Planning to move, especially from my homeland of New England, and the changes it necessitates create a new reality. This new reality is one in which I can reinvent myself including the manifestations of physical appearance.
As of this day forward, I am “woman who never wears cotton turtlenecks but may wear certain sweaters with turtle-ish necklines, even then only seldomly.”
I try to have one core activity that I accomplish each day, so as I lounge in the sloth of unemployment, I don’t become a giant, fat, dim-witted slug.
Today’s goal, ruthless sorting of an essentially entire room of clothes. My attitude is no-prisoners-taking. With extreme prejudice clothes that I even feel slightly equivocal about will be bagged and jettisoned to worthy charities. There are sweaters I think I like, but not actually enough to don. They will be bagged. There are pants or shorts or whatever that I visually like, but in actual practice they scratch or bind or move in irritating ways. They will be gone.
The hardest items will be those that border between clothes and costume that I wear essentially for effect. It’s not like you can wear a tight black leather skirt every day. And, what of the red leather bustier?
At least, I have finished cleaning up this godforsaken website. My hosting service was singularly unhelpful when the weblog and a couple of other files just stopped working for no apparent reason and without my fiddling.
By the time they got back to me with the “senior” support level, three days had passed, so I had already rebuilt most everything. So, now they say it appears to be working fine, and they have no record of errors. What’s irksome is they say that absolutely nothing has changed at the server level. But, how else to explain spontaneous not loading and CHMOD problems?
Anyway, this area now seems stable, and I’m OK with the colors and the general layout. Don’t love it, but it is certainly serviceable. I do love the rotating photo for the mobile photo gallery link. My hat is off to this man.
Begin forwarded message:
> From: "ZGVuaXNl" <denise@dee-rob.com>
> Date: October 4, 2004 3:37:33 AM EDT
> To: <blogwpa3399@dee-rob.com>
> Subject: New test voice
>
The party was OK, and the guy that I was afraid would confront me didn’t. So, I guess life is as it should be, birds, sun, health, blah, blah, fucking blah.
And the boy of my attention called. Apparently, he doesn’t hate me, and the fight was just a fight (as in, cigar just cigar). Again, birds, sun, sky, tra la la.
It sucks when the best thing you can say about your weekend is you had HauntedApple Jacks.
Other than that, I had a confused fight with my boyfriend. I’m not sure that either one of us could say exactly what was going on and where the argument started. Sometimes I think it’s just impossible to fully understand another human being or him, you. Then, the relationship hilarity begins. Boo hoo. (On the bright side, he’s a stand-out boy in that none of these fights feel like the absolute end of the world. They suck, but I don’t believe (and I hope) they’re not terminal.)
Weirdly, I had a dream that I had a new boyfriend (who looked like a total tool in a brown suit and tie (as though I would date someone in a suit all the time, and a brown one at that)). In the dream the “old” boyfriend (aka the real one) came back to hang out, and the tool “new” boyfriend knew and was fine. However, I didn’t invite the “new” boy to a party I threw with the “old” one, and then pretended I did and he missed it. Basically, the point is, I was even fighting with the “new” imaginary boyfriend in the dream.
Capping off the real poutiness and the poutiness of my psyche will be a party with the folks that made Bush Focus Group. (Click on the link, watch the flick.) Normally, I would think a cast/release party would be fun, well at least as fun as any party where I don’t really know anyone. But, this one is bound to have some awkwardness because of a crazy guy who hates me.
One of the other actors I know from comedy. Apart from his being a huge conspiracy fanatic and my not being one, I’m not entirely clear on what his beef is with me. We have had disagreements, which I mistakenly thought were of the good-natured arguing, difference in beliefs variety. But, he has insulted me publicly, got in my face very physically, tried to argue with me at clubs and shit on me on stage. (For the stage part, some of his funny quips have been that I am ugly, old, scary, mean, angry and a bitch. Ha ha.) Happily, I guess, I’m not alone, he’s done the same thing to other people, who he perceives as having slighted him.
The sad part is he’s a nice man in many ways, who helped me as an early open miker in comedy and was there to listen when my mom died. To many people he also still is quite nice. He seems very genuine and a little nutty maybe, but not crazy. Until you see the craziness up close and for what it is, it is easy to assume that the anger on stage or fights with people are provoked.
Ah, well, better shower so I can see if a nutty man with a grudge spends a party intimidating me. Fucking shit weekend this one.
I have an unfortunate taste for Court TV, especially “Forensic Files.” It’s unfortunate, because I’m dating a news junkie, who since I have known him has watched, read, heard and studied as much about Laci and Scott Peterson as this chick, which is a fucking lot. First trip I took to Cali to visit him, he decided I needed to see where exactly in Berkeley Marina they found Laci.
The problem is what you get when you mix my interest in tawdry little murders, which seem to invariably invoke a deadly dirtbag’s doing in of his paramour, and the boyo’s interest in the legal details of the flashy headline cases. What you get is my imagination building a plausible case for his offing me. (Well, without the motive.)
But, I’ll tell you this much, if I started finding this shit 
mixed in with the spice rack, I’m going to start paying attention. Especially if I start feeling a bit more chipper the one month he’s away in the county jail. Not only that, but I’m going let some authority figures know if the backyard barbecue starts flaming up and he ain’t burning up some steaks for dinner but scraps of paper (and I can’t find any of my personal files).
Obviously (I hope, and given my summer experience I should be utterly explicit), anyway I hope it’s obvious that I’m writing this shit in jest. I’m counting on M.’s breaking up with me well before he starts hiding my corpus delecti. (Not that I want to break up, I’d just prefer it to dying.)
However, wouldn’t it just be fucking awesomely literary if after writing this post, we end up the featured Court TV case? If so, I hope one of my more talented friends writes the funniest, most ironic murder mystery and gets fat and rich off it. Nah, fuck that, if I’m dead, my bitter comic persona would be the only think left, so I wouldn’t want anyone to succeed on my bones.
So the murder’s is off, you hear me, you fucking vultures?!
Last night, I was walking home some time after 1 a.m. It had rained off and on all night, sometimes really pouring. One of the wrought iron benches the city has planted around town was glistening wet, empty in the dark. On it’s seat, a single, wet, red chili pepper.
I finally cleared some pictures off my cell phone (made easier with the restoration of my laptop, since it has bluetooth).
Here’s a bunch from being an extra for Fever Pitch. In the one of the scoreboard, I was trying to get the phone to focus on the time, since it was really late at night (or very early in the morning). The ones with the field and bright lights were them spraying the field just before dawn.
I wish I could have taken a picture of when I was walking on the field from the grandstand to the bleachers. But, they were quite guarded about pictures (and angry), especially if you were pointing in the direction of Jimmy Fallon or Drew Barrymore.
