this imploding heart

Don't you mess around, no no no

Tiny and I were still walking around Broadway, browsing through boutiques and sketching out all the cute stuff to be made at home when 8:50, Wednesday night rolled around.

Tiny: "Problem. We're not going to make it home in time to watch The OC."

Mister Lucky: "Solution! Lets mob up on the boys."

Let me just insert this: Cake is a charismatic motherfucker. Everybody in his building and most of the surrounding neighborhood comes over and hangs out in 1/2 to 6 hour stretches on a pretty regular basis. His boy P watched as the misc. single boy parade marched it's way on to Cakes couch, and said. "You're a victim of your own charisma, man."

So by the time Tiny and I showed up, there were already 6 boys and a chihuahua there.

Mister Lucky: "Woah, Cake...there are a lot of dudes here. Tiny and I can watch the OC at home."

Cake: "NO! You're the healthiest addition available for this group!"

Mister Lucky: "Because this is a total testicle festival?"

Cake: "I like to think of it as a kielbasa party."

Mister Lucky: "Testicle festival is a better term for the following reasons: 1: It almost rhymes and then it doesn't. 2: the word 'Testicle' is underused. Abandoned for Balls, Nuts, or Gonads."

Cake: "Kielbasa is good!"

Tiny: "Kielbasa is totally played out."

So we stayed and ignored all masculine complaints while we watched the glorious OC. By the time foxy television ladies were catfighting in the pool, the boys were reluctantly willing to admit that it was entertaing.

sometimes everything is wrong.

There's a guy riding around the city on a shopping cart that he's pushing like a scooter. Arms resting on the handlebar, on foot on the bottom rung.

It's a really nice day. Tiny and I just had a hamburger and big glasses of ice water. She borrowed some lipstick from a chamber maid today. I wore dumb socks, but hey, at least they don't fall down.

On our big walk last night, we passed the College parking garage off Pike. Some guy was pissing behind a dumpster at the top of the incline, and his buddy was watching out for him by the doorway. His pee spilled under the dumpster and diagonal across the sidewalk. I guided Tiny around it and laughed. "Ewwww!"

Mr Pees in Public heard me, and he got mad. He started yelling at his friend, and even though he was right behind me and REALLY loud, I couldn't make out what he was saying. I sensed, however, that he got embarressed about the pee on the sidewalk, and being embarrassed made him mad, so he was trying to save his pride by bitching about us being bitches who bitched about his pee.

Mostly, however, I don't care about your pee, buddy. I wish you'd think about where water goes, and not pee where it's going to spread out, but I'm also pretty glad you didn't do it in the entryway of my building like everybody else, all weekend.

Stop peeing in our entryway, people!

Too busy bending their spines to receive you.

I almost put this up last night as it was happening. We had TORNADO warnings last night. In SEATTLE, WASHINGTON.

I know this happens to you folks in almost every other part of the nation for most of a season, but it was an absolute anomaly for us. It rained a little, the wind blew the roof off of Marysville high school, and all the sudden we're throwing around Tornado Warnings? Whenever things like this happen, my mom always says, "Girl, you'd better get your praying in, before it's too late and the line is busy."

But there was no end of days for us last night. The weather calmed down, so I walked to Cakes and spent some time with the boys while they discussed their favorite buddy, The Playstation 2. Cake and I went downstairs so he could initiate his famous "Start making an entire roast chicken at 10:00pm" trick. He wrapped me like a papoose in a blanket and snuggled me into the couch to watch 'Lost in Translation' while he scampered around the neighborhood looking for fresh rosemary.

Lost in Translation was simple and entirely enjoyable. But you all already know that.

I fell asleep sometime after the credits and before the special features. When I opened my eyes again he was standing over me, smelling like thyme and rosemary and smoke.

"Hi."

"mmm."

"Lets put you to bed, okay?"

"mmm. no-o-o. mmmr. Mm-my arms are stuck-rrmm."

"You're just a little tangled up. Here we go, Up! Okay. "

So happy-niceypants put me to bed and took my watch off, set the alarm clock and went back to the livingroom to watch The Soprano's on DVD. He promptly fell asleep on the couch and stayed there until 6 am.

Don't they don't they do my love?

So far, this week has been conversations like: "What are you going to wear?" "What are we going to do about the plants?" "What if I'm one of those people who dies in a heat wave?" "Crappity Ass! What am *I* going to fucking wear?"

It's not like we're playing dress up to go to the city, it's like this: Seattle has a very mild climate. It doesn't get too cold (no snow), it doesn't get too hot (I own 2 tank tops, 4 t-shirts, 10 dresses and no less than 45 sweaters. I'm not fucking kidding. Ask Tiny. I have a whole separate closet for Sweaters and Evening Gowns.)

All my clothes are built for a sweater to go over the top and a slip underneath. I'm not sure anything can stand alone and still be fabulous. Really, that mustard brown number...you know, sort of the 'Annie' co-orphan styled thing...but without the complimentary socks and cardigan? I'm not entirely confident.

So I may have to play it up like those rappers who wear 3 pc suits everywhere. Suffering, and possibly passing out, for style.

On second thought, maybe I'll hit up the fabric store and fulfill one of my secret dreams. I'll make myself 7 little terry-tank dresses with matching handbags. All the same pattern, but in 7 different colors. I'll finally have a uniform!

All the flowers you find out in your garden

I really wish there was a way to make my posts play opening and closing credit songs like news stories have. I want this post to open up with DaDaDa Dut Da! DA! Dutdut Da! like one of those sportscast songs. Maybe football. Is the NFL the one where the words 'Smells like feet and Doesn't want to' fit in the song beat? Anyway.

We've been given permission from every angle, so look out, Brooklyn. We comin' to yo house.

Some things:

1: Tiny and I were listening to records and trying on our own clothes, as is our Saturday preference. I jumped in the shower while she continued to air-guitar solo.
I was just rinsing off as it hit me. I was barely one foot out of the shower when Tiny popped around the corner with a horrified look on her face:
"Sonya. What are we going to do about our records?"

"Whoa! You just read my mind, Tiny-lumpkins!"

Leaving our records is almost worse than leaving anybody else, our records don't even have email addresses!

2: Cake: "You're going to have a great time, but I'll miss you a lot."

Sonya: "I know what will make you feel better! I officially declare June to be 'Cigarettes, Strippers and Pornography' month. Howabout THEM apples?"

Cake: "Them apples aren't so bad."

3: I'm really excited!

What do I gotta do to make it work out?

I'm not working on my paper. I'm flitting about. Nervously. Very very nervously.

Okay folks, I'm going to lay it all out on the table here.

There is an 80% chance that Tiny and I'll be city swapping for a month.

Here are the Big Points:

1: I have to get a month off work and still have a job that likes me when I come back.

2: I have to drop out of my (one, single, attendance required) class. (which may cost up to 300 dollars)

3: I have to pack up my shit and move for a month. (I think we all know about how much I like making big flashy changes. As in, no. I do not like them.)

4:...Oh Heavens and Saints Almighty, Cake.

I just finished typing his fake name and it started downpouring. That's not a bad comparison for how I felt when I sat and thought to myself: (Fun! Move to New York with no permanent consequences! Ride the subway! Fall in love with a member of my brother's rival gang, with musical results! Get some food delivered! ....Not see Cake for a month....kaboom.)

But all in all, it comes down to this. When I called my mom and put it all out on the floor for her, she said.

"Sonya, your sisters never got an opportunity to do anything like this. I never got an opportunity to do anything like this. You can always come back to school in a month or 2, but after you have kids, you never get the chance to do this kind of thing again. So do it. And if anybody gives you any crap, you tell them your mother told you to go."

crazy on you

It's a song by Heart (you know, the ones who did: oooh, barracuda), but it's also that slight feeling of insanity you get when you realize your usual standards do not apply when dealing with talent. yes, street standards beware! it's the theater! where your average, everyday, fellow frog is transformed into a prancing fucking prince.

so, if you want this too to happen to you, i give you the following advice: Go see Arcadia!

Evan was great, Jonah was great, and the rest of the cast was just pretty darn great, too, but we don't know them as well and can't necessarily remember their names, so we just give them all a big thumbs up and a pretty smile! Yay, rest of the cast of Arcadia! You get a big thumbs up and a smile!

Also, it's 2 and a half hours long, and we didn't even fall asleep once!

-The Tiny Review

Quickly, like a de-pants-ing.

Anybody have time to edit 2.8 pages of double spaced text about Japanese Americans? Mostly, I need to make sure it has flow and that the verb tense doesn't flip flop. send me an email if you're available.

I'll be posting regularly again starting next week. Thanks lovelybutts!

Sonya

let me clear my throat

Hi guys, just checking in. Tiny's doing a great job, and it's a good thing because if she weren't, we'd be talking about festering face infections and how I got crazy and cut my fake nails off because they fucked up my ten-key type speed. How's THAT for gross and geeky? Here are some non-infectious updates:

1: Barring any unforeseen nervous breakdowns or broken legs, I should have that 'American sentiment toward Japanese immigrants and first generation American born Japanese before and during the second world war' paper done by the time I'm telling people what's what on the fourth of July. Possibly much sooner.

2: Some people I love very much are getting married! And then maybe moving closer to me!

3: It's Administrative Professionals day. Buy the receptionist a latte. (hazelnut, please)

let's talk about sex, baybee

Hii! Weylcom to Miss Kitty Jackson's hawtlyne on raydio staytion 109.9 T-I-N-Y, heylpin' luvers with theyr probleyms sence two thowzend fowr. T'day, our fuhrst cawler is ...

Al frum notarealaddress@notarealdomain.org! Hii Al! Al's question is "Is onlyne dayting passay?" I'm sure all of my lysteners out there have an opinyon on this one, but fuhrst let me say, Al, that onlyne dayting is not only inevitable, but it can also be healthy! Just be real clear with yerself on whut and who yew wanna be doin'. Now if yew mean daytin' with no intention of ever seein' the person, then that's fine ... as long as you got a flesh-and-blood someone to take care of your blues. However, if yew are tawkin' with this cyber chiquita as a ramp up to seein' 'em in person, then my advice to yew is simply this: don't git yer hopes up. 'Cuz a woman who luves fast cars, hot chicks, hard sex, and long hours of drinkin' may turn out to be yer dream date, but she may also turn out to be a man.

As for tawkin' about sex in public, I say keep on keepin' on. People who tawk durin' a movie, however, should be taken out and shot.

Hope that answers yer question, Al. Thank yew fowr callin'!

Well folks, that's about all the tyme we have for t'day. Yew're lystenin' to Miss Kitty Jackson on 109.9 T-I-N-Y.

One bad mother-Shut Your Mouth!

Okay... the results are in!

And the winner is...Number 6! (Runner up: Story Engine Engine #9) You know the rules. If Miss First Place is unable to fulfill her duties, Number the Ninth is going to be there to Young-MC it and bust a move.

Picture, if you will, a jazzy, local breakfast spot. Perhaps you have pictured one on Capitol Hill. Perhaps you have pictured B&O. If you haven't, that's okay...but you're wrong, Timmy. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Now, if one is acquainted with its quaintness, one will know that it is a fantastic place to take one's parents. Or rather... it would be if it weren't also a fantastic place to take one's roommate's boyfriend (and one's roommate, of course). You might, perhaps, imagine (although if you pictured Glo's instead of B&O's, then your imagination might not be up for it) the complications involved in combining a sensitive, inquisitive -- not to mention religious -- counselor/teacher with a straight-talking, open-mouthed sailor. I am still amazed that my mother did not fall right out of her lavender-painted church pew. Snippit of conversation as follows:

Cake (snuggled down into a plush, red velvet cushion, gesticulating when needed):
"And you know? Fuck it! FUCK it! I don't even fucking like it, but whatever."

Mom (sitting straight up, on the edge of her seat, intently listening to every word):
"Mm-hm. You know, you'd be a great manager. Have you ever thought about being a manager?"

But man! That sour-cream waffle sure was good.

As for Punky Rockster...Him: long-haired, scroungy, Bill's-Plumbing-(or some such)-baseball-hat-wearing druggie at the Quasinada CD release party. Me: swept-up blondie in a white kanga/newsie cap and polka-dot skirt ... also at said party. He: manages to stutter/slur out, "do you hathe any matcheth? a lighth?" To which I respond, a few minutes later, with a book of matcheth picked up at the bar. He (in the span of the longest two minutes ever): looks down at my hand, looks back up at me, looks down at my hand, takes the matcheth, and offers me a horizontal "rock on!" hand symbol (for those of you who don't know -- like, for instance, my poor, confused mother didn't before we taught her at the breakfast table -- that's the index and pinky fingers sticking out, with the thumb pinched out to the side, middle two fingers scrunched into the palm). At which point, I accept his druggie handshake by responding in kind, and we squeeze each other's middle and ring fingers with our indexes and pinkies. Really... much better than your average-bear handshake. It gets five stars from me.

-The Tiny

spidy! the underwater adventure seeker!

Hi Kids!

Today is Choose Your Own Adventure day! ... except you're not choosing your adventure, you're choosing ours. You get to pick which story you'd like to hear about.

Story #1) The Beautiful Fishmonger
Story #2) Paper Parking
Story #3) Roxy Rogers and Ali G
Story #4) The Teenage Princesses
Story #5) Targeted Sodium
Story #6) Cantankerous Breakfasting: The Battle Between the Straight-Backed and the Slouching
Story #7) Lawyer Photo Op
Story #8) Ancient Japanese Mustaches
Story #9) Punky Rockster and the Quasi-something
Story #10) Whatever you want

First one to respond wins!

Pick wisely,
Tiny

And I'm finished with mine, lets get together and trade

When you walk in the front door of our house, there's a bit of paper on the wall that reads "Target Completion Date for Rough Draft: April 30"

My rough draft is supposed to be many, many pages longer than the single page it currently is. So I'm (mostly) cutting myself off from the World Wide Internet of Web and Net until I make some legit progress.

In light of this, I've invited Tiny Roomate to stand in for me here at this imploding heart. Please give her a warm welcome, it's her world premier!

Walking Tour/ Weird, weird post.

For several weeks I've been a machine-o-matic robot with a secret human heart. All I have to do to shed my robot body and become a real boy is smash a car window with my skates, break someone's face with a stapler, chop wood, disappear for several days without warning, or replace the word's "I'm Sorry about that" with the term, "You Cocksucking Fuckblock."

So yesterday, I took a robot walk in the human sun to pick up Tiny Human Roomate from her temp job. I took a series of pictures along the way. In the interest of load time, most of the photo's are not on the main page. Click 'more' to see the rest of this entry

They're gutting the Camlin Hotel. The Camlin was super resort swanky in the 20's. It was refurbished in the sixties, and in the style of the day, anything well made or beautiful was covered up with brown cardboard. So all the brass fixtures and mouldings are inside the new walls. Lets hope they're just tearing out the cardboard. I did not hit anyone in the face with a stapler.

This is the archway by the temporary central library. There are beehive/DNA/cityscape sculptures like this all around the convention center. They're my favorite public art. I did not break any windows.

Madison. I did not chop any wood.

This is the new space ship we're going to be using for a library. I did not buy a train ticket.

I love Tiny. (She saves the day later.) She probably hates this picture, so we don't need to mention to her it's here unless she figures it out herself, in which case, Hi Tiny! The sun is in your eyes a bit, but you're still a pretty poptart.

Tiny and I walked past a protest where the Gay Marriage protesters were trying to outshout the Bush/Cheney campaigners. I didn't get a picture of the Bushies because I ran out of memory, and it was loud and upsetting around there.

The Market at the end of the day.

The Sound.

Tiny and I bought discount easter candy and decided to make a meal of happy hour at Tango. I went to Cakes to watch CSI, and I was feeling alright after a nice walk/drink in the sun.

An hour later, my synapses started tapping out SMASH BREAK KILL in synapse morse code. I tried to explain to Cake how to re-wire, but all the instructions came out in Mandarin. I had to go home.

I filled my apartment with hair trigger land mines and threw a handful of marbles in the air. Tiny was out and missed the explosion, but she's seen the aftermath enough times to figure out what happened.

The upper half of my torso was malfunctioning under the settee, one of my legs had hopped around the corner and lost power in the sink. Tiny put on her welding mask and set to work. When I was completely reassembled, she propped me up against the refrigerator and opened up my central processing unit.

"Why'd you blow up our apartment?"

"I'm trapped in a Please and Thank You Robot Body. I started malfunctioning a week ago and became a Please and Thank You Secret Destroyer Robot."

"Why do you have to be a robot at all?"

At which point, my battery ran out.

This morning, I opened my eyes and expected to have to kill the sun and all the birds, but when Tiny'd reassembled me, she took out my little cashbox full of rage. For the first time in weeks, I stretched my muscles and ligaments in the sun instead of clanking to the floor and manufacturing a mechanical smile.

kissin in the grass

I walked out of my centrally located urban apartment building this morning, and on the ground outside was a little red white and black fluff.
He turned his head to aknowledge me, and I wondered if he was hurt.

"Woodpecker, why are you sitting on the sidewalk?"

I was standing less than a foot from him, but he just continued to sit there. I turned my foot toward him a little and he flew up and clung to the side of the building, just a foot or two over my head. I'm worried that he's hurt because he let me get so close to him.

rain comes falling from the sky, fills the streams that fill the sea

Whoa, good thing I gave it a few minutes, or you all would have had to read a deleted post where I explain that I imagine seeing random people from high school everywhere I go, and that it's been happening for several weeks now. I was also going to explain that this -to me- indicates a longing for reassurance of history and stability. But we're totally over that and on to something else now.

I think I love the Spike channel. All their shows have extra boobs, and they show their best programming over and over again. So instead of having to wait for a show that you like, you can check in with the man channel and watch Most Extreme Elimination Challenge for hours on end!

Have you people seen this show? It doesn't seem like there are any prizes, but people keep trying to jump over platforms and avoid the guys dressed like capuchin monkeys while trying to stay out of that poop brown water. Why? I don't know, but I'm really, really glad they do.

Dont! Get! Eliminated!

Also, I went out with the ladies of The Fun Brigade last night for confusing delicious Japanese comfort food at En. All I've got to say about that is, Alicia has the longest, foxiest legs in the pacific northwest.

If you don't cry, it isn't love

I keep wondering if (a hundred and three years ago) I shouldn't have paid a bit more attention to what your ballads were Actually About, instead of crossing my fingers in my jacket pocket and listening for my name spelled out in secret code.

Perhaps I would have realized (before it started getting cold) your tendency to only love what's left you, To only pine for what doesn't want you, To only cry over milk long past spilt.

If I had paid attention (back when attention was all I had), I would have seen that the only way to get you whole was to pick up all my light brite pegs and get the hell out of Dodge. The more of your love desired, the harder to slam the door.

And this particular realization (a hundred and three years later) was a tremendous, overwhelming relief.

runs on lies and gasoline and all those batteries we stole from smoke alarms

Whoa! The worst noise ever is happening!

Patrickt called me this morning as he was driving by my office.

"Wave out the window!"

"I'm doing it! I'm waving!"

"Oh. I can't see you."

So I told him what I'm going to tell all of you. I got your email/voicemail/thump on the ceiling, and I'll get around to answering it any time now. It's just that I'm finding myself to be juuuuust a teeeeensy bit unpleasant these days.

Plus, there's the issue of the sun.

If you've seen me in real life, I'm quite possibly the literally whitest person you know who is not actually albino. I know people complain about being superwhite at the beginning of suntime pretty frequently, but really, I'm whiter than those people.

I'm the kind of white that takes a few weeks to build up enough immunity to the sun to be outside on nice days for more than an hour. 2 hours? I might have to vomit, and I'll have to sleep for at least an hour afterward.

like so:

"Oh wow! It's so nice out here! ....whooBLECH! zzzzzzzzzz"

Get it now? Good.

So while the weather has been beautiful, I've been sleeping an awful lot.

I am Somebody

Doesn't it seem like somebody should have explained the whole "Most of the world lives in a collectivist culture, You are a part of a 14% Me First minority. You ought to take a look at how the other 85% are doing things, as it's probably going to come in handy later." aspect of things? It's strange to me that I'm this far along in public education before anyone even mentioned it.

The great vast world of Things I -Know- I Don't Know is daunting, but the absolutely unfathomable world of Things I -Don't- Know I Don't Know is out of control.

She makes my head spin around

Dear Business Services Division of Office Depot:

I hate your new web ordering site. It's slow and anti-intuitive, and I'm annoyed that I'm no longer given the option to use the old Type Click Type Click Done version. Also, I am in a terrible mood now, and I think it's your fault.

Best Regards,

S. Walker

Dear Matthew at Bank of America:

Thanks for being so nice after I had to call about my lost credit card. I decided I wanted to speak to your supervisor when you said "I forgot my card at an ATM just last week. I know this is an inconvenience for you, so I'll get a new card out as fast as I can."

I told your supervisor that you were doing great at a hard, cranky people job, really early in the morning. I also think it's totally amazing that I'm more upset about the office depot thing than I am about losing my credit card, so that's a tremendous compliment to your Customer Service mastermindedness. Thank you for fooling me into being happy with your soothing tones. I hope your super gives you 20 bucks.

heart

sonya

Dear Everyone Who's written about mixtapes:

This is going to be off the hook rad. I'm excited to hear what you send, and I hope you like what you get in return.

You're a pretty bunny, aren't you? Oh Yes you are! Yes you are!

Sonya

And sleep is one thing you can't find

Hey, I want you to make a mix tape of the ass-shakin'-est summer fun music you've got. If you send me yours, I'll send you mine.

I'm serious, kids. I NEED to shake my ass! Pronto!

Additionally, if you want to make more than one copy of your mix and trade with somebody else, let me know in your email. I'll put people who want to make a second trade in touch with each other, and we'll all shake our asses as one.

easy breezy

Yesterday was the first day of Spring Quarter, aren't you excited to find out what you get to hear me talk about for the next 90 days?

I'm guessing my blissful avoidance of the 9/11 issue on Ye Olde Wevbbe-Logge is coming to an end. I'm taking Humanities 105 (cultural tolerance and understanding). Our first assignment was to establish a group and decide whether or not 9/11 affected a positive change in intercultural communication.

After breezing though the syllabus, I've decided to make Spring of Oh Four another Single Class quarter. I'm still nervous about that damn research paper being in on time, and I think the work I'll be doing in this class will work well with my other topic. And really, since it's going to take the better part of my twenties to get this degree anyway, what's another 2 months?

You'll be the grandest lady in the easter parade

I have terrible news.

My boyfriend who didn't notice me standing outside his window for nearly a hundred years, is going blind.

How do I know this? This morning, after I had a zombie dream in which I decided I was too tired to fight off the living dead so I just let myself get bit, I woke up with a bite. Just like all the bites I had last summer that Cake tried to convince me didn't exist.

"Ah HA! I've got proof! Look here, Cakey. THAT is a BITE."

"I don't see anything."

A small amount of steam escaped from my ears.

"RIGHT HERE. Feel it. Don't you feel that lump?"

"Mmm, nope. No lump."

So, internet, it's time for you to decide. Is this totally a bulging red lump or not?

See? I told you!

In other news, it's spring, and I have new things that match, and a cute, if blind, crush.

**UPDATE**

Cake just got back from his haircut and is now willing to admit that there is a bite. Also, 3 elderly homeless men are handing out flowers to girls on the overpass.

You are, He War, she will kill for you.

If I could go back and play Lets See What Happens If, I would choose to see what happens if I say everything I want to say with no fear of the consequences.

I think most of what I would have said but didn't throughout my life could be summed up like this:

I want you to do the dishes. You're not trying hard enough for me care about your complaints. I want to go home. I don't want to go home. I love you.

could you please speak up a bit? I can very barely hear you.

Lately, I've been remembering all these songs I wrote nearly a hundred and three years ago. It's strange to catch bits of a little song and have to think to myself:

Where did I hear that? Who's voice is that singing? Me. I wrote that. It was about falling asleep in the backseat in the hopes that when I woke up we would still be driving, somewhere in Montana.