holy toledo

Apparently time is relative, because we can catch up when we want:
Extra second before the ball drops.

cum on taste the soup

probably nsfw.

out to dinner la nuit.

talked about this


which led to this

which came (heh heh) full circle with this.

Recalling NYT article (or was it NPR?) with slight unpleasant after-taste in mouth.

Dreaming of Angels.

We finally joined the 21st century and purchased our own wireless.

My mother, who takes 5 minutes to type "R U O K" into her cell, purchased an i-phone.

And I purchased a round-trip train ticket to New York, but I wonder if it might not have been better spent on a plane to Los Angeles.

To complement my dreams of late, I've been watching the second season of Californication.

I have to say, I'm pretty sure it's some of the best stuff the Showtime network has ever broadcast. It's like Sex and the City with far less materialistic bullshit and lots more sex and drugs and rock and roll.

There's something about charmingly cavalier protagonist Hank Moody that pulls a viewer in, although this ain't no drama for the desperate, I think Californication caters to a special kind of philistine.

Consider the episode before the Season 2 finale, Hank is lolling about with his on-again off-again soul mate, and she is about to tell him something when she feels a lump. Writing in enough of a cliff hanger that the devoted viewer will want to know whether or not Hank has cancer in the finale.

I won't spoil the fun, but let me say that it's so refreshing to watch a show that doesn't hyperbolize human drama (I'm looking at you Grey's Anatomy, with your code blacks and will she won't she).

Californication doesn't try to win any prizes and that's where the strength lies; in the show's ability to just be.
Although it doesn't hurt that the lech factor is at an 11, what with Cokey Smurfs and Porn Stars with Sweet Nature and Satanists teenagers.

P.S. I don't think I'll be too into Weeds when it comes back. It feels like a boy? Really Nancy? I'm beginning to see why they call you Not-Francy.

leggo my eggo

Fo Yo Info, I would never waste my neighbor's high-speed--and wide-ranging--internet connection by reading "people" online. A post at Glossed Over sparked some half-assed ass-journalism to back up my mini-rant with "research."

I may be late to the tabloid table here, but whiskey tango foxtrot is up with the baby bump being totally trendy? That is one seriously long running trend considering women have been getting pregnant since at least 1981.

Besides perpetuating the notion that evidence of body fat is a mortal sin unless you're eating for two, it's a rather cold reminder that LGBTQ community is cut off from traditional breeding, let alone adoption.

In other news, I'm glad Florida votes actually counted this election and Obama was able to win the Hispanic vote, but Amendment 2 is rather discouraging.

So, after more than a century of conflict over civil rights, it seems liberty and justice "for all" is still just a bit of lip service.

sitting shiva

Now we'll never get married.

LULZ I can has teh theoriz?

So in a Professional Development workshop after school today, I was putting together a "Newsletter" for project-based learning. I decided to create a unit on Po-Co lit. In searching for a photo of Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, I found LOL Theorists

Dandelion

This juicy nugget is packed with enough flavor for foodies and film studies alike.
I wish I had known about it in college. No drinking games to recommend, but that's what Wahl Searoh is for.

lok n lol.

dos thumbitos

Aqui, en Miami, there is an immigration loophole known as "wet foot dry foot" but it applies only to those who can justify the need for political asylum. (i.e. Cubans only, all others keep out)

Ergo, if a boatload of Haitians wash upon the sand out of Biscayne Bay, INS is on the scene to capture and send them back home, because Haitians do not seem to require political asylum (despite the fact that Haiti is in continuous guerrilla tumult.)
If a boat/raft/carboat/floating thingie full of Cubans seeking asylum washes upon the sand out of Biscayne Bay and they are on land by the time INS shows up, this is considered "dry foot" and the exiles are allowed to stay. If they are intercepted in the midst of their voyage, waiting for the gulf stream to bring them close to land this is considered "wet foot" and they must return to Cuba, where they have sacrificed their nationality.

Anoche, I watched B+B. As a gringa having grown up in Miami, I found Boxers+Ballerinas to be a well balanced representation of the aforementioned athletes' lives in Miami and Cuba.

I recommend it mucho.

New Favorite

I don't hide the fact that I carry a rather large chip on my shoulder about Hollywood. I make it my business to avoid entertainment news, so as to not give people like Paris Hilton, Spencer "Flesh-Beard" Pratt et al. any more attention than they already usurp. My sister gives me great amount of grief over my cynicism.
"You don't even know her," she'll sneer when I retch at the sight of a particularly nauseous specimen of satan spawn (e.g., Heidi Whatsherjizz from "The Hills").

This would be a lady who coos about how much she loves Johnny Depp or some such. I mean, Johnny Depp is a great actor, and I find him devastatingly handsome, but it's a thin line between love and hate, is it not? Does she know Johnny Depp? Think not.

(NB: I will park my ass on the couch--and only get up for pizza or cool ranch doritos, if I encounter an MTv marathon of the scripted reality train wreck starring L.C. and her repellant cast of sycophantic friends. As this is me choosing to pay attention to the motley crew--it's like smoking a cigarette-- I feel justified in my holier-than-thou contempt of the same group of people when they dare step outside the lovely boundary of their half-hour allotted time. Say, when the local news takes away five minutes of my life focusing on how L.C.'s Made-in-China designs are hitting the boutiques, and later, the skids.)

Because I acknowledge this seemingly hypocritical character flaw, I admit freely that I am a fan of "The Soup" (and have been since before the "Talk" was dropped), and while I do not frequent Perez Hilton and Co. or TMZ, I do keep up with the Fug Girls, at both their "Fashion" Blog and their cybercolumn at NY Mag, New York Fugging City. (Celebrity smokey treat!)

Anycrap, if the The Fug Girls are smokers, I'm sending in cartons for introducing me to the answer for all those body-image issues I had in high school:

Glossed Over.

Tres Delect. Some brave soul took the time and the risk to actually read, purchase and digest everything Hollywood and the advertising world think I need to know, and I will savor every juicy morsel. (Puff, Puff, Puff)

But I'm talking 'bout Shaft.

So. Isaac Hayes died, but his heart attackstroke didn't seem to have as much coverage as Bernie Mac's pneumonia. Sad.

I'm extra spicy this week.

GWB criticizing Russia's "disproportionate" response in Georgia = quite rich.

Huis Clothes

Used to be an existentialist could just shake his head and say "hell is other people," and other existentialists would nod and maybe a smart ass like myself would remark, "--on boring furniture."

But Sartre's dead, so who do we have to thank for this?

Lindz designed the Mr. President Leggings so that you can ride your bicycle without worrying if your knees are going to get windchapped.

Fried Chickens!

It can be hard to maintain a particular blog.
I seem to collect them like old journals. Never quite completed and fleshed out into a BLOG blog, but more like little glimpses of promising notions that become warped by my own sensibilities and humors.

Last Tuesday I went out to the Abbey and started talking to this dude from Chicago because he asked me questions. I guess I spent a lot of time answering, because at one point in the conversation, he cut in to say,
"I feel like you've been telling me so much about yourself, I should start talking about me."

I was surprised for a second because I hadn't realized what was happening. I've been slacking on the lit-ernet me, so I suppose all my pent-up vanities poured out with each pint of Dead Guy Ale I imbibed in that darkened pub.

Anycrap.
Silly me, always concerned with the other, checked out like 10 books from the library on sundry literary topics that could "passibly" be useful in say, an 11th grade AP English course of which the curriculum lacks attention on women writers throughout American History.

I'd been focusing a lot of attention on the Dorothy Parker reader, Flannery O'Connor and Madwoman in the Attic by Gilbert and Gubar, an amazingly thorough discussion on the development of Feminine Literature (women writing for women romantic stories of women who were well-behaved women who were friends with other women and married men and were pretty and feminine) into Feminist Literature and the criticism that one might employ to discuss the stuff that doesn't really fall under an Oedipal (Pre or Post) anxiety of influence.

But tonight, over steamed spinach and a mighty rum and coke, I opened Stories of the Cherokee Hills.

The stories were first published in 1898. (SPaN-AM! WOo! SPlendid little WaR!)

First off, I was smacked with some pure di-a-lict:
"I kin look both ways....an' see back inter the whut was an' for'rd iter the goin' ter be."

--and an explanation of "color jucundities" aka the "senterments" of White Men in the foot-hills of the Appalachians.

Werrrrrry Inte-westing.

Gee(SA), I'm touched.

I assigned the AP students a project on Civil Rights so that they could teach each other about the long running civil rights movement in this country. I let them pick out of a list which included Gay Rights, African American Rights 1800-1900, African American Rights 1900-present, a number of key decades from the 20th century, Women's rights 1800-1950 and then 1950-present, minority voting rights. There was a lot of overlap, but I was thinking that the overlap would help drill important facts into their little heads.

I was thinking brief presentations, i.e., no more than 10 minutes, so that everyone could present.

One of the groups created a 30 minute presentation on Gay Rights. They interviewed 2 students and 2 teachers and compiled this whole True Life deal with questions touching on coming out and what not.

Malheureusement, it was about 9% relevant to the actual assignment, so I had to cut it off.

I applauded their juevos/cohones, but yeesh, talk about putting me in an awkward spot.

Bien sur, it's always easier to apologize than ask permission, so I guess I'm lucky that the only student whose parents could conceivably bring charges of corruption against me stormed out of the class mid-vid.

Then again. Why am I even worried about being charged with "corrupting" kids with "gay" facts at all? I told them I would publish it on teachertube but I "got busy."

Cable club

I've always been kind of proud of the fact that we still don't have cable at my house. Neither do we have real internet, it's straight dial-up, which I suppose wards off identity theives because even I don't have the patience to wait for my personal information to download.

I've been housesitting, and lucky me on my spring break, I have HBO access.

Here's the embarrassing part, I caught myself trying to start an HBO conversation. The watercooler and everything, all about how awesome the Small Screen John Adams Biopic is...