The News of Liza Kate

I have a list of things to do that should have been finished already.

Those things include: paying people back the money that I owe them (I just got a second job, so bear with me until next week, okay?), cleaning up after myself (Seriously on the list. I suck.), and emailing certain things to certain people who are waiting for me to do it. Stupid easy, of course.

You want to know what I'm doing, though? Aside from typing this and trying (sadly) to listen to "Everybody Loves Raymond" reruns happening one room over, I'm coming up with another list. *Amendment: And now I'm amending that list.

A List of Funny things to Say:

1. "I'm really good at blogging."

2. "Dunch," or "Linner." (In the case of having one more meal after breakfast in a day and it happens to fall in the late afternoon or evening. Sad.)

3. "Where's my shotgun?" *Amendment: this is only contextually funny. See below.

Example A: FRIEND #1 - "Hey friend! I'm afraid I'm going to be 5 to 8 minutes late for our coffee date. Are you mad?"

FRIEND #2 - "Where's my shotgun?"

Example B: CHILD - "Oooooh! I hear the ice cream truck!"

PARENT/GUARDIAN - "Where's my shotgun?"

(You don't even need to raise your voice or anything, because the word "shotgun" takes care of it.)

4. "Well, give me a brick." *Amendment: This isn't funny.

5. "Quit it, Pony." *Amendment: This is only funny OUT of context. There is no good example.

6. Dick Hyman. (Not classy of me, I know, but it's also not my fault.)

7. "I'm regionally famous." Only when it isn't true. If it's true, it's funnier to say "I've never been here before!" or "What do you call this region again?"

*Note: This differs from the statement "I'm regionally infamous." That's not very funny.

8. "I have a full tank." (Not the kind of full tank of gas that would cost a lot of money; the kind that would de-friend me.) *Amendment: This is only funny over the phone and I'm only guessing because I'm a lady and I don't know a thing about farting.

*Note: That amendment was funny because I made a joke about not farting so that I could say, in a round about way, that I DO actually fart and that it's weird when people pretend they don't. But I could have just left it alone and you would never have put two and two together. It's also funny (I can't stop) that I felt the need to go on so far with this. It's almost like I'm proud of passing gas. This is really funny!

9. "I'm writing a list of funny things to say." *Amendment: I couldn't stop at 8. No one does that and it's not funny to try either.

*Another Amendment: It's also not funny that I stopped at 9, but 10 was terrible. Trust me.

Doesn't anyone want to hang out with me anymore? That doesn't make the list because it makes me sad a little.

But seriously, do you want to go for a coffee or something? Note: It would probably get a chuckle if I added "Don't be late, though!" eluding to Example A. But it really isn't funny. It's probably more funny that I'm talking about it instead of leaving it as a "wink, wink" sort of thing.

I love you, Liza

Labels: I can be immature, random crud, stories

If I were a bazillionaire, I would probably spend less time browsing through privateislandsonline.com and a lot more time just buying one and moving there already.

I think I would especially enjoy The Moss Cays. According to the advertisement, the Cays are near Georgetown on Great Exuma Island of the Bahamas.

(I don't know what that means, but it surely sounds sophisticated.)

Apparently, this area is popular for "yacht enthusiasts."


Question: You kind of have to be rich to be a "yacht enthusiast," right? Or at least, to be a "yacht enthusiast" that chills at a yacht-hot-spot in the Bahamas?

I think you might have to be a lot more than just enthusiastic about yachts to chill with them. Maybe I'm wrong. I'd have to invite them over for veggie burgers and chips and salsa to be sure. If they don't high-five me back, there will be be trouble.

Needless to say, I've never been on a yacht, so I wouldn't crash any of their parties right away.

In fact, before I get to crash any parties or do anything at all, I'll need to acquire at least 3 million dollars. Probably not all at once but even 10% of that is more than I've ever made in my life.

I'm guessing my '91 Honda Station Wagon won't do for collateral even though it does have a standard transmission.

I would then need to figure out how to live there. Though, judging by the photos, the "rustic home" on the middle island that boasts "glamorous camping" can't be all that bad.

I would only really need some electricity (solar - if I get to be rich anyway, why not), water (recycled rain water?) and perhaps some sort of responsible, eco-friendly human waste disposal system is in order? What the hell, I'll treat myself.

I would also kind of like Internet capabilities. Don't get me wrong, I'm all about exploring my little islands, making gardens and discovering a new kind of ant or worm that I can name after myself, but I think an email alert with the subject "A hurricane is coming, never mind, it's here!" or "Those pesky pirates are up to their pillaging again!" would be helpful.

I would need a boat and I would need to know how to make that boat do what I want it to.

Maybe I would need some kind of security? I'm not sure what the protocol is among Caribbean Island Owners, but if I were to miss the email alert about the pirates because I was, say, domesticating a bull shark due to loneliness, I'd be screwed.

And unless Mr. Depp and Mr. Bloom were the pesky pirates, that would be a bad thing.

(Worst innuendo by me, ever. Sorry.)

Okay, so none of this will ever happen - especially the recycled rainwater bit (I'm a dreamer, I know), but the more I do my humble "research," the more I realize that this is all totally possible.

Grand Exuma Island has an international airport, Georgetown is so unbelievably chill that they've hardly given many of their streets names because it's just that easy. The Moss Cays are, of course, actually for sale and I know more and more people can actually afford them. Still not me, though.

So why don't more people buy islands?

Dolphin Bay Island in Panama (!), for example, costs less than half or a third of what many people spend on homes here in Richmond.

How amazing would it be to start from scratch and build your own little world? You could play "Little House on the Prairie" and be a pioneer! Build a well! Make your own clothes!! Wear a bonnet!!!!

Seriously, Laura never had it so good.

You could play "Lord of the Flies" and scare all your friends!

You could play "Lost" and spend your entire island life in fear of "The Others," or you could get stuck in a perpetual state of flashbacks and forwards and, just flashing all over the place!!!!

I just might buy Dolphin Bay Island, it's more in my price range than the boring old Moss Cays. Plus, it has pineapple plants! Score!!

But the Panamanian Government is going to have to let me change the name. "Dolphin Bay Island" sounds entirely too corny. I wonder if "Gilligan's" is taken?

Labels: "yeah right", islands, stories

DAY ONE

We hit traffic about 2 seconds after getting on the highway. I thought Rick was exaggerating his confusion about where all the cars might have come from, so I told him to "shut up." He hasn't talked to me since.

Ahhhhh, New York. I thought that, by now, I'd have a good idea about what to expect from you. But you are mysterious and fickle and, quite frankly, I'm over it.

Are you in a band on tour? Do want to play an awesome show in NYC on a Saturday night? Do you want to get new fans? Sell some records? Get some gas money? Experience that awesome glow of self-respect the morning after?
We can't help you.

DAY TWO

Leaving New York took almost no time and was actually pretty easy. I'll take that as a sign.

Rick did an impersonation of Marlon Brando singing a Leonard Cohen song. It was okay, but I refuse to encourage this madness.

At least we weren't listening to the spoken word CD that's in German. None of us speak German. I've never felt so "on drugs" without drugs before listening to it.

We played the Alphabet game to ease tension between us. Y'know, one person says "apple," the next person says "apple, banana," and so on. It's kind of a wholesome game. But we soiled it with our dirty minds and invented combinations that, in hindsight, make me sick to my stomach. Rick nearly killed us while trying to come up with a shitty limerick with the old over-the-curb-and-into-the-gas pump manuever. And now, there is more tension.

Maine smelled and looked amazing the second we entered. Even the crossword puzzle I was working on got easier. We passed one beautiful and dreamy old structure after another and I've decided that New England has never let me down and that this was no exception.

My only complaint is the golf ball sized bruise on the top of my left foot. I must have done something while trying to get comfortable in the back seat. I think I'm the only person in the world who gets hurt relaxing

And Portland couldn't be anymore sweet looking. I arrived with certain expectations about what I was to see - old people missing some digits, "poverty," etc. But those things weren't around. It has kind of an eastern "Northen Exposure" feel. It made me wish I could star in a TV dramedy.

We stayed with some friends in a wonderful apartment with sky lights and shiny wooden floors. Basically, I'm kind of blind, but I think it's making me hallucinate, which is awesome.

A call home confirmed my poor dog's diarrhea. I imagine him wandering around and looking for me. Enough of that. My heart is breaking.

The show we played was quiet and cute and in the teeny, tiniest book store that ever lived. One person absolutely fell asleep while I was playing and Bobby insisted that he almost passed out as well. He swore it wasn't boredom, but he said it with a lot of "fuck off" in his eyes.

A million thank yous to South China, by the way.

DAY THREE

Woke to the sun in my eyes and it was kind of glorious - even after I told Bobby I was the one that punched him in the night while he was snoring. Jerusha made us delicious breakfast and took us to Casco Bay. Now, even though this was my very first time there, I recognized it as being Maine in about one second.

We walked on soft grass, kicked around in the water, smiled at each other - it felt like a wonderful, sunny summer afternoon. Our own private afternoon with hundreds of sailboats off in the distance. Oh, and hundreds of people encroaching on our property - and hundreds of cars driving around, and - well, it felt very private anyway.

I might have actually managed a few personless photos. We'll see.

Labor Day traffic sucks. It will suck forever. Aside from worrying that Courtney might vomit on me, though, the ride was completely bearable. Hell, even when you leave the place, they have two lost souls wearing a lobster and a moose costume and they pass out cookie cutters. What's not to love?

More later.

Labels: friends, music, stories, tour

A dear friend of mine recently unearthed this photo and put it on the interweb. It features the following:

-my main man, Pony,

-a sweet tan, courtesy of Europe and her toptional beaches,

-a golden-toed foot that, three months earlier, suffered a drunken break while wearing the same black, strappy deals here,

-and my upper lip, which is eating my lower one.



It also features longish hair and a little bit of makeup.

Oh, and those shoes - they have heels on them.

Did I mention golden toes?

This photo was taken two years ago, at the height of my "I'm too masculine!" phase.

I think that the height of every phase, from here on out, should be
supplemented with a two year old photo.

Because I looked kind of fancy.

(photo by: belly smiggs.)

Labels: stories

A photo by: the life of liza.

Well, the boo is gone for a little bit.

I'll be a little less inspired to cook, clean, and sleep, but mostly him leaving means I'll get to catch up with myself and with our little stinker dogs.

The very first thing that happens almost everytime Curtis leaves with a bag of clothes, is a very curious thing indeed.

His dog Kodi, you see, is about 200 years old and barks and grumbles to himself when a car door closes 2 miles away.

On a normal day, I might try, in vain, to shush him. This isn't exactly because I find it completely annoying after about twenty minutes, mind you.

You may or may not know all of the ways in which our neighbor has terrorized us - the glasstop patio table barracade at the foot of our stairs, the evil "kill your doges" [sp] message scrawled onto our chalkboard, topped with a bit of spit, the murdering of our potted plants, etc.

Basically, the man is erratic and terrifying, and I see no reason to provoke him.

Curtis, on the other hand, does everything but give little Kodi treats when he's having one of his freak attacks. So, when he goes out of town, Kodi knows he has lost a team member.

What I'm expecting to find on the kitchen floor one of these days when I return from work, or, if I'm really lucky, I'll come upon it half asleep one morning, is the strangest pile of dog doo you can imagine.

It won't just a big healthy pile designed to make me feel bad for sleeping in, nor will it be a tiny little "oopsie" that he forgot to get rid of the last time we went out - no, it's much worse.

It will be an intricate and involved pattern made up of many different shapes - stalagmites, "tomb stones," rain drops, flower petals and clogs, to name a few - strewn all about in what looks like a chaotic explosion, but I know better.

He's communicating.

I'm not sure yet what means what, but I'm onto him.

Sometime this week, if my calculations are correct (they are), I'm going to wake up or come home to some sort of message left to me by old man Kodi.

It might be a death threat, it might be a thank you note, who knows?

But it will be the start of my dog doo deciphering. (I bought a new journal for it and everything.)

Soon, the world will know all about the canine ABCs, 123s, F.U.s, and so on.

This isn't just another one of my "get rich quick" schemes. I intend to collect some serious data.

I'll have my findings published in pamphlet form and rock the scientific community at it's core.

Stay tuned.

Labels: boo, friends, music, stories

A photo by: the life of liza.

This photo was a dream to make.

In it, baby bear has grown up.

No longer drooling over strawberries, the kid has progressed and regressed in a million different ways.

Losing and gaining.

My nephew (shown above), is in the middle of this strange purgatory of adolescence.

He's being forced to grow up willingly.

It's a crazy game that I wouldn't wish on anyone, but he's accomplishing a seemingly impossible task with grace and character.

Labels: photography, stories