Little Joy

It's about to get a little feelings-y over here, so don't say I didn't warn you.

In addition to being the French 4th of July, it's also the birthdate of my Père, and the first of such days in recent or distant memory that I haven't been able to spend with him. Also, he's 50 (but doesn't look a day over 43, I promise), which is, as the kids are wont to say, kind of a big deal.

He is, you might've guessed, the primary reason I've been able to eat and pay rent and buy two-dollar high-waisted shorts at the thrift stores I frequent, because charming as I may be, that shit don't pay the bills, y'all. He's also the reason I'm a semi-functional person, mentally (this might actually be up for debate)--he's available to talk to me on the phone upwards of five times a day, about what I want to make for dinner and what cleaning products work best and, perhaps most importantly, to remind me that I'm not a total failure and that someone, somewhere, thinks the world of me and knows that I'm going to be OK.

Earlier this afternoon, I got a message from one of my nearest and dearest letting me know that he'd made the drive to my house and left a little something for this Dear Old Dad of mine, and I teared up a little bit, because a)it was a lovely and thoughtful thing to do, and b)it was a nice reminder that other people think my DOD is as great as I do, and that even though to his face I might sometimes be Veruca Salt with a better vocabulary, it comes through to everyone I know that he is, in fact, Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Oracle of Delphi all rolled into one.

Libertie, Egalitie, Fraternitie

Obviously I'm listening to the newish Phoenix album (it really is the Album of Summer 2009, FYI), partly because I'm trying to be awake and productive like a working person (visualize what you want to be, etc.), and partly because, you guys! It's Bastille Day, which is basically the French 4th of July, which means you get to wear red, white and blue and drink wine and eat croissants (preferably with homemade jam) and listen to Serge (who is such a past-life husband, btw) all the livelong day!

In case Serge wasn't enough to satisfy the raging Francophilia I've driven you to this morning, here's a gem from Love Songs, a French movie that came out last year! It's a musical-y little thing, and it stars Louis Garrel, Official Boyfriend of Bastille Day 2009.

Bread And Jam Is What I Am

Needing a healthy dose of women's work, I spent most of Saturday slaving over a hot kitchen stove, stirring cauldrons of orange goo. No, friends, I was not crafting some witchy potion, but jam! Apricot-rosemary jam, to be precise, and as long as we're being precise, I ought to confess that when I say 'crafting' I mean cutting and stirring and letting my jam-mate do things like lift hot and heavy pots and pull glass jars out of boiling water.

It turned out better than I'd hoped (if you can believe it, I'm not exactly known for my kitchen skillz), and I felt like a hardscrabble pioneer lady, which, if you've been reading this Internet Diary for more than a few days, you should know was my favorite part of the exercise.

What I'm really trying to say is, if my friends start dying of botulism, it wasn't me.

I Was Working As A Waitress In A Cocktail Bar

I don't know when people started using the Human League as a reference point for popular dance music again, but I thoroughly approve.

Guess What I'm Doing Tomorrow?

Here is a hint:

It's True

This car has been parked in the parking space belonging to my place of residence for the past five days, and short of sitting in the driveway and waiting for the owner, I don't know what else to do, because. This person is interested in historic preservation and groan-worthy puns, which I'm pretty sure means we're meant to be friends, if not life partners.

Ugggggh!

Very rarely am I motivated to blog blue, partly because I know you're all very delicate and partly because my Mamasan is reading, but seriously, you guys? FUCK THIS, and by this I mean the press release one can see, right now!, on Mayor Villaraigosa's Twitter, or right here:

It's foul enough to me that the city of Los Angeles is throwing down upwards of four million dollars for the memorial of a private citizen who had managed to get himself five hundred million dollars in debt, at a time when necessary city employees are being placed on unpaid furloughs because everyone's broke, but now it's being suggested that other people who are, might I remind you, not related to Michael Jackson in any way subsidize the cost of the circus currently going on at Staples Center? And that, unfortunately, people who'd never think to donate money to homeless kids or animal shelters or public park foundations will, in fact, send in actual money?

Look, I'm sure I sound like a sanctimonious harpy who doesn't get it, and that might be true! I do, in my defense, appreciate all kinds of Art and Artists, and I understand that while MJ doesn't really mean anything to me, he was very special to a great many other people, blah blah blah whatever. Mourn all you want--I'd never begrudge anyone that! I just think the idea that we're paying for it is shameful.