thorvalson.net : babble ether

Word of the Day

I'm still suffering a bit of blockage in the blogging department, and am a bit frustrated. It's not that my life has been that boring as of late, just that I'm feeling rather internal: less talk, more action. My few days of Gloria Gaynor "hey hey"ing have come to an abrupt halt due to the swift realization that a generally positive attitude combined with an ability to pretend to be much more enlightened than I am do not a Mount Everest Climber make. Not quite The End of the World, but a definite Bitchslap Reality Check. "Oh, you think you're bad ass? Fuck Gloria Gaynor. You're a puddle. Go cry in your flowers, emo girl." Am frustrated with the fact that my former membership in the Thespian Society was for naught, especially when it comes to pretending that I'm A-OK Hunky-Dory with a situation that, in reality, evokes more feeling than I can express in words. I. Am a Terrible. Actress.

So I sat down to attempt to post something, ANYTHING, thinking, "Maybe if I just start typing, something of consequence will magically spill from my fingertips. Enlightenment, via babble." A bit of free-flowing word association. So I sat down, thought, "Hm.... whattowritewhattowrite...." and the word "meshugina" popped into my head.
"Meshugina. Wait. Is that a word? Did I just make that up? No... It's an assault weapon. Wait. Jewish metal band. Assault weapon. Shit."

Enter Google. (Scroll down a bit.)

Figures.

That said, the highlight of my day thus far has been being told that I "rock figuratively." I'll try to keep that in mind. Thanks.

Static

Thinking... I am going to die alone with a bizillion cats, and at this moment, that actually sounds pretty damn good. I could name one Xander, and then, in another ten years, the collective cats of the Gessner and Thorvalson households might represent all of the Buffy characters. When I was a teenager, I used to have this vision of myself as an old woman, alone, the children grown and gone, and I'd be sitting on a chair on a rickety porch, smoking a pipe, silent, except for an occasional yell out to the passing cars, "HEY! SLOW IT DOWN, ASSHOLE! THERE ARE CHILDREN IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD. ... Dick."

Listening... to whatever I happen to be playing on guitar, and to my now hyperactive 4-year-old, who is running around in circles in the living room due to a breakfast of Hershey's Kisses.
"Chocolate?" you may be saying to yourselves. "For breakfast...?"
YES. CHOCOLATE FOR BREAKFAST. And you know what? GOOD FOR HER. And GOOD FOR ME. 'Cause I DON'T FEEL LIKE COOKING. SO THERE.

I had a dream last night, shortly after going to bed, that I got another Pablo Neruda poetry reading via telephone, and it was so vivid that this morning, the only way I could figure out that it hadn't actually happened was that, in the dream, I had fallen asleep with the phone by my head. When I woke up an hour later, the phone was on the entertainment center. That's the only way I was able to distinguish reality. Searching for clues in my environment.

Tuesday blahs.

I wish that, after so many days without posting, I had something more profound to say. Which isn't to say that there hasn't been anything big going on - Carmen and Jeff brought little George into the world; some old, old friends from Rockford resurfaced - just that all of my creative juices as of late have been directed more toward playing guitar and finding new ways to fold fitted sheets. Plus, Greg's been busy, and I tend to get a bit down if I haven't seen him in a few days. "Well, that was good... Got some shit done... Now what...." Makes it hard to get to sleep. It's not that my world ends when he's not around. I still have plenty of work to do, and there's always Maddie, hopping out of the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper between her butt cheeks, telling me she's the Easter Bunny.
But here we are, Tuesday already. My laundry's done, the Easter Bunny's taking a nap, I've already practiced guitar. If I take a nap, I'll be up all night. Tried reading. Mind is distracted with random thoughts, like, "Are there any major arteries or veins in the cheek? I don't remember there being any... If I were to get cut up in the face like that girl on 'Law & Order,' could I bleed to death? What if you got stabbed completely through the cheek...? Gee, look at that. Hangnail. Hm."
It's just not as much fun when he's not around. Less fulfilling.
Gee, look at that.
Hangnail.

You know what, Stuart? I like you. You're not like the other people, here in the trailer park.

Alright. My original plan for this entry was to write an amusing historical account of a friendship; specifically, a friendship that started off as two pre-pubescent kids "going out," rapidly progressed into "you suck... okay, let's be friends," then blossomed into high school trick-or-treating, elegantly slid into the dramatic climax known as The Time You Hit My Poor Dead Grandmother's Mercury With Your Bitchin' Camaro, You Dick, and ended abruptly with me deciding that his delayed confession to the crime was justification for me to believe that, in his heart, he was really just an Evil, Evil Human Being. My last vivid high school memory of Paul Puri is of him, covering his head with his arms, yelling, "STOP IT! I'M SORRY, OKAY?! I'M SORRY! STOP HITTING ME!" And I yelled some things about him being spoiled and how he thought he was better than everyone else, and all I could see in my head was the image of James Spader in "Pretty in Pink" leaning against his fancy white car and being all creepy toward poor little innocent Molly Ringwald, and then it's all a blur. I dropped out, Paul stayed in school, never saw him again.
So I was going to tell that whole story, with much more humor and alliteration, complete with yearbook photos, but I don't have a scanner. The good news, for Paul, is that he has narrowly escaped having his 8th grade photo posted for the world to laugh at. The good news for me is that while I don't have a scanner, my best friend does. And through the magic of email, I was able to procure, not Paul's picture, but photos of Tracey and I. Which led into a whole 'nother bag of breadsticks and underwear. I mean, this is my best friend we're talking about. We go waaaay back. Pre-braces, pre-pubescent... boyfriends! and breakups! and bitchfests! - oh my!
So in the interest of time, and to avoid boring the living shit out of the 99% of people reading this post who have no idea who or what the hell I'm talking about, let me just say a few things.

1. I'm not really sure why Paul fell out of our little circle of friends in high school, though I would suspect it had something to do with the Jim Morrison birthday cakes, Tracey's simultaneous donning of purple fishnets and a (legitimately acquired!) cheerleading uniform, and oh yeah!, the pot-smoking and weekly LSD trips. Although I do distinctly remember Paul in theatre class drinking vodka from one of those squeezer bottles that became so disturbingly popular in the early 90s... (Lesson, kids: Don't do drugs. The Thespian Society will evict you. Now, vodka in a squeezer bottle? That's okay! Drink up!)
2. Thank you, Paul. For retaining enough freakiness throughout medical school to justify re-establishing contact with someone who, 15 years later, is posting on the internet under the rotating title descriptions of "manic-depressive", "nose picker", and "people that died and came back from hell."
3. Thank you also, for something I didn't realize until a few days ago: you introduced me to punk rock. Sure, my brother listened to it, blah blah blah. But he wasn't around that much, and to tell you the truth, 9 year olds just don't fully appreciate the meaning of Ian MacKaye screaming, "DON'T! SMOKE! DON'T! DRINK! DON'T! FUCK!", etc. You were the first person to actually take the time to make comp tapes for me featuring the likes of these exquisite acts:
Witness Exhibit A.
Exhibit B.
And last but not least, Exhibit C.

So you hear that, Mom? The mohawk? The blue hair? PAUL PURI'S FAULT. I could even, if I wanted to, draw up a Nancy Reagan-inspired diagram of the specific gateways that lead from punk rock--->drug use... but I'll refrain.

4. In all seriousness... There's a lot more I could say now - big preamble, childhood trauma, teen angst bullshit, blah blah blah - to make this a much prettier Hallmark entry, but it's almost someone's bedtime. The temptation to get all Oprah on your asses and start talking in Dr. Phil-isms is, well, tempting, but...
Paul? Thank you.
Trace? Thank you. I love you.
It's so nice - and so rare - to have people in your life who can say, "I remember you when..." As ridiculous and literally sophomoric as some of those memories are...
My life didn't exactly go as I intended. Trace and I never took that road trip after graduation - one of us didn't even make it to graduation, let alone the after-party. I look at your lives, at the two of you - Trace and Paul - as human beings, and I am so proud to know you. Trace went off and got the husband/family thing going on, Paul went to medical school, and.. I'm very happy with where I am now, considering some of the detours...
If there is one single thing I can look at in my life and say, "This. This is what I did with my life," it's Maddie. But while she's still young and relatively demanding, it can be hard at times. And there will come a day when she's an adult, and then it's just me again. And then what? Then I'm old. Cramming for the finals, as Greg would say.
I guess what I'm trying to say is this. I don't have a husband to keep my memory alive. Well, I'd like to think that I do, but technically speaking... I don't have medical insurance, let alone the education to treat myself for the cancer I'll probably end up with.
Once Maddie is grown and gone, all I have are these dumb stories. This stupid blog, my run-on sentences, a horrifying over-usage of personal pronouns and their related subject matter.
Someday, when I'm nothing more than a pile of ash sittin' in a coffee can, waiting for Greg to go dump me somewhere, these memories, these stupid little milestones, are all that I am. Magic Waters. Breadsticks and underwear. An inappropriately manic response to the phrase "burrow owl." These little blips of history are all that separate us from each other, from the other little piles of ash. Stardust.
Thank you.

Mission accomplished.

Pictures from the HTF show are now up on Flickr!
Check 'em out (click on any image to view larger picture).

The Rhythm Chicken: Good, Wholesome Family Entertainment

(at bedtime, just now)
"I liked the Rhythm Chicken. He's funny. He goes like THIS," (holds imaginary drumsticks above head). "Why do they call him Chicken when he has a bunny for a head?"
"You are not the first to ask that question, and you will not be the last. He's just silly, hon."
"Maybe if he got a chicken for a head we could call him Rhythm Bunny."
"Maybe."

.... and God bless the Rhythm Chicken. Amen.

So many pictures, so little room

Last night's show was nothing short of inspirational. I'll post when I get all the pictures up on Flickr.
Thank you to all the bands who performed, thank you to all of the artists, thank you KJF, thank you Fight Club, thank you Daly You Irish Fuck, thank you Haymarket Riot, thank you Chariots Race, Call Me Lightning, Tab Man, The Retired Supervillains, the Mandates, The Black Hats, Michael O'Leary, The Mustn'ts, thank you Davey von Bohlen (not bad for a door guy ;) ), thank you Marc Solheim and the Mad Planet, thank you Modern Machines, Carmen Benske, Bruce Pattison, John-Luke, Andre, Fred, Jason, Juliana, thank you Maddie (I'm so proud of you!)...

Greg. I don't have words. You inspire and amaze me, you bring me peace and more happiness than I have ever known. Thank you for being my partner. Thank you for being you.

Actually, my IQ on the Simon-Binet scale is 128 last time I checked, which only qualifies me as "Superior". But I'll keep trying. :)

It is currently 11:54 a.m. Milwaukee time. I have been to the grocery store, fed my daughter breakfast, mailed some bills, done one load of laundry, and am now baking sugar cookies for the band members and artists for tomorrow's show. The recipe calls for the butter and shortening to be mixed with an electric mixer for 30 seconds to get the smoothest possible mixture. I do not own an electric mixer - not a fancy one, anyway - but I do have a hand-held battery-operated hand mixer that my mother gave me, circa 1972. Said mixer has been in my cupboard collecting dust for at least two years. Needless to say, the battery is dead.
So I was going to improvise using my blender. The only problem is, I can't get the f$£%ing jar pitcher thingy to lock into the base. I twist, I turn, I literally STAND ON TOP of the base and use my entire body weight to try to force these two stubborn pieces together.
Finally, after nearly severing off three of my fingers on the blades (yeah, that's why it says, right on the jar, "DO NOT SCREW BLADES INTO BASE WITHOUT JAR ATTACHED"), I figure out that the little blade attachment thingy is supposed to rest on the INSIDE of its counterpart, not up through the bottom as I thought.
Put the blade attachment thingy on the INSIDE, screw jar into place - VOILA.

And it was at this moment, ladies and gentlemen - I will have you know - that my daughter, my intelligent, well-rounded, brilliant, beautiful, and amazing four-year-old daughter (did I mention how smart she is? 'Cause she's smart. Which makes her a reliable source) - at this moment, she turns to me and says,
"Mom? I think you're a genius."

*bow*
*bow*
*curtsy*

Yes, this is as exciting as my life gets, and I'm very happy with that, thank you very much.

Um, Mom?

I'm not sure how to tell you this, but, uh, well... I think Maddie has a sister.

Rediscovering...

"Soon I discovered that this rock thing was true.
Jerry Lee Lewis was the devil.
Jesus was an architect previous to his career as a prophet.
All of a sudden, I found myself in love with the world
So there was only one thing that I could do
Was DING A DING DANG MY DANG A LONG LING LONG."

Fuck yeah.

This is what my mind sounds like right now: HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM...

Ooooooh mymymy. You ever have those days where you have SO MUCH SHIT TO DO and you start thinking of all the stuff you have to do and you think, "Hm. I should make a list," and then you realize how long that list is going to be, so instead of being constructive and productive with your time, you end up pacing around your apartment, thinking of the list and the SO MUCH SHIT TO DO and just saying FUCK IT and not getting anything done really?
Yeah. I'm havin' one of those.
I'm out of clean underwear. Nothing can be done until I have clean underwear.
Greg was just on the radio. Mmmmm. Sexy voice. Mishmish.
I wonder how long I can keep going on like this, with the laundry sitting there, being dirty, and me here on the computer, not doing anything about it....

So Greg and I had a great conversation last night. I know - go ahead, roll your eyes: COMMENCING MUSHY TALK ABOUT BOYFRIEND.....NOW. Tune out if you wish, but I'm still going to write it.
One of the many, many things I love about this relationship is our ability to communicate on so many different levels openly, honestly, and respectfully. Like last night. I cannot emphasize enough how important and meaningful it is to me to be with someone who can talk to me openly, and who listens. There are just so many different layers in each of us that seem to mesh together so well, and I have mountains of respect for his opinions. We got into this big talk about creativity, what it means to me to create, what I should do to make art a bigger priority in my life, what kind of art I would like to pursue, the things that are different about the way each of us creates and the things that are complimentary or similar... just a really enlightening, productive conversation. There were so many little things about yesterday that made me feel good. My horoscope in the Shepherd included a Pablo Neruda poem. One of my favorite Cure songs was playing when I walked into the Clare. We got free meatloaf from the Palomino. And we had an awesome conversation, during which neither of us felt it rude to periodically share with the other, "I LOVE THIS SONG. Okay, you were saying?" There's a dance to it, a rhythm to our conversations. I love it.
Thank you.

Okay.
Meatloaf.
Laundry.
Make that humming noise in my head go away.

Hey dudes

Just signed up for a free account with Flickr; I'm going to try to post at least one picture every day just for fun. Here's a link if you want to check it out.

Clickety click.

Hey! That's me!

Onmilwaukee.com's Julie Lawrence wrote an article on Saturday's HTF benefit show. Check it out! Hope to see everyone there.

Jason G. on W: "He's very compassionate if you are a bomb. He looooves bombs."

Okay, I normally don't get preachy on here. I'm not that politically savvy, and to be honest, I really haven't paid much attention to anything that's been going on since the election. This would be due to those pesky "dissociative tendencies" of mine. PTSD, perhaps. Our generation's Great Depression.
But then I go and read my best friend's site, and then Chuck's site, and I get all revved up again. What can I say? Our Dear Leader speaks in public (SofU address) and then puts out his budget proposal... It's just too big of a target for me to ignore.
So thank you, Tracey and Chuck, for keeping up on this shit waaaay better than I do, and for reminding me of the importance of speaking out. Kisses to you both.
Just some of the highlights of Bush's budget proposal... Read it and weep, folks.

Increases: (in billions)

* The budget proposal does not include much of the operating money needed to continue fighting the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. The administration is expected to request another roughly $80 billion for that soon, which will be considered emergency, or supplemental, funding.
 

DC Address: The Honorable Gwen Moore
United States House of Representatives
1408 Longworth House Office Building
Washington, D.C. 20515-4904
DC Phone: 202-225-4572
DC Fax: 202-225-8135
Email Address: http://www.house.gov/writerep/
Click here to send an
E-mail to your members of Congress
WWW Homepage: http://www.house.gov/gwenmoore/

Senator Russ Feingold
Washington, DC
506 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, DC 20510-4904
(202) 224-5323
TDD (202) 224-1280

Aw, fer cryin' out loud.

This entry brought to you by The Bitch Who Didn't Call Her Sister FOR HER 30TH BIRTHDAY Two Days Ago.
I would like to post a picture of said sister, complete with biographical info, interesting factoids, and tattle tales (like the time I caught her making out with Chris Scrol in the basement, or the fact that even after she - and Dave, and Mike - got caught smoking cigarettes under the exhaust fan in Dad's bathroom, I still somehow thought I'd get away with it), but I have no pictures of her on my computer, and no scanner to remedy that situation.
So here's a picture of some dolphins. 'Cause she likes dolphins.

Happy 30th birthday, Kirstin, you old hag. ;)

xoxox

This Baby Will Be Your Best Friend When Demons Take Over

I really wanted to use this one as a new thorvalson.net title, but I just can't seem to move beyond the "pictures of manic depressive people" yet. But I had to do something with that search phrase because, come on. Read it. It's fucking awesome. SO naming my band this.

It's official.

Maddie informed me a few days ago that, (a) babies come out of verginas, and (b) girls can't have beards.
Who is teaching her this stuff?

Dammit! I totally should've named her Minnie Pearl!

God bless Tracey, my best friend, with blessings and gratitude for making that birthday movie for my daughter, complete with soundtrack, for many reasons, including the fact that now said daughter is sitting in the living room singing, "Punk Rock Girl," by the Dead Milkmen.
My daughter. Singing "Punk Rock Girl."
I am so proud in this moment. If only Paul Puri could see this.

More birthdays! Yay!

This is my little sister, Jenny, aka, Jenny-fur-fur, JennyJennyBoBenny, Juniper, January (Maddie used to call her that), Jennifer Marie.

She lives here and likes to drink these, but can't have too many or she'll end up doing this, and when she comes up here for her birthday slumber party, we're totally gonna do this.
I love you! Happy birthday!

*****

This is my friend Mitch.

It's his birthday, too. I like Mitch because he's a lot taller than me and I like standing next to him when he comes to the Palomino so I can look up at him and say, "HUUUUUUTCH." He's also a lot of fun at Braid shows and does a great "YEAH" (more like 32 "yeah"s). Mitch likes to drink this and then go read this and then do things like this, and that's why we all love Mitch. Because he's full of sweetness and light.
Happy Birthday, Mitch!

Clarification

A few people have asked, so....
If you're wondering what the deal is with the "...pictures of manic depressive people," kindly read this entry.

Greg, last night: "Yeah, I read your entry," (the 80s movie-inspired drink list). "I realized today that you are insane. No. Really. You're insane."

Awww. I love you, too.

Hm. Really into the lists as of late, I see.

Names of Stupid Fruity Girly Drinks Tracey and I Will Make (or at least have fun laughing at the idea of) at the High School Prom Rejects Party I'll Be Throwing Sometime in the Next Month:

1. Pretty in Pink (something pink and wrapped in a polka-dot doily.)
2. Dirty, Dirty Dancing (a martini. a dirty one.)
3. The Breakfust ClubBED YOU IN THE MUTHAFUCKIN' HEAD WHAT ABOUT YOU DAD FUCK YOU NO DAD WHAT ABOUT YOU FUCK YOU (something really awful, guaranteed to give a hangover, with a splash of club (GET IT!?) and the drinker must consume with his or her buns taped together.)
4. Heathers: the Part Where Veronica Pukes on Heather Chandler's Shoes ("Lick it up, baby. LICK. IT. UP.")
5. 1991: The Year Your Hymen Broke (something red, something dirty, looks like Courtney Love's mouth blended with Kim Gordon's hair bleach, served with a uterus pate. Consumed to Nirvana's "About a Girl.")
6. Some Kind of Punderful (shaken, not stirred, inside a kick drum, served with the toast, "You look good wearing my future.")
7. Say Anything But That Fucking Line About the Pen (can of beer, outside the Gas 'n Sip on a Saturday night - by choice, man. CHOOSE TO REFUSE.)
8. Sixteen Candles (bomb shots, 16 of them: pour a shot of something sticky through a pair of panties and into a glass of yer favorite sodie-pop. "By night's end, I predict me and her will interface.")
9. Chuck U. Farley (anything strong consumed straight from the bottle while riding in the back of a jeep with a radio set and a hot chick, naked, wearing only a cock ring. Talk hard.)
10. Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man (a coffee drink, paid for with a compliment that's not in an Eddie Haskell kind of way, consumed at a Soundgarden concert - afterward, call your girlfriend from nowhere near her neighborhood, drunk, as Mr. Casual and introduce yourself as Mr. New.)

I really should use Maddie's naptime more constructively.

To Do List

1. Ahem (This Means You): Go to the benefit show for the Hunger Task Force, Saturday, February 12th, @ the Mad Planet. See rockers rock for the hungry. See locals donate food. See local and regional artists display work. Like it. Buy it. Rock out. See WMSE's ad (scroll down a bit) for complete listing of bands. Enjoy.

2. Come up with some kind of booklet of written work to contribute to benefit show that doesn't involve, (a) people dying of drug addiction, (b) people dying of cancer, or (c) all my mushy love poems to a certain person who shall not be named but is pictured at the top of this webpage and is the co-organizer for the benefit show and probably doesn't want to walk around the benefit show looking at people looking at him and pointing and laughing as they read booklets full of ooey-gooey love poems saturated with Pablo Neruda references that are ALL ABOUT HIM - AWW....

3. Figure out some way to channel writing into more productive (i.e., financially lucrative) ventures, i.e., GET OFF YOUR FUCKING ASS.

4. Avoid turning into Bridget Jones.

5. Watch special edition DVD of "Dirty Dancing," complete with commentary and Jennifer Gray's screen test.

6. Item 5 above has already thwarted progress of 4 above. Things not looking good for Item 4: Blog entry in list form, with lack of subjects and proper sentence structure, also, this. And this. Oh - this, too.