Month: March 2001

I got this from Salon–which means most of you have already read it–but it’s about a local girl, so I feel some responsibility to spread the word. A San Francisco artist is working on what she calls the bush project. She’s asking women to shave their pubic hair and send it to her in little baggies for use in an art installment protesting George Bush’s election. Her roommates are displeased.

11:27 a.m.

My friends and I were watching a profile of Buford Furrow (the guy who shot five people in a Jewish community center) on “60 Minutes II” last night. The anchor had such an Einsteinian moment that all of us burst into simultaneous laughter:

“When Judge Cody released Furrow, she ordered that he continue on his medication, stay away from alcohol and never touch a firearm again for the rest of his life. These were big changes for a heavy drinker, a mental patient with a passion for guns.”

3:47 p.m.

Three unrelated things that, when combined, represent my current mood:

  • When my nextdoor neighbor is frustrated, her preferred relaxation method is screaming and raining blows on her 12-year-old daughter. She was particularly frustrated this morning. I emerged from the shower to call 911.
  • Left for work and ran into a sweet boy I met a few months ago. He introduced me to his very new girlfriend and absently shared the story of how he’d asked me out and I’d said no. Was forced to exchange awkward small talk with them for my entire commute.
  • Parted ways with the new girlfriend and waited on the curb next to an Asian woman. A homeless man passed us and leaned across me to face her, “We’re just playin’ with the Chinese. See-ya-later!”9:16 a.m.

Who are these women who come to clubs wearing fishnets, come-hither skirts, appropriately obvious tank tops, and… laptop bags? I know they didn’t come from work, so I have to wonder what the hell is in that bag that they must have with them at all times. I watch as they order Cosmos and sway on the dance floor, trying their damndest to look carefree and nonchalant. This effect is difficult to achieve, no matter how much body glitter you’ve applied, when you’re hunched under the weight of a 30 lb. bag.

It perplexes me, but I have theories. Perhaps this woman must carry a full arsenal of concealer, base, blush creme, liner, lipstick, and shadow every time she goes out. Maybe she has an alternate outfit stashed in there (say, some snow pants and ski boots in case the weather turns). Maybe she thought it would be too risky to leave the severed human head in her car. A little advice, ladies: lipstick, and $50 bucks fits in your pocket. The head goes in your freezer.

9:39 a.m.

What’s more crass than a billboard for liposuction services? A billboard for liposuction with a horrible catchy phone number: 1-800-GO-4-LIPO! Like you’re just gonna drop by after you’ve run some errands. “I’ll be back in a bit, honey. I’ve got to grab the dry cleaning, maybe go for lipo.” Are these billboards a California thing? I take that back, they must be a California thing. I’ve seen them for breast implants too, but the phone number was so chilling that I’ve blocked it. I think it was something like 1-800-SO-PERKY, or 1-800-GET-FIRM. Ugh. UGH!

9:59 a.m.

A cutting from Mark’s site.

“Ingested today:

– 2 cups of coffee (with cream and sugar)
– 1 Snickers bar
– 9 Wintergeen Altoids
– 2 Spearmint Altoids

It is now almost four in the afternoon and the walls are starting to look furry. ”

2:03 p.m.

“Georgia O’Keefe was not a flower painter.” (From the introduction to a book of her paintings titled One Hundred Flowers.)

3:06 p.m.

When the sky is blue and clear in San Francisco, it’s cause for comment. “Such a beautiful day,” I said. Then I felt something flutter over my feet. I looked down at the swirling newspaper and napkins littering the sidewalk. I stepped delicately over a discarded condom. “Yeah,” he said. “It sure is.”

10:45 a.m.

Yesterday we got to go home early because of the power shortage. Rolling blackouts are the Californian equivalent of snow days.

2:01 p.m.

The best headlines from this month’s Martha Stewart Living:

  • Putting Baking Stones to Use
  • Why Scald Milk?
  • Arrangement of the Month: Forsythia Fan

11:52 a.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: Med school epiphanies and my bony ass.

Excerpt:

“I learned how to calculate my body mass index today. There’s overweight,
obese I, obese II, and obese III. After that, there’s just a picture of
Jabba the Hut.

Take your weight in lbs. as the numerator.
Divide by your height in inches, squared (e.g. if you’re 60″, that’s 3600
inches squared). Take this number and multiply it times 703. If its greater than
than 25, it’s time to get your fat ass to Gold’s (me). If it’s less than 18, it’s
time to get your bony ass to Sizzler (you).”

3:23 p.m.

From Accidental:

100 Ways to say I LOVE YOU: I’m still waiting for “100 Ways
to say LET’S JUST BE FRIENDS,” or “100 Ways to say IT’S
NOT YOU, IT’S ME.” Or how about “100 Ways to say I
DON’T REALLY LIKE YOU, BUT WE CAN STILL HAVE
SEX.” That’s the clincher, in my book.”

10:05 a.m.

From Magnificent Melting Object:
“Rasbliutto means ‘the feeling you feel for someone you once loved’ in Russian.”

3:11 p.m.

I did the Geary Street pub crawl for St. Patrick’s Day. My friend and I were standing in a sea of drunken green men, and I mentioned that I wanted to get rid of my gum. An earnest looking young man held his hand out below my mouth. I pulled my eyebrows together, but he just nodded and pushed his palm closer to my chin. So I gave a “your idea, buddy” shrug and spit my gum into his hand. He dropped it and pushed on through the crowd. He dropped it on my shoe.

9:42 a.m.