Not quite an emergency situation, but close

I know I've said this before, but why in the name of all that is holy do I still watch ER? I know why I watch Lost -- Jack is the man. THE MAN, people. (Those poker scenes were killer!) But ER? Death and misery. Misery and death. And then the crying comes. 

Last night wasn't even that bad, but somehow, I found myself sucked into the Neela/Ray storyline. I can't help it -- I love Shane West. (He was Eli!) And when he said at the end, "You're the best friend I've ever had," I burst into tears. Fuck ER, people. Fuck 'em.

In Just- spring

I'm afraid to say the s-word, but it's all around. I can't count how many times I smiled at small children and puppies this afternoon on my run. 1. I don't smile and run. It's not a natural occurrence, people. 2. Why do all the babies and puppies come out as soon as the temperature cracks 60? Seriously, what's that about?

Upstairs, downstairs

So, I was watching A History of Violence last night, and instead of thinking, "Oh, the cool mysteriousness/cinematic brilliance of it all," I was thinking, "Does anyone actually have sex on the stairs? Because I can't think of anything more uncomfortable." Yeah, that's it, folks, I wasn't paying attention to the hard-core blood splatters because I couldn't get the sex on the stairs out of my head. So painful! And while the chick is certainly getting the, ah, raw end of the deal here, it doesn't look easy for the guy, either. I mean, how do you get your footing in that situation?

Seriously, is sex on the stairs an everyday phenomenon and I have the most boring sex life ever or is Hollywood totally out of its mind? Because, in addition to History, I can think of two other sex-on-stairs movies: The Thomas Crown Affair (Pierce Brosnan version) and The Lover. I know there are others, though. Which ones am I forgetting? (Oh, right, like you dirty bitches don't catalogue this shit in your head, too.)

Stood up, broken hearted again

Now I have no one to dance with. Sonofabitch. Well, at least UConn lost.

Seriously, though, how can I make it so all four teams lose?

Book ends

I finished two books this weekend -- I had one of those sweeping "I will finish these books, dammit!" moments (though I'm still down Three Junes and Bad Behavior. Bygones). I had to fit the reading in as quiet time between screaming at various basketball games, and it may have been the only thing that saved me from certain death from pissedoffedness (a fatal condition).

First, I finished The Kite Runner, which is a sweet little story -- you know, if you like death and destruction and really, really sad shit. Okay, it was a good book, but not exactly a pick me up. It dragged a little in the middle, after what was a pretty stellar beginning, and then it picked up at the end for a little more misery and pain. No, seriously, a really good book.

Then I polished off Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life, which Dave reviews better than I can, but I will say that I enjoyed it -- it was easy to read on the fly, and she wrote a few things that made me think (or at least pause). I really liked the last entry (You) -- perhaps because it ends, simply, "I was here, you see. I was." Which, it seems to me, is what all of us are trying to say, in one way or another.

Out with the old

I have a sick, sick love of running shoes. And how sad is it that I enjoyed running more today because I had new shoes? (And for anyone who's looking, these Nike Air Structure Triax 8 have the widest toe box I have ever encountered. It's fabulous. Though I am going to miss my Sauconys -- they were, after all, my first official running shoes.)

All good things must come to an end

Including, but not limited to, my girls' sweet run in the tourney. They lost a heartbreaker tonight to Utah, 54-57. I'm spent. Oh, sure, I'm setting my alarm to watch Tennessee play Rutgers in a few hours, but I've been kicked around enough by the Dance, dammit. I'm ready for a new sport to break my heart -- luckily, the Sox begin play in just a few short days.

Forget the "March" part, it's just madness

I can't have children. I realized this while watching the BC/Nova game tonight. That's right: The NCAA tournament is the reason I cannot propagate the species. Actually, if you take it on the whole, I can't make babies because of the NCAA tournament (both men's and women's), the WNBA, the Red Sox, and the Patriots. And occasionally, the Celtics. No, sports don't make you sterile, but they do make me curse like a sailor -- actually, I'm pretty sure I could make a sailor blush. (What's worse than a sailor? A trucker? A foul-mouthed, loud, obnoxious sports fan? Yup, that's me. Bygones.) That's not the point. The point is, I'm physically incapable of watching a game without picking a side, and then screaming relentlessly at the coach, the players, and the refs until the game is over. Seriously, the BC game tonight almost killed me. And Jen is one more "Box out, motherfucker!" away from kicking my ass out. And I have no idea how my neighbors feel, but I'm pretty sure they can hear me through our thin-ass Boston walls. Well, fuck 'em, I say. Goddamn Skinner should have put Dudley back in sooner. (Or maybe the refs should get some fucking glasses and some stones and not make that jackass traveling call near the end of regulation -- is it really "traveling" if the other player grabs you and pulls you down?) Either way, maybe we wouldn't have needed overtime. And then we wouldn't have made a stupid play with 3 seconds left. And then we wouldn't have lost. And then I wouldn't be one heartbeat away from an aneurysm.

Tomorrow night's BC game may actually kill me. Which just further insures that I won't fill the earth with sports-loving, f-bomb-dropping children.

Once an editor, always an editor

Did I tell you the story about my red pen? No? Well, I've got a couple. Most of them go something like this scene in Texas:
Fella: I need a pen.
Jen: Is red okay?

And whilst I would never mar my beloved television set with markings from a red pen, I was sorely fucking tempted last night during Lost. They got "your" wrong! The subtitles read "You're husband" (picture via Jeff). You're. Seriously. It's not like this shit was done on the fly, people. What the hell? It almost made me want to turn it off before I found out Sun's secret. Almost.

Just one more hit

As usual, I was right: I love the Elizabethtown soundtrack. In fact, I love it so much, I bought the second volume. It's a sickness, people. I buy one CD, and suddenly, I'm hitting Newbury Comics every day, looking for the next score. With the suckiness of the Boston sports scene this week (excepting the excellence that is my girls), I need that little jolt of happiness that comes with discovering new music. Lisa is bringing me Ryan Adams tomorrow. And Whiskeytown. And if I like them, I think you know where I'll be.

How sweet it is

Holy fucking shit! We beat the #1 seed! Sweet Sixteen, here we come! Goddamn, I love my girls. And because Jen is sleeping (as is the rest of the world), I am jumping up and down silently in my living room, beating my chest in joy. I have no one to call and scream with. Why are you all sleeping?! BC beat Ohio State! Beat them, I say!

God, I love March Madness.

Mourning

I can't get over the fact that the Sox traded Arroyo. Bastards! I know it's a business, but fuck, man, he gave you the hometown discount! When fans constantly bitch about players taking the highest dollar (for instance, the adios Beantown gave to Damon), we need to consider the fact that when they don't -- when they say, "I want to stay here, and I'll give you a deal to accomplish that" -- they get screwed. Fucking royally hosed.

Normally, I'd be jazzed for the start of the Sox season (13 days!), but now I'm just pissed. All my boys are gone. Theo, while probably a smart GM, is an asshole. I'll miss you, you skinny bastard. I've got my Covering the Bases on, and while Papelbon may become my new favorite Sox pitcher, you are now, and ever shall be, my one and only skinny bastard. I'll miss that leg kick, man. And I'll try to see you with the Reds when I'm in Ohio this summer. (Dad, as a Reds fan, I hereby give you permission to start loving my man Bronson and rubbing it in whenever he pitches like the bad-ass mofo he is.)

Remember this as how it should be

Okay, I'm done. Austin photo set is finally up.

My girls!

BC beat Notre Dame in the first round of the tourney tonight. I have to say, with their ignominious 0-5 end of the season, I was a little apprehensive, but they were on tonight. Now all they have to do is pull off the upset of OSU to get into the Sweet 16. No problem. The eight seed sucks, people.

And in other women's basketball news, Candace Parker threw down for the first time in college. Oh, yeah, and the first time in the women's tourney. Ever. And then she did it again, just for kicks. Girl is bad ass. Go Lady Vols!

Life sounds like this

Tonight, I watched Elizabethtown, which, as you may have heard, is not a very good movie. I wanted to like it because I have an intense love of all things Cameron Crowe. (Well, except for Vanilla Sky. I like to pretend that didn't happen.) I'm actually glad I watched Elizabethtown because it reminded me of certain things in my life (mainly my need to take a serious road trip) and because the soundtrack fucking rocked. Crowe knows how to set life to music to make it seem infinitely better.

Which, of course, just reminded me of my trip to Austin (no, I'm not done talking about it yet, so shut it) and seeing Echoset perform at Ego's, which is the coolest little dive bar ever and if you're in Austin, I highly recommend. I also highly recommend Echoset and my girl, Sarah Glynn. Chicks and guitars? The greatest.

One I'd kind of like to forget

But how could I not mention chorizo and egg breakfast tacos at Taco Cabana?

Dear god, how?

When in Texas, eat like a Texan

And oh, man, I tried. I did. But there was so much food! I couldn't eat it all and drink margaritas like a fish -- something had to give, and you bitches know it wasn't the margaritas. (I'd show you a picture of the 'ritas, but for some reason all the photos were out of focus...)

My food tour of Texas included but was not limited to: The amazing barbeque at your right, from Iron Works. It was the cutest little joint, and sweet baby Jesus, it was good. But no way in hell did I finish that plate. I managed to eat all of the sausage, most of the brisket, and about three bites of the ribs before I had to unbutton my pants and beg for mercy. (The potato salad was also good, but I just used that like a sorbet to cleanse my palate in between meat courses.) I also enjoyed Ztejas and their fine enchiladas (and margaritas). And I had super yummy flautas (and margaritas) at some place in San Antonio that I can't remember the name of. (Yeah, yeah, okay, so don't ask me to take you on a tour of Texas, okay? But the name of that freaky store is Cabela's, and yes, I had to ask my friend. Bite me.)

You can take the girl out of Texas

I'm back. Details to follow.

Good times

I got to see Stone at the Blogger bash at SxSW tonight. And I, um, met Goldman, too. Austin is the place to be, people. Mostly because I'm here.

Remember the Alamo

Like a whole other country

Fucking Texas, bitches!

Yes. It is good times. Surreal, but good times. My friend took me to a very special store today, and due to my decrepitude or the sheer quantity of margaritas I have consumed, I have already forgotten the name of it. (I'll play intrepid reporter and come back with the name later, okay?) The point is this: Sweet baby Jesus, I didn't know you could make that many clothing items out of camouflage. Maybe Mike Timlin did, but I didn't. I visited the Gun Library and used the appropriate hushed tones. Whilst marveling at the wonders of the "Lemon Squeezer" (am I the only who will always hear Led Zeppelin at the mention of lemons and, ah, squeezing?), this little boy said, "Daddy, can I live here?" I almost fucking died. I booked it out of the gun library so I could laugh amidst the many freakishly stuffed and mounted animals and reams and reams of camouflage.

Hello, Texas.

Lone star state of mind

Tomorrow. Texas. Tomorrow. Texas.

Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. Texas. 

Or so I hear

Apparently, it is hard out here for a pimp. I wasn't too taken with the song when I first heard it at the Oscars, but now that I've heard it in the context of the movie, it's really grown on me. In fact, I can't stop singing it. Bygones. Hustle & Flow was actually a damn good movie, and no one's saying it, but I think maybe Terrence Howard is the one who got robbed.

Much obliged

Apparently, there is some sort of blogger code that says we must post about the Oscars. I didn't know about this, but I'll post anyway because anything else I would have to say goes something like this: Austin! Fuck, I don't think the Airborne is working. Work! Holy shit, everything needs to be done in the next three days. Texas! In three days! Fuck, I think I may be getting sick. Austin!

So, in order to fulfill my blogatory obligations, I will say this: Eh. Meh. Jon Stewart, I will still have your babies, because you were funny until you stopped making jokes about half-way through. Brokeback wasn't "robbed" necessarily, but I thought it was a better movie overall. Joaquin, I will have still have your babies as well, because even though you looked a little pissed and puffy (rehab?), you are still the hottest thing on two legs. Except for George Clooney, who is hot and smart and funny. Damn, I owe a lot of men some babies. Bygones. Why did all the women wear ugly dresses in that nude/cream/non-color color? Anyone? And why did Naomi Watts still show up for the ceremony after she had been attacked by wolves? Brave girl.

Preemptive strike

I'm not getting sick on vacation this year. Sure, it's a working vacation, but I'm still not getting sick. Just because Jen has the black death does not mean that I will contract it. No. Because I will not get sick this year, dammit!

I even bought some Airborne. I don't care if it's all bunk or not -- if I believe, it will keep me well. I refuse to die a horrible hacking death somewhere in Texas. I simply refuse.

What I'm actually reading

I love guide books. No, seriously. Love.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon

My baby car hit 100,000 miles this morning. It kind of freaked me out. I wanted to call someone, but I knew that no one would really appreciate a phone call at 7:48 in the morning to let them know my car was at 99,999 and was soon ... any minute now ... yes, now! going to be at 100,000. My little girl's all grown up! We've been through a lot together, and hopefully, we'll go through a hell of a lot more.

Here's to you, Athena.

Mad skillz

I have one easily defined skill: I can arch my eyebrows -- yes, each one, independently. In fact, my sister and I used to play a game in which we would do a weird eyebrow-version of Simon Says: She'd arch her left eyebrow, I'd arch mine. She arch her left, right, left, right, and I'd match her. On and on, faster we went, until we were bored with this game and went back to more fun pursuits, like "ice skating" on my mom's album covers. (We always took the records out, Mom.)

That's it; that's what I can do. Well, okay, and I can curl my tongue, but that's not hard. And I can do this kind of weird thing wherein I bend my middle finger backwards, pushing on the nerve, and it makes my finger jump spastically. But nobody wants to see that.

Why am I contemplating my relative lack of skills, you ask? I just wrote a piece about someone who speaks six languages. Six. As in five more than me. I need to learn a trade or something here, people. Any suggestions? Because I'm thinking carpentry is the way to go. Worked for Jesus. You know, until it didn't.

Very! Enthusiastic!

I'm not a huge fan of the exclamation point, as, in general, I don't get overly worked up about things, unless I do, and then I like to punctuate my vehemence with swear words. But today, as I turned my calendar to March, I realized I had written down a few things rather excitedly: Saturday, March 4, Patty! (My hairdresser, which, it's true, is cause for excitement); and Friday, March 10, Austin! (self-explanatory).

But just because this abundance of enthusiasm has materialized on my calendar, people, doesn't mean it will show up here. Unless it does, in which case -- fuck!