Interior Decorating

A gem from Bella today, on IM:

Bella says:
i overheard some high school kids talking

Bella says:
one of them said:

Bella says:
i'd like redecorate her interior. i almost spit my food out.

McBickle says:
girl or boy?

Bella says:
boy talking about girl

McBickle says:
ew.

Bella says:
it was so base.

Ceiling of the San Sebastian church. Because I like it. 

Small World Project

This is fundamental if you need something to do while staring at your computer:

Small World Project - Columbia University. Have fun.

Begin Mexico Pictures: Here

My Russian grandfather fought under General Pershing in Mexican against Pancho Villa, whose picture was on the wall at the San Sebastian hacienda. My father says he was in the cavalry, and that he once had to stop and manually--literally--help his horse get over a stomach "blockage."

A hole in the wall at the artist's hacienda in San Sebastian. A gun fits snugly in there.

Banyan Tree

Vallarta Et Al.

Above and below is a sampling of photos from my trip to Puerto Vallarta. Rather than put too many, I put ones I find beautiful, or ones that have a story behind them, like the ones of Pachita.

Pachita is an 83-year-old woman who lives in San Sebastian, a town of 531 people in the Sierra Madres. We flew 15 minutes in a single-engine turbo prop to get there. The old road that winds through the mountains is a two-day journey otherwise. I hope you can get a sense of the imp that she is—from her smile, her smooth skin, her piles of junk. The junk comes from an old store she ran, which is temporarily closed, I don’t know why. She has been writing verses daily for years. She read one, which our guide simultaneously translated, about love.

She has never married, but is one of 21 children so her family is extensive. Most have left her tiny town, however. She is well looked after by the townspeople. The children buy candy from her, and their parents donate goods for her to sell.

I asked her if it was acceptable for a woman in her day, in her part of the world, to remain single her whole life. She said the priests once asked her to become a nun, which she agreed to, but then changed her mind about. And yes, it is perfectly acceptable to remain alone, she said. Besides, she has had 16 marriage proposals in her life.

Other points of interest, maybe:

Agave plants make tequila.

I do not have photos of hanging out with sea lions or flying through the tree canopy, although those things stand out in my mind, after meeting Pachita.

Hazy morning from my balcony in Vallarta.

Morning fog at the hotel.

Old woman selling corn snacks in Puerto Vallarta.

Typeface on a building in San Sebastian.

A little cowboy in San Sebastian.

Pachita in her house.

Pachita, close up.

Pachita when she was young; on the cover of her first published book of poems.

Pachita with our guide, Jose, for size comparison.

Jesus and chalice in San Sebastian's church.

A bartender in San Sebastian.

The La Quinta coffee plantation entrance sign.

A little boy at the coffee plantation in San Sebastian.

Agave from the air.

(peekaboo.)

Mexico Is Cool

I spent the last five days holding sea lions, zipping through tree canopies and making kamikaze dives in a single-engine plane into the Sierra Madres.

I also met a woman named Pachita who is no more than 4 feet tall, lives alone in a village of 531 people and has written thousands of poems in her 83 years.

Pictures coming soon.

For All the Ladies Who Like Sex in Canada

(or anywhere else. I mean, you can be Canadian and have sex anywhere. At least that’s what they say.)

This, today, from AP:

COPENHAGEN, Denmark -- New research indicates parts of the brain that govern fear and anxiety are switched off when a woman is having an orgasm but remain active if she is faking.

[and why we feel badly for men]:

Holstege said he had trouble getting reliable results from the study on men because the scanner needs activities lasting at least two minutes and the men's climaxes didn't last that long.

Your Daily Distraction, Courtesy Him

A friend sent me an “open letter” to the Kansas school board on the creationism debate, something I’ve been writing about. My favorite part is the drawing included with the letter, which the author describes this way:

“P.S. I have included an artistic drawing of Him creating a mountain, trees, and a midget. Remember, we are all His creatures.”

Lions vs. Animals

ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia (AP) -- Police say three lions rescued a 12-year-old girl kidnapped by men who wanted to force her into marriage, chasing off her abductors and guarding her until police and relatives tracked her down in a remote corner of Ethiopia.

[And, the crowning quote:]

"They stood guard until we found her and then they just left her like a gift and went back into the forest," said Sgt. Wondimu Wedajo.

Block the Block

I’m having official writer’s block.
Certified.
By me.
As someone who does not usually have it.
So I’m working out the kinks, right here. You know, getting the keys loosened up, the fingers nimble.

I just got back from a few hours touring one of New York’s humungous abandoned mental hospitals. I am talking dilapidated. Creepy. Beautiful. Run down like brick fortresses pecked at by crows. Some probably have been.

I toured the place with a politician in her Jaguar. I accidentally swiped her interior tan upholstery with my black Bic pen.

I did.

On the ride, I discovered my white skin is not ready for the beating sun of Mexico. I may fry like fried ice cream. You know, get all melty inside.

Oh. Okay.

It was just a bit of Czech awesomeness.
See fer yerselves:

http://www.amanitadesign.com/

Tell Me

Please. Tell me what this is. Please.

Tequila, I Will Make Peace With You

Apparently every word I say in Spanish comes out sounding Italian. Which makes sense, considering that I speak Italian, not Spanish. But when I lived in Italy, Italians always told me my accent was Spanish. Go figure.

But I am suddenly headed to Mexico next week, and I am regretting my inability to hold more than one romance language in my head at a time. (So long French! I hardly knew ye, Spanish…)

I am also regretting my pale complexion that will welcome the sun like a…like a…I’m going to spare you from my gross simile. It involved flies.

The best part about this trip?

I’m on assignment.

How wonderful to be paid to do what you love. Wasn’t I just talking about this recently? Yes, yes. The pleasures of blogging…

The pleasures of the written word, memory etched into screen-paper-ether for you for as long as your pixels-paper-made up space lasts. Kind of like your head. Which really isn’t very long, now is it?

So I already bought SPF 45 (I did. Really.) but I'm wondering what else a woman takes for five days in Mexico. It's work/vacation. Suggestions? Good books to read? I've got Nabokov's short stories waiting in line, but I'm looking for some more to take with me.

This Is My Blog

This is my blog.
Not that I know what to do with that, as a concept. It’s a space I’ve chosen (mostly) not to use as a diary or a (more mostly) rant space. Sometimes it’s hard though, when there are words in your head that really shouldn’t be spoken to friends—either because it’s really boring for them to hear, or it’s really something you just need to work out for yourself—to know exactly where to store them. And I’ve noticed a lot of people use their blogs for these things. Not that I entirely object to that concept. None of us would enjoy some of our (shall remain nameless) blog friends nearly so much if they didn’t do that. But I’m still stuck, wondering where my words should sit, when they should be hung on my blog laundry line versus remaining in the tumbling dryer of my head.

Oh, and there’s that. There’s no editor to nix your terrible metaphors from your blog. That worries me. I’ve been told that I have a certain classic mcbickle style of metaphor that who the hell knows when is over the top. I think I’ve just gotten lucky so far with editors. They think it’s stylin’. Illin’. Time to go back to writin’ for the money. Cause lord knows you all aren’t paying me for this.

Roman Summer

Just a quick entry to get all of you over to Roman Summer, my dear friend's blog of her, well, her Roman Summer. We lived together (and met) in that very apartment she's staying in a few years ago. Live my nostalgia through her, if that seems at all meta-interesting...

Um, People Are Really Dumb?

TAMPA, Fla. (AP) -- A robbery attempt by a masked man and a gunshot wound to the leg didn't stop a pizza delivery man from making his rounds, pies in hand.

Thomas Stefanelli, 37, said dedication to his job at Hungry Howie's Pizza kept him on the job after a struggle with a robber Saturday night left him bleeding from a bullet wound in his left thigh.

[Seriously. Really dumb. Here’s the rest of the story.]

Nobody Says You Aren’t

A new government study says that more than half of Americans will develop a mental illness at some point in their lives. This seems fair, considering the huge range of mental illnesses and their varying degrees of seriousness. But one researcher, Dr. Paul McHugh, a professor of psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University, is quoted in The New York Times as saying: "Fifty percent of Americans mentally impaired - are you kidding me?"

He goes on to wonder about the ever-expanding classification for mental illness:

"Pretty soon," he said, "we'll have a syndrome for short, fat Irish guys with a Boston accent, and I'll be mentally ill."

What Else Is in Your Skirt, Ma’am?

As if it’s not funny enough that Australian customs officials found 51 fish hidden in a woman’s skirt, the BBC has to have this line:

“While examining the 43-year-old woman's bags on Friday, officials reportedly heard "flipping noises from the vicinity of her waist".”

And I thought that Viagra may cause blindness was funny.

Hahahaha

The Chinese food gods have a message for you (not me) today:

Relax
and enjoy yourself.

Hahahaha.

A Dream and a Message to a Small Mouse

I woke this morning from a dream; I had gotten married. Like full-on, wear-the-dress, get-the-people-gathered married. The only thing was, there was no one I was marrying. My friend (who is not a florist) who was a florist agreed to make me my bouquet and finally agreed to step in as my future-wife. She even made me an engagement ring out of glass and silk. So I married her, with great joy during the ceremony, only she sat in the audience, because it wasn’t really her deal. She was only doing it for me. Which was fine. I hugged my father tearfully afterward and posed for joyous pictures. Some of the family wandered around, whispering about my lack of partner, etc.

Hm, that’s about it.


P.S. Get out of my house, little mouse.*
(*Benito the Mouselini’s cousin has no name yet. Suggestions welcome.)

More on Destiny

I went to the eye doctor today.
The man was cross-eyed.

What I Meant Was

Who wrote that last post? Not me. I mean, I did, at least cliché-me did. I wrote what my blog-self thought it should write. That’s what happens when I’m out of practice, or choose to blog from my inner semi-angst and not riff off articles, etc.

What I really should tell you about is the dream I had recently where I was trying out to be a nurse. In New Jersey. It was a great job and all and the hospital offered it to me. I accepted and in the back of my mind all I could think was, I’m not supposed to be here…I’m supposed to be in a newsroom…

Which was nice that my subconscious knows what it thinks I should be doing. It’s not like I was one of those people who grew up knowing what profession I would join, or that there were things like “professions.” All I knew is that my father came home every day at 6 o’clock in a suit, holding a briefcase, and that when I hit 20 years old, that is what I would do too. Call it a bit of gender confusion. At least, the suit bit.

I’m now 30, and I don’t own a briefcase. I don’t have a suit. Not even one of those crappy woman-suits. I have some nice tailored jackets, but nothing to write the office about.

Thank god.

Damn

All this pseudo posting has really pushed me over some kind of an edge. Where the hell have I been? Even Deep Throat has come out to reveal himself…

I have been, well, here. Always here, watching it all happen, as are you. It might actually feel good to clam up every once in a while—let the dream life/work life take hold. But it also feels good to let it out too…

GodDAMNIT the news media makes me mad (yes, yes, myself included). How much more of the blame can we swallow on the Newsweek scandal for world implosions, while the administration deflects its own responsibility?

DAMNIT why are people so personally disappointing. You can wait years for someone to be who you want them to be, but no, it really never happens that way.

SHITDAMN the years fly by, the world wobbles more than it did, nobody’s any happier, and nobody buys newspapers they way they used to. Your job and career could be something you never wanted it to be and you wonder how long you can fight to make it what you want. There’s not a lot of time, in the end. Fighting for the validity of “anonymous sources” and proper attribution doesn’t matter to most of the population, who has no faith that you are looking to tell the truth anyway…

DAMNDAMNIT there’s not enough time, and there’s just too much to do.

Just look at the little old lady in that last post. I wasn’t kidding. This is what I’m saying.