I'll bet you're all wondering why I called you here today. I have a serious subject to discuss.

WHABAM!!!!!

LADIES AND GENTS I PRESENT TO YOU:

JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG

YESSSSSSSSSS!

Can we, as a nation, as a people agree that James Franco in drag is the hottest thing to hit this country since the Beatles' plane touched down in 1964??? I don't care if you're a straight male, a straight female, a gay person of either gender, bisexual, transgendered, whathaveyou, JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG is like the new gold standard of hotness.

James Franco in drag is like the lingua franca of attractive.

James Franco in drag is basically Dr. Frankenfurter combined with Anna Wintour combined with Brad Pitt combined with Angelica Heuston combined with PURE AWESOME. And then SET ON FIRE, a fire started by the sheer hotness of James Franco in drag.


I want to write a movie starring James Franco in drag that would just be him, in drag, sitting on a stool, reading poetry. Shot in black and white. And I would make MILLIONS.

In fact, I'm going to begin a letter-writing campaign declaring that we should edit the common parlance to replace "lie back and think of England" with "lie back and think of James Franco in drag" because, hell, everyone would have more fun that way.

Have I mentioned I'm feverish? I'm feverish.

FEVERISH WITH LOVE FOR JAMES FRANCO IN DRAG.

Also a fever of, like, 99.9F, but I can't tell because I don't have a temperature because I'm not a real adult yet because I haven't made sweet sweet love to James Franco in drag.

Haha, scratch that last bit. What I meant to say was that I don't own a thermometer. But given the option, I would go for sweet sweet lovin' every time. EVERY DAMN TIME.

Shit man, James Franco in drag. James fuckin' Franco in drag.

You know, come to think of it, James Franco in drag would make a pretty rad name for a rock band.

It's bedtime like woah.

I have finally found My Cause! The cause that I would become a vigilante masked superhero for! You know, with a cape!

I'm too good-natured for my own good to get really worked up about most things. Petty crime? Maybe those people really needed whatever it was they stole from me. Biting insults? Yeah, they hurt my feelings, but you have to admit that it was clever and funny, so kudos!

But that for which I WILL NOT STAND is my daily battle not to get hit by cars while walking to work. SERIOUSLY. Everybody out on the road at 8:30 in the morning on a weekday in NW Washington, DC is a fucking MANIAC. They must all be late for work or whatever, and combine their East Coast entitlement with their four cups of coffee they have already imbibed and the fucking traffic on Georgia Avenue AND a two-ton destruction machine made of steel and SERIOUSLY I have a close call pretty much twice a week.

What is the deal, people? I'm about to start wearing some brass knuckles and punching the shit out of any car that threatens me while I'm in the crosswalk. Because DC has these things called traffic laws? (Wild, I know.) And when someone is in a crosswalk you're supposed to stop for them? That means stop your car ALL THE WAY with the BREAK PEDAL which should be IN THE MIDDLE.

I've already got my outfit worked out. Day glo vest, gloves with stop signs on them, a mask that covers my eyes but not my ANGRY EYEBROWS so I can let the drivers know my discontent.

Seriously.

I experience music in a much more intense way than some people do.

I need to beat a drum to keep my heartbeat in my chest. To keep my thoughts from descending to chaos away from the beat of the world.

I realize this sounds a little, you know, hippie in a drum circle, but so what? The people who hate drum circles are only the ones who aren't in them, and, in a way, the entire world operates on the same principle as a drum circle. Christ. I need to stop talking about that now, if only because I'm weirding myself out.

And now there's a whole new emotional depth to any music I choose to listen to. So, sure fire cry song: where are you now - wynn walent.

Then we've got to wrest it back from the brink, so we'll try a classic: John Wayne's Teeth - Eaglebear Singers.

And then, if you're feeling up for another bout of weeping, try this on for size: See You Soon - Coldplay.

I keep contemplating making a playlist. One that would make me feel enough, but not too much. But this is a bankrupt notion for a couple reasons. 1) It wouldn't work. I don't have anything that consistently doesn't make me cry yet. And 2) I would never be able to listen to any of these songs again.

That will probably happen anyway, but still.

When I'm not listening to music, I'm memorizing poetry. I just need to have some fucking rhythm right now, at all times, or I feel like I'll lose track of... something vital.

I don't grind my teeth, but the dentist says that beating them in constant rhythm is just as bad for them.

A friend of mine died last week. He was 25. His name was Jim.

It's so very strange to have someone you know die this young. The cause is nearly always a tragic accident of some sort: a motorcycle crash or falling into a river and being carried away by the current. Jim died in a small plane crash in northern Colorado on Wednesday, August 4.

***

I have so many things I want to ask him. Not important things. I want to ask him which albums be bought off of Amazon's monthly mp3 $5 albums. There are usually 100, this month there are 1000, and I don't know where to start. I want to ask him how his cat is. I want to ask him how he likes Boston in the summer.

***

I don't know if it's irony or what, but I keep thinking back to all those months that I was so sure he was going to die in Iraq. He had joined the army right out of high school, served a tour in Korea, and then began attending Lewis & Clark College. With me. And all my friends.

In 2006 he was called back up. He was able to make a case for finishing out the year, but headed to Iraq in the summer of 2007. And I was so worried.

I had a google news alert for his name. Just in case.

When he came back in 2008, I was so happy. We all were.

***

One time, in early 2007, he showed me an indie band with a male guitarist who he thought looked like me. What was that band, Jim? I can't remember.

***

He is one of the brightest kids I know. And of everyone I know, he is the person who most deserved to reach old age. He could be a fairly crotchety 25 year old. I couldn't wait until we were old together, drinking his home-brewed ginger beer and complaining about the youth and their lack of respect. He had no time for bullshit and even less time for whiners.

***

Was it TV on the Radio? No, I would have remembered it like that, and, besides, that guy doesn't look anything like me. Maybe the band began with a w.

***

I went to visit him in Boston last autumn. I am so glad I did. We drank beer (gluten free for me) and watched the first two hours of Ken Burns's National Parks documentary.

He had a ball pit he and his girlfriend Chelsea made.

***

Passion Pit? No, they weren't around in early 2007. I wish I could just ask him.

***

As difficult as this is for all of us who counted Jim as a friend, the past few days have been exponentially worse for Chelsea. She lost her mother, her stepfather, and Jim as well in that plane crash. They were flying back home after visiting her at her summer job in Rocky Mountains National Park. The small, single engine plane didn't make it out of Colorado.

My loss is so small and pathetic compared to hers. My heart breaks for her.

***

I know it wasn't Jang Ki-ha and Faces. The band wasn't Korean, that's for sure. Maybe Canadian? I feel like I should be able to remember. I wanted to buy their CD. Or maybe I was just flattered that Jim saw them and thought of me.

***

Jim liked to dance. He was a Scottish country dancer and he owned his own kilt. It had many, many pleats. He thought utilikilts were a waste of good fabric, and if you were going to be wearing a kilt, it might as well be tartan.

He was a man of Opinions.

***

He and I danced together, many a time. We danced traditional Irish dances, Scottish dances, Israeli dances, Salsa, the Meringue, the Cha-Cha-Cha. We took a ballroom dance class together. He was a great lead, and I was a competent follow. He was my favorite partner in the class.

One time we went to Portland's largest Contra dance together, along with several other friends. The band was huge and the music was fast. He knew how to use centrifugal force (or centripetal, or whatever-- he was the physics major, not I) and he spun me like I'd never been spun before. I felt like anything was possible. I felt like I could fly.

***

He ironed all his clothes. I think that was something he picked up from the Army. Some of the protocol never left him.

***

I broke down crying last night when I realized he was probably still wearing his dog tags. I saw he was still wearing them when I visited Boston. I sort of pointed at them and said, "Really?" He didn't answer.

When the sheriff's department found the crash site, they thought there was only one person in the plane.

***

We first met on September 19, 2005. I know, because he was dressed as a pirate. For a long time I knew him only as "Jim the pirate kid." He was really good at talking like a pirate.

Other things he was really good at: mixing drinks, dating, fixing electronics, gathering people to eat waffles and drink wine and play wii. Making tacos. Making me laugh.

***

I wish I could talk to him again. I wish I could see him again. I wish I knew what band he showed me in 2007. I think it was Wintersleep, second in from the right. But I'll never know for sure.

***

I knew Jim pretty well. But I'll never get to know him better. I'll never hear all his stories from his time in Iraq. I will never get to dance with him again.

I hope he died without feeling any pain.

I won!! I won.

Winning a game that basically combines the simplicity of Pong with the hypnotic beauty of the MSPaint color wheel should not make me feel quite this accomplished.

But you know what? IT DOES.

Naan and Chocolate

An epic tale of love and food set against the Swiss countryside and the sweet, sweet sounds of Bollywood's best musicians. Coming to a theater near you... SOON!*

*Please note: it is probably not coming to a theater near you any time soon. But wouldn't it be awesome if it were?

Paul Krugman wins today's prize for Most Disappointing Blog Post with his entry "Naan and Chocolate." It was about neither naan nor chocolate, but instead a discussion of Indian tourism in Switzerland. The blog post was accompanied by an article titled "A Beloved Bollywood Extra Draws Indians."(Hint: the extra here is the Swiss countryside.)

Basically, because so many of the most iconic Bollywood scenes (mostly awesome dream sequences) are shot in Switzerland, there has been an influx of Indian tourists. Thus naan and chocolate, being two iconic foodstuffs, are highlighted for no purpose. Krugman does get minor points for managing to include Bollywood in his discussion.

BUT, as my intrepid roommate Emily pointed out, doesn't the world desperately NEED a Bollywood film entitled Naan and Chocolate? Yes. The answer is yes.

PICTURE IT:

A young Swiss country boy, swarthy in his lederhosen, herds sheep and yodels for a living in the high valleys of the Alps. By day, he is lonely, with nobody but his sheep to keep him company. But by night, he carefully crafts the most delectable chocolates in all of Switzerland.

He also drinks beer with his friends, for this is Switzerland after all.

Even with the chocolate, however, the nights get long and lonely.

ENTER: a beautiful, doe-eyed baker woman from India whose incredible skill with bread products went under appreciated in her homeland. By day she bakes cream puffs, Linzer tortes, Liège style waffles, and Bündner Nusstorte. By night, she sometimes gets lonely and homesick, and craves nothing more than simple naan.

She's usually covered in flour.

They meet and fall in love. There is dancing, there is baking, there is chocolate, there is yodeling in the Bollywood style. It's a delicious fusion of cultures as East meets West, lederhosen meets sari, and sea level meets very much above sea level.

Concept art: dancing in a secluded meadow.

Eventually...

Catch phrase? "It's like a crepe, only it tastes like love."

Occasionally all I want to do with my life is listen to poetry over and over again until I can recite it by heart. For instance:

We, the youthful sinewy races; all the rest on us depend.


(I didn't buy any Levi's jeans but I did memorize the first five stanzas of this poem, ready to be busted out at a moment's notice.)

Or this celebration of sibilance: "...silkscreen the Sistine ceiling on my soft palate"



Or even this love story told in emoticons:

(The ambiguous ending is meant to be followed directly by this song.)

And sometimes I just want to listen to "Hay un amigo en mi" on endless repeat:

Heyo I'm an intern again.

No. No. I'm an agent. To a STAR.

Well, my sister-in-law. Who is sort of famous. In our family. For art.

http://www.etsy.com/shop/TaylorsArtCloset

Yep, there it is. Shameless self-promotion. Except that it's for my sister-in-law and I'm doing it for free, so... selfless shame-promotion? She's actually a phenomenal artist. These three listings don't even begin to scratch the surface of her talent. She promised to send me more photos tomorrow, so hopefully those will be listed tomorrow as well.

In the meantime, have some pop-art portraits!

 Rockabilly Ruby, based on this picture.

This is my brother!

Boy Blue, based on this photo.

And here she is, and she's so beautiful.

Also talented! Did I mention talented?

So yes, it's a return to the world of internships, because that's what the boss lady called me. And by "boss lady" I mean sister-in-law.

I prefer to think of myself as an art dealer. A high-powered one. Someday I'll even work out of my own awesome office. With a window and a couple of awesome vintage maps. And I'll make sales calls that use the words "Warhol-esque genius" unironically. Yes.

God bless America.

I just got back from spending several hours on the National Mall, watching the fireworks. It is an interesting tradition: blowing small bits of gunpowder and colorful chemicals into the sky to create incredible sparkly displays. Such beauty, for such a short time. Such fleetingly gorgeous waste.

I sometimes have a difficult time looking at the fireworks themselves and find myself staring at the smoke they leave behind. I always think it looks a little like fossilized coral, but that is because I am a weirdo who thinks fireworks smoke looks a little like dead starfish.

Last year, I was pretty sure that my neighborhood was the site of a gang war July 1-3. Now I understand: it's just exuberance, power, and a tiny bit of pyromania. Still, it's a little weird to celebrate the birth of this nation by blowing up a little bit of it. Also, it's 1:30am. I kind of thought they'd all be done by now.

Nope. Pop pop pop pop POP pop POP POP pop pop pop pop tseeeeeeerrr!

Happy independence, y'all. It's a funny old world, but I'm glad I'm in it.

I'm glad I'm here.

SO I JUST ATE A CORN TORTILLA TOASTED WITH MELTED CHOCOLATE CHIPS AND MARSHMALLOWS ON TOP OF IT SO I'M SORRY IF I SEEM A LITTLE DISJOINTED TO YOU BUT IT WILL ALL BE OKAY SOON because I'm about to come off the sugar high and...

...crash.

Yep, there it is. Oof.

Man I just want to eat everything in sight, but apparently not as much as Terrare, the French showman and soldier who was perpetually hungry and, um, ate a cat. Alive. And many, many other gross things.

Wow I want more marshmallows.

But that's not what I brought you here today to talk about.

I came here to talk about Presidents and Mounties.

OH MAN THAT IS THE MOST AWESOME NAME FOR A BAND or BUDDY COP SHOW in the history of forever. That is golden. Presidents and Mounties. It would star Teddy Roosevelt, chomping into a delicious ham, and Superintendent Steele, and maybe John Muir would join them for epic romps. It would be like Due South, only with ham. And possibly a power ballad.

No, wait. Maybe Due South had a power ballad. I DON'T KNOW THESE THINGS.

It did have a wolf as a sidekick. Presidents and Mounties would have a moose. Like so!

I have some friends who say that image is photoshopped, or, more accurately, edited in whatever way they edited photographs back before photoshop existed, with, like, a knife or something. HOT DAMN if that's true I don't know what beauty is anymore.

Still my favorite Colbert line of all time: "If truth is beauty and beauty truth, then America, I look AMAZING tonight! This is the Colbert Report!"

What were we talking about?

Right, marshmallows.

So the clouds today were flipping insane. I came home to greet the plumber and as I was leaving I clearly WALKED INTO THE CAVERN between the high pressure and the low. Everything to the north of me was pitch black with roiling purple clouds and everything south was hazy and bright. As I walked down the street, leaves blew in ominous patterns around my feet and the wind whipped and screamed. An older lady looked at me and said, "Are you ready for what is going to come?" and I couldn't tell if she was talking about the weather or some kind of heinous apocalypse. The way the clouds were looking it honestly could have been either one.

Just as I got to my office building on the seventh story of the 1300 block on the street where the President lives, the heavens opened up and poured down a steamy flood.

And the temperature lowered about 5 degrees. It was so hot.

I think I'm going to do as many push ups as I can.

Okay, I'm back. I did 20. But 15 of them were girly push ups. Maybe I'll be able to do more tomorrow.

Chances are slim, especially if I don't eat quite as much sugar.

I really, really, really want to be on a road trip right now.

Really.

I want to be in a car, a little cabin of me, with some country laid out before me like endless possibility. I want to watch the clouds scoot across the sky. I want to see the weird landmarks that nobody else sees and I want to keep driving until somebody needs a bathroom break. And I want to insist that we keep driving for at least another 50 miles because dammit we're not stopping until we have to.

I want to be listening to music on the radio while we drive in and out of range. I want to hit the scan button and have it come up as country or rap or Lady Gaga or freaking Christian music. And then I want to force everyone in the car to listen to at least one song.

On a side note: here's a fun game when you're listening to Christian music. Choose out the songs that could be about both a) God's infinite love for us and b) awesome gay sex. The current winner: Whatever You're Doing by Sanctus Real.

I get this urge to go on a long car trip whenever I feel bored or trapped or it's summer time and the air smells just right.

I don't need to go anywhere, and I don't need to get out of here so much as I just want to have already gone but not yet have arrived. I want to be on my way. I want to eat a milkshake at some crappy truck stop somewhere and I want to chase a storm and drive through it. I want to go over a pass and see that it's still snowy, I want to have miles and miles and miles of horizon laid out in front of me and have nothing to do but chase it.

I think they call it wanderlust. I think I have it.

I do not have a car. I don't own one partially because I live in a city with pretty awesome public transportation (the Metro: killing on average less than one person a month since last month!) and partially because I'm too much of a hippie environmentalist and partially because I'm afraid I would always be leaving.

Bring it.

This conversation is transcribed verbatim:

Him: "I just moved into my house. I'm basically still sleeping in the living room."
Me: "Well, that's no good."
Him: "I've slept in way worse places, believe me. Benches in Germany, train stations..."
Me: "Did you do a backpacking trip in Europe?"
Him: "Yeah, I ran out of money, I was unemployed, so I sold my house and backpacked around Europe for six months."
Me: "Wow, that sounds great!"
Him: "Yeah, backpacked for about six months-- until I literally ran out of money. I was in a bar when I spent my last five dollars. I knew the barman, and he had given me plenty of drinks in the past for free, but I told him, 'Hami, this one I pay for.' So I paid for that drink and took a swig. Down the bar there was a guy who said, 'You speak English?' I said 'English!' He said, 'American?' I said 'American!'"
Me: "Ha!"
Him: "Yeah, he asked me if I had any money, and I told him that Hami literally had my last five bucks. He looked at me for a second and said, 'How do three square meals and a place to sleep sound to you?' I said they sounded great."
Me: "So did you go home with him?"
Him: "Turns out he was a recruiter for the Air Force. He asked me if I wanted to join. I said sure... I was pretty hungry by that point. I told him he had to house me until I shipped out."
Me: "So... you... joined the Air Force?"
Him: "Yep. I lived with him and then I shipped out. I was in the Air Force for four years, just got out a year and a half ago."

And that, my friends, is how you can go from "I've slept on benches in Germany" to "BTW I was in the Air Force for four years WHAAAT."

Oh, internet dating.