Did you know that I have a brother? It's true!

He's my older brother. 4 years older to be exact. And today is his birthday.

He's one of the most talented people I've ever met in my life. An amazing visual artist: painting, drawing, photography, whatever. And he's funny. He can get you rolling for hours.

His photography has taken him up to Parson's in New York City for Graduate School. We Alabama Crockett's have come a long, long way, my friends.

For his birthday... I thought I'd share his art with you. As a gift, I'd like you guys to barrage this site's message board and tell them what you think of his work.

Here's the linky: http://www.sixfingerrecords.com/art/crockett/

So, Happy Birthday to Big J the Monkey Foot Hustler.

I love you, bro.

Hot Coffee.

Gad dang it I want that patch!

GTASA... Julio's dirty little secret. ;-)

NEW PLAN FOR THE B DAY!

My 30th birthday is starting to feel alot like my high school prom... regarding which my mother claimed if I didn't attend I may regret it forever.

And because I'd rather regret something that I did, rather than something I did not do...

I have decided to officially celebrate the actual day of my birthing 30 years ago in the old fashioned way... at Chuck E Cheese's pizza parlor and party town in Pasadena!

If you live anywhere near there, your presence is humbly requested.

(Formal attire is optional)

PLEASE COME AND WHACK-A-MOLE FOR MY BIRTHDAY!

It will be short and relatively painless. If you could make it, that would be cool. Feel free to bring a friend and the spirit of skee-ball.

When:
Monday Aug 1st 2005
at 7:30 PM

Where:
Chuck E Cheese's
3737 E Foothill
Pasadena, CA 91107

Last years birthday pic:
Waffle House. 4am. Somewhere in Ohio, I think.

My birthday is coming.

Strange as it may sound, I'm turning 30.

On August 1st I will be as old as Jesus -- 3 1/2 years before he died.

It feels weird. Just another day, but not really, because I have WAY outlived my life expectancy. Never did I really think that I would some day be 30. It feels like a big deal, and it doesn't. It feels like I should do something to "honor" this day, this self, in some way... but I just want to sleep in and hide.

Luckily I have some friends on the other side. Folks who I see coming into their self-ness and walking with the strut of confident becoming. It looks lovely. I hear good news about the 30's. My mom insists that the 40's are even better than that. With every decade shedding the gawky adolescence of the previous becoming. Thank God for process oriented living.

August 1st is a popular day for birthdays. Myself, Lisa's boyfriend, Addi the Balloon Guy, Herman Melville, Jerry Garcia, Francis Scott Key, uh... Dom DeLuise... fucking Tom Leykis of all people.

My boyfriend's mother also shares the August 1st birthday. Weird, eh? Same day, 40 years later, her potential daughter-in-law (if she has her way!) was born. She's turning 70, I'm turning 30. Nemecia. Her dream house is finally finished -- atop a hill out in Fallbrook, on a 5 acre ranch filled with avocado trees and honey bees. She's having a housewarming party on the 30th, which she intends to serve as a joint birthday party for the two of us as well. She wants me to invite my friends.

Now, I'm not feeling too enthusiastic about trying to get my friends to come down to Fallbrook. Maybe it's low self esteem and not wanting to be too much trouble. Maybe I'm just not the birthday type. Hell, I love presents as much as anybody and possibly more, however, receiving them makes me feel weird and embarrassed. Conflict. There's a permanent kid at Christmas inside of me, always excited on each new day for the potential bounty that it could bring... always seeking buried treasure.... always looking at the ass-end of rainbows for something shiny. I have rubbed genie-lamp lookin' teapots. I have tried to make contact with the spirit and alien worlds. I did a lot of drugs. I think it's all the same impulse for me. There search for something else. Something amazing, I guess. I'm happy as heck that I'm still alive, but the self promotion that goes into birthday parties makes me feel like an asshole.

So here's the birthday pitch: The good news is, in Fallbrook it's beautiful and there's gonna be really good food. Mexican style. Bad news is that gas is expensive and it's far. Like Temecula far.
If you feel like a mini-vacation, let me know and I'll give you directions. We can even make carpools happen. Caravans.

You're all invited, and you're all excused.
How's that for low pressure?

The Toilets of Venice

A couple weeks ago, I was in Venice, Italy at the Biennale art fest extravaganza. Attending the Biennale was the last “class” of my 2^nd term of PhD studies in the Philosophy of Media and Communication. The only reporting that we had to do on our art-filled day in Venice was to write a paper on some piece of art that evoked “death” in a “surprising” way. Jesus penis.

Luckily, when one goes looking for death, it is not hard to find.

My first idea was to write about the cat. I saw it in the bushes, next to Uruguay’s exhibition house; a skinny little thing with murder in its eyes. It was pouncing on something in the brush, teeth showing, hair on end, with fierce concentration. At any moment, I expected it to pull its head out of the shrubbery with some bloody carcass in its mouth. There would be my death. Paper finished and my day free for thoughtlessness. Alas, there was no carnage. Whatever the cat was after either got away or the miniscule tiger simply lost its interest in hunting. The cat came over and rubbed on my leg. I picked it up for a while and pet it, sucker that I am for any animal’s affection (an old Snow White fantasy from childhood, my special relationship with wildlife). Failing to deliver me death, I left the cat and went on searching. Thoughts of the always already “death of art” lazily swirled in my mind, as I noted the disproportionate amount of Video Art that dominated the Biennale, and how unmoved I was by most of the work.

An art-goers rule of thumb: Installation art is always good for a cheap thrill. If I can touch it or be touched by it, contribute to it, move it, mess it up or kick it around some childish part of me is engaged. Play ensues. I howled and intoned with the noise of a wind tunnel, compliments of the Russians, I think. I kicked little metal balls around in a huge stone room, creating disruptive echoes in the traditionally silent gallery environment. I was scolded for touching a toy tethered to a wall. What perversion is this, to display a TOY that cannot be TOUCHED?

I had to use the bathroom. A portable toilet provided an odd entertainment. Unlike the “pits of despair” of the United State’s port-o-potty’s (wherein the human refuse falls from the anus to a pile beneath, with nothing to obstruct the view) the Portable Toilets of Venice had an additional bit of technology added: a sheet of metal on a “conveyor belt” of sorts, with a bowl-side handle that one pulled like the arm of a slot machine to dispose of the waste. To speak plainly, when a rectal load is dumped on the conveyor belt, the “dumper” then pulls on the lever and the “deposit” slowly makes its way to the underside (the pit of despair, obstructed from view by the metal slab) whilst a cleaning fluid is sprayed on the conveyor belt. Ingenious portable toilet design! Interactive and fun! Never a more satisfying dump! Shit! The death cast forth from my bowels!

In the French Pavilion I experienced some art. I sat for over 30 minutes, watching the full cycle of the second room of Annette Messager’s 3 room installation, based on the story of Pinocchio. Her installation took me to that place of child-like wonderment to which I love being taken. Slack-jawed awe and eye-candy delight.

Picture an entire room full of red silk pouring in from an open doorway located far away, in the center of the back wall. A fan blows air, with differing force and rhythm, into the silk, causing it to billow and vibrate, oscillations and waveforms, rivers and oceans of blood, uterus walls, heartbeats, desert landscapes, alien lands, chiasmic unity, surges of chaos, primordial ooze, the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end of all things. Lights shone from above, orbs glowed below, pulses and patterns of light.

My favorite part was in the dark. All the lights were out. The eye adjusted to the darkness, and the blowing of the fans was quite low. A room full of liquid silk shivered and rippled. I sat on a bench with my silent companions watching an ocean of blood, pouring out of a doorway to oblivion, to more oceans of blood. I wanted to swim. It was cool and quiet. I heard the fans get stronger. A huge billow of silk built up behind the door and surged into the space. The lights rose, the face of a clock projected in the doorway. Time returned. No swimming in the bloody seas of death today.

My next bathroom adventure came on over at the Armory. James Hussier, my companion for the day, followed the man stick figure and I followed the woman, both the stick figure, and an actual woman in front of me. She and I found ourselves in a HUGE room with one toilet and one sink. After some moments of confusion, she asked me to leave so that she may relieve herself. I waited outside the door. When it was my turn, I entered the giant room. An enormous brick room had been divided by a thin partition, separating the men’s room from the women’s. The partition did not reach all the way to the ceiling, and the acoustics in the room made it so one could hear EVERYTHING happening on the other side. This meant that as I sat on my tiny toilet in this most beautiful yet awkward room, I could hear poor James having a time of it with his irritated bowels. We both took to infectious giggling, as James held his business until I had departed from my side.

Everything in the bathroom was contrary to expectation, and slightly inconvenient. The toilet paper was around the corner and just out of reach of the toilet. The water knob for the sink was out of reach of the sink. People would follow each other into the restroom, expecting stalls, confusion and embarrassment resulting. The experience was humorous and humiliating. I feared that I was being videotaped, and that later in the day I would see myself projecting. To top it all off, neither James nor myself could get the toilets to flush, and we feared that perhaps we weren’t actually supposed to shit in this particular installation.

More art, a couple more trips to the toilets, and then I went home to Los Angeles. The End. To be continued.

I'm back.

Hello. How time hath flown, eh? One month of absence, rectified with a 12 hour flight. What magic there is in this world.

The trip was overwhelming, chock-full of busy-ness, mentally exhausting and stimulating. I was up in the Alps, studying with some of the greatest artists and minds alive, at the European Graduate School.

Incredible connections were made. New projects being developed. I saw a lot of great movies. Elia Suleiman, Claire Denis, and Atom Egoyan showed their latest works.

I got to study with Jean Luc Nancy (just before I left for school I became nervous that perhaps he would die). He did not die.

School is located in a tiny Swiss ski village located high in the Alps, right by the tallest mountain in Switzerland. The town is called "Saas-Fee" and it is surrounded by 13 mountains, so every direction that one looks, there is snow-capped goodness. It is mostly populated by cows and sheep.

I sat with a brown cow on a hillside for half and hour, petting it whilst it chewed its cud. It burped in my face.

I wasn't feeling extremely social or energetic this trip, with all of my energies going into the studies and some quick rigorous hikes thrown in here and there. Most of the folks at school like to drink all night and cheat on their significant others, it seems. I liked to read, write letters (actual letters!) to my boyfriend, play my guitar, and sleep. I woke up early every morning and never missed a class.

The air is amazing and clear, the water is freezing cold and wondrously drinkable... It comes straight off of a glacier up in the mountains.

On the last day of class, after the final lecture concluded at 10:30pm, we had to grab our bags and board a bus that took us to a night train to Venice, Italy. On the train we "slept" 6 to a cabin, stacked up on either side. It was crazy small. And short. Me and 5 gents bunked like stowaways on a midnight train.

The train ride was about 7 hours. When the sun came out, most of us lined up at the windows in the aisle-way, watching the fields pass by. We arrived in Venice around 8am and went to the Biennale Art Show. The Arsenale was one of the most amazing SPACES that I've ever seen. It is now my dream location for directing a piece of theater. My favorite piece of the exhibition was a room by Annette Messager, filled with red silk, and a big fan. Simple, and awe-inspiringly beautiful.

Venice was beautiful. Streets of water, it's really true. Little boats everywhere. Great food! Espresso that feels like a horse kicked you in the face. And the light.... the LIGHT! As the sun was going down, and I was heading to the train station on a boat, and I saw the light. I SAW THE LIGHT. The light which explained to me WHY so many painters and photographers and artists in general would go to such a place. The light was beautiful.

I spent the night at this bizarre hostel, which was actually a campsite, with a pool and a disco and a bar and RV's and hundreds of teenagers and 20-somethings backpacking through Europe. The "room" was actually a tent. A tent, with 2 small cots inside, and a small padlock for the zipper. It wasn't bad at night, but once the sun came up it was like sleeping in a plastic garbage bag in the sun. Hot.

The whole next day I did nothing but sleep and swim and suntan (in my underwear!) and plot ways to get home sooner. How much would it be to change my flight? Should I take the train to Frankfurt instead of flying, just so I could start moving? I was ready to GO! I didn't WANT to do any more exploring of Venice. I made a decision that I will return. I will return with my boyfriend and my band. Venice is one of those places that I want to SHARE with someone. It's too hard to try to explain it, so I'd rather everyone just go see it for themselves.

The food, man. The coffee. The light. So good.

So, after 24 hours of transit (taxi to the Marco Polo Airport, flight to Frankfurt, 6 hour layover, most of it spent in really long lines, 12 hour flight to LA, 1 hour of customs and baggage claim, 1/2 hour of hari krishna) I got home. I spent my first night in my new house, in my new "living-together" relationship. It was good. So good.

Yesterday I went swimming in my pool. Now I'm back in the office. Ain't life sweet?

That's the factual account, more or less. In a bit I'll start feeeeeeeeling stuff and tell you all about it. My head is still spinning, and I'm tired as hell. I've been *sighing* all day. Deep sighs. Good for the soul.

[enter net]

(part one)

In order to prepare to edit a documentary I shot last summer (and was too emotionally frazzled and/or biased in the aftermath to edit at that time) my editor has asked me to explain the genesis of the project. How it came to be. Which, I realize, requires me to explain the genesis of my relation to that wonderful thing allowing me to communicate this to all of you right now: The Internet.

As late as 1995, I still had no real experience with the net. My use of computers was limited to word processing and some really lo-tech games. I preferred pinball & shooting games (where there's a "real" hand-held "gun") to any video game, save for an arcade version of Mrs Pac Man, which holds a special place in my heart, surely having to do with the fact it is one of the only games that I'm actually "good" at. (High Score at the late Pac Man Arcade, Pasadena (RIP) circa 2001)

My first insight into the wonders and possibilities of the web came in 1996 when my boyfriend at the time told me that he had seen the most awful thing of his life online. What he had seen was a series of photos taken by a girl and her lover... after they had murdered her husband, they proceeded to cut off his head, hands, feet, and genitals, and pose the parts in different humorous tableaus, smiling and posing with the various pieces. The guy posting the pics was a right-wing Christian, militant about the first amendment, and believing it to be important to show the hideousness of this sinful world in all its ghastly glory. My boyfriend told me that I did NOT want to see these images, no matter how much I may think I did. I believed him, and by the time I changed my mind, the pics had been taken down, and replaced with the autopsy report for Nicole Brown Simpson. No pics. I was disappointed.

In '97 I moved to Los Angeles and got a job working for an internet sex toy company, JT's Stockroom. It was actually the first adult toy store on the web, starting as an all-text e-catalog around 1988. At this time the shop was run out of the apartment of the owner, and everybody did all the jobs. I worked in shipping, leather manufacturing, and customer service. Part of my job was linking the site to other sites, so this enabled me to spend a good amount of time searching the porno-web.

It was at this time that I first discovered the Stile Project, a busy hive of all things porno and gore, with some flash-animated games and random jokes thrown in for good measure. It was there I encountered the Random Image Generator. It was there I discovered a most strange masochism in myself.

I'm a sensitive girl who has always played tough, in an effort to flex the much-needed muscle of toughness that sensitive people, such as myself, seem to need to develop in order to not be annihilated by the breeze of this world. Or, perhaps I'm an incredibly insensitive girl, who, still able to experience a shred of feeling, seeks to obliterate it from myself by force.

10 minutes a day on the Random Image generator was my formula. There was no way of knowing what I was going to get. Sometimes a beautiful woman, sometimes a close up of a healthy vagina, sometimes a close up of a diseased and festering vagina, sometimes a man with a metal post rammed through his skull, sometimes a man with his face blown half off, sometimes a joke, sometimes a cute kitten. Thank god for the kittens.

Everything that I do in my life has to fulfill a certain criteria of interestingness, and there are always multiple motives, conscious and unconscious, for everything. For example, my working at the Stockroom was, quite simply, a way to make money, however, it was also borne from a desire to work in the sex industry, and working in the sex industry was a way for me to explore things within myself. It gave me a certain access, and it also went over well in storytelling. Really, what I did was work an office job, however, an office job at a sex toy company is immediately more interesting than an office job at an insurance agency. And mine is a life that has been extremely preoccupied with making the "most interesting" choice in any given situation. Both for my own experience of living, and for the sake of others. Who are these others? The audience. Those that may see or hear the stories of my life.

The working at the sex toy company lost its "interesting" status when I started graduate school for Theater direction and amateur boxing, simultaneously. With these new, and most physically active, developments in my life, the Internet job, and the Internet itself, was almost completely deserted. Maybe I was occasionally using email at this time, but not often. Occasionally researching or image searching. Word processing.

Following an injury which took me out of boxing and made me realize the value of health insurance, I returned to the Stockroom full-time after 3 years of absence. 3 years of internet abstinence.

Full time. Working on a computer. Paying bills. Working on a computer. Sitting there. Working on a computer. Same spot, all day long. Working on a computer.

Again, I was responsible for linking the Stockroom to other sites and generating traffic by any means necessary. Again, I had a free pass for searching the porno-web. Exploring and exploiting its now vast reaches and resources. This time I would fully enter the net. I would get caught in the web. Obviously, I haven't' gotten out yet.

i had written something long, and then it was lost.
now i have to go to class.

in the lost document, i describe the town, my whereabouts, my bed, and the noise (or lack of noise) in this region.

i spoke of a coming tide of revolution. a beautiful one.

the last line was something like this:

here, in switzerland, you can drink the water.

that is all i can relate right now. i must go up the hill to class. i'm the TA for this one. Victor Burgin is the teacher. Author of "The Remembered Film" and In/Different spaces.
it is a hike to the school. high atop a mountain it sits. next to some sheep. one sheep has a bell on its neck. rind a ding ding all day long. how can that not make a sheep go mad?

Yodel-eh-hee-hoooo....

Hey everybody. Greeting from the mountains. It is cold and sunny here at the top of the Alps. It is quiet and there are lots of sheep.

Sheep, and philosophy students.... what a pair!

I am Nomad

Yesterday I turned in the keys to my apartment and got my security deposit back, in full, from my lovely and fatherly landlord who was sorry to see me go. I'm moving away from my sweet, sweet solo abode where I shared a wall with my best friend/bandmate lisa dee and a courtyard with gentle brett lyda of the evangenitals. 5 people from my workplace lived in that building. 5 people that I actually liked. Out of 21 units, I called 7 of them friends. That's 1/3 of the building!

I have moved all of my belongings into a house in Duarte that is under renovation. Everything will be dusty upon my return. The garage is being rebuilt, the pool is being sandblasted, the backyard will be dug up and planted with grass, the kitchen will be gutted and re-done, a wall moved, a bathroom added. It will be a new house upon my return.

At 7:10pm this evening, god willing, a plane will be leaving LAX with me on it. That plane is headed for Milan, Italy, where I will find my hotel, spend a night, and take a train the next day to Saas-Fee, Switzerland to spend a wee bit shy of a month tucked away in the Alps studying Philosophy.

This term I'm supposed to pitch my definitive dissertation topic. I'm seriously stumped on this at the moment, as there's about 5 billion things I'd like to research/think about/write about and at the same time I'm plagued by this feeling of the unimportance of all things, excepting faith and love and health and cleanliness and happiness and wellbeing and taking care of each other and the world. There is some shame that comes with being such a bleepin' hippie at heart.

There is a book. It is called "Cradle to Cradle". I'm recommending it to everyone I know. It has brought me such a sense of excitement and hope it is wonderful wonderful. It is the future. It contains a solution. How to grow, thrive, consume, experience, build, expand, explore, create, and do no harm. It is something I've been struggling with for a long, long time. Brett turned me on to an interview in Newsweek with the guy and I just about crapped my pants with glee at the vision for a mo' better future that he has.

Limitless expansion. A broad road of happy destiny to trudge. That's what I got from his words. We don't have to "cut back" and "conserve"... we need to make better, kinder, more care-full any loving decisions, and run wild and free with the happy joyous and free energy of children. Do no harm. That's the mantra that's been rolling through my head and heart. Do no harm. Can I write a dissertation on that? Been thinking about Gandhi. Do no harm. It's hard not to step on ants and other people's toes sometimes. Do no harm. Progress not perfection.

I am off. I will miss my boyfriend. I will miss my band. I have my small guitar in hand, and I will be working hard to make myself a better everything for everyone. Especially me. I'm a selfish turkey.

holy moly.

it seems in my financial desperation i pulled the
ultimate boner...

i put the wrong address on my $5 plea.

anyone who sent a check, you can be expecting it back,
because i am a whimsical retard who didn't proofread
my writing.

sorry bout that.

if anyone wants to try again, you may grace the
mailbox of my new home at this exceptionally accurate
and proofread'ed address....

Juli Crockett
1303 Fairlee Ave
Duarte, CA 91010

sometimes i amuse myself.
other times, i annoy myself.
either way, i am, unavoidably, myself.

yours truly,
juli crockett

I'm back to the old piracy impulse again....

Trying to make money makes me sad. When my focus is on finance, I'm just an irritated girl. It sucks. I always start to try to make money, and quickly burn out. It sucks, having that be the drive behind my action. I can't handle it. I just ain't motivated enough by the money, property, prestige. I'd rather take a walk and scrape change together for food. I wouldn't cut it in wall street.

I watched a documentary about Enron last night. It made me feel all claustrophobic and suspicious. People do some really shitty things sometimes. Listening to the assholes joke about turning California's power off, and all the money they cost us, and how they got Gray Davis booted out of office.... And then the extention of it all.... The unmentionable intentional nine to the eleventh. Scary poop.

There are many options. Staying small. Living large. Trusting god. Fighting the power. There have been many songs written about these options. Many books written. Many a pamphlet, pamphletted.

someday I'm going to have children (if the creek don't rise and the sun don't fall and my ovaries aren't bunk) how to deliver a world that doesn't blow ass? I don't know.

All's I know is that it has something to do with NOT being the guy who's willing to do evil.

My new neighbor's are Buddhists. I'm excited about that. For the first time ever if my neighbor's ask me if I want to go to church with them, I may say yes. That's exciting.

There is some dark shit going on in this world of ours. Darker than we can imagine. I was thinking about the fucking holocaust last night. How when it was happening, no one believed it. Nobody could imagine that people could be so evil. Guess what?

They can and they will. That are and they do.

I'm feeling all bunk and hopeful.
I love that wacky mix.

Okay. Here we go.

The latest idea is that I'm going to start telling you guys about books that have the ability to rip my heart out of my ass, and you guys hopefully go buy that book by following the little linky that I'll provide, and then the Evangenitals get a percentage of the sale and we get to go on tour and live the dream of doing what makes one happy and making money doing it.

In the meantime, you'll get to hear about a lot of great books, and we can discuss them too, because this friggin' thing has a comments box, ya know. Oh yes it does.

So, first up: The Light That Failed by Rudyard Kipling

My friend Michael Blackman lent me a copy of this book. The cover had been torn off, as he had throw it across the room several times whilst reading it and kicked it down some European street in a fit of anger after finishing it. This book is totally and utterly unfair. It is as unfair as life often seems to be. Yet it is beautiful. It made me shake my fists at the heavens in rage. It did not make me cry. It is not a sappy, emotional book. It is harsh. And it's about art, so if you are into harsh and/or art, you will appreciate this book.

It's fucking great. Read it. Let me know what you think.

For just $5 you can change the world...

That's right. I'm broke. It's a terrible pickle.

I've got to buy a plane ticket on April 29th (yes, that very day) so that I can fly across the ocean to continue work on my PhD, which will enable me to eventually get a job teaching, at which time I will be given access to young and sponge-like minds, and I will fill them with the best thought-soul-spirit-revolution-food that I can channel... thereby potentially changing the world, see?

So, here was my thought. I'm broke. I need cash. And to ask any ONE person for the amount of cash I need would be just... weird. I don't know anybody who's sitting on a stack like that. HOWEVER, just about EVERYONE that I know has $5. So, I figured I'd ask everyone I know for $5 (it worked for Henry Miller, man) and if even a handful of ALL the folks I know gave me just $5.... I'd be able to do the seemingly impossible.

In return, you will of course have my eternal gratitude, and I would also like to initiate the $5 money tree for all of us... as a collective means of survival and thrival with which we can all collaborate on pursuing our hopes and dreams, for a mere $5.

So... if you're down for the $5 revolutionary intra-personal help tree, please send cash, checks, or bags of change to:

Juli Crockett
4629 Echo Street
Apt #4
Los Angeles, CA 90042

Or if you see me, give it the pass and a wink, and I'll probably smile real big and give you a hug.

I hope this works. If you've got a better idea, I'm open to suggestions and searching for solutions.

- juli

mitch hedberg is dead. :-(

i love that funny motherfucker. if you've never heard him, i suggest you take a listen right here: http://www.mikeindustries.com/blog/archive/2005/03/mitch-hedberg-rest-in-peace

he makes me giggle like a stoner. he saved my life whilst driving cross country with a car-load of folks who didn't understand the concept of entertaining the driver so's they don't fall asleep. the guy who brought the hedberg cd is forgiven, of course. they are all forgiven, actually. i hope they all have forgiven me for being such a psycho. it was one of those rights-of-passage things, methinks. the kind of thing that you don't understand WHY you're doing it in the moment, just that you must.

the trip is far enough away that it has undergone that amazing transformation into something truly wonderful... and it is no longer the painfully excrutiating thingamajig that i thought it was, during the experience. it was dope. those folks are fly by me. alright.

it's too bad mitch had to go the way of the inspired comic... john belushi, chris farley, mitch hedberg... to the limit.

a new unedited from the heart post, compliments of juli crockett.

hello everyone. i'm broke. this is my own fault. the situation of brokeness tends to arise, i hear, when one refuses to "live by the rules" and do the things that "everybody else does" like "go to work" for a significant number of hours each day. i don't like to do this. i like to watch my turtles and hang out with my boyfriend.

that's right, my boyfriend. my boyfriend whom i can't stop fighting with. my boyfriend who broke up with me, bought a house, and asked me to move in with him in the same day. in between we got accupuncture. accupuncture ain't something he'd normally do. accupuncture is for fags, that's what he'd say. but with the help of a rental car and his birthday, i tricked him into accupuncture in Gardena and he loved it. we went back the next day. the day that he bought a house, dumped me, then asked me to move in with him. that's my boyfriend.

and then there's me. feeling me. free spirit me. crazy me. weirdo me. normal/abnormal/subnormal me. me me me. call me what you like, but call me. that's me.

my turtles have had two days of real, direct sunlight after a long, long winter of no real sunshine that has blanched their shells a weirdo white color. if anyone knows anything about turtles, please let me know what's wrong with them.

i love weezer. midnight confession #1.

some dear friends of mine who help me stay on level bought me an electric guitar. my boyfriend bought a house in Duarte. i am horrified. everything will change. change is fun. i am broke. broke is fun, so long is there is nothing that you feel you NEED to HAVE or DO that requires MONEY. such as, a plane ticket to switzerland so that you can go to school, that has already been paid for (the school) but you need a plane ticket to get there.

plane tickets cost money.

i think i most certainly need to start writing in my little blog more with abandoned and word-spitting glee. i'm sure i will do it, too... because i'm going to have to put in 40+ hour weeks on the computator from now until i set flight for the Swiss Alps... and during those long weary hours on the computator, staring into the pixelated hell which is cyberland, i will assuredly grow lonely... and in this pit of loneliness, i shall want to cry out for help, solace, understanding, and love.

see you then.

I'M ON THE FLIPPIN' COVER OF MUSIC CONNECTION MAGAZINE!!!!!!!!!!

You can see it online on the 14th at www.musicconnection.com

OR... You can buy it right now at your local news-shack.

OR.... You can check out these links:

http://www.evangenitals.com/musicconnection.jpg (cover)

http://www.evangenitals.com/musicconnection2.jpg (feature article on THE EVANGENITALS!!!!!)

OR you can check out OUR copy TONIGHT at FREE SHOW at Mudpuppy's in Highland Park!

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

ick ick ick....

well, it's finally happened.

after years of working with pornographic images. after a life-time of being a jolly consumer of smut. after frequently sharing my porno-happy bliss and strip-club adventures with my significant other. after all this time... its finally gotten to me.

the envious affliction of "less than" and "not enough" has somehow dug its way into my guts and is gnawing at my insides.

thoughts of eating disorders and excessive exercising, the insatiable need for attention, the desire to be an hollow object, judged solely on exteriors, utter shallowness and purely superficial considerations overwhelm me.

this is not healthy.

what the fuck is going on? have i fallen victim to the power of the male gaze? is it time for my latent feminism to rise up and counter the vicious molestations of advertising and commerce upon my delicate psyche? is it just that summer is coming?

it may be time for a new job.

Here's a link to the Sports Illustrated article... http://www.evangenitals.com/blog/juli-si.jpg

We did a scan of the page/pic/bit about me. Check the cover if you want to pick up a copy for yer'self.

Things are getting wacky around here. Did the photo shoot with Sports Illustrated yesterday. Entertainment television shows calling me at work, checking out the "rumors" of my relationship to Million Dollar Baby. All this is gonna blow over soon as the movie takes it's prizes.

I found this old interview I did for a magazine called "With it Girl" back in the day. Thought I'd share it. click on the picture of me, on the scale, giving it the hard-eye.

Stepping back in the gym for a minute certainly brought the bug back. Got to see alot of old friends and familiar faces. Even got to hit the double-end bag for a bit. Dub Huntley, my black daddy and hall-of-fame trainer predicted, "she'll be back."

If my shoulder stopped hurting so bad, that could be true.

In the meantime, the Evangenitals are spreading the sunshine all over and I'm loving the way it feels. I love being in a band. I love staying up late, eating cookies, having a boyfriend, sleeping in, being a student, a writer, a playwright, a director, a friend... and pretty much it's either all that OR being a boxer, for me.

Believe it or not, both sides of life are mighty tempting.