Now THAT'S Gratitude For You

The Mets have been winning, and my general disposition is one of hope. WHAT...a correlation. NYC weather is of the Springtime variation, but I am restless whether horizontal or vertical. Music of the rock & roll variety soothes me, silence woos me, and I wish I were someplace where the initials following a comma were not N.Y. Hey God, I am open to suggestions. Just give me a tweet. While I have your attention, thanks for the Chelsea Handler dream last night! I could just kiss the sky.

I Love Chelsea in the Springtime

May Day has come and gone. NYC temperature is anything but Spring-like. The Mets are playing below .500. Rain prevails and does nothing to help my depressive state of mind. I crave the sun, and I crave Season Two of True Blood. WHAT...a conundrum. And what is going on with Chelsea Handler's hair? It's been looking limp and lifeless. Meanwhile, next to Chelsea at the roundtable, Loni Love's do is full and luscious. And over in his private corner, Chuy sits nite after nite looking like Mr. Springtime incarnate in his pastel cap and vest ensembles. Maybe I need to start taking life lessons from the Mexican Little Nugget, and not be captivated by Chelsea's dazzling smile, killer deadpan stare, and boom-shakka-lakka-boom physique. Are we still in the month of May? Damn!

What's The Damage?

"She'll be back. Trust me," Patty Hewes utters with promise, staring straight ahead behind Oliver Peoples sunglasses. Her last words of Season Two stand still in the air between she and Tom. Broken by a long shot of Patty as she struts her high-powered self to the end of the same pier that ended Season One's finale.

DAMAGES Season Two finale was brilliant, baffling, exhilarating, and exhausting. God, or should I say the FX execs, knows when we will discover whether or not Ellen actually accepts the new job offer; if Wes, after saving Patty's life, has now formed an unholy alliance with her. Of course, Philip Bosco's character from last season was conspicuously absent for the duration of Season Two. And let us not forget his character introduced Ellen to those corrupt Feds.

I hope we don't have to wait until next year for a fresh crop of episodes. Until then, we can always look forward to Glenn Close's gorgeous voice belting out "The Star Spangled Banner" at the Mets home opener. Yay! At Citi Field. Oy vey!

Gena Rowlands and Val Avery

The quest for human contact, true emotion, and possibly love. One of the purest scenes ever captured on film. Rest in Peace Val Avery...Salute!

Holly Beth Vincent & Joey Ramone

Happy Spring from Pac Man

A happy Spring 2009 to everyone.
Baseball season is almost here, a little more pep in my steps, but a good nite's sleep still eludes me. What's a girl to do? I hate watching graveyard shift TEE-vee, but am too tired to read. My downfall is going into my red kitchen and raiding the cupboards and fridge. I haven't worn a bathing suit for more summers than I care to admit to. It's a pain in the neck having extra weight on, but I'll keep trying to zip my lip...especially at nite!
I'm continuing to put more photographs on the blog, and other fun stuff like PacMan...an old obsession. Any suggestions or opinions are welcomed. Enjoy!

Bush Tetras' TOO MANY CREEPS

The Kills "U R A Fever"

Turn on, tune in

I am tired and cranky this morning. Probably cranky because I am tired. And probably tired from being sleep deprived. I am tired to the degree that when I look at the word 'tired' I barely recognize it and think it must be mispelld [sic.]. M. Scott Peck wrote: "Life is difficult." I concur. He also felt that "romantic love" is really about dependency. If these two thoughts are put together into our psyche's (sp?), we may as well take a silver bullet to the heart. I agree with Peck, may he rest in peace, about "romantic love". I become spellbound, elevated, like nothing could touch me. It feels so good I want it to last forever. I drink in more by being with her as much as possible, until everything else around me slips away. This becomes my drug of choice; more than gin, wine, heroin, opiated hash; more than anything ever invented or grown by man or woman. It is the most dangerous substance I have ever inhaled. Romantic love can kiss my ass. And that's not me being cynical, just a realist determined to live another joyous day. There. I feel much better now. I think I need my cup of coffee.

Chelsea Gets Drunk

On Monday, 16 March 2009
I woke late, remembering the documentary on Marc Jacobs-Louis Vuitton that I watched with Mary (Shanley, my LP) at 4:00 this morning. We had both been asleep for one or two hours and did not want to watch any of the hundreds of info-mercials on the TEE-vee. They offer nothing we want, and I resent their airing at a time when most people are awake only because they cannot sleep. They are the vulnerable, the tired, the anxious yearning to go under so they may get a reprieve from whatever it is they are anxious about.
The Jacobs documentary could have benefitted from some editing to help with continuity and capture more of the raw energy pouring out of his chain-smoking soul. He is his own force of nature. Talk about sleep deprivation! I don't know how he functions on such a high level without alcohol or drugs to fuel him, but he does. I loved a particular shot during a show in Paris; in the front row were Catherine Denueve, Uma Thurman sitting next to her, and a few seats away sat Gillian Anderson. Gorgeous women love him. And I love the gorgeous women.
WHAT...a circle.