nunsense

Went out with friends last night and made rather merry with the martinis. Shockingly, woke up hungover and more than usually spacey. Immediately decided that today would be a good time to get some work done. Wound up at The Daily Snooze instead, where a little past life regression was on offer and no doubt just the cure for what ailed me.

It explains a lot. But while I am not surprised and in fact actually quite thrilled to embrace myself as both ancient lunatic and brilliant scientist (well, I'm assuming the brilliant part. Wouldn't you?) I feel I must take issue with the concept of me as a third century nun. I really doubt it. Obviously, someone didn't catch my act down at the Boom Boom Room sometime around midnight.

So go in peace, my child. And please don't slam the door on your way out. Sister Lotus needs her beauty sleep.

Lotus' Past Lives

V V V

1230 BC: Crazy Heretic

285 AD: A Nun

1633 AD: An astronomer

'What were you in your past lives?' at QuizGalaxy.com

golden girl

Because I never grew up and quite frankly cannot think of a compelling reason why I should, I still believe that my birthday is just cause for week long celebrations with friends and family.

The fact that people actually humor me in this conceit is the source of much joy on my part. How can I possibly waste a moment feeling sorry for my sad, dearly departed, gravity-afflicted 4o-something ass when I have such generous, amiable and tolerant people in my life?

I heard from a couple of mates whom I've know since high school who somehow still manage to remember the date and think of me kindly, even as they accuse me of being somehow much older than they.

There were a couple of off-key renditions of 'Happy Birthday' left on my machine, including an amazing duet that made me laugh till I cried. My 93 year old mother sang to me in a husky-throated whisper and a lately acquired lisp, making me smile while quite nearly breaking my heart. My brother and sis-in-law sent me a gift that they promise will leave me hysterical. I'm laughing already. I hope it's jewelry.

And on Saturday last, my pals Trish and Robbie took me out to LACMA to see what I'd been yammering on about for weeks ~ the 5 Klimts, looted by the Nazis and just returned to their rightful heirs after decades of legal wrangling with Austria. There was the sumptuously beautiful portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, the spectacularly golden star of the show ~ an exuberant celebration of female beauty, of a lover arrayed in luxurious, Byzantine-patterned glory. Oil, silver and gold on canvas, it is a wondrous thing to behold.

Quieter, but equally sensuous to my way of thinking is Klimt's rendering of the Beech Woods. In it, subtle gradations of color float dreamily atop the canvas. Deep purples and pale lavenders, soft grays, greens and mauves are played against the richness of dark reds and ochre. The effect is evocative of moving alone through a deep wood at dusk, redolent of fallen leaves and moss, unturned earth and moist evening air. It is a painting at once mysterious and serene. You could drink it in for hours.

Yesterday, as I was drinking in the reality that could just be crows feet (but I'm going for laugh lines) in the reflection of my bathroom mirror, I heard on NPR that the portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer had been sold to Estee' Lauder heir/corporate guy genius/art lover Ron Lauder for a breathtaking, record setting, heart arresting sum. It is now the most expensive painting in the world.

Price of an original portrait by Gustav Klimt: $135 million

Value of an afternoon spent with friends: Priceless.

excuses, excuses

It's official. I have been unable to upload any pictures to this page for over a month now, which I find frustrating in the extreme. I have notified tech support and received some very friendly mail in return, which delighted me until I realized it was all auto response.

No matter. They say they are working on the problem, which has affected many beside myself, and who am I to say otherwise? In the meantime, however, it is severely cramping my style.

I tend to be visually oriented and a bit compulsive about the look of this thing, believe it or not, and I like to place graphics specifically within the context of the written word in a way that is visually appealing (to me, at least) and illustrative of a point (when there is one, which is occasionally). I understand that this is of interest of no one but me, but I just can't help myself.

Surprisingly, the fact that the blog has been, for my purposes anyway, inoperable for a month has affected both my ability to write and my desire to draw, which had been sparked of late by travel, trips to museums and large doses of vitamin Chablis (no, not really). But seems I've been spending so many hours in front of the screen impotently attempting to trouble shoot (How, I wonder? I don't know code. What was I thinking?) that I've lost the incentive to do anything else. Or maybe I'm just short on time.

To a certain extent this is a journal of my life, and for better or worse I've taken to relying on it as a supplement to the diary I've always maintained in sketchbook and travel logs. The problem is, if I don't post things promptly when I feel the urge I know I'll forget whatever it is I wanted to say in the first place. Or reflect upon. Or rant about. Or regurgitate. Whatever.

See? Case in point; Whatever? Honestly. What kind of writing is that? I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. Or what I was talking about in the first place. God knows, you gave up trying to figure it out a long time ago.

Oh, nevermind.

I can't post pics, but I can still link. This one's for Carol....

**Pearls Before Swine **

apocalypse two

It was the first time I'd ever worked a convention, and I got a kick out of helping to set up the display and learning much about marketing and the intricacies of hotel union labor (we could build it ourselves only if we could do it in under an hour with no more than two supplied tools and two staffers; more and you had to hire a union worker at Sunday overtime wages.)

Well played, union guys!

I put on a pair of punishing heels, some sleek slacks and tops that didn't show too much cleavage and smiled mightily while trying to wrap my tongue convincingly around terms like "integrated vertical data collection management," which I'm pretty sure I made up. I met new people and rediscovered the art of conversation with strangers ~ I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed that fresh encounter, the pleasure of making a connection with new and interesting people. I'm not sure of how useful I was, but I enjoyed myself immensely. In fact, I had a blast.

At the cocktail party on Monday, there was talk of the approaching threat of 6-06-06.

"I'm very nervous about it," Kim said. "Oh, sure, you scoff," she added, seeing my reaction. "But this is a concern for some of us."

"Look at the bright side," I countered. "If I'm wrong and the world ends tomorrow you get to say 'I told you so'. Think of the personal satisfaction." She rolled her eyes.

Tuesday arrived, and as these things always go everyone was too busy to note the date. I booth-babed around, chatting up attorneys and computer guys and saying things like "one gigabyte thumbdrive," which I'm pretty sure somebody else made up. Kimberly did her serious VP thing, which is impressive to behold. That night, I tried to persuade my roomie to crash the democratic election parties being held downstairs. She was completely disinterested.

"C'mon. I've always wanted to go to a political convention. It's about the snap and the zazz!" I said, snapping and zazzing.

"Not for me. It's about a nap and some zzz's," she responded.

As I was unwilling to fly solo and frankly already in my jammies we stayed in, shared a bottle of wine and watched the party on TV. It didn't look all that snappy.

When we left for the airport on Wednesday the hotel concierge predicted it would take up to 35 minutes to travel the 10 or 12 odd miles to the airport. "See?" I demanded. "Hellacious traffic."

We rolled up to the curb at Continental Airlines in about 9 1/2 minutes, me gesturing bewilderedly along the way at eight lanes of eerie emptiness. You could have shot off a canon out there; it's completely unheard of in the history of LA. I attempted to explain.

"I know what happened. We were stuck in the hotel all day and missed it, but all the cars that would normally be here got Raptured up. The good news is you were right ~ the bad news is, you're stuck here with the rest of us. The Damned." I smiled.

"Oh, shut UP!" she replied good-naturedly. Not for the first time that week, I might add.

I'm sending her a copy of my version of our long apocalyptic adventure. Hers may well be different. If this post disappears, just consider it Raptured.

Kim and Gi's Excellent Adventure ~ part one

Or How I Spent the Apocalypse

On Saturday I went to LAX to pick up my lovely and talented sister-in-law, who was coming to town for a industry trade show that was to begin on Monday June 5th. I was at great pains to explain to Kim that the drive to and from LAX would be at least an hour and a half each way, allowing for sigalerts, freeway shootings, car chases and the like.

I was there in 25 minutes, and spent the 37 minutes it took getting back to my place trying to convince her that the wide open highways were an anomaly, and not just me making a big deal out of going to the airport.

Kim is a high-powered executive with a legal tech firm, the details of which, I'm afraid to say, are beyond my powers of comprehension. So it came as a surprise when she offered me a job.

"You'd be working the booth," she said. "Just handing out brochures, and getting people to sign up for demos and giveaways."

"Are you sure I can do this?" I asked. There may be a reason I haven't worked in a while. My talents are somewhat limited. As are my hours.

"You'd be handing out tee shirts," she said. "Generally helping out. We just need an extra hand."

We'd be sharing a room at a swanky downtown hotel, living and dining well. I thought I could handle that.

"And we're hosting a cocktail party in the penthouse lounge," she said.

"You had me at tee shirts," I murmured happily.

Kimberly and I are as different as night and day, physically and philosophically. She is tall, blonde, elegant and very professional. I am short, dark, unpolished but fairly employable. She is a dedicated Christian and Republican; I am a happily godless Democrat. What we have in common is family, (she is married to my brother) friendship, and a history that goes back some 25 years. We get along famously.

When we checked into our luxuriously comfortable room with a view (Heavenly Sleep Beds! Goose down duvets!) Kim opened one of the bedside tables and let out a hoot. There lay the ubiquitous Gideon Bible, right next to a copy of The Teachings of Buddha.

"Only in California!" she exclaimed, laughing.

"Equal time, baby!" I grinned, giving a resounding double thumbs up. We repeated this exchange as she recounted the incident to fellow out-of-towners over the next few days, to everyone's apparent amusement.

while you were out...

It seems that while I was on vacation somebody broke in and busted my Blogger.

Need pics for post. Pronto. Ne plus procrastination.

Fix my Blogger, Spot. Before I blog out.

(insert frowny face here)