In browsing through my uncle's copy of "Talk Dirty French"...

etre stone / defonce : to be stoned / demolished

ex: Mark a besoin de plus que ca pour etre stone.

trans: Mark needs more than that to be stoned.

petit frappe: gangbanger

ex: Les petites frappes de la cite effraient les memes.

trans: The city's gangbangers frighten old ladies.

SIDA, sida: AIDS

ex: Tu vas pas choper le sida en me parlant.

trans: You won't get AIDS by talking to me. -> ORLY?

I hope all of this is useful for somebody somewhere.

Our brains in the vortex

You know, the 1973 sci-fi film Zardoz is a really appropriate metaphor for my first summer in Boston - nay, my entire existence. The most obvious correlation is Sean Connery, but it goes beyond that.

Here are futuristic, immortal humans living in a "vortex" of limitless intelligence, but with no idea how an erection works. I am immortal, in a sense, through my words and deeds: words like, "How do you like them apples? You like them? Why don't I bake them for you, put them in a pie?" And as for deeds, I just took out the trash with a towel on my head and no bra (and the trash bins are across the street). This immortality is seemingly indestructible, as is my knowledge of classic Star Trek episodes and Eddie Izzard stand-up. But I am forever stumped by the sex act: how, and why, does it work? An ageless question deserving of an ageless answer - Sean Connery comes to mind.

But really folks. I understand complex innuendos and can write some fantastic R-rated penguin stories, but I'm completely inept in the common-sense-practical-application department. The only legitimate solution I've found has involved Sutter Home Zinfandel, Malibu and Pineapples, and a healthy dose of cable TV. When Zed looked into that tabernacle (read, virginity!!!!), he saw those three things, and he saw me sitting in an empty room, staring at my empty hands and shouting "Why! Why!"

Zardoz has achieved a 44% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and I hesitantly recommend it.

Will write soon, will write soon, etc.

But I just had a horrifying karaoke fail - who knew "The Thong Song" would be impossible to sing?! - and a solid 10 hours of wakeful hungoverness. When Soren walked in this morning he laughed and said, "Who's going first?" I was astonished that I was able to speak at all. 4 Bay Breezes, 2 Malibu and Pineapples, and 1 Sam Summer will do that to you, I suppose.

On cats

Lately, Mab the Allston house cat has taken to playing a one-person (one-cat?) game of hide-and-seek. (Lots of hyphens in that sentence!) Trouble is, she always picks an ingenious hiding spot, like under the Persian carpet in our room, and ends up not being able to find herself. She's been looking for days. And isn't that what life is all about?

Cats are really great, amusing things that are surprisingly alive, and they seemingly have wills of their own.

I was talking to Dad yesterday about important things, and he said, "Yeah your cat down here is becoming more and more like a little dog. I tried to get her to attack a little frog yesterday, but she wouldn't do it."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that." I mean, I wouldn't want Elsie to start attacking little baby frogs, what the hell? At any rate, she should make that decision on her own.

"Your Mom gave me a report about your Boston cat." To my Dad, every conversation is a "report" to be taken into consideration when making plans for the future. "She told me that your cat is very Rocky-like." Not Rocky like Sylvester-Stallone-Rocky, but Rocky like the old bastard cat that lived with us for ten years. Mab will want to take care - Rocky was once the king of the hill in Norwood, but he got old and impotent (though he was spayed when he was two) and got the shit kicked out of him by crows. Elsie, who in human years could have been Rocky's great-granddaughter, terrorized him from high places, launching at him from behind chairs and landing squarely on his back. Never have I witnessed so much hissing and indignation.

Anyway, Rocky ended up wandering into the woods one summer day, never to return. To this day no one knows if he's alive or dead, but I for one sleep soundly knowing I'm free of his kamikaze attacks for good. I don't think Mab has reached his level of asshole-ness, but she is a little diva who sits with her paws crossed one over the other and steals all my stuff. But this is acceptable behavior for a cat, it seems.

Cats, man. Can't live with 'em, and I guess we could live without them. But who would want to? I just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, which was soooo good. And Renee, the frumpy concierge, had a great tidbit about cats:

"The ridiculous, superfluous cats who wander through our lives with all the placidity and indifference of an imbecile are in fact the guardians of life's good and joyful moments, and of its happy web, even beneath the canopy of misfortune."

Spoken by a true cat lady, whose well-placed affections I will do my best to emulate.

Inception? More like Hotception.

That's right. A whole bunch of hot guys floating in midair, being tied up together by Joseph Gordon Levitt, who definitely lingered a bit too long over Ellen Page's calf. He'll learn eventually: Juno is off-limits.

I loved Inception. It was tense and beautiful, and gave you the sense of losing - or gaining - time, in a good way. But I do love to make fun of things...

SPOILER ALERT!

Jack Dawson has a special trinket that he brings with him on the Titanic. On the boat he meets Marion Coitillard, who is adept at every sailing task and also looks just as stunning in workman's clothes as she does in evening gowns. Turns out Jack Dawson was sent aboard to extract the Heart of the Ocean, but Mademoiselle Coitillard's suspicious mother (played by Cillian Murphy in drag), is wise to Jack's little paradox tricks. The surprisingly well-dressed and androgynous mother tries to hypnotize Jack so that he will forget all about his get-rich-quick scheme and retreat into a fantasyland of memories, replete with men in pinstripe suits, cities folding in on themselves, and a cozy ninja-themed movie night with the guys (when they watched "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" both with and without subtitles). But wily Jack is onto Madame Coitillard! Lo and behold, he makes amends with his estranged father in a hallucinatory episode, and has made up his mind to complete his mission.

Just when you think things are about to get carazy, Jack's little thingamajig that he brought on board - a classic timepiece fished from the icy waters of Lake Michigan - stops working, brought to a standstill: time has run out! "You guys," whispers Jack, his eyes a-crinkle, "This fucking ship's about to sink."

And so it does. They all drift away into the abyss, where children frolic in perpetually-green grass and Michael Caine reads a storybook about princes and princesses and all the chocolates you could ever want.

And so ends Inception.

FOUR STARS!!!!

Illegal posts?!?!?!

Here I am, blogging on the clock. My coworker should be back from his break in eight minutes, so let's see what we can do.

On the third floor of Barnes & Noble @ Boston University, there are more novelty products and shiny folders and picture frames than you can imagine, even if you've been there. Along the perimeter of the ceiling are helpful quotes, like "When I paint the sea roars. The others splash about in the bath." - Dali. What great advice! Another quote that is, at present, obscured by sky blue and floral curtains, is a surprisingly sexist saying by Eleanor Roosevelt, something about how women are only strong in hot water. Forget you, female olympic athletes. Unless you're syncronized swimmers.

Anyway, a "customer" just came up to me, profoundly affected by something or other, and said, "You have the best floor to work on." I couldn't understand him, so he repeated it two more times. "Oh," I said, on alert, "yeah, I do." Something was going on with this one. "It is so calm," he said, "and you have inspirational quotes all around you!" (The New England proverb "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without," somehow leaves me uninspired.) I thanked the man for telling me these things, and he gave me a weird grin and said, "God bless." I have no doubt that he'll be waiting outside to kill us all when we live for the night, but oh well. Workers comp!

My Ascension Into Heaven

This work was completed in ONLY 30 MINUTES when I was in 5th grade. Markers, copybook page.

One ponders the symbolism.

How do you get to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?

How indeed. We had to ask a J.P. Licks employee - at the largest J.P. Licks in history! - who told us that, above all, we should look for a garden. There seemed to be a garden at every turn, though Krista would disagree. Apparently a tree with poison ivy growing around it doesn't qualify. Our impromptu sightseeing tour included Mass Art, Wentworth, and Harvard School of Public Health: it was comforting to know that if we didn't make it to the Gardner, we could go on several free tours and get shiny folders. I was astounded that we arrived at the museum safe and sound, though I did inappropriately touch expensive, 15th century fabrics. Oh well.

Allston on a rainy day is like a prostitute with no makeup on. Especially the always-glamorous Boston Cleansing (hey, you always get catcalled there, so that's nice) which is apparently "closed indefinitely," though the sign remains. That big yellow sign ferments in the rain, and it seeps into your skin as you cross the street from Express Laundry to Vegan corner - there's a specific name for that intersection that seems unnecessary - and the aroma of fake cheese and gluten. Allston in the rain is like a shaved, wet cat, and many other specific similes.

"Your whole street's covered in dumpsters!" Liz says. (This just happened)

But parties in Allston in the rain are moist and hot and crazy, and isn't that what everybody wants? Well, everycollegebody, anyway.

On to MST3K courtesy of Sam Adams summer variety pack!

We are following a metaphor

Today I impulsively bought whale watching tickets for Krista and I, thinking that June 12th and July 12th were the same day. On June 12th, the New England Aquarium hosted what I'm sure was an unforgettable sunset whale watch tour on the Boston harbor. Children ran to the rails of the tiny boat and blew kisses at the frothing waves, wishing for future love and immediate everything. Parents treated themselves to saltwater cocktails in the cabin, where a woman with Bette Davis eyes crooned Billie Holiday. Later that night everyone was drunk, the crew, the passengers, and the humpback whales, who got sad after five shots of vermouth and pledged to do something important soon. And on that day memories were made.

On July 12th, Krista and I had sweaty knees and discussed the lightness of veggie burgers. I carried around a printed ticket in my planner, unaware that there would be no sunset tour in our future. Instead, we arrived at the aquarium and nearly boarded a ferry for Quincy before being told - by an incredulous teenage ferry worker - that there are no sunset tours on weekdays. Our rubber-soled shoes gone to waste!

Hopefully we'll see some whales tomorrow morning, and they won't be too hungover.

Also...

OKcupid user: anyway what's up

Me: Just watching Law and Order SVU as usual. You?

OKC User: Dun Dun. Just contemplaiting.

Me: So, braiding hair while thinking?

So this is where babies come from, is it?

Well for those of us who live in Boston and ride the T - if what the T gives can be called rides and not "a fuck" - we know that today, the last day of the 2010 World Cup, the C and D lines disintegrated at Kenmore Station. The wormholes have been closed by rebels on the other side, the MBTA officials said. Tourists with Hebrew Red Sox hats and body-length shopping bags were let loose into the bus station, where they ran back and forth into walls and other people and lampposts. A greenline worker (in civilian clothing!) shouted about Armageddon and threw herself in front of oncoming buses and transformed them into shuttles, space shuttles, that would take the tourists away to a place they would be forced to forget. Meanwhile I tried to pretend that I didn't know someone who I definitely did, and he kept screaming, "What bus are you?!" in the raucous Portuguese style. A middle-aged fortune teller took the opportunity to hand out pamphlets. And that's when it came to me: I should blog this shit.

Daily ramblings? Probably weekly, then monthly, then I'll just forget and end up watching the whole series of Law and Order: SVU, AGAIN. There are worse ways to pass the time, I think, and I can recommend some kick-ass episodes.

But ramblings just the same. (That might be a Herman Melville quote, now that I think of it)