Biscuit: Tasty Doesn't Get You A Date To The Prom

My tummy hurt this morning and also I was tired and the sun was all pretty and shiny and I didn't feel like going to work. So I didn't.

Which isn't to say that I'm not working; far from it. I've already had three conference calls, done up half a dozen screens, and talked people out of some very bad decisions. The main difference is that when I work from home, I a) don't wear shoes, b) don't need headphones, and c) drink good tea.

A few comments on this fucking gorgeous Tuesday morning:

I want to become a smell connoisseur. Luca Turin is my new hero. This book is fucking fascinating, and while the science isn't always impartially described, it's a damn good read.

You know where I never ever expected to find a snide reference to carpet-lickers? In Ella Enchanted, that's where. Guess where I saw a snide reference to carpet-lickers last night? In Ella Enchanted, that's where.

I think today should be the day when I make my bedroom look habitable.

We tease K about it all the time. When is she going to get started on all of her babies? I mean, if I went to all the trouble of coming up with names for a couple dozen of them, the least she could do is oblige by actually HAVING them, right? Then I started wondering when Belinda is going to have kids. And THEN I started wondering about Barrie.

Honestly, we should just start a pool, and mark everyone's names down and start taking bets on who's gonna be the first to spawn, right?

Suckers. You'd never have thought it, but I'd win. Because I would bet on me.

You heard me. I won. I got a kid before they did. I know, I know -- I'm as surprised as the rest of you, really, and I know it's a really big step, being responsible for someone else like this. But I think I can handle it. And when I saw him for the first time, I got the biggest smile on my face.

I suppose it's time to introduce you.

Everyone, meet Regobert.

Regobert is a little boy who lives in Cameroon. I just got the picture of him in the mail today. He's ten years old, and he lives with his father, mother, and stepmother. He likes playing with toy cars, and footballs. His favorite subject is music, but he's not doing so well in school right now; besides, he has to walk for half an hour to get there. The place where he lives doesn't have readily-available water; they walk two kilometers to get that too. His parents are described as peasant farmers. I'm going to write him letters, and hopefully, he and his mother will write me back. And maybe, by sponsoring him, and giving a little extra money, I'll be able to help him and the rest of his community, at least a little.

If you're interested in the program, take a look here: http://www.planusa.org/. And maybe if you have an extra twenty bucks a month, you can open your mail someday soon and see a smiling little face looking back at you, too.

I'm still working my way through the giant Stack-O-Books™ I picked up at the NYT Book Festival. This morning, I started Light Before Day, the most recent book by Christopher Rice. I was really excited for this one, because I've heard wonderful things about his previous novels, and honestly I just really want to like an author named Christopher for entirely narcissistic reasons. Unfortunately, and I know I've only had one subway ride in which to form my opinion, I can already tell it's going to hurt to get through. A lot. Judging from the Amazon reviews (which I didn't have a chance to check while hurriedly snatching books off the shelves and shoving them into my totebag in a crowd of people all trying to beat me to picking up the good stuff), this one doesn't measure up to his other stuff, and I still intend to give, say, A Density of Souls a try. After I get through the rest of this one, of course. I'm no quitter.

On the other hand, last night I stayed up until 3 am finishing Carter Beats the Devil, by Glen David Gold. I need to look him up today and see if he's coming out with anything else; it was fucking fantastic. Shiv mentioned that it reads a lot like Kavalier and Clay, and she's absolutely right. (It seems, by the way, that Amazon agrees.) Carter has that same richness of language, that same attention to detail, that same way of mixing the true and the speculative, and most importantly, that same way of making my heart race and the pages flash by in a blur. There are few things in life better than a really engaging book; I already want to go back and read the whole thing again.

Now that the last of the Vaseline is absolutely and definitely out of my hair, I suppose it's time to explain what I got up to on Halloween. I spent a lot of time trying to think of what I could dress as that would top last year's crowd-pleasing hit, The Birds And The Bees. Nothing was really coming to mind, and then I talked to Jon. He's a sick bastard, and please don't mind the fact that his current entry is talking about masturbation.

"Why don't you go as the miracle of birth," he said.

"How the fuck would I do that?"

"I don't know; that's your problem."

So I put my mind to it and came up with this:

The Miracle of Birth.

Many thanks to my friends and the accommodating gentlemen at Excelsior who put up with me, slathered as I was in a (if I do say so myself)) really fucking disgusting slurry of Vaseline, strawberry jam, and cream cheese. Also many thanks to my professional photographer roommate, who applied the hideous concoction, and also whose professional photographer finger you see covering the lens in the bottom right shot.

I'm currently accepting ideas for what to be next year. Anyone?

I'm in a really crappy mood and I feel like kind of kicking something. I'm masking that with alcohol, though. That's healthy, right?

Most things feel better after a decent nights' sleep. And also after lunch. I'm eating M Pasta for lunch. Everything in it starts with the letter M. Mushrooms, Mozzarella, Meatballs, Malfredo, and Mgarlic. It rules.

Hi. I'm too tired to say anything. Instead, here are links:

My pictures. I have no idea who took almost any of them; my camera just sort of floated around all night.

Jason's pictures. I assume he took these.

I guess you can't keep burning the candle at both ends without running up against the Wall-O-Consequences sooner or later. I woke up this morning sounding like a broken accordion; it hurts to move pretty much anything, and the bones in my skull feel very very thin. I think I can feel my brain thumping back and forth inside.

At least this explains why I've been in such a foul mood the past few days -- I've been scowling at everything, and I've been hard-pressed to refrain from spitting on some of my co-workers. And yesterday I started yelling and stomping about how ridiculous the reviews for fucking Brokeback Mountain are -- oooh, look at the actors being so fucking brave for KISSING A GUY ooooooooooooooo. Well, fuck you, fucking movie reviews, and fuck you too, hot actors, for patting yourselves on the back so hard. Get the fuck over it. If Alan Cumming (or Rupert Everett!) made out with some woman in a movie, nobody would give him a fucking Oscar because he was so BRAVE. Fucking fuck them and their fucking condescension. I wouldn't see your fucking movie if you paid me.

See. That's my point. I get sick and I just get all angry and ill-tempered.

Also if I am not well by Saturday? Heads will roll.