"say a word for polly may
she can’t tell the night from the day
they threw her out in the street
but just like a cat she landed on her feet
and say a word for joanna love
she ain’t got nothing at all
’cos everyday she falls in love
and every night she falls when she does"
Brown Shoes Don't Make It, Quit School, Why Fake It
Bike Bite!
I took the wheels off in order get them trued and, apparently, Peppermint Patty wasn't too pleased and decided to bite the shit out my leg. What a bitch.
Steven colored my hair a gorgeous brandished coppery red today. I love it so. Thank you.
Climb On!
I love a long day at work topped off with a summery evening of climbing. Adam and I went up Big Cottonwood and did a lazy 3 pitch. The most amazing thing is to watch the swallows come out at dusk and zip and zag right by you and then sneak into the tiniest of cracks in the wall.
Don't Fuck with Lagoon
Lagoon is America's last freedom frontier. Not only is it an amusement/water park, it's a BYOB establishment. Right in the heart of Utah! Mormon Utah! Yes, friends, you can bring your own booze into the amusement park and walk right up to a ride with a frosty bevy in tow. How is this possible? you ask...I have not the answer, but only the result: Awesome times.
So, the best part about the photo above, other than the obvious radicalness that is everyone in the photo, is that I said I wanted to be an outlaw babe. The girl handed me something that resembled a brown chef's coat. I looked at it and said, "Yeah, this isn't going to cut it. Do you have anything more scandalous?" The assistant replied, "We have a vest." I said, "OK." Girl brings out the vest. Still, it's just like the brown monstrosity that was brought out first, minus the arms. I see a girl from the shoot before us take off a magenta corset. I say, "Hey! yes, let me have that!" The corset, believe it or not, was the exact same color as my swimming suit. So, naturally, I decide that wearing chaps sans pants is the best way to invoke scandal. And, thus, my outfit was born. Outlaws don't wear pants, they wear the chaps of a man they just killed.
Also, Heather came equipped with some of her own props and stole a bullet. Roth walked away with a sample key chain photo of two fat kids dressed as outlaws. Priceless.
Summer What a Wonderful Summer
i'm in lust all over your summer skin
shed around me like a snake shake your face that sin inspired grin
wince at the light that wakes us from behind the blinds
the piece of glass pivots, catches us off guard as it hits our eyes
bodies and brine, a modern day mummification
wrap ourselves in each others shedded skins
purification from the depths
steal the rubies and emeralds to fashion our beating hearts, gleaming eyes
gold and rust, the markings of elegance and age
i hope we grow old under a grove
because we both know.
nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull.
Pete, who sits at the desk across from mine, caught a snapshot of me mid yawn. Then text messaged it to me. I felt so violated, the victim of a privacy crime. Then again, privacy doesn't exist. We know this.
June 16th: Seems Pretty Good to Me, the Tenets of a Day
Back to work today.
Tumbleweed Connection, the 1970 Elton John album, is highly underrated.
Chimay is a saint.
Fletcher makes squeaky sex bed noises.
All wet - Hey you might need a raincoat - Shakedown - Dreams walking in broad daylight.
And everyone should read this.
The Memory of Missing Something
I realize my travels have, as of late, been between a salty lake and cold salted ocean. I travelled to a warm and saltier ocean this last week and it made me miss travel. I miss the stimulation of strangers, strangeness, airports, etc. Since there wasn't a lot for getting around on this last trip, it made me want that: new cafés, new stores, new sunsets, new skylines, new air. Let's go everywhere. Let's go somewhere.
Hecuba: Word on the Street is: Suffering
So, some old timey friends of mine, from the growin' up days, have a new video out. It's awe-some. Isabelle, you look hot as a biker babe. Everyone, go buy the Hecuba album, Paradise....
Another Danielle (Scutt)
Gwen Stefani laurels aside, British designer, Danielle Scutt is taking the hipster motif and making it palatable. I like it. There are subtleties that make it exciting and not over-played. It's sort of taking me back to this Elvis Costello album:
Black White Grey Red
They're the best of neutrals, for me. Maybe that's why Fletcher is with me...that's his color scheme. Anyway, I think red is a neutral color, and that may just be the ho in me projecting, whatever, red is the slut of all neutrals.
And! I got a piece of furniture! a Chair! come over and sit down!
Also, what color are your eyes? Mine are: sea-green, aquamarine, sarcelle, teenage dream, sunset strip, blue jeans...
Couldn't Love a Dog More
And, you know, come to think of it...that old adage has got to be wrong...calling bad men dogs? Dogs are loyal and obedient - right? Bad men should be cats. I think this is reverse psychology proliferating the oppression of women by men. I bet men called themselves dogs because it was tough. And, to be sneaky (as a real cat would) the men called women cats because it sounded alluring and mysterious - or birds, what the hell? All a bird ever did was peck at you, shit on your head, and make loud noises. Fuck 'em all. 
Since More is Never Enough
And, since it's June and halfway till that Holiday in which you give things to those you love...I figure it's a good time to start my list. So, if you love me, and have a few hundered dollars itching at your crotch through your pocket...Now you know where to spend it.
The Suicide Dream of a Sneeze
It's not like suicide was an option, ever. But it never wasn't, either. I'm a happy person. I'm content in the day, in the night. I'm satisfied, I feel validated. Either way, something isn't right. It's the ultimate unwanting: it's the essence of living in the moment. It's like this:
You have the sensation to want to sneeze. The tickle, first comes from somewhere in the chest that you've never quite traveled to. It moves upward into your face. You know it, then, as a need to sneeze. Something happens. The hair on your arms stand up and it's like the sneeze is a word resting on the tip of your tongue; it's a dream you can't quite translate into words; it's a sensation like no other. It moves. It's fleeting. They say look into the light. Bad advice, if you're dying. Ring around the rosey. It all makes sense - it's death in small doses. Incremental. It subsides. You're left, upset. Life, as you know it, resumes. Then, it comes as a wave. As a colosal tidal dream of the ocean you can recount each and every step of. The smells, the voices, who was there, and, most importantly, why you are there. You sneeze. The hair on your arms raises again, differently. Suddenly. Some say orgasmic. I say it's the sin of the century. It's hedonistic. It's natural. It's you in the moment. It disappears.
So, why is it that no one ever dreams of sneezing?
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