tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119551662024-03-07T10:14:43.714-08:00Wordlust : PaperfetishWriting out loud & Mean-spirited editorializing.
Periodic tantrums and self-indulgent displays of anything that pleases me, the despotic host of this blog.Cindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.comBlogger200125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-44675439499591969512012-02-13T18:38:00.000-08:002012-02-13T18:54:47.881-08:00Oh, For God's SakeAnother great talent has gone to the Main Stage in the Grand Arena in the sky. Of course I'm referring to Whitney Houston who passed away this last weekend in a hotel room at the Beverly Hilton.<br /><br />So why all the salacious hearsay? Yes, prescription pills were found. People have prescriptions for all kinds of things: Digestive disorders, seizures, depression, psychosis, heart disease, cholesterol, osteoporosis, hormone disorders, diabetes.<br /><br />You get the picture.<br /><br />People, stop letting your minds go to the darker places first. Maybe she did die of an overdose, or from a reaction to mixing drugs and alcohol. But we don't know that.<br />The poor woman could have died of any number of things: Heart attack, diabetic coma, stroke.<br /><br />And stop trying to find someone to blame. Every one of us will die someday. That's the final outcome of the human condition. Saturday, February 10, 2012 was Whitney's time.<br /><br />It was just her time. That's all. Let the woman rest in peace. Thank her for her time and talent while she was here, and let her go without judgement, without rancor, and we'll do the same for you when it's your turn.Cindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-19231014908099987932009-07-05T13:34:00.000-07:002009-07-05T14:59:11.394-07:00Stranger In MoscowWell, Michael Jackson wasn't supposed to die. Not until we'd all had our way with him, anyway.<br />And cardiac arrest? Is that the best he could manage in all of his creative genius and tragic strangeness-- a heart attack? It's so ordinary and normal and bloodless. A heart attack? That isn't very...sordid.<br /><br />My first thought when I heard the news, was that it wasn't true. My second thought was, that as weird as he is, living in a reality entirely of his and his pharmacist's making, I wondered if he even knew he was dead.<br /><br />I don't believe it. Really, I don't believe it. Too young, too much unfinished business, too many songs left to write, too many people left behind to pick up the pieces--his kids, his family, his fans.<br /><br />How does someone who has been so obsessively committed to eternal youth die of cardiac arrest? Old people keel over from cardiac arrest, not Michael Jackson.<br /><br />I know, I know. Athletes in their prime, even teenagers with congenital heart conditions can succumb to such an thing. But those people aren't Michael Jackson.<br /><br />I've never been among Jackson's rabid fans, but I appreciate brilliance when I hear and see it, and none of us could escape his fame. Everyone knew who he was, whether we wanted to or not. We've all been in awe, enraptured, disgusted, and confounded by this mysterious being. He was an enigmatic creature who's celebrity surpassed what we understand as the normal and expected confines and privilege of fame. He existed in a realm not unlike royalty--cloistered, guarded, and at the same time relentlessly scrutinized and exposed. It was a vicious circle, the more we wanted to know about him the more secretive he became, and that made us ravenous. All of us. The media, the fans, the haters, the detectives. Every one of us.<br /><br />So I feel guilty. Not that the hounding and the voyeurism killed the man outright. But that he didn't have a moment's peace and couldn't enjoy a little normalcy, and that's all he wanted, ironically. He just wanted to be <span style="font-style: italic;">normal</span>. All of his cosmetic surgery, his creation of Neverland, his mail-order family, these were how he tried to fabricate a normal life. But to Jackson, the difference between <span style="font-style: italic;">perfection </span>and <span style="font-style: italic;">normalcy </span>was not so clearly defined.<br /><br />I feel bad that he didn't live long enough to resolve issues with his dad. I feel bad that he didn't live long enough to be absolutely vindicated of the sex abuse charges if he was truly innocent, or that he wasn't brought to justice if the accusations were based in fact. Yeah, he had his day in court, and the not guilty verdict is record now, but the question looms: Was an innocent man blackmailed, his reputation forever sullied, or was a family compensated for their silence?<br /><br />I feel bad that I ridiculed him for being so sensitive and weird. In spite of all the crap he got for being grotesque after numerous surgeries, the flack about his dubious sexuality, and everything else over the years, he had remained an infinitely loving soul.<br /><br />And genius or not, in fame or obscurity, black or white, that's all that has ever mattered. For any of us.<br /><br />RIP<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-56344118492951677732007-03-15T19:05:00.000-07:002007-03-15T19:14:19.238-07:00Forgotten, But Not Gone...entirely.<br /><br />I'm just popping in to let the two of you still reading WLPF that I have a third blog--heretofore published anonymously. It's not the snarky, sarcastic commentary you're used to reading here. It's very introspective, a little churchy, and probably not palatable to anyone but me. I just needed a place to dump all my journal entries from the last two or three years, and WordPress was there.<br /><br />So you're cordially invited to check out <a href="http://www.inacircle.wordpress.com">Moving Forward In a Circle</a>, and I'm prepared for the copious eye-rolling the posts there will provoke. Oh well. I've undergone some spiritual opening over the last year, and the non-writing and new blog is the culmination of those processes. My writing is my church and my math: It's where I go to ask my questions and how I sort out this mess of a life.<br /><br />Make no mistake, though, I still have chronic and inflamed road rage and continue to drive better than everyone else.<br /><br />From the nunnery,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1158295179314058252006-09-14T21:34:00.000-07:002006-09-14T21:39:39.356-07:00How Have You Been?I've been exhausted, bored, busy, disinterested.<br /><br />Tonight I'm a little tipsy. It was a good day. I'm listnening to <strong>Live's</strong> <em>Songs from Black Mountain</em>. If you knew how many times I had to type this over to get it right you'd be glad I'm not driving anywhere. I'm lit fucking up.<br /><br />Also listening to <strong>The Mars Volta</strong>. Fantastic.<br /><br />God bless the people that entertain me.<br /><br /><br />Boozily,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1157222545859268552006-09-02T11:38:00.000-07:002006-09-10T16:29:58.146-07:00Rites Of PassageCongratulations to my brother <strong>Joe</strong> and my new sister-in-law <strong>Mary</strong>, on their recent nuptials.<br />I hope you're both having a blast in Cancun.<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1151718231363666352006-06-30T18:20:00.000-07:002006-06-30T23:24:06.996-07:00Take That, British Empire!Happy Friday, cruel world.<br /><br />I get a four-day weekend and there's nothing you can do about it. I'm going to sit on my fat, dimpled ass and play one game of Free Cell after another. I'm going to use my time off to hang out with my cat George. By hang out, I mean ignoring her cries for attention within the 1,400 square feet of my home, instead of all the way from work.<br /><br />I'm going to turn my alarm off and sleep long enough to get bedsores by the time Tuesday rolls around. That's the mark of a good vacation in my book. Though I'm not a proponent of multitasking--and certainly not during the course of precious time off, I plan to bust out a few bedsores <em>AND </em>grow a beard. That's what people do on vacation, isn't it?<br /><br /><strong>Avoiding</strong>: <span style="color:#3366ff;"><strong>Blues Festivals, Fireworks, Crowds, Yardwork, Telephones</strong></span>.<br /><br />Happy In Depends Day!Cindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1151113219700486672006-06-23T18:12:00.000-07:002006-06-23T18:41:15.116-07:00The Weekly Poetaster Report...as this is turning out to be, anymore.<br /><br />What exactly is that annoying inflection with which poets read? It's not decidedly upward, as it doesn't gain or reach for anything, and it resolves in a downward tone only sporadically. It's an inflection peculiar to poets, seeming to bend just enough to almost be a whine in reverse. It vibrates between bitchiness and pretentiousness--perhaps it intones bitchtentiousness.<br /><br />It's made worse with a slam attitude and /or rap hands. Or singing. The poet's inflection is a voice that seems to have wearied from it's own sound, it's own thoughts. It's a lilt that professes boredom and disinterest while at the same time smacks of arrogance in its self-consciousness.<br /><br />I worry that I may be missing good poetry because I can't stand to listen to the awful reading of it. I'm almost tempted to ask for copies of the readers poems so that I can take in the work objectively without the irritating rendering of the pieces.<br /><br />Once again, I'm smiling outwardly, feigning interest, but inside I'm praying to any deity within earshot to strike me dead before I have to clap for yet another bad reading of bad poetry.<br /><br />How does one respond to a person who doesn't know how to read or write their own poetry?<br /><br />An enthusiastic"Wow, you should really workshop that," is the best I can do, still looking them straight in the eye. Delivered with a tone of voice sounding complimentary, it's really a suggestion to get a second opinion before calling the piece finished.<br /><br />Whateverishly,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1150440635208443202006-06-15T23:36:00.000-07:002006-06-15T23:57:58.426-07:00Never Mind The PoetryI meant to post this Tuesday night, but I just don't know where to start. As you may or may not know, or care, I occasionally attend <strong>Alberta Street Pub's Broken Word</strong> poety reading on Tuesdays. Sometimes I read, sometimes I just sit and suffer. This last week's revue was particulary awful--except for the main event, which was the release of a collaborative work called <strong>Dipshit Love</strong>.<br /><br />You'll never guess who sidled up to me at my table. Yup. The <a href="http://paperfetish.blogspot.com/2006/05/letter-to-old-poet.html"><strong>crazy bag lady</strong> </a>who has it in for David Lerner. She set her Screwdriver down on the table, asked nicely if she could sit with me, I obliged, and she started through her bag of poems, looking for the perfect selections to read for the evening. I couldn't believe it. <a href="http://asgp.org/agd-poems/naval7.html"><strong>Alice Olds-Ellingson</strong> </a>was sitting at my table. The heckled and the heckler, rubbing elbows, breaking bread, making nice. OK, we never did any of those things. We never spoke to one another except for "Can I sit here?" and "Of course. Please..."<br /><br />That doesn't mean she didn't talk. The whole night.<br /><br />There was the assorted commentary, usually supportive and congratulatory of the other readers. And of course, there was the crazy banter, those things that only meant something to Alice.<br /><br />Particularly, when one woman gave some background to the poem she was about to read, she said something that sounded like " eat Demerol.." A fellow in the audience shouted, "Eat <em>Demerol</em>?" The reader responded with the correct phrase, which I can't remember--because of the commentary soon to follow...<br /><br />"Yeah, <em>Eat Demerol</em>," joked the poet on stage, and Alice immediately added, "At Dennys."<br /><br />I don't remember anything else. I laughed to myself the rest of the evening.<br /><br />You gottt love crazy people. Unarmed crazies, anyway.<br /><br /><br />At Denny's...ha ha .<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1150015572654180982006-06-11T01:40:00.000-07:002006-06-11T01:46:12.673-07:00Sleepless In SeattleHi.<br /><br />I've had a bout of insomnia for the last week or so. I'm in Seattle--at the DoubleTree at SeaTac, actually, sitting in my room after 2 (shared) bottles of wine and a Kettle One martini. Didn't sleep last night, not ready to hit the sack just yet, in spite of ongoing and cumulative exhaustion.<br /><br />In th Emerald City for a software seminar. Can you believe that? I'm not here for a concert, or to buy drugs, or to sign books, but to sit in a stuffy,windowless room learning the finer points of a medical office software program. I'm such a fucking sell-out.<br /><br />At least I'm drunk. And awake.<br /><br />Drunk, awake in Seattle,<br /><br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1149054946697081652006-05-30T22:43:00.000-07:002006-05-30T22:55:46.723-07:00There Are Some Things Soy Sauce Just Can't Make DeliciousThere is one word which must never appear on a menu--at least in English, and that word is <em>rectum.</em> I don't mind seeing dishes described as having kidneys or heads or feet, or even intestines, but if a restaurant offers such a--um--<em>delicacy--</em> as pig's rectum, let's pretty up the name on the menu. Or else the birthday party of nine-year-olds will all want to try it.<br /><br />I have no problem with <em>pork butt</em>, however.<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1148849334341861802006-05-28T13:40:00.000-07:002006-05-28T22:12:20.296-07:00Haven't Heard The Word "Destiny" Once<a href="http://paperfetish.blogspot.com/2005/07/how-scary-can-poetaster-be.html">Because I'm listening without really listening</a>.<br /><br /><strong>Lacuna Coil</strong> have outdone themselves with their latest CD, <em>Karmacode</em>. It's hard, it's dark, it's melodic, it's perfect.<br /><br />I've learned to not listen closely to the lyrics, as the Italian idioms tend to translate stupidly into English, killing the mood, so to speak. But the music is sublime-- driving, throbbing, with plenty of middle eastern scales and runs to satisfy my exotic-seeking ears. They even cover Depeche Mode's "Enjoy The Silence."<br /><br />Very, very cool.<br /><br /><br />Rockin' out,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1148760362020405272006-05-27T13:00:00.000-07:002006-05-27T13:06:02.020-07:00Watch For Me On A Future Season Of The Surreal Life..I made the <a href="http://blogebrity.com/thelist"><strong><span style="color:#993399;">Blogebrity C list</span></strong></a>. Whohoo!<br /><br /><br />Drunk with power,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1147842217721612512006-05-16T21:53:00.000-07:002006-05-16T22:04:45.963-07:00Letter To An Old PoetDear Old Poet,<br /><br />Only 15 poets can read tonight, four minutes each. You know that. So what do you do? You shuffle up to the front of the room, with a bag of something, manuscript? Props? I don't know. But you start in, a tirade of some sort about a guy named David Lerner. You stand there, bow-legged and hunched, spewing and swearing and going on and on about all manner of things no one in the audience can make any sense of. The MC politely asks you to wrap it up after about , oh, I don't know, about ten minutes of your ranting.<br /><br />So you keep talking. You're not reading anything, or reciting. You dropped your bag about five minutes ago, so why are you still up there? I start clapping, hoping others will join in and you'll get the point, that you're done. So very done. You call me a bitch, and I clap and yell louder, and finally, FINALLY-- you leave.<br /><br />Look you crazy old bat, if you're not even going to read bad poetry, don't sign up. If all you're going to do is have an unmedicated or an overmedicated psychotic episode, please do it downtown with the other bag ladies instead of taking precious time away from people who at least <em>think</em> they're reading poetry.<br /><br />Get off the fucking stage.<br /><br />Pissed the fuck off,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1147756067200138782006-05-15T22:02:00.000-07:002006-05-15T22:07:47.216-07:00Introducing The New 29 Hour DayLife is busy and work is stressful and I'm overwhelmed and I wish I could find the PAUSE button or were at least brave enough to make the jump from this charging train.<br /><br />Peter Murphy still rules.<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1147112898935355672006-05-08T11:25:00.000-07:002006-05-08T11:28:18.973-07:00Peter Murphy Rules<strong>Things to Remember:</strong><br /><br />The power of poetry comes from the ability to defy logic.<br />Defy logic often.<br /><br />-----<br /><br />The other thing is the ability to be remembered:<br />Love anything.<br />Love anything.<br /><br /><em>--Peter Murphy</em>Cindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1146885495385520172006-05-05T20:07:00.000-07:002006-05-06T18:08:32.756-07:00Hostess of the LostestI'm at work, and we're getting a little sauced waiting for passers by to stop in and oogle the art displayed at the clinic for the neighborhood's First Friday exhibition.<br /><br />There are fiveof us here, eating the food, dancing to New Age Techno, wantonly spritzing ourselves with a Flower Essence concoction, formulated to unblock creativity.<br /><br />Now a couple of the gals are headed over the the Dermalogica display to play with the face goop, one of them accosting me with Vitamin C cream. It's not the kegger party of my youth, but this is as close to partying as I get these days.<br /><br />Happy Friday,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1146632971333548222006-05-02T22:00:00.000-07:002006-05-02T22:09:31.386-07:00Yes, I Need Attention And ValidationTonight's<strong> Broken Word</strong> poetry reading went alright. Kat came to support me. Glad she was there. I read just one poem, since there was a four minute limit. I brought "safe" poems to read--poems that had generated positive feedback, and one "riskky" piece, that had not received any feedback. Kat snuck a peek at the risky poem and liked it, said it was different, which is why I liked it. It was the poem I initially planned to read, but had wavered, not knowing how people may react. I read "Egyptians," the long, untested poem for <strong>Alberta Street Pub's</strong> audience tonight, and got through it. All 75 lines--mostly from memory.<br /><br />I'll return next Tuesday to read some more of my poetry. It's the only way I can sit through other people's poetry, like an instant karmic payback. If I have to sit through yours, you'll sit through mine. All 75 lines.<br /><br />Gloating,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1146118970307679992006-04-26T23:03:00.000-07:002006-04-26T23:40:10.420-07:00Cindy S. St. OngeWriter & PilgrimDo any of us know anything about ourselves that we weren't told by other people?<br /><br />I made a fuss months ago when my boss printed business cards for me. I'm the receptionist, I told him, what do I need cards for? He couldn't understand, I mean <em>really</em> couldn't understand my hangup with wasting paper and ink for business cards for the <em>receptionist</em>. I told him that everyone's cards have my number on them. Do clients need <em>my</em> card to call me in order to make an appointment with me so that they can then schedule an appointment with a practitioner? How fucking roundabout is that?<br /><br />Besides the redunancy and uselessness of my card--and what I didn't tell him, was that business cards are like little headstones, tiny gravemarkers we give away to strangers and new acquaintences in a gesture which says, "I want you to remember me this way." A thick stock retangle that sums our lives up to that moment. An embossed snapshot of accomplishment and accreditation.<br /><br />I'm not a receptionist. It's what I <em>do</em>, not who I am.<br /><br />Back in the day, when one had to hire out the design and printing of business cards, it was a big deal to have them. And believe you me, receptionists and their ilk didn't have them. Calling cards were proof of prestige, position, bearing the names, titles, and numbers of people with <em>careers</em>, not the peasantry who were just holding down <em>jobs</em>. Now, in this age of desktop publishing, calling cards have achieved a fecund ordinariness, like driver's licences and social security numbers.<br /><br />But at the end of the day, they're still little tombstones, summing us up and declaring our own separate plots in this world.<br /><br />Claiming the sweet spot under the giant oak,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1146026817281470272006-04-25T21:35:00.000-07:002006-04-26T12:46:38.406-07:00What's Worse Than Jesus Marts?...local poetry readings.<br /><br />I hate crappy poets. I hate crappy poetry, being read by crappy poets crappily.<br /><br />They're awful. Horrible. Pornographic. Indulgent...and not even two glasses of wine can make these fucking poetasters tolerable.<br /><br />You wouldn't believe what I had to sit through tonight. Swearing isn't poetry--<em>that's blogging</em>. Using words like <em>pussy</em> and <em>dick</em>--not poetry. Ending every line in a pretentious upward inflection-- still not poetry. Singing your fucking lame verse out of tune--still not anywhere close to poetry.<br /><br />People, if you're not going to write about death or god, or at least write about sex using clever metaphors, then don't bother writing poems. Just don't.<br /><br />Of course, I'll be signing up next week for <a href="http://www.albertastreetpub.com/"><strong>Alberta Street Pub's Broken Word</strong> </a>poetry reading. Somebody's got to raise the standard. Yes, I'm arrogant, but I'm good enough of a poet to be arrogant.<br /><br />So. Tuesday at 7:30 sharp for you hecklers, and those of you interested in knowing the difference between what <em>is</em> and what <em>isn't</em> poetry.<br /><br />Disgusted,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1145227072560854462006-04-16T15:17:00.000-07:002006-04-16T18:35:40.490-07:00Hard As NailsMy brother and his fiancee invited me to Easter service this morning. A sucker for entertainment--any kind of entertainment, even saturated with religiosity, I accepted the invitation. Joe and his girlfriend are members of one of those big Foursquare Jesus Marts. And it was in one of these arena-sized arenas I witnessed this year's Resurrection Weekend production,<br /><br />Glossy, slick, dripping with melodrama, this year's show dramatized a modern death row story, the set looking curiously like <em>Jail House Rock</em>. Replete with appropriate measures of guilt, angst, redemption, and a fog machine, the miracle of the resurrection played out in Jesus Marts all over the land this morning--the off, <em>off</em> Broadway extravaganza for the faith ridden.<br /><br />And speaking of miracles--the fellow portraying the risen Lord at East Hill wasn't of the blond, blown-dry, blue-eyed variety, but a darker, more authentic representation of the Hebrew messiah.<br /><br />Yeah, I shed tears. I always cry at the theater. But I regained my composure well before the pastor invited any and all souls moved to open their hearts to Jesus and raise their hands. I steeled myself--hard as nails, in my seat, journaling throughout. The broken were asked to raise their hands in a show of capitulation of reason and self-sovereignty. This would be the worst possible time for my head to itch, so of course it did. I resisted, keeping my hand down, and would eventually exit the arena just as I enetered--agnostic and rightfully superior. I did, howver, put two bucks in the offering basket.<br /><br />"You're tithing?" Joe asked, surprised.<br /><br />"Nope. I'm <em>tipping</em>.<br /><br /><br />Happy Easter,<br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1144823868468862812006-04-11T23:32:00.000-07:002006-04-11T23:43:28.130-07:00A Work In Progress...is better than no work or no progress.<br /><br /><br />Waxing poetic and wanting tweezers,<br /><br />Cindy<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Untitled</span></strong><br /><br />This is Winter,<br />my uninterrupted dream.<br />Black on silver,<br />a bladelike season<br />poised to drain<br />my very life if<br />I even for a moment<br />drowse.<br /><br />Should Spring call<br />before I wake--<br />her lovely daffodils-<br />their dragon heads atrumpeting,<br />rouse me from these leafless trees<br />into that greener, gilded morning.Cindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1144308204251062232006-04-06T00:11:00.000-07:002006-04-06T00:35:06.693-07:00Happy Birthday To Wordlust : Paperfetish!<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7595/990/1600/cake.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/7595/990/320/cake.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One year ago today I posted my first entry onto WLPF, and I must say it's been one of the most rewarding ventures I've ever undertaken.<br /><br />Thank you to Joe, Kathleen, Betty, Heidi, Rock, Brad, Aunt B, Princess Cranky Pants, Hannah, Vince, Annush, Nanilator, A Mere Mortal, Rhein, Kris, and all the lurkers--both the twisted and the random clickers, for visiting my blog and enabling my self-indulgence. Thank you for reading, for commenting, and for entertaining me in turn with your own posts. Also, a big thank you to Jade Smith for the glowing review of WLPF at <a href="http://www.theweblogreview.com/review/3207/"><strong>The Weblog Review</strong></a>.<br /><br />With no further ado, let's eat some of that cake.<br /><br />Celebratorily & wearing a pointy paper hat,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1144123023607426792006-04-03T20:40:00.000-07:002006-04-03T20:57:41.456-07:00If I Had Your Number...I'd be drunk dialing.<br /><br />I enjoyed two glasses of a Willamette Valley Vineyards pinot noir called "Chainsaw." As the lovely waitress at Springwater Grill tells it, the wine got its name from the grafting process involving a chainsaw. She coyly left out the part about the teenagers who's van ran out of gas.<br />What van? What teenagers?<br /><br />I didn't press; just enjoyed my dinner and drink.<br /><br /><br />I miss writing. Not enough to actually write anything, but just enough to feel sorry for myself and my bygone talent. Ambition; who has energy and time to see this thing through? Not me. Not these days.<br /><br />Wanna know what's in my day planner? I'm going to tell you anyway. I've jotted all the TV shows I watch on their respective days. <em>The Apprentice</em> on Mondays, <em>American Idol</em> on Tuesdays, <em>American Idol</em> and <em>America's Next Top Model</em> on Wednesdays, <em>My Name is Earl</em> and <em>The Office</em> on Thursdays. I don't have to write <em>Cops </em>on my Saturday page, because the <strong>8:00</strong> timeslot has been engrained in my brain since the show's pilot a decade or more ago.<br /><br />Gotta go--The Apprentice is on in 6 minutes.<br /><br />Chainsaw buzzed,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1143842940051799582006-03-31T14:03:00.000-08:002006-03-31T21:30:03.883-08:00Effing PervertsI get my share of depraved visitors who've googled things like <strong>viscera</strong>, <strong>blood</strong>, <strong>agonal</strong> <strong>breathing</strong>, <strong>air hunger</strong>, etc. But my last post has drawn the very dregs of society, who have bounced on and off of WLPF searching for "dead girls" and "cute little girls".<br /><br />So, to all you child-raping perverts, disappointed that there's no trapped prey here, you are so fucking busted.<br /><br /><br />Disgusted,<br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11955166.post-1143524070932740562006-03-27T21:29:00.000-08:002006-03-27T21:36:10.996-08:00There Are Cute Little Dead Girls......and there are cute little dead girls. <a href="http://www.nightrose.com/lenore.htm"><strong>Lenore</strong> </a>is the cutest of all.<br /><br />I've finally found the animated strips of Roman Dirge's Lenore: The Cute Little Dead Girl, which used to be linked to his sight, but were lost in cyber limbo the last two years. They've been restored at a Nightrose sight--the link located in my Worthy Blogs list for your convenience. My favorite strips are <strong>Li'l Ballerina</strong>, <strong>Bloaty the Frog</strong>, <strong>Ragamuffin</strong>, And <strong>The Taxidermy</strong>.<br />Morbid, funny, cute, and creepy digital music. Check it out folks.<br /><br />Gleefully,<br /><br /><br /><br />CindyCindy St. Ongehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13874629976102588126noreply@blogger.com0