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Girl Gang. Bang!

Mood: Is it Friday yet? No, really. Is it?
Drinking: Absofuckinlutely

Short, entirely uninspired update:

Two things in the works that I’ll tell ya about just so you feel all in the know and stuff…

#1: Cinepoem #4 has been chosen and is in the works. I recorded about 16 versions of it last night at M’s house and my throat now hurts from yelling. Yes, there are yelling versions. It’s an angry poem. Angry, angry, angry. And rhymey. Yes, shocking, I know.

And little C, this is one of those times when I wish you still lived up here, b/c I could SO use your help with the upcoming shoot for this. You would have about 63 great ideas for it. Call me and we’ll discuss.

#2: I am now in two girl gangs. Well, one is a club and one is a gang. But “gang” just sounds more scandalous, yes? The first is the Bitch Club, which is basically a ring of bitchy blogs. You’ll find the link to all the other bitches at the bottom my home page. Enjoy.

The second girl gang is the Girl Gang Distro, a snazzy little web site full of zines and things. And they’re carrying my book! Go check ’em out.

LeeLoo is also in a gang. She goes to this doggie daycare place once a week (I know, I know, I spoil my dog). Anyway, she’s formed a girl gang with these other two boxer girls named Wilma and Ruby. The three of them apparently rule the school and push all the other pups around. Yep. That’s my dog! Maybe I should make them all Pink Ladies jackets?

Alright, I have to go suck down some more diet coke and get something done today. I am once again dogsitting my sister’s giant pooch, the Yodes, and he put me in a foul mood this morning, leaning up against my legs and covering my black tights in white pooch hair whilst I was strapping on my Mary Janes. I’m still picking out spiky little Yoda hairs. Grrrrrrrrr!

-Lo, who has read the 6th Harry Potter book and doesn’t have a thing to say about it.

Master & Servant

Mood: Sacriligious
Drinking: Water, glass #2

God is my djinni.
I keep him at my beck and call.

But I don’t make him work that often.
(Some days I don’t call at all.)

I keep him in a blue glass bottle
in the back corner of my mind.

He has his own dresser drawer,
toothbrush, razor and comb.

And he doesn’t disturb the
dusty important piles of
old phone numbers, def
leppard lyrics and the
sticky sweet taste of port wine.

It’s not his permanent address
(he does the omnipresent thing)

But I like to know where he is
at all hours
so we play house and pretend
that’s where he gets his mail.

It’s a comfortable arrangement.
Mutually beneficial.

I have a superhero on standby
and he knows I only knock
when I really, really mean it.

-Lo, with a pre-emptive “You think you know, but you have no idea!” snap.

Everything’s Fine

Mood: Pensive
Drinking: Diet Coke w/ drops of vanilla

There’s nothing wrong.


Nothing to speak of. Nothing to report. No waves, no storms, no unpleasant events scheduled.

It makes me nervous.

I have a natural affinity for the wrong kind of goings-on. Tragedy, trauma, terrible news. I know what to do when the bomb drops. Know just how to curl into the self-preservational fetal ball. Know how to fling my forearms in front of my face to protect the eyes from flying shrapnel. I know how to drop and roll, how to crouch and cover. I know how to hide.

It is the standing tall in the daylight that sometimes causes confusion.

Happiness is not my natural state. And yet…

And yet. Here I am. Boy. Dog. Fog. Nice home (no picket fence though, thanks.) Nice job. Nice friends. Nice clothes. Nice shoes. Nice etcetera.

Boy sometimes accuses me of manufacturing unnecessary drama just so I can feel like something is wrong. Just so I can feel comfortable again. He may be on to something.

I have had so much going on peripherally for the last 9 months or so that I haven’t even realized how happy I was in my own life. I was distracted by the terrible news of my sister’s fiance getting suddenly shipped out to Iraq, distracted by her subsequent sudden wedding.

I was distracted by two friends who suddenly bottomed out, teetering on the edge of total, damning destruction. Distracted by their agonizing, inch-by-inch individual crawls back to safe ground.

I was too busy helping. Fielding middle-of-the-night phone calls and siren-sounding emergencies. Passing out bandages and crash helmets. But it’s quiet now. It’s very calm.

And I finally took a good look around me and damn. Life…it’s good! It’s full just to the top of the glass. It’s busy enough to keep me from boredom but lazy enough to keep me from stomach ulcers. I’m writing. I’m creating. I’m working. I’m playing. I’m, well…I’m great. How fucked up is that?

Long ago, when Boy and I started doing the dating dance, I warned him that I wasn’t sure I knew how to be happy. And yet here I am, doing it. Not enough paying enough attention most of the time to notice that that’s what’s going on. I’ve just been strolling along on the tightrope, not even noticing that I’ve stepped off the platform. Not even looking down.

Well. Until now. And that’s where the trick comes in.

Now that I know. Now that I see, I’ve got to resume the stroll. I can’t keep looking down…I won’t be able to move. It’s eyes up and forward. Over and out.

Maybe that’s it. The trick. The secret. Looking out, away from myself. Oh, I’m all for introspection. God knows I do that well. But people like me, we stare to long in the mirror and we start to fall apart. So I don’t think I’ll ever be in any danger of not paying enough attention to myself. I’ve got a degree in self-absorption.

But now that I’m all grown up, old enough to see beyond the glass, old enough to know there is real darkness out there that makes mine just look kind of pale grey. I guess the trick is that I’ve got to keep looking. There’s so much to see outside of me. And so I’ll resume my stroll.

Eyes up and forward…

-Lo, who thinks that mirrors can sometimes be kryptonite.

Slow Roast

Mood: Another day, another day
Drinking: Morning dose of caffeine

Hip, hip, hooray! Three cheers and all that. Release the balloons and fire the confetti cannons! Tootle your noisemakers and bang your own drums…

Cinepoem #3 debuts today in the library!

This one was shot in our favorite San Francisco diner, Sparky’s. (Best pancakes ever, especially at 3 a.m.) It features the lovely Sarah Beach and a cameo by my other gorgeous friend, Misha. (Look for the coffee cup.)

Big thanks, as always, to my talented shooter & editor and partner in crime, Michelle; my webmaster, Christopher; our fabulous production assistant, Misha; Barbara and Kelley at Sparky’s; and, of course, Sarah, because without her this cinepoem would have just sucked ass.

I don’t wanna play favorites or anything, but this little cinepoem might just be my most favorite so far. Shhhh!

Go see for yourself.

-Lo, who is so OVER the red hair, it’s already gone!

National Holiday


woke tangled
in sheets
and this funk.
calendar fineprint
locks me into
this national holiday
showcase of family
fright fests.
firecracker hot dogs
sun slathered parade
routes and naked
squawl babies
invading the beach.
tapered tent
beer bongs and
barbequed bellies
and terminal lines
of these decadent drivers.
a slim paid vacation
fathered by freedom or
some such political prattle.
i’ve nothing to do i’ve
nowhere to be i’ve
no hot dogs no lotion
no brats and no beer.
only this white wall
and zoo cage-like
pacing. i’ve done with
the shower but not
combed my hair.
HBO reruns
are feeding my frenzy
the sex in Top Gun
is making me cry while
my phone still just
sits there

-Lo, digging up an oldie from 1997, back when holiday weekends were endless and terminally boring. happy national holiday!