tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40934802024-02-20T19:53:42.231-05:00SueAndNotU"My name is Sue;
How do you do?
NOW YOU'RE GONNA DIE!"Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.comBlogger1097125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-8551070648208273472007-02-22T13:05:00.000-05:002007-02-25T16:49:41.794-05:00мне пораAs has probably been perfectly obvious for the past several months, my heart's just not really in this internet business anymore. I feel as though this thing has passed through several life cycles and incarnations over the past few years, and now none of them seem to quite fit. I grew tired of the silly, sassy persona some time ago, the earnest world-traveler is back on familiar territory, and nowadays, what I feel like writing is better written to myself. <span style="font-style: italic;">Besides</span> which, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Q_and_Not_U">namesake</a> called it quits ages ago, and that pun is only going to get harder and harder to explain.<br /><br />The old geezer in me that remembers life before the internet is still pretty shocked that a silly little thing like this actually netted me some people that I now consider to be among my very dearest friends. Hey, who can complain about that? And there's no denying I've had fun yammering on about this and that. But all the same, think it's time to turn off the lights around here. <br /><br />Right-o, enough speechifying. uh, somebody point me towards the sunset?Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-12335786839150848152007-02-13T19:45:00.000-05:002007-02-13T20:09:32.662-05:00snow flake<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/15975620@N00/387523175/" title="Photo Sharing"><img style="width: 198px; height: 139px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/138/387523175_c8f110d756_m.jpg" alt="Was Here" align="left" hspace="10" /></a> You like to think you've crossed some threshold of seriousness by now. Finally mustered up some discipline, squared your shoulders to adult responsibilities and delayed gratification and all the rest of it.<br /><br />But here you are, nose pressed freezing and fogging the window, fingers tapping the pane impatiently, eyes angled skyward as you take the oldest grade-school gamble and let tomorrow's work rest undisturbed in your bag.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Come on....</span>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-24283712108889647052007-02-10T20:46:00.000-05:002008-12-10T12:08:27.806-05:00Kindred<span style="font-style: italic;">We sat with whisky, poker chips, and cigars in this South Chicago kitchen penetrated by the dark breathing of the steel mills and refineries, under webs of power lines. I often note odd natural survivals in this heavy-industry district. Carp and catfish still live in the benzine-smelling ponds. Black women angle for them with dough-bait. Woodchucks and rabbits are seen not far from the dumps. Red-winged blackbirds with their shoulder tabs fly like uniformed ushers over the cattails. Certain flowers persist.</span><br /><blockquote>-Saul Bellow, <span style="font-style: italic;">Humboldt's Gift</span></blockquote><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwWfR01ZCSr9FpXdd5tJI1WGussccMOjEvhOSgeuSuCJJQ5gUWdnekeBRjq_qubB09T8NAbqk9LDt7GX5VbSkx7_cR0B6cyluM4hCZvoIcA6U9oByH5Znsg-xlM0eSKakO-K77Q/s1600-h/IMG_6015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIwWfR01ZCSr9FpXdd5tJI1WGussccMOjEvhOSgeuSuCJJQ5gUWdnekeBRjq_qubB09T8NAbqk9LDt7GX5VbSkx7_cR0B6cyluM4hCZvoIcA6U9oByH5Znsg-xlM0eSKakO-K77Q/s320/IMG_6015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030096635592044658" border="0" /></a>An old journal found from college years confirms that, somewhere around graduation, I was in raptures over this final sentence. I felt (it seems) positively <span style="font-style: italic;">helpless</span> before this sentence. In three words, everything that was beautiful and noble about the peculiar condition of life in hostile terrain. With such economy, the reason I'd adored riding around the L in Chicago at night, past the backs of old buildings, looking at the pockets of life in lit-up squares, as people made dinner and watched tv and lived their lives in a frame of brick and steel.<br /><br />Just now, I was looking at an old Kertesz photograph called <span style="font-style: italic;">Rue Vavin</span>. It's a detail of the outside of a tenement building, all rickety shutters and stains and disrepair, but in one window, off in the corner of the frame, just a wild burst of flowers crowding the sill. And, looking at the picture, suddenly I was saying to myself, <span style="font-style: italic;">certain flowers persist.</span><br /><br />I guess I've reached an age where you have to play detective with the unbidden thoughts of your own mind. <span style="font-style: italic;">What's that again? What's that from? What is my brain trying to tell me? </span>I'd strewn enough mental breadcrumbs around this particular line that I was able to find the journal, and I found the source, and then by the power of Google, I found two people with whom I have this very curious fixation in common. A certain <a href="http://www.roy-bentley.com/">Mr. Roy Bentley</a> has a book of poems, number 7 of which is titled with my sentence; a Mr. John D'earth has written a <a href="http://cahier9.seesaa.net/article/15076500.html">jazz-classical fusion</a> composition entitled Concerto for Quintet and Orchestra, the second movement of which is reportedly a jazz ballad called, yes, <span style="font-style: italic;">certain flowers persist</span>.<br /><br />A peculiar fraternity are we.<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(photo by John Graham)</span></span>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-70839474056189932002007-02-01T18:10:00.000-05:002007-02-01T18:29:45.380-05:00Foundering FathersIf you ask me, the Woeful and Lamentable aspect of current political discourse is not that it is so uncivil, but that it is not nearly hysterical enough. <br /><br />I'm reading a little bit about the debates between the Jeffersonian Democratic Republicans and the Hamiltonian Federalists following the French Revolution. The DR's supported France and hated and feared Great Britain, whereas the Federalists were all for trade with Britain and were down on France. <br /><br />When John Jay concluded a trade treaty with Britain in 1794, an editor wrote "John Jay, ah! the arch traitor--seize him, drown him, burn him, flay him alive." Graffiti on a Federalist's house read, "Damn John Jay! Damn everyone who won't damn John Jay!! Damn everyone that won't put lights in his windows and sit up all night damning John Jay!!!"<br /><br />In return, the Federalists called the Democratic Republicans "a despicable mobocracy," "Gallic jackals," "frog-eating, man-eating, blood drinking cannibals" who wanted churches to burn and guillotines to appear in the public square. Now that's crossfire. <br /><br />"Cheese-eating surrender monkeys" has a certain lyric and whimsical lilt, to be sure, but lacks some of the gusto and repetitive rhythmic staccato of "frog-eating, man-eating, blood-drinking cannibals." Heritage, not hate! <br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Quotations from Walter McDougall's "Promised Land, Crusader State"</span></span>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168931328098031142007-01-16T01:54:00.000-05:002008-12-10T12:08:28.256-05:00Esprit d'EscalierBack in spring of ought-five, there was a minor group spat over a <a href="http://www.zunta.org/blog/archives/2005/03/28/the_geek_shall/">proposition put forth by Tom</a>, to wit: women will one day covet men for displaying primo video game prowess.<br /><br />I mean, it's still just so cute and dear that merely <span style="font-style: italic;">writing</span> that makes my bottom lip pout out. But he and his cohorts were quite serious and it seemed only kind to disabuse him of this notion quickly and uncompromisingly. So we argued back and forth (and somehow I missed <a href="http://mattwrightphotography.blogspot.com/">Matty</a> in comments discovering an <span style="font-style: italic;">entire generation</span>[!!] of women existing behind me and Catherine; I've run to the mirror to check for eye bags and other saggy things).<br /><br />But why did I spill a thousand words when this picture would have done the job?<br /><br /><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimqmmdcabCRaEwe6LQ-Uegmeajv_3rMSRgRUthM4XjDPeY3n5ZOfZO7baVyxEbW7DEZvl9BGB__A4o4e1ujggWpNfBJoKsvHV6rmKQ5adxiRqjTElkcHDPezDeEVpSGnXWn0KXBQ/s400/media.jpeg" /><br />[shamelessly ripped from the dashing <a href="http://www.laoser.blogspot.com/">laoser</a>]Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168896221068985532007-01-15T12:39:00.000-05:002007-01-15T16:23:41.260-05:00Stir Crazy: Ice Storm EditionIt's not the ice so much as the stupid drivers, as we all know, so it's really best to sit tight and rifle through cookbooks and drawers for shiny things that will distract you from your torpor until enough time has passed that you think it's acceptable to go back and veg in front of The Wire for a few more hours. Here's what I came up with.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Household Gems my Mother Has Unaccountably Hidden From Me<br /></span>An apron printed with recipes for Air Raid soup? Yes, please!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/1600/767643/IMGP4368.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/320/639395/IMGP4368.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Proof that I am a Changeling<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/1600/136305/IMGP4366.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/320/825645/IMGP4366.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My mother folds and carefully stacks plastic grocery bags after returning from a shopping run. Odds that my life will bring her anything but quiet disappointment? Low.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mad Scientist Comfort Food</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/1600/377657/IMGP4334.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/320/502170/IMGP4334.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />That's homemade hot chocolate and a homemade marshmallow [!?!]. I did not know marshmallows could be made. But they can, pretty easily. And when a bit fat pillowy one takes a dip in your sinfully rich homemade cocoa (with just a hint of cinnamon), you don't know how you'll even go back to <span style="font-style: italic;">Ghirardelli</span>, much less Swiss Miss (that cheap whore).Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168634333395761622007-01-12T15:23:00.000-05:002007-01-13T19:57:40.546-05:00Oh Yes She DidIn light of David Beckham's announced transfer to play for the L.A. Galaxy, I e-mailed my soccer-obsessed roommate to tell him that I've suddenly discovered a new affection for the sport, and to count me in for tickets next time, uh, the <a href="http://www.nba.com/wizards/index_main.html">Wizards</a> play the Galaxy. <br /><br />I mean, the sheer <span style="font-style: italic;">avalanche</span> of ways to let me know I'm a complete retard must have been paralyzing. Not a banner day for the sisterhood; sorry ladies.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168495235095364152007-01-11T00:33:00.000-05:002007-01-11T01:00:35.126-05:00Buy Me Some Bubbly and Cracker-JacksWho, me? What did <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> do this evening? Oh, I took in the opera don't you know. Oh, they're doing Donizetti's <a href="http://www.dallasopera.org/the_season/060703-index.php"><span style="font-style: italic;">Maria Stuarda</span></a>; it's not <span style="font-style: italic;">canon</span>, darling, but still. <span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"></span><br />Here's the thing. I spent ten years training as a classical musician. A fine orchestra can make my stomach flutter something fierce. I have flat-out <span style="font-style: italic;">embarrassed</span> myself at ballet performances, I get so fired up. I'm not some hayseed scratching my groin and spitting my tobacky sidewards, is what I'm saying. But opera, I just don't get.<br /><br />Granted, I haven't been to tons. In fact, the last performance I saw was <span style="font-style: italic;">Boris Godunov</span> in Moscow, which was <span style="font-style: italic;">eh</span>, but I was so jazzed to be at the <a href="http://www.bolshoi.ru/ru/">Bolshoi</a>, I didn't really care. I approach my distaste with the assumption that <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> am failing <span style="font-style: italic;">opera</span>, not the other way around. Surely I've just not tried hard enough. Surely an open mind remains necessary. And really, there are certain arias that, on their own, are undeniably sublime. <br /><br />But I think I've put my finger on the problem, and it's that all of my critical faculties for music, theater, literature, and film, are tuned to prize masterful subtlety. The barely noticeable detail that betrays fine craftsmanship. The scalpel not the hammer, right? And opera is a bulldozer. I appreciate the technical prowess of the singers; their control, their range. I knew opera singers back in music school and I know that they work their performances down to the details as minute and fine as any poet. But it still feels like a sledgehammer to me.<br /><br />Perhaps it's because these virtuoso performances have to be couched in absolute theatrical ridiculousness. Characters with stupid motivations betraying simplest common sense, villains wearing black, heroes wearing white, maidens pure of heart and true in love betrayed by....zzzzzz. Timeless music deserves a better setting than that. I'm perfectly willing to suspend some disbelief for the purpose of drama, but I'm not willing to smother it to death altogether. <br /><br />Regardless, a fun and diverting evening, and I include in the entertainment my fellow patrons. Dallas, you big ridiculous hairball of a city, sometimes I love you. There was a curious proliferation of gay men wearing black leather pants in the audience; is that an opera convention or more of a Dallas thing? And Dallas women, I salute you. I know it was 58 degrees tonight but you were going to the <span style="font-style: italic;">opera</span> and you'd be <span style="font-style: italic;">damned</span> if you weren't wearing your furs with your diamonds. Women don't sweat, darlin', they <span style="font-style: italic;">glisten</span>. Brava!Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168454072620890832007-01-10T13:31:00.000-05:002007-01-10T13:34:32.656-05:00Mind the GapPotentially bad <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/01/09/AR2007010901643.html">news</a> for <a href="http://www.manifestdensity.net">Tom</a> and <a href="http://www.matthewyglesias.com">Matt.</a> Or have you fellas found a new fashion muse?<a href="http://www.matthewyglesias.com"><span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"></span></a><span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"></span>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1168026557239671102007-01-05T14:37:00.000-05:002007-01-05T20:45:13.846-05:00Holiday Sloth Update1. Roughly 4 years too late, I've now finished watching seasons 1 and 2 of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wire</span>. Many conversations are now 50% more comprehensible to me. It's pointless, this late in the game, for me to attempt any original commentary, but I'll just join the pile-on: <span style="font-style: italic;">damn</span> it's a fine show. Per conventional wisdom, season 2 is not quite as gripping as Season 1, and I'm fine with leaving the dock workers behind so we can get back to Stringer Bell and the palace intrigue going down in west bal'imur. <br /><br />2. Roughly 66 years too late, I'm about halfway through reading the <span style="font-style: italic;">Siege of Leningrad</span>, and things are looking grim for the Venice of the North. I forgot how much I love reading Russian history for the sheer gargantuan scale of it all. Unfortunately, the edition I scored from the library is from the 60s, and I imagine the updated edition gleaned a lot more from opened Soviet archives. Even so, a gripping read. The Nazis of Army Group Nord have fully encircled Leningrad and they're tightening the noose. All able-bodied Leningraders have organized into Workers Battalions and are preparing the city for street warfare. They've mined all the buildings, factories, and railways. If the Nazis invade in force, they will simply blow their beloved city into dust rather than let Hitler enjoy his victory parade past the Winter Palace. Next up will be aerial bombardment and roughly three years of blockade and mass starvation. Obviously, I sort of know how this ends, but pretty scintillating anyway. <br /><br />Question: If Hollywood was as Commie-happy as we've been told since the 50s, how come we've got countless re-enactments of the storming of Normandy and none that I can think of the Leningrad blockade? Spielberg could go <span style="font-style: italic;">apeshit</span> with this material.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167985143928295692007-01-05T03:13:00.000-05:002007-01-05T03:19:03.930-05:00The new sueI know, it's awfully white. And not terribly original. But we're overdue for a facelift round here; that blue was awfully oppressive. So until I think of something more appealing, this is it. If I controlled the internet, there would be a way for me to just set out a box of crayons and let you all go to town, but nobody asked me.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167931319622288672007-01-04T12:00:00.000-05:002007-01-04T12:21:59.653-05:00Me too! Me too!I have a music recommendation! Honestly, I do! True, the last time I was really up-to-date on popular music currents was when Young MC topped the charts, but after dipping my toe into the hipster whirlpool of Austin I am <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> ahead of all y'all.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.voxtrot.net/page1.htm">Voxtrot</a>, the great white hope from Austin. Rock and roll, catchy as all hell.<br /><br />Listened to their two EPs (thanks, Justin!) for three hours straight driving from Austin to Dallas, partly out of laziness, but by the time I hit Waxahachie I was hooked. Fine, fine driving music.<br /><br />Here's the part where you all tell me how you're <span style="font-style: italic;">soooo</span> over them already. Go ahead.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167891800825025132007-01-03T23:28:00.000-05:002007-01-04T01:23:20.860-05:00From Dushanbe, With PlovYou know that gorgeous part of James Joyce's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Dead</span>, where the protagonist's wife is telling him the story of young Michael Furey, a beau who courted her when she was a young girl and walked through the rain for her and caught his death? And after hearing his wife's secret tragedy for the first time, he grimly thinks something like, "So. She's had that love in her life."<br /><br />Well. New Year's is the time of year when I am reminded of a certain secret treasure in my <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> life: my lovesick Tajik translator. I have had that in my life. May you all have one some day.<br /><br />Few years back, I was in Tajikistan, doing my thing. Had a translator, Saidmuhiddin, who was very sweet and helpful and asked me charmingly odd questions like "Are there many trees in your country?" Things like that.<br /><br />After I left, Saidmuhiddin sent me an email proclaiming his affection for me in a most elaborate manner. I was shocked—not only by the sentiment, which seemed outrageously misplaced—but by the language he used. I feel sort of awful about broadcasting part of it. I've been hemming and hawing and really, truly, I shouldn't. It's not kind, it's not classy, it's a bit dishonest and unfair. But god, it's so funny. Forgive me Saidmuhiddin. Here is an excerpt of what my lovesick Tajik translator had to say to me.<br /><blockquote><i>Indeed, for me now, it is not easy if not difficult to confine the flood of wishes storming out of my heart and mind into the lake of language, and words can’t express my ultimate wishes at the moment as human language is not ever able to convey the load of lush magnificent notions you wish to express.</i></blockquote><br />You see? I responded with a note telling him that it was a pleasure to meet him and I enjoyed the opportunity to work together and other benign pleasantries in hopes that he'd get the idea. And perhaps he did, but now every January I receive a lovely New Year's greeting from Saidmuhiddin, and when I do, I remember the whole story and it makes me smile.<br /><br />Only this year, I read the New Year's message and it all looked a little familiar. With a quick search, I tracked back to previous missives, and, can you believe?! The whole business about the storming wishes and the lakes of language? Are in every one! Verbatim! My lovesick Tajik translator is sending me form letters! Upon how many <span style="font-style: italic;">other</span> ladies is he conveying loads of notions, I'd like to know?? <br /><br />Harumph. A lovesick Tajik translator with an itchy cut-and-paste finger. So I've had <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> in my life.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167856448821713532007-01-03T15:25:00.000-05:002007-01-03T16:01:32.890-05:00Country RoadsI thought my expertise at hauling cars out of <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/15975620@N00/148347261/">mud</a> and <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/15975620@N00/124672385/">snow</a> was pretty solid, until I saw #1 on this list of <a href="http://thrillingwonder.blogspot.com/2006/11/most-dangerous-roads-in-world.html">Most Dangerous Roads</a>. Georgia clocked in at #3, but from the looks of the photos, there's a sizable danger gap between Bolivia (#2) and Georgia (if you control for wine consumption). I mean, holy cow:<br /><br /><img style="width: 380px; height: 222px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/122/295154263_2f8c8efdf2.jpg" />Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167795343318326352007-01-02T22:33:00.000-05:002007-01-02T22:35:43.320-05:00A Not Atypical Conversation Snippet Overheard in Austin"Oh hey man, where did you get your shirt? My girlfriend is, like, really into pirate ships and she has a ferret, so you know, it would be perfect."Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167794880946243652007-01-02T22:27:00.000-05:002007-01-02T22:28:00.976-05:00Such Sweet SorrowOh God, did I <span style="font-style: italic;">seriously</span> start crying when I drove away from Austin this afternoon? Oh yes. Yes I did. What the hell is wrong with me? Some theories follow.<br /><br />a) I have become a <span style="font-style: italic;">psychotic</span> crybaby. I am a few hormonal shifts away from turning into my mother, who cries when Lee Greenwood sings that he is proud to be an American. <br />b) Austin rush hour, which apparently begins at 4pm<br />c) My Nintendo Wii arm is still sore from knocking Justin out <span style="font-style: italic;">cold</span> on his ass. In Round One. <br />d) Lingering heartburn from having outrageously good queso and tacos for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And brunch. And linner.<br />e) My dancing feet still hurt from a barn-burnin' New Year's Eve and the post-party limping around downtown barefoot, but for socks pilfered straight off the feet of the aforementioned sparring partner.<br />f) Because leaving Austin sometimes feel like that part of the movie when Dorothy comes back to Kansas from Oz, and all the lovely super-saturated colors and lollipop-bearing munchkins and jolly singing companions switch to black-and-white and dust and a lot of old people hovering around. If this strikes you as rhetorical overkill, it is because you do not yet know that my <span style="font-style: italic;">original</span> metaphor was going to be the expulsion from the Garden of Eden. So this is me being restrained and subtle. Remind me again why I don't drop out of school and while away my days slinging coffee grinds for a living?Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1167610242631322022006-12-31T19:02:00.000-05:002006-12-31T19:10:42.680-05:00Greetings from AustinMy New Year's wish for all of you is that you have a place in this world you love so much that it feels like it can save your soul, fortune cookies that can make you cry, and a friend who'll give you vintage cowboy boots that you'll wear and wear, even if they are a little big.<br /><br />Happy New Year's, ya'll!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/1600/190966/IMGP3979_1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/320/40005/IMGP3979_1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166931037957336152006-12-23T14:55:00.000-05:002006-12-23T22:32:00.673-05:00Fried Baloney and a Little of the Ol' Domestic Violenceor: Notes on Texas<br /><br />I guess maybe I've been out of Texas too long because when I heard that my brother tried to make a fried baloney sandwich, I thought that was the punchline of the story right there. But apparently fried baloney is a Thing. A Thing that exists and that people know about. I have lost touch with my gastronomical roots. Blue states: this is what the heartland people are apparently eating! Fried baloney! Look upon the lunchmeat, ye mighty, and despair.<br /><br />The punchline of this story, in fact, was that he was trying to make a fried baloney sandwich and kept heating the oil to insane temperatures because he was waiting for it to <span style="font-style: italic;">boil</span>. Nearly burned his house down; I scribbled "Fry Daddy" on the holiday shopping list real quick-like. A friend of mine in high school burned her kitchen to a crisp in a ill-fated attempt at jalapeno poppers, so this is a genuine concern. We were supposed to go see a performance of Stravinsky's Firebird Suite that night at the symphony, so it was kind of a theme evening.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">As long as I've been in Dallas, the place had some sort of identity crisis. Probably dates back to the oil boom, if I had to guess. There's a real yearning there to take its place with the cool kid cities, to have the restaurant scene and martini bars and high-end shopping and high culture accouterments of the Manhattans and the L.A.'s, even though each and every resident of Dallas would claim they'd rather be buried alive than live in either city. And at the same time, the place can't get too far away from just being down-and-dirty Texas, and kind of likes that too.<br /><br />So when you're in Dallas, you can kind of kick it either way. You can hit the see-and-be-seen circuit, or you can do like we did last night and just head on over to the bowling alley, and break up a little domestic violence in the parking lot on the way in. Seems more fitting, somehow. Seriously, this couple was wailing on each other, and the man had several marked bruises on his face, and seemed to be pushing her towards the open trunk when we walked up to interrupt. She was howling something about their five kids and why'd he gotta wail on her like that. We called bowling security on 'em and wondered if there was some kind of deal, like, break up a domestic fight and get a free pitcher or something. We were sorry for the couple of course, but it sort of felt like a nice and proper homecoming. Undiluted Texas, yes sir.<br /></div></div>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166903647660054982006-12-23T14:30:00.000-05:002006-12-23T14:54:07.690-05:00Good Thing She's a Little White GirlWhen it came to dishing out the common sense genes in my family, I think I wound up with <span style="font-style: italic;">slightly</span> more than my sis, but we're both cursed with pretty meager servings. So this is not to lord it over her, this story, because god knows I've pulled some boneheaded stunts while traveling and precisely <span style="font-style: italic;">why</span> i haven't ended up sobbing, passport-less in more consulates in this big world is kind of a mystery. <br /><br />But this is about her boneheaded stunt, reprinted without permission.<br /><br />So little sister is traveling from her home in New York to Texas for the holidays. She's running late, she's frazzled, so she accidentally leaves her carry-on at the security checkpoint and dashes to the gate. <br /><br />Turns out her flight is canceled, so she has time to notice that she has left her bag unattended in a New York airport. Woopsie-daisy. Back to the checkpoint, she notices a cluster of security guards ringing her bag. At this point, naturally, one's mind frantically catalogs the contents. Oh god, what's in there? Tampons? Beef jerky? At least, that's what I would be thinking. Little sister had a little more to worry about.<br /><br />What was in her unattended bag in a New York airport? Why, her Arabic dictionary, some journals on terrorism, and her hand-written notes on Al-Qaeda for an article she was preparing for work. Talk about <a href="http://www.upi.com/NewsTrack/view.php?StoryID=20061216-074335-6760r">pretending to be a terrorist</a>.<br /><br />For all that, it defused pretty quickly. She announced that the bag was hers, the guards gave her a stern once-over and told her not to do it again. It's true, she doesn't look very threatening, but times are tense and girlfriend was maybe one <span style="font-style: italic;">allahu akbar</span> away from getting herself <span style="font-style: italic;">disappeared</span>. Instead she was upgraded to first class; there is no justice to be had in airports.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166639110671800702006-12-20T13:24:00.000-05:002006-12-20T13:25:10.743-05:00Five Things<a href="http://outtamindouttasite.typepad.com/outtasite/2006/12/5_things_youll_.html#comments">Catherine</a> wants me to tell you 5 things that you didn't already know about me. Let's see how uninformatively revealing I can be.<br /><br />1. I am not going to Albania in January. Related: this is most definitely the first time I have voluntarily foregone foreign travel and perhaps reflects a certain growing maturity. (Lies! It reflects the fact that Mom said she'd take me shopping if I didn't go.)<br /><br />2. Did I ever mention that my first career choice was to be an orchestral musician? I was a pretty serious clarinet player in my day. And I was a music performance major for my first year in college before I realized that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life confined to practice rooms and emerge with a conversational and intellectual range that didn't extend beyond the relative merits and demerits of reed brands. So I dropped the major, transferred to the University of Texas, and never looked back. Now and then I miss the euphoria of playing in the midst of a top-notch orchestra, but if I ever find a local screwball woodwind quintet that would have me, I think I'd be satisfied.<br /><br />3. My arm gets totally sore from throwing darts.<br /><br />4. I had a brief but illustrious modeling career that landed me on a cover. Of a free Dallas-area gambling magazine. I was wearing a wedding dress, and there were slot machines. The issue was about Vegas weddings. Although you'll choose not to believe me, I swear on everything I hold dear that this was a favor for a friend and not a product of my own ambitions.<br /><br />5. My brief but illustrious modeling career also led to another favor, in which a friend who designs formal wear for drag queen pageants asked me to pose in some gowns. I choose to believe this is because of my height, and dwell no further on it. Those girls do <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> have hips, let me tell you. Photos of #4 and #5 are hoarded by Mother as incendiary blackmail leverage. I am definitely going to have to produce grandchildren.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166474913482170462006-12-18T15:31:00.000-05:002006-12-18T15:48:33.533-05:00GlobetrottingApropos of the previous post, I have a chance to go to Albania in January for a week, and I can't decide if I should do it. I know, this is a ridiculous problem. Bear with me. On the one hand: January in Albania! I've been such a gloomy gus for ages now and nothing perks me up like faraway climes (and frequent flyer miles). On the other: it'll bring me back the very day that spring semester classes begin, I'll have to leave Texas a few days early, and retake an oral core exam that I'd miss. Also, <a href="http://outtamindouttasite.blogspot.com">Catherine</a> would probably crucify me for missing her birthday. These are all fine reasons for not going, and probably I should not go. But oh, the wanderlust, the itchy feet. [dramatic sigh; eyes gaze pitiably into the middle distance]<span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /> <br />Guess I'll ponder it on the flight back to Texas this evening. That's right, I'm riding off into the sunset and touching down in the homeland. New Year's Eve in Shanri-La (that's Austin for the uninitiated). Yeeha, ya'll!Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166381625639597472006-12-17T13:49:00.000-05:002006-12-17T13:53:45.670-05:00Blind ItemWhat Romanian former NBA player thinks that yours truly is a CIA agent with an uncanny taste for vodka? Hint: even by pro ball standards, he is <span style="font-style: italic;">freakishly</span> tall.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1166044639953575652006-12-13T16:12:00.000-05:002006-12-13T16:17:19.983-05:00NSFWiki<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgia_%28country%29">Wikipedia</a>, sometimes a less-than-authoritative resource.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/1600/958753/Picture%201.png"><img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger/4680/128/320/571678/Picture%201.png" alt="" border="0" /></a>Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1165931062754959552006-12-12T08:41:00.000-05:002006-12-12T08:44:22.783-05:00tech support<span class="" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_CreateLink" title="Link" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 8);ButtonMouseDown(this);"></span>Does anybody happen to know how I might go about backing up my cell phone contact list onto my Powerbook? I just have that itchy feeling I get when my belongings are about to be lost or stolen, and I don't think that in the age of Bluetooth and what-have-you that I should take to pen and paper like a sucker. And yet, I can't figure it out. Thoughts, suggestions welcome.<br /><br />(Tried <a href="http://www.bitpim.org/">this</a>, but they didn't seem to support my <a href="http://www.samsung.com/Products/MobilePhones/Cingular/SGH_D807ZKACIN.asp">phone</a>.)Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4093480.post-1165684246164770222006-12-09T11:53:00.000-05:002006-12-09T12:12:33.630-05:00Vivisection Saturdays!<img style="width: 229px; height: 516px;" src="http://www.scienceplace.org/bodyworlds/images/photos/gallery_fullbody.jpg" align="left" />This morning I got a call from my dearest childhood friend Clarissa, previously introduced in these pages as the <a href="http://sueandnotu.blogspot.com/2005/06/ringwraith.html">Ringwraith</a> and "<a href="http://sueandnotu.blogspot.com/2004/09/come-out-come-out-wherever-you-are.html">Flossie the Freaky Bitch</a>."<br /><br />Clarissa wants to know, will I go with her to the museum when I come to Dallas for the holidays? Why sure, Clarissa, what's showing?<br /><br />Well, says Clarissa, they took a bunch of human bodies and dissected them and posed them. They're all preserved and plumped up, somehow, she said. And they posed one dude as a basketball player so you can see how his muscles work. And one is a pregnant woman and you can see the fetus inside of her. [pause] I guess that one's kind of controversial, Clarissa allowed.<br /><br />Nobody wants to go with me, she grumps.<br /><br />And neither do I. I'm not so enamored of muscle groups in action that I really want to gawk at a bunch of skinned and flayed human bodies posed about in a gruesome macabre zombie nightmare freakshow of a <a href="http://www.scienceplace.org/bodyworlds/default.asp">science exhibit</a> put together by a <span style="font-style: italic;">German doctor</span>, of all inappropriate nationalities. I can only imagine that this is going over like <span style="font-style: italic;">gangbusters</span> in Dallas.Susanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10702632288743267439noreply@blogger.com0