LiveNudeGirls

This show featuring Audrey Kawasaki at Seattle's Roq la Rue gallery looks interesting. The opening party is July 7. For some reason I bet there will be hot girls there.

I want to say I'm over the "melancholy/sexy/disturbing/infanta-woman" thing in painting, started, I suppose by John Currin, or Balthus. No, wait, that's not true, as this slightly-strange blog of nude women in art (photos of Keira Knightley and Audrey Hepburn making the only discordant appearances) reminds me. Duh. Talk about a scrolling feast of nipples and curves and pubic hair. I thought the Rodin nude was going to lift her head, toss her hair and look me in the eye.

As for Kawasaki's stuff, it took me a minute before I figured out what this painting:



reminded me of:



I wonder if Egon got them to pose for this, or whether it was uh, more journalistic. Anyway. Enough nipples and curves--it's after 4 on a Friday long weekend and this particular set of nipples and curves are out of here.

It's a cruel (cruel), cruel summah...

It's that time again. Time to pack more clothes than I am ever going to wear into my backpack, along with too little sunscreen and barely enough music; pile into a friend's over-hot car and drive over the horizon.

ROAD TRIP!

No, it is not going to be some testoerone-fueled-Tom-Greenesque fiasco. This weekend is girls-only and these bitches is classy. (props to KLJ for organizing our asses). Think wine soaked, sun drenched, and estrogen sopped.

I see dancing, gossiping, sun-bathing, croquet-whacking, wine-touring and talking 'til we are so parched that we simply have to crack another bottle of that darling Char.

*soexcitedmustrunaroundincirclesflappingarms*

Reality...I will deal with you in four days time.

Moving on

Kitchen =
4 boxes, 1 table, 3 chairs, 1 microwave
Bathroom =
1 box
Books =
8 boxes
Clothes =
4 garbage bags
Bedroom =
1 box-spring mattress, 1 small dresser, 1 lamp, 1 table
Study =
2 boxes, 1 computer, 1 lamp, 1 chair, 1 file cabinet
Living room =
zero, zip, zilch
...And there you have it, my life summary.

One day I may live like an adult — one day.

Heavy metal dream

Ugh. I had the most unusually mundane wake-up mare:

I was at work, slaving at my desk. I went to get a file, found a trap door in the floor leading into a cavernous medieval "basement" (think the movie Labrynth). I accidentally dropped a light torch down the 113,582 steps. After a minute, the sound of the light smacking the ground echoed back to me, carrying with it a human-sounding scuttle. I got scared and scurried back to my desk.

My light drop woke an anglo-saxon ogre demon who ripped open the trap door and tore through my workplace like a hot knife slicing butter. His metal interior ripped through his bloodied flesh, tip-of-the-iceburg-style, and flayed a good portion of the nameless co-workers.

So, once he re-staked his territory, a.k.a my transifgured workplace, in blood, the remaining crew sat around a mead hall table and shot the shit with heavy metal ogre in all their pre-Medieval finery.

I started to realize that all of his joints were turning green and spent the last part of my dream trying to figure out why that was happening... How come I find this the most disturbing part?

Kingpin crow punch

Sometimes I feel totally aligned with the cosmo. I feel so tapped in to "the force" that I lose my body to the greater world; I become one with it.

That's how I was feeling when I punched a crow.

I love crows. I love their scruffy colour, their too smart urban ways, and their brooding and witchy demeanors. They can live for a hundred years, which is why, I suppose, they are so wily. My roomate calls crows the mafia of the bird world. I think this is a very apt description. So if you want to outwit a crow and gain their respect, you've got to act like a crow. Capiche?

In my "at one with the world" state I espied a crow about three meters away, perched on a low slung evergreen branch. Its body was rhythmically bobbing up and down on its eely stick legs. I calmly thought to myself: this crow is going to swoop me.

Have you ever been swooped by a crow? At certain times in the year, crows swoop humans. Nobody knows why they swoop. Some conjecture that it's a mating season thang, other's surmise it's a nest building season thang, but I believe it's part of their "pestering humans" festivities. It's like running with the bull — just as inane and dangerous and equally as fun... for the crows that is.

So sure enough that beady-eyed crow, sitting antsy on its natural perch, started to lackadaisically swoop me. But the distance between us was so short that it was still in take-off mode as it neared my naked head. Without realizing quite what I was doing (but with complete intention) I punched that wily crow.

And for a split second after I punched the crow (lightly), it just hovered vertically in the air, wings flapping with this shocked expression on its face — not wounded, but shocked. I just looked back at it with the best crow eyes I could muster, deep, wise and unphased.

I punched a crow and looked dead straight into his all-knowing eyes. Now, how many people get to do that in one lifetime?

I see it as a sign.

Day tripper

Let me tell you now: women walk in matching pairs.

Mata and I were tromping along the seawall last night and all we saw was a sea of conjoined semi-athletic outfits. If it was the eighties, they'd be wearing braided headbands, Reebok aerobic hightops and wrist weights. But alas, gone are those spandexy days... mostly. This new breed of ladies is all about the Lululemon booty boosting pants and straight, flowing hair. It's an addiction, I tell you, a fashion addiction. I kept thinking to myself, Valley of the Lululemon Pants.

Of course, if you're a man who likes women with a bit of booty, I'd recommend getting out into urban nature and trolling the sea wall with free Lululemon schwag ... and puppies.

Idol Chat

"Billy Idol used to rock the house, man!

Not just Mony Mony either. I mean, Mony Mony must be Billy Idol's nemesis. It's so not his best tune.

Think of Flesh For Fantasy. Now that's a fucking good tune."

Date-star galactica

So, at my life coach's urging (read: a really good friend who is better at dating than I am), I have signed up on a couple of online dating sites. And I find it a very humbling, and fascinating, process.

Being online all the time, I've been loath to take my one fleshy connection online. But, well, I'm getting older, and all my friends are hitched so I figured I'd give it a whirl (after a really challenging mental battle, calling myself a geek, then realizing that I'm okay with being one).

Here are the things I discovered about the whole registration process:

1. It takes forever.
2. Wine helps you write your personal bio — wit and humor increases making you seem much more charming and effervescent.
3. If you say that you like discovering Jungian archetypes in Battlestar Galactica, you get tons, and I mean tons, of emails from a certain segment of the population who just want to talk plot and motive with you. Except for one guy who put: "I like Battlestar Galactica too. Clearly, we should fuck."
4. You get these wink things, but have no idea what to do with them.
5. Based on the pictures of men you age, you realize that you're an adult now.

Now, I've realized that there is some fascinating things to day about pictures, but I'll leave that for the next post. This one may take more than my 10 min max writing time.

To My Ken Dolls:

To my Injection-molded Hair and Underpants Ken:
I got you when I was too young to know the potential play you held for me. Let me say that when I think of you now, it is with humour and horror. My only regret is not going to the Prom with you. You came with that hot tux that matched my favorite dress and everything.

To my Country and Western Ken:
How I loved to hear you sing. If only you would have kept singing...and kept your mouth shut at all other times. You would have never missed a note. And if only I'd gotten you while you still had the damn cowboy boots.

To my Rock n Roll Ken:
I tired of you so quickly when I realized you were just like all my other Ken dolls, except you came with a guitar and a tattoo.

To my Math Is Hard Ken:
You made me do my homework. I was the perfect Barbie for you. But then I realized Jem always had more fun than Barbie. Sorry. One day your Babs will come.

Colour me bad

In my never ending quest to find the perfect identity signifier — one that will tell me what the hell to do with my life (because, you know, sometimes you just get bored of looking out for your own best interest), I have uncovered this hip, new thing called color astrology.

I am peridot green.

Unless found on a tree, fern, or mossy underlay, I've never really been fond of the colour green, but I am digging the peridot. Peridot. It feels nice on the tongue. Peridot.

I suddenly feel like I should be a part of the sequence that introduces the film Amelie: Violet loves cracking ice between her teeth and echoing the word peridot off lonely precipices. She finds pillows on her belly soothing. Likes the smell of asphalt after the first summer rain. But abhors white tube socks with teevas. She puts in ear plugs whenever the nasty brutes upstairs are embroiled in one of their hideous and unsexy fuck fests. Wildebeasts sound sweeter.

Based on my peridot, I'm supposed to move physically toward my dreams and not get stuck in fear or confusion. Peridot is supposed to ease any worry that I might be carrying. It eases my financial pressures and connects me to the spiritual side of my nature and true calling.

(As I was typing I realized that my peridot is my ideal boyfriend. Now, where to find my Peridot. Peridot: where are youuuu?)

Car slut: Are you tired of feeling tired?

Who is this guy? Well, he could be my ex... a couple of years from now. Or, he could be Terry Daun, the hip new rock 'n' rave star moving up the charts like a bat out of inspirational house music.

Ah yeah. Just Get Up!

Terry has a message in his music; it's rather subtle so listen close kids: When you're feeling down, and you want to Get Up! Just Get Up! Take some weight off your shoulder... only you can make the mo-ove, so make it now.. and get on with your groove. Shake of the old self and put on the new-ew self. Pick your self up off the floor. Comon' everyone. Are you ready to make that choice? Let's do it!

This man is motivating me as I type.

Actually, I am feeling rather inspired these days. It's been a slow, up-the-mental-hill battle to do things. A few month ago, I started out adding one difficult and one fun task per week; last month I got it to one difficult and one fun task per day; now I can do a couple of difficult and fun things all in one day. It's a miracle of miracles. Gheesh. Who knew that a multi-task breakdown could take so long to repair. Should've changed my work oil years ago. It really gummed up the system.

Feeling motivated yesterday, I not only finished reading Madam Bovary for book club, I also got my ass off the Internet and joined the Co-operative Auto Network. (Oksana: you have a $20 dollar "friend recommend" credit coming to you.)

What does this mean for me? Well, to cite my new friend Terry, it means I can now "shake off the old self, and put on the ne-ew-ew self". I can drive to Ikea and buy 1,000 candles or, Costco to download 10,000 raw almonds. I can Get Up! off this faux peninsula thing called "Downtown Vancouver" and head into the mountains. Och! the possibilities are endless. I can also rent a van to move my life-in-boxes next month.

Fish out of water, cat in the sink

It's just been one of those weeks...and for no good reason.

Cool: the anagram of violet chrome is motor vehicle.

Making copy dull

Ugh. Making new copy for work. The original batch was deemed "too weird". I have to go in an write straight today. Dull. Dull. Dull.

I will do this: I will be dull.

Oh and have you checked out today's date? 06-06-06. It's devils day —the National Day of Slayer.

Since I'm at work, I'm clearly committing a cardinal Slayer sin today: Stage a "Slay-out." Don't go to work. Listen to Slayer.