diagnosis: fuck'd

My washing machine stopped working on Friday night with all of my clothes and gallons of murky brownish water inside. What to do? I fished out the laundry. Do you know how much a fully soaked towel weighs? I rung it all out in the bathtub and hung everything up to dry, old school style. I then ascertained that the washing machine was, for all intents and purposes, fucked. It’s about thirty years old—it’s had a good run.

Anyway, I’m about negotiate a complicated maneuver this evening that involves picking up two boys I know, taking them out to southeast Foster where I’m purchasing a used machine off Craigslist, making them schlep the machine into one of their trucks, bringing said machine to my house, making them negotiate the old one up the steep spiraling staircase from my laundry room and then the new one down. Do they know what they’re getting into? I’m not sure. But as far as I’m concerned, they’re men—they were born for this.

However, with that said, I really dislike when things happen with my house that I cannot deal with personally. I’m a “single” young woman who owns a house, empowered and liberated etc etc, with pretty much no need for a man around to get things going. Still, when it comes down to it, I’m at the mercy of my 5’4” stature and weakling tendencies, and I’d be lying if that didn’t sort of frustrate me. Having to rely on other people kinda sucks.

Then again, there’s definitely an argument to be made for getting doors opened for you, flat tires changed, and heavy ass washing machines dealt with in a timely manor.

lifestyle

Nine times out of ten I’m completely thankful that I live the life I lead, that my time on earth is spent in pursuit of fun and not work, that while most regular folk spend their lives on their asses at desks or in front of flat screen tvs bought with money earned at said desk, I have this creative outlet that is free and is a sort of communion with my body and nature etc etc. But then there’s that one time—that time when I fall too hard, too much on the same spot and it hurts just too much, and suddenly it all seems stupid and I’ll ask myself, what the fuck am I doing? I’m too old for this I can’t keep falling this hard my body can’t take it I can’t keep spending all my time hanging out with fucking teenagers doing something dumb with a board and my feet. Does that ever happen to you?

Anyway, beyond nearly biting my lip off last week when my face encountered the ground—and the night before that hanging up and ejecting onto my elbow, after all that, the most painful thing is that I just keep falling on the exact same spot on my knee. I’ve developed a knobby calcium-deposit protrusion at ground zero that takes my breath away when fallen upon. What is it? I’ve been friend-diagnosed as having this: Osgood-Schlatter disease—caused by activities that place repeated stress on the top of the tibia, the big bone in the lower leg, where the tendon of the kneecap inserts. An awesome new development!

But still, all pain aside, life is good for the most part and I'm sure I’ll just keep doing what i do because … fuck it’s all I know how to do anymore….

"inc lement"

Photo: Geery

When you get up early to drive an hour and a half for snowboarding, you don't really want to hear that it rained last night instead of snowing 25 inches like the weatherman forecasted. You don't want to hear it but you're already awake which is the hardest part so eff it you go anyway. When halfway into the drive you discover something's missing, you figure "I already made it this far" so keep going. However, when you find yourself in the middle of a windy whiteout at the mountain, things become a little more complicated. You see, no one gets hurt when you forget your jacket, but fun is harder to find. Thank god for trash bags from the restaurant in the lodge. Although, a plastic cocoon doesn't really protect against gale force winds and cold, and there's the danger factor of falling on said plastic and accelerating headfirst down the hill, which actually happened. Scary stuff. However, the nice thing about going riding is that you often encounter people you know up there, and so when Scott materializes at the top of the second run and just happens to be wearing two jackets (one for insulation!), he shares the wealth and universal harmony is once again restored. And everything works out. The end.

Happy New Year's To Me

Resolutions, do I make them? Fuck yeah I'm making them every day of my life. Here are a few things I've sworn to do lately: Stop falling down so much. Learn to turn off brain. Eat more vegetables (French fries don't count). Get up earlier. Drink less. Write more. Read more. Live more.

Anyway, a fat lip from falling on my face, a swell-bow, and an indigo patch on my hip—that's how I welcomed 2009. Thank you, Department Of Skateboarding. But beyond every bone and sinew in my body hurting from several days in a row of stacking, New Year's was just fine. I didn't go to the bar. I did drink champagne. I did dance. I did blow up some bottle rockets. I behaved myself and didn't kiss anyone at midnight. I did spend some QT with good friends and laugh a lot and lose my camera. Welcome to 2009!

We watched the ball drop in Times Square and Derek kept yelling "That Dick Clark sure looks a lot like Carson Daily!" at the TV screen.

Some henna knucks tattoos were administered.

I busted Cougs trying to wear Lance's pirate talisman.

Apparently ET found my camera 'cause when i picked it up the next day from Justin's house i found this photo on my memory card.

movie movement

A never-ending snowstorm and a few days back home with the family begets something more than simply hitting the booze before 4 p.m. It leads to plenty of movie watching. Which is what I've been doing for the past week or two. Here's what got played—some old ones and some new ones, some good ones and some bad.

If Hellboy II were just a regular old comic-book adaptation, then I'd be down for it anyway. There's something to be said for fuck em up movies with uncomplicated humor and far-fetched characters, right. But this one was directed by Guillermo del Toro, who made Pan's Labyrinth. So in addition to all the general ass-kicking and dumb jokes, there was a stunning visual transportation—intricate, eerie images and many creepy creatures part monster, part fairy tale.

I heard this movie wasn't that good and actually, the first time I watched it I had a hard time deciphering what was going on. I blame this on the festive holiday beer Jubilale, which (unbeknownst to me at the time) is 6.7 percent alcohol. Anyway, upon a second viewing, I discovered that it could quite possibly be my most favorite Coen brothers' movie (after the big The Big Lebowski, of course). So many smart/hilarious layers and every single character is ingeniously fucking funny, most especially Brad Pitt and John Malkovich.

A biopic about Darby Crash from the LA punk band The Germs. I'll tell you what I would've way rather watched a documentary about The Germs than wasted my time on a dumb boring movie with virtually no plot and no real character development. I don't know why directors think they can just be like, "Yeah so here's a wild crazy guy who wanted to be a rock star and then he killed himself." You need to develop the story a little more, maybe give us a clue into his psychology or I don't know, tell us something about the L.A. punk scene at the time. That'd be nice.

I watched this on the plane and it weirded me out once again. So what the hell is Donnie Darko about? I'd say time travel and maybe destiny, and whether the former negates the latter, or something. But whatever, I just watch it for the soundtrack and to remember what it was like to be a fucked up kid in the 80s.

A perfect little movie. Quiet, and subtly hilarious, with such great colors and scenery. And just like all Wes Anderson films, amazing music. Apparently he has the entire Kinks library at his disposal. Anyway, it's a movie, but it's kind of like a poem. So so good.