fiery state hotel

Just keep this active, please.

2009-09-21T22:02:00.003-05:00

I just found this old blog of mine from last year. Boy did I have energy. Boy was I crazy. Good thing I got on meds. But I'd like to keep this blog active and maybe do something with it in the near future... Like go back to blogging about music, websites, people, etc. So let's just see.

mix

2008-05-28T19:50:00.001-05:00

Free Radio: It's Kind of Funny, I Like It. Here You Go.

2008-03-18T00:51:00.002-05:00

I saw the guy who does this here show on Conan O'Brien tonight, and I liked him. Well, I hated him bu then I liked him. I hate the way his mouth moves, but he's not as smarmy and smartass as you think he's going to be just by looking at his mouth. He's actually fairly humble and charming. It's his character that turns out to be just like his mouth looks. And that's called COMEDIC ACTING!! I like it. I like that a lot. I am otherwise having a hard day's night, so this helps a little. This show airs on vh1, so everyone else has probably already seen it. But I haven't because I don't have cable. And even if I did have cable, I know I wouldn't be sitting around waiting for sketch comedy programming to come on. I would probably just be flipping through vh1 on my way to the Discovery Channel or, yes I'll admit it, Showtime. Anyway. Here you go. Free Radio:

The Noisettes

2008-03-16T22:42:00.002-05:00

Alicia, thank you for introducing me to The Noisettes. And readers, you should be equally as grateful to Alicia. And thank GOD you read my blog, eh? I know. Oh..... Please be advised that listening to The Noisettes will make you want to drink whiskey and dance with yourself all over the living room. Also, a note to straight girls: frontwoman Shingai Shoniwa will turn you gay-- cautionary word I received from over on YouTube by one of the many commentors on THIS VIDEO:

Have You Ever Wondered What Ben and Shannon Talk About When They're Left To Themselves?

2008-03-10T23:36:00.004-05:00

Popfresco.............................. Ben Garcia
ThinkofWinter......................Shannon Moore

Curtain Opens

popfresco@yahoo.com (1:01:44 AM): SO is the lotion wiped from your eyes?
ThinkofWinter (1:02:10 AM): sort of! damn that was SPICING me!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:03:21 AM): I ust laughed out loud
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:03:38 AM): And it echoed off every wall in my empty apartment
ThinkofWinter (1:03:48 AM): you need furniture......
ThinkofWinter (1:03:51 AM): pause
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:04:01 AM): I was eating a pickle
ThinkofWinter (1:04:32 AM): I want to eat something too!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:05:11 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:05:17 AM): ok I'm eating a mrs freshy fruit bar from the dollar store
ThinkofWinter (1:06:06 AM): I've eaten, like, nine today.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:07:58 AM): They're tiny I presume
ThinkofWinter (1:08:07 AM): yes
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:08:11 AM): yes
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:08:15 AM): pause
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:08:46 AM): I'm being very quiet
ThinkofWinter (1:08:51 AM): you can't hear the echo of cyberspace!!
ThinkofWinter (1:09:10 AM): no one can hear our laughter or our tears echo off the walls of cyberspace!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:09:27 AM): I think the echo of cyberspace sounds like this
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:09:42 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:09:55 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:10:00 AM): (cough)
ThinkofWinter (1:10:04 AM): (sniff)
ThinkofWinter (1:10:06 AM): pause
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:10:09 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:10:17 AM): okay, I just wheezed.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:10:19 AM): ahem
ThinkofWinter (1:10:20 AM): a laugh wheeze
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:10:36 AM): That sounded terrible...Get that thing checked out
ThinkofWinter (1:10:48 AM): right
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:10:52 AM): right
ThinkofWinter (1:10:52 AM): along with everything else on my body
ThinkofWinter (1:10:59 AM): badoom cha!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:11:22 AM): badoom boom
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:11:33 AM): I imagine an old man saying that
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:11:43 AM): Badoom BOOM
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:11:53 AM): Cha
ThinkofWinter (1:11:55 AM): haha... I pictured alicia
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:12:00 AM): That too
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:12:17 AM): Maybe an old man and Alicia together
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:12:28 AM): and then they start a tap dance off
ThinkofWinter (1:12:52 AM): I can picture that exactly
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:12:53 AM): to-ta-lee
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:13:14 AM): me to that's why I say it in words that I wrote just now click
ThinkofWinter (1:13:35 AM): exacgtly
ThinkofWinter (1:13:37 AM): what?
ThinkofWinter (1:13:44 AM): exaggggly

Old Secretary...

popfresco@yahoo.com (1:13:44 AM): how are you shannon send
ThinkofWinter (1:14:01 AM): um, I'm okay.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:14:07 AM): period
ThinkofWinter (1:14:30 AM): oops I just called my voicemail with my FOOT!
ThinkofWinter (1:14:31 AM): on accident!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:14:39 AM): Whoa
ThinkofWinter (1:14:45 AM): I hate nick
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:14:55 AM): I just pictured Keanu Reeves saying whoa
ThinkofWinter (1:15:09 AM): I just pictured nick saying "foot" and it made me mad
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:15:14 AM): I hate noick more
ThinkofWinter (1:15:40 AM): I just pictured one of the three stooges saying that
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:15:48 AM): Curly
ThinkofWinter (1:15:50 AM): like: noik noik noik
ThinkofWinter (1:15:56 AM): whoooa!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:15:58 AM): yES
ThinkofWinter (1:15:59 AM): I mean YEA
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:16:03 AM): Keanu Reeves
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:16:19 AM): or Joey laurence
ThinkofWinter (1:16:28 AM): yea, that guy is way retarded
ThinkofWinter (1:16:42 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:16:45 AM): (sniff)
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:16:46 AM): In Boston they Say RE-TAH-DED
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:16:55 AM): sniff
ThinkofWinter (1:17:07 AM): wow, and that seems to phonetically represent how actual retarded people say the word as well.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:17:09 AM): You have a cold period send
ThinkofWinter (1:17:30 AM): I just pictured you typing an old typewriter like a secretary in an old movie
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:17:43 AM): THAT's TOTALLY ME
ThinkofWinter (1:17:48 AM): I know
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:17:57 AM): I AM AN OLD SECRATARTY
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:18:02 AM): secraetary
ThinkofWinter: I love how well we both type, really.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:18:25 AM): ME TOO

On Film...

popfresco@yahoo.com (1:20:15 AM): Have you ever seen the movie BIG
ThinkofWinter (1:20:23 AM): yes
ThinkofWinter (1:20:27 AM): but don't forget to look her up.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:22:53 AM): I just looked her up
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:23:45 AM): she looks butchy hot
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:24:14 AM): Like what's her name from Aliens
ThinkofWinter (1:24:21 AM): sigourney weaver?
ThinkofWinter (1:24:23 AM): yea....
ThinkofWinter (1:24:34 AM): or..... ally sheedy from high art
ThinkofWinter (1:24:41 AM): but hotter than that
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:24:46 AM): or what's her name from Some kind of wonderful
ThinkofWinter (1:24:55 AM): um........
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:25:31 AM): It's a John Hughes movie from the eighties
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:25:41 AM): with the guy with red hair
ThinkofWinter (1:25:47 AM): ohhhh.... riiiight
ThinkofWinter (1:25:49 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:25:52 AM): sniff
ThinkofWinter (1:25:56 AM): ahem
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:25:59 AM): He was in Pulp Fiction
ThinkofWinter (1:26:04 AM): eric stolz?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:26:12 AM): Stolz yeah
ThinkofWinter (1:26:13 AM): I don't know the girl, though, is she gay?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:26:23 AM): Could be
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:26:51 AM): pause
ThinkofWinter (1:27:06 AM): I dyed my hair. just a little darker and warmer. Maybe she'll notice.
ThinkofWinter (1:27:21 AM): it kind of looks the same but at the same time, it kind of looks ewally bad.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:27:52 AM): I bet it look great
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:28:18 AM): You should see Some Kind of Wonderful
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:28:50 AM): Where he gets with the butchy girl in the end
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:29:17 AM): even though he could of had whats her name from Back to the Future
ThinkofWinter (1:29:34 AM): sorry, I had to go look at my hair again and check to see if the stove burners were leaking gas cause my cats looked tired
ThinkofWinter (1:30:20 AM): I can picture the cover of the VHS.
ThinkofWinter (1:30:47 AM): how dare they make that decidedly gay girl straight to please 80s republicans!!!!

Cats Are Crack:

popfresco@yahoo.com (1:31:05 AM): how are georgie and ROBERT?
ThinkofWinter (1:31:16 AM): pause
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:31:25 AM): I want to say BILL?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:31:53 AM): --BOB!
ThinkofWinter (1:31:57 AM): nemo
ThinkofWinter (1:32:03 AM): nemo bartholemeow
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:32:03 AM): NORTON?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:32:12 AM): BERTrom
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:32:27 AM): NEMO!!
ThinkofWinter (1:32:30 AM): norton bertrom robert the third
ThinkofWinter (1:32:40 AM): neeeemohhhhh, yes.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:32:40 AM): the third
ThinkofWinter (1:32:45 AM): III
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:32:51 AM): iii
popfresco@yahoo.com: CATS ARE CRACK!
ThinkofWinter: pause.
popfresco@yahoo.com: ahem.

Getting Sleepy...

ThinkofWinter (1:38:35 AM): ericstolzoneword
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:38:38 AM): exaggly
ThinkofWinter (1:38:48 AM): yea except I say it that way sometimes when I'm sober
ThinkofWinter (1:38:52 AM): because I have adnoids
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:38:53 AM): erixstoltzoneword
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:38:57 AM): exaggly
ThinkofWinter (1:38:59 AM): or something that's too big
ThinkofWinter (1:39:05 AM): which is what SHE said
ThinkofWinter (1:39:10 AM): noick noick noick
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:39:12 AM): sopper
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:39:21 AM): HA
ThinkofWinter (1:39:25 AM): it's a SOPPER out there!
ThinkofWinter (1:39:28 AM): I picture a rainstorm
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:39:34 AM): That's what she said
ThinkofWinter (1:39:46 AM): ahhhhHA
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:40:04 AM): My pickle just went flying
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:40:23 AM): I'm going to get a nother one
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:40:25 AM): hold
ThinkofWinter (1:40:31 AM): yes, I'll hold
ThinkofWinter (1:40:45 AM): BEATLES MUSAK
ThinkofWinter (1:40:59 AM): "ahhhh, look at all the lonely people" (humming.... no words.)
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:41:19 AM): ok, what?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:41:41 AM): thank you for holding, may I help you?
ThinkofWinter (1:41:48 AM): ahh, yes
ThinkofWinter (1:41:52 AM): I would like to know
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:41:56 AM): yes?
ThinkofWinter (1:41:57 AM): if....
ThinkofWinter (1:42:04 AM): your refridgerator is running???
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:08 AM): yes--
ThinkofWinter (1:42:10 AM): then you better go catch it!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:11 AM): my what?
ThinkofWinter (1:42:12 AM): !!!!!!!!!!
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:17 AM): yes?
ThinkofWinter (1:42:17 AM): click
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:20 AM): I will.
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:25 AM): wait...
ThinkofWinter (1:42:30 AM): no, I hung that shit up
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:31 AM): my what?
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:37 AM): oh.
ThinkofWinter (1:42:42 AM): pause
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:42:51 AM): I'll go catch it

The End......

ThinkofWinter (1:49:06 AM): remember, before the meat machine.... new york
ThinkofWinter (1:49:13 AM): goodnight
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:16 AM): new yo...rk
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:26 AM): snoreing
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:30 AM): new york
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:33 AM): snoring
ThinkofWinter (1:49:33 AM): that's right
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:39 AM): new york
ThinkofWinter (1:49:40 AM): goodnight
popfresco@yahoo.com (1:49:44 AM): nite

FIN.

Dear Diary, I Had This Terrific Metaphor Dream!

2008-03-10T22:46:00.004-05:00

I dreamt again that I was someone else. A woman. Again. This time she had thick, course and curly hair pulled back with pins. In the mirror-- why am I always looking in the mirror?-- her (my) face was thin, pale with high cheekbones. A frowning mouth. Something else. The flesh of my torso had been pulled back like curtains, and hanging there from delicate tubing and tangles, was my heart. Outside my body.

But before this. You know how an infected wisdom tooth feels? That pulpy, aching wound feeling you can't stop torturing with your tongue? This is how my chest felt. And inside my mouth. I kept choking on and spitting out the pulp of my body. The taste of blood was..... real. And there was a man wobbling around whose head was taken off his body, but he was holding it on as best he could. Had we both just gotten off the floor?

Back to the mirror. I am trying to stuff my heart back into my chest and holding the thick slices of skin and muscle into place under a corset I am forcing onto my body. It burns and aches, but I know that I will heal under there, so I pull it tight. The wire cuts a bit. But I guess that doesn't really matter, compared to my gaping front. And it's over. The last thing I remember is wearing a dress, a cotton dress with a big, sculpted skirt, over that corset. And when I came back to the mirror and peeled it all off, it looked as though my chest was healing. My breasts looked nice. My face was so strong.

Oh, the chemically tampered mind in sleep..... all those everyday fears evaporated terrors hazy.... but then, in the gray, balmy cool of my dream nightair, there they are: stars in the fucking horrible acts played out so vividly that I awake hurting everywhere. Or maybe I was time traveling again.

Nick would probably secretly find me stupid for saying that. I think he was always secretly dissapointed that I was a kook and not the right kind. Not his kind. Not dark enough, not seious enough, not smart enough. But no, I'm-- you know, living proof goddamn fairies exist or something. Not an intellectual anymore. I never was. I'm so much happier accepting that I'm not.

I think I want to start painting. And learn guitar. I think I could write better songs on guitar. And Jon said some people can't even play that G chord! You know what was funny about him? When he kissed me, it felt like love. Even if it wasn't. I wonder about those people. The ones that can kiss you like they're in love with you when they're not? FASCINATING! It really is. I wonder if I'm that kind of person? Because that's what I need, really. That weird chemistry to make me forget that I lost that one.

There is no craft to this. That makes me sick. I tried to do some CSS layout work today on the new home for the fiery state hotel, but I was having trouble and got frustrated. I work so much better with IFrames. But I used to go hours on that shit until I learned it, until I got it right. And I miss that. Maybe I'll work on it again now. Soon, this blog will have a home completely conceptualized, designed and constructed by me. And I didn't even go to school for that, son!

Dave says son. It's funny when he says it.

Oh, I forgot, I was going to post a conversation Ben and I had last night on AIM. I just rediscovered AIM. Grandma doesn't understand all the new whoozits and whatzits of version 9.387, wtf if going on over there? I couldn't even figure out how to IM someone, and then a telephone started ringing. Wha?

Okay, so the post right on top of this one will be Ben and Shannon AIM Conversation #1. Thank you and goodnight.

oh, look at all the lonely people

2008-03-04T15:08:00.004-06:00

paul mccartney, you might have had many

faces in mind, but the song would not have been

so lovely if you had seen them all naked and groping,

desperate bodies, flashing wounds and juices,

wondering, 'do I even taste like me anymore?'

no matter, no matter, no matter--

I can't even write a song, it's so fucking tragic.

what are we looking for?

Freddie Mercury asked the same question--

Oops! I'm sorry.

I let out this terrible laugh when I cannot come

because I am thinking of you--

talking to me about intuition.

About not wanting me anymore.

About not meant to be.

I know

you probably want nothing to do with this ache--

must be so ugly, and you wish it was never so sweet.

Jesus Christ,

I wish the same of you, but I keep sprouting tears--

pulling at my hair to wash your goddamn feet.

O Internet Gods Show Me Who I Am!

2008-02-29T01:49:00.004-06:00

Warren has been urging me to peek into this Pandora: The Music Genome Project, an internet radio site for the future that formulates your own personal station from the song structure, sound and "personality" of the artists you list as Favorite. Pandora looks as if to be a hybrid of technology and organic music understanding. Feeling extremely depressed at two in the every morning without fail, I thought now might be a good time to investigate this little demon. My review: clever, idealistic in it's objective but fairly generic in play, easy to use, quick and not too overstimulating. I enjoy the program. Is Pandora a golden box. Does it know me? Not really. I don't feel that it has yet pinnned down MY music. This could be because of what seems to be a corporate/big label music pull. But Warren was right, it's addictive and fun and pretty amazing to play this late at night, when the world is grumbling and rubbing it's feet together and rolling over.

Warren, I also checked out the notorious Stumbled Upon, and I am delightfully overwhelmed and dazed and happy with it. For those of you that don't know about Stumbled Upon, you've lost your chance at simply sumbling upon this program, which loads into your Internet navigation bar and lets you roll the dice and see what you can find, based on a profile you create at the homepage that lets the site "know" you...

Ah, smart technology. It would creepy if we hadn't been so well prepared by 50s sci-fi literature. I'm not scared. The internet radio can't tell the difference between legends like Tori Amos and hacks like Charlotte Martin. And Stumbled Upon can't automatically load the page I'm thinking of right this moment... Now! What page was I thinking of Stumbled Upon?

Remember that movie The Net starring Sandra Bullock? My favorite part of that "vilm" was when she ordered pizza on the Internet. I think, at the time, I was all preteen sweaty AOL chat room nights drinking chocolate milk and getting dizzy with power. I loved the internet back then. It was like.... well, you know, the world...... wide web. Now it's just like a toaster. Or a can opener. But when stuff like Pandora and StumbledUpon enters the picture, well, I feel like a kid again. So thanks to Warren for those recommendations.

sometimes I can bite my tongue, sometimes not.

2008-02-28T00:58:00.004-06:00

we, like our fathers, are forgetting
all the things we learned before we
were born to our mothers.

there is no such thing as karma
starting now, and this will forever
be the end of the world.

gutterlings, foreign and trembling,
lie side by side in the ditches they
have dug so poorly.

this is not a poem. you are not a
poor little boy. I am not your mother
who thinks you are a man.

Who Should Have Won the Oscar

2008-02-24T21:16:00.004-06:00

Okay, so far I am shocked. Seriously, who ARE "The Acadamy?" This is what should have happened:

Best Supporting Actress:

Cate Blanchett as Bob Dylan!!!

Best Actress:

Julie Christie in Away From Her.

Best Animated Film:

This Makes Me Happy Today

2008-02-23T09:02:00.002-06:00

My co-worker Bill showed me this today and it made my morning. It's like a cup of good, strong coffee for the soul. And I needed it. Thanks, Bill. And you're right, blogs are basically just links to other information. Like this.

poem: like you

2008-02-19T19:35:00.002-06:00

I don't think you know your luxury, boy-- for the greatest lie
art ever told was to it's men, that they are soft like women.
I tell you now, you are not a woman. What do you think of that?
Does someone have to hold your wine while you take this
in? Did you assume you were too gentle for this world,
too fragile for the work force? Had you always wanted
to wear fishnet stockings too? If I were like you, owning art
with the rest of your sisters with sensitive dicks, I would
probably forget my role as well. If I were like you, my hands
all cut and bleeding with meaning, wary, misunderstood,
and drowned in the sorrow of no one being able to fuck
me as decently as my own hand then, well, I would be
shocked to hear the words: Be a man.
I would probably work al my life to be a vessel for
both sexes, for both sensibilities.
I would probably never be quite satisfied
with the sex of one or the other, as they are both in me.
And I would look at my sisters with sensitive dicks'
famous pieces and works in progress and experimentations
on such and such, and I would sigh, thinking I knew
beauty like no one else knows beauty. If I were like you.

The Woman Who Is Not Quite My Voice

2008-02-18T18:16:00.003-06:00

She said, "I was the one in the mirror, sucking in my cheeks--
There! Do you see me? We were the princess. We were the--
"Were you the one in love with my father?" I ask, and she
laughs. Oh she laughs!
She says, "I have returned now."
I do not trust her. I say, "You want to kill me."
"No. You want to kill you. I like this body. I love this face."
"I am afraid."
"I know"
"Help me."
"Put on your makeup. Blow-dry your hair. Look in the mirror,
where I was once--"
"My heart."
"I know. I need to come back now."
"They say I will die!"
"They always say you will die..."
"My heart! My heart! This will kill me!"
"No. This will set you free. Take my hand."
And I laugh in the mirror at her because she is pretty. I laugh
because I have no other options, I have no strength to object
and I am so tired of being afraid.

In the Bar the Night I Wore the Fishnets

2008-02-17T13:05:00.007-06:00

I think what's hardest about this breakup is the irritation of having to admit to a pre-existing perspective problem. Because that makes me the crazy ex-girlfriend so easily. How clever.

Yes, I have, in the last year or so, lost my grasp on what's real and what's mixed up psychic wiring. But now, it is incredibly hard to determine what is valid pain and what is just emotional fallout from all those expectations and desires for happiness layed so heavy on this person willing to accept them.

On top of that, being suddenly exposed to light and and blinking like a mouse in a cage hiding under his plastic tree trunk, I am also trying to decipher between what is shock and what is calm and wonder. It's something I've not quite experienced before. I've certainly been broken up with before, but not by someone that showed absolutely no sign of wanting to leave me up until the moment he did. So why did I feel so safe?

I can see us in the Springwater Supper Club, me wearing those goddamn fishnet stockings he wanted me to wear. And I wore them because I felt safe. I had no idea that this person that called me baby, meowed at me all the g'damn and held my hand like he'd never let go, was still auditiong me. I was auditioning in those fishnet stockings, like some sad-eyed, clueless exotic escort. He said later, "Shannon, we were only together twice." As if this was supposed to erase the truth, in one sentence. And I was so confused. So confused. Because that second time, I thought I was with my boyfriend, not my john. I mean, I flew to Nashville.

I didn't know that someone who assured you on the telephone late at night to let down your guard and not feel the need to tiptoe, who would talk about being honest and talking things out and working at a relationship, could then say, "It just wasn't the same in person." It sure seemed the same in person to me. I mean, all we did was spend quiet time, have sex, talk and cuddle, laugh and do that all again.

And there was the bar. Us in the bar. Was he hiding that he didn't want me? I don't believe it. I can't believe it. You weren't there. I was. He wanted me. We snuck out back and whispered to each other, smoked and stared and pulled and pushed and grabbed and he said, "You're going to get it when we get home." Now it's: The day to day was different. I just don't feel the same way. We were only together twice.

I find myself speechless nearly every day.

I find myself crawling into bed and refusing to call my closest friends to tell them about this because, honestly, I don't know what to say. I can still see his eyes, looking at me as if I were so dear and so precious and so sexy. I can still hear his voice the way it sounded before, calling me his precious Shanni, calling me sexy.

But what I can't see is what happened in Nashville that made it unsatisfactory. Starting then? Starting there? But I was there. I was there. And I came back missing him. We cried on the phone together when Polio died, and I still thought he was right there. See, this all sounds like the babble of an insane woman, talking about an invisible lover but I'm telling you.... he was there. And the most horrifying words I've ever heard are, "We were just together twice." As if the free trial were over. As if there was never any gauruntee of anything at all. As if I were overreacting. And you might think so too....

That's what's so clver and cruel about this situation-- how easy it was for him to brush off what we had in general, so as to make himself look sane. How much it seems like he was never there-- that I was seeing things, hearing things.

I presented his "It's intuition, we're not meant to be!" excuse to a guy named Itchy in the bathroom at the former Gaslight. And he looked at me with eyes that were truly sad. I said, "What?" And he said, "Let me tell you, please, as a man. There is someone else involved. He has other interests."

And I died.

But I knew suddenly it was true. I knew. And I probably knew before, when he stopped wanting to flirt and text sexy messages because he was "depressed".... but not too depresed to surf young women's Myspace profiles late at night. Not too depressed to start flirting with them. And now I guess it's no longer a mystery, this thing: "It;s just intuition. We're not meant to be." I don't think he DID believe this in Nashville like he says. I think that real got too hard, and he wanted to start chasing the unattainable again. He wanted the flirting stage again. He had gotten what he wanted from me. And I think I knew this about his character when we first met, though I won't go into details on why. But he was so sweet on the phone. So sweet in person then. But I think I saw it in his eyes. Still, I wantd to love him, so I did.

In back of that bar, with his hands all over me, I could never have guessed he would have been questioning his feelings for me. I could never have guessed he would be looking around for better prospects. But that's what, "We were only together twice." means when you say it to someone you told a few months earlier that you would marry on a beach in Maine. But I'm tired of those words now. I'm tired of them pounding in my head. I'm tired of looking down at my phone and wondering if I will ever believe anyone really adores me ever again. Because he said it. He said it over and over again. And it wasn't true.

If I had any idea that I was such a different person in person than I am on the phone. maybe I wouldn't have gone to Nashville. But I flew there because he was my boyfriend. My real boyfriend. At least I thought so. And if I have any idea I had the ability to turn someone off of me by wearing fisjnet stockings and kissing his nose like he asked, then I wouldn't have done those things. But I did them because he was my boyfriend. At least, that's what he said at the time.

But it was so different to him. Enough to let me go as quickly as possible and get right back to flirting with women that do not know him....

Women who, HOPEFULLY, are into man boobs and limp dick. But I'm sure these women are a dime a dozen. They're out there.

Dave, What I Did the Rest of the Night

2008-02-16T10:38:00.003-06:00

Valentine's night I bought a small bottle of Canada Mist whiskey with what little cash I could dig out of drawers and dirty jeans, and headed to Starbucks to grab a tall house blend with room for "cream and suger." I stared intensely at the man sitting directly across from me reading YSA Today, willing his paper frozen in place. Then I left quickly with the bells and said a sweet 'thank you!' to the barista who had tried to sell me the new skinny latte.

I walked across Bradley campus to the library, looking for my old friend David. We said hello, and I offered him a sip of my Irish coffee. He said, I'll do you one better and we'll go to my house for a few cold ones. So we went. David offered me his best Flying Dog pint, which left him with Hamm's in the can. Such a gracious host, who filled me in on our beloved faculty at Bradley's intimate English department. We both looked longingly into the night and wondered what each of our most fuckable profs were doing at that moment. I wonder if Dr. Swafford is still happy in his marriage? Have you heard from Dr. Worthington? God, she's amazing/he's amazing. 'You should stop in to say hello to Dr. Vickroy and Dr. Craig,' and 'You should tell Dr. Palakeel hello!' Irish coffee in one hand, pint glass in the other, I felt serene for a moment. Thank you, David. I felt my eyes go hot coal, shine like they hadn't in a while.

But I wanted to trapse over to Mike's Tavern. You had to go back to work. To fill you in, Mike's wasn't too lonely. There were friends there, asking me about New York and what the hell happened to that boyfriend I had. There were drink chips, free beer, lots of opinions. There was flirtation between me and Krysta, Greg's fiance, but that was imagined. Then I went to the Owl's Nest, where there was fliration with the Scuicide Girl tending bar, also imagined. Her boyfriend lent me cigarettes, and she told me that artists will always break your hjeart. I figured she knew, she had so many tattoos. Then I called the girl zone (I needed a loan, you know what I mean, but then you hate that album.)

Carrie D, the butterfly of the girl zone came to my rescue. Turns out she needed conversation herself. So she took me under her lovely wing, and I felt like a real valentine after all. We flew from one hot spot to the next, you know, those bars, where everyone is in love with everyone else. And I remember standing outside on the back deck telling everyone about the first person who had taken me there. Then I said to a young nursing student something to the effect of, "You can change the world! This is the revolution!" Carrie insists I said this to the heat lamp. Too much smoking, Dave. Too many shots. Too much laughter from a girl that's bleeding and bleeding and bleeding.

No one wants to go to New York with me, though, not really. But I had a good night. Thank you for your fire escape, and for mentioning the psychic and our friend Dave MacDonald's place. Thank you for the good beer.

It's My Blog and I'll Cry If I Want To

2008-02-16T09:29:00.005-06:00

It was as if, when the condoms ran out, there was nothing left of me for him. But then, I thought I was imagining things. Maybe he grasped my hand so tightly on the bus because he wanted to convince himself differently. I keep thinking, why couldn't he? I did. I convinced myself of him. I'm sorry. I'm just trying to figure out where my power goes when it leaves so suddenly without shutting the door. Where did I go between being his dream and being his past? What more could I be? I am a universe the size of a pea. I am low hanging limb of fruit tree. I am a womb and a white light. The moon, the limestone that shimmers in the sidewalk he walks on. I am the kitten that purrs against him and the cigarette he smokes. I am the songs I played him and the words I gave and the lips he kissed. How could he want more? I am burning down the fiery state hotel, one room at a time. My sweet boy, I'll show you the life of the mind.

Happy Valentine's Day

2008-02-14T14:13:00.004-06:00

I wouldn't call it irony. The holiday has been overused this way, and I'm not about to give the candy companies satisfaction by buying up their heartshaped boxes and shoving chocolate into my face so as to forget the fact that I lost my Valentine about a week before their designated love fest. Okay, so I am doing this. I have been eating three Fanny May Trinidads a day, and re-reading the traditional Valentine's Day Cards I've received from my Grandma Joyce and my mom and dad with the most poisonous, solid mass of pain in my chest and an acute desire to stgeal a bottle of champagne from the Campus Town liquor store. But I can't go to Campus Town. Because we were there together. And I've already tried to go to the record store with Dave, but there's this deep suspicion that the manager, Jay, remembers that I was there with this very tall, very self-serious boy with the most beautiful mouth. And if Jay remembers, and even looks at me once as if he wonders what happened to that boy, who was the lsat person I visited the record store with, then I will have to buy another copy of Little Earthquakes from the sales rack and use it to torture myself at home. But I will smile as I purchase it, this shit smile that says, 'I'm a fool. I know.' And there will be a few tears behind my eyes because I absent mindedly picked up the David Bazan album and thought, "File under Pedro the Lion." And no one gets that joke except him.

But look at me! Look at me giving all this to the ancient cliche, the heart broken just before Valentine's Day. If I cared about things like Valentine's Day, having a Valentine or receiving gifts, then none of you would be reading this shit, because I would be an entirely different person. You all know I'm spiteful about holidays in general. I couldn't wait to get Christmas over with. But back then, I had a partner in cynicism. Left to my own growls and mumbles and ass twitches, it's not nearly as fun. I miss him so much. Not because it's Valentine's Day, but because I miss him. I don't care what day it is. Not at all. I don't even KNOW what day it is, really.

There is a lot of love in my life, though. Something I think he found quaint, maybe cute, but not satisfying enough. I am one of those people that can sicken the cool and solemn sometimes. If I'm not darkly into death and existential questions, then I am a little bunny jumping around giving hugs. And I thought he was a polar bear. A sweet, soft, big lug with a tender little heart and a nuzzling nose. A nose I loved to nuzzle. But it turns out, I had to be someone else. I had to be cool. I had to be perfect. I had to be an intellectual or a cynic or an art school confidential, or a goddess at all times or no go. No go. He left quickly, in the night. No, I didn't see it coming, so fuck you, I'm a fool, okay? But I wanted something real, where I could be real and maybe he could see that I could be both. But he didn't see that. And now I'm left wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Why don't I get to stay cool like he does?

But I have secrets. This I will always own. Lots of secrets, and things only certain people can see in my eyes. This is what makes me a bloody valentine, a funny valentine, a lethal valentine, the sweetest valentine to ever know too much about souls.

Miranda July: Are You Anybody's Favorite Person?

2008-02-14T00:48:00.002-06:00

Something Like a Phenomena: Menomena

2008-02-13T19:37:00.005-06:00

By far my favorite record of last year, Friend and Foe by Menomena, has it all. The record is classically pop, with confident and generous melodies, and ezquisitely layered (like Thom Yorke and Peter Gabriel had something to do with it) with impressionistic strokes of sonic genius. I am always in a trance when I'm listening to the piano driven and perfect tracks on this album, but I was certain that it was no secret gem. I pretty much thought everyone and their brother owned a copy of Friend and Foe, as it was nominated for a Grammy in the Best Album Art category, and had left the indie record stores for the big time (like Best Buy and Borders) probably soon after I had discovered the band by checking up on the Staff Picks at Chicago's famous Reckless Records one week last summer. But last night, I was shocked to hear my friend Pat Wooden (http://www.bagolove.com/) say that a0 he's never heard of Menomena and b) he doesn't read my blog. Wince. It hurt. The worst of it was that I had not gotten the word out about one of my cherished new bands, or that this hip-maker (he's the kind of person that knows what's cool before it even exists) hadn't come across them SOMEWHERE already. So, though this feels tiresome because I'm severely depressed and heartbroken and unable to make much sense, I owe it to Menomena (who got me through many a plane ride in the lsat few months) to feature them here on my blog. You can listen to tracks from Friend and Foe at projectplaylist.com.

Sleeveface.com

2008-02-12T16:29:00.000-06:00

Sleeveface.com is yet another fun community site discovery I've made in the last month. This little slice of web haven has a very specific aim, however. It wants to collect as many perfectly posed album-cover-as-face photograph as it can. First, read about the fun. Then take a look at all of the successful attemps. Soon, you'll be calling your friend with the most free time to come over and give you a hand at this genius. I'm not saying I'm going to try it. But if you do, I'll judge your entries on the site. Have fun!

Poem: Nashville Snowglobe

2008-02-12T15:54:00.000-06:00

poem: nashville snowglobe

by shannon moore

I threw the nashville snowglobe off a rooftop in brooklyn, but then ran down to see where it landed.

You cannot discard a memory this way. The rooftops here are too low; the yards a safety net of forgotten nativites.

The Baby Jesus wll break it's fall every time. And it will end up in your hand again, looking even more beautiful for it's injuries.

You might then question the significance of this tiny, glittering token, it's survival, and the softness of that ceramic child's hand.

But we all know: most things that look miraculous carry no significance at all. And we are safer burying them deep in the winter yard.

Just deep enough. I pushed the little dream down. I covered that snowglobe up like a tiny yard grave, and stood over it. But it was starting to rain.

Richard Swift: Dressed Up For the Let Down

2008-01-29T17:22:00.001-06:00

As the plane dropped into holding pattern above Chicago, I was still in Nashville, in my love's bed through the old, ratty headphones I had dug out when I knew I'd be traveling by plane (I get a little nervous about flight) and still worked pretty well. I was held down in Tennessee by a dreamy, lovely collection og songs by Richard Swift called Dressed Up For the Let Down. Nick had burnt the LP for me just before I left, and scribbled on it in an olive green sharpie. I consider our song "Most of What I Know," which I believe is track 04., but the whole album is a comfortable, hangly lullabye, perfect for bovering just above the coast of lake michigan, wishing I were back under the blankets, in the hills, in the right arms, the best arms.

Below, I've posted one of my favorite tracks off this nostalgic, soft carnival rock collection called "Kisses for the Misses." Swift releases on Secretly Canadian Records, and hails from California. He definitely has that dreamy Cali piano alley style, much like the Jon Brion gang (Michael Penn, Aimee Mann) but his lyrics follow the catchy meoldies more faithfully than that clan, who lose some pop credibility with cereberal chatter sometimes. Swift isn't afraid to repeat a short chorus or add in filler for the sake of pop and flow. I appreciate this as, sometimes, I just don't want to dissect meaning and wonder about song origin. These songs are anonymous and happy to be, which makes them so listener-friendly that it's hard not to fall asleep and dream of wandering for the sake of wandering.

Brittany Pisano: Know This Person, She's Cool

2008-01-29T16:52:00.000-06:00

Brittany Pisano. I worked with her at the Landmark Century Cinemas for two years, and since have been stalking her Myspace persona like a tiger. Her blogs are witty, her perspective clear and high-focus, cynical and a little vulnerable but mostly hilarious and honest. I have this feeling she would hate to be reading this right now, but I wanted to get her Myspacing out there because I enjoy it nearly every day.

What I like about Brittany's blogging persona (I think she would ask what the fuck I meant by persona) is the fine balance of irony, sarcasm and vulnerability. She's a self professed dork but overtly just cool and she's always finding interesting things to splay in picture on her page. She knows what's up in LA, Hollywood, all the corners of popular culture that make our mouths water no matter how hard we try to look away. I was always fascinated by Brittany's celebrity stories and secrets. And I'm always impressed by her dead pan. She's someone you should check out if you want to know someone cool. Brittany is a clothing designer, an artist, and a fashion diva. What's her style? I guess I would call her a Los Angelesist designer.... urban, chic, vintage, grotesquely beautiful shit. I tried to find her clothing line myspace (Harvest) but lost it somewhere in the Myspace chaos. Still, I recommend digging around for it, and adding her to your Blog Subscriptions. P.S. Brittany also listens to bands that don't exist yet, and she reads only really amazing, classic books or really awful, weird books. This makes her even more intriguing to me.

Paint.NET: Fun With Collage!

2008-01-29T01:31:00.000-06:00

paint.NET is the real free Photoshop, I kid you not. I adore having a photo program again that lets me fiddle with collages like I used to when I was a dorky college girl in her dorm room smoking and eating vending machine junk till 4a.m. Not so sure that I've still got the magic, but I started in on the collage above the moment I installed this free program, just t test it out. I honestly thought there'd be compromises and conditions to the freeness, but I am pleased to announced that paint.NET is smooth, easy and capable. Feels just like the old days on Photoshop 5.0, layering randomness until it was ugly, and then starting over again. Give it a try! I high recommend digital collaging as an alternative to Myspace reloading.

If you need creative input or technical advice, just email me at thinkofwinter@yahoo.com

Death Becoming/ Death Be Comin'

2008-01-27T13:59:00.000-06:00

Do you want to hear my Heath Ledger conspiracy theory? Do you? Okay, let's just call it the begining of the end hypothesis. Or let's call it the Freddie Mercury Phenomenon. Here it comes: One big, shiny star falls under mysterious circumstances. Something is wrong with his body. Something that might have been porevented. Something that looks a little like this and a little like that, but just can't be determined wholly quite yet. It wasn't a drug overdose? It wasn't scuicide? It wasn't toxicty at all? Was it the pneumonia? It was the pneumonia for Christian Brando. But....? How could a young heart fail in it's dream soaked sleep? ........

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that Ledger is the first major celebrity to die of an unknown, undiscovered, incurable disease coming on the scene now much like the HIV virus in the early eighties.

Been feeling sick lately? Yea, so have I. So has everyone. Superbugs, chemical warfare, mutating cancers? Who knows what's going on, but I'm going to put this out there now so that, when the time comes, I can say, 'Yea, that's what I fucking thought.'

I mean, what the hell is happening? Why are our bodies failing us at younger and younger ages? Why are our bodies turning against us? Lifestyle? Modernity? Get those stem cells cooking please. So many untimely deaths, so many shocking tragedies. It's almost not shocking anymore.

Why would a 28 year old have a heart attack? You may say the druges, lack of sleep, pneumonia. Pneumonia? Really? Eighty year olds and small third world babies die of pneumonia. I'm telling you people..... We're being stalked by the next big epidemic, and it's breathing on the back of our necks. But, in the words of LeVar Burton, don't take MY word for it.... Go google it. I'm at work, so don't expect any fancy rabbit holes from me today. Go find it yourself, please, thank you.

I WILL give you this link, however, to a Celebrity Unusual Deaths page. Did you know that Tennessee Williams died by swallowing a cap that flew off his bottle of nasal spray? How poetic. And from this senselessness and patheticism, you can click on over to a related Celebrity Last Words page, Just go to Morbidtown on the Moribund Express, right? Face that ultimate fear! That's what I'm doing today.

The morning after Heath Ledger died, my first words were, "This is the first day that Heath Ledger does not exist," and my heart ached for his daughter, Matilda. I will think of them when I am in Brooklyn.

Scientology: RUN FOR YOUR LIF!E

2008-01-18T20:25:00.000-06:00

Some of you know how I feel about the Church of Scientology, L Ron Hubbard, and all of the deceipt, manipulation and narcissism that this bastard faith embodies. In light of the newly leaked promo video of Tom Cruise welcoming, lecturing and charging new scientologists with an are- you- with- us- or- are- you- against- us rant that reveals not only a few personal mental issues but an overall attitude that is, essentially, the ugliest part of his "faith," I've decided to post a little TIME magazine article for today's blog.

Read and Be Afraid. And then tell people. So that no one you love will EVER be sucked into this fake religion that was founded by a maniacal closeted gay homophobe with a greedy, cold heart and an INCREDIBLE classic case of clinical narcissism. Please spread the word... and for GOD'S sake, do not give any Scientologist your money for ANYTHING.

Oh, and you can still watch the leaked video (immediately pulled off of YouTube by the Church of Scientology citing "copyright infringement" just after it's leak) at Gawker.com. Just click the asshole above.

The Auteurs

2008-01-16T14:17:00.000-06:00

This is Luke Haines. He's a total asshole...

But his music is the stuff of legendary indie, and me being me and pretty clueless, just caught on to what you might call Classic Indie Rock. The Auteurs, which I bring to you here and now, are definitely of this genre, if you ask me. Which you shouldn't. But, consequentially, they're also just perfect soundtrack for a January afternoon in a messy apartment, with a little cold sun streaming in and fat kitty cats walking all over your computer. They're good for dreaming of that grunge-era-esque Euro backpacker you're shooting for in March, or just New York in genral. The old New York. The thumbholes in somebody's thermalway back when or the smell of a soft pack of Camel Lights.....

Where You Can Find Me, and Where You Might Want to Be Found

2008-01-14T18:19:00.000-06:00

I obviously never tire of myself. Here are some places you can find me. And I recommend setting up your own profiles too!

shannon @ the Brink/fierystatehotel

shanon @ Myspace/fierystatehotel

shannon @ Amazon Profiles

B.J. Soloy and Matt Larson, Old Friends Feature for the New Year

2008-01-14T17:28:00.000-06:00

Two of my friends deserve a little attention.
Your attention. So I'm gonna bring you to them.

He's my friend and one ofmy favorite poets. I will never forget those sopping drunk nights, sitting on the floor and watching B.J. retrieve papers from his backpack, all wrinkled or folded but ready to be read. He let me see all his stuff in those days, but now we're in different states and different lifetimes I think, sometimes. Still, I respect B.J.'s work now more than ever, and I was so pleased to hear by the Myspace wire that he was recently published in an online poetry journal called Diagram.

B.J.'s poetry has always been musical and masterful in its language play, sound and rhythm. Any poem I've read of B.J.'s has been tactile, it's language-image has been so powerful. But what I love about these new pieces is the heart, the humanity and the "I" that only peered around the words before. These published poems are my friend, right there inside. And that makes them that much more beautiful.

The picture of B.J. (left in blue) above is from a goodbye party for friend Matt Larson, a humble,intelligent and beautiful bluegrass musician that left Chicago for Iowa last year. He's one of the sweetest and well-meaning people I know. Matt gets involved with green projects, theater projects and all kids of projects-- the biggest being his haunting musical endeaver, the album Son of Lars. I listened to many of these lonely, lovely tunes sitting with Matt in his attic back in Chicago. I was never so moved by simple tunes or impressed by such complex story. The lyrics are pulled from many different sources, including Norse mythology and tall tales, in the tradition of Folk and Bluegraass, of course. Matt Larson is a classic storyteller, and his voice will break your heart.

B.J.'s now on to Iowa as well. I miss them both, and loved these parties at Danimal's house. This was a rare performance, though. Good times. Go see their work. It's worth it. And not just because they're friends and amazing people. But because I know what's good. Really. I do.

DeYarmond Edison/ Bon Iver Makes for a Bon Hiver Indeed

2008-01-14T17:14:00.000-06:00

Let's talk about the kind of music that makes you think you could score an indie film better than the next guy, and even inspires you to start writing the screenplay to something heartbreaking enough to bring the tune to life, bring it to image.

I'm always the last one to discover the next heartbreak kid, but my renewed obsession with David Bazan of Pedro the Lion fame has opened my ear up to a bunch of knive-sharp melancholy these days, and the one that stepped first out of the hype machine to play me a little something to cry to was this guy. Who is he? Well, your guess is as good as mine.

Is he Justin Vernon? Is he DeYamond Edison? Is he Bon Iver? I think he's all of these and, whoever he is, he's my latest sad-eyed minstral. We sit together today, a Monday, and I hug my pillow and rub my feet together and whimper my fears to him, and he strokes my hair with lullabies like. "Flume" or "Skinny Love" over and over, as many times as I ask him to play.

I found it on the Hype Machine. You know the Hype Machine right? Oh, well, you should. Go find Bon Iver, and find anything else you think might be too cool for you to find first. You never know.

Here's a intimate little moment too:

The Church of Lomography

2008-01-09T11:01:00.000-06:00

The language used on Lomography.com is classic Euro-perceived American slang, with sometimes cocained enthusiasm and lots of little elbow nudges and asides. It's as if you've stumbled across the website of an Austrian vintage camera-obsessed geek that has just returned from a three day vacation somewhere touristy in America and has picked up some Midwestern, antiquated catch phrases to use on his photoblog, where he personifies his collection of cameras. "I introduce to you Zork, he's an awesome guy!" and "The Diana is mad hip, and she likes zany fun!" is just a little taste...

But you can actually buy these cameras. And this is the official website of the Lomographishe company, yes of Austria, and their line of vintage camera reproductions. The site also sells weird, old, expired and rare "quirky cool color!" packs of film from around the world. They also run a photo upload album for all the lomohraphers out there who want to share their zany photos with the world.

Forget Photoshop. Go manual. It's fairly inexpensive. The Diana+ is fifty bucks, and comes with a complete package of instruction, tripod, a "storybook" (?) and other neato add-ons. If you're traveling, why wait till you get home to desaturate, add film grain, antique or overexpose? These cameras will do it for you randomly, every shot you take. Just pick up some old slide film for your Zork and shoot away on a sunny day, crazy cool American friends!

This kind of novelty photography and camera-shop scavanging community is serious about their collecting and vintage camera photo taking. It's pretty intense. Check it out. I've got my eye on the Diana+...

LOMOGRAPHY

Shelter on The Brink

2008-01-05T13:21:00.000-06:00

I've been drooling over this site called The Brink lately, and one of my favorite features on the site is a section called Shelter, which is essentially a virtual open house into any Brink member's home. Brink is an interactive site, but I wouldn't call it a network like the Myspace or the Facebook. It's more like a hub for hungry voyeurs and exhibitionists and the otherwise quirkly, lonely weirdo like myself. There's also a section on style called Brink Moda taht I find intriguing and sometimes humorous.

Basically, The Brink is there to let you know that people are still interesting. Some of them. Out there. There they are. Look at them. And let them look at you. It's only fair.

watch-movies.net

2008-01-02T22:59:00.000-06:00

Wow.
I hope this isn't the tiny fly on the cow that kicked the torch that lit the barn that started the Chicago fire or anything, meaning I hope the whole operation isn't shut down immediately after I post this.... which it very well could be, considering Blogger is now affiliated with Google, which is likely affiliated with very bad, powerful people but we shall just have to take that chance because I have to tell you about watch-movies.net.

In my minimized window right now is a pirated, Japanese-subtitled copy of I'm Not There, a film I've been wanting to see for months now since I left my job at the movie theater, where I could see any film that mattered for free. And when I say film I mean film, and when I say free I mean free, and until now this didn't exist on the internet, as far as I knew. Sure, you can use-- what's that file called again? Where it takes a year to download a t.v. episode that may or may not have sound? TIFF? PNG? What the hell is it? I've forgotten. But forget that. Forget the downloading and the compressing and decoding and gambling with viruses. Because now, you can watch new, cinema-release films like you're watching a bow-tied terrier say it's ABCs on YouTube.....

Simply go here. And don't anybody I told you.

Color Hunter

2008-01-02T19:28:00.000-06:00

Shannon at nineteen sits alone in her dorm room night after night until 4a.m., teaching herself basic HTML and CSS styling, designing version 1.2 2.0 3.3, trying to smooth out the perfect color palette over navigation, iframe, table. If only she had found something like color hunter to help with that harmonious color theme.

Upload or Google a jpeg of favorite magazine art, painting or photograph, and the generator pulls out the color palette and translates it into HTML code, you know like #993333. That's my favorite web color. There's also a tagword search at the bottom of the page that can search the web for pictures of, say, "Paris" or "starfish" or "yerba mate." Give it a try.

Note: I also used Color Hunter when I wanted to paint the rooms of my new apartment, and wasn't sure what colors would look best with my stuff. I simple uploaded pictures of the wall art I own (a Dali print, an antique map of Paris, a few favorite movie posers) and let Color Hunter show me that my living room would look best a deep, dusty blue. Well played, computer generator.

Marianne Nowottny

2008-01-02T17:51:00.000-06:00

I came across an artist I had never heard of before on The Brink today, and wanted to share the find. Marianne Nowottny is her name. And I thought, after reading a review likening her to Kate Bush, that she would be yet another in a long line of young, overencouraged mediocre women making run-of-the-mill pop rock, and trying to howl, tremble and snarl through the fancy production quality just like one of their predessesors; those queens of early nineties woman-rock who paved the way for forgettable, lyrically immature shit to flood top 40 radio for years. Thanks Kate, Tori, Bjork, PJ and Liz. Truth is, there will be no one like you. But the refreshing thing about Marianne Nowottny is: she's not trying. This girl could have been Warhol's pet, she's so pretty-ugly and bad-good. Is that a drawn on beauty mark above her smirky mouth? Is that a Casio? Is that her real name? Fabulous. How New York. I adore.

Look her up on myspace, or Google her. She's something else. I find her experimental piano/string work mesmorizing, and her voice vintage and fragile. Her new album is definitely more pop than world easy listening, so that will be nice. Here's a vid of one of the new tracks:

The Dollar Store

2008-01-02T16:28:00.000-06:00

I love visiting the local Dollar Tree every week or so to check out what's new. The Dollar Store could be the new Thrift Store, if the indie kids could just get past the corporate aspect and the less eccentric store staff. But while they pack themselves into their little vintage shops, I will comfortably stroll the aisles of the nearest dollar heaveb, humming to rediculous pop country and routing through piled shelves for treasures. Here are a few things I found today.

Vintage storybook style Peter Rabbit notepads.
Great for jotting down spontaneous poems or grocery lists.
I carry one in my purse at all times.

Great big bag of generic ballpoint pens.

Amazing DVD...

Winter scarves. The colors were cooler in person,
but you get the idea. One dollar, and you get warm.

Ceramic frames. Look just like Grandma's,
and they're a dollar. Vntage chic decor
up in here.

Happy New Year

2007-12-31T19:34:00.000-06:00

This video isn't posted in some attempt at blog irony. I just found this a few minutes ago on YouTube, and I liked the appropriate background music it provided as I shuffled around the house in bare feet, microwaving a cup of breathe easy tea and pulling my cat onto my lap.

Fumer ou Ne Fumer Pas...

2007-12-31T09:23:00.001-06:00

Mierd! Maintenant nous ne peux pas fumons dans Paris?

One of the most dramatic World News headlines I've scanned lately came from USA Today this morning: "Some Fear Smoking Ban Slic es So ul of French Cafe" jumped out at me, waving it's beret desparately. Forget Pakistan's democracy panic. Forget the children of Iraq. Semding out an S.O.S., a smoke signal even, from the chimneys of every legendary haunt of aritsts, philosophers and visionaries in Parisian history. The very souls of the Cafe de Flore (mentioned in the article,) Les Deux Magots, Le Cafe de la Paix-- are being sliced by the knife of puritanical, judgemental, paranoid American bullshit policy! Vraiment?? Ah, le cigarette... Je sais, I know too well. It is a sad day when one must say goodbye to an old friend.

From the moment I shyly sniffed the paper, and gently set the filter on my bottom lip, I fell in love with cigarettes. Smoking was simply my favorite thing for years. My first taste was at the hands of two bosom girlfriends, who should know not to feel any guilt by now. I can see us at our half-moon shaped booth at the old Denny's, the one that now stands empty with niccotine stained upholstry and ceilings, so dark inside. But the light was hazy and comforting on summer nights with the three of us leaning into our coffee, laughing and chatting for hours, talking about sex like professionals, three 100 length cigarettes poised. I was a Marlboro Ultra-Lite smoker, for almost seven years.

Marlboro Ultra-Lights accompanied me to University in Iowa City, where I would skip class and brood in the dark, literary corners of The Tobacco Bowl, and underline fiercely throughout my signed copy of Alice Notley's Small Houses. With tears of frustration, I smoked madly outside the Foreign Language building after French exams. With my niccotine stained fingers trembling, I would silently translate fragments of my inner monologue into Francais, "Mierd, mierd, je suis tres stupide. Le monde est stupide," my inner frenchwoman dragging long and hard. It's true, I wanted to own that cigarette like I imagined the French owned their cigarettes, in some way simultaneously casual and passionate. Fumer comes along very early in verb conjugation, as every Elementary French student knows. I suppose I entertained the thought of being in one the great cafes one day, with perfect French and the perfect French cigarette.

But my smoking habit wasn't all romance and deep thought and pensive brow. I vivdly recall scrounging change in my dorm room late at night, searching all over my apartment for discarded butts in the ashtray, cigarettes I had foolishly gien up on mid-smoke and now- NOW needed just one drag from immediately. I would spend my last penny a pack of Basic Lights that cost less than $3 at the time, walking out in cool Spring school night to the Shell station for my fix. A pack a day: when I woke, after breakfast, before work, during work, after work, with a drink in hand-- many with a drink in hand.

So the smoking ban has reached the Parisian cafe. France's officials are joining in on the healtyh living brigade, a mission considered very much "American" in Europe, and met with healthy resistance. France's multitude of surviving smokers are outraged to lose what is practically a birthright. The French invented the modern smoking habit, after all, and it's as much a part of their culture as le vin or le fromage! But it's Fin for smokers in cafes, brasseries and restaurants in all of France, including Paris. One of the cafe crouchers interviewed is a young musician who fumes, "It's unbelievable! Having a coffee in a cafe and not smoking? It is not even thinkable!" This is just the perfect quote. I have to assume this is the standard reaction, and I can hear it under thick accent and deep, angry drags. Wonderful. This reminds me of the year before I quit smoking.

The year before I quit smoking, I was slouched and brooding in a new smoke shop that had opened up called Marshall McGearty. While I knew this place had buzz surrounding it, and that there was a chance the young, pretentious Chicago indie scene might be swarming the place, I did not know that this Parisian-style salon that made it's own Artisan cigarettes and hung a sign in the door that read, "Smokers ALWAYS welcome," was opening just days after the Smoking Ban hit Chicago's reknown restaurants and vintage, cult diners. I also wasn't aware that McGearty's was owned by a giant tobacco company, and had been getting an eyebrow raise from the media. So, when I was a pproached by a Washington Post reporter, I didn't imagine I would soon be a voice for the Smoking Party in news syndication all over the country. The article, "Tobacco Lounge Blows Smoke in The Face of Chicago's New Ban," quotes me sounding like a clueless DePaul Freshman that had accidentally stumbled into

the campsite of the Indie elite, holding meetings on how to proceed in some culture war. I might as well have said, "Oh, I thought this was Starbucks," withsome journalistic description of a giggle. She made me sound like a food in two half sentences. But, still, I was a young musician in a salon, fighting for my right to smoke cigarettes, just like the man in Le Cafe de Flore. For the world to see. Maybe my coolest, hippest, most visible moment. But soon after, I acquired asthma, and had to give up entirely what was once my most favorite, favorite thing.

I've been a nonpracticing smoker since March of 2007. And I miss it. And I hate that I will never smoke in a Parisian cafe. But they can't ban me from the smoky, dimly lit rooms of my memory. And they ban me from the luminous, celebrity studded smoking section of my dreams.

The Golden Suicides: Folie a Deux, Amour Foux, or Victims of the Scientology Mafia?

2007-12-30T20:47:00.001-06:00

So, it's the talk of high society New York, or at least it was last month. Two deaths. Rich, beautiful power couple going mad. Talks of The Church of Scientology intimidating and harrassing the victims. It all somehow has to do with Beck. Read on.

In the most recent issue of Vanity Fair, I found a noir-narrative article about a "New York art world double suicide!" that captivated me, and started me researching the two victims, Theresa Duncan and Jeremy Blake, a well-known couple for their eccentricism and uncommon closeness. (They were obsessed with one another.) In photographs together, the pair of digital artists look casual, cool and in possession of shared secrets the rest of the world might never uncover. I found them immediately charming and vulnerable.I had to know who went first.

The article documents the couple's meeting, their mad love and equally successful yet turbulent careers, and a timeline of events leading up to their deaths. It sounds too romantic to be true. Theresa Duncan takes a bottle of pills with her favorite champagne one night in the church rectory apartment they share on the lower east side of New York. Jeremy Duncan, seemingly stunned and emotionally empty following his lover's suicide, goes missing for weeks. Speculation all over the New York papers and art blogs suggests he has run away, or been killed by the Church of Scientology (hard to explaine, see article). But then Blake is seen walking into the ocean. His body turns up days later, and a double suicide of literary proportions is complete. But there are many questions unanswered, and Nancy Jo Sales' controversially dramatic, first-hand (she knew Duncan personally) account, "The Golden Suicides," attempts to tap into the dark, troubled world these two creatives spun for themselves in the years before their deaths.

The story is quite twisted. Duncan and Blake are equally disgusting and vulnerable, almost likable. Some intriguing elements include their involvement with indie rock star Beck, and his Scientology faith, which plays a major role in their unraveling. Also, the reader might find themselves familiar with both Duncan and Blake's work both in the late 20th century and early 21st in digital art, giving this story a connective feel. Adding to the intimacy of this piece is the mention of Theresa Duncan's blog, which is still available to read on the internet. The Wit of the Staircase is a rabbit hole into Duncan's wonderland, andnow a richly layered memorial, not only to Duncan and her lover, but to the world of dark, ironic and daring art of the late 20th century that Blake and Duncan were a part of, an art that seems unable to transfer into this new century and its obsession with transcendence and positive energy. Duncan and Blake were still operating in the angst of the their generation, and finding it difficult to be heard. In this article, their voices whisper clear instruction and inspiration from the grave.

Duncan, her ghost blog and peculiar biography-- even just the look in her eye, directly influenced me to start a blog, and keep a meter, a record going of the art and the influences that speak to me becauase, I find that I too am tuned into a moment past. I am oh so familiar with mental chaos and torment, and can relate to Blake and Duncan as part of "our wandering kind." in the lyric of Laura Veirs. Moving from Seattle to New York to Los Angeles to New York, the two seemed to sniff out scene and set up their nest right in the flow of culture, where they felt most alive. Unfotunately, the high frequency or maybe the weight of their artistic tasks made them susceptible to fracture, and things went very wrong. See for yourself. You can find the classically written mystery-feature article here.

Blake and Duncan, evidently posing for something.

So, you can see, something isn't quite right...

Anna Zemánková

2007-12-30T13:50:00.000-06:00

Anna Zemánková (1908-1988) was a Czech homemaker who started making artwork like this piece in her 50's for personal pleasure and meditation, and never pursued a career in art. Considered an Intuit or "Outsider" artist, Zemankova gained popularity in the 21st century, as interest in "spontaneous" art rose. Zemanjova is said to have created her lush, mixed-media artwork in an altered state or trance. I feel that the imagery evokes a darker psychology even with it's juicy, sweet color pallete. I find Zemankova to be in conversation with the literary queens of madhousewifery in the same era who used their artform as an outlet for repressed emotional anxiety.

I have been researching Zemankova on the internet very recently, but I first came across her work in the June 2003 issue of the Chicago Review poetry journal. I quickly tore the fold-out of Zwmbankova's work from the journal pages, and held them as a keepsake for years. Now and then, I would put the wrinkled, torn images into frames and hang them on my wall. The pieces have always resonated with me, and I've taken them out many times over the years to stare at the layers and delicious color formulas. I've always felt that this woman's work was tuned specifically to my aesthetic craving. And it's not often that this feeling rises like a greedy child with it's arms extended, fingers closing and opening. My mouth waters for these pieces, and maybe I'll never know really what they communicate to me. But I think they are a visual representation of my tactile, sensual desires. I adore them. Find out more about Anna Zemánková here