Bill Murray on Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations

Saved this in the draft boards about a year ago. The words escaped me then just because... I was who I was. I could not remember what I was thinking then but certainly knew what I was going through.
Now all I can feel is that I am dying to pack my bags again, to roam the nooks and crannies of my choosing. And also, I'm hungry again.

The Happy Light Deluxe

Trying to come out of the bog that has swallowed me the past year. My only solace has been my DVR that always waits for me in my bedroom baring gifts-- Conan, Community, Parks and Rec, Big Bang Theory, Game of Thrones, Mad Men, The Walking Dead, even the schmaltzy Hampton fare Revenge... I could go on. Whatever feeds my flannel-wearing, olive-coloured fancy I ingest through a tube (as well as through cable and wi-fi) as my once youthful backside rots away like my hold to well-being. My sweet friend Shivaun has been imploring me to go back to blogging/writing/what-have-you, for that is just in her character to be supportive of me notwithstanding well, everything--warts, shingles scars and all. Truth is I miss writing but the quag is thick, unmoving and unpalatable as pea soup after 1973. 

Truth is depression is a bitch. Life is a bitch. I do not wish to tear at life's weave in a Love & Hip-Hop cat fight. I just wish to live it and, no matter my anti-social tendencies, live IN it. I am slathered in blessings yet I act like a first-world ingrate. I am sick of melancholy. I am sick of mundane bull-shit. I am sick of other people and the banal. I am sick of me. I am sick of being sick. Carpe diem even if there is not enough of it this time of the year (grrr) and even if youth and a fast metabolism are not on my side (arrrgh). At the very least, just blog the shit out of it....

Countdown to Happy, Finally

Conan O'Brien, American Express: Extended Cut

little black dress, little dark world

There it was. Here was a chance. In the back of a closet of jeans, graphic v-necks and scrubs, was a bourgeoning fruition of girlish dreams that started with vintage-inspired secretary-Peggy Olsenesque junior sizes, then Madge's H&M foray, the labeled staple I bought for a steal online and then there's that number--my Audrey Hepburn movie waiting to happen.

It's my friend R.'s birthday and it's a black & white affair in some club on the peripheries of DC. I've not been out for what feels like a lifetime except for that time last spring where the sweet, crazy, cool Russian un-princess D. invites me to her own b-day, where my fashion choices I deemed rather rusty and unfortunate, although that jaunt through Georgetown was exactly what I needed.

So I'm trying it out- a Black Halo classic with a twist hoping for an iota of Sienna Miller-dom. Dress, opaque tights... now all it needs is a bad-ass bootie. Dress, opaque tights, I march downstairs to the general shoe/coat closet, on all fours and...nada. Dress, opaque tights, I march through a Bosnian war-zone of laundry hampers in the basement (where my shoes regardless of importance and frequency of wear get relegated to) on all fours, and still no booty.

As always my life, notwithstanding my contributions is shoved in some random, second priority slot. I think of the party and ask myself, am I missing much? I do not know anybody else coming to that. Despite our bond, R. has carved a life of her own-- a relationship, a host of friends and a hell of a social life. I am just another guest. Another body seated on the VIP table in a tight dress.

So here I am. In this dark, mess of a room that smells so strongly of reed-diffused lavender, I have a headache. Cats 101 is on marathon. The Lexapro just dulls the edge of despair. The Audrey Hepburn movie is back in the closet still awaiting it's moment. Perhaps it's never going to happen or it's just waiting for me to go back to the gym and to well-being. Perhaps I also need to get Spanx.

the lust

I'm into my 48th hour of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservation marathon that has led up to his return to the city of his first episode, Paris, this time along with the bafflingly soft-spoken Eric Ripert. I also happen to be 5 days into my bed-in of nothing that is neither Lennon nor (Larry David's not Marriage Ref Jerry's) Seinfeld and more like sleeping next to a pile of laundry. As the last weeks of summer trickle away, the walls that smell like take-out, close in and I am swallowed by my cheap, crumb-strewn mattress, I itch to live a sliver of this person's life that I see on the idiot box. I have always been hounded of the there's-more-to-life but cannot necessarily act on it nor afford it all the time.

As the daughter of a school librarian/social studies teacher and a civil engineer my Potter-esque destiny is set in Muggle world. So aside from the encyclopedic (i.e. Book of Knowledge) wonders of world, the foodie fest, better weather and far better manners I wish to partake in, I thought I should keep these links in my backpack pockets. Slightly less magic. More nerd. Some caffeine.

1. The Most Amazing Libraries in the World

2. The Most Amazing Bookstores in the World

And something closer to home current zip code,

3.  America's Most Amazing Libraries

Niceties and Garbage

This is easily the kind of thing I spook my friends with. Except for a very precious few, I am surrounded by a confounding amount people that I have nothing in common with. Sure their concern may be sincere as much as the details that precede may be titillating fodder during mouthfuls of lechon and carbonara. I could be in a room full of my green-joking, work story-swapping and karaoke-belting ilk but I'd still feel hollow... and alone.

Happiness lately is to be curled up in an oft unmade bed, in a finally silent house that is not mine, cackling maniacally to the bleeped continental profanities of Craig Ferguson addressing his Skeleton Army or; witness Colbert in full-on right-wing smarm call a Coulter-clone's writing racist and banal or; swoon over Stewart and his fine Mexican waiter ass and all while commiserating with fellow absurdist comedy nerds in Team Coco. Even yukking it up on Chelsea's panel and eviscerating pop culture with sigh-inducing McHale have been salve to the spirits after January's clusterfuck. (At least until November.)

Yes, that is me. That is my life. I can happily take your kid to school but I may blow-off your barbecues here and there. I may forget to buy a baby shower gift but that cake I bought from Ya-ya's is from the heart (and I promise I'll get you a real gift!) and NO, I will not go out with any of your relatives. Don't bother putting in a good word to the next available young doctor who comes through the door that I have to coach through ordering a protocol Heparin drip. Please refrain from advertising in my behalf that I am trying to land a white dude. Don't go asking people in happy relationships if they have a brother to spare, just because I happen to get along with them. I can call on you for being profoundly gauche but that just may go over your head or if just barely, leads to nothing but trite exchanges of douche-baggery from both of us. I'd rather be watching Quackers the shit-eating duck and, reliving Norm MacDonald's moth joke. I respect that you find rock concerts and clubbing bacchanal and museums are not your thing. Find a hobby like cross stitch or purchase new drapes. We may not be kindred spirits but I am still a friend. And yes, I have a huge lady-jones for Shirley Manson.

Now leave me to my videos.

flickring: the last 12 or so

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Originally uploaded by cjbando
Funny how the days and the theory of relativity seem to meld into a blur of activities then at it's most mundane and inconsequential-- like convincing yourself to tackle the oft-postponed chores during nth repeat marathon of Star Wars on Spike-- then pounce out of its sheep's clothing, straight to your jugular, to remind you life is trickling past you and out of you.

There's that way overdue final writing assignment I could not seem to submit which is rather rude of me, towards my amiable mentors in Connecticut. There's the bed that needs to be covered and made, that I have been sleeping in for the past week san linens. There's the room that is something out of Hoarders, littered by Rolling Stone magazines, and stuff I ordered online, like the Balenciagas that have yet to fit me right and The Clash series Chucks that have yet to impress the male of the species, if not invoke envy. (I have not seen my floor in months.) Ah, and there's the laundry-- four months worth of laundry. One cannot wax poetic on that.

Of course there is this long-ignored blog. This used to be my solace, the ether I scream my travails unto as much as my self-indulgences. There has been social networking portals once but since my virtual social life has made the Faustian leap to emulating my real life (although thank heavens for Privacy Settings and post filters..), I guess this low-traffic snippet of the blogosphere has made it's comeback, unless sheer laziness and ennui renders me useless again.

Thank God for photographs. There is still testament that life still bear something of interest even in hindsight, that once I woke up one morning and something simply took my breath away just by being and in the background Marley assures me that every little thing's gonna be alright.

The Long Dark

Winter had been cruel. Hibernation was in the virtual comforts of social networks posting my angst over network TV and the scruples of showbusiness. In the midst of strangers with profile pics and similar minds, I took solace in posted links as my actual one to the world outside diminished like the floor space of my bedroom. Stifled despair swallowed me into the vacuum.

Ultimately, I only have fancy words and writerly pretentions to proclaim in some stagnant blog that winter has been rough. Life has been rough.

Now spring reckons with the promise of sun and greenery only to torture with gray & rain. Damn East Coast weather. I still fear. I still rage. At least, that orange orb is out there somewhere behind those clouds--be it the sun or the ginger pompadour of Conan O'Brien.

-- Post From My iPhone, my so-called mobile life.

Location:Criswell Ct,Rosedale,United States