Jesus

The Vatican is banning gay priests:

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/11/30/international/30vatican.html?emc=eta1&oref=login

Lovely!

This is just to say

I am having a ridiculously good hair day today.

Message Encrypted

Best boyfriend ever.

Bol'shoi Brat

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originally uploaded by pennyroyale.

On the poster it says "Big Brother is watching you." Big Brother Russia may have been our favourite TV show there, along with Dom 2. Reality TV in Russian often featured mud-wrestling.

Oh man

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originally uploaded by pennyroyale.

Something is really funny.

The boys, the boys! (and me and Frida)

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originally uploaded by pennyroyale.

International gathering here, still in Rossi, if the chinless Spaniard is any indicator.

From Left:
Dave, from Australia. A good lad, though a little overly into Asian girls and pop punk. He randomly lived in Vladivostok for a year after high school, coming there with no Russian. You have to love him.
Edik, from Brazil. Possessed of enormous green eyes, a pot belly and the cutest Brazilian accent I have ever met. I'm a little enamoured of him, I must say. Just the accent and the eyes, though. Not the belly.
Frida, from Berlin. Our crazy German clubber. Still in high school. Such a sweet girl.
David, from Brazil. Edik's best friend since they were 6. Looks dumb as a rock, but actually obsessed with Dostoevsky... and all other things Russian, including girls. Speaks good Italian. Love him.
Your humble narrator. Trashed already and gunning for more.
And.... the chinless Spaniard. Spent the tail end of the evening talking to him, after I was too tired to dance. He decided that the fact that I am possessed of brains in my head and actually read means that I was desperate and that he could kiss me. I begged to differ. It made for an interesting end of the evening.

Feeling hot hot hot

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originally uploaded by pennyroyale.

Wow, I just came across this bizarre picture of me in photos my German friends Lotti and Frida sent me of when we were in Russia. Hurrah. We're standing outside Rossi, this hooker bar off Nevsky, which has the double benefit of having strippers (for the boys), free drinks (for the girls) and karaoke (for all of us, and especially for the drunk Russian men wanting to slur Beatles songs through their accents.) Gotta love it.

Later that night, I would be chased around a table by a chinless Spanish count. And lose my favourite earrings. What fun!

Why yesterday was hilarious, part two.

So last night, I'm lying in bed while Jon is out brushing his teeth, and I get a phone call. It's Chris. He requests to come up and show me something, but I make him wait until Jon is back from attenting to his oral and facial hygiene (turns out that he uses more facial products than I do, folks-- facewash, toner, skin smoother (that you have to wait and let dry!) and moisturiser to my facewash, occasional use of toner, and night cream. And my skin is still softer. Hah!) We chat for a little while, then Jon at long last makes his return and agrees.

I make myself decent for the visual consumption of males of the friend variety, and Jon starts setting the alarm clock. We bicker minorly after he announces that he's setting it for 8:45, so I don't have time to futz around, a word that he claims was used simply as a throwaway Yiddish word with no real negative connotations, whereas I maintain that the statement was vaguely insulting, insinuating that I do nothing but futz around in the morning while getting ready, disturbing His Skin Smoother-ness from his precious beauty sleep. Then again, I'm a half-black, half-WASP girl who grew up in Italy, so what do I really know about Yiddish? Except for my mother's bizarre desire to secretly turn into a Jewish grandmother.

I just looked up futz out of spite, and it's defined as "to waste time on frivolities." I was right! It was vaguely insulting! Hah!

Anyway, futzing around aside, Chris came up and put on the soundtrack to Avenue Q. Neither of us had heard it before, and it was hilarious. Particularly when Chris danced and lip-synched. A bedtime cabaret show. It was perfect.

And to continue with the theme du jour...

Mail-order Russian amputee brides!

(link stolen from Spirit Fingers)

Ah... Russians.

I'm listening to TV on the Radio right now. TV on the Radio make me happy. As do The Unicorns.

Yesterday, my diminutive Russian teacher was telling us about the various things that can be done with the base word "love". Halfway through his explanation he decided to clarify things further. "You know, these days," he said with just thick enough of an accent to render the whole thing ludicrous, "everyone is getting in love, everyone is getting out of love, everyone is getting high heels in love."
The class burst out laughing. He looked around quizzically, a vaguely hurt look on his face.
" Falling head over heels," we clarified.
"Ah... yes," he replied, smiling amusedly. "I'm sorry about my bad English. I meant to say, everyone is getting head over high heels in love."

Worst. Ad. Ever.

So... I was surfing around when I came across an ad that said "[Name] Skydiving Academy-- Free Skydiving lessons while our instructors go through training!"

Hmmm.

Now, speaking from an practical standpoint, WOULD YOU REALLY WANT TO ENTRUST YOUR LIFE WHILE YOU PLUMMET THROUGH THE AIR IN THE HANDS OF UNTRAINED PEOPLE?

Thought not.

More than you ever wanted to know...

My boyfriend, he manages to look hot even in tighty whiteys. This is talent, my friends. Very few men can pass this test. And he manages to stick to the more Calvin Klein model end of the spectrum, rather than the hairy Italian-American wifebeater side (I guess I could be called Italian-American, so I can say stuff like that with reckless abandon. Hah!). Mmm.

I was doing looking through Postsecret, seeing what was up this week, when I came across this posting.
It really terrified me for some reason. I mean, the website in itself is scary enough, but that's always outweighed by the minor voyeuristic thrill that you get from being on the site itself. This, however, hit far too close to home. Not in the sense that I was suicidal while figuring out my application here, but at the same time, it's always scary to see it be this close to what is mine.

And now that i've said nothing much, I have to run to go meet sabine. But think on this.

Scotland uber alles

Last line of Calum's email:

Well my cousin is here and Im off to eat haggis. Yes, and it actually tastes better every time :P

Oh... Scots and their sheep stomachs. You do have to love them, just a little bit.

My grandmother is rolling in her grave at my not taking this opportunity to go on a 15 page rant about Scotland and its superiority to EVERYWHERE and I'm clan Mackenzie and clan Stuart, BITCH and our men will destroy you. With their sporrans and their mighty chapped knees!

Ahem.

On further consideration, the subject heading "What's up?" should not have been overly inspiring. Perhaps I should procrastinate more in order to ponder this further...

ok, dragging myself away from my sleepy analysis of my boyfriend's email.

Procrastination Central

I just was going through email backlog when I stumbled across the first email from Jon, asking me to coffee. I decided to be a giant dork and look at the time signature (also so I could place that in time and figure out how long we've been dating... three weeks.) Turns out he emailed me shortly after midnight on Sunday, October 9th (or rather since it was after midnight it went over into the Monday.) after meeting me the day before, and me and Chris leaving his place. Less than 22 hours! Flattering, in a psycho-female deductive logic way.

Finally wrote Calum. I am the worst correspondant in the world, because I set up impossibly high standards for the rambling contents of my emails... simply every thought that crossed my mind and every step I took must be chronicled in lovingly masturbatory detail, with the result that nothing ever gets sent off. Cal, if you read this-- be pleased. I still haven't written my cousin back, and he's offering me a free stay in Miami. Whee!

Ok, Russian and Stanislavsky call. We have an acting coach coming to speak in class tomrorrow. Should be interesting. I also have three articles to write by midnight. Should be... horrible. Thank god I have only one class on Tuesdays. And I get to go see Walk the Line! Whee! I love both Johnny Cash (would be blasting him right now were it not for the probability of Inna finally giving up her veneer of saintly loveliness and killing me for my taste in music... I think I was overdoing it on the Sigur Ros earlier. There're only certain times when ethereal Icelandic voices are palatable.) and Joaquim Phoenix, so should be quite an enjoyable experience. Sexy man singing sexy songs. Yes, I think Johnny Cash songs are sexy. I need to have my head checked. Or head back to Wyoming and rope me one a' them thar cowboys... They actually were hot-- chaps, ten gallon hats and all.

The BIONATOR!!!!!

Ladies and Gentlemen...

I present to you....

THE BIONATOR

Inna was stuck wearing one of these for a year. Yes... she was that kid.

What is it?

For some reason, back in the day, Crispin Glover (Marty's dad in Back to the Future) deemed that all the world was lacking was an art film, crafted lovingly by his creepy self. I lay the trailer down before you (not really safe for work.)


What is it?

Mommy?

I just complimented a complete stranger on the absolute adorability of their child. Admittedly, it was a darling little girl, with fat cheeks and a little rosebud mouth made for slobbery kisses (in a non-pedophilic way. You know what I mean) all trussed up in a red and yellow hat and a big big scarf, but where have these maternal urges come from, all of a sudden? I'm beaming at babies, and cooing over children's clothing, and... it somehow just doesn't compute. I'm supposed to be all hard and cool, staying away from children because they'll bespoil my carefully planned ensembles. Nannies are my byword. Children? Cute, but... you know.

Had I been left alone with that little girl, there would have been an extremely high chance of my eating her cheeks, they were that scrumptiously plump. Ahhh... babies.

Teeth part the second

Continuing the whole orthodontia thing, I just wanted to comment on the fact that my bottom teeth are disgustingly crooked. A couple years back, I slipped while leading a climb and whacked my chin on an outcropping (though still completed the route, blood streaming onto my shirt. Hott.) and as a result I have a scar underneath my chin. What I didn't realise was that my teeth had been moved slightly out of alignment, and then, as they were held in place by a metal band (now, thankfully, removed), they continued to shift around this bizarre fulcrum until the teeth on either side of it had put their roots together like a V, forcing my poor other tooth to project backwards. I'm terrified it's going to fall out at some point. There's always the fear when I'm eating something that my tooth has just popped on out.

It was interesting-- my friend Liza dressed up as me for the Halloween reception at the Masters' residence (unimaginative costume, we know... we were in my room and lacking inspiration. I ended up dressed as a hick in cowboy boots, denim skirt and pigtails. The outfit featured a SEXY HAT. A sexy orange plaid hat. I love it.) and we were trying to get her to emulate some of my expressions and movements. She had changed the part in her hair for the role, and had been entrusted with my favourite clothes, so why not go whole hog? Anyway, there was something wrong, and we eventually realised it was because her smile shows her bottom teeth, and I never, ever, ever show mine, or else the world will be exposed to THE FLAW! that are my bottom teeth. Gah. I hate my teeth so much, I have vaguely contemplated in my deepest darkest most half-asleep moments getting them all taken out and getting a set of dentures. Other women obsess about their thighs... I do that too, but the self- irritation is mainly fixed firmly in the dental department.

The Passenger

I got to go see The Passenger by Antonioni the other day for The Crimson, as it's being revived, and I get to review it. Perks of comping: the press pass and early screenings. I'm not going to put a full review on here, because I have to do this later on for The Crimson itself, but suffice it to say that it was a truly great movie-- Jack Nicholson at the very glorious height of his powers (the movie came out in 1975, the year he made One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and right after he was in Chinatown) [I can't be bothered to link anymore... if you're curious, you know where IMDb is. Go use it.] and Maria Schneider, the baby-woman of Last Tango in Paris fame. The film was perfect in the way that is special to art films from the Seventies-- stunning visuals, with a blue, tan and white colour scheme, and perfect pacing. Not over-much happens, though it is a plot that could lend itself quite easily to lots of action, but the choice is wise, as it aids in the whole alienation and self-examination theme that would be over done if excess were piled on. Basically, David Locke (Nicholson), a disillusioned journalist doing an investigation on guerrilla warfare in a mysterious country in Northern Africa, finds that the only other man in his hotel has died, and so decides to let go of his old life and switch identities. He also takes the address book of his fellow-traveler, and decides to keep his appointments in Germany and Spain. Turns out that this fine fellow was a gun-runner for the guerrillas, so Locke is now involved in the war he was previously observing.

At the same time, his presumed widow begins a search for him, and he himself becomes entangled in an affair with Maria Schneider, credited as "Girl". Their story starts in Barcelona, atop one of Gaudi's buildings, and then switches to a mad dash around Spain, as he tries to keep his new appointments and evade his old life. Very simply done, but interspersed with beautiful moments and glorious shots. It's the perfect movie to watch on your own, and seeing it in a theatre just draws you further into the melancholy ambiance.

After watching this in the movie theatre in Boston Common, I decided to walk back to the Charles Street T stop. Walking through town, even that little bit, was a perfect cap to the day (a day that had started with my bursting into tears during my Russian oral midterm... gah.) I talked to a couple of bums, who had improvised Halloween costumes, and I regretfully couldn't give them cigarettes, as I was out. A couple of little kids, also dressed up, had stopped a mounted policeman, and were singing to the horse while they petted him. The Frog Pong was covered over in preparation for ice skating soon, but it was nice to see that the weather was still beautiful enough that there was no ice. The sun was setting, and the sky was red. Beautiful.

I'll post a link to the article as soon as it's out, if they run it. We shall see.

And now-- homework! wahee!

New Orthodontic Horizons

I grew disgusted with the state of my smile today, and so donned my trusty old retainer that has been kicking around the bottom of my beauty case ever since I got it back in uhhhh... 2000. Excruciating pain aside, it's firstly rather sad that my teeth move about this easily, and then secondly very sad that my mother shelled out big bucks to have me end up with a crappy bite and a big gap between my front teeth. Admittedly, it's a smaller gap than used to be there, back in my rabbitlike younger days, and I no longer have the uneven front tooth chippage caused by the unfortunate guy in my fourth grade class swinging his swimming goggles into my mouth while we were in the pool during the class trip to Normandy, but frankly, I have awful teeth. I would make a horrible horse.

In other news...my feet are cold. I'm permanently tired. I have no money, so I have a large pile of laundry and nothing to do them with... actually, I may be able to scrape together enough for one load. This is pathetic. I feel rather like a corpse warmed over, but I suspect that is merely because I am feeling the depression of having a retainer in my mouth like a 16 year old. It was kind of cute on Lolita, but if I dare show up at Jon's sporting it, I strongly suspect that he will just show me the door, no questions asked.

Hmmm... late on the horizon to realise this, I know, but I've been messing around with the voice settings on my new computer, and my god, but they all sound like figments of my most horrendously surreal nightmares. The ones that start out with scenes taken from the trauma of my having viewed Dune at an early age, and so I had bad dreams feauring.... Sand dunes. Lots and lots of them. And then insidious whisperings in my inner ear, and babies sitting on gratings being covered in red liquid. The crazy computer voices fit right in with the unintelligible things being said to me.

Anyway, last night part of my dream involved getting sucked down into the Mariana Trench by a group of dolphins who claimed to be friendly, but seemed to have evil intent. It was all very scary. I feared for my life, but I had to trust old grandpa dolphin-- if I couldn't trust him, who could I trust? Besides, he had a coronet with rare sea-gems set in it.