Saturday, November 23, 2002
lions and tigers and bears, oh my!

there are certain animals i love. there's something about these animals that appeals to me. if i were to have to return as an animal (hopefully i won't return as a cockroach for all the parking spaces i've stolen from little old ladies), it'd better be one of these guys:

i could be a wombat.
see the resemblance? i'd be incredibly rare, one of the rarest animals in the world. i'd be a nocturnal grazer, mainly because i'm lazy about fighting other animals for food and i really don't think tans complement my complexion. i'd spend a lot of time fanatically rearranging my burrows, creating an intricately complex system of interlocking tunnels and decorating it just so. i'd only have one baby at a time, not a whole herd of them. it'd be nice to be a wombat.

or, maybe a llama! because, you know, baby llamas are the the cutest thing you've ever seen. they like to kiss - only when it's llamas, it's called a whiffle... it's sort of like having someone blow a puff of air on your face. once you've been whiffled, there's no going back. i could live in the andes, maybe be a pack-llama for some adorable mayan boy. i could spend my time being adored and petted by humans. llamas' way of asserting dominance over one another is to spit at each other. hell, this skill could come in handy right now. plus, when llamas are happy, they hum. i do too. usually i hum 'fascinating rhythm' or 'when i'm 64'. i wonder what they hum...

i actually have sort of a fascination with long-necked animals.. maybe i want to go whole hog (*grunt*) and be a giraffe in my next life. i mean, look at these guys. look how they drink. look at them as babies. they've even got little bird friends. aren't they cute as hell? yeah. i'd definitely want to be a giraffe.

but really, in the end - i'd probably pick the good old sloth. you know those treacherous dogmatic catholics gave this noble creature a really bad rep, what with the whole cardinal sin and all. i mean, could this face ever commit a sin? look at those guys! don't you want to take one home, wrap him around a tree, and watch him spend six months crossing the yard? i mean, see? aren't you the least bit jealous of the sloth? here's a creature that can't even walk on the ground very well, but he's one of the most powerful swimmers in the world. this variety, the maned three-toed sloth, lives in the amazon rainforest, in bahia, brasil. his swamp lands, for several months a year, are completely flooded - and the trees become an underwater forest. that's gotta make life kind of hard for the tree-dwelling sloth. does the sloth relocate to, say, someplace like san francisco, where he's just another long-haired freak in the castro? hell, no, my friend. the sloth simply swims around his home for months on end, taking sometimes a whole day to cross the river. that's the kind of relaxed yet dogged man i'm talking about. perseverence, not laziness.

plus, he's got that wicked cute face.

yep. if i had to be an animal, i'd definitely be a sloth.




love, krissa .... 12:13 AM ... link!

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Thursday, November 21, 2002
survival of the stiletto.

i have an idea. a plan, if you will. a contest to determine, once and for all, the superior sex.

let's have a contest. everyone goes to work for one day in heels. women and men. and not sensible lands-end heels, mind you - something like
these. something truly wicked.

at the end of the day, when all the powerdicks throw themselves down flights of stairs to end their suffering, the women can quietly take over the company.

and they call us the weaker sex. harrummpph.


love, krissa .... 11:37 PM ... link!

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things that are missing, and other updates.

hott stuff.

this picture depresses me ...

because several elements you see represented here are no longer a part of me.
my car. *sniff*
my long hair.
those sunglasses.
a digital camera.

doesn't that render an otherwise interesting picture sadly tragic? at least i still smoke.

in other news, had a nice relaxing night yesterday. went out to dinner with vixen, and we discussed how cute my
new cell phone is. came back to the apt and watched west wing, got my bradley whitford fix for the week.

then i ambled over to blue sea, and had donuts and coffee with the erudite alex. we spent a happy hour talking literary shop, which was like a junkie fix for me ... i don't have enough people in my life who will willingly discuss books, their merits, the authors, and the literary world with me for a whole hour. cheers to that.

what are you reading lately?

cheers, k.

love, krissa .... 6:35 PM ... link!

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Wednesday, November 20, 2002
i love the winter weather ... because i've got your love to keep me warm.

well, site redesign is just about finished. i've lost several hairs to the grey side, several hours forever, and had just about one of the worst days ever. but, on the bright side, your mix CDs should be ready to ship out by friday, and there's an all new west wing on nbc tonight.

*sigh*

k



love, krissa .... 8:11 PM ... link!

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warning

you might get a brief flash of our knickers as we're busy remodeling. please ignore the clashing colors and come back later.

cheers!

k


love, krissa .... 6:53 PM ... link!

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update: 4.15 pm - only one CD left ... who will it be?

love, krissa .... 12:16 AM ... link!

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Tuesday, November 19, 2002
hottt and free ...

here at petit hiboux, we like to prove maxims wrong. every day. so if "they" say there's no such thing as a free lunch, we're giving out a free .. well, a mix cd.

that's right. i made a pretty rockin' mix cd last night, complete with kicky graphics, and i want to give it away. so, i'm going to send ten of them out. the first ten people to comment on this post* will recieve an awesome mix cd. it doesn't matter if i've never met you, or you've never peeked your shy face out in my jolly comments ... you, too, will get a kickin' mix cd.

the mix cd features such stellar musicians as interpol, the french kicks, mirah, fountains of wayne, morphine, chomsky, death cab for cutie, and my all-time favorite and the only rock star i know personally - josh dillard of
heads up display. and it's all yours. free. sent to your address, in the mail, just because i like you.

see how smashingly wonderful i am?

cheers, k.

*bonus points for funny jokes told or over-the-top compliments lavished.

**** update: as of 11:30, the first three CDs go to stacey, alex and anna. you know what they say about the early bird...****

**** 12:15 pm - only five left! ****

love, krissa .... 6:05 PM ... link!

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Monday, November 18, 2002
mothballs, grappa and gunpowder

there are many things i want to talk about today - i'm feeling chirpy and talkative. among the things i feel the need to mount my soapbox about are:
1. who's afraid of the 2004 election? or: why we shouldn't step in the same river twice and nominate al gore for democratic candidate
2. beating the dead iraqi horse: the futility of another U.N. weapon's inspection and saddam hussein's ongoing tyranny of his self-appointed iron fist on the iraqi people
3. "it wasn't me!", "mo' money, mo' problems", "you can call me dirty, and then lift up your skirt" - and other possible rap-inspired theme songs for specific members of the corpus politicus, including but not limited to dick cheney, tom delay and bill clinton.

but no, as tempting as these topics may be, i won't be discussing any of these things. instead, i've been thinking about olafactory memory.
yes, that's right.

memory, you see, can be a tricky thing. memory is a corridor in our minds, with filing cabinets bursting with so much information, its a labyrinthian exercise to truly recapture an event in all its manifestions - sight, words, emotion, touch ... if you've ever had your hand burned, or your toe broken, for instance, you can remember that there was a lot of pain, but asked to describe with clarity the exact feeling of the pain, you'd be hard-pressed. instead, you relay the experience in terms of emotion, or sight, or touch.

different memories are retrieved from that vast filing system using different senses. and in my admittedly limited life experience, there is no more powerful alert system than smell, when it comes to matters of the heart. although i would be searching in vain to remember the exact intonation of someone's voice from the past, nor would i recognize it over the phone lines, their particular smell - their soap, their hair, the smell of their sheets or their pet or their car ... will jerk open one of those drawers labeled person from the past with a resounding thud, and flood the floor of my memory with images, and post-it reminders of their presence in my life. it's a mess that takes sometimes a few days to recover from.

my first love [if you can call being 15 and obsessively attached to someone "love"] was an italian lad named s. he was a wild one - still is, by all accounts. as unhealthy as our mutual year-long obsessive attachment to one another was, we truly believed we were in love. all obvious signs of incompatibility to the contrary, you understand.

s had a smell, a smell that infused his whole person, indeed his whole house. he had many other defining characteristics, of course, but there's that tricky labyrinth of memory: i wouldn't be able to imitate or even recognize his italian accent, i don't remember what his hands looked like, and my few archived visuals of him are simply moving versions of my few remaining photographs from that era.

his family was possibly one of the strangest bunches of people i've ever met. his home always seemed empty, as if everyone had just put down their things and walked out, seconds before i arrived. there was an ever-present maid, and a little daschund named charlie [pronounced sharlee by s, that much i recall]. his sister had a separate little building, off the main house, and her rusting vw beatle was always parked in the driveway.

but his smell was distinct. it was musty - sweet yet somehow old and decadent. it was so forceful a presence in my memory that it wafted into my life again five years later, walking down the street in london with m, another friend from my past and my only connection to s now. we were both strolling, in the march chill, when suddenly, as if from a passing stranger, the smell of that long ago house and boy slipped into my nose and started flinging those file cabinets open, helter skelter. i stopped, looked at m, wondering if he'd smelt it too. he had.

and yet, somehow we couldn't figure out exactly what it was that had brought on such an oddly distinct smell, in such an incongruous place. a busy street in downtown bustling london is about as far removed as one can get from a charmingly messy house full of eccentrics in the dignified neighborhood of muthaiga, in nairobi.

because my stroll with m in london was more about the present than the past, we let it go, chalking it up to odd serendipity. but recently, trying to piece together the olafactory puzzle of lost loved ones, a friend asked exactly what s's house smelled liked.

and grappling for words and musty post-it reminders in my hall of memory, the best i could come up with was a patchwork of smells that still remind me of him today: mothballs, grappa and gunpowder. s, wherever he is, would understand why.

tell me - what smells do you remember?

*editors note: to all faithful friends, especially my daily blog*spot friends: all further references to petit hiboux's snarky dislike of the great city of boston - its habits, its big dig extravaganza, its baseball failures, and its obsession with the revolution are provided purely to get a rise out of dear
monkey boy and are merely in jest. right, monkey?



love, krissa .... 8:14 PM ... link!

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