...if this is your first night, you have to fight.

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Thursday, December 26, 2002

"Fuckin' Hell!"
the fellowship of the ring, indeed!

Lord of the Rings Slash-Art Oh, that aragorn+legolas one...:::fans self:::...excuse me while I go poke my mind's eye out! (caution! bad otj viewing! believe me, you don't want to have to explain this one to your cube-mates!)

Oh please! You always knew there was something going on between Frodo and Sam, right? Right?!

Blame Cleo, where I found the link. It's a fun blog, yo. Check it out.

And of course in other related news...

Who is your Ideal Lord of the Rings (male) Mate?

brought to you by Quizilla

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:47 AM#
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"Oh, For Chrissake!"
come on!

This is a bit much, don'tca think?

I am the Siren

A man is often secretly oppressed by the role he has to play - by always having to be responsible, in control, and rational. The Siren is the ultimate male fantasy figure because she offers a total release form the limitations of his life. In her presence, which is always heightened and sexually charged, the male feels transported to a realm of pure pleasure. In a world where women are often too timid to project such an image, learn to take control of the male libido by embodying his fantasy.

Symbol: Water. The song of the Siren is liquid and enticing, and the Siren herself is fluid and ungraspable. Like the sea, the Siren lures you with the promise of infinite adventure and pleasure. Forgetting past and future, men follow her far out to sea, where they drown.

What Type of Seducer are You?
created by polite_society

::rolls eyes::

So friggin' dramatic! sigh, why couldn't I have been something cool like a dandy or a charismatic?

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:27 AM#
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shit, am I too late?!

Shitty retail jobs and lighthouse thieves aside,

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:03 AM#
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Monday, December 23, 2002

"Better Days"
enough of my vitriol for the moment

Seeing as my lighthouse theif post was such a nasty one, I've decided to post a yin to that yang...

or a yang to that yin, whatever.

In any case, not all of Christmas has to suck, as evidenced by this weekend.

Boyfriend and I decided to celebrate "our Christmas" a little early, seeing as he will be spending his with his grandparents in Vermont, and I'll be spending mine with my folks in that aforementioned pukestain on the map, Brockton. (Best not to get started again, though there have been more recent disturbing things found on my lawn this weekend, none of which is my dad's lighthouse.)

We got together late Friday night to exchange our gifts. Boyfriend's selections proved aptly delightful, as expected. I got a talking Gary (Spongebob's pet snail) that says "meow" when you squeeze him. A big bag of white chocolate Lindor truffles, which we all know give me a big girl-boner. And it turns out we both got each other the "enhanced version" (Stay tuned: pissy rant about dvd "double dipping" soon to follow!) of "Lord of the Rings - the fellowship of the ring" on DVD, a tandem-gifting which one of my new fave writer-gods Chris Dahlen called "the retarded gift of the magi". (I love him for that.) And, because I so deeply coveted the David Bowie panties that Rebecca scored at the Bazaar Bizarre Punk Craft Fair (which I missed, sadly.), Boyfriend, my sexy sleuth, tracked down the mysterious undie-artist Buick Prentice (no easy feat, I assure you.) and got me my very own pair. In pink even! Couldn't you just die?!

We had planned on seeing "LOTR II" on Saturday, but when all of the early shows were sold out, the scene proved too ominous to two people who don't enjoy massive crowds. We did, however, hear an utterly delightful and riotous recorded announcement which made the descision not to go almost as entertaining as if we'd gone. I turly hope there is an MP3 of highlights to follow, but boyfriend's computer went ka-blooey, so it might be awhile.

Instead, Saturday night, he took my extremely pre-menstrual ass to Blue Fin for a big sushi binge where I proceeded to drink waaaay to much sake and giggle at the overheard conversations of nearby diners. I also got some home sushi materials at Kotobukaya, because while I was out shopping with mum and auntie Friday afternoon, a salesgirl at Macy's committed a HUGE faux pas by glancing at mum's shopping bag and saying; "Ooooh! You got a sushi kit!". So, yeah, I know what I'm getting for X-Mas. Tee Hee. On the one hand, it sorta' bugged me because 1/2 the fun of getting gifts is not knowing what you're getting. I'm definitely not one of those people who goes snooping in every closet and cabinet to suss out what'll be under the tree. But, damn, if someone had to blow the cover off one of my goodies, isn't it handy that it happened to be that one, and I just happend to be hitting the Porter Exchange? Perfect!

And speaking of pre-menstrual, is it just me, Kitten, or is pre-menstrual sex, like, god's gift for those of us who have to check into the Red Roof Inn every month? Jesus, I just love it! I mean, I'll confess, I'm a pretty saucy little tart on any given day of the week, but there's something about PMS-Sex that just gets me a-thinkin'..."how many licks does it take to get to the center of a pair of men's 501s?" Hey, we all remember what happened to the lollipop, don't we? I just like to bite through to get to the part I want.

Goddamn, I do love candy, yes I do.

And on that note, I've got better things to do than blog, so...

What?! Shame on you, I meant wrap gifts, you filthy little monkey! Jeeze, get your mind out of the gutter!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:37 AM#
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Friday, December 20, 2002

"I'm Sorry"...
but WHAT?!

This may be the crown jewel of weird search strings that have brought people...somehow...to this site.

www.google.com/search?=suppository fetish

While it rather surprisingly (forgive me) fits in, with the below post and my tourettes-like abuse of the word ASSHOLE, I cannot recall ever mentioning suppository and fetish in the same sentence.

At least not on the blog.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 2:33 AM#
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"Brockton - City of Champions?!"
...in a pig's ass!

Fuck you, Brockton MA.

I was utterly distraught about moving here from Dorchester roughly three years ago, and now I can say it was with good reason. What a shithole. I never really got the whole townie mentality thing about having pride in the town you grew up in, but now I do.

I tell people I'm originally from Dorchester, and I get pretty much the same reaction universally; "You're from Dorchester?!", spat out with a grimace of distaste, of course. Then I catch people serruptitiously looking me over for bullet wounds and knife scars. And for the last time, let me defend my old stomping grounds, specifically in relation to this shit-stain on the map known as Brockton.

Dorchester has more class, in even its most festering, crack-addled, crime-ridden, asshole neighborhoods than you ever will, Brockton.

Let me tell you something, Kitten. Since I've moved here, my house has been egged and paintballed multiple times. Every autumn some dickless twerp thinks it's a good idea to rip open my yard waste bags and scatter my raked-up leaves all over my lawn. And all summer long I'm picking up truckloads of McLitter, spent Budweasle shells and fucking cigarette butts from my modest but tidy property. I've caught you assholes roaming around in my back yard at all manner of weird hour of the night looking for something to steal or fuck up, and I have to listen to you drunken retards screaming and fighting long into the morning knowing I'll be dead all day at work because I cannot get any fucking sleep.

Unlike "y'all", I don't have the luxury of welfare or disability or state-funded over-breeding subsidies, or however the fuck you smelly, worthless, ignorant parasites survive, to fund my fucking lifestyle. I have a job. A really shitty one that I hate, to be sure, but nonetheless, I can't be kept awake anymore worrying about why you're creeping around my windows and why you don't have the fucking common sense to just take out a restraining order on that homicidal maniac instead of trying to out-shout each other every night. At least until he finally slams your stupid mouth shut with his fist.


I mean, Jesus, even I'm starting to believe you were asking for it.

And all this time I wondered if it was in my head; if you just drove like that all the time, but no. Now I know that when you see me hiking to the bus stop in the cold, in the snow, in the sleet, in the rain, that you really do floor it, and swerve into the nearest puddle to soak me in shit so I have to go home, get changed, and be late for work. I hope it makes you feel better about yourself, because, really, that might be the only chance people like you have at self-worth. And thanks ever so much for trying to mow me down in the crosswalk while you jabber mindlessly on your cell phones. I love it. I really do. And I look forward to the day when I'm just too fucking tired after listening to you guys call each other "cunts" and "pricks" and "fuckin' alcoholics" until dawn, and my reaction time is too dulled for me to get out of the way of your SUV packed with screaming ritalin babies, and I can sue you and your whole disfunctional family tree into immediate starvation.

Whatever. I mean, yeah, loathing you worthless fuckwits is almost too easy. You don't even have to take any of your mindless, impotent aggression out on me for me to hate you, it comes naturally. You're already representing everything I hate about the human race, might as well make my disgust even more rightgeous by giving me an actual reason, and in the process, fulfilling every negative expectation I had of you.

But this shit...well, this shit was going too far.

The other night, some dickless pile of fuck crept into my yard and stole my dad's four foot, hand-crafted, pine lighthouse.

Now, I bought this for my dad for Father's Day. I got it at a bargain for fourty bucks, but that fourty bucks is hard to come by when you're a minimum wage-slave. But I don't care, it's not the money. Money's money, and even though I fucking sweat blood for it, and suffer unspeakable indignities at Drugco, I can make more. Whatever.

No, what kills me is that this summer, I watched my dad hang out on the deck and paint that lighthouse the same colors as the house we live in. I watched him painstakingly modify little details on it to make it more life-like. And when he was thoroughly engrossed in this project, and a rainstorm swept in, I watched him drag the lighthouse and all of his materials under a canvas canopy and keep working in the rain.

I felt good because my dad is a notoriously tough guy to buy presents for. Every gift-giving holiday, this Christmas certainly no exception, dad's always the gift challenge. As I write this, I still have no idea what to get him. But usually, I have good gift-buying karma, and run into something I know he'll at least like. It's become a running joke in my family, dad's sometimes "non-reaction" to certain gifts. I enjoy finding that rare ringer that he'll spend hours marvelling at, turning over, pointing out details, and occasionally declaring things; "cool." And that lighthouse was obviously a home-run. One that surprised even me.

I keep thinking about the day he came home from work, after making a quick stop at a hobby shop, bearing the perfect light to install in his freshly painted, lovingly detailed, now one-of-a-kind lighthouse. That's right, Kitten; dad's lighthouse had an actual working light, and even though it was right near my bedroom window, and sometimes punctuated the agony of my occasional fits of insomnia, he was just too damn proud of it for me to have any real issues with it.

Sadly, insomnia was not on the menu the night some loser motherfucker hijacked it. Too bad, too. Had I been awake, I'd have marched right out there with a claw-hammer and planted it right in the bastard's frontal lobes. Jesus, just saying that makes me wish I could go back in time knowing what I know now. For all my huffing and puffing, I'm really not a violent person. But I'd have done it, I swear.

So I hope you're happy, you worthless piece of shit. You not only stole from a family, but you stole from a family of really good people. People who thought something beautiful could be appreciated, not just for their own viewing, but where everyone could enjoy it. You stole from a really good guy. And I'm not just saying that because I'm his daughter, either. You didn't even steal from some jaded, suburban family who doesn't know the value of anything. You stole from a family that's struggling, living hand-to-mouth, in the truest sense of the word, right before Christmas. A family that's having an especially hard time this Christmas. That shit's just fucked up.

And really bad karma, too, I might add.

In fact, it'll be especially bad karma if I should find it on your lawn, asshole. I'll know it when I see it. And you can bet me and my claw-hammer are going to systematically take out every window of your hovel and whatever car is parked outside it. You will know me by my trail of broken glass, motherfucker. Oh, yes, there is a light that never goes out, bitch. I can promise you that.

So, fuck you, Brockton Mass. Fuck you and every worthless douchebag shoved up in ya'. By the way; the same goes for Abington, Holbrook and Avon...uhm, pretty much the entire South Shore area. Has anything good ever come out of you? No. Know why? Because there isn't a decent bookstore for miles anywhere, your last hope for a respectable non-corporate record store ("Tunes". May they rest in peace.) went tits-up because nobody knows their ass from Brittany Spears around here, you people think "whole food" is something that someone hasn't already taken a fucking bite of, and there is absolutely no creative ambition to be found anywhere in this neck of the woods. It's all just getting drunk, getting pregnant and getting hitched to the nearest thing with more than three teeth and as many i.q. points (although that's debateable) and hoping you can find some quack shady enough to declare you "unfit to work" so that you can sit on your fat asses all day eating McJunkfood and neglecting your scary, ugly, malformed, squalling, hyperactive, fetal-alcohol-syndrome-afflicted crotch monsters. I fucking hate you and your wretched PT Cruisers, too.

FUCK! Even this second, there is some moron squealing his tires up and down the tiny side-street I live on, going at least 65! See what I mean?! And you know what, Kitten? For once I don't feel guilty hoping he has a head-on with a brick wall. In fact, should I hear the impact, I will race to find my shoes so I can go roast marshmallows on his fucking smouldering corpse until the EMTs show up and shoo me away.

So, I'd like to thank the lighthouse thief for putting me in the exact frame of mind everyone should be in during the Christmas holiday; seething hatred for my fellow man. Way to go, fucker. This may be your life's only achievement. You've risen above the tiresome ranks of inconsequential assholes to become "the sorriest asshole ever".

posted by taiwan_on 'round 2:03 AM#
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Monday, December 09, 2002

"How I Spent My Saturday Night"
by taiwan_on

Along with the lovely and talented Choo Choo La Rouge at the Abbey Saturday, I also saw Paul Curreri, who is currently on tour.

* "Holy Shit", this guy's good. You should check him out.

Current tour dates and venues can be found here.

* "Not too shabby at the Abbey."

* material used w/o permission is the intellectual property of a resident Abbey celebrity who shall remain nameless.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 1:02 AM#
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Sunday, December 08, 2002

"The Resonant Voice of God"
rock me, Joe.

This interview almost completely sums up why I worship this man with every fiber of my being.

It's funny, about 1/2 way through this article, I began fantasizing vividly about meeting Joe Frank.

Unexpectedly, of course.

I say "unexpectedly" for a number of weird and complicated reasons. Or for at least 3 easy to explain ones that come immediately to mind.

1.) I think I saw him on a subway once, in Boston. It was shortly before or after Christmas, I'm not sure which. Anyway, I was engrossed in a heated conversation with a fellow commuter after work one night, and a man boarded the train at South Station carrying light luggage and a newspaper and looking suspiciously like Joe Frank. I don't recall if I was able to hold my own in the conversation I was having, but I continued to run my mouth in a sort of offhanded way while staring rather rudely and directly at this Joe look-alike. The more I stared, the more likely it seemed that this was the same literary fucking icon that had rocked my world for 13 or 14 formative years of my life, but whose pictures I had only seen (of which there are precious few) for the first time merely a year ago. And unfortunately, the more likely it seemed that this was, in fact, Joe, the more rooted in place with fear I became. How do you address the person who has most influenced not only your own creative desires, but even your artistic perceptions? I mean, this guy was the English teacher I always wished I had in high school, instead of the English teacher I had on the radio between the hours of midnight and one a.m. on Sunday night / Monday morning. This was the friend I wish I had now to call up and talk to for hours. This was also the guy who took some of the scariest and most taboo aspects of society and the human condition and presented them as they should be presented; in an absurdist light. How do you approach someone, a total stranger, who has meant so much to you? You don't. You sit there like a slack-jawed jackass staring, feeling your heart hammer so hard that you actually begin to wonder if a healthy 20-something could drop dead of a heart attack like this. And when he looks up at you from his newspaper and sees your wide, freaked-out eyes riveted to him and gives you a smile so warm and knowing that it eliminates any doubt that it might not be him, you do what I did. You piss yourself in terror, and after the initial warmth wears off, you spend the rest of the ride trying to convince your fellow passengers that everything is cool and your ass isn't freezing. And then you just look away, Kitten. Look away. Am I sure that it was him? No. Does the possibility that it was him still torture me now? Do I wish that I had the balls to march up to that total stranger and just say; "Is your name Joe Frank?" Yep. But the very idea that this stranger may have answered in the affirmative is still enough to make me pee a little. In fact, I did just now simply typing that.

2.) See reason #1. Obviously I am frightened to meet Joe Frank. Or, at the very least, deeply, deeply intimidated. I have a dread fear of coming off like a drooling fan-girl and saying nothing of worth about how grateful I am, not only for his impact on my life, but for the hours of invaluable entertainment he's provided. Look at me, for chrissake! I'm coming off like a drooling fan-girl right now!

3.) I want to "stumble into" Joe. It would be so much more fantastic if I had the opportunity to meet him under unstaged, and possibly unusual circumstances. An "arranged" meeting with Joe Frank would cheapen the experience for me somehow.

So, there you have it. I am insane. That said, after daydreaming for the millionth time about meeting Joe Frank, this obsessed fan has decided that she can handle a chance meeting with her idol.


Or at least maybe without pissing myself.

Now go read that interview Kitten.

posted by taiwan_on 'round 8:34 PM#
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Friday, December 06, 2002

"Calling All Rock Fans"
come see a damn show that rocks!

Yeah, promised I'd post something worthwhile, but spent the day lounging instead. Tee hee. But I do have important entertainment news.

This Saturday, I'm going to see the uber-cool Choo Choo La Rouge at the Abbey Lounge (Voted Best Dive Bar in 2000!).

If you're in the Greater Boston area, you'll be there ifya' know what's good for ya'!

Show starts at 9:00, the Choo go on around 10:30, and cover is a meager $7.00

Hope y'all have as good a weekend as I'm going to have. Over and out!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 5:48 PM#
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"'Cause I'm a Liar"
Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha! Sucker! Sucker!

There's like, ten feet of fricken snow out there so I banged in today.

I thought about being honest and saying; "Fuck you. I'm not hiking through this mess". But then I thought that some charitable soul might come and pick me up and I thought; "fuck that". One of the reasons us grownups hate snow so much is because we don't get snowdays anymore and that just sucks.

Besides, it's stock delivery day on Fridays now, and dammit, doing warehouse just bums me out. Especially on Friday.

So I called and said that I slipped half way to the bus stop and maybe I mighta' sprained my ankle or something, I dunno. *shrug*

Now I'm all paranoid that one of my evil co-workers might drive by and pull a Nanook of the North and check my driveway for fresh footprints or something and see that I never even left the cozy confines of my lair.

Maybe I'll post something later. After some shovelling, another coffee and a nap of course. ;-)

For about five seconds, I actually like snow again!

posted by taiwan_on 'round 10:32 AM#
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Blogroll Me!

taiwan_on is feeling...
this is the mood, dude

mini me

you tell 'em, granny!


The WeatherPunkAss

moon phases

Female/26-30. Lives in United States/Massachusettes/Brockton/North Brockton, speaks English. Spends 20% of daytime online. Uses a Fast (128k-512k) connection. And likes Film/Writing.
This is my blogchalk:
United States, Massachusettes,
Brockton, North Brockton,
English, Female, 26-30,
Film, Writing.

<<?verbosity #>>

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