note to you in a few weeks...

what i lack in staying power is
made up by intensity;
at least, while i'm here,
you can say you had a good
time.

give a cow town a bone

From: guster
>To: announce@guster.com
>Subject: Guster + Ben Folds + Rufus Wainwright Summer Tour
>Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2004 18:26:28 -0700 (PDT)
>
>TWO WICKED PIANISTS
>
>It's true, this summer we're going on tour with Ben Folds and Rufus
Wainwright, two wicked pianists who we listen to in our spare time... it's a
triple-headliner, so everyone will play an hour a night and the order of the
bands will change every show, though the line-ups will be announced ahead of
time. We recommend getting tickets in advance when they go on sale (mostly
this weekend) because the shows might sell out.
>
>Here are the dates:
>
>Wait. No. Before you look at the dates. Many of you will notice that we're
ignoring large chunks of the country -- the Guster/Folds/Rufus tour only lasts
a month so we're planning to service the rest of you (Florida, Texas, Colorado,
West Coast, etc) on our own before we retire to a rehearsal space to write a
new album for the rest of the year. No one will go unserviced!


unserviced, i will go. i'ma go wit a big fat "eff yew". denver just got straight dissed.

i know, i know:

denver doesn't really have a music scene.

you sure? tickets to good shows sell quick, venues are packed, and some artists even stick around for more than one night these days. we even have our own products hitting national markets (no, not opie gone bad, for fuck's sake).

yeah, so leftover salmon continues to dominate one of the few non-shitty radio stations, and the rest fumble between hippity hop and old led zepplin tributes, but fuck, they even dissed CALI. denver might be a drop in a dirty toilet bowl, but last i heard, you don't fuck with west-coast chillin'.

i know this is probably frally's attempt at keeping me away from her husband, but cummon, if i can watch my ass ex-boyfriend beat up my flailing avies, i can keep my hands in my pants for a good set.



mikey, if you're still listening, i'm sorry about all the psycho messages i've left, and i'm not even really all that offended regarding the whole "restraining order" bit, but give my boys a break. no, ass, not literally.

if i can't see relatively dumb boys play music, i should at least be able to watch questionably smart boys beat eachother up. the stanley cometh.

no seriously, we're equal.

for fun, google "most wanted male" and "most wanted female", and compare and contrast results.

heh heh...

my new office is sweltering for lack of windows and vents. but lots of pretty pretty flourescent lighting. you can't blame me for fucking off at work.

giving it another go.



welcome to my own personal hell.

fellas, a challenge:

before you make it to work every morning, eat a pound of spoiled meat, punch yourself in the head as many times as you can stand it, shine very bright lights directly into your eyeballs and tell everyone that you love to burn their rotten insides in the flames of hell.

welcome to the world of birth control.

no matter how many times i stop and start, or how many people PROMISE me that the side effects will be *mild*, this stuff continues to kick my ass-- work: impossible. conversation: hard to bear. concentration: non-existent.

a challenge, compounded:

i urge you to read this and this, and, if you're hardcore, this. i've been following all of this since around 2001-- a project for a writing class (if i hadn't just lost my entire hard drive, i'd post the paper, cuz it kicked major testicular ass).

i resisted revisiting this method for almost three years, until my doctor basically urged me to start again (all this as i hid my pink-flushed face when i answered "not really" to the 'are you sexually active' question. times, they are a-changin...).

so, why isn't male contraception dominating the markets? i'll let you decide...

a) boys are afraid of needles
b) boys really want tons of babies running amuck
c) girls want lots of babies, too
d) why would boys need a one-time, 100% effective birth control method, when girls continue to pay full price for a non-generic brand of pill month after month after month after month?!


courtesy bbc. and these fine folks.

with colorful current events including genetic selection, same sex marriage and adoption rights, family planning has never been so front-and-center in my thoughts. or wait, is that the hormones? or the lack thereof? or the $30/month? pardon me, i have to go vomit.

after month after month after month...

one takes birth control to do one of usually two things: to regulate cycles, and prevent babies. if it's the latter, i find the side effects to be the grossest of all biological jokes on the face of the planet.

case in point:

you have to have sex to make a baby. someone has to find you attractive to have sex with you. usually (usually!), boys don't fall head over heels for the girl at the club, who's sitting in the fetal position (from the pill) in the corner, because she's gained weight (from the pill), she can't stop crying (from the pill), her face has broken out (from the pill), she's throwing up everywhere (from the pill), and tells you to fuck off (not from the pill, but from the look of sheer horror you gave her...).

someone please, please make sense of this for me. in the mean time, i'll be reading this ingredient. over, and over, and over...

oh yeah, i also got a scanner.

i found this subject line in my junk email folder:

Harriett, If you're going to kick authority in the teeth, you might as well use two feet.

and then, mixed in the text calling for cheap viagra, this:

Every individual acts and suffers in accordance with his peculiar teleology, which has all the inevitability of fate, so long as he does not understand it.

I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don't have as many people who believe it.

someday, i wanna meet the mastermind behind junkmail.

no seriously, our skyline is pretty but denver-speak sucks.

amidst the outskirts of my favorite mall, and far beyond the flowing fields of NOTHINGNESS that lies outside of pretencious yeppies and cow pastures, the instances that i remember that denver is light years behind can be wrenching to the system.

i went to a 'vip', 'invite only', 'secret code' preparty this evening, which, in denver-speak, means "oh you drink alcohol and dig slutty chicks? please, come to this stupid party that we had catered and decorated in plastic seventeen magazine psychedelic flowers and black spray-painted plywood. we're calling it a 'welcome spring fashion show'."

i'm not a dude (my friend is a retail manager, and these folks came into her nationwide retail store YESTERDAY to go shopping for their FASHION SHOW), but somehow we got hold of EIGHT of these ULTRA SECRET VIP passes, and i agreed to go*. i mistakenly took "open bar at seven" to mean "open bar at seven", so naturally, we showed up at 6:58, only to see the crew replacing light bulbs and checking the sound system. granted, over-zealousness in the face of free alcohol can often wax tacky, but shit, i'm deb society. my checking account has more pride than i do.

there was a semi-famous local dj (who lacks a website...weird) who, at the very least, played a soundtrack to the evening that made it bearable; but the mix of last season's summer strapless dresses from banana and fifty year old guys was disheartening.

to be fair, i might just be tired of the ole' one-worded (read ROX, Mynt, Spill, Rise, Opal, Bash, Lodo, Lime, hush, Citrus, Lotus, Beyond, Purple, daChurch, Vinyl** et. al) fuckfest techno miniskirt hoopla, complete with white-set fabric hangey-down cubix decor with flourescent green and/or pinkish lighting, white pleather cubix seating arrangements and refinished hardwood floors and exposed brick linings (whatever, this is D-E-N-V-E-R. any place that reserves the right to charge more than $4 for a gin and tonic is OVER before it begins. we might be an up-and-coming city, but po' folk gotta par-tay, too).

has the seen-scene in denver grown? you betcha. if the word 'stampede' means anything to you, you might feel me. but while the remnants of the 1859 gold rush still try to cram their ex-teva toes into prada, gucci, and hub, there's always these snippets that keep me in my place.

rest assured-- if you live in denver and speak cherry creek, urban was sooo it five minutes ago. no matter how much our water resources are distressed and how far north-east-south-west we push the suburban boundaries, colorado is home to couch-burning riots, forest fires, republicans and the broncs. we can't ever claim to be as glamorous as any of our corporate conglomerate shopping extravaganzas want us to be.


*the next time someone's all, hey, do you wanna go to this super cool thing? i'll be like, lemme actually read the invite, cuz i was told there was an open bar, which, in denver-speak, means "we'll have girls who haven't quite developed past that of a fifteen year old walking around with 2 oz plastic cups full of champagne. everything else is a cash bar. oh, and tip them, please."

**now, reluctantly, serengeti's

PSA, yo.

i really must.

if you frequent downtown denver, please, please do us all a favor and give the bartender at hush (yes, it's called hush; yes, it's one of those gay places that 'doesn't put up a sign so you have to know where it is by word of mouth'; yes, it's tucked away RIGHT NEXT TO TED TURNER'S STUPID MONTANA GRILL ON 14TH AND LARIMER AND HAS A LITTLE MOON ON THE AWNING) the same look that i gave her when i paid $9 for a gin and tonic.

no tall.

no double.

one lime.

it was my only purchase for the evening.

you better believe that glass came home in mama's purse, and is aligned on the shelf in the kitchen with all the other glasses that have come home (shiiiit, i paaaiiid for them bitches).

pagina suggested i take the candle too; i would have, but even i have scruples.

after regina, pagina (no relation) and i found the place charges you one (1) soul per drink (and we'd already bought a round), we decided that a better use of our time (and the snotty staff's) would be to play hide and go seek amongst the stupid l.a. style interior (it's actually quite nice; i'm just bitter).

and then play air band to new order's "bizarre love triangle". we were, literally, the only people there, and i gotta tell you, we put on quite a show (i played back-up synthesizer).

that's what an old cow town gets for trying to be hip.

i'm no professional, but this album is the best one to have sex to, ever.

quarter after six. still at work. one thing on my mind.


faultline


and i speak from hypothetical experience.


it starts out slow like a late-night make out session: wordless, trancy, with a kind of is-this-really-happening aura about it. though all that's shattered when chris martin bumps opens his stupid british mouth on "where is my boy"; maybe not the wisest of all paths to pursue during tonsil hockey (i know that i'd start immediately imagining chris's married lips on mine), but whips a for-sure intenseness that's hard to match.

with tracks like "bitter kiss", spewing lyrics like "i forgive everything/kiss that rock through your window/who's that guy on your lips/it's not me", it makes you feel like you're diane lane in that one movie with richard gere and that piece of italian hotness. you know, the one where one of these thingies becomes lethal...

with the likes of the flaming lips, vordul megilah from cannibal ox (pronounced "oh"--who took biggie-n-big-pun's place in the rappers-not-to-fuck-with genre), michael stipe, and others.

there's even a mellow lull in the middle, for all you twice-in-one-night folk who might enjoy a breather. i could be so lucky...

there's not a preference, cepting maybe your parents', that would be unpleased.

________________________________________________

is this what you think about at work?

what, sex, or music?

both.

yesh. it's genetic.

oh.

song in my head

it's those blasted radio songs that keep me awake,
the ones that you sing without singing.
sweet tunes sticky like birthday cake,
and bells that won't bend for their ringing.

forging through forest of unregistered thought,
it resonates even on fingers;
and washes with ease the uneasy i bought
and leaves though it chances to linger.

should you try to forget a beat or a measure,
it deepens in blueest of veins;
but only if that which you deem as a pleasure
is only around when it rains.

to keep from the tapping and choral taboo,
a station is there to be switched.
but mind you, if you've nothing better to do,
a scratch is there, pining the itch.

pop goes the music inside of your head
and down through your numbest of hand;
systemic i find it in all but my bed
and all other outposts unmanned.

make peace with it? never! i jockey mine own!
switch records like i was a pro!
your rythm might tickle and trance to the bone,
but i'll never be seen at your show!

i'll catch you and sing you, like i was psychotic
but don't be surprised when i make
an appointment to seek out the antibiotic
prescription to rub out your fake.

like you, i can't muster a notable bridge,
my stanzas redundant at best--
but at least i refrain in my trip to the edge

email gijyun the last line; she's stumped

or leave it in my comments. i'll give you props (and if you have paypal, $1) if i add it.

i got biiiiiiiills, they're multiplyin'....

a good day for a smart train.


i spent the weekend defending myself for hating madonna and having sex. not in that order.

this morning, upon entering the cold-upstairs of a sunless office and dodging superiors, i read this off of my homepage.

i think they left this part out:

15. Get your elephant ass president out of office, and bring your troops home to their families.

could be just me. course, i'm also your typical follow-the-left-lead, only-read-the-headlines, got-my-facts-from-an-overheard-conversation, was-too-busy-watching-chapelle's show-to-watch-cnn voter.

my days of facilitating forums for the 2003 denver mayoral candidate race are over, and i've been so detached that i didn't even vote in the primaries. but still, $2 + for a gallon of gas is a lot. especially if you have to drive really fast to get out of town because its been bombed by the whole world because they hate us.

i'm in love with an creepy irish fella. courtesy largehearted boy.

____________________________________________________________

ain't nothin' like dodging questions

q: gijyun, why do you look so tired?

a: because i was up until the wee hours of the morning makin with the love.


q: the internet's out. is the bill paid? you cashed my check like two weeks ago for it.

a: dunno. maybe i just cashed your check.


q: gijyun, did you come in and work over the weekend like you said you would?

a: yep.

q: did you get anything done?

a: nope.

q: did you get your office moved?

a: nope.

q: can you get that done this week?

a: "sure i can".



q: does this make me look fat?

a: yes.


q: okay, well i can tell that you're bored with me because you're only giving one-word answers. should i let you go?

a: two words: yes, please.

_____________________________________________________________

it takes a stiff upper lip to be this trashy.

dear ben,

i'm sorry i haven't written in a while; things have been...actually, relatively slow, but crazy nonetheless.

i don't know if you got my last letter; i don't blame you if you couldn't find the time to read it. i wouldn't have.

in an effort not to waste any of your time, i'll be brief. i've taken up dancing again. not the kind you sport at a club, or the kind you'd throw down at a wedding to some incredibly classic song, but the kind where you just kind of throw your hands up and say 'fuck it'.

dancing, as you know, has been part of me for so long. even when you were around, i danced. not in front of you, and never behind you, but you at least knew what was going on. it was probably the most enjoyable sessions i've had.

i'd forgotten what real dancing was like.

it was wonderful, and slow, and fast at times, but gentle, and warm, and comfortable, and full of nostalgia to the point that i felt like i was 19 again. funny, how sheets and skin can do that to a person. it's the only dancing i've ever done that makes me not worry about shouting from the mountaintop.

ironic, isn't it? that i spend my whole life figuring out how to use this voice, and then when i'm supposed to use it the most, i can't find the words to say anything. i know that dancing is for little girls, and that maybe it's not a good idea to break out old tap shoes, but perhaps i'm not ready to be a motionless grown-up.

i know what you're thinking: you've had other partners who wouldn't mind so much that we exchange these letters.

and you're right. but it's not fair to them if i pick them to dance first only because they love me most. while it sounds like the right thing to do, it's really the most selfish of all. there's a reason i didn't write to you all those years-- because i didn't have a need to (and while that sounds like some kind of distorted utopia, 'twas really quite the opposite).

you were there, in thought and in conversation. we talked about this for a while (only you would understand this...in fact, for a moment i wondered if you had something to do with it), and i commented on your classic style. i think the fact that i feel as though i should apologize to you should mean something, but we both know the truth about dance lessons. i'd rather take them and learn than not learn to dance at all. besides, i really have developed, as far as technique and performance. i'm confident that you would be pleased.

it's okay if you're upset with me. anger is a most-natural reaction to such a shock to the system, but i implore you to recognize the recital as a positive one; i love dancing. i always have. i won't let adverse reactions get in the way, and i have you to thank for that.

i'd better go, before this turns into a mathematical debate. i just wanted to let you know that things are, at the moment, stil okay.

i'm okay.

with many thanks--

luv, anne

00_madworld.asx

wow. courtesy of almost-dead guys. if it doesn't open right away in a player of your choice, right-click, save, and open manually. it's worth it...

so i says to the guy...



there's nothing i hate more than smug bitches with money. unless its me. then it's okay.

what a glorious fucking friday (of course, on the outer rotation of my every-other-fridays-off schedule). while i'm stuck in the office, i forgot today was payday. sadly, or maybe not, uncle sam ain't gettin' a nickel yet.

my extension confirmation code, for those looking to try to steal my identity, is CR-1067-XX-53, (which i obtained last night after 10 p.m.; when asked why i decided to extend, my honest-to-god answer was "because the apprentice finale is on and i have a friend who's got like, $1500 bucks riding on nick to take the game". yeah dude.)good luck. if you succeed, i'll just let you worry about my back taxes.

for someone who had an income less than $8000 for the entire year of 2003 (college senior + internship + unemployment = frugal living), and whose only income was from a non-profit organization, i guarantee i'll owe like $5000. call vegas and bet on it, honey.

i'm taking the N.E.R.D cd back to the store. hype. aaaaall hype. cept for like, one song.

lookey--you can leave me comments, now. my romance with html code during work hours continues.

here's some friday fun for the whole family. sandolsek-- i got the pic's from st. patty's day. a month later. good job. i'll post them as soon as i can figure out how to make them not eat up the whole page.

i don't think i've ever been quite so appalled to be a woman. in business.




theeeeere we go...

if anyone needs to know which girl got really wasted last night, crammed bukowski down her friends' throats, woke up at 8:09 and was at work by 8:30, it's me.

to my sheer shock, i noticed 2 missed calls on my phone this morning. one at 4:01 am and one at 5:13 am; both from an interesting party. i don't know whether to be flattered or concerned.

a few things to devuldge this morning as the boss is in a high-profile meeting.

1. this has two parts, sub-categorized and detailed below for your convenience:

a.) i fear for our youth, in a big way. while meandering amongst overpriced t-shirts and shit that i don't need yesterday evening at urban, my hotness-sensitive audible radar picked up on the finest of male british accents as i was reading a coffee table book entitled "the joy of toys: a guide to sexual devices". i raised my head from the engaging photos and captions only to lay my eyes on the hottest peice of ass i've seen in weeks. long blonde hair, scruffy shave, blue blazer, yellow t-shirt, hot jeans (slung slightly below this part), red shoes. i realized quickly that i was dealing with a complimentary colors kinda guy, and was busy fixing my hair as i took a shot at his age in my head. i also made a mental note to myself that as i am a sucker for southern twang (the good kind), i am really a sucker for just about any kind of accent whatsoever.

i listened to him spew mediocre comments that gave no insight into whether or not he noticed me (see phonetic diagram below...bold is volume, italics is stress), and imagined us running away to shropshire or stratford upon avon, and him whispering sweet nothings about a headless queen anne as we gaze off the side of the london bridge and skip aimlessly back to our million-dollar, 200 year old loft in picadilly to make sweet sweet love...

du zat beow ev spoikz o-net? (does that belt have spikes on it?)
-p. fox, circa 2001

yet i was rudely, rudely, rudely awakened by the sound of the acne-ridden (i should talk) 16-year-old girl who bore NO accent that was with him, and her stupid cunt friend. this is the conversation i overheard:

________________________________________________
british dreamlover:
these books might be worth something someday. some of this stuff is good.

dumbbitch1:
i want this one (picks up a book entitled "real american history" and thumbs through the pages).

dumbbitch2:
its like, a million dollars.

(peanut gallery snickers)

dumbbitch1:
well, give me a million dollars then!

(uncontrollable laughter)

dumbbitch1:
(browsing book pages) who's rosa parks?

(silence)

(more silence)

dumbbitch2:
i dunno (shrugs). do you? (TURNS TO THE FUCKING BRITISH GUY)

british dreamlover:
i've heard of her before, but i thought she was a character of some sort.

dumbbitch1:
then why is she in this american history book?

dumbbitch2:
she's in that andre 2000 song. is that why?

dumbbitch1:
i guess so. pop music is sooo industrialized. no wonder she's famous.
_____________________

i'll give you a moment to regroup yourselves. this kind of shock takes a minute to absorb.

now, rather than list everything that's wrong with this account of so many american fundamentals (which, i know you understand, are bountiful), i'll just throw in that the "2000" was not a typo. she said two-thousand.

no more than the width of the table away from them, it's probably the third time i've ever lost my public composure and stared at them like they had just given birth to retarded dolphins. i said out loud "ooooooo my goooooood", did an obnoxious about-face, and marched myself outward while hanging my head in severe shame. those assholes made me lose my appetite for overpriced retail. bastards.

moving on...

b) i need a digital camera. if i had one, you'd know why the british guy probably caught me with my tounge hanging out of my head.

still moving on...

2) i don't think i took the proper amount of time to reflect on the previous weekend's worst cab ride home...ever. i saw two friends last night who were rocking the back seat at the time of the collision; all three of us drunk, dancing, happy...mark laid it on me that if we were 2 seconds before or behind, the houseguest might be dead. if there was no airbag or if it didn't go off, i'd be dead (or very severely mangled). if the pathfinder had braked at all, the cabbie would be dead. a plethera of if/thens.

all five of us without a scratch on us. aside from my numb fingers and a teetering conscious over whether or not to sue, i'll leave all of the relavent bickering to the stars.


GeT SoME.

commerce is a fantastic diet.

i left for lunch with a short list of things to do.

1) put gas in the ride. no one likes stragglers.
2) get the new modest mouse. it's high time i had my own. plus, the cd is a pretty color.
3) swing by la maison de la belle for lunch. leftover guac made by yours truly.

i'm sure that by the second item listed above, you might've guessed what happened...

instead if spending the budgeted $15 on petroleum products, the new total spent in a half-hour's time is:



sister, i can HEAR YOU YELLING VIA EMAIL about this over-zealousness of mine, but there are a few things that should be pointed out:

1) look at the price of XO. seriously.

2) if you notice underneath the first three there is a discount. i apparently charmed my way out of 10% of this retail nonsense. and the clerk wasn't even a boy.

3) i HAD to get the orton one-- moody girls need love, too.

4) i haven't gone clothes OR music shopping in weeks. i actually have more than $200 in my checking account, and i have, apparently, officially stopped drinking until wells fargo says i'm cool enough to have another check card (it disappeared over le weekend, leaving me hanging at the bar, sans form of payment, sans buzz).

if the ends surely justify means, then in a matter of weeks, i'll be sitting by myself in the likes of tuscany with no one to talk to, and a shitload of cd's. and a new hotness pair of shoes, too.


see semi-salvaged weekend notes below. if the link doesn't open, don't worry. it's fuzzy anyway.

show.bmp

the houseguest asked orenda (see moody girls from above) something about playing in north carolina; i could notice the disdain in her eyes. i supposed artists have a natural tendency to be annoyed with civil folk, though i see no grounds for an innate right to be assy. sassy, maybe, but not like she was. i was all pumped, because i was going to try to post some prima donna gijyun pic's with...other prima donnas, but the camera porta-phone went dead, and her attitude turned me off like whiskey to a limp dick.

i have a baaaad habit of saying that every show is see was THE BEST ONE EVER. this one was awesome, with or without star qua-li-tee attitude.

hi yer ed jew kay shun.



see that little bitty red circle? that's me, almost one year ago.

though i rented the stinky gown and bought the disposable cap, sat through the worst allergy attack in my life, and made mean kitty-cat eyes at my ex-roommate who turned out to be a little more recognizable when introduced this way, i never actually received my diploma for reasons which, unfortunately, i can't post.

but i will, someday, when it's no longer an issue. just don't tell my parents. no seriously, don't tell.

i made headway at work today, meaning that i re-shuffled the shit that was supposed to have been filed weeks ago into a different arrangement on my credenza. i also knew the answers to 3 out of 7 inevitable questions during our bi-weekly conference call. in all, since that photo above was taken, i'd say that all that college graduation has afforded me is paying for my own health insurance and a migraine.

i've been considering going back to clown college; not full time, of course (who would give up a job chock-full of all the dorks you went to high school with, free coffee and a kick-ass internet connection?), but maybe learn something about html code (blogger is not the boss of me), or fer-reel copy writing (i wouldn't want to end up like this guy), or maybe an artistic movement class, the kind where you have to wear a unitard and shake and lurch all over the church floor. depending on the amount of skrillah i wanna killah, it'll probably end up to be something like accounting, because while numbers are really cool, christ knows i'm not bored enough yet.

i think the houseguest fixed my computer at home. watch out suckaz, things are all going ape from here on out.

relive gijyun's themesong

i announce this over the intercom at work today; there's not one senior citizen here who gets it:

"ladies and gents, for those of you who use the in-house computer network, which is every last one of you, please note that sluggo's (editor's note: sluggo is our file server/back up hard drive. he lives in my office and does nothing but take up space and bruise my knees>) "drive J" back up drive has been reinstalled, and all of the project drawing code numbers will remain the same. if you have questions regarding file transfer, backing up, or, you know, anything, really, please let me know. otherwise, please make sure that your project-released drawings have been re-saved on the file server. get the lead out. that is all."

rock out with your pocket protector.

i just had this massive post about the weekend that is now lost in cyberspace. i'll redo it when i get the energy to list details, but here's a few:

1. my family is retarded, but we had a great weekend.

2. azure ray is cool.

3. work sucks ass-- i'm so not a numbers person, not even when i pretend to be.

4. most everyone i know from high school turned out way smarter and prettier than me.

5. the ex called friday night and begged me to come up. i declined, but i called him saturday night. logistics weren't in the books.

give me something better to do

Q: Coke or Pepsi?

K: Pepsi.

S: A trip to the bearskin carpet with your mother, bitch.

the boss is out of town, which calls for a lackadaisical thursday-before-three-day-weekend. too bad its like, raining and stuff.

i'm going to a soiree (a swar-what? a soiree honey. i think it means party...party.) this evening at one of denver's finest establishments (it has the word "jug" in its name. hotness.); a hike sthchool reunion, if you will. there's not many people from high school that i give two shits about, but these are some.

the ex passes on azure ray on saturday, so if anyone wants a ticket, let me know. you owe me $8.

is it rude to tell people from match.com to fuck off? there's this kid who KEEPS EMAILING ME. i made the mistake of responding to his first email, and now he CONSTANTLY sends me stuff. this is totally awful of me, but read what he wrote:

So dudette, send me another e-mail filled with completely random stuff. Things
that make absolutely no sense to me... Lawsuits against mcdonalds because you
got fat, like wtf is up with that. Infomercials, i dunno why, but they perplex
me. Boba Tea (if you have never had it you pretty much suck, i'm sorry) like
who the hell came up with that idea. Well at least it's freakin' good. Math.
Not that I don't understand and not adept at it, but goddamn. Example, rational
numbers are numbers that can be expressed in fractional form, they are rational.
Now you would think things in this world should be rational, correct? But if
you build a triangle with 2 legs each 1 foot long, the other side is an
irrantional number. As in you can't measure it accurately. Like wtf is up with
that shit. I probably should have stopped before the math thing.

Peace out,

(name withheld)



now, there's just so many things about which i'd love to comment, but i know if i do, one of two things will happen:

(1) he'll shape up and start sending me sweet nothings via email, and woo me with his new-found sense of appreciation for the essence that is gijyn; we'll start dating, fall in love, what have you; then i'll show this post to him and he'll realize what a cold-hearted bitch the woman he just bought the 2.2 carat for. yikes.

or...

(2) i'll melt into an oblivion of guilt. beggars can't be choosers, right?


i must get a digital camera. there's really no argument about it, it's just something that has to happen. whether or not it's attached to a cell phone is, at this point, irrelevant. i could start, you know, a jpeg diary of one-night-stands (oh wait, you have to have sex to do that...), or of people i don't like, or even sentimental stuff; the possibilities are endless.

i would gladly take a trip to the bearskin rug, but not with mom.

send gideon a sweet nothing

i feel great this morning!




no matter what anyone says, smoking is bad for you. i sound like a freaking freight train, and have had more than 2 coworkers ask "how my cold is doing". i've only recently re-taken the habit up for sport, mostly because it gives me a reason to avoid my ass roommate.

question:

lets say you're in a kitchen. any kitchen will do. you're observing your roommate/spouse/partner/friend/acquaintance/any old gent load the dishwasher with dishes that you dirtied and left in the sink to be damned for over a week. do you:

a) say thank you and apologize for your loafishness.
b) giver her several dollars for acting like your FUCKING MAID.
c) take all of the nasty dirty dishes out of your room, march over to the dishwasher, open it, look at her and say, "ARE THESE CLEAN OR DIRTY?"

my harvard-graduate roommate thinks that (c) is a reasonable choice, to which i respond, "i dunno, ass. maybe you could use that insightful deductive reasoning and $200,000 logic of yours to figure it out for your 32 year old self."

and to add insult to injury, how, in the name of all that is righteous and holy, is this fair?

after leaving my cell phone at da club, spending money i don't have, acting as an enabler to a friend who missed her early airplane this morning, showing up to work 20 minutes late and being heckled by the boss, i think j.lo's mom can officially kiss my white semi-professional, cant-pay-for-the-washing-machine-i-rent ass.

playon, playa.

check out my test results.

they really oughta give me more work to do...

waxing political. yay me.

i'm beginning to feel a bit like a single mother with my house; i have no help with anything, my 32 y/o roommate can't wipe his own ass, and my new roommate (who has yet to even move in) has already demanded that i call the landlord about having a dog door installed, getting the carpets in her room professionally steam-cleaned (i had to go home for lunch and move furniture by myself), and having the back yard graveled.

i guess only good things will come of this; i'll learn how to pay bills, and i'll make my new roommate write me a letter of recommendation for the project coordination industry.

i could go crazy and upload a bunch of stupid shit, but i'll try my best to stagger them as randomly as possible. the both of you that actually read this shit can give me feedback as you see necessary. thanks.

azure ray is coming and spreading like wildfire. i found them on the net, bought their album, and hear about them everywhere i go. i heard them playing at the hornet when my houseguest and i met for happy hour on friday, and a girl who was seemingly cooler than i announced that she recongnized it. enjoy verbatim below:

"they are so fucking awesome it's not even funny; they're like, these two girls, and like, they like, play the piano and the synthesizer and the guitar and like, they just rock, like, i just like to listen to them when i'm by myself because it like, totally like, lets me get away from like, all this stupid shit."

well put, buffy. and might i add, that is QUITE the vocabulary you have. i used to be neither here nor there regarding that social argument i keep hearing about young people and the use of the word "like", and how it makes them sound indecisive-- pretty defining for the whole generation. at one point, i accepted it as a tradmark, if you will; but thanks to you, i'll try my best to NEVER say it again EVER.

i know that when things are taken out of context, they can be skewed pretty seriously, but i have a feeling perhaps ms. thang's thoughts on the local music scene isn't skewed quite enough.

tomorrow's wednesday. then thursday. then a three day weekend. just thought i'd let you know.

reap what you sow

huzzah! gijyun strikes again.

with sister sweetly's help, text-only is a thing of the past.

my houseguest has sent me photos of THE WORST CAB RIDE HOME...EVER. you'll see what i mean. it's only fitting that they will be the first photos in the bible, because god was certainly watching over us that evening. (see? i get people to come experience the essence that IS denver and lookey wha--happens!)

check me out...


THE WORST CAB RIDE HOME...EVER.




the evening started out smooth. actually, i started drinking at like, 2. it's probably eight or so here, and already i'm spreading the love.



the culprit.


the scene of the crime. we went hopping all OVER town (a cocktail party, forest room five, b-52's, red room, and ROX). after closing time ordered us out of ROX, we grabbed a cab and headed back to the point. three blocks away from my house, the cabbie runs a stop sign and t-bones an SUV. the SUV rolled. i was impaled by the deployed air bag.

luckily, we were all trashed, so it wasn't as traumatic as it could've been.


the rolled car. it went aaallll the way around.


and then snuggled up to a tree.


"my elbow hurts".


the emt's and police officers were very patient, since every question they asked me was like a chemistry final. tough stuff, like "what's your name" and "where do you live". if i could stop laughing for TWO seconds, it might've gone a little faster. god bless gin.


no, the lights aren't blinding the camera. this is a rendition of our visual perception. we were pretty smashed (no pun intended)...


YOU PEOPLE ARE ALL DOING A WONDERFUL JOB

the end...or is it? my neighbor says we should sue the shit out of the cab company. we'll see.

we're all fine, and thank you for the concern!

email a lucky bitch

i've kinda been published on denverstories.com.

you can see where they went through and added all of their own capital letters, but forgot most of them.

"it is what it is."

the mad mad world of public relations is drenched in those five ambiguously infuriating words. i remember throwing up chicken soup in the parking lot outside of my internship after something i said (in a joking fashion) had been printed in the local newspaper, with work's name attached to it.

the board of directors was furious. me, the 21-year-old intern, had seen better days, and was ingratiatingly furious with myself for "not having known better".

"it is what it is"-- i had three different people tell me that during said tragedy. i learned the hard way that sometimes, analyzation and prediction are not the founding mothers of progress. that all too often, things just are what they are.

which sucked for me at the time, because i had calculated and surrendered to the thought of that being the event that would destroy my future in the public sphere. that's what it was to me.

months later, after post-disaster reconstruction , a smaller, less earth-shattering quake erupted in the forefront. a major local event that i was mostly coordinating had a turnout of less than 60% of what we had expected/budgeted/advertised.
the question of "was this event a success" was, of course, directed my way, and i looked the chair of the board in the eye and said "yes", feeling confident and clever, making it what it was.

i was later advised that it would have been impressive of me to mention that i might've enjoyed a healthier turn-out. so, naturally, being a compulsive, over-analytical perfectionist, i started to freak out, to which my advisor said (drum roll...), "it is what it is".

last night i tamed a feverish but controllable panic attack. i've been good about monitoring blissful thoughts and unrealistic expectations, but for whatever reason, last night my imagination got the best of me.

i yam what i yam.
________________________________________________________________

and so they are, these quips
of your small nature
with large byte and seeping strokes
that danced your fingers to all
things fantastic. being of
fantasy.

i fear my own review
too much to consider what i do
before i do it, in hopes that someday
the reviewer might write somewhat
like i do.

large demands
from an amatuer.

what they are was
never a part of my daily recipe;
really, only what they became
as a product of the
ingredients and mixing, blending
baking, broiling.

a sick cake; a delicious dessert
with the sugar paste that makes
fillings sore with indulgence;
will infect the stomache
and flow liquidly to extremities
and make them do stupid, stupid things.

a sad cup of reflection
can usually bring about the
best kind of change--
dictated by catalyst and catastrophe
alike.

good rise accounts for good ratios
of heat and precision.
the devil stays and feeds
where there is no patience for
these measurments, as i am
sure you've discovered on your own.

chemistry in the kitchen
is a science unmastered
by plastics and pencils--
fantastically divine
cuisine.