First-class cabins aboard zeppelin flights to Manchukuo are limited. Those seeking space aboard flights from the zeppelin fields in the Niigata hills to the Manchurian steppe must apply within for letters of transit...and must describe in detail why they would be welcome travel companions. Boarding passes issued at discretion of Manchukuo authorities.
I thought that the taste of the future would be Crystal Diet Pepsi. We were all of us betrayed by the '90s.

I could've ordered Chinese takee-outee tonight, but I just didn't have the energy. That's a sad thing--- Eduardo-kun is too tired even to order and eat Mongolian beef or beef-fried rice. Very sad indeed.

I did stand out on the upper deck with a shot of Stoli and watch the sky turn red and orange. There is that.

Now I did come home and do laundry. I need to follow Jill's advice and wash bath towels and face cloths on a two or three day cycle, and not on the usual Sad Bachelor Cycle. I also disposed of a number of older towels and washcloths. Pare it all down, Jill tells me. And she's right. She always is.

I need to get N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch's take on closet inventories, too. How many sets of sheets, how many towels does N. think you should have if you're living alone? Advice is always welcome, darlings. And I need to get N.'s take on capsule summertime wardrobes, too. And her own latest Escape Wardrobe Packing List.

When I got home, I took a small table I'd brought when I moved in and just carried it to the dumpster. Let's make floor space here. Let's have room to move. Let's have space the way Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita has at her house in Thorndon. I'll do more purging soon--- opening up space, getting rid of objects that are dust traps (but never the stufflings, never the Little Guys!). And I'll throw out more and more papers and stacks of stationery I'll never use. I do have to go through my closet--- and through the Rubbermaid tubs filled with shirts and trousers still in plastic.

Jill is right, of course. Decluttering is addictive. You begin to get a rush from the act of purging your past, from the sense of escaping the weight of the past. Walking through a decluttered, newly minimalist flat has a feeling of weightlessness.

So much to do here--- clothes to donate at charity boxes, things to throw out. I just want so much to have space to walk in, to pace through. I want to thing that I could just throw things into a single bag and fly away. I want to be able to just walk away from things and into new rooms and new lives. I just don't know if I have Jill's courage. Or the courage of N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch. Walking away from things terrifies me.

N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch has been experimenting with facial masks ("sheet masks"?)--- the facial regimen kind, not the "Eyes Wide Shut" kind. I should probably take advice from her on this. N. has been a key advisor in my quest to hang on to the shreds of any appearance of youth and attractiveness. Skin care and facial regimens are...key things. Advice from N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch and Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita matters a lot.

I have my new L.L. Bean cotton blanket. It does feel lovely. It's cream with blue stripes, and it's light enough for all-season use in the Deepest South. I'll need that. Tonight may be the last night 'til mid-October when I can sleep with the windows open. Tomorrow will be the first air-con day of the Year Seventeen. Well, we almost made it 'til May. I'll be turning the a/c on tomorrow and dealing with temperatures in the upper 80s F. Jill tells me that houses in Wellington have heat pumps but not air-con. I'm not sure at all about the difference. Nonetheless, this is the Deepest South, and I'm looking at six months with the a/c on.

The L.L. Bean blanket, now--- yes, it's a lovely thing. And I wish Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita or N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch would be stretched out on it tonight, reading to me. Well, yes, naked. Was that ever a question? How else should any beautiful girl sleep, especially here in Eduardo-kun's flat? The real question is what Jill or N. would be reading to me. That's always a key issue. Poetry? Prose? Their diaries? What's the proper drink for each genre?

I suppose I should've ordered food. Or stopped off for pizza on my way home. But I just...didn't. Anyway...maybe I'll do something tomorrow. It's just hard to persuade myself to either cook or spend money for food most evenings. I'd rather just walk by the river and dream about maritime escapes...or stand on the upper deck and drink and think about the violet hour, about the hour entre chien et loup. Though...Katelyn's restaurant has kim chi buns and lamb lollipops as bar food in the evenings now. That is worth considering. I've always been a fan of kim chi. I just wish I could get dim sum or pork buns downtown.

There was a meme thing around this morning that urged you to create an indie band name out of Your Favourite Fruit + The Reason You Last Took Painkillers. My answer was Mango + Crushed By The Weight Of A Hopeless Existence. Works for me as an indie band name. And it explains why I'll end up eating my final meal at Arby's and swigging from a flask filled with cheap rye whiskey while I dip my curly fries in the Horsey Sauce.
Grey and wonderfully cool this morning. In the mid-80s F yesterday, but it'll only be in the mid-60s F today. Which is perfect, really. It rained last night, and I was out on the deck with a tin cup of Wild Turkey Rye, watching rain fall out over the river.

Up early, and I carried two big bags of books and DVDs over to the downtown library to drop off as donations in the overnight box. Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita / [personal profile] lime_vodka is right about decluttering and how it gets to be a habit. My current goal is to pare down the DVDs 'til I can fit the permanent collection on one of my (newly-purged) bookshelves. Purging bookshelves is hard; I'll admit that. Back when I was living up in the suburbs, I had a couple of thousand books. I pared down to maybe five hundred or so when I moved into the lakeside flat. I may try to get down to no more than two hundred. I love the feel of physical books, and I still find e-books awkward. But I want...space. And I want the psychological feel of lightness. I want to be free to move in space--- physical and psychological ---without being chained down by Stuff. Or Things.

Windy outside--- I'll be back out in a bit for brunch. Now that I feel safe at Katelyn's restaurant again, I'll be going over for brunch. And there's something really nice on walking city streets on grey, breezy days. Call it a vision of urban life based on too many movies. Anyway, it's a chance to wear sleeves and a hoodie in a Deepest South late-April. That's always something. Though I will have to consider a brunch cocktail that's not quite so springtime. Fortunately, I can rely on good advice from the bartenders.

The lovely N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch says that she needs a little house in Logan Square/Humboldt/Ukrainian Village, with a yard and room for a piano and all my kitchen gadgets... Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita tells me that she and I need a small cottage by the beach, somewhere for books and gardening and playing bridge or Xiangqi/Chinese Chess on the verandah. I'm a city kid, but I like both visions. I'd bring books, of course. And kitchen gadgets? Well...a big black cast iron skillet, a few good chef's knives, and a French press. That sounds about right. A small house in a genteel-bohemian neighbourhood someplace downtown would be lovely, But...open water. Open water. I love that--- being able to have a sailboat, being able to smell salt air every morning.

I have to spend some time this evening setting up user pics for my Dreamwidth account and making sure that all the post-import entries from here are mirrored there. If things ever do go dark here, I want to be able to step over to a new site immediately. I just wish I could instantly and automatically bring all the people here who've been my friends-and-correspondents over the years with me.

Time to make a first pass at my closet this afternoon. Also the linen cabinet. Too many bath towels--- so I'll pare down and get rid of the ones that've seen better days. I live alone, and even with the occasional overnight guest I don't need a closet stuffed full of last decade's towels. Now there is a question--- treat each bath towel as part of a set, with each one assigned a face cloth and a hand towel, or look at those three things as separate categories? Jill says that six sets should carry you through anything, and I tend to believe her. We'll just have to see.

I need to talk to N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch about Korea and things Korean. She once recommended a couple of Korean films to me--- one, I remember, was a version of "Dangerous Liaisons" set in 17th or 18th-c. Korea. I need to ask N. for more recommendations on K-films, and on any Korean novelists she knows of in translation.

Halsey is doing "Drive". Lovely song. I love her voice and lyrics more all the time. Though (as always!) I'm waiting with bated breath for a new LDR album. Wouldn't mind a bit of new Beth Orton, either.

Meanwhile...time to go take a look at my linen cupboard and then consider the possibilities at brunch today. I'll have to dash by my office for a bit, but I do plan on coming back here and reading and decluttering. That'll give me some sense of control and purpose...which will make up a bit for life at work.
Warm spring day here, bright and clear, though it's supposed to rain and turn cool tonight. I'm just back from walking downtown for lunch (duck and andouille gumbo) and a local craft beer. Sleepy after lunch, but not from the beer. I went out last night to the steakhouse bar to meet Lacey, and we both agreed that we've become lightweights. A couple of glasses of pinot noir and we were feeling it. How did that happen? I'm someone who sits and drinks and talks and is there all night. I'm not someone gauging whether he can drive after only a couple of glasses. Age, I fear...or insomnia and stress.

Anyway...the lovely and long-legged N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch mentioned that she'd like to dine with me in Nouvelle-Orleans, but knows nothing about restaurants there. Well, I'd very much trust N. to take me all over Chicago, so the least I can do is tell her about a few places in NOLA. If she and I were to dine in Nouvelle-Orleans, we couldn't miss going to the classic places--- Galatoire's, Commander's Palace, Mandina's. All very old-school, very New Orleans, all places with sterling reputations. Galatoire's and Commander's are old, old favourites. Really, now: you can't do NOLA without doing Galatoire's.

Compere Lapin--- I really do want to try there. And there's always La Petite Grocery and Brigtsen's. I've been to them one tim each, and I'd like to try them again. And it's always good to have a lovely art-history girl on your arm when trying new restaurants. I'm pretty sure Anthony Bourdain would agree (and Iron Chef Michiba, too).

I'm sipping a vermouth-and-soda. Not a bad day-drinking springtime drink. Eduardo-kun feels very...1920s Paris expat while drinking vermouth-and-soda. Again, something to recommend to lovely friends-and-correspondents.

When I was in Vienna once, I convinced two Americans bound for the Dalmatian coast that the Croatian word for "thank you" was "gullible". It tells you so much that I'm vur' proud of that.

A Moleskine note from a while ago:

So...it is an insult to the sushi chef to dip his creations in soy sauce. It's an insult to the Chinese chef to use salt 'n' pepper or chili oil on what he's prepared. I suppose I'll just stay with takee-outee, where no one can see what I do.

I can't remember what brought that on. Was it just a Food Network comment or had there been an Unfortunate Moment while dining out? That Moleskine entry was probably from the Year Fourteen, and my memory is blank.

A quote from Joyce Carol Oates:

The conservative is one who hates those who rebel against the constraints of a society which he himself could never bear to endure.

That's one of those quotes I'd have loved to throw out as a test question with orders for students to analyze and discuss (be specific and give examples).

A query for those of you who do keep Moleskines--- how long does it take you to fill up a pocket Moleskine? I keep one in my briefcase, but while I do make notes in it, it's not a daily thing. The one I have now was opened in the autumn of the Year Fourteen and it's only about two-thirds filled. I do most of my writing/journaling in an actual hardbound journal. Three years--- nearly three years ---is a long time for a single little pocket notebook. I do have to do better.

The lovely N. at [personal profile] radiokvetch writes:

I long so badly for a little house in logan square/humboldt/ukrainian village, with a yard and room for a piano and all my kitchen gadgets. cooking for people is my greatest love; i'd love to cook for m. de guzman but i'd worry our tastes wouldn't mesh (i am a big fan of greens and cheese, meat is less my forte although i make a stunning roast bird).

Well, M. de Guzman would tell her not to worry. I'd be vur' honoured and flattered to have N. cook for me. I'm trying to be more open about these things, by the way--- I am trying to be less deeply carnivorous. Experimentation is part of still being alive. And a roast bird sounds lovely. I'd be open to a dinner invitation from N. any time, and I'd see if I could find a couple of wines we'd both fancy.

N. also says about her life that things are just so stressful all around. i wonder if i could even leave my bubble of chicago; my dreams of traveling to japan, morocco, new zealand are waning. i feel so old at 25, like my life is already over. God, I know the feeling. I've been saying for a couple of years now that I'll likely never get more than thirty miles from this room ever again. I have to get over that. Japan, Morocco, (especially) New Zealand--- I have to get to aerodromes and rented rooms and new cityscapes and rough coasts. I have to get out into the Far Foreign again. I'd tell N. that she should pack a few pairs of black skinny jeans, her Ray-Bans, and her black bikini and join me. Easy enough to travel light, since there's no need for her to pack underwear, after all. Though I expect she already knows that.

Anyway--- time for another vermouth-and-soda and some reading. And for some decluttering. Jill says she's purged her DVD collection 'til it'l fit on a single shelf. I need to work toward that goal myself. And one day soon I must actually start decluttering my closet. That, I fear, will be painful. Though it needs badly to be done.
Sitting here in the lakeside flat while the violet hour stretches along the river and thinking of the sound of rain. It did rain a bit earlier today--- spring showers off and on in mid-afternoon. I walked home in a couple of passing showers, ducking into arcades by the big black glass finance towers. I'm a great fan of spring and summer showers--- cooling the city down, washing pollen out of the air.

Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita wrote me that she'd been unable to sleep the other night, even though she'd played the Sudden Rainstorm background sounds track on Spotify for hours. I can sympathise with her insomnia--- I've been dealing with that for a while now ---but I do envy her having Spotify with environmental noise sounds. I'd love to drift off to sleep with rain sounds playing, or something a distant thunderstorm or a storm at sea. Funny thought, darlings--- I used to sleep with the university radio station doing late-night experimental programs, but I don't think I've even had a radio on in my flat in months and months. I wonder if there's an app somewhere with rainstorm sounds I could have playing on my iPhone while I tried to sleep. There's an app for everything, I suppose, so I should spend some time looking.

Back at the start of the Year Twelve, when I was first looking for a sword cane, the lovely Jill wrote me to say that I would go for a longer blade over a shorter blade (at least half the length of the cane) better control and with a curved handle so there is something to hold onto... She also told me that she'd fenced foil back at school. I hadn't known that--- new information. I was surprised--- I hadn't known that she'd ever fenced. Jill had a close friend at school named Sarah, a girl who'd been a serious competitive fencer, a girl who'd gone off to China to do master-class level training in fencing and had a torrid affair with her (Much Older) German-born instructor. I'd like to know all of Sarah's more Wicked tales, and I'd like to know what Stories she and Jill could tell of posh teen depravity in Lower Hutt. I do wonder if Jill had fencing just as part of gym class or if she actively joined a team or club.

Anyway...who else do I know who's fenced? Anyone out there over the aether care to chime in? My ex-Bloomsbury friend used to fence epee rather than foil; Siobhan-now-in-London used to fence epee as well. Well, I envy all of them. I'd love to fence--- I suppose I've always been attracted to sabre, but foil would be fine. I'm nowhere near aerobic or flexible enough these days, but I'd still love to learn.

Right now I'm listening to three versions of "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" back-to-back: Amy Winehouse, Diana Krall, Marianne Faithfull. I have no idea what that means.

No message yet from Dreamwidth about my site there downloading. I'll have to look into that. I do want to get the mirror up and running.

Yesterday I got a text from one of the owners of Katelyn's restaurant. The restaurant was having a birthday party for her husband, and I was invited. I'd been far too afraid and embarrassed to go back there since mid-February, but they were happy to see me. All smiles, free glasses of sauvignon blanc. I'm glad I can go back there for brunch or for a glass or two of something on my way home. I now feel relieved--- people still like me! ---but also a bit like a fool for staying away for two months out of fear and shame.

My moodswings are becoming more intense and they're probably cycling faster. It may just be that I do feel a bit overwhelmed and directionless at work. I'm not sure what I'm doing and not sure how I'm doing at learning. I need the firm to stay afloat. I need a haven. Also a steady source of income. I'm not sure if it's just the emotional backlash setting in--- I know I had a bad spell a few months after my father died. Sometimes it does take a while for things to catch up to me. Everything out there seems to be a memento mori...or at least a reminder that @Nihilist_Arbys is right about pretty much everything.

Jill also sent me this last night---

it was just the one photo. it wasn't a photo taken of him. it was from a wedding, two little flower girls in cream dresses and pink chuck taylors. but there he was, sitting on a chair by the aisle. a blue suit jacket and ray bans and a lot more grey in his hair then he ever had last time i saw him.

after everything happened i reached out to him twice, years ago. i called him at work, he didn't take the call and never rang back. i sent him a text when i was in brisbane once, staying at a hotel near the train station. again, no reply.

i kept thinking he world get in contact. when he heard that i graduated. when someone told him that my dog died. seeing the photo, it surprised me that he still existed. that he is out there in the world being invited to weddings and getting older and that we still haven't found our way back to each other.

srs


That's haunting and lovely, but...what is it? Is it something autobiographical about Jill? If so...is it something about one of her first Older Lovers? About the man who had her virginity? Or...does that srs at the end mean that it's a quote from something--- a quote she found at Tumblr? She does post a fair number of quotes there... Anyway--- I'm going to obsess over this until I get the full backstory and the context. Truth is socially constructed, culturally mediated, and historically situated: key teachings from my training to be an academic historian. So I will need all Jill's backstory on the passage; I'll need all her context for the passage. Oh God, yes, I'm going to obsess over the passage. And over why Jill might be staying a hotel near Brisbane Central Station.

I'm hoping that the cotton blanket I ordered from L.L. Bean will be here in the next couple of days. I'll have the a/c on soon enough, and I want to have a light blanket that'll work for the Deepest South year. Cream with two wide blue stripes--- very simple design, but one I think I'll like a lot.

Five years ago, I posted this:

There's a saying that "the lap dance is better if the stripper is crying"--- I think we've all heard that. But it does not, repeat not, logically follow that the lap dance is best if the stripper is vomiting blood while her head rotates through 360 degrees and she shrieks phrases in ancient Coptic. Or at least it doesn't necessarily follow.

Of course I stand by that. Always.

Valentine's night of the Year Twelve:

Jill in NZ wrote that she'd spent Valentine's morning in bed with her own Caitie, exchanging gifts and caresses. Caitie gave Jill a set of very elegant Lelo vibrators; Jill gave her lovely friend a copy of Richard Siken's "Crush" and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. Lovely on both parts, though Jill did have a date arranged with a Much Older Male for Valentine's night in Wellington. She tells me she doesn't know how to explain that except to say that she needs to be with a man on Valentine's night, no matter how much she needs Caitie in her bed on other, less ritual nights. I'm never quite sure how to analyse the gender politics there. I doubt the W&GS cabal on Morningside Heights would approve, but of course they already don't approve of Jill being my friend these last seven or eight years.

That Valentine's season I also wrote:

I used to read Stella's accounts of her call-girl summers in NYC and Miami and have this fear that if I were ever in NYC and had the money and called a high-end service like the one Stella and her Lucia worked for, awful things would happen. I used to have nightmares of the girl getting off the elevator on my hotel floor, knocking at the door, taking one look at me and then spurning the fee and stalking off in disgust while she got on her iPhone to savage her bookers for sending her to someone who looked like me.

Well, I was having moodswings and deep spasms of self-loathing even then. I can't escape them.

One day, darlings, one day--- I will have the lovely, long-legged Jill read me Richard Siken poems in bed. I want that rather a lot, just as I want to read Cavafy to her in bed. It's been far, far too long since I've read to someone--- to a lover. And I can't recall anyone actually reading to me, ever. I feel that as a defeat, as a lack, as a judgment on my value. It's the same thing with the shameful fact that no lovely girl has ever made me dinner. That's very much a social judgment, after all.

No. I am not a fan of David Foster Wallace. He's never really caught my interest. I liked the film version of "Conversations With Hideous Men", but mostly because I thought the heroine--- the interviewer ---was seriously hot. "Infinite Jest" is like later Pynchon--- it does nothing for me at all. There's a whole Twitter thing today where women mock and deride men who've recommended David Foster Wallace to them. Well, recommending books, films, or music rarely works out well. If you really like a book or an album, you put yourself into it. If someone dislikes your recommendation, they're disliking a piece of you. All the more true for people like me, people who've lived inside books all our lives, who identify with books so completely. Anyway...it seems like I'll avoid being mocked as A White Guy Who Recommends David Foster Wallace. At least there's that.

So far...so far...Jill at [profile] pacific_lolita has enjoyed the recommendations I do make, just as I've enjoyed the targeted recommendations she sends me. That's been a key thing for me--- sharing books and films. Taking the risk of recommending something to her has been worth it. I felt the same way with Miss Ginny, back in the Long Ago.

And, yes--- I do love Jill's lists of books she'd take into exile in the Far Foreign or on that long sailboat cruise. And her tales of stealing books from the shelves of sleeping Older Lovers. Those stories are always a delight--- the game of course is trying to intuit why she chose a particular book to sneak out with before dawn.

I may take some time this weekend and do more decluttering. I just need to make space here--- open space, space to walk that isn't narrowed by boxes and Rubbermaid storage bins. I need attachments to people I love, not to stuff.

Anyway...time to visit Duolingo and work on renewing my German. And then time to go out on the deck and watch the city lights and relax for a bit before bed. Last night at the party, someone I've known for decades complained that a party than started at 20h00 would get her home long past her usual 22h00 bedtime. Well, I haven't reached that yet. I'll still be reading at midnight. So that's something.
aerodrome1: (Anja Rubik (Red Hood))
Hullo, Perthes-en-Gatinais....

You're somewhere in the Ile-de-France, but...who are you? Are you my ex-Bloomsbury friend on vacation with an Older Admirer? Are you there with a pillar of the British Establishment and your cache of grey-market generic Viagra? Or is a lovely Franco-Romanian model/dancer? I miss your Stories, even if they always leave me feeling socially inferior and utterly inept.

And, yes--- I have zero idea what might be in Perthes-en-Gatinais. A secluded chateau? A super-villain's lair in the forest? A secret code breaking site for French intelligence? Some high-end establishment catering to wealthy Parisian s/m fanciers?

Ah, now--- I do have a cautionary tale to repeat here tonight.

This is from something I posted back in July of the Year Four. This is about my friend Jennifer, who's now (I think) a writer living in Shanghai. When I met her in 2000, she'd just completed her PhD in English and was teaching in Atlanta. She's from Arizona, but did university in California.

When Jennifer was living in Los Angeles between university and grad school, she was involved in an affair with a man she called "my faux-Foucault", a shaven-headed singer with some local industrial band--- a gearhead. All very s/m, of course. Jennifer's s/m fantasies went back to her teen years in Tucson, and at university in Santa Barbara she'd found people who'd taught her to love the whip. Now-- the gearhead singer had the right look for her, and he was willing to use a riding whip without mercy. But he wasn't...well...as competent an s/m player as he might have been. There'd already been one Bad Situation-- the gearhead hadn't recognized during an erotic asphyxia scene that Jennifer was turning a bit too blue...

Nonetheless, when he called to say that he wanted to come over one sunlit afternoon and violate her, she went out for lunch at some trendy organic/vegetarian restaurant and then came home and dressed up to be violated and punished as soon as the gearhead made his appearance.


[Note: I did laugh at her description of the bald gearhead as "faux-Foucault". I know what she means-- shaven skull, wire-rimmed glasses, black turtleneck, carefully-tended goatee, carefully-curated tattoos. I'd seen way too many guys like him before.]

So... There the lovely and leggy Jennifer is: on tiptoe, handcuffed to the shower curtain rod, fully gagged, collared, and corseted down to 18 inches. Faux-Foucault is whipping her 'til she bleeds; Jennifer is dripping wet with lust. Then...she senses something going very wrong. The expensive organic/vegetarian spinach-and-alfalfa salad is just not sitting well. At all. She realizes that she's about to lose her lunch.

Jennifer panics and tries to push the gag plug out of her mouth. Faux-Foucault finally realizes that something is very wrong. Jennifer manages to say that she's about to be sick. The bald gearhead loses it. He fumbles getting the gag out; he can't operate the quick-release clasps of the corset. With Jennifer's waist corseted down so ruthlessly, she can't inhale deeply enough to get enough muscle power to expel anything that comes up from her throat. The collar is too tight on her airway. She is in serious danger of...choking to death. Faux-Foucault screams ("like a little grade school girl", Jennifer wrote) and ran for the kitchen to get a knife to cut the corset and collar off.

Jennifer managed to spit the gag clear and tried to contract her muscles. When Faux-Foucault made it back in to cut her down, he found her choking and vomiting up spinach and blood all over the bathroom. He whimpered and shrieked and finally managed to get her out of the corset and get her breathing again and get her over to the toilet where she could empty herself out.

He did clean the bathroom up, Jennifer wrote. She had to give him that. She spent a good half hour on the phone berating and threatening the manager of the restaurant while the bald gearhead mopped and scrubbed. All Jennifer could say was that at least nothing got on her very expensive black silk thigh-highs. That was one small victory. But she was sick for days, and she said the muscles of her chest and raw throat ached and burned for two weeks.


There's a moral to the story. There really is. I'm just not sure where one looks for it. The story says something about sleeping with shaven-headed faux-Foucault gearhead boys. That's always a Vur' Bad Idea. Sleeping with singers always has a bad ending. My own thought, of course, is that it also says something about eating hipster organic/vegetarian. But of course I've lived on small filet steaks and Chinese takee-outee for decades.

Easter Sunday, grey and with rain looming all day. I did...nothing, really. Got coffee this morning, spent most of the day napping and reading. I thought about Easter lunch at the casino boat buffet or at one of the new hotels downtown, but in the end I just defrosted a plastic tub of prepared chicken-and-sausage gumbo and had that with a glass of wine. Not exciting at all, but here we are.

I have "My Brilliant Career" to watch tonight. I think I've seen it once long ago, at a film society showing when I was in grad school, but I can't remember it at all. Anyway--- I'll sit up and eat salt-and-vinegar chips and watch it again.

I must pose a question which requires a List answer. I'll see what N. at RadioKvetch and Jill at Pacific_Lolita have to say, but...I'd love to hear from Girl101 and the lovely Et_Ceter_Ator as well. Let's consider, now...

Imagine that you're my lovely Young Companion, and we're sailing off together into the Far Foreign. Let's say a sailboat of...27 to 30 feet. Big enough for a cabin that fits two, but...not much room to spare. And we're sailing...where? Along the Dalmatian coast, maybe. Or around the Dutch Antilles and the USVI. Or Wellington to Invercargill. Or even across the southern sea to Palau. Pick a destination, but assume fair winds and fine weather. And tell me, darlings--- what would you pack for the voyage? Make a List for me and tell me exactly what you'd take--- clothes, books, accessories, make-up. I miss the days when List Questions were big here, and I do want to hear what N. at RadioKvetch has to say. I only wish Miss Ginny or Laura-Ashlee could be here to make Lists, too.

Anyway--- a sailboat voyage into the Far Foreign. Pick a destination, make a List, and write me about everything.
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