I don't know how long ago blogger added this nifty little "recover post" link, but I am flat-out amazed. Apparently, it retrieves the text of your blog sent in cookie form to your computer. While it doesn't work a hundred percent of the time, it's a real strive towards a world where a lot less of my genius will be floating helplessly around a great big blackhole in cyberspace.

Hooray for google!

Yesterday I got cable internet installed at my house, so posts here should be coming a little more frequently. Not only that, but I have just done my part of controlling the world's population crisis, as a good half of the billions of you who check my blog religiously have probably just keeled over from the excitement. May yee rest in peace.

For those of you who are still alive, I've discovered a neat little link for you, with the help of my new sleek, sexy cable modem and my dashing assistant (/husband-thingy). The Experimental Gameplay Project is the site of a group of college kids from Carnegie Mellon University who's agenda is to create 50 to 100 mini-games in one semester, each of which must be programmed entirely by one student. The site boasts that there will be new games every week, but I don't know how fresh this information is-- the semester may be well over by now. Either way, it's well worth taking a peek, as the games that are offered now are delightful. Zack's favorite is Tower of Goo, a game where you "build a gooey tower higher and higher"-- I think you have to play it to understand...not that I totally understand it yet. Other games we've played include Darwin Hill, a game where you control the evolution of a rapidly growing population of...weird-looking things, in an effort to make a generation of beautiful people (surprisingly difficult to do, I guess I better start cutting god some slack for creating Gary Busey.) and my personal favorite, A Rainy Day, a whimsical and smile-evoking game where you play a surreal tree helping a fleet of paper boats, a fusion of Macromedia and Salvador Dali.

So there's that.

Right now, I am in class, and I am supposed to be writing an illustrative (?) essay about the topic "Obstacles to Coming to College." Obstacle #1: The topics of essays my English Teacher is assigning me are, in themselves, grammatically incorrect. Can obstacles really be "to" something? It just sounds wrong. "Of" or "In" seem more likely canidates, but, for the life of me, I can't figure it out for sure-- maybe it's that a better word would be "going to college", but, because we were technically at college when the work was assigned, he thought that would be inappropriate. All I know is that I don't know anymore-- this man is draining my literary abilities like a drunk on a tap. For the most part, I've taken to fazing out the entire class, offering class participation only when the rest of the class is stuck for an answer, and otherwise watching the construction go on out the window. Sometimes I whisper to Michelle, the friendly but consummately lost 40-something mother of two who sits next to me. She is the first fellow student I've had any amount of interaction with since I started here-- I tend to quietly keep to myself, unwilling to venture into the possibility that I might somehow belong among the rest of the population of this school-- women of varying ages, all of whom are under the impression that the people around them care about the plight of balancing motherhood with getting your specialized associates degree.

Of course, they're right. The people around them do care, because they're all other people in that same predicament. All except me.

Doubtlessly, I would have been better suited for a campus full of young pseudo-intellectuals, and often have a Rory Gilmore fantasy wherein I discuss, with quick and subtle wit, the virtues of Kafka with attractive coeds who burn me CDs of little-known punk bands. But, for better or for worse, I'm glad I chose to wait, and I'm glad I chose a two-year college. My tuition cost is lower, my free time is higher, and I'm doing it my own way-- no more pressure or parental involvement at all. I'll have my degree-- my specialized associate's degree, anyway-- and by the time they've made the final payment on their student loan, I'll be on the fifth year the mortgage to some beautiful house (which I'll be absent from, taking a vacation in Tahiti or Sri Lanka or Prague.) With my charming, medical-assisting husband, I might add.

And more, much more than this: I did it myyyyyyy way!


Another interesting note: Miss Jennifer G. is soon moving into the Linda-Zack household for a undetermined amount of time, so update your address books.


On with it.

I start Aimee Mann's "Wise Up" and hope a post will come to me. I'm coming off a conversation that's made me feel small, and resented. Someone kept their anger in till the last minute, then let it out right before they had to go. Systematically.

"It's not going to stop till you
Wise up."

Anger's the wrong word there. I wish for anger. Lust for anger. Truly and deeply miss anger. "They say that anger's just love disappointed." It was, is, a toe on the line between disgust and disinterest, mixed with a little bit of obligation. The worst state of affairs.

"And it's not going to stop,
So just ,
Give up."

I haven't heard this song in ages-- downloaded it after watching Magnolia with Emily, who I've talked to today, who said "I love you" when she signed off. Like that with Jeremey, hers and mine is one of those relationships that has weathered enough that I've learned to trust it-- our roots, deep beneath the pavement of South street, mingle together, and so they always will.

Some people, you just love.

Jeremey and his girlfriend broke up, by her decision, and while my concern for Jeremey is has grown almost instinctual in the last decade, he didn't call me at any point with the news. I found out when I called on a whim four days after the fact, and I haven't heard from him since. Between that, and a comparison he made to me and some girl who's "like his sister", I've been so hurt by the situation that my instincts have gone astray. All this in the wake of my last post, a tribute to how timeless we are. Heh.

I've been missing people lately, but, with one exception, more as a whole than specifically. Since Petland, I haven't had access to a group of people or regular social outings-- I think, also, about a coworker from iWorx who had meant something to me but whom my relationship was, like my career their, short-lived I doubt it will be remembered. His name, like the Fish Guy, was Chris, and he had beautiful eyes, first of all. Everything else was the antithesis of traditional beauty, without being unnattractive-- he was gruff, tatooed and ex-military, but unexpectedly intelligent in almost any topic I could mention. He had an ego on him the size of Thailand, and day after day we harassed each other one of us-- usually him-- got pissed, but he was kind to me when all was said and done. He'd harangue me about his sales stats against mine, but reassure me whenever I thought about quitting. There are countless pictures of me on his cell phone, all taken by me when I was bored, but I'll probably be forgetting him within a few weeks. Impossibly depressing, really.

After the fourth play of Aimee Mann, I switch to Ben Fold's Five, Brick. When we bought the new computer (probably previously unmentioned), Zack installed a 60 gig hard drive, untouched since the disassembling of a computer I had about two and a half years ago. It's filled with the first MP3's I ever downloaded, conversations with Elorza and the drama surrounding my sophomore-through-senior years of high school. It's like a time capsule, so strange to dig through. These were feelings and thoughts I'd left behind. A coming of age, perserved in words and guitar riffs.

Charlie Parker's version of "Lover Man". "Maneater", by Hall and Oates. "Camera One", by Josh Joplin, which plays now (as I am playing me now.) The lines in it I never got over:

"The sandy-haired sun of hollywood,
Lost his faith in all that's good.
Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock.
Hung his clothes on the shower rod--
But he didn't get undressed."

I remember the first time I realized what those lines mean-- how suddenly I realized what was happening, how clearly I visualized it.

"And no, he didn't seem depressed."

As I get older, I let fewer and fewer people into my feelings. I write fewer and fewer of these kinds of posts. I lose a little more of candid humanity, find a little more reason to stay cold and reserved. (The playlist moves automatically onto Kay's Choice, "I'm not an Addict", a song that sends chills down my spine.)

"Sober now, I'm cold, alone.
I'm just a person on my own.
Nothing means a thing to me.
Nothing means a thing to me."

But nothing's changed. I've breathed out my youthful zest for self-expression and passionate angst, and inhaled the chilling reality: if I am the kind of person I think I am-- that inner-teenager, that sob story-- then, probably, no one needs to know. Probably, no one cares too much.

By the time I get where I'm going, will I seem depressed?

On with it.

"Don't try to make no sense of this scene,
It's just between Carolina and Me,
And we keep changin'
Anyway."
~High, Tabitha's Secret


When I'm done heaving and hawing and being utterly frustrated, for the moment, with something he agrees with me totally on, he sighs, relieved, because I'm just what he needed. He needed me to get riled up and totally insane, he needed me to rant and rave. I can hear his smile over the phone, and I ask him, what?

"I just love you, that's all."

Yeah. That about sums it up.

We talk about music, life, other's people's problems (how no one in the world but the two of us really have any), and we decide that when we've both inevitably screwed up our lives, we'll be together then, we'll deserve each other then, and who else could put up with us? Once I've lost Zack and he's lost his girl (and his sanity), then we'll go back to the way it was in seventh grade-- complete co-dependence and social hermitry. When the world has ended, when the bomb has dropped, when we have nothing.

I'll still have Jeremey.



The great thing about someone who's just really fucked with you over the years, and I mean really screwed you up, is when you've lived through it, you really get a sense of what you can weather for this person. People always thought it was totally naive puppy love that kept me waiting for him all those times he was gone, but it was more than that-- he and I, we have something. It's simple.

And what's simpler is that it's grown with time. There's this incredible comfort of history and sentiment.

We're like the recent seasons of the Simpson's, based almost entirely on references to earlier episodes and self-satirizing remarks. Except, we don't suck.

So when he asked me to update, well, how could I say no?

--

So I told him I'd let him know what songs from Tabitha's Secret he should listen to, what line to look out for, what in each makes them really good-- he'd listened to them years before and never appreciated them, and he's been holding onto the CD's without listening. They're not the easiest band to like, but if you get into it, there are some incredible lines hidden in the some of the less popular tracks, and in certain cases, musicianship (?) that match the skill in any of the MB20 albums.

And if you don't know that Tabitha's Secret was the band most of the members of Matchbox Twenty were in pre-dating Yourself or Someone Like You, well then, I guess you haven't been through very many of my musical lectures.


I'm gonna start with Swing, from Don't Play with Matches, because this is one of the strongest musically. It starts out with just Rob's Voice and the guitar, then the key moments when the other instruments come into the song-- the first island of snare and cymbals bringing just a foreshadowing of energy before it goes back into the accoustic-- then the base starts to bring in strength, and it just builds until it's surrounding you, and Rob's incredible voice is just another instrument in this fusion of sound-- basic, with only the guitar, base, and drums, but overwhelming, a fight and a victory, so subtly that you I almost forbid you to listen without a set of headphones and closed eyes.

The lyrics in this are appropriately understated, at least to me-- there aren't any brilliant lines, there's a lot of repitition, but if it gets to you the way it's supposed to, the words come to you like subliminal messages-- set your balance, keep you head down, watch your anger, boy-- and maybe, if you get to know it and love it the way I do, they come out of your mouth idly, as your whole body is taken over by the beat and the waves of the sound.


Ahhh, it's good. It's difficult to choose, but I think this is my favorite.


Unkind-- Oh, Jeremey, this is very you.

Very different musically-- you can tell, just by the way Rob's singing, that this one is supposed to about the lyrics, and I would say it's maybe a little strained in places, because of this-- some cliches, sort of emo, truth be told. Still-- it's the way the song builds, the mood changes, the feelings emerge-- it goes from sad to accusatory to frustrated, all the great aftermath of a great relationship. This song takes place in a room where two people don't quite know where to go, what they are, what they're supposed to be at this point in their relationship. They're become increasingly different people and struggling with their feelings for each other as they ebb and wane-- come to think of, there's someone other than you, Jeremey, that this one reminds me of a great deal more.

"So bring it on, baby, what you getting into?
I swear that once it was the little things that mattered, but it all seems true to you.
Say the hell with my name, say the hell with my picture.
But swear for the one time you needed me around to be around,
Well, I'm around right now.

And here I'll stand like it matters.
Only once gets through, then gets scattered by the rain.
But pain gives me the right to be unkind."


I think this is one of those songs that really shows off Rob's ability to appeal on a very personal level-- this song is not universal, I don't think, and few people could really love it-- with the exception of the line "Pain gives me the right to be unkind", this is about a very specific situation, or, rather, a hundred very specific situations to a hundred different people. But no two people will really get the same thing out of this.

Come to think about it, this song might not be one you'd like, particularly-- maybe I wrote about this one for me.

The songs I really want to get around to discussing are Paint Me Blue, High, and a few off of the Live Album that I can't locate, though I know This is Not a Love Song is indispensible, though it'd take me a while to locate that-- Give the two I've already talked about and the two I just mentioned a listen, and I'll get around to commentary on those last two later.


And hey to everyone reading this who's not Jeremey! (All two of you)

"I guess I've changed but, yeah, couldn’t you
Given all we've been through? Well,
Heaven knows I've been around, and around."
~TS, And Around

Kotex brand Deodorant Pantiliners smell like Tinker Bell perfume. Unused, anyway.

I've never smelled Tinker Bell perfume-- it is, in fact, some relic of my sister's long past, from before I was born, and, as smells often are, it is the root of a strong memory in the yet unscarred region of her deeply disturbed psyche. The reason I know what it smells like is not because of some strange psychic link between us-- though, at times, I believe one may exist, though faintly, as I have flashes of memories of things that in fact happened to her, rather than me. The reason I know what Tinker Bell perfume smells like is that, my whole life long, anytime something smelled like Tinker Bell perfume, she would announce it, and force me to smell.

Truth be told, I'm not even really sure what it is. I assume it's something my parents bought for her at Disneyland when they lived in California. But I could be way off base.


Emily and I are talking about Max B. (B-L., technically), a guy we used to stalk together-- I am currently downloading ICQ, in attempt to contact him.

FieryGwenivere: I'm downloading ICQ. I'm a loser.
InfiniteAaah: yeeeeah
FieryGwenivere: But my willingness to be one is one of my best character traits!
FieryGwenivere: I, uh, hope.

I've written about Max on here a few times, I believe-- at one time, he was a person whom I attributed, God, a hell of a lot to. For years of my life, whenever anything good happened to me, I'd stop in the moment and silently thank him, as he was the only one who made a point to notice (and get me through, intact) when I was going through one of my earlier suicide phases-- I, perhaps, stopped doing this when I started owing the same debt of gratitude to too many others, or maybe it was about the time I just stopped having gratitude altogether. But I've never stopped thinking of him as a shining example of what I would want to be, if I still had the faith that I could grow to be at all in his league-- this is a sentiment enhanced by the fact, which Emily has just uncovered, that he is working with the Portland Stage Company-- he acted in High School, it's how I met him, and he's acting now. He's one of those people who became what they wanted to become. Let's take a moment for that.

I was in love with Max during a period of my life when I was starving for someone to be in love with, but as I got to know him-- his kindness, his intelligence, his understated grace, well, it wouldn't have mattered. There was speculation that he had feelings for me, but as much as I wanted to believe that, I was fairly sure then and am now that he was just kind. That one deserves a moment, too. Kindness. Christ.

I think almost every blog entry that he's been mentioned in has become an ode to him, towards the end-- once I start writing about him, it moves me to breath a little bit slower, and feel a little bit more nostalgic than normal (which seems hardly possible, given the girl in question), and feel, in equal parts the relief I have just to know there are people like that who exist in this world, and regret for the ramifications that I knew him, personally, somewhat well, and let him drift away. How much different, and inevitably better, would my life have been if he had allowed me to be a bigger part of his life, and would he have? If I'd been in a position in my life to see the value of platonic relationships (like I hypothetically will be in, oh, say twenty more years), perhaps I wouldn't have made such an idiot of myself over an amazing boy, and fallen in love with him, as falling in love is the currency of idiots.

Then again, if there was ever anyone worth making an idiot of oneself over, ever anyone worthy of falling in love with (and in love with again, every time you stop to think of him), then it's him.


I hope you all have someone like that in your life. And I hope every Max out there has someone to write them little odes that they'll never read, but will somehow matter. I hope.

Oh, and I hope you all experience the smell of Tinker Bell perfume, or at least Kotex pantiliners; it's really quite pleasant. On with it.

The stranglehold that a phantom site had on my god-given domain name has seemingly ended-- if I am correct, soon SuedeCaramel.com will once again be mine, and lead you, my good people, here.


So, some thoughts.

While American Express is currently advertising with celebrities like Ellen Degeneres and Robert Deniro (with the creative help of Martin Scorsese and Annie Leibovitz), Discover is contrasting with a line of commercials featuring extremely relatable average people-- have you seen these? Black and white, just the person standing there, talking about their life, saying things so cute and suburban that it just makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside-- "I helped put my husband through dental school, and now I get my teeth cleaned for free." (Big smile.) Or "I still open doors for my wife, because she deserves it." These are the "average americans", the decent, traditional people with a strong work ethic and perfect credit.

If these are average Americans, I'm in biiiig trouble.

Discover is trying too hard to show us likable, relatable customers-- as a result, these people are to ethics and decency what Cindy Crawford is to aesthetics and ass. I'll never look like her and I'll never be like them-- let's get realistic, Discover, if that's what you're going for! Let's get people saying *real* everyday things. Replace the lady who says "I still get goosebumps when (my husband) kisses my neck" with "I still get goosebumps when (my lover) pinches my ass and calls me 'Mommy'." And the guy who says "I'd like to use (the cashback bonus awards) for a table saw, but I have a feeling it's going towards a new dishwasher" with "I'd like to use the money towards a new Colt 45, but I have a feeling it's going towards Bail."

This is my America. On with it.

Okay, everyone in the whole world, yes, the whole world, is on my case to update this, (Hi Madonna! Osama! Miuccia Prada!*) Not a whole lot to say in the form of a rant, so I'll go back to the old stand-by: comments on commercials that are currently getting air time.


Mitsubishi
There's this whole line of commercials taking place in Mistubishi dealerships, the one with the guy who's friend is all like "Chick Magnet!", the one with the man who manipulates his wife into buying a SUV by winding her biological clock, and the one who's trying to negotiate a deal on a car he admits is already a great price, then he ends up looking stupid. And in all of these, the common factors are the exact location of the car in the showroom, and a guy in an orange (red?) jumpsuit who's only job seems to be to stand their all day and whisper things to customers, like Mitsubishi's version of the Buckingham Palace Sentry.

So who's up for taking a road trip with me to find out if these Mitsubishi dealerships really *have* those guys?


Adult SwimAdult Swim has recently sold out it's bumps or cards or whatever the hell they're called to advertising for AXE body spray (and one other forgotten product, to a lesser degree- the lesson here, if you're gonna advertise on adult swim, do it often enough so it gets through the thick skulls of the Inuyasha crowd.) I'm not saying, at this point, that there advertising is particularly worthy of cracking jokes about, because thus far, it's been done in strictly respectable adult swim fashion, but they're really walking a tight-rope here. If they slip up on this, a whole mass of disgruntled AS fans will do exactly what our generation has always done in terms of civil disobedience: Absolutely nothing! But with flare.

If they really screw up, who knows. A couple hundred of strategically placed "AXE advertisements SUCK THE COCKZ!" messages on their forums might make them see it our way. Dirty corporate money can't fight with the raw passion and stinging prose of a 1337 haXor.


In other news, this woman is an idiot.

On with it.


*And thanks to Jeremey for helping me find a third celebrity with a name that ends in "ah".

SuedeCaramel Presents
10 Surefire Ways to Lose Weight in the New Year!

10. Give Birth.
9. Adopt a Roundworm.
8. Get sent to a third-world Jail.
7. Shave your head and cut your nails.
6. Stick to the food groups: Dairy, Protein, Wheats, Fruits and Exlax.
5. Become addicted to crack.
4. Contract oral herpes to render eating uncomfortable.
3. Cut off a limb.
2. Get AIDS, MS, or Cancer.
1. Die.



On with it.

With the third post up, I think it's time to announce The Vagina Monoblogs to the world. My contribution to the Vaginismus community, The Vagina Monoblogs is a site dedicated to resources and information about, and personal accounts of Vaginismus. Maybe the response from this will eventually allow me to create the book I want to, a collection of stories from survivors and sufferers, to sorta let to world know we're out there, and this does exist, and you can't ignore us, and hopefully to raise money for the cause. But, baby steps. Today, a blog. Tomorrow, the world.

On with it.

"Tue December 21 3:10:50 EST 2004
nak
suede
no time for hate, unless you do something worth such emotion.
just scared.
those photos scarred me for life."

~Nak, from Ian's Pit, the bastard child of Frank's Pit

I can't be sure what he's talking about, but chances are they're the slightly, uh, nude pictures of me formally posted on the pictures section of this site, now dead and gone in a burst of pre-new-years cleansing. Seems to me now that was way too much a plea for attention, and, from now on, I'll save the naked pictures for those who actually want to see them, instead of for the sake of shocking ex-teachers, etc. All naked pictures requests will now be processed by mgmt.

Imagine that. Constructive criticism from the pit. Thanks, Nak.


So let's start thinking about resolutions. December seems to have been my big month for experiencing/accomplishing new things, having been fired and in a (minor) car accident towards the beginning, performed my poetry live (and for TV) at the Lisbon Teen Center Coffee House (an altogether unsatisfying experience) in the middle, and just now gotten in some practice pressing the "delete this blog?" button. Also, finally getting around to changing the name of this place, and took my first college exam(s). Not an altogether bad month, and we haven't even gotten to Christmas yet.

Of course, the quality of my writing seems to have taken a steep decline, but that, I suppose, will work itself out. I'd get more practice writing if I had a computer that wasn't as slow as the leader of our fair country and an internet connection to match. Maybe if my job at iWorx prooves profitable, Zack and I will get ourselves a nice desktop and a cable connection. And I have added a half-page to the Tracy/Trish story since I sent it off to Casey for review...but he won't get to see that until he sends back what I already sent him, hint hint.


It seems to me that my posts are becoming more and more like newspaper articles, with all the pertinent (or, in this case, halfway interesting) information in the first paragraph or so, and the rest just sort of rambles on to make the posts look long and impressive. They do this in the newspaper so that the editor can lop off an article at any point to fit the space he has, and still have all the important details. My posts, like this, can just be cut off any.


(on with it)

C LABRACK: you starting to get tired of competing with GTA?
FieryGwenivere: yes. yes I am.
FieryGwenivere: and if you just assumed that, you're very insightful. I don't remember mentioning that to you.
C LABRACK: it's not that insightful. I've just always noticed zack playin them more and more. plus, so many great ones are out right now. and finally, I know a lot of girls who have the same problem around here.
FieryGwenivere: Well, it's more insightful than, uh, Zack.

Casey knows all about the feeling of being second to various technical entities, whether it's someone else putting you second, or you doing it to yourself. But I've discovered, just now, an entirely different, but related, feeling.

Let's say Zack's been playing San Andreas for a while, or I've been playing for a while, or we've been taking turns for a while. Let's say I'm thoroughly bored by now, and let's say I'm at that point where I really feel like I'm going second to a video game. I start to say sort of bitter, hinting things, and he gets it. He's heading towards a save point when he says it-- that totally fucking innocent phrase of malice. The one harmless evil with which I have no chance to complete. He looks over at me and, without a the slightest detectable amount of agenda in his tone (except that provided by my ever-suspiscious mind) asks, "So, what are we going to do after this?"

And what can I say? "Well....we're gonna put on some TV that neither of us will really like, and that most likely only one of us will even somewhat like, and we'll eat snack foods we're not really hungry that are designed to rid us of our sex appeal by our mid-twenties." Well? What would you come up with? "We'll sit and talk?" We've been married for a while now, and certainly spending every available moment with each other for much longer, and nowadays, before we can sit and actually have a conversation, there has to be some supply of subject matter. (And, not surprisingly, the only subject that's been in supply lately has been fucking GTA.) So let's face it-- we're broke, pre-twenty-one, newly married and living in Brunswick fucking Maine, and we can't fuck, or, due to the stress of the whole non-fucking state, function sexually with any mutual pleasure at all, about 80% of the time. San Andreas is about the best we could hope to do.

(And, for you fucking skeptics {the ones I keep so well-armed}, I relate to you that this isn't a direct effect of marrying too young, or rushing a relationship, or not going to college straight of high school or not travelling the world, or not stopping to do what everyone warned you you ought to. This is the reality of vaginismus, plain and simple. So I'm gonna hurry up and shut-up the wannabe pricks.)

So it's not a matter of feeling like I'm being put second to GTA. It's a matter of feeling like there's no reason why I shouldn't be considered second to GTA.

So, here we are, post-that-actual-circumstance, and I gotta say the only slight upside is that my website is getting some attention.

...oh, god.


On with it.