Guilty Pleasures

I’ve got me some guiltly pleasures, Baby. Yeah.
We all do.

I’ve got mine though. And they change…but altogether, they’re guilty, Baby.
Guilty.

Right now it’s G Love.
And I’m listening to a 6 year-old CD from high school here. G Love from high school. But it’s a pleasure, Baby. Yeah.
And I’m not saying it’s great. But it’s good. And dear lord, that’s why it’s guilty. Because I’m waaaay past it. But I still want it.
You know I want it.

And Special Sauce came to me naturally. I know it wasn’t the first that I’d heard it as my reference, but I remember one night bowling actually. Fkin bowling. And I was at the time in love. And everyone with us went by other names at times. His was D-Love (sometimes D-Runk, but often it was D-Love) and it just so happened that I was Special Sauce. Because I am Special Sauce, Baby.
I’m your Special Sauce.

But I get away from myself. I’ve got my guilty pleasures. Ganja is another. As is a sometimes cigarette and full glass of any color of Pinot. An aged, fabulous glass of Pinot, Baby. It’s good like ganja. Like old, still indulgences that you know should be behind you. But to taste one once in a cool while,…it’s good.
Oh it’s good, Baby.

And jazz is good. A slow, smooth groove; It’s good. And closing your eyes and dancing is good. A slow kind of chill slight trot – with a groove – to a smooth, cool smoove with eyes closed and neck slightly bent; its good, Baby.
It’s good.

But tonight is old music night. It’s Beta Band and The Verve and Yo La, some Doves and Here Comes The Sun … barely being able to get anything done because I keep getting caught by it. Ooh, and a TOBLERONE. That’s a guilty pleasure, Baby. It’s a pleasure.

And ice cream with cookie dough, and some place I’ve never heard of but learned of tonight, who actually pours cake batter into the ice cream they serve you; that’s good. You two would love it.

But now I want rest. That would be a pleasure, Baby.
Now I want pleasure. But packing is in wait and eyes are heavy.
And alas, I must retire.

Jack
This is Jackson. He’s great. He’s not mine, but I want to know him the rest of my life. Check out his chubby little hand and elbow…pretty damn sweet.

According to the Press:

Yahoo Korea has launched a blog service, similar to America Online’s new venture in the U.S., in hopes of capturing the average “young, nerdy male” blog reader.

Coltrane For Lovers

I’m not going to use the word neglected, but if encantada was a goldfish, she would no doubt be floating at the mouth of the bowl right now. All scaley and slimy and a weird kind of orangey. And like I said, it’s not neglect; it’s disregard. Ignoring ’cause I don’t like you anymore. Little redhead middlechild stepkid blawgity blog. It’s ‘oh bleh’ to you. This point gets reached where the process no longer gets the full attention or any thought or desire to be worthwhile anymore. All that once was intended in the dawn of a krispy Colorado morning-like beginning just withers and peeters and slinks back under the closed door behind you. If encantada was a SIMs…oh, she’d be one emaciated program. You’d see her on the floor in her wallpapered purple house. The shine is allllllll gooone now. Everyone knows this; all can relate. Some are sticking through it and others are stagnating in a static-limbo, like a blank and snowy tv set at 4 in the morning. I don’t even like the same blogs anymore. Some of the The Ones who brought me here even; half of them I no longer read and others are killing me slowly with self-important TOTALCRAP bullshit. But that’s how it goes. When it starts, when the world has been opened to you, all is possible. All personalities have potential. All writers seem interesting and their thoughts a little addictive. And their eccentricities and abnormalities and vulnerabilities and neurosis – really addictive. But the inevitable happens…you read along one day and *eww* the post is kinda crappy. Or maybe it’s really crappy. And a little ghey even, and oh, dammit, you’re reminded that they’re human. And you’re mad that they disappointed you. And then, the fkers, they do it all the time.
Like they have a license.

But it’s like that with meeting people too, one could argue.

That’s a good idea. I’m going to sass me a programmer and get ‘im to engineer SIMS into blogger, and sign me as a co-writer so I can make billions from the copyright. He (it would have to be a ‘he’ on account of my having less success sassing a female software engineer into doing my bidding…unless of course her name is K.C…and she’s a big manly lesbian on a plane with a corgy….) could be the the genius on the cover of WIRED and I could be the creative director and design all the environments and blogger templates…That way, you could check on the status of the living thing that isn’t. Like you do now, but in a supervisualinteractive way. You could see not only the blog and its subtle or sometimes erratic changes, BUT you could feed it and shop for it and buy new cars and houses and Christmas trinkets for it. Or, you could check and see how well the blog host/owner was actually taking care of it, of their little SIMs person/village/Internet Community.

And we all have to have titles now. This guy says he’s the original Metrosexual. That he singlehandedly started a cultural movement like Madonna only much less famous. Guess he could be, he calls himself “Fancy”. And Seliot’s decided he’s The Shit. Good for Seliot; just in time. This guy’s decided he’s some Titanic Lover, and this very interesting thing calls herself The Hipster. I thought it was non-hipster to actually identify yourself as hipster…. Anyway. See, I ‘ve got things to learn. So me, I’m behind the herd now because I remain title-less. I’m slow, I guess, to notice the fashions. I’m, as it were, the full embodiment of nothing yet. Let’s figure-out me a title.

The last expression here is that I’ve not shown you the pearl yet. Since the beginning this has been a dumping, a continuous and worrisome unloading of wordy and thoughtless placement. I am surprised all of the time. I’m only not hating because I consider this the beginning. Nothing, yet, has been tapped.

Ol’ John Coltrane. He does know love.

Now that I’m here,
It’s like performance anxiety. It’s, what on earth could I write here that won’t let me down, and won’t let you down; you who visit me once in awhile because I’ve surprised you once in awhile and not that much since then? It’s a __ now what?

Smile, smile. Slow still smile, across the table, looking up, soft smile. Knowing so much already. Lah, la lahhh.

Today’s new battle with words. Right Now’s still struggle with conveyance. Resolve, Encantada. It’s not going to take place just yet.

It’s moving out time, friends. I’ve got empty boxes all around me but I’m not filling ‘em up. And that’s an unintended metaphor. Sidekick and I are leaving this place for a new one, one building over. And the new one has tile floor so I don’t know if that’s a bonus or a detraction. Since I’m losing the master bedroom though, I’m thinking the tile floor is a detraction because who likes cold tile underfoot on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night? No one does. Certainly not Encantada. I’m going to miss the effortless comfort of the old place.

And then, there’s the Voices….

Where have you been?

I’ve been on the perch. I’ve been taking it in through the heart and blinking.

But I’ve missed you.

So what’s this cool squishing between the toes?

It’s the grass. It’s cool and green and squishy because of the dew.

Ahhh, barefoot. Remembering this; it’s been awhile.

So have you decided?

Is waiting a form of deciding? Or is it the procrastination of decision? I think it’s deciding.

Where are you?

Where are you?

My eyes are getting heavy.

I’ve got the tail of my resolve escaping through my fingers.

Are you still there?

Let’s all be Spies..

CIA Graduates Record Spy Class
“They graduated in June; many are assuming fake identities and heading overseas. Their job will be to steal secrets. “

and now, the Chicago Tribune has launched a blog-

la encantada
esta enfermada…

Once Is Not Enough

And nothing is too much to bear.
Although at the moment, I disagree with that statement. But it might just be true. And what if it were true.

Well, first of all, I made a promise I can’t keep. Don’t trust me here, in this space. That’s why my subject line says fantasy verite, debut fiction…it’s allota fiction. And it’s allota intention. But no, I’m not going to make this an interesting post tonight. I let 5 hours creep on by, tick right along, and now it’s the dreaded hour I’ve been retiring by for months and to no personal benefit. “Oh but it’s Friday night” you might say. Friday night! Yes, yes but I’m waking up at the normal work hour. Waking up to pack and go to the store and buy cat food and put gas in the Crazy Bullet and head to the airport. But I’m not going anywhere sexy….I’m going someplace crappy. Crappy because the loves of my life are there but I won’t be seeing them.

I spent the early part of the evening with a 50-year-old queen. He’s Matthew. He calls himself my “stylist”; I tell him that if he’s responsible for my “style” then he’s got a lot of explaining to do. He refers to himself as “Just some old queen. Just some old lizard” And I tell him that old queens are the best because they’re really the most entertaining. All their days of conniving and dramatic destructive plotting are past them. But they’ve still got the sass. And that’s worth having an old queen around, if I do say so myself. Unfortunately, spending time with my favorite old queen (I’ve known a few in my day) cost me $too fkin much$…..but, he takes care of me, I delude. The truth is, I am aware of and comfortable with the fact that he’s entertainment. And I’m paying for the entertainment, I guess. This time, though, I’m having difficulty adjusting to his improvements. He made me platinum blonde. I’m Orlando Blum in Lord of the Rings….platinum hair with nonplatinum eyebrows….and if you know me, you know that I’m not one for standing out in a crowd, not one for an unnatural looking “look”, I guess. I’m not one for calling any attention to myself…especially with platinum blonde hair. But he seems to think it “works”, so I guess I paid him for his professional opinon. ha, ha… The best thing about my old queen, and the thing worth spending the early part of my evening with him, is that everytime I walk in he motions from the window for me to join him in his kitchen. There he either makes me dinner, opens up a beer or two, or pops open an entire bottle of Beaujolais. Tonight though, he spiced it up mightily. He brought out the house coke, and if you know the term ‘house coke’, similar to “it’s our weekend roadtrip koozie” (there for everyone to enjoy, if that’s your bag), then you know what I’m talkin’ about. But I turned it down. Yep, turned down the lines with my old queen stylist.
Hmmm. Now there’s a story for the kids. Especially because I should have, but I never saw that coming.

Anyway, I’ve gotta fkin go to bed. I’ve got a flight to catch in a handful of hours and although I intended one thing when I started out, this is where I’m leaving you this evening. Hope your weekend’s beautiful.

And I stand by my statement that once is not enough - if ever. And on the topic of sayings, I also love…..Twice On Sundays-

Listening to: Olivia Tremor Control
Anticipating: SOE’s future posts about her last two evenings
Enjoying: seeing you finally write
Loving: how you captured the literal feeling