Crazy Jane:

The Heart is a Bloom

I know this will be random, but there's nothing I've got the freaking energy to report, people. Things are fine, here; the usual ups and downs. Here's a picture of some pretty, pink heart-shaped leaves in my friend Leona's window.

I'll only add that sometimes U2 songs make me feel like everything is just right, and right where it should be, and that All That You Can't Leave Behind is a beautiful record that keep growing on me, even years later.

There's been a lot of U2 in my life lately. I think it's a good thing. Here's a haiku about it:

Bono is lovely
and anyone who wants to
fight me, can talk trash.

I mean it, bitches:
don't even. Meanwhile, I will just
contemplate this truth:

"What you don't have you
don't need it now," because, friends?
That's hard to swallow.

But, know what? I can totally swallow it if it's Bono who's serving up the medicine.

Friday Night In My Own Private Idaho

You know all that patience you have to have to figure out what the hell is happening with the members of the opposite sex? I think I'm just TOO OLD to have anymore of it.

I'm talking about things like this: why, when I see the guy I've been seeing, does he look all glad to see me, walk me places he totally isn't going, and then say "No" everytime I invite him anywhere? Why does he ask me to come out and meet his out-of-town friends, and then, when I say yes, not call me ALL NIGHT LONG, even just to say that his plans have changed? Which would be FINE WITH ME. Really!

I mean, at this point, having lowered my standard of settling for nothing short of mythical, bone-deep love, and saying to myself "Self, your requirements are the stuff of imagination! He's cute, and has a cool accent! Why not casually try out a REAL GUY, and see if you like him?" That might be a good approach, right? I mean, DUDES, I do not even require an ounce of real seriousness from this whole thing! I just want to be treated nicely and have someone to make out with sometimes, you know? However, having made those concessions, I find myself sitting in my house, bitching to my blog on Friday night, my cell phone having been transformed into an instrument of torture, just sitting there, NOT RINGING.

Then, when the celly does blow up, it's so he can somewhat plaintively ask me to join him at a nightclub, where he is going with his out-of-town friend that he wants me to meet. By this time, I'm in my PJ's, and the grumpy scowl is in danger of becoming permanent, but here's the thing: I promised to come out and meet his friend. Even more horrifying, I want to see him! Please. Kill me now.

"Oh, alright," I say, get my kit on, and go there at midnight, only to NOT FIND HIM, and have him NOT TEXT ME to tell me where he is. After and hour and a half of fruitless searching in a crowded Prague nightspot, with 80's hits rattling my already rattled brains, and trying to call about a million times, to recieve nothing but a baffling recording in Czech, I went home on the nightbus alone, around 3am, smelling like an ashtray, and muttering profanities to myself for every minute of the journey.

Seriously, WTF?

And, tell me again why this kind rigamarole is worth the bother? To think, just ONE MONTH AGO, having gone COLD TURKEY years back, I was entirely free of feeling like crap about crap like this. What the HELL am I supposed to think of that? I'm totally struggling here. Is this standard masculine cluelessness? Is it because he's British, and they have different rules? Drunk? In his late 20's? What? I mean, I guess I could TALK to him about it, but I just kind of feel like, if someone doesn't want to freaking HONOR THE BASICS, what is there to talk about?

The cherry on top? This text: "We got hideously lost. I know, I'm a c*nt. Couldn't find the place. Will make up 4 it tmrw with drinks."

Uh-huh.

Romantic Angst That Never Dies

I'm not getting into the gory details on this, but let's just say that last Friday night was hard on my dignity. It was one of those occasions where returning to my own space brought it home to me, hardcore, that maybe some of the other planets are best left uncharted.

I spent most of Saturday holed up in my apartment, nursing my wounds, feeling like hammered crap, and meditating on how much totally unnecessary drama gets instantly ushered into your life as soon as you think something totally ludicrous, like: "Hey, that guy's kinda cute!" That, and mainlining the first season of "Lost" with my monkey, who is a total angel for getting me some Fanta, and putting up with how many times I told him Dr. Jack was HAWT. Seriously.

I'm not sure how many of you are aware of the facts, but, where love is concerned, I've been on a long hunger strike. My last foray into the world of romance was, I think, a little more intensely awful in the final analysis than I could really take with any degree of equinamity. I mean, I'm not mad, and I'm glad the  perpetrator found his way out if that's what he needed, but... yeah.

At this point, I would pretty much sooner drop dead than let any guy think he could actually get under my skin, and if I like a feller, I either tell him flat out, like you would tell a joke, so we can all laugh at what a dumb idea that is, or I clam it like the good lord intended. At this point, honestly, I'm not even sure your average guy that I might meet COULD get under my skin. I'm pretty tough, and I've had a long time to dream up abstract perfections that are never matched on planet earth. At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that where this topic is concerned, my brain is an unreliable narrator, and whatever it's telling me is probably bullshit; even that last sentence, which is fully motivated by the sheer desperate HOPE that it's an unreliable narrator, because, if it is reliable, I am doomed.

Anyway, I decided to give this one guy some encouragement last week, even though, in fairness, I was not fully convinced that even his charms, and they are myriad, were worth the trouble. Now, predictably, that modicum of investment feels like it was a mistake, because, as usual, I can't help being sucked into the black hole energy-sucking vortex of having to think about it, wonder about it, and wait for him to announce the judgement he has no doubt passed on whether or not I'm worth his trouble, etc. Predicted (and justifiable) answer? NO.

God, I love romance. BRING IT ON!

Then, last night, I went to see Walk The Line for the second time, and by the time Joaquin Phoenix was knocking it out of the park man-in-black-style with "Ring of Fire" and asking Reese Witherspoon's June Carter to marry him in the middle of "Jackson", I had chills, and a single picturesque tear rolling down my forlorn cheek because I just know that all my chances for a real love story are all but used up now that I'm a crusty, hard-hearted 36 year old single parent with no money in the Czech Republic, and don't bother contradicting me, liars.

Yeah, I'm feeling sorry for myself, what of it?

Two Things

Firstly: today is May 15th, and that means this will no longer be my house in exactly one month. That's kind of crazy, because I've lived in this house in Hollywood for longer than I've lived anywhere else in my entire life, and my monkey has lived here since he was two years old. I have a lot of crap to get rid of, and a lot of books to pack up. People ask me all the time if my plans are on track, and I smile and say "Yep" but I have to tell you, it's starting to feel more and more like I'm dreaming, or something. Am I really moving to PRAGUE in a month?! Yep.

Secondly: remember that crush I used to have? Well, it's every bit as hopeless as it ever was (and more, since I'm not even going to be here in case hell freezes over), but it's flared up again. Only now, it's a bit worse because it's not just about the meaty deliciousness and the totally uncool hairdo, it's also about the fact that that guy is one of the fucking best. New information, which I'm not going to post here, has recently come to light that reveals him to be an incredible person. It's hard to be all retarded about the object of a crush when you've really got nothing but respect for him. Plus, he keeps hugging me. See? It's SO MUCH WORSE now. Thank god I'm moving to PRAGUE.

Advice From My Love Guru, No. 2

The occasion? Chess lesson, and viewing of Kill Bill with Steve.

With advice like this at my fingertips (so to speak), it's a wonder I manage to stay single!

In a Nutshell

After today, having spastically, and without one single shred of aplomb, invited this one guy to my party, I think this pretty much says it all:

The Usual... Oh, well.

At first, I was going to write an entry called "telling the truth," but I decided that would amount to biting off a bit more than I could chew, especially since I didn't have the stomach to discuss President Liarmouth today, and I kept running into limits on the amount of truth I saw fit to publish on the interbot for various reasons. Someday, I think it could be a good experiment, though.

I think the impulse came from something Hotpants told me this weekend: he'd seen a play about "something, sex and truth" but that there hadn't been any truth in it, just a lot of bad acting. I laughed, but as a matter of fact, at that very moment, I myself was engaged in some bad acting, and truth be told, some untruthfulness: I was pretending to be terribly absorbed in Thomas Mann's The Transposed Heads, (which is especially entertaining, I found out later that afternoon) but in truth, I was really very distracted by the fit of his shirt, and read several pages without absorbing any of their content. I briefly prided myself on the possiblity that I was doing what Bono recommends and "standing at the center of contraditions." Then I snapped out of it.

Oh, the humanity.

Later, since I'm dismayed by the incontrovertible evidence that I'm nothing if not a total coward when it comes to sticking my neck out on the "you sure are purty" chopping block, I decided to drown my spinster's angst in popcorn and headed out for a movie marathon at Hollywood's Cathedral of Cinema, the ArcLight. Here are my two ultra-truthful and mercifully brief movie reviews:

Girl with the Pearl Earring: Scarlett Johansson is so luscious that even I wanted to kiss her, and Colin Firth needs to patent that electric stare of his. No one works the tortured glare of thwarted desire harder than he does. All I'm saying is, he had me at "In vain I have struggled. It will not do."

Secret Window: Story by Steven King? Dreadful. Progressively unhinged, compulsively napping writer with jacked-up hair played by Johnny Depp? Delightful. Trip to the movies? About $10. You decide.

Finally, I got some really, really bitchin' news today, but more on that later...

Advice from My Love Guru

What could go wrong?

Crushaholic!

Have you ever had the kind of crush that just kind of sneaks up on you, like one too many cocktails that seemed fruity and girlish enough, but suddenly you're laughing and feeling a little sick at the same time, and before you know it, the room is spinning? The kind of crush that, when the delicious creature who is the cause of all your discomfort is near, makes you feel both elated and disoriented, and as if the fine line between sanity and insanity could be precisely measured by the distance between your teeth, and a very particular scrumptious, meaty forearm?

I'm talking about the kind of feeling that makes you embarrassed, silent and evasive exactly when you most want to be charming, vivacious and surest of your powers. The sort that, when you escape from a disturbing proximity to the person in question, you feel as if you've just eaten so much rich, dark chocolate cake that it doesn't even taste good anymore, but it's there, and you can't stop eating it. I mean the crush that leaves you feeling simultaneously hot-blooded and clammy all over; like an absolute flibbertegibbet who's totally paralysed, and meanwhile the object of your sudden brimming-over of libidinous fervor is absolutely oblivious to the slings and arrows of your outrageous misfortune.

Ever had one like that?

Lord knows, that kind of crush is ridiculous. Sure, it starts out slowly and seems harmless enough, but once it takes root? Woah, Nelly. I can assure you, the torture is acute.

It's both awful and awesome; but, don't worry, I'll get through it. I've survived worse.

In other news: Oh yes, I want this! Inspired by Mr. blab-o-rama.

Friday the 13th: Valentine's Eve

I figure it's as good a day as any for me to let you know about my Valentine. His name is Aragorn, and I love him with all the doomed passion of a shieldmaiden of the Riddermark. I'm off this moment to face the threat of having the flesh stripped from me and have my shrivelled mind left naked before the lidless eye for his love. And, when I say that, it's because I'm hoping that somehow my yearning for glory, even if currently mis-directed and in the thrall of a deathwish, will send me a suitor with quiet nobility, gentleness and compassion.

Faramir! Where are you? I need a great blue mantle the color of deep summer-night set with silver stars about the hem and throat!

Or, if Faramir is going to be late, maybe there's someone I've unjustly misfigured in my imagination, but whom I will soon find is the most ideal Mr. Darcy in the world. Fitzwilliam, dearest, I want you to know that I've realized that wicked Mr. Wickham is not what he seems, and I can't wait to meet your sister! Or, perhaps an old friend I've always loved, but never knew how much until just now - someone I can call my Mr. Knightly - will be here soon to declare his love when he realizes I was never really injured by Mr. Churchill's carelessly deceitful ways. Mr. Knightly? Is is wrong to hope that if I can't have you, no one can?

My romantic longing for an epic love-story may have led me into an improper connection with a n'er do well Mr. Willoughby or two, but I do have high hopes that in my hour of need there will be a sober and faithful Colonel Brandon who will run mad if he is not given some occupation that will ease my wretchedness. Meanwhile, I will continue to nurse my long-suffering and chaste affection for Mr. Farrars, in the hope that fate will release him from his current ill-considered betrothal.

I'm pretty certain young Mr. Emerson would offer me his room with a view for mine that has none, and kiss me ardently in a perfect Florentine landscape, if only I could get myself to that pensione overlooking the Arno; and that the Blouse Man is still driving his magical mystery bus around the Catskills just searching for the right young woman to kiss with his freedom and frolic with in waterfalls while Joni Mitchell songs fill the air.

Failing that, I could always continue to be the voice of reason to Fox Mulder's demons, knowing all along that he has not looked at another woman in six years, and how much he is just aching to KISS ME ALREADY, while Special Agent Krycek glares with polymorphously perverse hunger at both of us, and Assistant Director Skinner makes peace with the fact that he can never have me, and bridles the bucking bronco of his passion.

And, if all else fails, when I die alone and am eaten by wild dogs, it will only be to join poor Heathcliff on the wild and windswept moor, where he awaits me as a lost and wailing spirit walking the earth without satisfaction because of the strength and violence of his unrequited love for me, and me alone.

So, don't worry about me, folks. I'm cool this Valentine's day. No corporate holiday swelled up to infinitely laughable proportions by the greeting card industry can make me bemoan my tragic spinsterhood, or the fact that my fucking car is broken again.

I'm just going to go ahead and get myself some chocolate and watch Pride and Prejudice one. more. time. I like that part when Mr. Darcy goes swimming.