littlewashu: (james t. kirk - frustrated)
Elvis Costello is playing the Electric Factory in May, and it's fifty bucks a ticket (plus Ticketmaster fees, which will add another ten bucks). For the ELECTRIC FACTORY? I'd (begrudgingly) pay sixty bucks to sit down, but sixty bucks for the goddamn ELECTRIC FACTORY?? Goddamn.
littlewashu: (eddie izzard)
Happy birthday Kelly! Happy birthday Sabiha!

Last night I worked for ten hours (broken by an hour lunch break at my lake, with my Harry Potter), then went to the gym, then went home and watched an episode of TNG (it was the one where Alexander comes back from the future to teach himself to not be such a pansy), then read some Harry Potter in bed, and was asleep by 11:30. Eleven-thirty! Eight hours of sleep! Amazing. It was still really hard to get up in the morning, but I'm feeling far more alert than is usual.

I keep listening to the demo version of "The Comedians" over and over again, I keep opening the playlist and sliding it down so that it'll be the next song. It's so short. Man, I don't know why I didn't notice it the first few times I listened to the All This Useless Beauty bonus disc, but I noticed it last week or whatever, and . . . man. That chorus! That plaintive cry! OH how I howl in my car, you should be glad you are not there to hear it! But man, Elvis, the "bitter way" you were told?? She [*SPOILER ALERT*] stranded your ass at the top of a goddamned ferris wheel!! I guess "the dirty bitch-ass way you broke up with me, you bitch" didn't rhyme.

Elvis would HATE that I am doing this, but here, I don't use bandwidth ever, because I haven't updated my site in eight months:[demo].wma (~3MB)

(My apologies for the format, I rip everything to .wma at work.)

(P.S. I just listened to a sample of the album version on amazon, to see what it sounds like, because I don't own that album, and GOD it is horrible. Stick to the demo, man.)

(P.P.S. Is there a Firefox search engine plugin thingie for

(P.P.P.S. Writing a LiveJournal post is not being on the internet, so don't worry.)
littlewashu: (Default)
I am terribly, terribly sleepy. Terribly.

Usually at lunch I'll get something at Wawa and eat it at the park. And then read my book, or perhaps lay down for a bit. Today I skipped the food and went straight to the nap. I woke up groggy and hungry! But I think it helped a little bit.

There were ducklings today! Goslings are okay, but ducklings are adorable. Quack quack.

There was a kid there with his mom, and he was collecting goose feathers. Loudly, which means she was encouraging this activity. Now, I don't know about you, but my mom always told me that stray feathers were gross and diseased, and I shouldn't pick them up, no matter how cool they looked. This little kid was talking about making feather masks with them. That's gross, right?

I cooked for the first time in almost a month last night, and it made me so happy. I love having my guys over. And [ profile] culann was there early, and he helped clean up, and get ready, and we talked forever. When Culann and I took Budo together we got to have talks on the ride there and back, and it was great, and we don't get to do that much anymore. I sure do love me some Culann.

I sure have been listening to a lot of Elvis Costello lately. It started back in May, that week-and-a-half of Spring that we had. Y'know, cuz I was feeling frisky, and Elvis Costello = sex. Then I stopped for a while but now I'm back. It's nothing but Elvis. Elvis at work, Elvis in the car, Elvis at home. Elvis Elvis Elvis. When I'm sad, listening to Elvis Costello makes me feel sadder. When I'm angry, he makes me angrier. When I'm happy, he makes me happier. When I'm horny, he makes me hornier. When I'm high, he makes me feel higher. When I'm horny and high -- well fuckin' forgetaboutit.

Yesterday I read this book review in Salon of Dianetics. I've always been mildy interested in what the fucking deal with Scientology is (isn't everybody?) and with the new improved batshit insane Tom Cruise running around, there's a lot more talk about it. Then I was looking through this site, which is an anti-Scientology site. It's a little clumsy, but I had a fantastic time reading through this stuff about L. Ron Hubbard. That guy was CRAZY! Literally! I can't believe real people buy into this shit. Oh and also the Time Magazine article is hot. It makes no bones about saying that Scientology has no legitimacy whatsoever.

Then today I read THIS Salon article about Tom Cruise and Scientology, and everything was fine until I got to the part where they listed some Scientologist celebrities, including Jason Lee (oh well, I sort of thought he was cute) and . . . Beck. Really. Beck. That just about broke my heart. I am seriously upset by this. Beck! Beck. My favorite musical artist whom I've never seen in concert. This changes everything. I'm so sad.

Last weekend was Gaian Mind and it was fantastic. The crew: chaos4675Kevin, katsuhayabiCurt, chuntankhamenChris, littlewashume, king_kaiJeff, Jay, Kate, macivanhornMichelle, theguiltypartyTeege, and qedVince. We sat around and took drugs and got dirty and made jewelry and watched dirty hippies (and dirty . . . whatever those cats were, some of them were not hippies) and enjoyed the Fire Monkey's work (that's Kevin) and saw naked Russians and more black light than I have ever seen in my life. And we left no trace. It was a fantastic time.

Oh, and Stephanie! Stephanie appeared out of nowhere on Friday. So she was there too.

So yeah, Gaian Mind. I'll definitely go back next year.

Here are some of the pictures that made it to Photo du Jour from the weekend:

(Michelle took this one)

(Curt took this one)

I have two parties this weekend. But Monday is free: Monday should be Laundry Day. As well as Nap Day, and Wash My Car Day. We'll see.
littlewashu: (Default)
I feel hated today, hated and ignored like I'm screwing things up all over the place without meaning to. I am too careless, perhaps?

It's rough to be disliked, but as I always say, there's no rule that says you have to like anybody. Anycertainbody, I mean. You don't even have to have a reason, if you don't want. And if you're civil and polite in public, and never make a big stink, then there's nothing I can say. But it still stings a little bit, I still want to know why, and yet maybe also don't want to know? It's none of my business. But it's still a bummer.

Am I being rude lately? Too abrupt? I used to love talking on the phone and now I can't really stand it. I get distracted. I'm in it until the first searching-around-for-something-to-say, and then I want out. Which, in my opinion, should be okay. Last night I was talking to my friend Jason from Nerd Camp, with whom I haven't spoken since . . . hmm, 1992 maybe? 1993? And we talked and it was cool and then it was 11:20 and we'd been talking for 25-30 minutes and I had just gotten home from a long drive and I wanted to get settled and ready for bed so I said I was going to go and he said okay and didn't sound upset or anything and I was so grateful, I hate being made to feel guilty about that sort of thing. I will get together with Jason and maybe Ill over a few drinks and we will catch up, that will be eight million times better than a phone conversation.

Or if I'm out. Or have company. I hate when people talk on the phone when I'm hanging out with them, I think it's rude, but I guess that's pretty standard.

My computer's still broken, folks. Still. It's been three or four weeks and I'm getting increasingly frustrated and miserable about it. I feel helpless, and that's my least favorite feeling in the whole entire world, helplessness. I want to just buy a new one but 1) I can't afford it and 2) I probably don't really need to. I just wish it would work again. Mitch has been on the case and doing research and seeking consultation and I appreciate all the work he's been doing on my behalf, but it's so frustrating that it's my computer and I have no idea what's going on. The other day I was trying to get some music to play because I had thought that my WinAmp would at least work but it wasn't and people were chiding me in a friendly manner and I snapped at them because I try to lighten up about it but I just can't. It's so frustrating, have I made that clear yet? Also people are always like "well what's wrong?" and like an ignoramus I have to actually tell them that I don't know which makes me feel irresponsible and stupid, and then if they're a computer person they try to offer advice, even though I just told them that I don't know what's wrong with it, and that makes me want to hit them or start crying. Maybe both, sih-multaneously. I'm going to try not to think about it right now.

I went up to Rochester with my mom to visit my brother this weekend and I met his girlfriend and went to a frat party and there are a lot of things I want to talk about in that regard, but I'm feeling so down and the weekend was so nice and I don't want to get those sentiments mixed up in each other because I think the blues will win, so I'll leave it for when I'm feeling better.

I have no work and Wojo left so now I have nothing to do, only this time I feel guilty about it.

So rather than paying for my car myself, I pay my dad. The explanation for this is long and boring and depressing, but please take my word for it that this was NOT my idea and I am NOT happy about it. (Notice, however, that I am not unhappy about it enough to have insisted I pay it in full. Not that I could afford to). I had, in fact, my first-ever can't-stop-crying panic attack when I found out that the car wouldn't be in my name. Man, my dad offered to stay over that night because he didn't know what to do, sleep on my floor, and I just looked at him and thought "that wouldn't help at all." I love my dad and think he is a good and nice and smart and funny man, but his presence alone would do nothing to comfort me. My mom, maybe, but not my dad. Poor Dad. Anyway, so as a result I'm paying WAY less per month than it is actually costing. My lease is up in December. And I'm so torn between being grateful for my dad for easing my financial burden, and resentful for doing so without me asking, and now leaving me quite incapable of affording a comparable car this time around. I could never afford the true price of the lease and insurance, not with the way I have arranged my life. I hate how I make a very decent salary, and still struggle to live on it. I live beyond my means and it makes me sick, there are so many people who make less than I do and have REAL problems, whereas mine are made up and still cause me stress. I really fucking disgust myself.

It is way too early in the week for PMS, I don't know what the fuck is up with me. Maybe the chilly weather?

To lighten up this entry, I will regale you with a tale of what a psychotic weirdo my cat is. Because nobody isn't entertained by cat stories!!!1

Last night I was getting into bed but Henry was in the way of where I would swing my legs, so I pushed him off the bed because it was easier, I knew, then pushing him into the center where he could turn around and nip me. So I pushed him off, turned to my side and lay down, and he jumped up again. I heard him sitting on the bed right behind my head, I could hear him breathing. I lay there for a minute and it didn't sound like he had laid down, so I turned halfway to look up at him, and sure enough, he was just sitting up, looking at me, breathing on me. Weirdo. I turn back and close my eyes. A moment or two later he leaps over my body so that he's in front of me. I realize that I've been gone for three days, and home for two hours, and I haven't pet the poor guy yet. So I start petting him a few times, he's all staticky. And he's moving around and liking it. Then I put my hand down on the bed. He sniffs it, then bites it, hard, but sustained. And lets go and jumps off the bed, because he knows it's wrong. I just roll my eyes and go to sleep. What a weirdo.

To further lighten things up, here are the lyrics to King Missile's "The Cheesecake Truck":

So then I got this idea about driving a cheesecake truck,
Because I figured at the end of the day I could take some of the leftover cheesecakes home,
And I love cheesecake.
So I went to the cheesecake company,
And they asked me if I could drive a truck,
And I said yes and they said you're hired.
So the next day I got in the truck with all the cheesecakes,
And I drove about a block and I just had to have a cheesecake.
So I pulled over and I opened the trunk and I got a cheesecake,
And I also took one for later,
And I took one for my friend Farmboy,
And I took one to bring home,
And by that time I had eaten one of the cheesecakes.
So I took another one.
Then I figured I might as well stop at my house to drop off all the cheesecakes.
So I take five cakes to eat on the way,
And I drive another block and a half to my house.
Now it's lunchtime so I eat ten cheesecakes and a cheesecake for dessert.
I should point out by the way that all of these cheesecakes were very delicious.
Anyway, I decided that the only thing to do would be to eat all the rest of the cheesecakes and hide the truck somewhere and leave town.
And I miss everybody a lot,
But I'm not really sorry,
Because they were very delicious cheesecakes.

Here's more about music. Last night I was listening to "All This Useless Beauty" by Elvis Costello, whilst in the car. It's a nice song and I like it and I listened to it four or five times and paid lots of attention but I still am not 100% sure I know exactly what he means. When I was in Seattle Eric said "listen to this song" and put it on the stereo and even though I'm not very good at that and don't think I can grok a song from one listen, I tried very hard and said it was nice, but if I *still* can't really figure out what he means, I don't feel badly for not getting it first time through. The only thing I'm sure of is that it's about some chick who is with someone who isn't worth it? Maybe? I think. But anyway, as I was driving home and deciding that this was mostly what it's about (but I feel like I'm missing subtleties here, or something), I also decided that I didn't feel sorry for this woman at all, and wasn't sure if I was supposed to. But I sure don't. If he's not good enough she never should have married him in the first place, and if he turned out later to not live up to her expectations then she should have left him. Sorry man, but no sympathy for her whatsoever. I don't know. I've made this stupid and self-centered and depressing again.

Here, look, a thousand lame cliche formula sitcom plots has occurred in real life. Next thing you know, someone in real life will be hiding a secret and their friend will say "I know what's going on!" and the first person will admit the horrible secret and the second person will say that they were referring to something stupid and benign, but now they know this awful secret.
littlewashu: (Default)
I had a big huge exam Saturday (more on that later), which meant that Friday was, ostensibly, for studying. I got the day off from work, because that's what you get when you have a big engineering exam to take, you get the day before off to study.

I did study. Some. I also finished everything Halloween-costume-related, and went grocery shopping. I haven't been to the grocery store in three weeks; I spent $189! And aside from a $15 prescription, that was ALL food! Amazing. I got the cashier that I like. She bags in paper bags INSIDE plastic bags. Which is the best way to bag, though I guess it wastes twice as much stuff. But she always knows somebody on line, personally. Always! Which means she never makes small talk with me, because she's always busy having conversations with people she actually knows. Sniff.

The exam was at 7:30 am, about a half hour away; so I wanted to get to bed early, and have a good night's sleep. I didn't.

Friday night, October 25th, was also the evening that a one mister Elvis Costello was in Philadelphia. Performing at the Tower Theater, which was the venue at which I first saw him, ah, such a long, long, long time ago. I've been a fan forever it seems like. Months, even.

I couldn't go see the concert, of course. But I was still awake at eleven, and I could feel him, just twenty miles away, across a river. And why not, right? Why not.

At eleven I got in my car and headed out. My tummy was a little bit of a mess, and "this is stupid," I kept thinking, but to the Tower Theater I headed. Took me less than an hour. I found a parking space a million miles away, and then walked back to the venue. I could hear the music from the sidewalk. They were playing "Episode of Blonde". If I know anything about Elvis Costello's setlists in the US in 2002, and believe you me, I know a little something about Elvis Costello's set lists in the US in 2002, then that meant the final encore. Sure enough, after it was over, he started in on "I Want You," which as everybody knows, is the closer. Puple-and-orange closer.

There were some roadies and other people waiting in the lobby, I guess to pick people up. The doors were open, and I asked one of the guys who looked like he worked there if I could watch at the top of the aisle? And he said yes. And so I did. It wasn't as . . . powerful, from so far away. But damn, Elvis. You go, girl. Rock that shit.

Then it was over, and everybody in the joint started heading for the exits. I darted out before the crowd; I had seen the big white tourbuses on the way in, so I was pretty sure I knew where to stand. I picked the door out of which Elvis was most likely to come out, and set up camp. I was the first person there. Some other folks gathered there after a while, so I knew I was in the right place. A couple girls asked me if this was the right place, and I told them I thought so. I was the first person there.

It didn't take long, actually. No more than a half hour after the end of the show, the door opened up. I was in front this time, I saw him come out. I do not envy him. If I were a rock star, I would not make it a point to shake everyone's hand, they who wanted their hands shooken. I would try my best, but I would not promise, because then you don't get a day off. Elvis, as far as I can tell, promises. And he's British! They're cranky! What a nice thing for a British person to promise.

SO ANYWAY, the door opens. And out he comes. Yellow glasses, little smile. Swoon. Swoon swoon swoon. As I was there first, and as Elvis Costello fans are not too bad a bunch (after you ignore the crazies, but really, what famous person doesn't have crazies?), I'm the third person to shake his hand. And THIS time, I'm ready. THIS time, I keep looking at his eyes when he shakes my hand. He smiles at me, and I smile right the fuck back, by God.

"I came all the way from Seattle to see you," I say. It is rehearsed. It is calculated. My little heart is about to break, I know it, I just know it. But I hold on to his hand and I look into his eyes and I am trying to keep a wry smile on my face, though it wants to run because my face is NERVOUS, my belly is nervous, my hands are nervous.

He laughs a little bit. "All the way from Seattle!" he exclaims. "I remember you."

He remembered me. He remembered me. He remembered me. Here is what the inside of my head was like: heremembersme heremembersme heremembersme heremembersme ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod weregoingtogogetmarriednowi'mprettysure.

He remembered me!! He remembered me. Man, he remembered me. "Really, you remember me?" I am trying not to laugh out loud from happiness, because I do that sometimes, but I was pretty sure that in this particular situation, it would be construed as an indication of some sort of psychosis. Which would do NOTHING to further my efforts to get Elvis Costello to sleep with me.

"Sure, I remember you. So where are you from really? Which is it, Philly or Seattle?" Man. He's talking to me, and he's looking right at me, right into my eyes, and all the people around me are impatient and envious, I can feel it.

"I'm from around here, actually. But I flew out to Seattle to see you there."

"And which show did you prefer?" Oh shit! Brother called me out! Luckily, I had an answer prepared -- man, cuz I am like THEE WORST person at thinking on my feet, seriously. [Like, Tami, you know Tami, right? Tami always gets me to admit stuff that I hadn't planned on admitting, by using the ridiculously tricky and sneaky method of asking me. I'm always caught off-guard, and end up telling the truth. That conniving witch.]

"Man, pardon my French, but I must say that you rocked the FUCK out of the Tower Theater." There! Perfect! Not a lie!

He smiled bashfully, even looked down a little bit! Like he was modest or something! "Well, I thank you," he said. "I thought we did rather well myself." Or something like that, I don't fucking know, this shit isn't verbatim or anything. "It was very nice to meet you," he continued.

"It's very nice to meet you as well," I replied, trying to sound like a cucumber. "I'm Washu," only I didn't say Washu, I said my real name. He started reaching out his hand again, so I reached out MY hand again, and he shook it AND THEN HE BROUGHT IT, MY HAND, HE BROUGHT MY HAND UP TO HIS LIPS AND KISSED THE BACK OF IT, and said something like I'm Elvis Costello, very nice to meet you, I don't freaking know, Elvis Costello was PUTTING HIS LIPS ON MY PERSON so it was hard to concentrate. He smiled at me once more, and said something about how he hoped I would see him perform again sometime, and I think he may have winked, and then he moved on to the next person in the crowd.

I quickly turned and got behind the crowd, so that other people could get their turn. I couldn't bear to leave just yet, so I stood back a ways, and leaned against the wall of the theater, and smoked a clove. Man. You know, like after sex? Man. Freaking Elvis.

When my clove was done, I decided to leave, even though Elvis was still working the crowd. I didn't want to wave to him as he got on the bus, I thought that would be cheesy. So I sighed a bit, and looked at him, and then started walking down the street to where my car was parked, eight thousand miles away. I walked slowly, and I looked at everything. My whole body kinda tingled, I guess from the adrenaline; I noticed everything, every person, every crack in the sidewalk. At first I was jubilant, and I even got to laugh from happiness, once I was out of earshot of all the famous people. But after a block, I felt . . . just melancholy. Empty? How cheesy. He's just a rock star, it's such a stupid thing to get excited about, and an even MORE stupid thing to get sad about. He's just a guy, he doesn't know me, he has no connection to me, no matter how much I might feel one to him. I hated that I had gotten so excited about it, that it had meant so much to me. But it did! It did.

I stopped noticing everything, and my head fell a bit. I stopped to light another clove, and wished it were a joint. I was lost in thought for a while, then looked up and realized that I had passed the side street that I was supposed to turn down. I turned around and walked back up the street. I heard a loud truck or something coming, and pass me by, but I didn't pay much attention; then another, so I looked up and caught a glimpse of a white bus passing me by, the tourbus, or the second one, or third, he seemed to have a big entourage. But I was in my haze, and I walked on, and sort of noticed the sound of air brakes behind me, but sort of didn't, either.

I did notice someone calling, but didn't think they were calling to me. I heard running footsteps behind me, and turned to look, to make sure the footsteps-maker didn't run into me. It was Elvis, it was Elvis Costello, jogging down the sidewalk, coat flapping. It was Elvis Costello, holding up a hand in a wave when I turned. I looked back in the direction I was walking, to see who he was waving to; I didn't see anyone. I turned back, stopping dead in my tracks, to watch him weave through curious pedestrians, he left conspiratorial whispers and pointed fingers in his wake. I watched Elvis Costello jog down the sidewalk towards me, I saw his eyes, as he came closer, I saw his eyes through yellow glasses, and they were looking at me.

There are no words.

He reached me and came to a stop, breathing a little heavily, but not too much. I had no words.

"Doll," he said. I was speechless. "Love . . . " Love, he was calling me Love, was he calling me Love? (He's British, though, British people are allowed to call strangers "Love".) I snapped out of it:

"Washu," I said. [You'd think he'd remember a name like that . . . ]

"Washu!" he exclaimed in an "of course" kind of way. "Washu. Come back with us?"

No words to describe the inside of my tummy at this moment, empty and fluttering and achey all at once. "Come back with you?"

"Come back with us, just to a pub, or the room, or something, just tonight, come back with us?"

I was speechless.


"I --" I had an exam the next day. Ha.

I looked at him, at him, he was looking right back with me, and he was smiling, and he wasn't pleading, per se, but he had gotten out of his bus, I looked past him and he had made the bus pull over and gotten out of the bus and run down the sidewalk because he wanted me to come with him, to a pub or the room or something, tonight.

"You think just because you're Elvis Costello, I'll come with you? Just like that?"

"Well, I was hoping, yes." He smiled at me. Man, he smiled at me. I smiled right back, I couldn't help it.

I pretended to think for a second, like I was giving it a LOT of thought.

He continued to smile at me, he cocked his head, as you do, when you want someone to do something, when you know that they want to do it.

I squinched up my mouth a little. "Well all right," I said. He grinned, and grabbed my hand, and led me back down the street, and up the steps of the bus.
littlewashu: (ondine)
"I came all the way from Philly to see you" I say.

"All the way from Philly!" he says and he shakes my hand and I do not know the words to make him look into my eyes and Know and Fall.

I suppose there aren't any.
littlewashu: (Default)
Oh my God I just want to freaking make out with someone. I think I'm going to scream. I honestly can't remember the last time I made out with someone. Hold on, calling up Histories . . . scanning . . . scanning . . . does frantic pawing before rough sex count? Didn't think so. Scanning . . . scanning . . . that's all I got. I think we're going to have to go back to when me and JEFF were going out the last time. Do you remember when that was? Yeah, me neither. That was more than a year and a half ago. I need to go out more. I don't have plans Friday . . . if I'm willing to settle for someone creepy, I guess I could hit the 700 Club. Jay doesn't go on Friday's, right? Phew.

In other news, I am falling deeper and deeper (more and more deeply?) in love with Elvis Costello. Man do I love his songs, but MAN do I love them when I'm high, I FEEL them. I want to have sex with Elvis. I want to have angry sex, tender sex, bitter sex with Elvis Costello, one after another and all at once. What's his marriage situation, again? So that I can have factually accurate fantasies?

It's because I don't listen to much rock music these days, is why. Electronic music doesn't really make you want to have sex with its . . . author. Neither does rap, though if it does, it's just "bouncin'", which is mad dirty and nasty. Only in rock music do you hear the bitterness and the crying and the . . . man. "My hand on your hip"? Are you kidding? Fuck me now, Elvis, seriously. Just five minutes, just give me five minutes, I don't care, anything.

littlewashu: (Default)
Preliminary review of the Elvis Costello concert: yo, I didn't realize this guy was going to rock. He fucking rocked the fuck out of that joint! He particularly rocked the fuck out of "15 Petals," is one that sticks in my mind. I've been listening to Elvis Costello for all of a week and a half, studying, for this show, and I knew like half the songs, it seemed like! Go me! And also Elvis! And he did an encore (that seemed almost as long as the set), and then he did another one, and then I think he was going to stop, but I was sending him mental signals about playing "Episode of Blonde", which I wanted so badly for him to play, and I'm pretty sure Jon was sending him mental signals to play "Lipstick Vogue," so he came back out to do a third encore to play those two songs, plus a third which I assume was called "I Want You." Man, thanks, Elvis! My night was made already, but then it was REALLY made!

And YO did the keyboard guy go nutz on that theramin. But seriously, you guys: Elvis rocked! He rocked so hard!!

Oh, okay, too more things I just remembered: he totally rocked out on "Pump It Up," too, and made "When I Was Cruel" a million-year long jam that did not, in my opinion, get old. Rock.

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