Chatter on, chatterbox

Resurrection!

2008-03-02T08:54:00.001-08:00

This blog was dead, but I am bringing it back to life. I didnt want to do this initially, because i thought that it was stupid, considering how many "living abroad/travel" type blogs there are out there, but hey.

having spent almost all day in my room, perhaps it is fitting to start with an article about hikikomori, a japanese word for withdrawl, but also to describe a social disorder that afflicts somewhere around 1 million Japanese people, according to those who have studied it.
Hikikomori are people who, for a variety of reasons, choose to stay in their rooms for years at a time. While witnessed in other, mostly Asian countries, it is something that is found predominantly in Japan.

An interesting, though not always visually coherent, documentary on the subject:

http://www.kalkarman.com/documentary/hikikomori.html

here is also a good nytimes article about it:

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/15/magazine/15japanese.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

A textual Manifesto

2007-03-23T11:33:00.000-07:00

I didn't think that measures such as this, made by someone such as my humble self, would be necessary, but the number of over heard conversations and related anicdotes makes it so.

Stated plainly, this:
Text messaging is not an acceptable prerequisite for a sexual liaison.
really, i find text messaging a deplorable way to initiate an encounter of any kind, but yet it persists.
Text messaging is so pervasive at this point that i have seen people have lengthy conversations, typing faster than should be legal, on their phones, without actually talking.

Using a technological instrument that was first invented for the purpose of communicating vocally in any way other than talking is perverse in the extreme, and the implications are far reaching.

Text messaging should desist immediately if the integrity of the self and society as a whole is to be maintained with any semblance of legitamacy.

I am not a technology phobe, nor am i some kind of purist. Though i would not go so far as to embrace it unapologetically or fearlessly, I believe in the internet. It has its controversies, but a number of pearls can be purloined from its cornucopia. Just to make it clear, i am speaking of the wikis, the youtubes, and the sapphic erotica, the ebaums and the pages and pages of invaluable text files.
Here is a space for democracy, in all its ignorant and hedonistic glory, but also, perhaps, savvy and thoughtful redemption. At the very least it is a true forum for freely deceminated knowledge (except for OED and the New Yorker--for that you mostly need a subscription.)

But text messaging? This is the crux of our solitude--a method so purely without any emotional or human attachment, a method of communicating that so implicitly yet thoroughly expresses the desire not to communicate, to not really want to talk to the other person. A kind of shield of casual indifference. So only the words remain, in some kind of void, so lightheartedly yet distructively disembodied (a similar phenomena resulting from AIM).
When you text message you are carefully erroding that which makes you human, each text message like sulfuric acid on the human soul.

The most lethal part, i fear, is the blissful innocence with which texting is used, the naivety, the thoughtless adoption of a new technology that is slowly making a new flesh.

Its not too late, but the transformation is almost complete.

You have been warned.

2007-02-22T18:19:00.000-08:00

Are Davids Funnier?

2007-02-21T10:09:00.000-08:00

I was looking at my iTunes this morning, and I had a small epiphany as I scrolled through the D's.
There are a lot of funny people named David.
David Cross.
David Sedaris.
David Chappelle.
Larry David. (okay...not his first name, but still!)

Those are a lot of Davids, and I am sure this list is by no way complete. King David was known for being very wise, was he also a gold mine of one-liners?

Odds are, he was probably a side splitter.

He did outWIT Goliath...whoa!

Is it mean to be mean?

2007-02-20T14:14:00.000-08:00

Even when it feels so good?

I have always believed (here again I will blame my catholic upbringing) that hate is something that consumes a person.

But now i believe that sometimes, kicking someone's ass is the only solution to one's problems. i would like to believe that violence is not the answer, but until some cocksmokers recognize, there is still room for violence anywhere.

Don't get me wrong, i don't condone murder--unless by a spouse, who happens to be a woman--but i think a little fist a cuffs is often called for.

In conclusion, i approve of the following types of fighting/aggression:

1. Drunken Boxing (I do not approve of rambling, drunken partner abuse in anyway)
2. Sober Boxing, with pillows on a bed or in an open field. (Weapons strickly prohibited)
3. Shots to the face, but only if the offending party has insulted your mother or done something equally offensive.
4. Face slaps (female to female only)
5. Dick slaps, or any other accousting method involving genitals or breasts. Suffocation with tits only permissable with consent.
6. Children fights without weapons, as they are not yet physically developed enough to do real harm, a healthy way to expend energy and get out initial frustrations towards opposite sex.

This is not a complete list, but it is a start.

If you are interested in some Amateur Comic Stylings...

2007-02-20T10:17:00.000-08:00

You should tune in to my radio shows on WOBC 91.5, Oberlin, OH. You can listen to the webcast at wobc.org

My shows:

Sundays, 4-5pm: The Good Word with Dollar Bill and DoctorJ.
This is a literary talk show.

Tuesdays, 2-3am: Ask a White Girl with Dollar Bill AKA DJ WhiteT and Hershey Bar.
This is a talk show hosted by a white girl gone wild.

Tune in Next Week for some good shiiiiit!

Courage, Comrade!

2007-02-09T15:19:00.000-08:00

in the spirit of fight the power fridays, i am going to post a video for josh , as he seems to have become apathetic in the fight against the MAN. maybe he should take the "White Straight Male Privilege" ExCo offered here at Oberlin, as it seems he has forgotten that if he is not part of the SOLUTION, he is part of the PROBLEM!

josh, have you forgotten that the fight against yourself is a never-ending battle?

here's a message, josh, from one of your favorite rappers--maybe he'll be able to jolt you out of your complacency.

Or is it too late for you?

The Reusable Yarn

2007-02-06T12:48:00.000-08:00

Someone once told me a story about an old woman who was an expert knitter. Not surprising, I interjected with sarcasm, that a woman's greatest natural talent, after so many years of life, would be for such a traditional, domestic skill.
Just listen, the person told me.
The old woman lived in a small town, somewhere not far from here, but that you would be surprised to know actually existed, the kind of place so easily forgotten.

There the old woman lived alone for many years. No one was really sure how old she was, or how long she had been living in the town. Most of the people were new to the area; it was one of those towns with a lot of new developments, complexes for new families, where all the trees were cut down and you had to drive ten minutes to the grocery store. No one really knew each other, except perhaps in a line up one neighbor could identify another neighbor. "Yes, that's him" they would say, "I've seen him watering his lawn on Sunday mornings."

The old woman was probably the oldest person in town, other than the congregation of preists that lived next to the church.

but everyone knew who she was, because she could knit anything, and the wives of the young families would flock to church bake sales because the old woman would always be giving away the latest children's garments she had knitted: hats, scarves, sweaters, booties--all for the constant influx of newborns.

No one really paid much attention to the woman, otherwise.
That is, until the famine.

We are not Free (10 minute story)

2007-02-05T22:49:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, on a very clear night, two people stood on the steps of their house and looked up at the sky.
What they saw did not surprise them, for what they saw was exactly what they wanted to see.

One saw the universe, going on forever and ever in every direction, each star like a bread crumb tracing the way back to a home that may just as well have not existed.

The other saw a flat space, a decietful backdrop for the moon, pulling time forward in its endless orbit around the earth.

There on the step they stood, holding hands and looking at the sky, and then one of them spoke.

"Space is tricky, isn't it?"

The other nodded still looking up at the sky.

"Indeed."

It was true. What was the universe but a bundle of tricks? The thought was rather humerous, and one of them imagined walking through the sky, mistaking a star for a fallen snowflake on the ground and tripping over it. The other pictured himself chasing the stars around like fireflies, laughing and trying to keep track of where they flickered into darkness.

Next they sighed and inevitably each pondered their own solitude.
Neither could decide whether it was expanding or contracting.

The Wu-Tang

2007-01-22T00:14:00.000-08:00

The Wu-Tang is possibly the best dance that there is on the face of the planet.

It also originated in (North) Philly, so I have extra special love for this dance.
It never got big, unlike snap dancing and the rock away, i guess cause Philly's hip-hop scene has never been mainstreamed.

Anyway, here is a video of some good wu-tanging:

The Urban Dictionary had this to say, for those who are looking for an "official" definition.

Youtube-ular!

2007-01-21T23:48:00.000-08:00

Busta Ryhmes "Gimme Some More"
This song has such a great intro:

"As a shorty playing in the front yard of the crib
Fell down, and I bumped my head
Somebody helped me up and asked me if I bumped my head
I said "Yeah"

So then they said "Oh so that mean we gon, you gon switch it on em'?"
I said "Yeah, Flipmode, Flipmode is the greatest"
Knowing as a shorty, I was always told
That if I ain't gon' be part of the greatest
I gotta be the greatest myself"

Sweatheart and Gil Mantera's Party Dream

2007-01-16T11:57:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to the Kyber to check out my friend Dave's (along with Thom, Max and Julia) band Sweatheart. They were opening for Gil Mantera's Party Dream.

I had heard that Sweatheart was a little lackluster, and I went expecting a pretty gimicky show. However, except for the two lead singers' inability to NOT babble into the microphone constantly between songs, I enjoyed their set.
Since they couldnt seem to lose their mouths, it was fortunate that they were pretty decent singers, and though the lyrics were very kitche, I could appreciate that at least some time and effort had gone into them.

Rose, one of the lead singer's claimed it was her birthday and she was turning 40 (she was actually turning 35, but regardless, she still looked like a 16 year old in spandex up there, so i can only say YOU GO GIRL), and the other singer (who also looked 16) breathed into the mic, "look at this 40 year old vagina".
Then Dave brought out a birthday cake with trick candles, and Thom smushed it into Rose's face, and she rubbed it all over her body.
It was sort of enjoyable, but only when they started playing music again, so Rose and the other singer would stop repeating "you can't wish for your ass virginity back" into the microphone.

Dave really came alive on stage, and he is a very decent drummer, so it was very nice to see him shine.
I also liked Thom's simple but often elegant guitar riffs.

I had read good things about Gil Mantera's Party Dream, so I decided to stay for their set.
Man am I glad I did. I loved their set--though they fit so easily within the hipster indie rock stage gimmick paradigm (and a wardrobe that would make any Oberlin student drool), but, while they do seem to have a finely tuned sense of irony, these cats keep it REAL, which is more than I can say for a lot of these other acts I have seen over the years.
The brothers look like they are straight out of the WWF. Gil was wearing underpants, a girl's necklace, and a chain around his waist. He had jazzercse moves to the max, and he utilized every cheesy effect and drum beat their probably was on his keyboard.

Donny was genuinely hilarious, which, beyond Gil's dancing and attire, was the main reason I thought the show was so good. He told a story about going to "Kiki's Resturant" with his marine father, and ordering toast. "Best dining experience I ever had."
This was very funny. Sorry if I am bastardizing the story now. Here are some visual aids:

It made me a little sad though, knowing that if I bought their cd, I was sure to be disappointed. While I liked the syth-pop music and Donny's nice guitar playing, Gil Mantera's Party Dream is definately not an experience you can take home with you. They are one of those bands that are so dynamic live it would be impossible to capture that on a cd.** So I went home with a $15 t-shirt (pricy, but worth it), dreaming of when I might see Gil and Donny again.

**I stick by my statement that a cd of Gil Mantera would not be as good as the actual thing, but I havent listened to a cd of theirs, so until I do, this is a very unqualified statement. Goodday.

Youtube-ular!

2007-01-15T14:01:00.000-08:00

Cornelius Music Video.

Everyone should congratulate me for figuring out how to "embed" a post.

New Years Resolutions and Free Will

2007-01-04T12:35:00.000-08:00

I have always thought the New Years was a kind of depressing holiday. I don't know, something about it just being about getting drunk...then again, there is also something magical about it. I think I see more people doing PDAs on New Years than I see on Valentine's Day. It's not just the kissing at midnight thing, which, dispite my cynicism, i still find a pretty cool tradition. I wish people kissed all their friends at midnight more than once a year. I dont think it would make it any less special.

In terms of New Year's resolutions, I dont think I know anyone who makes them, and I always forget that that is something you are supposed to do.
On a related note,
There was an interesting article in the New York Times that talks about Free Will, which made me happy because it basically reaches a simliar conclusion that I made about free will a couple years ago (basically that "free will and determinism can co-exist"), but had no science to back up my theory, which is: you have free will in the (mostly moral) sense that you have control over everything you do, but that what you do is inevitable. After an action is completed, it could never have been any other way.
I don't know, when I postulated this theory to myself a couple years ago as I walked down the street and wondered if each step I was taking, now skipping, now stepping on a leaf, could have been any other way, I was most pleased with my idea.

I guess I believe that it is sort of like time being written backwards or something.

This reminds me of how I was considering what I like better: art reminding me of something from my life that has already happened, or something happening in my life that reminds me of some work of art. I think the former sensation gives me more pleasure...which leads me to think that I only like art because it reinforces my already held beliefs, or that I am simply being self-indulgent.

But really, i think i hate on self-indulgence more than I should. My ideas about worth while activity have been so influenced by this martyr complex that I have, which really made me forget that art should be, if not over indulgent, gratifying to the self.

I mentioned this before in a previous post. I guess it is something i really struggle with. Must be all those years I spent in Catholic school.

Human Failures

2006-12-26T10:19:00.000-08:00

It has been less than 24 hours since Josh posted anything on his Human Failures and Worthless Men Blog.

And my psychic powers tell me its been only 2 minutes since he's rolled his eyes dismissively at something.

What a doll.

My teeth!

2006-12-18T10:11:00.000-08:00

I keep having dreams where my teeth disintigrate. It is seriously disturbing. In my dream a couple nights ago my teeth were decaying very rapidly and I was looking at an old woman with fake teeth, thinking I would never be able to have them.

On a related note, I am a huge slacker.

The Miseducation of Dollar Bill

2006-12-17T21:28:00.000-08:00

Writing is, at its best, a form of deep meditation.

Lynda Barry told this anticdote about a friend of hers who went back to look at all his dairies from highschool, excited by all the revelation they would bring, and found instead that they were simply pages and pages of emotion. That kind of writing only serves to make the reader sick.

But there is something to it, still.
There is something to be said for that noxious spewing of emotion that clutters up pages and pages of pubecent loose leaf. It may be self indulgent and revolting, but it is raw and unapologetic, and it pleases the one person that writing is supposed to please in the first place: the author (and maybe the author's nosey best friend.)

I wanted to write a kind of involved example, but I wonder if I would be able to forge that kind of thing...it would seem to go against the point I am trying to make, anyway.

Instead, here is a very short story:

When I woke up in his room that first morning, I was afraid because it was pitch black and I thought I was dead.
But after a moment my eyes adjusted and I realized I was just in his basement bedroom, which had no windows.

Through the darkness, he suggested that we eat at a nearby diner for breakfast and I agreed.
The soft sounds of cars driving through puddles, drifted in from outside.
I asked him for a plastic bag to put over my coat.

At the diner we sat in a booth by the window.
He ordered two eggs on a long roll.
We smoked cigarettes and I ordered a cup of tea.

Outside the sky was getting lighter. It would stop raining soon.
His foot hit my leg as he shifted his weight under the table.
Neither of us acknowledged it.

My Dad

2006-12-12T14:35:00.000-08:00

My dad is sleeping in a bed in the backroom of the small house. I pull a chair up to his bed and sit and watch him.
His chest moves up and down in a short, slow rhythm, slightly out of sync.
The room hums along. I trace patterns in the carpet and rub them out.
Fluffy cotton pillows prop him up like he’s on display. Zoe’s stuffed animals surround his hospice bed as if in solidarity. I reach out and gently put my hand over his. His fingers are rough, the skin callused, tough and cracked, but his hand is still thin, delicate.
I lift his palm, rub my fingers over his.

Liam is alone in the other room, watching TV. Ellen is in the bedroom putting Zoe to sleep. They haven’t been married very long but Ellen has been the one to take care of him these past eight months.
A week ago they went to the beach together, my father, Zoe and Ellen. Liam and I didn’t go with them. Too busy, or maybe just didn’t feel like it, I guess.
Even though I wasn’t there the image of them on the beach is still very strong: my father drifting in the ocean, weak enough to be pulled out by the gentlest tide, yet still able to keep his head above water.
He doesn’t care about anyone out there, even with his new family watching him expectantly from the shore. He looks in the direction of deeper waters, grey eyes reflecting the colorless sky, rising and falling in the waves like a jellyfish.

Out in the cold I watched him, years ago, through the branches of a pine tree, as he hammered nails into the roof of our neighbor’s house.
Liam and I waited for him there, under the glowing Christmas lights strung up like stars. It was raining and cold and Liam and I huddle together. I imagined I was a homeless refugee, just barely able to survive. I put my hand up close to the lights for their little warmth. I pulled a blue one too my eye and stared straight into it.
I was tired of waiting for my dad, but when I asked he said he’s almost done.
When he came to get us Liam ran out from under the trees protective branches, trying to scare him. My dad picked him up and hoisted him into the air. “A wise guy eh?” my dad said to Liam, smiling, his eyes obscured by the rain and fog clouding his glasses. I emerge from the tree and follow them to the car.

Time is a mere shutter of the eye. I know how time deceives life into thinking linearly, but I’m a well-read girl. I know time a whirlpool, and the things that get sucked under will eventually resurface, only with the full knowledge that they will be drowned again.
In my dad’s small house, time is etched in the dark corners of the room as he lifts his eyelids slowly and looks at me. His look is urgent, for a moment, but then falls back to sleep, his breath a tiny creak, backed up behind an indestructible dam.
He is too long for the bed. His cold feet stick out at the base in salutation. The blankets fall slack around the bed but I do not disturb them.
I get up and put my ear to his chest. A faint beat struggles to be heard.

During the summer at my dad’s house, it was often hard to sleep. Usually it was because my brother was a chronic bed wetter, but other times because it was just too hot. One night I woke my dad up and we went outside. He wrapped me in a sheet between his arms.
Everything was dark around us the sky a deep clear blue littered with stars. We took peaches from my dad’s trees and drown them in whole milk. I took a bite and juice ran over my chin into the base of my neck.
I wrapped myself closer to him. Looking up at the stars my dad told me about the universe, what stars are and what war is. I pictured World War One, what he told me was the last war between kings. I played with the dark hairs growing along his arm and shifted my legs. His jagged toenails scrapped my shin.

The universe goes on forever, he said. I looked at the sky. Forever. I must think of god or heaven, the unbelievable things I learn in school. But this smallness of life is real. Wrapped in a blue blanket on a porch in the night, my father and I are tenaciously small.

I stare into the darkness at the fireflies blinking through the trees, illuminating impossible shapes as the steady moan of the bullfrog pulls the forest down from the height of its decay, and the world converges in the warmth behind me.

Small Talk

2006-11-27T16:17:00.000-08:00

I went to the party intending to get very drunk. I slumped next to the punch bowl full of Sangria for most of the night, picking out peices of fruit when no one was looking. My friend Suzie had made the Sangria. She was very excited about it. It was all she talked about at work that week.

Suzie and I became friends because she is the only person at work who likes to drink as much as I do. Suzie has a great memory and likes to eat good food. We got to know each other after I saw her eating in one of my favorite Mexican places.

Suzie wandered over to refill her glass. She was talking with some chump in a top hat who thought he was a real charmer, you could tell.

"What's up with Mr. Cool?" I said, stirring the fruit in my glass with expert nonchalance.

"Oh yea," Suzie said, her speech already slightly slurred, "He keeps reciting the Immancipation Proclamation and saying 'act like you know'. I dont really get it."

She shifted her weight to her other leg. She was wearing a low cut sweater and jeans that still had faint stains from when she had misjudged the distance from her mouth to her cup earlier that night. She was gazing down at the ground, slightly swaying and smiling in the universal style of meditative drunk.

"So, how are you?," She said, momentarilly squeezing my shoulder. It was one of those throw away lines, small talk, a purpose lacking destination. She didnt ussually talk like that.

"Good," I said. "It's a nice party. You seem to have a lot of friends."

"Oh, yea," She said, rolling her eyes, "I dont know." She laughed and then glanced at me nervously.
Her big intoxicated eyes reflected the light coming from the kitchen, where some people were lighting cigarettes on the gas stove.

"What cd is this?" I asked.

"What? Oh, uh, it's The Duke."

"Duke Ellington? Oh, cool."

We both took sips of Sangria.

"The Sangria turned out pretty good." I said.

"Yea, it was really easy." she said, biting her lower lip, distracted.

Suddenly she took my hand and held it.

"I'm really glad you came," she said. Her hand was a little clamy. I followed the delicate wrinkles that lined her eyes. I noticed she was wearing masscara. I felt her dark gray eyes studying my face.
"I have to go to the bathroom," She said after a moment.

"Okay," Was all I said. When she went to the bathroom I got my coat and left her aparment.

The sidewalk was crowded outside her building. It was a Friday night and people walked back and forth, talking loudly and holding hands. I stood on the stoop and watched them flow past. I wondered if Suzie was going to come down and look for me. I wasnt sure if I was just catching some air or if i really felt like leaving the party.
I clenched my fist, thinking of Suzie's cold, nervous hand placed firmly in mine.
She hadn't wanted to let go.

I imagined what it would be like if I was still up there, her hand in mine, while we both took swigs of Sangria with our free hands. I imagined staring into her black marble eyes, watching her friends talk loudly over the music, leaning in close to each other's ears, the man in the top hat presiding over it all.

The scene couldn't have ended just like that. Without hesitation time would speed up, the music would end, conversations would wither and die, the top hat would be lost and trampled on. Suzie would blink her dark eyes, and I and the universe would disappear with them.

I started walking down the street, wondering what would have been, had I been swallowed by that other life that seemed to grow larger with every step.

I wandered for many blocks that way before taking the subway back to my apartment and finally, to sleep.

Oberlin Words

2006-11-14T20:35:00.000-08:00

Check out this sight for some words that used to be popular on the oberlin campus back in the day.

Oberlin Speak

Some things have obviously changed, but many things have not.
Some of my favorites that must have gone out of style:

beauty-head / (n.) a student who is stereotyped as an aesthete, used especially by English majors and professors; in contrast to "theory-head" (q.v.)

[the] Bunny / (n.) a strange and esoteric quasi-religion/philosophy/way of life with membership confined largely to certain residents of East Hall--members of the Bunny can be recognized by their use of the sacred Bunny moudra (in appearance similar to a "victory" sign with two fingers placed to the forehead); also, the deity worshiped by members of the Bunny.

cider belly / (n.) a feeling like that obtained from drinking too much apple cider: used in a student co-op by a non-member of the co-op

co-mo-fo / (n.) a member of a student co-operative who has a reputation of lodging frequent objections in discussions among the membership

conservatwat / (n.) [derogatorily] The Oberlin Conservatory of Music; distortion of the final syllable derived from widespread American slang term for female genitalia

four year marriage / (n. phrase) an intimate relationship between undergraduate students, the duration of which coincides with the typical undergraduate career (with motives of fear and/or obsessiveness implied on the part of the participants)

freshling (alt. froshling) / (n.) a student in the first year of collegiate study; perceived as offering a non-sexist alternative to the old-fashioned word "freshman," but without the cumbersomeness of "first year"; "froshling" conveys a tone of greater slang usage than "freshling"

I got your hot sauce / a phrase, meaning "I know what you mean"; imported from elsewhere for use by the seven members of "Firestorm House" (q.v.), now thought to be spreading in general usage among Oberlin students

nerdboy / (n.) a male student who is thought to be part of a clique that lives in the area of the north campus, rarely emerges into daylight, is addicted to Mountain Dew, and has interests largely confined to computers, role-playing games, gossip about other nerdboys, sex, and Star Wars; originally a disparaging term used by others, it has been adopted by some of the nerdboys themselves, and is occasionally used in a somewhat endearing fashion

neurotica / (n. pl.) a collective term applied to students who tend to fall in love with people who display self-destructive behavior, presumably in order to ameliorate such behavior: a blend of "erotica" and "neurotic"

N.Y.P. / (n.) a collective term for students from New York City; presumably an abbreviated form of "New York Posse," a term which is also used sometimes for the same purpose

platonic slut / (n.) derogatory term for a person of either sex who engages in relations that are not overtly sexual but are borderline romantic (e.g., cuddling; sleeping in the same bed) with many other people while assuming that such relations are not romantically binding

(a) Pollock in one's drawer / (n. phrase) a bad situation that one tries to ignore; used by preservationists employed in the Mendery of Mudd Library; derives from an incident (in June, 1967) in which a preservationist discovered, after performing intricate repairs on a book about Jackson Pollock's art, that the work had been upside down--and therefore stowed the botched repair job in a handy drawer

pomo / (n.) a person who studies Post-modern theory; or a person who is associated with such study, based on use of shoulder bags and black and navy blue clothing, with an appearance that is both unkempt and highly fashionable; a contraction. (adj.) possessing the quality of ostentatious self-consciousness

spicy / (adj.) sexy and even a little kinky without being tawdry; risque

twee / (adj.) applied to musical groups [such as, e.g., Sebadoh and Veruca Salt]: having a relatively inoffensive, blandly popular appeal and outlook; used condescendingly by members of Concert Board, a club responsible for bringing musical acts to the campus

twin / (n.) a member of a couple (engaged in a close relationship) who is perceived to have subsumed his or her identity in that of the other

ver / (interj.) a shortened form of "whatever," used to express scorn, cynicism, or disregard as a response to a statement made by another person

wank / 1. (v. intr.) to enjoy to an extreme extent, or even to eroticize, an abstract or intellectual topic; 2. (n.) an instance of such behavior; 3. a class that one particularly enjoys (e.g., "For the pomo, the class on Derrida was an absolute wank")--derived from an American slang term for masturbation

Coronet Films

2006-11-13T17:16:00.000-08:00

Last night I watched a whole bunch of Coronet Films on google video.

What is Capitalism? video:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8319517938530632222&q=coronet+films

All of the films ended with rhetorical questions, even the one about capitalism, called What is Capitalism? which I thought was odd, since the whole point of watching was that it would TELL us what capitalism was. Regardless, at least by the end of the film I had some idea what to say if a communist were to climb out from under the rug in my house and start destroying the American way of life before my very eyes.

Are You Popular? was also great. Even though I already knew "girls who park in cars with boys are never popular, not even with the boys they park with", I had never heard anyone articulate the sentiment so well.
Also, to be popular, it is to your benefit if you "like girls just as much as boys." Even though I am a little ashamed to say it, I always assumed that to be popular you only needed to look nice and practice good hygiene, but apparently if you listen and care about other people that really boosts your scores in the popularity contest.

Are You Popular? video:
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1563248439515368094&q=coronet+films

This site has a list of many other companys that made "school films".
http://www.paulivester.com/schoolfilm/history.htm

I recommend any of the Coronet Films to anyone who is looking to overcome their shyness, trying to make friends, hoping to become a secratary, or simply wants to "find a way to please the men in their lives" by making them some brownies.

Also, for those of you who were not aware, you should never ask a girl for a date with fewer than 24 hours notice. First of all, you give the impression that she is a last resort, and you don't give her time to 1) write "do hair and nails" in her planner, and 2) do her hair and nails.

Even though I found Are You Popular? and some of the other films helpful, I still felt like some of my concerns were not addressed.
Specifically, I would have liked it if they metioned what to do if you are a GWG.
As a girl with glasses (GWG) myself, I have all the misfortunes and difficulties that come along with the inherited trait, and I have so many questions that I have been dying for someone to answer, such as:
How do I, as a GWG, overcome my disability? When is it appropriate, if at all, for a girl with glasses to talk to a boy without glasses? Is it "okay" to persue a career that is not as a librarian or secratary? Can a girl with glasses ever park in a car with a boy if they are going steady, or is such a senario completely unheard of?
Should girls that need glasses be allowed to have them, or should they sacrifice their vision for a higher social standing?
Should these girls, obviously tettering on the margin of society, be allowed to socialize with those not of their kind? Should such girls be forbidden to mate?
What if a girl has glasses but simply isn't bright? Should she just give up now?

Coronet Films, I emplore you, this film would be garenteed to bring hope to millions of GWG's across the country. I thank you in advance.

On My Relationship With Cats

2006-11-10T13:41:00.000-08:00

A black and white cat is sitting in the grass across the street in my neighbors lawn. From my window i watch as it paces about.
I know it is a male cat. It has a deeper, less refined meow than a female.

I have always felt kinship for cats. Sylvester, Tom, and Wylie Coyote(who wasnt a cat, but i always thought looked like one)--popular culture tricked me into thinking they were the underdogs, the ones to root for. though I learned better, when my own cat would leave dead mice and chipmunks on the door step. I tried to save one of the chipmunks my cat killed, but when i came home from preschool my mom told me it was dead. She had buried it in the backyard before i got home, i remember wishing i could have seen it one last time. I really liked the show Chip and Dale, Rescue Rangers at the time. I had some kind of odd, inexplicable crush on Chip.

My dad got me two cats from the SPCA for my 3rd birthday. I named them Hop and Pop, inspired by Dr. Suess. Pop was the boy. He was very sweet and did not bite. Hop was the girl. She would bite and scratch and was kind of a mean kitten.

Pop was gray and white. When we ate dinner he would hang on kitchen door, his face peering in at us. My dad would open the door to let him in, but he would not let go of the door as it swung open.
One day, I cant remember when, but Pop dissappeared. I always assumed he ran away, because i never found out what happened to him. Thinking about it now, i can still recall how sad i felt about it. I thought we were going to be together forever.

Hop stuck around. Hop was a black cat with green eyes. I thought she was going to stay mean, but as she got older, her personality changed completely. She became really nice and would sit in my lap and fall asleep while i was petting her.

Hop got pregnant quite frequently. She had at least four litters of kittens that i can recall.
I remember the first time, going up to my dad's loft where they were born, watching their bobbling heads, eyes still sealed shut.
When they were old enough, i was allowed to hold them. i liked the soft little mass that would purr and eventually fall into silent sleep. i would sit like that for a long time, i would get uncomfortable and my legs would cramp up, but i didnt want to disturb the kitten.
There is a picture of me my dad must have taken years ago, me sitting on a rock, and in my lap, though you dont notice at first, are the bodies of two or three kittens.

Other than Hop and Pop and the kittens, there was Jimmy, Jimmy Jr., Jimmy Jr. the 3rd (who were all related), Jimmy Jr. the 4th (who was a girl and not related to the others), and Peterson.

When my parents got divorced, Hop stayed at the farm house, where my dad lived. After my dad left, the people who lived there took care of her. I thought she was dead, but i saw her there, a couple years ago, very old, but still alive. I was truly shocked and amazed at her longevity. Before that i wasnt sure, but now i know Hop is immortal.

My friends here at school have a cat they have kind of informally adopted that lives on their back porch. My friend named her "Baby." She is very sweet. She has a missing tooth in the front of her mouth and when i pet her she drools.
She is black with green eyes like Hop--her reincarnation. Sometimes i like to go over to their house just to hang out with her.

Some people think cats are mean or sneaky. It's true, they are manipulative and cunning. I think it is where i get it from. When i was little, i thought i was a cat. I remember telling these boys at day care i had a hard head because i had three cats so i had three skulls. impenatrible logic, i know.

This is something different

2006-11-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

Hello, my name is Dollar Bill, aka ChatterBox aka Ven Diaphram aka Anville aka The Answer.

I have never had a livejournal, but now I have a blog.
I have decided to stop fighting the forces of lightning speed technology and get in line, sit back and watch the magic happen.

I am not sure exactly what I envision for this blog as of yet. Probably a series of anecdotes, and stories, poems. What fun!
Perhaps some opinions will even make their way onto the page.