Fool's Gold Coast

The Gold Mine 129: July 9, 2003

Stuff I've dug up.

Here's a passage from a diary entry I wrote on today's date eight years ago. I was 23.

7.9.03.Wednesday.3.35pm.Home.
Awoke late. I fear that my vacation from the workforce must come to an end soon, seeing as how my money is about to run out. I had enough to cover July rent and should have enough to cover July's bills, but August looks bleak unless I manage to pull in some dough. I'm thinking of returning to temping.

Made an appointment to have my hair cut on Saturday. I can't decide whether the stuff is thinning or not, and I can't get a reliable second opinion because no one wants to be the bearer of bad news. I would like to keep my hair through my twenties at least, and I'm pretty sure I would make a deal with Mephisto to keep it to the tomb.

Weather bearable. It won't stop raining, but at least that keeps the temperature down.

Supposed to meet G-Spot at 5. I think--and this is another area where I could use a reliable second opinion--that the lifting is finally beginning to pay off. I do believe I'm burlier.

ELSEWHERE:
My review of Circle Theatre's The Women is in this week's Chicago Reader.

A World of Laughter, a World of Tears

I've returned from my trip to Disney World. I went with my three sisters, my older sister's husband, my four-year-old niece, and my three-year-old nephew. I didn't choose the destination, seeing as how I aged out of the resort's target demographic about 25 years ago. Since I was going, however, I had hoped that Disney World would look exactly as it did in 1985 or so, when my family went for the first time. Unfortunately, this was not the case (except, of course, with Epcot, which still looks very '80s, but then, who cares about stupid ol' boring-as-fiberglass Epcot?). The Magic Kingdom, I found, has changed with the passing of time just like everything else. Most distressingly, Mr. Toad's Wild Ride has gone the way of the travel agent and the foreign newspaper bureau (i.e., kaput).

I thought I could improve the situation by focusing on the old-school attractions, but then I took one look at the moth-eaten animatronic stars of the Country Bear Jamboree, and I realized you can't go back. Said my youngest sister of the aforementioned ursine robots: "They look tired." Don't we all, thought I. Don't we all.

In any case, I'm back.

Now it's time to say goodbye to all you gals and men
Z-A-C
See ya real soon!
T-H-O
Oh, crap, I think I left my sunscreen at the hotel
M-P-S-O-N!

Family Entertainment

In two hours, I leave for the airport to start my Disney World sojourn with my three sisters and my oldest sister's children. Reportedly, my three-year-old nephew took the liberty of packing his own suitcase. The contents in full: his blanket, his stuffed monkey, and a flashlight. So he's all set. I, on the other hand, haven't even started so I suppose I should get moving. I'll return to Chicago next Tuesday. Expect a fresh entry shortly thereafter.

And now, in honor of Canada Day, here are two of the True-North-strong-and-free's greatest national heroes.

Have a lovely weekend and I'll see you next week.

ELSEWHERE:
My review of Prologue Theatre Company's Tatjana in Color is in this week's Time Out Chicago.

Retox

I halted my raw vegan detox around lunchtime today with what seemed to me a sinfully decadent roast vegetable salad. I only lasted about a week and a half on a four-week program. I might have withstood the meals that tasted like a front lawn, the gag-inducing supplementary potions, the unpersuasive substitutes (I don't care what anybody says: sliced zucchini does not taste like pasta), the goddamn kale. But what finally did me in were the enemas. Starting this week, I was supposed to administer three to myself every day, followed by a "chlorophyll implant," which is really a fourth enema only instead of water you send up your ass this dark green liquid that inevitably gets all over the bathroom because while you're trying to keep your enema bucket elevated and insert the catheter up your bum, you accidentally knock over the fucking chlorophyll reservoir, spilling its contents all over yourself before you can even get them up your ass, and as you lie there, covered in plant juice and with a rubber hose in your rectum, you think 1.) "Detox guru Karyn Calabrese, you are one sick perv" and 2.) "I quit."

What I'll take away from this hellish ordeal? Well, I do think I should cut out processed foods and reserve dairy products and red meat for special occasions. I will also continue to drink the breakfast smoothie. I saw no miraculous health benefits, however, and, in fact, seem to have picked up a cold.

My favorite part of the two Karyn's Detox DVDs I watched: when Karyn said that on Halloween she and her children used to buy candy and then bury it in the backyard.

ELSEWHERE:
My short reviews of Kokandy Productions' Good Boys and True and The New Colony's 5 Lesbians Eating a Quiche are in this week's Chicago Reader.