all I want for Christmas

In the morning I’m making pancakes, I make small and very fluffy ones, delicious. I even warm the 100% maple syrup, wiping the glass bottle with a hot damp rag and applying exactly as much or little syrup as the kidlets require. And I’m cutting up naval oranges and sipping coffee and drinking yet more water, and the kids finish their breakfast and then brush teeth and then get all dressed warm. It’s cold, a cutting cold, but nice and sunny and clear.

Phoenix is getting quite proficient in housework as she nears adult size; she can wash dishes and put away laundry and tidy up her room to a great standard. While I’m glad for help, there’s something devastating about watching one’s “baby” reach up easily and get something off the top of the fridge. NO SERIOUSLY THEY ARE STILL THIS TINY IN MY MIND.

So, the kids take our timeline seriously and do everything they can to help, feeding cats then throwing them outside (last night we had a mystery cat invade the gecko’s terrarium – our lizard is okay, but no unsupervised cats inside). Nels usually handles the feeding and watering of the kitties since he’s smaller and the job works for him.

“Mama, I love you,” my son says to me as I tie up his shoes. I know that a big part of why the kids love me is because I make them pancakes and remember their favorite stories to read and I sew them their favorite clothes and I take care of so many of their every needs. But there’s another part, the intimacy we have as a family, the memories snuggling up to movies and popcorn at night, then in the day driving and listening to Ke$ha super-super loud. Even when I’m not feeling well I can still sit down to knit and they’re on my lap or nearby in minutes.

I do my volunteer bit at the Treatment Center two days a week; I’ve faithfully kept the calendar on Wednesdays at one PM. So today I’m taking the kids along, and then afterwards out for a chocolate soda. Sitting through my Recovery stuff is boring and there are a few other reasons for them not to be there; fortunately there’s a large park nearby both children enjoy. A little over an hour later I pick them back up they’ve got rosy cheeks and they’re tumbling in the back of the car. Later they walk over to visit their grandmother, who isn’t feeling well.

I did not have a pain-free day today but I had a day lived in gratitude, which means it was a very good day indeed.

And now? Time for baths and cleanup and pajamas and snuggling over a movie involving really corny looking aliens and bad 70s mustaches. Perfect.

Oh and by the way. I found my dream job.

This Island Earth MST3K

movie talkers and perhaps-ill-considered magazine spreads

This Island Earth MST3K

I grew up in a family of ardent film-watchers. I used to relate to others that I “grew up without TV” which was true, but not technically accurate in every sense. That is, we had no channels nor cable so I wasn’t exposed to commercials nor got any regular dose of the popular shows (“Seinfeld”, “Beverly Hills 90210”, “Melrose Place”, and “The Simpsons” when I was in high school, for example). However we did have a television set and my family would regularly watch feature films, back when Video Vision and the liquor store abutted one another here in West Hoquiam.

We watched at home more frequently than attending the cinema. We had a ritual of renting a VHS tape or two on a Friday or Saturday night. Snacks and pop for my brother and I, Manhattans for our mom. Back in the day when VCRs were new and not in our pricepoint, movie nights were rare, as we’d have to rent the VCR itself. I seem to remember a black plastic molded case weighing approximately five hundred pounds, and how it would set my heart to pitter-patter when mom or dad would haul it in. Before viewing we’d stove-pop popcorn, throwing melted margarine on the mess and shaking in a thick paper bag that would become spotted with grease and that we’d all share from (air poppers have always seemed frivolous but kind of magical, reminding me of the vision of my shirtless dad making sparks on the range and usually burning a fair number of kernels on the bottom, later leaving the pan to “soak” – which meant leaving it for my mother to wash).

Given the communal nature of and family-feeling of movie viewing, I was destined to develop the most ardent affair with the television show “Mystery Science Theater 3000” – which again, I was exposed to via wobbly-lined VHS copies (prior to syndication the show carried the end-credit tagline, “Keep circulating the tapes”). If you don’t know what MST3K is, you don’t know one of my deepest and truest loves, a show I’ve never not weekly or nightly watched repeats of and of course, raised my children with – bundled up in bed or on the couch laughing at half-arsed Godzilla knockoffs and Conan the Barbarian wannabes and the weirdness of the Gamera franchise and all the many, many mansplaining white male scientists – all elements of film which give me a fierce joy to this day. The last episode of MST3K aired in 1999, but in recent years the writers involved with that most magical of shows split into two groups, Rifftrax and Cinematic Titanic, and they basically do the same thing – riff on movies with comedic precision, pop-culture awareness, and timeless historical context. Good movies, bad movies, old movies, new movies, first-run box office blowouts and oddities you almost wouldn’t believe existed. As of this writing I’ve seen almost every offering from both camps, including a few live-broadcast events and one live-actual-writers-riffing-right-in-front-of-us-at-a-club memorable evening.

So in honor of our Fisher-cum-Hogaboom B-movie traditions, tonight we’re watching the Rifftrax version of Warriors of the Wasteland (a subpar ripoff of cult success The Road Warrior) and I’m just too-too excited to fire it up.

And you know? I was thinking how much I like one of the “stars” of the as-yet-unseen film – Fred Williamson, “actor, architect, and former professional American football defensive back”. I was considering how many straight-to-video and/or blaxploitation films he’s featured in (as well as, a personally-adored little nugget, his turn as the grouchy captain in 2004’s Starsky & Hutch, RIP Chris Penn), and how much I love his mustache, and how I want to invent a Pin The Mustache On Fred Williamson partygame for that B-movie party I’ve always wanted to plan but don’t think anyone would like as much as me, and in doing some research (IMPORTANT I swear), I discover Mr. Williamson was featured in Playgirl back in 1973 and I just can’t… help myself. I have to know.

I simply must Google search.






Wait for it…




Fred Williamson 1973

Well hell. It’s a solid enough concept, but talk about an awkward delivery! And SANS MUSTACHE? WTF were they thinking?!?*


In other news, I’m aware my blog has been either suffering technical problems, or not available at all, for some time. I apologize for the difficulties and delay. Hopefully things are all tidied up now. Thank you to those who emailed, IM’d, tweeted and messaged me etc. both regarding technical difficulties they’d experienced, and their desire to read my writings again.

In the intirim since I posted last I’ve gone through a fair bit, and have written little except in my notebook and daily journal (so I guess, I’ve written, I haven’t typed). I have been deepening my spiritual practices whereby I got to discover more about, and make great progress in overcoming, my fear of my own death (neat!). I went to a long workshop the other day regarding neuroscience, trauma in childhood, addiction (to chemicals or process), and forgiveness work. I have a surgery scheduled for this Friday and I’ve been ill, good days and bad days – but always, so far, grateful days. These recent health setbacks have given me the opportunity to gracefully accept assistance, love, and ministrations from others. For instance today I slept much of the day even though it hurt not to be able to get up and run around and fix the house up and work on my current client’s sewing project. But just as I was pulling myself together out of a hot bath (after most a day my children had been caring for themselves and letting me sleep) a friend came over, put away my dry dishes, washed the dirty ones, and took the kids and I out to lunch!

And today it really, really helped.

And now? On to Mr. Williamson and his fierce hirsutitude, some bad bad 80s hairstyles, and lots of low-grade explosions of scrapheap cars.

* At least the kitten looks happy. And who wouldn’t be?

son of a bitch is dug in like an Alabama tick

I gave blood yesterday, and today we spent our eleventh consecutive week making up food for the Conch Shell Deli. I guess when it comes down to it I often enjoy doing things I’m scared to do. Those things, well, not everyone would understand why they scare me, and maybe they seem like very little to someone else, but they are a lot to me.

And on point, I suppose, I should put forth I’m a bit tired. I’m scrambling to complete a few art projects, I’ve sewn two shirts in my spare time (for The Boy), I’ve got a graphic design job (kind of a largish one) with a looming deadline, and going on my tenth year I’ve been cleaning and feeding the family and loving up the cats and kids and trying to be helpmate to my husband and not to act like an asshole.

So I guess what I’m saying is.


I do, however, have time to watch the riff on The Crater Lake Monster, which will commence… NOW.

P.S. Nelsie. At the coffee shop. He is lovely.

Mostly Friendly

murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas…

“Mama…” my son says, lying warm and still beside me. “Cats are more likely to bite you than snakes. Foxes are rough… but they’re so cute when they’re young.” Nels is falling asleep. A beat later he says, “Foxes are so cute, I just love them so much.”

It’s 9:30 PM and we’re lying together in the kids’ bedroom. It feels so safe and secure and cozy and well-tended: the kind of room I’d have loved as a child with everything in its place, soft starlight-lighting and clean sheets and nooks to read or sleep in. Ralph and Phoenix, a few moments ago, had put the room back in order (after a day of Legos, drawing, reading, and respite from outdoor shenanigans) and now a pink nightlight bathes us in a glow and Nels is snuggled next to me under a down comforter. It’s seemed warm inside today so the window is open for fresh air. He holds my hand and sighs and kisses me and his blonde hair falls across my face now and then and his body finally grows heavy with sleep and his skin is so soft and smooth.

It was a hard day for he and I. He made a fool of me in the coffee shop or rather, he behaved like a six year old and I responded poorly, making a fool of myself. For quite some time afterward I was angry and unforgiving even after he’d repented (for his part) and after I realized I’d done him wrong (and apologized for it). It’s like – some days I don’t bounce back so quick. Eventually I softened and we rejoined in holding one another close (physically and emotionally).

Still, I was grateful for a walk with the children in the cold, crisp air, and a night cooking dinner on my own (teriyaki chicken and sticky rice; carrot and celery sticks and baby corn with dipping sauce) while Ralph taught his late-night class. Phoenix is knee-deep in her book series and surfaces to run around outside for a bit (the kids are digging a “mine” in the backyard) or eat; little else.

In living with children sometimes I feel I’ve been given this extraordinary privilege and gift, like a bottomless well of light and joy I can sample from any time I choose. I write and write and write to get across what it’s like when I’m wise enough to choose this way, but I can only capture glimpses and I suspect I’ll never make it fully known how deeply I love and enjoy these little ones. I’ve had wonderful friendships and family and jobs and experiences and moments in my life but nothing as magical as these children have been.

Now at 10:30 Ralph warms up my mom’s truck so we can head out for groceries (provided our plastic doesn’t bounce), and a few minutes alone and on the road. Tonight in the hours before I sleep I’ll go into the room and kiss my sleeping son, before crawling in bed with my newly-bathed daughter and watching B-movies or nature films into the wee hours. This winter continues to be hard on me, but family provides much respite and healing. I feel so fortunate to have them.

The Bay

¡feliz cumpleaños!

Birthday Party Morning

Yesterday Phoenix woke up, recieved a custom-tailored hot dog for breakfast, then was hustled through washing up and dressing and out the door for a swim party. Directly after that she was whisked to my mother’s for a birthday / piñata / dance party / cake and ice cream / costume contest and ended her evening staying all night with Grandma and up until about 4 AM reading.

Definition of happy memories, methinks.


I Don't Think You're Ready For This Jelly

It was an old school Kelly Hogaboom party, in that I had many friends from many different corners of my life Рthirteen children and sixteen adults, including a few out-of-town guests. I was weirdly exhausted from all this, but happy to see our friends. Between a few of us Рmost notably my mother, brother, friend Amore, and I, we put a fair bit of work into the party. My brother created an amazing pi̱ata (the turtle, pictured above, filled with copious amounts of rather posh candy) and Amore brought some extra-special food.


We also had a wee costume contest with prizes, and goodie bags for the kids.

(My little Gulper Eel:)

Gulper Eel


So let’s see, okay for food, we had chile and cheese tamales (with all the fixings), frijoles refritos, fresh chips, pan de los muertos, bean salad, “beefy” taco dip (everything was vegetarian so you know, not really “beef”), banana pudding, a jack, chile and corn cake, and Mexican rice with peas and coconut oil. Amore’s birthday cake and some Breyer’s Natural Vanilla ice cream rounded out the aggressive amounts of chow.


Then there was a Dance Party which mostly involved Ralph, Shannon and I being way too into it (by other people’s standards anyway – & yes… we were sober) and a long chat with Jasmine, who arrived home early from work.

At the end of the evening – when I finally left my mother’s and all was calm and the party had been cleaned up (my mom, husband, and I share this compulsion) – I kissed my daughter goodbye and asked her, “Did you have a good party?” She looked up and me and smiled the most genuine, warm smile and said, “It was great.”

So, that worked out pretty well.


Today I stumbled out of the bedroom for a quick cup of coffee then an afternoon with our out-of-town overnight guests, Cynthia and her two dogs. Along with Nels and Ralph, we took a walk on the flats thanks to the sunny weather (Phoenix was at my mom’s, having stayed the night and reading Harry Potter hardbacks like a machine). Nels took a shovel and did some digging for precious gems.


I’ve pretty much got the beauty of Hoquiam in my bloodstream.

The Flats

After lunch I crashed. I’m frankly disappointed in my low energy, but it seems it can’t always be helped. Today I took the opportunity to watch a classic B-movie which cheered me up more than just about anything else. Lovely, earthy Anne Francis! Leslie Nielsen in an Orlon jumpsuit! Mansplainy science! A sassy fucking robot! Lasers and monsters of the Id!

My heart was also glad at the sunshine, the cold but springy smell of the greenery, and Nels working along in the backyard (note SEKRET CAT!).


It was a good weekend.

(Do click for Ralph’s panoramic work):

The Bay

Ralph, his Zappa, & kitty Harris

Team Mustache Dad

I make an effort to write even when I’m busy. And I have been busy! The candy-making date with Amore on Monday went wonderfully. It’s snowed a bunch then it rained all away. Car-less I attempt to get out, go running, do my shopping. I cook food and more food and it all vanishes.

I’m working on a sew-intensive project and I’ve been missing my kids and I don’t want to be back in my sewing room SO I asked Ralph to put my sewing table in the living room so I could put on some “television” (Netflix through the computer) while I did my thing.

I can’t put on anything too good while I’m sewing or I get distracted; however if it’s no fun, what’s the point? So this time around I’ve been doing some serious camp!

Ralph and I are both huge Elvira fans. Sex-positive, quick-witted, corny, goofy – and some awesome one-liner double entendres, all in addition to her other obvious attributes. What’s not to like?

And then:

Not the funniest Mel Brooks comedy but one entirely adorable and served well by the straight-man slapstick of Leslie Nielsen. Speaking of which, I have yet to watch Forbidden Planet (1956) and given the recent demise of both Francis and Nielsen a memorial viewing seems entirely appropriate.

In other news, Ralph decided to shave the beard. OK, fine. I get it. He didn’t like its itchiness and maintenance and thought it made him look dirty. Now I thought he looked really handsome and mysterious and rugged but, OK. I even told him (truthfully) that the full beard gave him a less-bald appearance, the hair on jaw and chin compensating for thinning up above; I hoped his self-consciousness about his hairline might cast a more friendly light on the muttonchops. But he never liked the beard much and it was clear from the outset this ferocious display of hirsute manliness would be a short-lived, fleeting winter wonder.

So first he shaved down to a Zappa ala Phoenix’s request:

Ralph, his Zappa, & kitty Harris

(Ha, I love how PISSED Harris looks. AS PER USUAL. Angry and obese, what a great cat.)

Nice enough, eh? Sinister but sexy.

But then. THEN. He went too far.

Ralph's Filthy 'Stache

Yes. Really.

And finally – after 24 hours of the above abomination, tonight’s foulness – the meager and failed attempt at an iconic actor and persona.

The Non-Vincent Price

And after he did this of course he wanted a kiss. GROSS.

I throw up my hands.

And – I’ve been writing in my One Line A Day Five Year Memory Book. And I’ve been writing my small stones. I have some saved for you.

Melted Snow
(Small Stone #10*)

Melted snow in my husband’s beard
Diamonds, icy cold
As he just steps back inside

(Small Stone #11*)

Low light
and very late night,
up until dawn sometimes.
You and me and you.
Our own world,
Quiet and new.

Repairs Needed
(Small Stone #12*)

We’ve lived without water pressure in our kitchen for a year and a half.
I miss the bold rush of hot water.

Small stone project

Unschool Improv: Not-so-great Expectations

friday untidy

Must-Reads of the Week
“Regrets of the Dying”, as written by a hospice nurse. Being with someone who’s dying was a deep privilege for me, and this article – though more about life than death – reminded me of this experience. Read and learn.

Grown Unschooler Cheyenne La Vallee: “Everyone has it in themselves to be passionate and motivated.” at Idzie’s blog. Out of all the stuff I’ve read and seen on the internet this week, this was the most stunning on a personal level. Reading an interview like Cheyenne’s gives me hope for our world.

“Play Nice” by Simon Rich from The New Yorker
I don’t know what’s more disturbing to me – the fact grownups think chldren are less-than-people so don’t feel, think, or notice the same stuff grownups do; or the fact some grownups recognize the personhood of children on some level but think it is their RIGHT to tromp all over them anyway.

Pop Culture
I got a monster dedicated to me on Monday, at Twisted Vintage. Which led me to searching up a color version and finding a thread full of awesome B-movie monsters, which are one of my favorite things, ever.

Some great points collated at Soc Images: “Gender, Boobs, and Video Game Characters”. It’s pretty funny how readers (well… maybe that’s the wrong noun, as some of them clearly did not read the article) instantly jump in and say, “But-but-but male figures are idealized too! It totally goes both ways!” First of all, hint, no it doesn’t, but nice try. Secondly, the post is meticulously linked to many arguments which delineate physical idealization (which absolutely applies to both genders) vs. sexual availability via tortured postures and under a consumptive gaze. Or to put it articulately: dur! The cited redrawn examples of the poses of male vs. female characters is particularly awesome and leaves me shaking my head but really reading the text and looking at the images and boggling at how so NOT “both ways” it goes. The original work (Wizard’s How to Draw: Heroic Anatomy) is a depressing one to fathom but I fear very representative of comic culture. “It’s the subtleties of this piece that make it sexy.” LULZLULZ

Here’s some adorableness from TheRealNimoy’s twitpic feed (which is great if you at all are a fan of “Star Trek” or Nimoy). The original ST was one of only two television shows I remember in the very brief time in my childhood that I was exposed to television in my home (or, bus, as it were). So these two were like half-assed second fathers, talking to me from a 12″ old-school box balanced on a narrow counter by the fold-up couches.

Professer goes on a rant (this is sort of an unpleasant watch, warning):

People like to toss out the phrase, “acting like a baby” or compare grownups who react in anger, in a social setting, to tantrum-throwing toddlers. However, of course, toddler emotional displays are developmentally appropriate and it is not children who have such thoroughly entrenched and fragile ego structures as so elegantly demonstrated here (note how the professor repeatedly demands the other students rat out the yawner – tattling FTW!). Incidentally I went to college and got a degree through a competitive and difficult program. It was grueling. I feel sorry for these students as to get the piece of paper they need (or believe they need) they have to put up with this guy. And lots of guys like him. And lots other bullshit. And no sleep. And etc.

Self-Portrait Ski Mask at CRAFT
I’ll probably never be able to see a balaclava without a little titter about the balaclava perv who found me on my Flickrstream. This balaclava however is head and shoulders (uh…) above any I’ve seen before. Very fun, if a bit creepy!

Mexican Chicken Soup by Ina Garten; I believe I posted a picture of this earlier in the week. It is truly and amazingly delicious and perfect for the fuck-fuck-fuck-COLD some of us are experiencing!

Homemade Marshmallows, a recipe from my blog, which may or may not be Martha’s (I truly do not know). Any locals want in on these (or non-locals), shoot me an email at kelly AT hogaboom DOT org. I’m making them up on the 10th.

Random Excellence
From reader R. (you may see him as Kidsync), one of his occasional-but-always-golden comics:

Unschool Improv: Not-so-great Expectations

And from the BBC “My Blackberry is not working!”:

“science ponders about it, and all men are curious – but no one knows”

This Island Earth. “They’re pulling us up!” NO RLY?

Have I told you how much I want to make a big montage of Mansplainy moments in B-film? OH GOOD LORD would it be sweet. Ralph and I laugh and laugh when we see it (and our daughter does too). Like Dr. Frank C. Baxter!

P.S. they still do it in movies today. Also, same effect accomplished by: barely having any women in heroic and action film unless they’re a love (or lust) interest. BORRRRR-ring.

toughness is in the soul and the spirit

On my run, today:

The Harbor

It is so fucking beautiful here. I wish my pictures did it service. So green and alive and wet. I’ve lived here long enough that even travelling a few hundred miles inland is hard on my body. I need the water, the water in the air, the water a few steps from my home, the rivers the estuaries the wetlands the sea.


Today I was precisely taking a step on the sidewalk and my mind was filled with the hurtful words, and gestures, and simmering anger I’d seen in my friends and acquaintances and my tweetstream and looking over my husband’s shoulder at his Facebook account. And unfortunately people who are hurting say damaging things in kind, and even those of us they aren’t targeting directly, sometimes it hurts us too. And my mind was kind of roiling over this stuff and thinking I wanted to be a part of the world that stood up and said Stop, but also recognizing those who are most destructive do not respond well to being called out for the harm they do, and their needs are unmet too. And while I was thinking all of this, bits and fragments and feeling almost broken and decidedly not at-peace and:

I stepped forward on the sunny sidewalk and suddenly I could see the pain in these lives, the difficulties they were living out, a few specific people I knew and how they were hurting and how hard it must be for them and it was nothing personal. As clear as day the harm they did me and others (incidentally, not purposefully, I’m sure) it all melted away and I could see them in pain, brilliantly-rendered, in my mind’s eye, as impersonal as a framed photograph yet as alive as warm flesh. In that moment I was the person I wanted to be, not confined and scared and struggling and afraid and angry. I was the soul of compassion and calm understanding and humor and love.

The fact is as I have been growing my antennae to pain and suffering, yes, even in those who perpetrate. When a friend is calling someone a horrid word or saying something vicious I no longer see it in that black-and-white, that us-vs-them, that must make things seem easier, that must obfuscate suffering enough to keep it to a dull roar instead of acute pain, for so many. It’s like I’ve dialed into so much of the pain I used to not concern myself with and now I can’t stop receiving it. I’m reminded of Ray Milland’s character in X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes; experimenting on himself he has inadvertantly exposed his eyes from intuiting the visible spectrum to now the ultraviolet and x-ray wavelengths and beyond, and it’s agonizing; only the spectrum I’m receiving is emotional and there’s no volume level and some days, minutes, hours, there’s no stopping it and I can’t handle it. It’s my fault, I think, but that doesn’t mean I can change it. I haven’t developed my coping strategies.

But today I had a glimpse of someone strong but soft; someone wise but humble, accepting of her limitations but still someone who could help. And I want to be that person. I don’t know if it’s possible for more than those occasional flashes of brilliant clarity. I want to believe it is.

My run felt wonderful. At home now, showered, the sun streaming through the window, in my house are five children happily playing; music is playing and the children are all so happy and safe. I feel broken and sad for my grownup friends but I feel so good about who I can be for these little ones. It has to be enough, for now.


what she said

I hate it when a perfectly good three-day weekend kind of goes tits-up. For me, the main kicker was the head cold that’s left me unmotivated and tired and ill-slept. This would have been fine had it not rained in that sort of depressing, listless way that pisses on our heads around these parts now and then. Ralph tried to cheer me up by taking me out on the town to the bakery and then, laughably, our creepy little mall in Southside Aberdeen where we ate Los Gallos fare off paper plates and watched our kids gleefully earn buckets of arcade tickets (which were then transformed into junky candy and toys) with the $20 spots my grandfather had given them the night before. Nels elected to pay for all the video-gaming; Phoenix generously offered us all lunch on her dime. After the kids had had their fun Nels donated his last five dollars to another child in the arcade. My kids are shrewd with money yet have generous hearts.

I caught up on quite a bit of writing in the last handful of hours; in addition to my own projects (scheduled to publish! Yay WordPress!) a little bit of mine was featured in a “Op-ed” bit of a popular sewing blog; this sparked a bit of “discussion” and I’m going to publish my thoughts on the resultant comments at Underbellie in a few days. Feel free as well to read my latest Film Feministe column at UB since I love writing about movies and think there must be at least perhaps one or (maybe even) two souls out there who’d like to read my writings about movies.

Speaking of writings I keep telling myself I have to take a break from my obsession on social-justice subjects including feminism, LGBTQIA issues, and anti-racism (to sum some of my interests up rather slipshod; the second beer is kicking in). This weekend I’ve been poring over Jill Psmith/Twisty Faster’s pieces at I Blame the Patriarchy (my current extra-favorite post so far is “Profiles in Patriarchy: ‘The Girl” and her procured definition of “antifeminism”, or in other words, Shit I Hear All The Time Wherever I Go) and the Shaxicon/FAQ at Shakesville. Taking a break from this lovely but hefty fare I switch to Twitter which directs me to events in Katie Granju’s  family– nary so much of a warning as to how heart-wrenching that read would be. This kind of inter-netz consumption is heavy lifting at times and this is why the booze and the B-movies are sometimes necessary at night and I’m considering the upgrade to evening knife hits off the stove.

And finally, on the subject of film, this weekend I watched Thousand Pieces of Gold (which I enjoyed very much) and got about 80% of the way through Oscar and Lucinda before sleep finally kicked in (the latter was not without its charm, but mostly I found myself just amazed at Ralph Fiennes’ complexion and coloring as afforded in closeup).  It’s always nice to consume good film but of course, I’m getting better about letting some go when I see I’m not going to enjoy them (for instance I’d started and eschewed both True Crime and The Bodyguard, ugh).

Being sick for me is long, boring work.