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| Thursday, March 19th, 2009 | | 12:59 am |
Not sure what to do with these feelings
I just got an email from a close friend that this man died this morning, of cancer. I hadn't spoken to him in at least three years; I'd heard a few months ago from another mutual friend that he had cancer, and then from a third mutual friend that he was trying to keep quiet about it and let as few people know as possible, and so I never wrote him to check in because I didn't know what to say to him. ( Personal ramblings... )This person was here and now is not. Things I remember: He had a deep, rumbly voice and kind, merry eyes. He knew at least 200 stories off the top of his head and was a vivid and mesmerizing storyteller (I'll never hear the word "carcass" without also hearing the entire glorious tale of the foolhardy and wise Lady Carcasson), and he said that the true master storytellers of the Western world (all Irish) would scorn him for his measly 200. He had a massive collection of terribly beaten-up stuffed animals--he collected stuffed roadkill, the abandoned toys you see in gutters or in the middle of the street or on the side of the highway, usually hurled out a window by some frustrated toddler. He'd dashed across a couple of dangerous highways to retrieve some particularly precious specimens. He vividly remembered almost all the kids he'd worked with at the home for emotionally disturbed and profoundly disabled children, especially the sly silent humor of one deeply autistic boy who let glimmers of himself slip through to a few select persons. He was endlessly patient with children. He was endlessly impatient with bureaucracies. He had utter contempt for ideologues of any stripe whatsoever. He was relentlessly truthful, even if it cost him. He always smelled good. He didn't value himself highly enough. eta: Lying awake at 4 a.m., I remembered something else about him. There's a wooded area walking distance from the house he and a friend rented in Novato: maybe public land, maybe a lot some owner hadn't bothered to develop. But wooded and wild and walkable. He liked to ramble through it and build little treehouses and twig/leaf/acorn/bits of string sculptures (whimsical, not Blair Witchy) and make funny faces around the knots and boles in the tree trunks. It pleased him to think about some stranger wandering through and puzzling over these artifacts, but it also pleased him just to think of them there in the woods even if nobody else ever laid eyes on them. A podcast of some of his storytelling can be found here.This person was here and now is not, and should not be forgotten. | | Wednesday, December 24th, 2008 | | 8:15 am |
My goddamn job
Last Friday Matilda's daycare provider started her annual (paid, and well deserved) 2-week vacation, as a result of which we've been fending for ourselves, as we don't have the money to pay for an extra seven days of daycare. My mom is sitting Matilda on Mondays, Emmett's mom is sitting her on Tuesdays, we don't have to worry about the official holidays, and I'm taking time off for the three workdays left over--last Friday, today, and next Friday. Which brings me up to a grand total of four vacation days taken in the last 8 months. The nurse that Very Young Coworker and I share our office with has been here forever, is a very senior person, and is really generally very kindly and motherly, but she gets occasional yelling storming flash rages over major or minor infractions. I've been the recipient of three so far, two deserved (though both occurring literally weeks after the infractions), and one extremely WTF-y, and I've apologized and buttoned down and tried to make myself as small and inoffensive and not-wrong as possible as a result. It's all rather stressful, though, because she'll also occasionally blow up over nothing at all, and the blow-ups are completely random and unpredictable. Once she's vented, whatever pressure she's carrying around is gone and all is well, but it's distinctly un-fun when it happens and there's a constant low-lying Will it be today? Will it be me or VYC? snappish-dog-appeasing fretfulness beneath the surface of all my interactions with her. So last night, as I'm beavering away at the last of the mountain of work at 5:30, trying to make sure Very Young Coworker doesn't have to worry about any of my stuff tomorrow, only her own, the nurse comes in to clear away her own desk. She doesn't like Christmas much anyway, has grumped about the wretchedness of gift-giving (like everyone else, she's living paycheck-to-paycheck, and our division's ridiculous office politics mandate lots of gift-giving) and about how her granddaughter is the only real pleasure of the season (her relationship with her daughter, the toddler's mom, is less than perfect), just finished another round of preventive chemo for an unspecified cancer that's been mostly in remission for the past few years but still requires twice-yearly dosing, and on this particular day clinic has been shitty and stressful. So I understand how tightly she's wound and how tough things are for her. She walks in loaded down with all this, starts shuffling her papers, and suddenly blows up at me over the cubicle wall about how incredibly selfish I am for taking all this time off from work over the holidays, how now VYC isn't going to get to take any time off at all because she has to cover for me, how I have a husband who could take care of my daughter, and how she herself used to work with nurses who did this shit all the time and it was just selfish and I should think twice next time before I act like this. Note that VYC has no problem with my taking the time off (my doctors are also gone so she doesn't have to take care of them, my work is done, and her own docs are gone too so really, even though the office has to be open with one staffer, she'll be spending today and next Friday reading Fark.com and playing web sudoku--she's pissed at the admin head who won't let her just close the office and go home, but not at me). And she herself has just about maxed out her sick leave in the last two months -- all legitimately, but all leaving me jumping to cover her desk and answer her phone and deal with all her office crises. Which I do, each time, without complaining. And Hec damn well i can't take the time off; he's just a temp, it's his first job in months, and we desperately need his income. Not to mention that none of this impacts the nurse in the slightest and none of it is remotely her business. But, you know, that's not relevant. What's relevant is that she needed to blow off some rageful steam and I had the bad luck to be there, and so she raged and raged and spent herself, and then gathered up her stuff and left without a word. I hate this. I hate it. I know she's mostly nice, I know how much shit she has to deal with in her own private life and how much she has to keep bottled in, but...FUCK. I can't take it. I cannot cope with this kind of ticking-bomb atmosphere and stay happy or sane. And I can't complain; she's very deeply rooted in the division and very much senior to me. And she is who she is, and at 50+ she's not going to change her ways, or retire, or change jobs, anytime soon. There's also the fact that one of the doctors I work for and VYC's doctor absolutely hate each other, blow up at each other once a month or so, speak about each other with withering contempt behind each other's backs, and mostly communicate through me and VYC (she sometimes whispers to me when they're having a closed-door meeting, "Jacqueline, I'm scared. Why are Mommy and Daddy fighting again?"). I can barely tolerate my own drama and remain functional; nobody's giving me combat pay to compensate me for this shit. There's so much that I like, even love, about the actual work I'm doing here, but the environment is so epically not worth it. The capper? After the rant about my monstrous selfishness and the silent flounce out, I stayed another half hour finishing up and getting more and more vomity with suppressed rage and frustration, and when I was finally ready to clear out and go home, I left my keys on my desk and locked the door behind me and couldn't get back in and couldn't go home. All this over four damn days in eight months (and all of her own miseries--but, hell, I've got miseries of my own; I just don't take them out on my officemates). Merry Fucking Christmas. Current Mood:  pissed off | | Thursday, December 11th, 2008 | | 1:17 pm |
Aw, what the hell. Booky meme.
What we have here is the top 106 books most often marked as "unread" by LibraryThing’s users. As in, they sit on the shelf to make you look smart or well-rounded. Bold the ones you've read, italicise the ones you own but haven't read, underline the ones you started but didn't finish. ( Booklist )Apparently I really need to work on this whole reading-books-by-people-who-are-still-al ive thing. | | Friday, November 21st, 2008 | | 11:20 am |
Meditations on Lilo & Stitch and stuff
After a couple of false starts over the last several months, Matilda has fallen deeply in love with Lilo & Stitch, so much so that the new constant refrain at our place is "Watch Lilo 'Titch?" (if we say no, that's too much TV in one sitting, she counters with, "Jussa little bit 'Titch?") And it has to be said that it holds up amazingly to repeated viewings. I owned the movie long before it occurred to me that there might ever exist such a person as Matilda, and I loved it way back when. And, watching it now for the twentieth time in two weeks? I may possibly love it more. It's so visually rich and lush and full of a glow that's somehow simultaneously deeply saturated and light as watercolor. The characters all look so distinct, but so much part of a unified, fully imagined 'verse. And the small character details: Captain Gantu slumping in his chair and thumping one weary, defeated fist against the armrest as Stitch makes his escape, the way Mr. Bubbles has to shuffle his spats-clad feet just a bit to get his muscle-bound body crouched down at Lilo's level; Lilo smoothly, angrily snapping up his business card without even looking; Noni's face as she tries and fails to tell Lilo that they're to be separated tomorrow morning; Stitch's face crumbling when Jumbu says, "Family? You haven't got one." Just so, so many beautifully rendered bits of physical business with so much emotional weight. And, damn, but Tia Carrere is incredible as Noni--snarky and impatient and worn-out and heartbroken, with great sisterly chemistry with Daveigh Chase. Why doesn't she ever get non-cartoon roles that rich and lovely? The whole movie, also, always makes me think of a conversation I had with one of Emmett's teammates' dads at a Little League picnic a couple of months ago. He was a very pleasant, bright, lovely man, and in his non-baseball-dad life he works as a senior executive at Pixar. We talked a bit about Wall*E and how much Matilda loved it, and I mentioned how sad it was that probably the best female role in any big-studio movie that year was a computer-animated robot. He said they were all very proud of the excellence of EVE, and we were off dancing around the Bechdel Test without actually saying the phrase. He was genuinely baffled that I thought there might have been more female characters than there were in the last couple of Pixar movies, pointing out Jaenane Garafola's character in Ratatouille and wanting to know why I didn't like her. She was fine, I said, but she was practically the only female of any species in all of Paris. Well, he said, we do worry about that. But it's hard sometimes to figure out how to fit female characters into the story and have them make sense. I'm still slightly headdesking over that--it's such a perfect, well-intentioned, completely unconscious example of boys-as-default, girls-as-significant-primarily-in-their-g irlness. And I couldn't figure out any possible way to address that in the course of polite kids' party chitchat over the potato salad table that wouldn't come across as a total crazed attack. But...headdesk. And another reason to love Lilo & Stitch. The two human female leads, of course, but all the others, too--the dog pound manager, the grocery stand owner and coffeehouse manager and hotel concierge and lifeguard to whom Noni applies for jobs, the Grand Councilwoman (and--judging by voice, at least--nearly half the staff in her command station and one of Captain Gantu's two chief lieutenants). No fuss, no need to make sense of their femaleness or fit it into the story; they're all just female because half the universe is female. Why is that so unusual in a kid's movie--in any movie--still? | | Monday, November 10th, 2008 | | 11:38 am |
Customer service is fun!
Best Phone Call Ever, as of half an hour ago: Me: Good morning, Cardiology, this is Zmayhem. Random Woman: I'm a longtime patient of Dr. S's. I'm looking for his assistant. Me: Yes, that's me. How can I help you? RW: He usually sees patients on Mondays, right? Me: Yes; he's in clinic now. RW: I need to know if I could slip in to see him this afternoon. Me: Well [ if you're a longtime patient you already know he's always booked four or five months in advance, so I'm fairly certain that as of right this minute a melting snowball in hell has a better chance of getting an appointment for this afternoon than you do], ma'am, the clinic would be able to answer that for you; let me give you the number and transfer you. RW (in winky-winky confidential tones): I'm just very concerned, and I thought I'd better get in to see him while I still can, before socialized medicine happens. I'm used to being able to see my specialists right away. I'm very concerned.Me (brightly): Well, socialized medicine would be a wonderful thing, but I regret to say that we're probably at least a decade away at the earliest. RW: Well, then, single payer. Isn't that even worse? Anyhow, I want to see him today, before the socialism. Me: ::brains explode:: Current Mood: irate | | Thursday, October 30th, 2008 | | 9:00 am |
Marriage meme - vote NO on 8 (CA), 2 (FL) and 102 (AZ)
Copy this sentence into your livejournal if you're in a heterosexual marriage, and you don't want it "protected" by the bigots who think that gay marriage hurts it somehow. Damn right I don't. My youngest brother married his partner of almost a decade about two years ago in Boston. I was proud to have them both at the altar with ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) hecubot and me in our wedding party four years ago, and overjoyed when they took advantage of Massachusetts's affirmation of the right to marriage for all couples (still mildly annoyed that they had a private, noontime midweek ceremony and still haven't gotten around to the reception they promised us ages ago, but whatever). Their marriage is not a threat; it's a joy and a blessing. To them, and to everyone who knows them--especially everyone who knows my brother, who for so many years was a glum sardonic emotionally guarded balled-up knot of sadness and smallness and quiet anger. He started to loosen in college when he came out; since meeting his husband, he has thrived. His husband is sweet, gregarious, quick to tease and laugh and hug, out for most of his life and just a wide-open person from birth. And, living year after year in the glow of this man's love for him and delight in their life together, my brother has grown softer, kinder, more generous, less guarded, a million times more present to family and friends. Admitting his own gayness brought him out of the closet; this man's love has brought him out into the world. As all true spouses and partners do, his husband makes him free to be his best self, to his husband and to everyone else. They're not a threat to my marriage or anyone else's; if anything, they're an example. If you're in California, vote NO on 8; if you're in Florida, vote NO on 2; if you're in Arizona, vote NO on 102. | | Monday, September 15th, 2008 | | 11:27 am |
Very Young Officemate Update
She's gravely disappointed in McCain. At my urging she Googled the history of the Keating 5 a couple of weeks ago, and has been rather quiet since on the topic of his honorable and upright history. She's openly agnostic and gagged on all the Jesus-bless-us backpatting at the Republican convention (and was heartened to hear my openly theistic self also gagging on same). She has horrified her older brother by admitting to him that she's probably voting for Obama. Her mother, a staunch Orange County Republican, called her recently practically foaming with rage; she feels Palin's nomination makes it obvious that McCain thinks all Republican women are morons, and he's lost not only her vote but any donations she might have been planning to make. She may or may not bother to vote at all, but she's decidedly not voting for him, and right now she's gunning for him with all the scorn, spite and email forwards she can muster. So, um, qualified possible yay in progress? Current Mood:  hopeful | | Wednesday, August 20th, 2008 | | 7:16 am |
Mysterious Benefactors
Yesterday evening Hec and Matilda and I came home to a small and lovely packet of gifts both useful and shamefully frivolous, sent by a completely anonymous doer of good deeds somewhere in downtown San Francisco. Whoever you are, mysterious downtown fairy(ies), your kindness makes my heart all squinchy with happiness, and I swear that once we turn this corner out of the bad place toward something better, we're going to pay it forward. Bless, and bless, and mwah! Thank you, good fairy(ies)! | | Tuesday, July 22nd, 2008 | | 4:44 pm |
ganked from debg Folks on my flist who've read my husband's excellent book Swordfishtrombones (and if you haven't, why in heaven's name not? It's a nice brisk read, both full of literary Easter eggs for the hardcore Tom Waits fan and very accessible to the non-fan, its editor thinks it's one of the best and most purely fun of the entire 33 1/3 series, and it won't set you back much at all), could I possibly trouble you to go over to WorldCat and give it some stars, please? (WorldCat is an online resource used by librarians as an ordering guide; a librarian friend has pointed out that they'll only use it as long as they can trust it's reliable, so please don't go rating the book unless you've actually read it--but please go read it!) | | Friday, July 11th, 2008 | | 3:55 pm |
mosaic meme
From fabby, lala_lisa and mskat: The rules: a. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search. b. Using only the first page, pick an image. c. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into fd’s mosaic maker. 1. What is your first name? Jacqueline 2. What is your favorite food? Cheese 3. What high school did you go to? SOTA 4. What is your favorite color? Indigo 5. Who is your celebrity crush? Seth Green 6. Favorite drink? Root beer 7. Dream vacation? Rome 8. Favorite dessert? Chocolate mousse 9. What you wanted to be when you grow up? Actor 10. What do you love most in life? (aside from the obvious persons) Reading 11. One Word to describe you? Shy 12. Your flickr name? Zmayhem  | | Monday, July 7th, 2008 | | 4:49 pm |
Variation on the film meme
I've seen about 2/3 of the movies on that EW list that's running all over LJ, and own or have owned about half of that 2/3. Which of course leaves a good 30-some-odd that I've never seen. And, thanks to my very generous baby brother and BIL, I also have a shiny new Netflix account. So, behind the cut is a new list for Netflix consideration: ( UNSEEN )What belongs on my queue? Is there anything I can safely continue to not see? (I'm fine with avoiding either wall-to-wall bodily function jokes, dead children as plot points, or Juliette Lewis, which I think may eliminate at least three movies.) | | 11:57 am |
Idle curiosity: Celebrity crushes, warm fuzzy variety
So, I am coming to grips with two facts: (a) I have a massive, massive crush on Giants pitcher Tim Lincecum, and (b) that crush is manifesting, weirdly, in a gigantic mushy wad of quasi-maternal doting. He's cute and funny and smart and monstrously talented, and yet, despite the fact that he isn't all that much younger than me, something about his tall gangly post-adolescent super-gifted enthusiasm off the mound and seriousness on it just fills me with the desire not so much to do dirty things to him as to sit him down at my fictional clean kitchen table in my fictional clean little kitchen, feed him soup and pasta and a little bread to keep it all company, and just smish him to bits and tell him what a very good boy he is. And now I'm wondering whether this is just me, or whether it's a subcategory of celebrity crush that's not uncommon, just not as much talked about. Does anyone else ever find any random celebrities or athletes pinging them parentally instead of groinally? Who are they? Who are you? (I did ask hecubot if he's ever felt like this, and he said he couldn't think of anyone specific right that minute but he did recognize the feeling and he had indeed felt all fondly proud-dadful of famous complete strangers before, so apparently it's not just mom-types that it happens to.) Lastly, just to eliminate any possible hesitation anyone could conceivably ever feel about admitting to such crushes, I'll confess that my motherly girlcrush object is Amanda Bynes. I can't even begin to explain it; I find her completely, irresistibly adorable and if I were her mom I'd be just giddy about it. | | Sunday, June 15th, 2008 | | 8:00 am |
I Love My City, Part #76,942
(cross-posted with b.org) Last night I went out on a rare solo evening outing, hopping the N Judah downtown to see e_juliana's play, Heist A Crow, a beautifully written and crisply paced comic/sad snippet of the afterlife in mostly black and white, with sound design by noisedesign, in a tiny basement theater up the street from Union Square. In the lobby, I got my dinner of red wine and Milano cookies and picked up a flier for a woman who does vintage pin-up modeling workshops and also runs an open enrollment burlesque troupe. (The lobby itself is excellent - long, narrow and dark, with dark shimmery stripey fabric lining the walls and a short narrow bar facing a battered upright piano, and a general atmosphere nicely balanced between Berlin cabaret and ship's hold.) The show was a longish one-act but briskly paced and when I got out, it was cold but not bitter out, Union Square was glittering with lights and ringing with the sounds of competing street musicians, and the sidewalks were crowded with a mix of very late theatergoers, tourists, street people, street performers, local chi-chi store staff closing up for the night, dejected Giants fans, and elated A's fans. Everything felt very shiny and bustling and wide awake. Outside a smoke shop on the corner of Powell a couple blocks up from Market, a two-man band composed of two young white guys, one with guitar and one with drums, was playing an improbably terrific version of "No Woman No Cry." Really, they had no right to be as good as they were. The streetcorner was crowded with tourists and miscellaneous wanderers, including a grandma out and about with her two 6-8ish granddaughters; the girls were dancing deliriously in their teeny girl-power t-shirts and pastel Crocs while their grandmother beamed. And right in front of the musicians, a middle-aged homeless black man was dancing with a middle-aged Asian woman all done up for a big night out in a black crepe dress with white lace and a long swoopy duster and loads of makeup. They danced together a bit and then she spun out on her own, and he turned to the crowd, flung his arms out, and shouted, "She's beautiful! She's alive! She's alive and she knows it!" The song ended, I wove my way down the next two blocks, navigating around a shocking number of baby strollers and just barely getting myself past the mediocre but huge and cheap lure of Blondie's Pizza. Just outside the Powell Street station, I stopped a mixed couple (A's/Giants) to ask the final score. "Five to nothing, baby!" the guy shouted gleefully, fist-pumping at the sky. "There's still tomorrow!" the woman with him said, just a little sharply. "No way! LET'S GO, OAK-LAND!" he bawled. She gave him a Look, threw her head back and blasted right back, "LET'S GO, GIIII-ANTS!" And there I left them, yelling up Powell Street in a fury of bitter fannish competition. I don't know if it's the City itself or the red wine and Milanos for dinner, but I desperately wanted to hug the stuffing out of everyone and everything. I love my city, with all its ridiculous earnestness. I do. | | Friday, June 6th, 2008 | | 12:22 pm |
I fail at failing
I think I should be concerned about this: I can only assume that my score got artificially inflated with an assload of plus points for being a morning person (why did the test not ding me for being the bitter, sour pill I am at night? No idea), regularly going to my lefty activist church along with my lefty-activist-in-training sprog, and liking Teh Sex -- oh, pardon me, "reacting with delight and pleasure to marital congress." Still, this seems like a very bad quiz on which to attain an average score. | | Thursday, May 15th, 2008 | | 11:24 am |
WOOT!
I love my state SO DAMN MUCH. The traditional fourth anniversary gift is flowers, the modern gift is linens or silk, but the postmodern gift of extending the right to even have a fourth anniversary at all to all consenting adults in love, no matter the gender of their beloveds? Blows them both away. So happy. So happy! Current Mood: jubilant | | Tuesday, April 8th, 2008 | | 5:26 pm |
Memearama
From, at this point, just about everyone in the universe: Empire Magazine has revealed its list of the "50 Greatest TV Shows" ever. Below is the list and here be the rules. 1. Bold the shows of which you've watched every episode 2. Italicize the shows of which you've seen at least one episode 2a. Star the shows you consider "the best" (Addition by tidesong) 3. Post your answers ( Answers ) | | Tuesday, January 29th, 2008 | | 10:24 am |
| | Thursday, August 9th, 2007 | | 7:53 am |
On my way to TJ's yesterday evening with Matilda, I heard this report on NPR about a recent study reporting appallingly high rates of depression and suicidal thought among Katrina survivors, seen through the prism of the reporter's visit to a single FEMA trailer park. Good little useless privileged liberal that I am, I had to sit in the parking lot crying for five minutes before I could get my shit together. Over and over, the reporter knocks on one door after another and within seconds finds herself hearing the same thing from everyone: "If it weren't for my kids/parents/family, I'd have killed myself already." A former forklift builder, a former preschool teacher, a former diligent office drone now a SAHM because the commute to the McJob she was able to find after months in the trailer park cost more in gas and daycare than her paycheck covered ("My girls had already had so much taken from them; I couldn't let them lose their mother, so I went to the doctor and he put me on anti-depressants." "Did they help?" "..." The nearest jobs are a lengthy commute away and once you're home for the evening, that's it; it's not a neighborhood, it's an isolated clearing in the middle of nowhere. There's no place in their old city for them to return to. The park is riddled with alcoholism, drugs, fights. Someone, nobody knows who, is mutilating and poisoning animals -- the very pets that some of these people risked their lives to rescue. Two people told the reporter that their dogs had been fed antifreeze (one showed her the dog's grave, marked with a little blue cross); one woman said the family cat had come home the other day with his hind legs slashed with a razor. The first half of the report was nothing but despair piled on despair, with the reporter growing increasingly sick as that first resident's narrative spun out again and again out of everyone. The second half, "What Can Be Done?" poses a question to which the answer seems to be "Fuck-all." 35,000 people still in trailer parks, the park covered in this NPR report apparently one of the least troubled, 64% employment in the parks but at wages low enough to guarantee they'll never move out without assistance (a local housing authority rep checked the entire county for the reporter and found exactly zero houses, flats, apartments or anything else available for a rent affordable to someone making minimum wage). The only suggestion was a vague, "Well, federal vouchers to help them move into regular housing in some less expensive part of the country would help." Moving back to NOLA is totally out of the question; there's no there there anymore for them. I'd say I'm a pacifist except I'm really a coward, but, God, I hate them all over again. FEMA, Brownie, the entire Administration, that ratfucker Bush (on vacation again as I type this). Hec and I honeymooned in NOLA, happily staying in a B&B in an actual residential neighborhood in the Merigney instead of a tourist hotel, and it was amazing, rich and dazzling, loud and still and haunting and singular. There were no cities remotely like it in the US, and now there are none at all, and the survivors are still being dicked over, discarded, shat on. I've got no money to spare, with a baby-almost-toddler I can't run off and spend a year there assisting with the rebuild, I've already written to my own reps in Congress: I don't know what else to do. I feel helpless and murderous and deeply ashamed. One of my dad's friends, an urban renewal wonk from Oakland (which is in desperate need of help itself but apparently doesn't want him; he ran for mayor a few years ago, and even though Jon Carroll liked him he got trounced by Jerry Brown), is heading the latest rebuilding committee, and I'm going to write him and ask if there's anything one person in California can do to help, because I have to do something before the rage strangles me. I don't even have a nice pat little conclusion to this rant. Appropriately enough, since there's to be no pat conclusion for any of the refugees. Current Mood: enraged | | Monday, August 6th, 2007 | | 5:00 pm |
Ah ha ha!
I never, never post these, but this is perfect. Or would be, assuming I ever got my shit together enough to post any drabbles, because if I did I guarantee this would be my chronic drabbling violation. </form> | | Tuesday, June 19th, 2007 | | 9:34 pm |
Life as a song
From (sorry, don't know how to do the clicky link thing) debg, dxmachina, trujavachik, serenada, jonquil and others: Greg Brown - Good Morning Coffee I will bring you your good morning coffee, will you smile If not now then have a sip or two and maybe in a while I love you I love you in the good morning and in the night Every day I wait with you wherever we are it's all right Here's your coffee, it may still be too hot, it is freshly brewed I'll just pour myself a cup and then I will crawl in with you |
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