kev_bot

07-13-09

Current Word Count: Roller Disco Saturday Night, 169, 382 words

What I’m Reading Now: An Edible History of Humanity, by Tom Standage

To call my recent reading history a disaster would, of course, be overstating things a smidge. Disasters are, by and large, rare and catastrophic things involving multitudes, and generally have little to do with the fact that I struggled mightily with a book by an author I usually devour. Still, looking over my reading chart for the year so far, disastrous is really the only word I could dredge up, and here’s why:

Last year, by this point in mid-July, I was at thirty-two books, having just finished my favorite Vonnegut ever, Bluebeard. In 2007, full of literary beans, I had actually passed my lofty goal of Fifty Books in a Year with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (which I read in three days!) and was rewarding myself with a spin inside my favorite novel (It, of course by Stephen King). Full of hubris as I was, I crossed out Fifty Books and decided to attempt a hundred – a hilarious goal I fell short of by twenty-eight books. And I managed to feel bad about only getting to seventy-two books!

At this point I am not only competing with an idealized version of myself (as well as my speed-reading friend Tracey, who has begun counting her books again and thus put herself back in active competition), I am competing with my own dubious legacy as a reader. See, in 2006, I managed only to claw through only forty-five books, most of which were graphic novels. Not that I have anything against graphic novels; quite the contrary, you’d think that the abundance of generally faster-reading graphic fiction would have bolstered my numbers. But alas and alack, and so on.

Of course, the easy excuses come to the fore: I’m a slow reader (which is, admittedly, only intermittently true). I’ve been preoccupied with extant real-life problems. I’ve been focused on my own writing. All of which are indubitably (or at least situationally) true, but that’s never slowed me down in the past. What’s sticking in my gob the most are March and June: in March, I managed to finish only two books, Ruth Reichl’s Garlic & Sapphires and a re-read of King’s Duma Key. I loves both books (Duma Key even more on the second read), and yet I meandered through them like a bored cowboy out for a mosey. And then June, oh June. The Wordy Shipmates, by Sarah Vowell, a punchy history of the Puritans which I remember speeding through managed, somehow, to be the only book I finished last month. Yes, I agree, ( the mind does boggle. )

Oh, the wilds of Upstate New York beckon. My extended family - as well as the relative seclusion (GET IT!?) of our cheap hotel in Saratoga - await.

Be back soon! Wish me well!

Shawn has informed me that the Gift Donation Thermometer has JUMPED! To 40% OMG you guys, SO HAPPY!!!

Check it out, right here. This is kind of the most Shawn has ever been involved with my birthday, which is saying something after a decade. I'm so happy you folks are helping him out here. It's a week and a day to my birthday, and Shawn assures me that he'll keep updating the thermometer till the very last.

For those of you interested in gifting, but without an interest in contributing to my ritual inking and scarification, feel free to peruse my Amazon Wish List, which is fun and interactive! Priority High to Low is so fun. :)

Honestly, thanks everyone. I know these entreaties can seem overbearing and probably avaricious. I see them more as me gearing up toward the happiest day of my year, a day that can't possibly be as happy without a little help from my friends.

WHEEE FUN HAPPY CUPCAKE PARTY TIME!!!

July 09, 2009

What I’m Reading Now: The History of the World in Six Glasses, by Tom Standage

I could have easily said no.

Wait, actually: I could have even more easily said nothing. Dan, the head of ImprovBoston, sent out a mass email asking for volunteers to help move old seats out of the theater and new seats in. Very simply, I could have deleted the email, or ignored it, or even responded with a, “Sorry I can’t help! Good luck!”

See, there was no real reason to help, is the thing: (1) I’m on a sabbatical from working at the theater this July, (2) the whole thing was supposed to start at 7:30 AM on Thursday, the morning after karaoke, and (3) well, here’s the thing. ImprovBoston is like a generally nurturing and loving parent who is very occasionally verbally and emotionally abusive. I love the theater very, very much … but I don’t feel as if I owe them, if that makes sense. So I could have said no. But I didn’t.

When I returned from karaoke, slightly earlier than usual, I checked my email from Dan and saw the follow-up: the “new” chairs for the theater were actually coming from Braintree High School, and being repurposed in the IB space. I had to read that twice, and then twice again: Braintree High School. Braintree High School.

( I hadn’t been back in sixteen years. )

I hope no one at the library catches me with my completely conspicuous product placement! Eek, and forfend!

07-08-09

Current Word Count: Roller Disco Saturday Night, 168, 035 words

What I’m Reading Now: A History of the World in Six Glasses, by Tom Standage

Shawn flipped on the forecast early Sunday before we headed out the door to the gym. “Sunny all day, great!” he cheered. But I didn’t cheer.

“Oh, hell.” I pointed at Tuesday. The whole week was full of sun and partial clouds, except for Tuesday. “Thunderstorms. All day Tuesday.”

“What’s wrong with… Oh.”

“I’ll be right back!”

At once I ran to my computer and fired off an email to Mark. Every time I’ve been on a fun trip these last few months – New York, Orlando – it’s been marred by rain. I was not going to let this happen this time.

Mark wrote back in moments: some shuffling was necessary, but he was pretty sure he’d be able to move his day off to Monday. Monday, which, according to weather.com, was going to be sunny and breezy and beautiful.

In all: Six Flags, one; weather, zero. Precipitation, you can suck it!

( Onto the fun-fair! )

07-07-09

Edit: HTML fixed. I am too tired to code.

Current Word Count: Roller Disco Saturday Night, 166, 542 words

What I’m Reading Now: Shakespeare Wrote for Money, by Nick Hornby

I wrote this yesterday:

[I don’t have a lot of time right now – Mark and I are heading up to Six Flags in an hour; this endeavor was supposed to take place tomorrow, but some keen spying into upcoming weather convinced us to up the date – so I will be presenting you my Fourth with limited narrative interruption.]

As I don’t completely understand the concept of “limited narrative interruption,” I ran over too much and had to abandon the post yesterday. So, um. This is longer. With a lot of narration. But also recipes and pictures! ( Dig in! )

Hey kids!

A full entry about the Fourth of July (with pictures and recipes) is upcoming in a couple of hours. Until then, check out my husband's feats of magic: he is very proud of his Donation Thermometer, which he created partially from scratch.

Kev's Birthday Donation Option Thermometer.

I can't be happier that he's taken a vested interest in my birthday for maybe the first time ever; I am also super pleased that he referred to my arm concept as "a pop culture media candyland of glee." If anything describes me, isn't it that?

I also need to thank you guys for helping make this possible. I know thirty-four isn't one of the big ones to a lot of people, but it's been a sort of tough year for me, and this is making things a heck of a lot easier. So thanks!

Kev

I thought I'd be able to get out an entry about the Fourth before Mark showed up and carted me away to Six Flags, but even getting up early did not accomplish my goals. Sigh and SIGH. So until later, quite possibly tomorrow, I can only leave you with this image from the party:



See you later!

Wow.

It's 4:00 AM. Just finished Circles: It Feels Like I've Been Here Before, the first (and currently only) collected volume of Circles comics. The last time I was so thoroughly engaged in "gay" fiction was in reading Fun Home by Alison Bechdel last year, furthering my weird theory that for me, the most engaging gay lit is in the graphic novel format.

This sucker blew me away. I had expected to like it, or maybe find it curiously interesting. I didn't expect to be moved to tears - TWICE - or to love it this much.

My friend Vince (aka kylet) got me this for my birthday, and I can't begin to thank him enough. I really need sleep now, but DAMN. DAMN. One of those times you're glad you learned how to read.

Today is a day for patriotic cupcakes! Pictures to come.

Also, in the interest of awesome things, I present the best thing the internet has ever done, courtesy of my pal e_ticket. It's all done with webcams from people around the world and it's beautiful and wonderful:

This is the large version of my new default LJ icon:



It features a nice shirt my friend neild gave me for my birthday. Hooray shirts!

Speaking of my birthday, my friend Vince just sent me a copy of Circles: It Seems Like I've Been Here Before, by Andrew French. Hooray Vince! (I'm not sure if Vince wants me to link to him.)

FURTHER speaking of my birthday, if you're still puzzled as to what to get me (if you want to get me anything), you now have OPTIONS!!!

Kev's Birthday Donation Option. My husband is gathering funds to get me inked on July 18th! Hooray Shawn!!!

My Amazon Wish List.

Hooray and for fun! You guys rock! Life is good on Friday! Tomorrow: CUPCAKE TOWER TIME.

07-03-09

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

Yesterday, I took a look at some of my least favorite parts of my most favorite stuff. Part of it was to keep me in check – I think blind faith in anything is dangerous – but part of it is because it’s sort of complain a little bit.

However, there’s stuff I complain about all the time, stuff that irritates me beyond measure. And as I was composing yesterday’s entry, I realized that it might be fun to see if there was anything I liked about the crap I hate. Sort of as a way to balance the scales.

So without further ado, I present to you: Kev’s Shit List and Why It’s Not All Bad.

Rick Astley. When I got my stereo for my twelfth birthday, I immediately went to the radio and started recording Top 40. I was, for a time, very into “Never Gonna Give You Up” and “Together Forever,” although I really hated “To Ever Let You Go.” Eventually, time wore me down and I couldn’t stand the songs, but before rickrolling became so dastardly prevalent, there was this email jpg people sent around saying Rick Astley is never gonna 1. Give You Up 2. Let You Down 3. Run Around 4. Desert you. Which I thought was hilarious.

Rachel Ray. While I can’t stand the whole “yum-o!” thing, and the fact that she doesn’t tip waiters, and her entire shrill personality, I do kind of like the initialism “e-v-o-o” and I really like her recipe for stoup. It’s part stew, part soup, and Shawn makes it every winter and it’s always, always delicious.

Seafood. While it may not count, I do love myself a tuna fish sandwich. It has to be done to my specifications, though: white bread and Miracle Whip are key, as is the distinct lack of anything crunchy. Other variations on this are the tuna melt and “tooter fish popkins,” which involve crescent roll bread and shredded cheese.

Reign of Fire. My least favorite movie of all time – so hated that I include it on every “Worst Movies of” list every year I make one – has two redeeming qualities. 1. The little Star Wars playlet in the middle that was funny and witty and showed something other than hate and contempt for the audience. And 2. McConaughey’s biceps. I mean seriously.

Precipitation. Rain and snow are two of my life’s biggest miseries. However, I can get into rain when I know I’m going to be inside for awhile, and I can look out the window and watch it pattering against the ground. It’s pretty enough when I don’t have to be involved with it. And snow? Makes the courtyard at the Boston Public Library so pretty it’s almost hard to look at.

The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. It’s short.

The Nanny. One of my more misanthropic tales is that I broke up with a guy because he liked The Nanny. This isn’t entirely true – it was just symptomatic of the rest of his problems – but Jesus God, I hate this fucking show. And I hate Fran Drescher on the show … but I don’t really hate her as a person or an actress besides. I actually really liked her in Spinal Tap, and I was glad when her book was a hit.

Any thoughts? Anything I hate that you think I could like something about? I will say that phobias (like moths) and allergies (like smoking) don’t count on a list like this. I notice this list is shorter than my other one, and that kind of worries me. Does that mean I like more stuff or that I hate more stuff?

Kev

07-02-09

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

People say to me, “Kev” (that’s what they call me back home, is “Kev”), “Kev, you are such an eternal optimist and lover of things. Tell us, though, isn’t there anything you don’t like about the stuff you love? Or are you just the blind-faith follower of pop culture like we all assume you are?”

Well, I am happy to report that, yes, in my world made up of silver linings, there are definitely some dark clouds. The thought occurred to me yesterday at the gym when a song by one of my favorite artists came up and I launched my hand toward the skip button lickedy-split. See, many, many people assume that I sit in my hammock of pop-culture daily, sipping Kool-Aid and forgiving my idols their trespasses just because they’re my idols. This is not the case! For me, it’s just more fun to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative. In this case, “eliminate” means “delete.” From my iPod. Which I did not ten minutes after I left the gym.

But yes, deliciously for some, there is stuff I hate about the stuff I love. And today, because it’s such a perfect day, ( I’d like to share it with you. )

07-01-09

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

Of course we all know that Dr Pepper is delicious, but did you know that it is the oldest major manufacturer of soft drink concentrates and syrups in the United States? That’s right! It beats Coca-Cola by a year and Pepsi-Cola, which came about in 1898, is like Dr Pepper’s upstart little brother. I thought it would be fun to take a little look at not only how “the most misunderstood soft drink” came about, but also how it’s remained so popular all these years. ( Drink a bite to eat with me! )

06-30-09

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

So I’m outside Starbucks today, heading to the T and for once not listening to music. My ears needed a break from headphones and, because I apparently have attained logic today, I decided to give it to them. Anyhow, I started thinking about that Bobby Brown song from Ghostbusters II, “On Our Own,” a song which has very, very little to do with the Ghostbusters except for a little rap bit in the bridge (“too hot to handle / too cold to hold / call the Ghostbusters and they’re in control”; no, I don’t understand it, either) and then a talking section. Here’s what the esteemed Mr. Brown says there:

“Found out about Vigo / the master of evil / try to battle my boys? / that’s not legal!”

Aside from this bit coming from the Steve Miller School of Rhyming (I don’t care how badly you want it: “taxes,” “Texas,” and “facts is” do not rhyme; a passing nod at assonance doesn’t count as songcraft!), let’s examine this just a tad. All right, (1), I’m not sure Vigo is anyone’s idea of a “master of evil.” I mean, even Zuul wasn’t really a master of evil, despite the possession and the giant Marshmallow Man. Vigo’s big plan seems to be escaping from a painting and then causing slime – which now has musical taste – to animate the Statue of Liberty. I think. I don’t know, maybe it’s a nuisance? Certainly not as tasty as, say, coating New York in Fluff, but I’m not sure anything Vigo does is really all that evil.

But I want to get to the last line the most, because seriously? Of course it’s not legal! Vigo’s a malevolent spirit with at least pretentions of evil. I’m not sure ghosts – at least the ones in the Ghostbusters universe – care one whit about the potential legality of their spooky actions. Isn’t that pretty much understood? And yet Bobby Brown seems incensed about it.

Plus, okay, beyond Vigo’s outrageously unlawful presence in the municipality of New York, Bobby seems especially furious at the fact that that Vigo is attempting to “battle [his] boys,” the Ghostbusters. Now wait a minute: isn’t the point of the Ghostbusters … I don’t know, busting ghosts? Arbitrary legality aside, isn’t it sort of the point for the Ghostbusters to battle Vigo? It may not be legal in the strictest sense, but that’s like saying, “Oh, a criminal went against what the police wanted! That’s not legal!” The whole reason for police officers is to catch criminals, and the whole reason for the Ghostbusters is to bust ghosts. What Bobby seems to be saying is that, sure, it’s okay to fill the sewers with slime and cause general PG-13 havoc, but don’t go directly against the Ghostbusters, because that, sir, is crossing the line.

In conclusion: Bobby Brown doesn’t seem to understand the whole Ghostbusters philosophy (he even references them “grabbing the proton packs off their back,” which not only features sloppy plural agreements but also a poor preposition choice) as well as Ray Parker, Jr. He might have inadvertently stolen his riff from Huey Lewis and created extra verses no one at karaoke ever remembers (“What’s this part about an invisible man? I … think he likes the girls?”), but at least he gave the whole world a catchphrase for the ages, and reminded us that bustin’ is supposed to make us feel good.

Kev

06-29-09

Current Word Count: Roller Disco Saturday Night, 164, 226 words

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

I was in my office on Saturday morning when Shawn let out a ululating cry in the kitchen. “Kevin!”

“What?”

“Kevin!”

“OMG what?”

He comes dashing in up the stair and stops short at my office door. “Look at this!”

I looked. What appeared to be a small, dead ferret turned out to be, on further examination, a beef teriyaki on a skewer. A beef teriyaki covered in dust.

“What the F?”

“I found this behind the fridge. It’s dusty.”

“Why isn’t it rotting?” I asked, transfixed.

“Or eaten? Shouldn’t this have been a haven for, like, insects? Or maggots or something?”

“Where did we get that from? What’s in it?”

“I think the important question is how did it get behind the refrigerator? Was someone over and like, ick, beef teriyaki, and then threw it?”

“‘I hate beef teriyaki so much that instead of throwing it away, I will hide it behind the fridge.’ Nothing about this makes sense.”

I would really like to know where we ordered that from. I’m not sure if it makes me like them more or less. A delightful snack, salted with eternity, found in the shadows behind the machinery… in the Twilight Zone.

* * *

So then Steve and I went to Target, after our jaunt to Friendly’s (which is having a super-sweet deal right now, b.t.dubs: entrée, drink, dessert, all for ten bucks. Seriously, right?) We’re in the grocery aisle and there’s a huge Apple Jacks display. Steve wrinkles his nose and selects a box.

“Ugh,” he mutters. “These come with something called gliders.”

“Like a toy?”

“No, like a new Apple Jacks shape.” He holds the box up to me. “They’re blue.”

“I love Apple Jacks. I haven’t had Apple Jacks in like years.”

“Food shouldn’t be blue.”

I narrow my eyes and snatch a box off the shelf. “Well, I’m getting them!”

Steve stares at me. “Me too!” And with our Apple Jackses, we laugh gaily toward the registers.

* * *

Guess what? Remember that tattoo post I wrote awhile back? Well, time is edging closer to my birthday, for which my hubby is interested in getting me a new tattoo. A Disney-fied one, one which my friend Neil calls my “optical illusion” tattoo idea. It’s based on an old attraction called Horizons, and it’s going on my upper left arm.
This is the thing I want most this year, and I want to get it before the summer’s out. Shawn, quite thoughtfully, has set up a thing so my friends can help contribute to my new experience in ink and pain.

If you want to be in on the whole deal to get me #14, the link to contribute can be found here. And really, who doesn’t want to help me usher in my thirty-fourth year with searing agony and permanent scarring?

* * *

I’m not really up for talking about the more intense events of the weekend right now, except to say thanks to everyone. I needed … gosh, I don’t even know what I needed. I had some support, and some fiction, and some cake, and things seem to be more on an even keel right now, so thank you. All of you.

Not that this is news to anyone. I really think I'm manic-depressive, occasionally debilitatingly so. Signs were cropping up - sudden fatigue, restlessness, over-washing. Shawn has a theory that something wanted to break, and it did last night.

Not being able to afford something I've had a hand in woke me up to the cold realities of my life now. A change needs to come. I just feel so damn ... so useless, and aimless. Last night, I was so upset at being underappreciated, but maybe that's just where I am. Maybe I am just a grunt and the level of appreciation I am afforded is exactly right.

I hate the world like this. I hate myself like this. It's moments like these that make me lament all the time I've made fun of internet "drama," because sometimes that "drama" comes from a real place that you just can't escape.

I think things will get better when I want to be happy. I don't want to right now, and that always worries me.

I might have to work tonight, but like all things, that's vague.

It never matters what I do. It always ends up like this. Always always always. Sometimes I wonder if it's the type of person I am, or the type of person I'm not. But maybe it's just the type of world I'm in, and maybe it's time to stop looking always at the good side of things. Because being bright and sunny all the time didn't stop me from getting laid off, and it's not helping me sell my books, and it doesn't even help when I thought I had a purpose in life then got turned away at the door.

One time I thought I understood life, but it turns out I don't understand shit.

I know this is fucking cryptic and we rail and snark against cryptic, but I don't know how to put everything into words right now.

06-27-09

What I’m Reading Now: Player Piano, by Kurt Vonnegut

Do you know who the oldest Disney animated character is? Donald Duck? Goofy? Mickey Mouse? Not even close. Some of you keener viewers are now thinking, Oh, well, it’s Oswald, the Lucky Rabbit, who was Walt Disney’s first sensation but who was sold out from under Walt and only bought back many decades later. Sorry, folks, you’re wrong, too!

The oldest animated Disney character is none other than a big meanie named Pete. ( Well, who the heck is Pete? )