Friday, March 31, 2006

shameless survey

Okay, everyone. It's time for another one of my famous surveys.

Usually, I do these to request bits of wisdom - I'm lucky to have such sage folk as friends - but this one, inspired by a recent conversation, is of great interest to me.

And the question is: is there a song that reminds you of me? If so, what is it?

If you're feeling blogshy, please feel free to email me (annette_oneil at yahoo dot com).

XO, loves.

I was caught in the rain on the hill this morning. The grey was already heavy in the sky when I left the house, but I was determined to go out. I was already at the top of the slope by the time the rain started to come down, and all that remained was to barrel back down. The insistent series of tiny shocks as my face, hot from exertion, caught cold raindrops.

Do you remember that kiss? 'Cause I sure do. Your hand between my shoulder blades, catching me as I leaned back. Your warm lips pressing and releasing mine as icy raindrops strike the skin of my face and neck. My clothes are soaking through a little bit, but there's a blossom of warmth opening under my belly button. And you're smiling.


I bet that you look good on the dancefloor.


I've been listening to the Big Night soundtrack for a few days now, and it's making me want to mambo Italiano. Actually, it's making me want to...remember that TV show, 'Dinner and a Movie'? Like that, but at my house - with you guys! Anybody want to help come up with a first event? Lemme know.


I've already shown this to anybody who'd really care about it, but I am starting to weave fantasies about it. Green, of course, as a nod to my heritage. Oh, I'm a ways off yet - apparently, I have to buy something I can smash the crap out of first, to get it out of my system. I'm fascinated with this culture, though. Done right, it's just like hanging out with the pilots at the Officers' Club - 'cept this time, I'll have a 'plane' of my own.

And a helmet with a four-leaf clover on the back.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

I want to cook something.

I want Sarah's fritatta and Rhee's uber-potatoes.

I want to give everybody here some of the double-chocolate-chip cookie batter I whipped up last night to a pearl sake (and Paso Robles cab) accompaniment.

I want to kiss you.

I want to stumble upon thousands of dollars in a hole in the plaster.

I want plane tickets and a really great, wide-brimmed hat.

I want to go out to play.

one a.m. and i'm cold again

If ever a bit of reading made me want to laugh myself into an uproar, give a bear hug, and make a batch of cookies for the writer, it's this. Honey, I can't believe you're not already happily raising nine children with a canonized, PhD-bearing supermodel.

Guess what? I went out to one of the best sushi restaurants in town...and had not one bite of albacore. Leaving the restaurant, I felt like a stoner right after a chaste sprint through a vast field of budding ganja. It suffices to say: that fish, it may not own me.

But oh, do I want it.

The second box of goodies arrived for the Cowboys & Indians party: some extra straw cowboy hats, gingham tablecloths ("I don't even know what gingham is, but she goes through about 10 rolls a week of that stuff."), enough clip-on sheriff badges to start a goodly row, and a couple dozen cowboy-attired rubber ducks. My outfit - I think I'll call my character 'Little Runs With Scissors' - came yesterday. It's a hoot and a half, I tell you. One and one half's worth of hoot, give or take a quarter-giggle.

In my dreams, I've seen it all. But y'know what? I still haven't seen Fucking Fiji - and I'd love to see you standing in a crowd like a tree in moving water. Could be fun.

Monday, March 27, 2006

I have come to realize that, when I'm under stress and exhausted, the (normally already tenuous) connections that knit together my logic melt away completely. I was breezing over a couple of conversations that I had over the past weekend. Remembering the looks on the faces of the people I was talking to. Coming to realize that I was making little or no sense, and trying to come back to equilibrium - which only derailed me more.

And then, last night. I was supposed to come home from the shoot, make a dent in the cleaning of my completely filthy, utterly ignored house, clean up, and go out for drinks with the crew - which I really should have done. Instead, I ended up having the same conversation for the eightieth time - a conversation I'm getting less and less equipped to handle - which wrung me completely dry. I ended up practically sleepwalking over to the shower, which I took leaning against a wall. And collapsing into bed immediately thereafter.

Somethin's gotta give.

Friday, March 24, 2006

power animals, the daily news, and words of strength


I drove home late last night.

I was coming across the tiny Franklin Bridge in Los Feliz when she found me. At first, I thought she was a dog - but then, just as my coyote has done so many times in my hilly wanderings, she sat down - right in the spill of my headlights.

She faced me. She gave me that long, familiar yellow gaze, bushy tail curled around her on the tarmac, unmoving. After my startle wore off, she blinked at me, dipped her chin groundward, and ambled off into the overgrowth of someone's untended yard.

She couldn't have been my coyote - that's miles away, not in this little urban enclave of tighly packed houses and thin, wandering streets.

I'm having a little trouble understanding why they're seeking me out. I've come to look forward to the company of my coyote on the trail in the morning, but this is getting curiouser and curiouser.


I've come to realize that, in the last three months or so, I have read/listened to little or nothing current-events related. Perhaps this means that I've finally turned Amurrican. Am I paying heavy taxes for it? Are they bulldozing my house on account of it? Is my immediate family/lover/extremely close friend dying of/over/because of it? Am I infected? Then I don't care! Pass me the Cheetos. Burp.


"But who can say what's best? That's why you need to grab whatever chance you have of happiness where you find it, and not worry about other people too much. My experience tells me that we get no more than two or three such chances in a lifetime, and if we let them go, we regret it for the rest of our lives." - Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

will i pay for who i've been? yeah.

I forget what the context was, but my dad once shared something with me that marked me deeply with the telling. "We're always alone," he said, "But we have to learn how to be alone without being lonely." We all have our tricks for this.

I don't know about you, but I never feel more alone than when I've been mulling and musing and tearing myself apart over something - when I've offended my dearloves much too much with the discussion of it, and the bellyaching has turned into an ulceric gnaw. When I finally realize that I'm the only one who can help me - which was true, all along, like ruby slippers pinching my feet and bringing up great big blisters on my heels.

There's something empty about the carefully constructed artifice of not-aloneness going slack in your hands with the repeating realization that, at the end of the day, you're it.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Back to the place where there is nothing wrong

Just me and a moment. That's all.

Thanks for sharing that, mko. I know that it was aimed at somebody else, but you got me right between the eyes.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

I know I'm not supposed to drunk-blog anymnore, but DAMN am I good at shuffleboard!

Thursday, March 16, 2006

a dozen blushing cherubs wheel above

So I'm waiting at a stoplight for the light to turn. There's a girl waiting across from me. She's stunning - all big green eyes and long, wavy auburn hair spilling a bit out her open window. She's leaning her head against the door panel and singing along to her stereo, sorta musingly. She's driving an old Volvo, which somehow makes her even cuter. I lean my head against my driver's-side window, give a little sigh, and watch her sing until the light changes.

And when it turns green and I pick myself up to drive away, I notice the guy sitting in the black Explorer at the other stoplight. He's leaning his head against his window, staring openly at me. He gets all flustered when I catch him, recovering with a little wave. I nod and smile back.

In the metal-bubble world of L.A., love and distance are the best of friends.

I'm going somewhere this weekend. It's gonna rain. I feel minxy. All I can think about is lightning. And pumpkin ravioli in marscapone.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

What a weekend. Thank god for the bliss of Sunday night, cause otherwise it was kinda like my favourite line from the latest installment of Star Wars.

Time for coctails, everyone!

Saturday, March 11, 2006

for anne-elisa, many years ago

if you listen very closely
you can hear
the agony of a piano, played.

each key giving a tiny gasp
at the striking,
pouring out tones and partials
a little gush of blood
the strings shivering,
stilled by the steady smash of
a felt clapper

beauty in the collected sound
of its wounds

the sweet, sudden violence of
flesh on ivory.

Friday, March 10, 2006

trying a little understanding

I took a little test the other day - a Myers/Briggs - which boiled me down to a few little indicators and stamped me eNFp. Y'know what that means? I'm a Champion Idealist, folks. What a giggle and a half that is.

I took a look at the description of my personality type (first paragraph bloc below), and couldn't help but think that they were glossing over a few points. So, in the interests of clearer understanding between my core personality and you, dear reader, I have taken a moment to edit the content of the description, shown last.

Champion Idealist: Official Description

The Champion Idealists are abstract in thought and speech, cooperative in accomplishing their aims, and informative and extraverted when relating with others. For Champions, nothing occurs which does not have some deep ethical significance, and this, coupled with their uncanny sense of the motivations of others, gives them a talent for seeing life as an exciting drama, pregnant with possibilities for both good and evil. This type is found in only about 3 percent of the general population, but they have great influence because of their extraordinary impact on others.

Champions are inclined to go everywhere and look into everything that has to do with the advance of good and the retreat of evil in the world. They can't bear to miss out on what is going on around them; they must experience, first hand, all the significant social events that affect our lives. And then they are eager to relate the stories they've uncovered, hoping to disclose the "truth" of people and issues, and to advocate causes. This strong drive to unveil current events can make them tireless in conversing with others, like fountains that bubble and splash, spilling over their own words to get it all out.

Champions consider intense emotional experiences as being vital to a full life, although they can never quite shake the feeling that a part of themselves is split off, uninvolved in the experience. Thus, while they strive for emotional congruency, they often see themselves in some danger of losing touch with their real feelings, which Champions possess in a wide range and variety.

In the same vein, Champions strive toward a kind of spontaneous personal authenticity, and this intention always to "be themselves" is usually communicated nonverbally to others, who find it quite attractive. All too often, however, Champions fall short in their efforts to be authentic, and they tend to heap coals of fire on themselves, berating themselves for the slightest self-conscious role-playing.

Champion Idealist: Anti-Bullshit Edit

The Champion Idealists are completely daft, astonishingly codependent, and extraordinarily difficult to shut the fuck up. For Champions, nothing occurs which does not have some deep significance; and this, coupled with the awesome power of their nosiness, equates a tendency to overthink, eggagerate the importance of piddling little things, and fuss endlessly. This type is found in only about 3 percent of the general population – thank fucking god, because if there were more of them it’s fairly certain no one would be safe from the runaway train of their social behaviour. Champions are always running the line between “endearingly engaged” and “completely fucking insufferable”.

They can't bear to miss out on what is going on around them; they must experience, first hand, every goddamn thing. And they’re planning to take you with them, whether or not you’re a willing participant in their madness. And then they’re gonna talk your fucking ear off.

Champions consider intense emotional experiences as being vital to a full life, putting aside all logic and human decency to be certain they’re not ever, ever sidelined. Watching a Champion deal with the world is like watching a puppy in a room full of bouncing tennis balls: it’s almost as exhausting to watch as it is for the puppy to be in there.

Thus, while they strive for emotional congruency, they often see themselves in some danger of losing touch with their “real feelings,” which are splattered all over the map. In the same vein, Champions strive to “keep it real,” though what’s “real” for a Champion changes pretty much fortnightly, which makes it pretty problematic to keep up with. The most maddening aspect of this, interestingly, is that none of it’s faked.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

louis xiv, bringer of shame

So I'm on my way home from extricating a couch and an armchair from a crackhouse - true story - and I've just loaded a ton of bumpin' new music to my Treo, and I'm in a great mood on account of dark, sweet beer and excellent company, and there's a fun shoot coming up in a few days, and I'm doing close to 90 on a 40mph section of the old 110 (don't try this at home, kids.) And so the stereo's peaking all over the place and so am I - doing this particular car-dance that I get going when I'm abnormally happy. It sorta looks like a Muppet dance, but with more shimmying and lots of bouncing. I finally get off the freeway and am stopped at the exit light when I really give it my all. I become the Polaroid picture we all know and love so well.

And then I happen to notice that pretty much everybody in pretty much all of the pretty much fifteen cars around me are either laughing uproariously or giving me looks of complete horror.

It gives me courage to know that I'm not the first, but it took me half an hour to get what's left of my dignity off the windshield and upholstery.

In other news - Unleashed. Not such a bad movie! In fact, pretty great. I mean, Jet Li made me all tender!

Monday, March 06, 2006

monday's abbreviated report

Due to illness, today's blog will be kept to the highlights.

1. Crash? Hmm?
2. Jake! Mmm.

Saturday, March 04, 2006

new rule

No more drunk blogging.

gonna drink bacardi like it's your birthday

So drunk, I burst out in laughter at myself.

So drunk, it took me five minutes to craft that first line, sifting through the lack of cognizance and struggling to push out of the chair to get another drink. Your shots found me. There's nowhere to hide.

My veins are unstoppered infrastructre, pumping these unfiltered musings into the unsophisticated filters of a churning mind. It's been a long time since my extremities were this unsure; my hands this unaware of a keyboard, my tongue so unfamiliar with the velvet kiss of cream when the grocery maven forgets your proclivities.

I'm shivering with need in a sleeping house, and I don't know what my fix is. Flesh? Affection? Bouy? I twitter with the youth of my understanding that all we have are promises and prospecti, scattered and hiding beneath the embarassing illumination of early dawn.

Beauty is a theory constructed of myth and chemicals, but we never cease to chase and order and objectivize and assess it.

My hands are shivering, and there's nothing to be done but wait till the covers come up. My feet are cold on the marble, the beat insistent, and the dampening felt of alcohol heavy over my interactions with the insistence of morning.

Run your hands through me; perhaps the world's gone mad and I'm alone, but there's always the chance that you snuck out, too.

Friday, March 03, 2006

completely ricockulous

...because I've gone beyond the point of 'ridiculous'. Thanks, Dan: the Viceroy of Puntown.

So much in the works - I'm addicted to this momentum; any time I feel the slightest eddy, something inside rises up violently against it. But there haven't been many. It's all plans and machinations and connections and the occasional appearence of my coyote, blinking yellowly and slyly at me. I wonder if she knows something I don't.

And lately, I dream only of skin and breath, like I'm pressing a glass to the wall between myself and a particularly saucy fantasy. I like what I hear.

The bittersweet note - the gradually advancing absence of the dear one who struck this flint in the first place. I owe you so much for putting me on this roll, and you're too dear to lose to a slow, inexorable fade; please don't go away.

Anyway, my desk and my heart are full - there's always a correlation there, for me - and I'm looking forward to more art, some salsa, a shoot on Saturday with the incomparable Lex Halaby, and having a murder of folks over for some sweet, sweet lovin'.


Does the term "tasting flight" embarass everybody else as much as it embarasses me? I mean, honestly. "I'm going to Silverlake Wine a tasting flight?" Ick. So, no. This is better: "I'm going to Silverlake Wine to get my snob on." Aww, yeah.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Really, though. Tell me. I'm oh so achingly curious.
So my sister just posted her portfolio. Previously, I'd only really seen her photography - how did I miss the rest? It's amazing, what I've missed, and I don't intend to miss anymore.