...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....
Just so you know, many of us who have blogs here at Blogger have been experiencing difficulties. I think we're all hoping that things will sort themselves out quickly, are due to improvements, caused by sunspots, mean the Rapture is nigh, or some other such optimistic bullshit story that we tell ourselves, realizing that it's a story we're telling ourselves. Blogger lacks what Steve calls "accountability," being that there's no charge.
The above paragraph serves as disclaimer for the following links. Half-full, I post them. Half-empty, I doubt they'll work.
The Political Animal writes a column that is fast-paced and clever, and completely avoids being ponderous or over my head. Possibly because he explained it to me in small words a week ago.
Tim Kreider's cartoon (Have you bought his book yet?)is delightful this week, and the final frame is for Nixonologists. (Nixonophiles? Nixopheliacs?) Finally! A reference for which Ms. Primarily Decorative doesn't need a sociology lesson.
I had occasion to quote Yogi Berra this week, reminding myself how I love him, and how he makes me laugh. Owe him a thank you note for that, better hurry.
What else makes me laugh? Engrish makes me laugh.
"I Googled myself," he said, sounding vaguely filthy. (I love verbifying nouns.) So I Googled myself, too, and found Cybele May, playwright, and Miss Cybelvis Monroe, impersonator, both of whom I've mentioned. More Google finds:
A sculptress named Cybele who is not me.
A resort in Zaire, also not me.
And the original film, Sundays and Cybele, which inspired my name. Not me, but closer.
And since this entry has a meatgrinder mix feel to it, I'll include this link. I forget what it was. Seek it out, and gain enlightenment, Grasshopper.
It's a mystery!
07 July, 2004
06 July, 2004
Fragmentary Mind
...qu'est que c'est?/fa-fa-fa-fa-fa,fa-fa-fa-fa/better run run run, run run run away/oh,oh, oh, oh, aiy-yi-yi-yi-yai....
July 2: I pine for the beach, but am stumped on how to get there.
July 3: S. buys me a beer. "To cheer you up." So I drink it, dance with her and the other S. You can Macarena to anything written in 4/4. Everything else is a waltz. The band (of course I know the drummer) is honkey tonk- good, but too loud for conversation, or for writing, which is what I'm doing. Not that I want to, I just am.
July 4: Her hands, gentle in my hair, are at odds with her tough exterior. We worry; she may be recalled to active duty. She blows things up. It's her specialty.
July 5: The kids encourage me to go out. "Go to the bar, have fun with your friends." The sitter lets them stay up 'til midnight.
July 6: The car jerks, shudders. Not the transmission or even the catalytic converter, both of which are dying.
I think I'm out of gas.
July 2: I pine for the beach, but am stumped on how to get there.
July 3: S. buys me a beer. "To cheer you up." So I drink it, dance with her and the other S. You can Macarena to anything written in 4/4. Everything else is a waltz. The band (of course I know the drummer) is honkey tonk- good, but too loud for conversation, or for writing, which is what I'm doing. Not that I want to, I just am.
July 4: Her hands, gentle in my hair, are at odds with her tough exterior. We worry; she may be recalled to active duty. She blows things up. It's her specialty.
July 5: The kids encourage me to go out. "Go to the bar, have fun with your friends." The sitter lets them stay up 'til midnight.
July 6: The car jerks, shudders. Not the transmission or even the catalytic converter, both of which are dying.
I think I'm out of gas.
05 July, 2004
Delicate Balance
...you only want me when I get over you/first you love me and then you get on down the line....
Unreasonable to be injured by things not personally directed, by things beyond my control. I am a bad Buddhist, to be bothered.
I worry that I must do something cheerful or be sucked down, and I've been falling so often.
Falling, falling in, screaming screaming in that dark hole, hoping someone's listening, knowing the screaming frightens anyone who might help and not being able to do anything but scream.
Hoping someone might stand at the edge of the hole and talk or sing or whistle, sit and wait until I'm calm enough to be calm enough to calm down.
Crawling out of the hole by bloody scraps of fingernails, breath heavy sprawled on edge of gorge with gravel in eyes, in mouth, motes of dust clogging nostrils, saying to self,
I made it out. Again.
And knowing what I do not say is
Until next time.
Unreasonable to be injured by things not personally directed, by things beyond my control. I am a bad Buddhist, to be bothered.
I worry that I must do something cheerful or be sucked down, and I've been falling so often.
Falling, falling in, screaming screaming in that dark hole, hoping someone's listening, knowing the screaming frightens anyone who might help and not being able to do anything but scream.
Hoping someone might stand at the edge of the hole and talk or sing or whistle, sit and wait until I'm calm enough to be calm enough to calm down.
Crawling out of the hole by bloody scraps of fingernails, breath heavy sprawled on edge of gorge with gravel in eyes, in mouth, motes of dust clogging nostrils, saying to self,
I made it out. Again.
And knowing what I do not say is
Until next time.
04 July, 2004
Independence Day
...Oh, say does that star spangled banner yet wave?....
I am liberated from underwear today.
Foreign enemies, beware.
I am liberated from underwear today.
Foreign enemies, beware.
03 July, 2004
Breakfast, Twice
...you smell like cinnamon. How do you do that?....
Find my way into the dining room, following the scent of fresh coffee. For my gustatory pleasure, a plate full of fruit crepes. Did I tell him I love crepes? No. Somehow psychic? Perhaps. My favorites, raspberry, strawberry and mango. Served with cocoanut milk, and delicious, life-affirming elixir, coffee. The children eat pancakes with syrup. Pedantic, but satisfying. There are a dozen red roses on the table. Have I mentioned I love breakfast?
Steve needs me, so I work frantically to finish early, which I don't. Still, a sense of accomplishment accompanies my e-mailed attachments, the feeling that I have not been a complete flake. Partial flake is all my ego can handle. Or should, especially today.
Coco arrives to pick me up for our tandem pedicures, which include a whirlpool footbath and heated massaging chair. Perhaps this is standard procedure, but when I used to go to the beauty school, I sat in a dryer chair, head bumping against the plastic space helmet, while an overly processed teenage dirtbag scrubbed at one of my feet, while the other soaked in a harvest gold colored dishpan. Footpan. Sure.
We pick up film at the one hour photo ("We did this last year, too," she says. Yes. View Thru Quarter Pane shots, for publicity in the paper. I loved the one that CityPaper ran.)These are less important, but more diverse.
Home in time to change for my date. He is impressed with the dress, which is red. "Too much?"
"Or maybe not enough," he agrees, checking the hemlength. And takes me to our favorite Chinese restaurant.
The bar we've chosen for further celebration has loud music, but upstairs, unclaimed pool tables. We commandeer one and take turns proving to one another how much we suck.
"Don't take this the wrong way."
What?
"Day-umn!"
He likes the dress.
The Prince tells me that during my game against Birthday Boy, players at the other tables stopped when it was my turn to shoot. "Mmm, and now that That Girl and I are shooting against one another, no one can play at all." Those snakeskin pants might not be painted on, but probably are.
Tekchik shows up, lured by cellphone with the promise of That Girl. Coco is monopolized by That Girl's date. Tekchik's biker gal friend joins us, unfazed by theatrics. Mesmerized by her skin art, I cannot resist touching. She kindly permits. Tekchik plays against That Girl, whose handicap is mitigated by serious coaching from Hawk. She leans, snuggles into him, batting lashes and crinkling nose. He rolls his eyes and grins. Sparky buys beers for me, drinks enough to be coaxed into a game or two against Hawk. They re-bond.
That Girl has drunk too much too fast. "I'm taking her home to have sex with her, " her date promises. Lucky girl. Lucky guy. After her departure, the room is less interesting. I'm hungry. We head out, and The Animal joins us for breakfast.
Over coffee, beer, burgers, omelets, he touches Coco, and she giggles. Unreasonable to feel neglected.
If this day wasn't perfect, it came close. I've gotten serious mileage out of "You have to kiss me."
Find my way into the dining room, following the scent of fresh coffee. For my gustatory pleasure, a plate full of fruit crepes. Did I tell him I love crepes? No. Somehow psychic? Perhaps. My favorites, raspberry, strawberry and mango. Served with cocoanut milk, and delicious, life-affirming elixir, coffee. The children eat pancakes with syrup. Pedantic, but satisfying. There are a dozen red roses on the table. Have I mentioned I love breakfast?
Steve needs me, so I work frantically to finish early, which I don't. Still, a sense of accomplishment accompanies my e-mailed attachments, the feeling that I have not been a complete flake. Partial flake is all my ego can handle. Or should, especially today.
Coco arrives to pick me up for our tandem pedicures, which include a whirlpool footbath and heated massaging chair. Perhaps this is standard procedure, but when I used to go to the beauty school, I sat in a dryer chair, head bumping against the plastic space helmet, while an overly processed teenage dirtbag scrubbed at one of my feet, while the other soaked in a harvest gold colored dishpan. Footpan. Sure.
We pick up film at the one hour photo ("We did this last year, too," she says. Yes. View Thru Quarter Pane shots, for publicity in the paper. I loved the one that CityPaper ran.)These are less important, but more diverse.
Home in time to change for my date. He is impressed with the dress, which is red. "Too much?"
"Or maybe not enough," he agrees, checking the hemlength. And takes me to our favorite Chinese restaurant.
The bar we've chosen for further celebration has loud music, but upstairs, unclaimed pool tables. We commandeer one and take turns proving to one another how much we suck.
"Don't take this the wrong way."
What?
"Day-umn!"
He likes the dress.
The Prince tells me that during my game against Birthday Boy, players at the other tables stopped when it was my turn to shoot. "Mmm, and now that That Girl and I are shooting against one another, no one can play at all." Those snakeskin pants might not be painted on, but probably are.
Tekchik shows up, lured by cellphone with the promise of That Girl. Coco is monopolized by That Girl's date. Tekchik's biker gal friend joins us, unfazed by theatrics. Mesmerized by her skin art, I cannot resist touching. She kindly permits. Tekchik plays against That Girl, whose handicap is mitigated by serious coaching from Hawk. She leans, snuggles into him, batting lashes and crinkling nose. He rolls his eyes and grins. Sparky buys beers for me, drinks enough to be coaxed into a game or two against Hawk. They re-bond.
That Girl has drunk too much too fast. "I'm taking her home to have sex with her, " her date promises. Lucky girl. Lucky guy. After her departure, the room is less interesting. I'm hungry. We head out, and The Animal joins us for breakfast.
Over coffee, beer, burgers, omelets, he touches Coco, and she giggles. Unreasonable to feel neglected.
If this day wasn't perfect, it came close. I've gotten serious mileage out of "You have to kiss me."
02 July, 2004
Lovely Day
...Yes we're going to a party party/Yes we're going to a party party/I would like you to dance/Take a cha-cha-cha-chance....
The sun breaks open on a day that is fresh-washed, smut of sultry sluiced away by last night's heady storm.
An offer of breakfast this morning: "What would you like?"
"Whatever you give me."
"That's the best answer."
Yes.
I can call him today, because I have an excuse. I need an excuse to call him because he won't talk to me without one. That's okay, I don't mind. I'd do more for him, and less.
Whatever works, which, frankly, (pardon the pun), isn't much.
I will wear yellow today, because I wear color a couple of times a year, just to freak out my friends.
Today I have my annual manicure/pedicure combination. Coco's coming with me, to make it a "girl thing."
Since it is beautifully sunny, there is every possibility that post-pedicure, I'll toast poolside. In my yellow bikini.
(From last night: Since I'm not wearing a bra, matching my panties to it is not an issue. I choose them instead to match my shoes, the Hooker Barbie heels again. Because they give me an advantage playing pool. They don't make me any better, but do distract my opponent.)
The sun breaks open on a day that is fresh-washed, smut of sultry sluiced away by last night's heady storm.
An offer of breakfast this morning: "What would you like?"
"Whatever you give me."
"That's the best answer."
Yes.
I can call him today, because I have an excuse. I need an excuse to call him because he won't talk to me without one. That's okay, I don't mind. I'd do more for him, and less.
Whatever works, which, frankly, (pardon the pun), isn't much.
I will wear yellow today, because I wear color a couple of times a year, just to freak out my friends.
Today I have my annual manicure/pedicure combination. Coco's coming with me, to make it a "girl thing."
Since it is beautifully sunny, there is every possibility that post-pedicure, I'll toast poolside. In my yellow bikini.
(From last night: Since I'm not wearing a bra, matching my panties to it is not an issue. I choose them instead to match my shoes, the Hooker Barbie heels again. Because they give me an advantage playing pool. They don't make me any better, but do distract my opponent.)
01 July, 2004
Virtual Life
...Light beams down from heaven/She stands before my eyes/She's actual size, but she seems much bigger to me....
There are times when my virtual reality is far more interesting than my actual reality, if I can say actual reality, when actual reality is something I have no real faith in, sort of like an atheist using Jesus Christ as a swear...
...this is one of those times, besides which Steve is cracking that kangaroo hide bullwhip again and I have flog marks all over my brain from writing to spec with a vocabulary limited by relative appropriateness for middle-schoolers.
From my e- existence, sent and received, the following adventures in sex and blood and rock'n'roll.
Subject: OK, this one is getting weird....please respond truthfully and quickly....on July 4th, now the billionaire wants nudity or partial nudity in body painted statues.....
Date: Wed, 30 June 2004
Dear possible female Fourth of July statue talent;
OK, this one is getting weird....
July 4th, now the billionaire wants nudity or partial nudity in body painted statues.....
Body guards provided. Professional make-up artist...
Is this too creepy to do?
xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx
Working murder mystery creates a whole new lingo. Car trunks aren't measured in square feet anymore, but in corpses. Clothing is chosen for whether or not it will show blood well. Shows that are light in props are better "road shows." Names are giggled over, written down and remembered for characters. Random objects are assessed and collected not for value or intrinsic beauty, but for possible use as weapons.
The current show, Dead Write, is loosely based on experiences of Watergate! the Musical. The premise is "Manson: the Musical," and we've just added a dance number, Stomp The Baby. The playwright gets offed. Fortunately, I'm playing the producer. I did NOT write this show. Or "Manson: the Musical." Just so you know.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Crack The Sky details: The guys are old now, mellow, and it's amusing to see John Palumbo wearing more hair than in the eighties. Sort of like William Shatner. Possibly they're related.
He and Rick Witowski told the story of the band's name, they all smoked far too many cigarettes and passed each other lyric sheets to songs they don't remember. John P's daughter made a brief appearance onstage singing background into a mike that I'm not sure was even turned on, and his wife came out and whispered something to him, at which point he introduced her as the "original Cindy" from Hot Razors.
It was billed as an "unplugged and unzipped" concert, was ten dollars cheaper than the "plugged" version the next night, and YOU COULD ACTUALLY HEAR MUSIC -excuse me, you could actually hear music, as opposed to just noise blasted from huge speakers.
They do a cherry gig (CityPaper referred to it as their "time to make the donuts tour") every year at the Recher, apparently.
Thank the gods for cherry gigs and the relative proximity of New Jersey.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
--- On Mon 06/28, Big Jay wrote:
yes. you are receiving email from my penis. he's a friendly sort.
"Cybele" wrote:
I thought Big Jay was the name of your, er.... that is to say, I hope I'm not receiving e-mail from your penis.
There are times when my virtual reality is far more interesting than my actual reality, if I can say actual reality, when actual reality is something I have no real faith in, sort of like an atheist using Jesus Christ as a swear...
...this is one of those times, besides which Steve is cracking that kangaroo hide bullwhip again and I have flog marks all over my brain from writing to spec with a vocabulary limited by relative appropriateness for middle-schoolers.
From my e- existence, sent and received, the following adventures in sex and blood and rock'n'roll.
Subject: OK, this one is getting weird....please respond truthfully and quickly....on July 4th, now the billionaire wants nudity or partial nudity in body painted statues.....
Date: Wed, 30 June 2004
Dear possible female Fourth of July statue talent;
OK, this one is getting weird....
July 4th, now the billionaire wants nudity or partial nudity in body painted statues.....
Body guards provided. Professional make-up artist...
Is this too creepy to do?
xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx xxx
Working murder mystery creates a whole new lingo. Car trunks aren't measured in square feet anymore, but in corpses. Clothing is chosen for whether or not it will show blood well. Shows that are light in props are better "road shows." Names are giggled over, written down and remembered for characters. Random objects are assessed and collected not for value or intrinsic beauty, but for possible use as weapons.
The current show, Dead Write, is loosely based on experiences of Watergate! the Musical. The premise is "Manson: the Musical," and we've just added a dance number, Stomp The Baby. The playwright gets offed. Fortunately, I'm playing the producer. I did NOT write this show. Or "Manson: the Musical." Just so you know.
%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%
Crack The Sky details: The guys are old now, mellow, and it's amusing to see John Palumbo wearing more hair than in the eighties. Sort of like William Shatner. Possibly they're related.
He and Rick Witowski told the story of the band's name, they all smoked far too many cigarettes and passed each other lyric sheets to songs they don't remember. John P's daughter made a brief appearance onstage singing background into a mike that I'm not sure was even turned on, and his wife came out and whispered something to him, at which point he introduced her as the "original Cindy" from Hot Razors.
It was billed as an "unplugged and unzipped" concert, was ten dollars cheaper than the "plugged" version the next night, and YOU COULD ACTUALLY HEAR MUSIC -excuse me, you could actually hear music, as opposed to just noise blasted from huge speakers.
They do a cherry gig (CityPaper referred to it as their "time to make the donuts tour") every year at the Recher, apparently.
Thank the gods for cherry gigs and the relative proximity of New Jersey.
? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?
--- On Mon 06/28, Big Jay wrote:
yes. you are receiving email from my penis. he's a friendly sort.
"Cybele" wrote:
I thought Big Jay was the name of your, er.... that is to say, I hope I'm not receiving e-mail from your penis.