sheila callaghan

who is ken lee?

... of course she *could* be singing about this gal... who is quite song-worthy, IMHO.

Let that be the first and last time I use "internet-speak" on this blog. Thank you.

sorrysorrysorry

Promised myself I wouldn't post pix of my dudes every few seconds but I saw this and literally couldn't help myself...

YOU try taking that shot and then sitting on it like a secret.

if you're interested...

... a shot of Phelp's mom and sister reacting to his RIDONCULOUS photo-finish win for his seventh gold of 2008:

Oh go watch it. It's a piping hot platter of Holy Shit. It'll fire you up. It will make you want to go do some laps at the Y. Just like how the first Rocky made you feel like a boxer, or how the Karate Kid made you want to stand on a stump at the beach and crane 'til you croaked. Or how Flashdance made you run in place in leg warmers, rubbing your thighs and swinging your head until your neck spasmed. (Just me?)

like graphic novels?

Even if not, you might wanna check this one out. I dug it. I'll lend you my copy if you want.

In other news. I'm looking forward to when I can wear my T-shirts again without looking like a troll porn star from rack to ribs. Just sayin'.

quick question

Are your cockles located near your hackles? Can they both be warmed AND raised, at the same time?

Just wondering.

poser

Okay, okay. I shall give you what you crave. But you really must stop begging.

Behold: the greatest posing routine EVER.

I can't stop myself from imagining the conversation between Sam the Man and his tech dude...

SAM: I'm looking for a wash of color here. Something strong, aggressive...

TECHIE: How about green.

SAM: Don't you think that's a little Incredible Hulky?

TECHIE: EXACTLY. We'll use some sound from the TV series.

SAM: I like it. It's edgy. It's virile. Make it happen.

TECHIE: I'll bring it up after the robot-velociraptor and the male-revue-ish butt-pump... But I think you should do a little interpretive weed-growing thing.

SAM: Okay. Can we have smoke?

TECHIE: Sure. Maybe you can fake-fart too.

SAM: Perfect. When will it go back to normal?

TECHIE: Right before your steroidy tai chi.

SAM: Genius. You are gifted.

TECHIE: I know.

SAM: I love you, man.

TECHIE: Stop touching me.

----

Via Ellie...

still not back...

... but I got the feeling you were wondering what it feels like to get one of these, so I thought I'd break my blog silence to show you...

Yes, it's just like being attacked by millions of sparkles and a tiny little rapper.

The best is that I get to go to this ridiculous gala with A-list celebs, where Sotheby's auctions off Fabregé eggs and reporters ask who you're wearing.

When I went to this event in 2000, I wore an $80 dress from J.C. Penny, took my mom as my date, got very very drunk, made out with a boy in a closet, and rushed the stage when Aretha Franklin launched into "Respect". This year will be decidedly more classy--gown by Vera Wang (purchased on sale, okay), sobriety by motherhood (alcohol gets passed through breastmilk, mofos), and salacious antics kept to a minimum.

Dignity is underrated.

not back...

...but tired of that blurry photo being the only entry on this page, as though the babe is the period at the end of my sentence. I mean he's great, totally dreamy, but he's more of an ellipses right now... or more like an exclamation point, with a question mark, followed by a new sentence that starts something like "I'm so fucking tired I could gouge my eyes out with a pencil."

Okay that made no sense. Whatever. Hey, I'm writing two movies! One little, one big, and for people (directors) you may have heard of. But I'll wait until they're made before I spill the beans.

How am I doing this AND breastfeeding, you ask? Well, I'm often covered in milk from aiming too low. And I am not sleeping. I'm barely feeding myself. But I'm drinking a special tea to keep my supply up when my nutrition is down. It's fun being food.

Tell me you care. For the love of god.

new toy

Came early. Won't leave. Poop-shooter. Name has more letters than a Herzegovinian spelling bee.

Callaghan Vasili Papavasilopoulos.

Call him Cal.

blog down

Beginning maternity leave, I guess. Too hot to post. Oh maybe I'll drop something here and there, but I'm exhausted and large and can't get up the energy to make this not suck. It's hard enough trying to regular-write.

Will let you know how stuff goes. Happy summer.

leaving

Leaving for DC in a day. Won't be posting for a bit. Don't miss me too much, suckers.

But if you really can't take it, here's something to distract you:

You're welcome.

Bye.

i'm wearing dog perfume right now.

Seriously. It came in a gift bag from a theatre benefit I attended last night. It's a "unisex blend of bergamot and vanilla-infused musk combined with natural patchouli, mandarin and nutmeg oils." It smells like the hot hippie boy with whom I had a brief affair during our college production of Godspell.

I wasn't sure if it was seriously dog perfume or just some marketing gimmick, so I went to the website. It's real.

I don't know what makes me more depressed; the fact that some people actually desire to mask the smell of their pet with a haut fragrance that has the word "sexy" in the name, or the fact that I'm sitting here on my couch in a tank top and superman undershorts smelling like a sexy dog. Both, I guess.

Who is this scent supposed to attract? There can only be two choices, humans or dogs, right? One would think if it were for dogs it would smell more like ground beef or crotch. And I'm sure I'm not the only human for whom the smell is particularly associative. It has that late-night dirty-futon gentle-sweat thing going on...

Highly disturbing, friends.

a place of provocation

"Why are we concerned with art? To cross our frontiers, exceed our
limitations, fill our emptiness -- fulfill ourselves. This is not a condition but a process in which what is dark in us slowly becomes transparent. In this struggle with one's own truth, this effort to peel off the life-mask, the theatre, with its full-fleshed perceptivity, has always seemed to me a place of provocation. It is capable of challenging itself and its audience by violating accepted stereotypes of vision, feeling, and judgment - more jarring because it is imaged in the human organism's breath, body, and inner impulses. This defiance of taboo, this transgression, provides the shock which rips off the mask, enabling us to give ourselves nakedly to something which is impossible to define but which contains Eros and Caritas."

--Jerzy Grotowski, Towards a Poor Theatre

your own personal Geisha

FINALLY. A sexy subservient robot who will tend to your every whim AND convince you she is quietly, desperately in love with you. No annoying skin problems, no complaining incessantly about her weight, no obnoxious clinginess or spontaneous 4am therapy sessions. With delightfully Asian facial features, *just* ambiguous enough to keep those twitchy liberals guessing. And did I mention she's waterproof?

Thank you, Phillips!

do you think she'd marry me?

I mean, sure, I'm already married. And she's dating that dude from the Paddingtons, sort-of. And she probably would need someone over 5'1".

But if she didn't like me just a teeny bit, why does she keep flirting with me in every single magazine I pick up?

Oh Agyness. I hate the way you spell your name, and those jeans are kind of stupid. But you rock me. Be mine?