dare I say it, for them too. I would also like a flying bear cat dragon. Please.

So, now you know where we’ll be and what I’ll be drinking and what kind of music taste I have (Good - well, our friend Nate might strongly disagree with this because of my love for Guided By Voices and my kind of meh feelings about The Hold Steady) and if that doesn’t alert your inner stalker* (although God knows you all have much more important things to do than stalk me unless you want me to bore you to death with stories about my cat or that time I met Robert De Niro and he wasn’t wearing any shoes and I saw how tiny his feet were which kind of freaked me out) I don’t know what will. But I tried.

I TRIED, OKAY?

* Having my own personal stalker might stroke my fragile ego. I am just saying.

First off, I think I should explain how to pronounce “The Poor” or “A Poor” the way we do because it truly does make a difference when said this way. We pronounce it like “Yom Kippur”. Say it to yourselves out loud a few times. Have fun with it. “The Puuuuor.” Got it? Good, moving on…

The fucking Poor woke us up again at 2 in the morning chanting really stupid things at the top of their American Spirit filled lungs. I think it was something like, “I go to Art School and all this really means is I have a very expensive camera and an even more expensive cocaine habit” and “I can Eisenstein the hell out of a montage.” Also probably, “I will work at Office Max for the next fifteen years.”

I wish I was awake enough to have gotten a picture of Dane out on our tiny balcony in his underpants yelling, “Shut the fuck up” at them. It’s very classy when he does this. Maybe I’ll re-create it for you tonight, if I can get Dane boozey and pillsy enough to agree.

ANNNNYWAYYY…an exciting thing happened yesterday. Matt Davis of The Portland Mercury posted a nice blurb about Face of the Cookie on Blogtown. Whee!!! So I would like to first thank Matt Davis and then welcome my new Blogtown readers. Welcome. Make yourselves at home. And by “make yourselves at home”, I mean, “please don’t touch anything with your filthy internet fingers. I just cleaned.”

No, no, really…welcome. (STOP TOUCHING THINGS.)

NEXT.

We had our second successful New Seasons food dinner in a row. I made turkey burgers on whole wheat buns with bbq sauce, pickles and jalapenos. We also had roasted cajun sweet potatoes and roasted asparagus (not pictured here - I put them in the oven a little late and ate them halfway through dinner).

To the right of this shot you can see half of my blueberry pomegranate vodka drink. This was the first of, oh, eight maybe? How many is normal?

I had mine with plain yogurt and sriracha. I don’t know what The Poor have with their potatoes. Dirt, I assume. Or an old shoe. Maybe they can’t even afford potatoes and so they just live on their genius. Mmmm…genius.

I should write something scathing about the asshole manager from The Fez on Friday night who refused to give any of us our money back after we each paid 10 dollars to see the last 3 minutes of a fashion show that we didn’t know was happening and we thought it was 80’s dance night and the reason we thought this was because EVERY SINGLE FRIDAY IN THE PAST MILLION FRIDAYS HAS BEEN 80’s DANCE NIGHT* AND THE DOUCHEBAG (YES, I AM - GOD DAMN IT I AM! - BRINGING IT BACK) AT THE DOOR SAID NOTHING OF THIS TO US AND THEN PROBABLY RUBBED HIS GREASY FACE ALL OVER OUR PRECIOUS 10 DOLLAR BILLS AS WE MADE OUR WAY UP THE STAIRS TO THE POOREST EXCUSE FOR A FASHION SHOW EVER BUT I AM NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT BECAUSE I AM TAKING THE HIGH ROAD.

We ended up going to Lola’s Room for their 80’s Night and the best thing I ever saw happened..

I’m pretty sure my mom dated this guy in 1976.

Which made it ALL worth it.

* None of us had ever been to the Fez for 80’s night and with the exception of Jen, who is a very enthusiastic dancer, the rest of us as a rule don’t go dancing ever except if we are terrifically drunk at a karaoke bar and that just happens sometimes.

I met Melissa Lion for lunch yesterday at the Everett St. Bistro and I was really nervous which is totally normal for me. I think I just get nervous around new people or people who are not Dane or people who look at me with their eyes or perceive my existence in any way. I used to get nervous playing Scattegories or Monopoly with Pip, Charley, Dave, and Serena which is just STUPID because hanging out with them was basically like mainlining sunshine and vodka. Obviously, this goes a long way towards explaining the boxes and boxes of Sci-Fi/Fantasy books in our hall closet.

Melissa was super nice and relaxed and she had a beer and I tried to order a glass of wine but our waiter just walked away from me. Seriously. He asked if we were ready to order and Melissa said, “I’ll have a Red Hook” and he asked me the same thing and I said, “Not food yet, but - ” and then he shunned me. He turned his back on me and I was shunned. I don’t know why he did this except I suspect it had something to do with his heart being made of stone and also that he probably has Herpes and was weary of the shame.

Anyway, I finally did get my glass of wine and we ordered some food and irritated the fuck out of our waiter by not leaving when he wanted us to leave and I don’t give a shit because it was fun and so awesome to meet another person who does what I do, only, you know, WAY BETTER , and I spent a great deal of time handwriting a thank you note to the Internet but when I tried to shove it through the harddrive I became extremely frustrated, so I wrote this instead. Because fuck you Internet. You can’t have nice things.

We did have a good time last night but I had three Nightlighters and two Vodka/Izze Pear Sodas. A Nightlighter is Vanilla Stoli, Godiva Chocolate Liqueur, and Starbucks Coffee Liqueur chilled, shaken and served up with a Hershey’s Kiss. It is the booziest, girliest drink ever, but because of it’s dark color and the absence of any sugar on the rim, it doesn’t look super embarrassing when you drink it. Maybe.

Anyway, that was A LOT of alcohol and I don’t even remember half of what was said to me or what I did. I mean, I remember but it’s all pretty hazy, especially after the third Nightlighter. I may possibly have insulted someone’s taste or mother or race? Also, I think I came home with things in my bag that weren’t in there when I left. Sorry The Press Club!

It was nice to hang out with Dave again, even though we didn’t talk much and honestly at that point, normal speech was impossible anyway.

And Dave is a Sea Captain now which is good because that Gang of Four thing wasn’t really panning out so it’s best we let the briny deep take him into her watery bosom.

Mostly, what I remember is me talking at Justin for like, oh, 300 minutes about…mmm…something? I have no idea? Anais Nin? I think, yes. I think Anais Nin. And Henry Miller. And then his eyes glazed over and he punched me.

No, no, he didn’t, but he SHOULD have.

Tonight Dane, Megan, Justin, and I are going to The Press Club for a dj thing Dave Allen is, um, spinning? Is that right?

I think what he does is he pushes a button and music comes on - kind of like how our microwave works only less complicated.

Before we go to The Press Club we’re going to The Nightlight Lounge which is a few blocks down on Clinton. Dane and I used to host a Trivia Night there every other Sunday until we got rid of our car and moved to the other side of town. It was really fun but a lot of work that I would basically make Dane do, because I don’t have a full time job like he does so it makes sense that he should do it. It’s purely logical and if you like, I can work it out for you with math and science. I just need an etch a sketch and a sextant.

Soooo, we are going to vegan bike messenger central and in an effort to fit in, Dane and I have decided to become “Public Vegans” and maybe also “Public Bike Messengers”. A few hours of internet research and a stop at American Apparel is all we need. I’m practicing hating everything right now. It’s not that bad.

I mean, it just sucks. IT BLOWS.

I don’t even care if you read this. I’m only doing it for my band anyway.

One:
Klonopin will turn your posture into your Grandmother’s posture.

Two:
Dane and I are in a band and this is the cover of our forthcoming album, You’re On My Side of the Bed Asshole.

Three:
We’re pretty sure these two are being paid to hang out with us. THERE CAN BE NO OTHER EXPLANATION FOR THEIR SAINTLY PATIENCE.

Four:
Slipping an aspirin into my drink is not going to make me forget my morals, Dane. I’m saving myself for Jesus and you know that.

Five:
This facial expression on Jesse means he will shortly fall asleep on your couch with his shoes still on like an eight year old who’s been at the beach all day.

Six:
Whatever Dane’s about to do to me, I probably deserved.

And lastly:
Dane is a longshoreman now and his life, his love, and his lady is the sea.

I’ll miss him sometimes.

I see you out there, lurking around the blog…going through our medicine cabinet and trying on my shoes… and I just wanted to say to you that my wellies are your wellies. Sorry if they are covered in mud and dog poop.

Soooo, I spent most of the day yesterday re-writing my review of the mongol movie and even though it was stressful (because I have an innate ability to self-destruct whenever I hear criticism feedback) I am really very, very happy with the results. Sometimes I just need a good kick in the ass. And no, not from you Dane, so please put your foot down.

ZZ and I had a really good walk this morning. She met two corgis, one named Norman. I have no idea what the other one was named but I imagine it’s something like “Winston” or “Jeffrey”. What I am saying is that these dogs are either English Country Lords or gay. Or both. I LOVE THEM.

Tonight we’re having Megan and Justin over to watch LOST and the apartment is a disaster so I’ll be tapping into my inner OCD and cleaning the shit out of it. Before we watch LOST, though, we’re going to Le Happy for crepes and boozy things and then to Slabtown for - omg, this is so exciting - AIR HOCKEY.

Air hockey is the only sport I’ve ever been any good at. And don’t tell me it’s not a sport because if that is true I will quit this world posthaste. POSTHASTE.

I’ll try to get pictures of us playing air hockey, or rather, of everyone kneeling at my feet paying homage to my disc flinging prowess.

Last night we went over to Megan and Justin’s totally beautiful jealous making house (they have a room entirely dedicated to foosball which made Dane weep quietly to himself for a little while in a corner of the room, gently stroking the table with one hand and drinking a beer with the other) to play some Guitar Hero and watch Lost. And naturally, since they are people we like tremendously and we care what they think about us and I had vodka in my hand - I decided to talk about poop.

Look, anyone who has ever known me for more than five minutes knows I have always had stomach issues. Everyone in my family has them and we all blame my Grandmother whose idea of a salad was iceburg lettuce sprinkled with sugar. And I think, most girls put their anxieties into their gastrointestinal area rather than into their fist and then through a wall like men do. I’m not saying one is better than the other but I don’t know if it’s possible to spackle an ulcer.

Megan did not, of course, talk about her stomach things because she’s a lady but I am a 79 year old woman in a nursing home and cannot help myself and went on and on at length about the virtues of fiber and yogurt (the real kind, not the pie kind) and oatmeal. Mostly the oatmeal though because honestly people, it has changed my life. I am no longer a prisoner of my willful innards.

So, internet, here is the oatmeal I eat every morning which makes life worth living because I am no longer afraid that eating lunch will result in me lying curled up in the fetal postion under a blanket unable to talk or move or watch reality tv. AND IF THEY TAKE THAT AWAY FROM ME I WILL COME DOWN WITH THE WASTING DISEASE.

This is half a cup of regular rolled oats from Whole Foods, one ounce of sliced almonds, half a cup of blueberries (I know, I know, they’re not in season and they’re not local but fuck you Michael Pollan, you explain that to my belly), cinnamon, vanilla and almond extract (why not? we all need a little luxury in life), half a tablespoon of peanut butter, and a packet of stevia.

Judge me if you will, but we all poop. Except Eva Green. She probably just glows a little brighter for about sixty seconds and then rides away on her pet unicorn to her silver castle in Rivendell.

I think I’ve got my finger in too many pies. Or at least, my fictional finger in too many very real, very important to me to not let down people, pies. I haven’t written anything for Pampelmoose in two weeks, just one post for Engamer, and still NOTHING besides the About Us section of Geektoob. I went to a screening for the Mercury on Friday at Cinema 21 and then another screening on Monday at the Whitsell (for the Merc too) Auditorium inside the Art Museum.

I don’t know if any of you have ever been to a Silver Screen Club screening before, but let me tell you it’s like watching a movie with the entire cast of Cocoon sitting next to you and gumming their popcorn. Except you’re not allowed to bring any food into the new renovated fancy pants theater so I suppose they’re just gumming some prunes or Centrum Silver they somehow snuck into a tote bag or a fanny pack.

Anyway, I spent most of Monday writing about the movie for Friday and all of yesterday writing the one for Monday. I just wonder if I maybe don’t have a knack for journalism. Sometimes I can spit out a review or a post in 15 minutes and sometimes it takes me an hour or two, but it always breaks my brain. If I write more than one post in a day, I feel like I’ve just run a smartypants marathon and need to carbo load again by reading the internet for a few hours (Seriously, will that walrus ever get his bucket back?!!!?) and then sleeping until next month o’clock.

I’m actually reading a real book right now - the kind I can take into the bathtub without getting electrocuted. It’s The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollingurst (you can see it over there…a little to your right) and it’s about a GAY. I didn’t know this when I picked it up or surely I would have set it on fire immediately lest the gay get on me. This book is so good. It’s like a panacea for all wayward english lit majors searching for a lost Henry James novel. It makes me happy. Correction: It makes me GAY.

Wait, where was I? Oh! My inability to focus (see what I did there?), yes.

Dane will tell you all about my problem with multi-tasking. Seriously, just ask him, he could go on for HOURS. Basically, if I have to do more than one thing in a day besides the normal cleaning the house things, the overwhelmingness of it bullies me into a panic which then becomes a kind of lethargic neurotic coma. I’m like a dog who’s been kept inside too much and starts to scratch itself really, really hard in one place (I can’t believe I just compared myself to a dog. With fleas.) Too many things to do short circuits my action taking ability. I know this would be helped with some medication (I love you klonopin), but I am so resistant to putting my liver and kidneys through any more trauma than I already have (Vodka + Advil = oh my god DIALYSIS), I’d just rather learn to manage it on my own. Like our ancestors did when they had to hunt and gather in JESUS CHRIST KIALA THE SAME GODDAMN DAY AND NO ONE BLOGGED ABOUT IT.

So now I make to do lists and I breathe deeply and one day when I’m old I hope to be able to go to a Silver Screen Club movie and remember to sneak in my prunes and my Centrum Silver and then go to my bridge club without freaking the fuck out.