anonymouse

Before I get started on all of the Wilma blahbity-blah-blah-blah stuff, I'd like the preface this entry by telling you guys about my Truman Capote sex dream. It started on Monday, because I was involved in my magazines and it was 8:00 pm before I knew it. I didn't have my watch on, and there were no battery-powered clocks in the vicinity, right? So I couldn't go out, because Miami-Dade had issued a curfew in order to allow emergency works free reign on the roads and let them to their job and all that rot. So I stayed in. And read. And I read the October 24th issue of the New Yorker. There was an excerpt from a newly discovered Capote book, his earliest work. And a Richard Avedon photograph accompanies the excerpt. Now, the last photo I remember Avedon for is his photograph of Chan "Cat Power" Marshall. Avedon let the whole world know that Chan Marshall does not wax her pubic area. So Avedon tends to shoot his subjects in various states of undress and super close-up, so close-up you can see every pore and maybe a booger or two up their nostrils. I tried scanning it, but it came out all wonky, so I ganked this picture from the internets:



So, in my dreams, Perry Smith fucked Truman Capote's face through the cell bars. Hot, I know! I should write gay porn scripts.

And in other news:

GUYS! I'm alive. I didn't die of carbon monoxide poisoning because my neighbors are gay for Bush and can apparently afford to wipe their asses with $100 bills and all of that rot because they ran a generator for five days straight. And that takes, like, 5 gallons a day. And that's a lot of money, yo. I didn't die because they're one of the few people who read the directions and kept the damn thing outside in a well-ventilated area. Of course, they had to keep it right outside of my bedroom window, and it sounded like a billion lawn mowers cutting grass and a dozen choppers roaring. I learned to tune it out eventually.

Also, I didn't die from blood loss because I didn't use a chainsaw to tear cut down the split bottlebrush trees.

And I didn't die at an intersection, even though there were a few close calls and I very quickly learned not to trust anyone after some factory-wrapped douchebag in a goddamn Hummer almost mowed me over even though it was my turn, BECAUSE APPARENTLY THE IDEA THAT MALFUNCTIONIONING LIGHTS MEAN THAT HE GETS TO SPEED RIGHT THROUGH WITHOUT EVEN STOPPING BECAUSE GOD LOVES HIM MORE THAN HE LOVES ME. Yeah. FUCK YOU. I hope he wins the Darwin awards. Soon. So, yeah. I just read AceTracer's comment in my previous journal entry, and the dude's right. BARRELS OF FUN.

But I feel like a bad person for complaining (that didn't stop me, though, did it?). Because we (er, I -- I'm not royalty) shouldn't complain. The temperature's been lovely, so we didn't suffer in sweltering heat like we did after Andrew. Our city wasn't flooded. Hot food was distributed. The ice distribution was kind of horrible. "Oh, we're not distributing ice at this location today. You'll have to drive all the way out to MetroZoo. What, you don't have enough gas to get you that far? Oh, well, you can just go to any of the number of gas stations that didn't bother to open, even though the establishments next door have fully-functioning power and are delivering whoppers and french fries to the frothing masses." And they had gasoline, or so Rhonda Victor (ne Sabelia) reported on NPR's Miami Herald newsbreaks at every hour, it's just they had no power to pump the gas out. This station had power! Dude! Whoppers for everyone! No gas for you! Jerkoffs.

And still, I shouldn't complain. When I was at my parents' house -- playing UNO!, catching up on magazines, reading Joan Didion's lovely The Year of Magical Thinking and crying over it, and most importantly NOT AT WORK -- I had a lovely time. And in the early evening, when I went to Celio's place to hang out and just happened to get stuck there past curfew -- the city's curfew -- we did what couples do when there's no power. We didn't make babies, though. Two forms of birth control, yo.

So, yes, Celio and I were up to no good. We played strip UNO! I'm sure it's been done before. Every time you put an action card down, your opponent has to take off two or four articles of clothing depending on what the "draw" card tells him or her to do. Also, you can put an article of clothing back on if you put down a skip or reverse card. At the game's conclusion, it doesn't matter if you've put down all of your cards. The winner is whoever has the most clothes on at the game's conclusion.

On Friday, the gigantor cineplex at Sunset Place opened up. In theory, I should enjoy these places for their stadium seating, if only because I'm a shortie. In practice, they're eyesores. No, the whole mall is an eyesore. I don't like hotlinking, because it's not nice, but I'm hotlinking from the Frankenstein who created this monster, so they deserve to have a little bandwidth stolen.



It's even uglier in person. They used to have gigantic fake plastic banyan trees at the main entrance, but then that Rainforest Caf closed. And they took them down. The place is still hiddy. Irredeemably so. And impractical in oh so many ways. I'm not going to get into it now.

What was my point? Oh, yeah. Stadium seating. It's kind of growing on me. Seriously, though. You can convert the seats into love seats just my lifting the arm rest? It's like they want us to do obscene things. Celio and I can't help it. Viggo Mortensen covered in blood is hot.

Okay, that's enough for an update. Stay safe, everyone.