Showing posts with label random. Show all posts
Showing posts with label random. Show all posts

we'll call it Shady Lane

I need an app that maps the shadiest pedestrian route, for any given time of day. Nothing too complicated. Just, you know, an algorithm that calculates the position of the sun relative to building height, trees, sizable landmarks, etc., factored down to the minute so as to maximize the amount of shade one enjoys while walking.

I am convinced that between Google and NASA, the data have already been collected. All that remains is some number crunching.

So can someone please crunch those numbers? Walkability scores are everything nowadays. There's gotta be $$$$ in an app like that.

puppy/party/pasta

In the throes of some serious Saturday laziness but here's a quick phone dump...

A rainstorm (ok some wind and a mild sprinkling) devested one of Chaucer's favorite trees at the library, and he quite sweetly gathered up some blossoms for me. So thoughtful.

We hit Sleepless again last night, which is a free late-night dance/chillout party held in the opera house literally up the street. The event could definitely stand some improvements, but did I mention the free part?

I'm systematically working my way through a couple of Cooks Illustrated recipe books - All-Time Best Pasta and All-Time Best French, and amazingly I've neither poisoned anyone nor burned down the building yet. Below are my (fairly successful) attempts at cappelini al limone, cappelini with tomato-basil-onion-cream sauce, steak au poivre, and asparagus with brown butter and balsamic-soy reduction (not from a recipe book).






And with that my brain has reached its maximum creative output for the day. Happy weekend, lovelies.

the midden-morphosis

A little while ago, this popped up on my phone:



I find this wonderful for three reasons.

1. Midden is one of my recent vocab words. Yes, I study vocab words. No, I'm not preparing for the GRE. Yes, I am just a huge dork.

2. When the notification came, I was eating animal crackers. The bag appears to contain rhinos, though few horns seem to have survived the trip from the Stauffer Biscuit Company factory in York, Pennsylvania.

3. It's "Blue Monday," alleged to be the most depressing day of the year. What better way to celebrate it than by watching insects crawl through shit? Kafka, eat your heart out.

hey all you foxy young things, this is what's coming down the pipe

Apparently, forty is the age at which men start describing you as "vibrant."

Vibrant. Dear god.

I try to take it as a compliment, but I can't help feeling that's it's a kind way of saying, "You clearly used to be hot. And still are, sort of, in a way. Just not, you know, young-hot."

I remind myself of all the lovely things that are regularly described as vibrant. Sunsets. Flowers. Casino hotel carpeting. And I'm sure I'll get used to it. Hell, in five or ten years I'll probably be ecstatic if someone calls me vibrant. But right now? Ugh.

Forty is also the age when you can justifiably start filling in the sentence, "The central problem of my life is ____." Not that you should. That's probably a sentence better left unfinished, unless it's being co-authored by a good therapist. But it doesn't sound so ridiculous anymore, is the point.

I'm really selling this forty thing, I know.

great libraries of the future

I don't like to leave a lot of somedays laying around. They make me nervous. They tap their feet and glare at me expectantly. Once I caught one of the bolder ones making hash marks on the wall. My poor somedays didn't exactly end up with an overachiever for custodian.

But one someday I don't mind is this: Someday I'm going to buy copies of every novel I've ever read, starting with the Pulitzer winners and going backwards through to high school. Hard cover, paperback, I don't care. Whatever's cheapest. And the more used, the more lovingly dogeared, the better. I want books that have been pored over by as many eyes as possible. I want a million sighs of appreciation to echo from their pages. I want to wonder if those that came before me marveled at the same moments, cheered for the same underdogs. I'm going to buy them all at once, too. Or as quickly as I can, anyway. I'm going to fucking swim in them. Papery, pulp-scented piles of them.

I had to ditch (donate) my books when I divorced. My new apartment was just too tiny. Something like eight boxes' worth. It broke my heart. Really - I sobbed. I still regret it terribly. I should have made room. I should have lined the walls with them, in wobbly stacks if necessary. I should have made it work. Rooms without books are soulless, they say. You should run, they say, if you meet someone with no books in their home. (Well, you should probably run from my place regardless, because I'm a terrible hostess who never has liquor on hand.) Both true, to some degree.

The iPad is fantastic for taking notes, certainly. I love the highlight and define features, and being able to keep multiple bookmarks easily. But it's not the same. And everyone who clucked their tongues and said as much was right. I should have listened.

Someday.

squad goals

succession

These are trying times we live in. Economic uncertainty, terrors domestic and foreign, and the unwanted, unaccountable, and severely disappointing replacement of the original J. Crew Cece Ballet Flat.

Just listen to heartbroken Cece loyalists such as "YYCC", who writes: I agree with the other reviewers who put low stars on this version of the Cece ballet flat. They definitely are NOT the same as the previous version...I called Customer Service... I can't walk around the city carefully goose-stepping to make sure I don't roll an ankle from my heel slipping in and out of the shoe. Bring back the original Italian makers!

Low stars indeed! To be clear, then, that's Italian = good; goose-stepping = bad.

But YYCC's disappointment is nothing compared to the crushing blow received by "blondewanderlust" when her mail arrived (assuming she wasn't off wanderlusting at the time): I was SO EXCITED to see the CeCe's back in stock on the site. I shrieked my happiness from every social media platform I am privy to; however, I giggled and danced too soon, as these re-released CeCe's are Wrong, Wrong, Wrong! They don't feel even half as nice as the other 6 pairs I own in leather or suede.

Did you hear that J. Crew? Wrong, wrong, wrong! And blondewanderlust should know, being as she is on her sixth pair. I guess when you're privy to a generous shoe budget--

Wait--hang on a moment--"Letdown" in Colorado has something to say: I've had 8 or 9 pairs of the original Italian CeCe's and they fit like gloves...These new "imported" ones have a rounded toe, instead of the original almond...Adding insult to injury? These remain the same price as the originals, but without any of the value. I was so disappointed...I'm so sorry that J. Crew has started to cut corners on their flats...I'm always willing to spend a fortune in exchange for quality!!

Um. Hm. Eight or nine pairs, you say? Ladies, this isn't a competition. I'm sure you've all had many lovely pairs of Cece flats--

I have 5 pairs of the old Cece ballerina flat... - "animus"
I have two pairs of the original Cece flats... - "msandow"
I own 3 pairs... - "Britain"
If I weren't planning on returning, this would've been my 6th pair of the Cece Ballet Flat - "AnnB"
I have these flats in just about every color, suede and leather... - "Sammie"

OKAY, OKAY, WE GET IT. You bitches collect Cece flats the way I hoard chili oil packets from the Chinese takeout place. And the updated version is causing you so much distress you've put manicured fingers to Macbook keyboards to complain about it.

127 of you have done so, in fact. One hundred and twenty-seven of the most unintentionally hilarious reviews I've ever had an hour to waste on reading. A few more favorites:

The stiching on the Emma flat also makes them look much more casual in comparison to the Cece flat...Audrey Hepburn would wear Cece flats, not Emma flats. - "Petra"

Ed note: Right you are, Petra! Hepburn's abhorrence of visible stitching is well known, and documented with a dedicated chapter in each of her biographies. Also a main point in Roger Moore's eulogy, if I'm not mistaken.

I was very disappointed to receive these flats. I already own a pair and LOVED them so I thought I would order 2 more. When I received them I noticed they are no longer made in Italy. The new Cece flats are made in Romania... - "Mickey"

Ed note: Romania? FUCKING EW.

I don't understand why the only positive review on this page is in regards to the old Cece...seems sketchy... - "ELB2"

This new version is not made in Italy and has a much cheaper look, feel and fit. If someone told me they came from a dude also displaying knock-off bags on a grubby blanket under a bridge in Hong Kong I would totally understand their origin... - "Picnic Jones"

Ed note: Oh adorable. A girl calling herself Picnic has a problem with grubby blankets.

---

Happy belated holidays, I guess? Fighting my way back to regular posting soon I hope!

chicken and jasmine rice

Krista's going through allergy testing which means she's on a restricted diet. She gave me a bunch of food she can't eat, and in return I gave her some of the only thing I could find in my cabinet that she can: jasmine rice.

After our swap, I noticed a recipe on the back of the rice package that called for ingredients I already have. Since I'd never cooked with jasmine rice before, I decided to give it a try last night. Terence and I liked it so much I made it again today, just so I could give Krista some. (She gave me some of an amazing gouda and spiral cut yam dish recently, and I owed her back, plus this seemed simple enough to meet her current diet criteria.)

Well, it was a big hit (I've been shoveling food into my mouth since you left. That's so good, wtf.) and it occurred to me that this is an awesome recipe to keep on hand for winter, since cold and flu season is coming up. It's easy and quick and while it's not bland-toast bland (it's definitely savory and aromatic), it's not overpowering. A good sick or getting-over-being-sick dish.

Note: the original recipe uses chicken thighs but every time I cook with thighs they come out rubbery and awful, because I am clueless. The breast substitution seems just fine.

CHICKEN AND DOUBLE JASMINE RICE

1 bag jasmine tea

1 chicken bullion cube

1 tablespoon butter

2 lbs boneless skinless chicken breast

1/2 cup chopped onion

3/4 cup jasmine rice

Add tea bag to 1-1/2 cups hot water; let stand 1 minute. Remove and discard tea bag. Add bullion to tea to dissolve. Heat large frying pan over high heat. Add butter to melt. Add chicken, cook 3-4 minutes on each side or until browned. Remove from pan. Add onion to same pan. Saute 30 seconds. Mix in rice and tea mixture. Add chicken. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low, cover, and simmer for 25 minutes or until liquid is absorbed. Remove from heat. Let stand covered 10 minutes before serving.

cat sitting live blog

So here's a fun thing that's happening today. I'm cat sitting for Ross and Kerry, not because they're out of town, but because there's a shoot happening in the apartment next door to theirs. When that happens, the film crew needs an overflow space - another apartment, typically, where they can store furniture, props, etc. during the shoot. Production companies pay a lot of money to residents willing to be temporarily displaced for this. And normally, my friends would stash their cats in boarding for the day, collect a check for their trouble, and head to work. Today, however, they were unable to board the cats (long story). And rather than decline the opportunity and miss out on a very nice compensation check, they called me to duty.

I'm pretty sure I'm one of the highest earning cat sitters in the country today. And I know I'm the only one being paid to live blog it.

My job is to make sure the cats stay safe and out of the way and none of my friends' property is damaged in the chaos. And oh wow is it chaotic. And loud. So chaotic and loud I'm not exactly sure what I could get done other than just watch. I brought a book but concentrating on Faulkner would be impossible. So I'm gonna live blog this shit. I've never done a live blog and I'm not really sure how it works other than hitting refresh when I add to the post, but we'll wing it. Yes yes?

8:00 am - The crew is moving, hauling, taping, putting down mats, setting up tables. Ross is getting ready for work and I'm settling into the sofa for the day. Angled to see all the action and keep an eye on the staircase. The cats, Jumper and Gutch, have been shooed upstairs. Gutch is cowering terrified in the closet but Jumper is basically like a dog and will want to mingle with the crew and wander onto the set next door. I meet the location manager, Stacy, who briefs me and invites me to eat lunch with the crew later today. Fun!



8:45 am - Ross leaves for work. I take over.

9:00 am - "Ready to go," I hear someone say into a walkie talkie. A woman grabs a silver tumbler filled with plastic holly berries from a pile of props and heads back next door. It's a Christmas-themed shoot. A promo for The Walking Dead. Apparently there will be zombies on set. Fuck yeah.

9:04 am - Jumper tries to make a break for it down the stairs. Here we go.

9:08 am - There are a lot of men in flannels and puffy vests stomping around this loft. Like, more stomping men in flannels and puffy vests than exist anywhere outside of Alaska, I'd wager.

9:10 am - Oh yeah, Jumper is going to make me earn every cent today. I have to sit on the stairs to block her descent.



9:18 am - Everyone is talking about burritos downstairs. "Did you get a burrito downstairs?" "I had a burrito downstairs. I'm good." No burritos up here, though. I am intrigued by the Myth of the Downstairs Burrito.

9:42 am - A man with an Australian accent is separating threads of tinsel from Christmas ornaments with great frustration. Oi, I feel your pain, mate. Gaffers are wheeling in load after load of equipment. The loft is crammed full of crap. I'd be having an anxiety attack if it was my place. No wonder they pay so much. I'm back to the couch, since even Jumper seems overwhelmed.


9:57 am - I just met Dan, the director. He's like a younger, hipper Bob Balaban. Craft services is setting up a table right in front of where I'm sitting. Location manager Stacy jokes that this is good news. "All kinds of snacks right within reach! Or maybe it's bad news, if you're like me and will eat all day." I don't know what to say to this. The apartment is filled with the smell of pastries. Maybe I should retreat upstairs with my Faulkner. I'm probably creeping the crew out, lol.

10:12 am - I've moved upstairs and am chillin' with Jumps on the bed. A reader just emailed, slightly alarmed by the content of my previous post. Worried I'm going to get myself arrested. It's all good, I wrote back. I'm not going to jail, I promise. And if I do I'll demand wifi so I can keep everyone entertained. A couple of guys downstairs are having a very enthusiastic discussion about tape. "It's the most incredible double stick tape you've ever seen. It's called Killer Red." Ten more hours to go. I wonder if I can take a nap.


10:34 am - I peer over the railing and this is what I see on the tables below. Creepy masks, cupcakes, and enough munchies to feed a zombie army. Lurching around and groaning is apparently hungry work.




10:51 am - People everywhere. I hear snippets of a dozen conversations.

"Someone’s running to Target for it.”

"We should really use the polka dots instead.”

"I understand your point.”

“My mom used to make dinner for us. It was a can of tomato soup, white toast, and Welsh rarebit.”

“Don’t turn it on! Don’t turn it on!”

“Wardrobe might wanna look at his socks."

Every free square inch of space in this home is being used. I can barely get to the bathroom without climbing over stuff. A stocky, mustached security guard ambles in, his thumbs hooked on his waistband. He looks around approvingly. I can’t look around without cringing. Back upstairs I can hear a glass being filled from a water cooler. They brought a water cooler in here??

11:09 am -


11:35 am - Okay yeah the novelty of this experience has about run out. They've propped the doors open so it's freezing in here, I'm too shy to take any food even though I'm starving, and everyone's whispering is making me sleepy.

12:01 pm - The propmaster is doctoring zombie masks according to direction getting relayed from next door. Aussie guy is explaining to her in detail what they want. "Yeah, and if you could just make it hanging askew, with the blood, right? So the skin folds back like this? Gonna take a while though so you'd better get crackin'."

12:19 pm - Director to propmaster: "I wanted to show you that. That is the trajectory we're going for. So my question is, how far can we go with this? Can we have more blood splatter? Again, as far as the blood matching up, my only concern was that I didn't want to be gratuitous about it. But I sort of feel like there should be some blood on the cake. So just a little bit more hair, and we can go further with the airbrushing, okay?"

12:33 pm - "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE PUT SOME SHOES ON THE ACTOR?!? THANK YOUUU!" Sounds like somebody needs a cupcake.

12: 45 pm - Confidential to Tricia: I apologize for the misleading title but does this face look like it could handle Chaucer right now:

"The fuck is happening out here??"

I briefly considered bringing him since film crews always adore him, but he would have been stressed out and in everyone's way. Plus I think he's too big to even go up the spiral staircase, though we've never tried...

1:09 pm - Everyone went to have lunch in the lot downstairs. Doors are still propped open and people are in and out though, so I can't leave the cats. But that's okay because I brought pine nut couscous, which someone just caught me shoveling into my face just now when they crept up the stairs to check out the bedroom and patio above. "Cmmm ahp," I garbled. Gutch was emboldened enough by the relative quiet to go sun herself on the top stair where the light comes in. Jumper is snoozing beside me. I think I'm gonna swipe a cinnamon roll and then start The Reivers.

1:54 pm -

Same.

3:58 pm - Text to Terence: I just realized that whenever I want you to stop talking and shut up immediately all I have to do is yell "Rolling!" Him: LOLOL


6:45 pm - Oh hai. Preceding hours were just more of the same. I got tired of eavesdropping and listened to music, sneezing every thirty-five seconds or so. Cats: my only allergy. Anyway. Gutch is over it. Jumper is over it. Ellie is over it.  Zombieland live blog is over and outttt.

open letter to my would-be identity thief

To Whom I Should Be Concerned About,

Thank you for your recent interest in assuming my identity. As by now you're probably aware, my financial institution has unfortunately decided to reject your offer of anonymous proxy. I say "unfortunately" since, not having met you, I can't comment on whether this was a wise choice. Fact is, most days I rather suck at being me. You might very well have been better at it. Hurt fewer people, be more productive, cook more interesting meals - that sort of thing. Now we'll never know.

That is of course unless you decide to reapply, say, after a respectable interim? I can assure you that my bank is quite inept as a rule, and I expect any additional attempts at grift to slide by unnoticed. Indeed I remain shocked this one even caught their eye.

However, should you wish to take another stab at defrauding me, might I make one small suggestion? Sign me up for better websites. I understand you must be terribly busy, but I cannot emphasize enough the importance of getting to know your intended victim. And I, dear sir or madam, am no Christian. In fact there are few places online that hold less interest for me than ChristianMingle.com. For future reference, I've taken the liberty of compiling a short list of sites I'm more likely to be found browsing:

FistAndMingle.com, the web's premier destination for brachiovaginal-curious singles

ChristianMangle.com, containing a comprehensive photo archive of ancient Colosseum bloodsporting events

CrispinMingle.com, where Crispin Glover fans can connect over their love of this multi-talented actor, director, recording artist, publisher, and author!

ChristieDingle.com, fundraising home of presidential hopeful Chris Christie's fecal conservative supporters

Thanks again for taking the time to briefly, if unsuccessfully, impersonate me online. As a blogger, I sustain myself emotionally on the supposition that everyone wants to be me. I appreciate you confirming my suspicion!

Until next time,
Ellie

---

april leftovers

Look at that face, Thrifty. I hope you can live with yourself

This is what $50/month saved in pet rent looks like. And if I wanted to, now I could take him on the train, or in grocery stores. (I don't want to.) Though it's questionable from his expression which of us needs the emotional support more.


No edits on this. Just white pants + the trippy lighting in Bar 107. I rushed out to show Terence: "BABY I HAVE NO LEGS IN THE BATHROOM" and he said "That's amazing, honey! You finished off the shrooms, didn't you?" (I did not.)


Do you have any idea how long it takes to Photoshop nose hairs?


From a stupidly fun afternoon hanging out by the pool(?) at Ace Hotel.


Most people don't know this about me, but I am actually 1/16th turtle. Check out that neck extension!


TopMan INDEED


ELLIE STOP POSTING UNFLATTERING PICS OF YOURSELF WTF


Aforementioned afternoon, with my boys Mark and Dennis


They don't come classier than us.


Sometimes I look at things other than my own camera lens.


Mark, me, and Snuggles.


Ugh, it is SO embarrassing when the gum in my hair gets stuck to Mark's shoulder. THAT'S TWICE NOW.


This beauty's just a block away from my apartment. (Los Angeles Public Library)


Apartment's clean if not the sock!


Soon the US Bank Tower will cease to be the tallest building in LA. We're just trying to make it feel special while we can.


He played "I'm On Fire" for me, in the dark, after I asked if he knew it. (He didn't, but he found the chords online and learned it on the spot.)



starter pair

Sometimes I think everything you'd need to know about my terribly flawed character you could learn from my eyeglasses.

When I was first diagnosed with astigmatism, I had a pair of my dad's drugstore readers refitted with my prescription. He kept them scattered around his house the same way he hoarded mechanical pencils - the same way I keep a tiny blue jar of Blistex handy in nearly every dresser, cabinet, and purse. At a certain age you get tired of looking for things.

Anyway, they were a temporary and sentimental fix. Cheap green plastic, one of the few personal items of his that I saved. After all, they literally let me see the world the way he did. And I resisted buying new frames that would suit me better because every time I put a pair on, I saw my mother in the mirror. Given the choice, I'd rather see my dad's past looking back at me than my own future.

When I finally gave in, it was Chanel that seduced me past my hangup. Rectangular, midnight blue acetate, tasteful twin Cs mounted on an inch of delicate leather quilting at the temple. They were so beautiful I didn't notice that they were essentially the same shape and style as my dad's pharmacy readers. Or that they made me look more like my mother than anything else I'd tried on. They were $300. They were, technically, my first pair. I consider myself a generous person towards others, but when it comes to something for me? Entitled doesn't even begin to cover it.

I still have them, remarkably. I've managed not to lose or break them yet. But because I am so goddamn lazy, they're almost always smudged to a comical degree. I'd be embarrassed to leave the house in them, yet I'll sit at my desk for hours on end, fully aware of the fingerprints through which I'm viewing my laptop screen, and never so much as wipe them on my shirt. Three hundred dollars. Starter pair.

And to put the cherry on this symbolism sundae, I never remember to take them when I need them most: night driving.

In other words, this thing from which I benefit greatly - this beautiful, valuable thing which, when I take advantage of it, helps me do better - is the thing I most casually disregard and take for granted.

Not all problems can be erased with a soft, dry cloth.

DJ white noise

I was messing around with the White Noise app earlier, layering sounds to make mixes I thought I could share here for a lol. Unfortunately while saving and uploading them to SoundCloud was a snap, they wouldn't process for some reason. Tried twice but the gag isn't worth any further effort.

Anyway, here's a screenshot:







I was particularly proud of that second one, which sounds exactly like the quieter parts of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. I guess if you have kids they might get a kick out of them? Good background for a spooky story or something? Or perhaps that's a terrible idea and it's a good thing your children are far out of reach of Creepy Aunt Ellie and Her Bedtime Nightmare Noise Machine. Yeah, more likely that. Whatever, here are the formulas:

Changeling Forest = Amazon Jungle + Chimes Chiming
Creepy Bayou = Frogs at Night + Crickets Chirping + Boat Swaying in Water
Hermione and Crookshanks on the Hogwarts Express = Cat Purring + Train Ride

Sweet dreams, muahahah.

priorities

Went to buy some add-ons for an app tonight and the Apple Store message window got a little sassy with me.


The nerve, right?

I actually didn't get that one but I did pick up the new "Wander" pack from AfterLight, which I have to say gives VSCOcam a run for its artificially faded, hipsteriffic money:



They are both so over me.

craft

Night three of a gnarly cold. Box a day "Cool Touch" Kleenex habit. Laundry basket toppling with sweat-soaked pajamas and sheets. Too muddleheaded and achey to produce original content (I tried, honest, but the words are bulging and squirming and oh hey, time for more Advil). Instead, something not of my own, but much better anyway.

I'm halfway through Rabbit Is Rich, and my god. I have never in all my. A sampling:

The girls Buddy brings around are a good lesson to Harry in the limits of being single--hard little secretaries and restaurant hostesses, witchy-looking former flower children with grizzled ponytails and flat chests full of Navajo jewelry, overweight assistant heads of personnel in one of those grim new windowless office buildings a block back from Weiser where they spend all day putting computer print-outs in the wastebasket. Women pickled in limbo, their legs chalky and their faces slightly twisted, as if they had been knocked into their thirties by a sideways blow.

Jesus god.

He is glad to escape the house, the pinch of the women, their heat. Crazy the way they flog at each other with these ghosts of men, Daddy dead, Nelson gone, even Harry himself a kind of ghost in the way they talk of him as if he wasn't standing right there. Day after day, mother and daughter sharing that same house, it's not natural. Like water blood must run or grow a scum.

Some characterizations:

That slippery-quick salesman's smile of his, Rabbit can see it still. Like a switchblade without the click.

...she has milky skin like his daughter but is shorter, and the weary woman she will be is already moving into her face.

She looks allergic, that pushed-in face, like she'd have trouble breathing. Defects come in clumps.

The liquid in the glass he can't identify by its color, a sickly but intense red like old-fashioned cream soda or the fluid in thermometers.

He looks in the candlelight after saying this like a cardsharp who has snapped down an ace.

His gray suit makes him seem extra vulnerable, in the way of children placed in unaccustomed clothes for ceremonies they don't understand. 

...he enunciates with such casual smiling sonorousness that his sentences seem to keep traveling around a corner after they are pronounced. 

I'm going to keep a copy of this book with me at all times, so the next time someone mistakes what I do for writing, I can hurl it at them and yell "NO, THIS IS WRITING."

I remember starting Rabbit, Run several years ago but I must not have gotten very far. Either that or I just glided across the surface, not apprehending, too lazy to take my time with it. I don't think I've ever read anything as slowly as I'm reading this, which is probably more useful to a wannabe such as myself than a dozen workshops. Good thing my highlighter is digital because it'd be dry by now.

For storytelling my heart belongs to John Irving and for inventiveness I'm still reeling from Jennifer Egan's A Visit From the Goon Squad. But for craft? Why hello, John Updike. Hellooooooo.

kinda though

A Pair Of Gross Oversimplifications 
(each containing a grain of truth)

1. Being stylish requires little more than having the patience to endlessly chase denim hemlines up and down, in and out, all while scrambling to pair them with "on-trend" shoes of the appropriate fucking heel height.

2. Everything I need to know about you, I know from how comfortable your dog's collar is. If you put your pet in a stiff, heavy leather collar because you think it looks better than something soft and pliable (such as nylon) - you are a terrible human being. 

aint nobody got time for that (except me)

As previously threatened, I have assembled and posted the full set of LobbyEllies. Pretty sure I'm breaking the record for most selfies on a single page. Wondering if I can add that achievement to my LinkedIn.



Mock see the full set here!

water, logged

Here's a fun exercise. Write an abstract of the metaphorapolooza that is Water Gravity I mean All is Lost, seeing how many words/expressions you can employ that are figuratively apt...as well as being literal descriptions of action that occurs in the film. It's exactly the sort of thing David Brooks was talking about in this New York Times piece (that we can barely get through a conversation without resorting to metaphor).

I highlighted mine in Indian Ocean blue.

Our Man is coasting through life, no longer in his prime but still plenty capable of weathering storms. Along comes Misfortune, blindsiding him, breaching his security. In order to overcome this challenge, he must identify, explore, and find a way to untangle himself from it. Our Man shores up the hole left behind, but the damage is catastrophic. He can barely stay afloat. And just when he gets his head above water, forces beyond his control take him for a tumble. His cries for help go unanswered. Our Man salvages what he can before letting go of what threatens to drown him. Adrift, subject to the tides of fortune, he must learn new skills - including new ways of seeing the world - in order to survive. Broken and battered, humbled at the hands of nature, he is invisible to those who could help him. Only when he is willing to give up everything can he be saved.

Yep. I actually just did that.

If you need me, I'll be over here cooing reassuringly to my diploma. That's right, precious. Professor looks after us. Professor wouldn't hurt us. Liberal artses degrees aren't useless. Sneaky little counselorses! Wicked, tricksy, false! 

in which some fucks, admittedly, were given

POP QUIZ! 

Why does your blogmistress insist on showcasing the contents of her nostrils in photographs? 

a) The nostrils are the windows to the soul, everyone NOSE that haw haw noses are funnnnnny! Ewwww boogers and snot is it almost time for recess?? I want my juice box!

b) She figured out she looks at least six months younger from that angle. Seven when flash is used.

c) Ellie is actually a soothsayer named Nostrildamus. Her predictions for the future are tattooed on the inside of her septum. (Control+ to zoom.)

d) She's trying to put the coke rumors to rest. 

e) Honestly I'm just glad she's wearing some fucking clothes, okay?? 

f) She found some great quotes on a Pinterest board and really took them to nose heart:






And then a couple that seem pretty good as they are...



Sorry for the massive triple by-post in your inbox, subscribers. I guess I'm uncorked.

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(quotes all pulled from here and here)

hi from the hallway

Inspiration feels to me like freely roaming an empty palace. Dozens of rooms, each representing some idea or piece of writing seeded in my brain - each a quiet space where I'm creatively capable. I can walk into any chamber I choose and the words will come easily.

When I'm blocked, it's like being trapped inside that palace, though with every door locked. I can't do anything but pace the hallways, shut in but shut out, stuck in the frustrating place between possibility and flow.