Enlightenment Can Wait

Lucky girl that I am, I somehow made it onto Mr. METY's email list, so I get these hella long-winded missives from him every once in a while that range from ruminations on existence to poems in honor of Buddha's birthday.

Today's email (titled "Insight into our madness") ended on this chipper note:
There is only one tragedy in this world...it is the reason that the world goes on as it does: and that tragedy is the tragedy of not reconciling what we actually are.

Mr. METY is in need of something, and I'm not sure what it is, but if this latest email is any indication (it would be wrong and unkind to paste the whole thing here, wouldn't it?), I think it's therapy. (And that, my friends, is one of the more Pot Calling the Kettle Black statements I've made in a while.)

Come On Jackie Chan

Rad Brian and his sweet bf are busy moving to the Starbucks-free wilds of New Hampshire, so imagine my delight at discovering a mention of us, back in the day, seeing Ash. Yes, Ash.

I wish I had a copy of "Kung Fu" (it's back in the storage locker we refer to as My Second Home) so instead I'm making do with singing the Ohohohohohohoh! chorus to myself. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, search for this song and give it a listen. So freaking catchy.)

Non, Please

The great thing about quitting smoking while afflicted with a sicky sore throat? The desire for a cigarette is so minimal that the nicotine withdrawal you've become accustomed to with each quitting phase doesn't faze you at all. Of course, I find myself rubbing the patch throughout the day as if it's somehow transmitting an extra kick of nicotine to my system.

I realize it's probably not happening.

After a lollipop binge that left my mouth feeling like a layer of artificial fruit flavoring had taken hold and would never let go, the need to put something--anything--in my mouth to quell the cravings has faded considerably.

Unfortunately, the current state of affairs chez Bravermundo (our impending homelessness leads my father to wander about singing, "I am a hobo") means Striving For Five is a far-off memory. Vegetables, I still heart you.

Another Bex!

Not that I thought that I was the only one, but this one tied the knot in last week's "Vows."

(While we're on the topic of my name, I've been reading Haven Kimmel's The Solace of Leaving Early solely because the protagonist's name is Langston Braverman. There are worse reasons to read a book.)

Ugh

The Show-Me State (aka Where I Currently Live) votes to amend the state constitution to ban same-sex marriage. The horror is all mine.

Sonic Senior

Saturday night, Sonic Youth played at The Blue Note (was the last show I saw there actually Yo La Tengo?) so Erica and Ryan and I headed out to Columbia. I haven't seen SY in years (well, unless you count me tailing Kim Gordon along Houston Street as she toted a Marc Jacobs shopping bag a few years back) so I was pretty psyched. About 45 minutes into the set, a few songs after "Sister" (oh sweet Jesus, Best Song Ever), I started to feel a little weird, and the next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Ryan helped me up and walked me out. On the way out of the club, I passed out again. A bottle of water and several gulps of fresh air later, I started to feel better, but not quite right. We listened to the end of the show (I missed "Teenage Riot," but I'll live, sigh) from outside and waited for Erica to come out. I said to Ryan, "I'm starting to feel a little unsteady again," and then whoomp, I fell again. This guy came over to help him help me up, and said to his friends, "I have seen soooo many drunk folks here tonight." I was like, "Dude, I am stone cold sober." (Side note: to celebrate Ryan's birthday on the 29th, I drank an itty bitty glass of wine and I felt totally loopy. Mad fun.) I went through sweats and a cold spell, but managed to fall asleep without incident (probably because Ryan put a band-aid on my leg to aid in the healing process.)

Monday morning I felt a little nauseous, last night my throat started to hurt...in the middle of all of this, I started the patch to quit smoking and this morning, barely able to swallow, I decided maybe it was time to see a doctor. Lucky me, I'm on antibiotics for the millionth time in the past year. Grody. To the max.