It is once again time to apply for a mooring permit, for which I am required to account for all of my time away from town. Yes, I know – my secret boyfriend George Orwell would have a lot to say about that! If he were, you know, alive.
This is a useful exercise because while I generally feel like a ramble through the Fens is the sum total of my adventures, this is apparently… an illusion!
I never imagined I would leave the Puget Sound, let alone be a world traveler.
Author admits gang-life ‘memoir’ was all fiction
The fact that her sister tattled on her is just genius. Though I am a wee bit tired of this trend.
I was already annoyed with misery memoirs as a category (hence my subversive little true and verifiable book), let alone flat out lies.
If you want to write fiction, write fiction. Stop making life hard for the rest of us.
One of my genius west coast friends anted up a link to a completely hilarious Seattle Craigslist rant, later deleted, that is summed up by: Just fucking fuck me, already – the basic presumption being that men in that city do not know how. Or are too complicated and sensitive. While I found the listing highly amusing, I have made a scientific study of the miscreants of that beloved metropolis, and I feel compelled to defend their honor.
To state the most obvious point: men fulfilling the desired criteria are not likely to cruise Craigslist for a date. Where are they? At a show, club, or bar – scoring. Hard to locate? Not at all. Any day of the week you can walk into just about any Capitol Hill drinking establishment, walk up to the bouncer or bartender, and state your requirement.
If they don’t offer themselves up with alacrity (the normal response given a corresponding sexual orientation) they will succinctly give you a list of potential candidates, often accompanied by comments on relative penis size.
How do I know this? Remember – I went on a Hunt for Bad Boys and Lumberjacks when Ana Erotica needed a research subject and playmate.
In fact, though I did not personally sleep with any of them, I did acquire several significant friendships out of the deal. Thankfully, only one imagined he had fallen in love with me (and I suspect there is a correlation between my chaste refusal to have sex and the love thing – that is a Bad Boy Paradox).
Where else could you find a really bad boy? Almost anywhere, though I once picked someone up in criminal court – I thought the charge of communicating with a minor for immoral purposes was wildly funny. You might not share my sense of humor, but you get the point.
One of my charming companions pointed out that the problem with some of our female friends is they say they want gangster, but then date emo. Hint: if you want a fast date, it is a better bet to look for a filthy boy or dirty girl.
During our hunt Ana Erotica had an explicit and detailed list including all manner of details; we found countless people who matched. Her main problem is that she wants them to pass a literacy test – if she asks what they are reading and they say Miller, Bukowski, Kerouac, or Burroughs their services are not required. Too obvious and banal.
My comment that the man of her dreams is more likely to be found with porn or Guns & Ammo did not amuse her. And she makes a living writing porn!
Though recently some dude said he was reading Scientific American and she replied that her friend Byron’s work was described in the magazine and he knew the article and score! That bad boy probably wondered what hit him. We’ll never know cause obviously she didn’t leave her number behind; she didn’t care what he thought of the whole encounter.
Of course I myself seek true love and have eschewed bad boys with a firm hand, or at least, insist that our relations are virtuous and innocent. My point is that they are easy enough to find.
The larger question is whether you want to keep what you catch. Just saying.
Right about now a very large crane is pulling my steel canal boat out of the water to have her hull inspected, and then blacked. Scary!
I wish I could be there to watch – the whole thing is excessively fascinating. Too bad the marina isn’t on a bus route.
Today is officially Rare Disease Day.
Hmm. The experience might be (literally) a pain in the ass, but it is true – while isolated within our own category, we do have each other!
And the only way to gain personal autonomy, political progress, and assure our continuing survival is to recognize the need for solidarity and collective action. Cheers to all of the other freaky kids out there!
Every last one of my misbehaving chromosomes salutes you.
This morning I masterfully started an engine assorted experts agreed was dead – ha!
Then I scampered down the street to begin my tedious cancer tests. Today they just wanted vials of blood, so I rolled up my sleeve. Then I watched with detached bemusement as the phlebotomist, after touching several doors in the reception room and hallway, after handling the paperwork I’ve dragged who knows where, after typing on her computer, after fiddling around with equipment, stuck a needle in my arm.
Neglecting to use gloves or wash her hands.
Did she disinfect the puncture site? Heck no!
Yes, I knew this would happen – and I let it. I suppose I was wondering if last time was just a fluke, but no. This is the hygiene standard. In a medical system that cannot account for the massive damage caused by MSRA.
Perhaps a good scrub might help?
Awhile ago Iain asked how much longer I will live in Cambridge. The answer is simple – if my kid wishes to continue his education, five to seven years.
Iain marveled People serve less time for armed robbery!
Indeed.
Today he took the train from London to hang out with me in what he refers to as your prison city. He has written two whole books defining the parameters of British life… yet he has never attended the Bumps. Clearly this had to be addressed.
We wandered through the market in the sunshine, had a yummy lunch at Rice Boat, loitered on the Backs, talked about scandal and miscellany under the RAF graffiti at the Eagle.
Eventually we made it to the river where we stared at the end of a race, athletic and anonymous girls either frowning or literally wreathed with success.
It didn’t seem that important to walk all the way to the head to catch the start of a set.
Instead we retired to the Green Dragon for more talking over a couple of pints, then a festive dinner to round out the day. This meant he was able to witness the …. shall we say enthusiastic attentions I receive at a certain local restaurant. Iain suggested the waiter in question probably has a secret livejournal documenting our encounters. I hope not!
Iain is excessively hilarious; eight hours in his company was a pure delight. Also, to reiterate earlier observations, we winter babies are sneaky bastards prone to making enormous life changes without, you know, talking. We just issue memorandum.
Living in Cambridge does feel like a state of confinement but in the spring the place is a sheer marvel – the daffodils are blooming, the baby animals arrive soon, and there are good friends nearby. It has really been far too long since we had a chance to spend so much time together – it was simply lovely to catch up.
I fly all the time but never ever collect miles. Unless my mother reminds me. Which is only about a twice per year experience (during which she also prompts me to accommodate daylight savings, and have my teeth cleaned).
Imagine my surprise to realize then that I have finally, for the first time in my entire life, earned a free ticket. How amazing!
I’m almost like a real grown-up now!
I’ve spent most of the week attempting to schedule boat maintenance, tearing around looking for critical lost paperwork and royalty checks, and and and…..
Given that I was freaked half out of my mind, what did I do to calm myself? Hmm. How about open all the scary ignored mail from the research hospital and then dutifully write to all five (yes, five) specialty clinics I need to visit.
Including, woe is me, appointments for horrible invasive tests. Pelvic ultrasound, here I come! In some remote part of my brain I know that I am lucky to skip the queue and be treated with such devotion. But mostly I remain annoyed with this tiresome genetic disorder and all the maintenance it requires. Last year was all about decadence. The theme of this year is repairs.
It has been nearly two months since I gave up sparkling water. Success? Why yes, thank you! I’ve accepted the very occasional offer of a glass, but no more than three or four times total. It hasn’t even been hard – now when I drink the stuff my tummy feels strange! Though as predicted, I have not been able to keep up my four liter per day water intake without the bubbles. My feet have thus, of course, been bleeding. Poor treacherous feet. They really ought to get over it. Oh, and the broken toe also. That incident happened a year ago! Pain begone!
UK home secretary outlines new immigration policy proposals
Hmm. Know any immigrants? How about… me. Josh, Don, Byron, and three-quarters of the high tech workers and research scientists I know. Peter, Hong-Seok, Jean, Barbara – in fact, most of the professional academics of my acquaintance. The entire East London Massive, a group renowned for cutting edge computer science research.
Children and the elderly charged more? Parents punished if children commit crimes? This is not the vision of a society I want to live in, or a government I would support if I had the right to vote.
Making a distinction between asylum seekers, migrant workers, and professionals is both reprehensible and a logical fallacy – any one of us could make a fortune or end up in a coma. We all pay taxes.
The only real difference between the groups is that those of us with resources can elect to live elsewhere – and obviously, we choose according to the standard of life. The main advantage of the UK is equality of access to the social safety network. I don’t know anyone who moved to this country for the food.
The journey was quite arduous but I am now back in the UK.
What happened in my absence? Break-ups, make-ups, and scandal beyond reason. I missed it all!
What else can I say about Pittsburgh? So much I hardly know how to provide a summary.
There were more excellent meals with Sallyann and Dan, a Valentine gift of time from Lli, hanging out with a wounded Opal, coffee with the irrepressible Kim and her adorable infant (and Lli, and Opal…).
During one brunch I met the Third Termite people for the first time and then realized every single person at the table was friends with Moe and Dwayne, setting off a wave of homesickness along with an unexpected jolt of infatuation for this new city.
It was delightful to be able to talk about the Chicken House and the old neighborhood with people who have walked down the same streets.
We went to Homestead, converted from steel mill to mall, and I muttered Curse the Pinkertons – though none of my charming companions wished to hear further history lectures.
We did as much Mister Rogers’ tourism as possible, including a visit to the Children’s Museum Land of Make-Believe, and drive-by glimpses of his old apartment, the seminary where he studied, and a convenience store where Sallyann once watched him buy cookies.
My kid sat on the same bench at the National Aviary where Mister Rogers’ learned about birds, then he fed the lories:
And I rode both of the funiculars to admire the views of a gorgeous postindustrial city:
