Fans Try to Save Carpenters' Old Home

"This is our version of Graceland.."

Umm. Graceland is *open to the public*. The property in Downey where Karen Carpenter lived, wrote, recorded, went through the bulk of her anorexia (apparently completely unnoticed by the three other people living there) and died.. is privately owned. And has been privately owned since it was sold more than ten years ago.

Fucking raze it to the ground. Go leave flowers on Karen's grave, you freaks.

The Youtube user who posted this hasn't posted the rest of the film, but this 10 minute clip has the best video and sound quality of any version of the film I've seen posted.

This biopic of Karen Carpenter's life (performed almost entirely with Barbie dolls) was Todd Haynes's graduate school film thesis. And it's *amazing*.

Found my tiger iron, found my work shirt. Both were hiding in plain sight. Forgot to send permission slip for consumer reports in with my application to the Times-Picayune. Spent $2 faxing it from Pak Mail. Finished one of three articles for Vital Voice -- it's a *cover* story. Bought a purple Om tank top from Pathways, a copy of Pride and Prejudice from Borders. Hung out with Rene, had a coffee, wrote more about the boys, tested out some dialogue and descriptions on Rene -- who laughed more often than not. Hopefully, I'm doing something right.

On Monday, Rachel gave me a small labradorite pendant they'd been unable to find a project for. I strung it on the same cord as my Begging Buddha and they seem to be cohabitating quite happily.

One of my regular Tuesday customers asked me if I'd lost weight since she'd seen me last. I honestly don't know but, all the same, don't dare to hope. If I have, y'all know I didn't lose it the right way.

Informal poll: Amazon.com has opened up pre-orders for the Young Ones: Extra Stoopid Edition box set with a 25% rebate. Do I spend now or put it on my Xmas list and make someone else spend $45-60?

I've been beyond tired lately.. Not sure why, either.

..and I ate it more than an hour ago.

Note to consumers: avoid Armor garlic balogna. There's clearly something wrong with it.

Die young, stay pretty
Deteriorate in your own time
(Deteriorate in your own time)
Tell 'em you're dead and wither away

Are ya living alone or with your family?
a dried up twig on your family tree?
Are ya waiting for the reaper to arrive?
Or just to die by the hand of love?
Love for youth love for youth

So die young and stay pretty
Die young, stay pretty

Leave only the best behind
(Leave only the best behind)
Slipping sensibilities
Tragedy in your own dream

Oh ya sit all alone in your rocking chair
Transistor pressed against an ear
Were ya waiting at the bus stop all your life?
Or just to die by the hand of love?
Love for youth love for youth

So live fast 'cause it won't last

Dearly near senility
(Dearly near senility)
Was it good or maybe you won't tell?

-- Die Young, Stay Pretty by Blondie

I think I've lost my gag reflex.

That is all.

I woke up from the single strangest nightmare I've ever had: a friend of mine and I were both turning in applications and being interviewed for a part-time job. Not even the job I *want*. Some shit part-time gig like the one I got, only for slightly more money. My friend got it, I didn't. I'm asking the interviewer what was wrong with my application and she won't tell me. Then I woke up.

I was depressed for most of today so I tried to distract myself by working on my article for Vital Voice. Read a bit of Shelley, wrote some more of Chapter 1. I'm liking Zan more and more. He's a proper skeptic, denouncing both the punk culture and literature culture in his opening narrative. Watched Mysterious Skin, a film directed by Gregg Araki, based on a book twetwe123 told me about. It'll break your heart. My bangs (fringe) are getting longer so I gave sweeping them to the side a try, pinning them up with bobby pins, parting my hair on the right. I've got this high forehead that I hate. And the red hair (with black roots) flipping outward at the bottom makes me feel like Larry Fine in retro glasses and a tank top.

I haven't purged in more than a week... I think. Hard to keep track. I've been eating healthier. I feel like I've lost weight. The scale says I haven't. But then, the scale is more than ten (maybe fifteen) years old and no matter how you adjust it, it always weighs you five pounds over or under. I want to throw it off the balcony. But it was Grandma's. But then again, she dieted for life too and maybe she'd rejoice with me during this liberating act. She doesn't need it now and neither do I. I'll probably do it around 2 am, giving a good yell as I heave it over the rail, slamming it to the ground below. Put the bags of fast food wrappers my teenage neighbors throw over to shame.

My new mantra: everyday is just one day.

..and I say that with a great deal of self-awareness. After Bill's call last night, I sat down and had a nice little rant about how much the world was cursing me and wanting to spit in the face of every happy person I encountered.

I flashed back to Dad and his tantrums and it was over almost immediately. I don't *think* I have clinical depression -- in fact, my dad was the one who always insisted I didn't -- but I watch that pretty closely anyway. It's a family disease, after all. And am I *not* a clinical depressive because I'm able to control my more drastic mood swings? The psychologist I saw my senior year of high school told me I didn't have an eating disorder because I stopped purging after I was caught by a co-worker. But that little interim only lasted three years, so.. what's the answer?

I'm happy for the moment because the roads are clear, my morning class was cancelled, Missy, Tom and Caroline *are* all coming in tonight, I've got until Monday to finish all the corrections my adviser and panel members gave me for my thesis and I've just downloaded "Band on the Run" from a Beatles file-sharing community.

So, being happy, there's very little to manage emotionally at the moment. I'll deal with everything else as it comes.