Still having a hell of a time on the novel that dare not speak its name. Don't know why this one is going down so hard. Anyway in an ongoing effort to kick my own ass, I'll be driving out to Yuma Arizona this Saturday in search of some kind of inspiration. Why Yuma, you ask? Well, a good chunk of the action takes place just outside Yuma. I need to go stare at some grim dusty desert roads and hope that'll somehow kickstart my sluggish brain.
Meanwhile, I was googling around looking for images of Yuma and wound up with several naughty photos of busty Japanese adult film star Asami Yuma. Here's one of the more work safe images.
Just a quick post to say thanks to everybody who sent me birthday presents over the course of this past Birthday Month. I'm currently hard at work in an attempt to return the favor.
But don't worry, if you don't like the new book, or any of the other soon-to-be-announced side projects, I'll leave the tags on so you can return them.
I have come to terms with the fact that you guys will never EVER remove all those 45 pound plates from the leg press or Smith machine when you're done with your set. However, if you come over and ask to use my speed bag while I'm skipping (my own personal speed bag that I bring with me, not one owned by the gym that I happen to be using) and I graciously say yes, do me one small favor. After you have kicked aside the step-aerobics platform I set up (to make me tall enough to reach the bag) and then banged the hell out of my bag for about thirty seconds but before you get bored and wander away to look at your abs in the mirror some more, take five seconds to put my little platform back the way you found it. Don't make me use your tiny, tanned and shaved nutsack as an easier-to-reach substitute.
I've been dying to see In Bruges ever since I missed it on its brief run in theaters. Colin Farrell and Brendan Gleeson play Irish hit men hiding out the title city (it's in Belgium in case you're wondering) after a job that went tragically wrong and that's all I'm gonna say about the plot. In fact, if you haven't seen it yet, go rent it now and do yourself a favor. Don't even read the cover copy on the DVD. Just watch it.
This is the first film I've seen in a very long time during which I was constantly genuinely surprised by the direction of the story. Not a lot of self-conscious, twisty, deliberate misdirection but just n strong, intensely human story told in a refreshingly original and unpredictable way.
The problem with being a writer is that you sometimes feel like a veteran worker watching wrestling matches. You can appreciate seeing all those familiar moves being beautifully executed but it's rare to see something in the ring that's actually surprising. In Bruges really surprised me in the best possible way. Mistress Christa says check it out.
Incidentally, while I'm typing this, I'm drinking a mango lassi that I decided to make because I had a bunch of very ripe mangos that were probably gonna go off if I didn't eat them all tonight. When I saw that I was out of cardamom, I impulsively used chili powder instead and have accidentally invented my new favorite summer drink. A Mexi-lassi: Blend the usual yogurt, milk and chopped mango (I like to add crushed ice too) and then sugar (or salt) to taste. Top with a sprinkle of chili powder and a squeeze of fresh lime. Mmmmm, culture clash!
What am I doing this morning? Eating a lemon cream tart (in the same spirit, but actually much better than key lime pie) and reading Palahniuk's SNUFF on my new Kindle.
KINDLEKINDLEKINDLEKINDLEKINDLE!!!
I've always been more of a luddite than a techno-whore, but hot damn I love this little gizmo. Yeah, sure it's flawed in various small ways and yeah I can't get every single book I might want on it, but it still holds over 200 books. That's 200 books that will not be piled up on a chair in my tiny house. I no longer have to stick to the no-hardcover rule I instigated because I don't have space for anything bigger than a paperback. I no longer have to lug a backpack full of books on the plane to calm my fear of running out of things to read.
Oh and speaking of Amazon, it's come to my attention that there have been some problems with the shipping address connected to my wish list. I think I've fixed it now, but at this point I would rather just have gift certificates to help me fill up my Kindle.
Another birthday today, the actual day. I often feel deeply cynical, cranky and much older than I really am, but I still feel like a happy little kid every year on my birthday. In a world where you have to be jaded and above it all in order to be cool, I refuse to play that shit. Today I want key lime pie for breakfast. I want to jump on the bed with my dogs. I want to dance around and sing along with Harvey Sid Fisher.
Happy Birthday to me!
Oh and hey, just because today is the actual day doesn't mean it's too late to hit the old Amazon wish list.
Yesterday was my last day to hang with my mom, whom Maria Alexander has dubbed "Lady V." In our quest to get out of the heat, we decided to get manicures and pedicures. The nail salon always has tons of magazines to read while you get your toenails painted and naturally all of them are women's magazines. Nothing but articles about various stars I've never heard breaking up with each other, the familiar "how to give a blow job so your man won't dump you" Cosmo-type thing and one or two ultra-couture fashionista rags. As I was perusing the spread searching for the least of various evils, I noticed a magazine slightly under the rest. All I could see of the cover was a large black bald head. Definitely not a broken hearted starlet or a well dressed stick-insect. Curious, I snagged that mag and amazingly enough, it turned out to be street-fighter turned MMA star Kimbo Slice. What a copy of ESPN magazine with a cover article about Kimbo was doing in a nail salon I'll never know, but it set a surreal precedent for later events.
That evening, Lady V and I went off to Providence for dinner. I thought about taking photos and writing everything down and even brought my camera but when I got there I decided I would just enjoy everything and be a lazy birthday girl. We had the five course market menu and were blown away. Each new thing was more incredible than the last. Mojito ravioli. Tiny chive blossoms. Ginko berries. Corn tortilla ice cream. All these complex and unique flavor combinations but nothing seemed weird, silly or experimental just for the sake of being out-there. Each dish seemed perfectly balanced, as if it were the only possible way that it could be.
After that I had to take Lady V back to her hotel so she could get packed and ready to be whisked back to NYC first thing this morning. My mom loves my dogs and so we thought we'd swing by my place and grab the pups so they could ride with us over to her hotel.
We pull into my parking slot next to my house and notice my neighbor pulling out of his. She waits in the car while I let the dogs into the yard. About three minutes later, I call the pups to come out to the car. Emma shows up but Butch does not. Curious, I go back into the yard (with Emma following me) and call Butch. Nothing. He's nowhere in sight. That's when I notice that my neighbor's back door is open (the one who just left.)
I walk up to the neighbor's open door and call Butch. I knock on the open door and call inside to see if the neighbor's wife/girlfriend is home. No answer. Now Silver Lake has become pretty gentrified but not enough that you can go out and leave your door open like this. While I'm calling Butch, Emma runs into the neighbor's house.
The neighbor's back door opens into their kitchen. I take a few tentative steps into the kitchen, excruciatingly uncomfortable and feeling terrible about just walking into the home of someone I barely know while they are not there. I finally spot Butch and see that he is wolfing down cat food out of one of those free-feeding dispensers that holds five pounds of kibble. I grab him and hustle him out the door, but now I can't get Emma to come when I call her. I really don't want to go searching through the house, but I'm about to when I hear her start screaming and yipping like she's being murdered. Sounds like she's being dealt a feline ass-whupping by the resident cat. I run through the living room and realize she's in the bedroom. Now I have to go into a stranger's bedroom to grab my dog who is cowering in terror and refusing to move while the victorious cat sits on the bed washing herself like it's no big deal. I grab Emma under my arm and head out to find Butch back in the kitchen having at the all-u-can-eat kitty buffet again. I'm completely mortified at this point, Boston under each arm and waiting for my neighbor to return and call the police.
I go out into the yard and hustle the dogs out the gate and over to the car. My mom opens the car door for them and Emma jumps in but Butch decides to take a little detour around the car and over to the garbage cans. Where he immediately gets skunked. AGAIN.
Last night was the amazing birthday/solstice/just-because dinner party at Edith and Damon's place. Two words: squid salad. I've raved endlessly about Damon's amazing transcendent Thai squid salad. It's just as good as I remember and remains the one and only food I'd order as the last meal before the lethal injection. Neither Chuck Taggart nor I remembered to bring our cameras and besides it was too dim and beautiful out on the patio under the full moon and strings of tiny lanterns decorating the surrounding trees, so you'll all have to settle for written food porn. I'll keep it simple but I'll also link to Looka when Chuck posts his own juicier version.
We started off with grilled pork skewers. These were sweet and rich and totally opposite in flavor of what came next – teacups filled with Damon's legendary lemongrass bouillabaisse. Another lost and longed for dish from the Cinnabar days, this is the food I always want the most whenever I have a cold. A clear, spicy, citrusy and complex broth filled with glass noodles and various fresh, wonderful shellfish.
A tough act to follow but that warm calamari salad still stole the show. See above (and every other blog entry where I've ranted on and on about the stuff.) It was so good that I hid my first plate and claimed to have not been served yet. I don't think Edith was fooled but I still scored a second helping. Hey it's my birthday!
Next up was something I had been pretty curious about when I saw it on the menu, something called "Summertime Succotash" (cue the Sylvester the Cat voice.) Lima beans and corn and pretty much nothing else, but hot damn was that delicious! I'd even say addictively delicious. Damon teased me about it and said he decided to serve that instead of corn on the cob in honor of my Daisy May Trailer-Trash missing teeth. Hey, tease all you want and then pass the succotash.
The main was either Filet Mignon or Striped Bass with porcini cream sauce. I knew everyone else would do the filet so I went for the fish, figuring I could cage bites from those who were approaching overstuffed. I was right and both dishes were amazing. But then again, I've never had anything from Chef Damon that wasn't amazing.
Dessert was Edith's lemon cakes with basil infused cream. This was my birthday request, since lemon is my favorite flavor for sweets. There were candles and singing too. Happy birthday to me!
Anyway my mom is here in town and there was more that I wanted to post, but I need to go pick her up now and go eat some more. After all, there are a limited number of meals left in my life...
Boys, you can skip this entry. Yes, it's about my tits, but no, it's probably not going to be even remotely interesting to you. Girls, especially full-figured gals, read on:
Today I did something I've been meaning to do for a long time. I went to A Private Affair for a custom bra fitting. See, having fairly large natural knockers on a small frame makes finding a bra that actually fits somewhat problematic. I always end up compromising ..-enough and I was sick of it. I wanted a fairy-godmother with a tape measure to solve my cleavage conundrum once and for all. That's exactly what I got.
The first thing I discovered when the nice lady measured me was that I've been wearing the wrong size bra for more than twenty years. I always figured I was somewhere between a 32C and a 34B, depending on the brand. Well I'm actually a 32D. In my mind D seemed so big that it couldn't possibly be right for me, so I never bothered to try one on.
Once I had the right size, I still found there were minor problems here and there. The best thing about A Private Affair is that they have an on-site seamstress to make minute adjustments. (She's not there every day so call ahead to check.) That really made all the difference in the world. It's only 5-10 bucks for alterations and really worth it. I highly recommend the joint.
In the end I went home with two comfy seamless t-shirt type bras and one serious bulletproof sports bra that allows absolutely no bounce whatsoever. I mean NONE. I just spent two hours boxing and skipping rope in it and it was fantastic. It was like not having tits. And yes, boys who are still reading, that can sometimes be a good thing.
