SARAH AND THE OPRAH WINFREY DENIM PANTS

My GAP friend Adolf told me that the Long & Lean jeans I was getting were Oprah's favorite jeans. Well, thanks, dude. Are you trying to say that I have an Oprah butt? Do you have any idea how emotionally draining it is to try on jeans? I don't have a problem with Oprah, but that isn't the most comforting thing to hear from a guy who is probably trying to be nice to me for commission.

But the joke's on you, Adolf, because I really like these jeans. Me and Oprah got it figured out.

I also opened a new bank account with PNC, got a new cell phone, and did the whole socks 'n underwear back to school thing. (By the way, I have a new cell phone number which I will never in the world give out on the Internet, but if you're one of my real-life friends you should drop me an e-mail if I don't call you in the next few days to sort it.)

My new cell phone is insane. I don't care how much credibility I lose for saying this, but it has crazy ringtones with hymns and famous classical themes set over fat beats. And it has an animated screen. Which I love.

At this rate I'll be getting that Von Dutch trucker hat in the mail by, oh, next Friday. Just in time for BACK TO COOL, son.

AND THE TONES ARE GROUPED IN CLUSTERS

+Went to the Carnegie Art Museum but found that 75% of the place is being set up for the International. (!). There were some wonderful Albrecht Durer prints, that aren't usually part of the permanent collection, as well as a really annoying tour guide who was trying to tell her group that "Albrecht" wasn't Albrecht Durer's real name because "Albrecht" is supposed to mean "Albert." I don't know why, but it annoyed the hell out of me. R. Crumb did the posters for the International, which is exciting.
+Bought a copy of FOUND magazine and Magic City (Yusef Komunyakaa) at Caliban. I've read most of Komunyakaa's poems, but I only have one of his books, and poetry is always a good investment. FOUND magazine is great. (In case you don't know, it's a magazine comprised entirely of notes, photos, and other strange, heartbreaking ephemera sent in by readers.) I think I'm going to send them a strip of photobooth pictures I found in Montreal, as well as a mean note somebody left on my windshield a while ago when I parked in a residential lot in Waynesburg.
+Ran into Ben on the bus, hung out with him as he got his prescriptions filled, and had coffee in the 61c while the rain came down. Ben drew a great picture of me fiddling with my umbrella, which ended up looking a little like I was knitting a fish.
+Had a perfectly civil chat with the landlords. Improbable, but not impossible, I guess.

MY BABY'S GOT A STICK STUCK OUT HER BEAK

For the record, the once and final time: vegan indie rock boys, DIE. Or don't stay at my house for 16 hours expecting to be entertained, fed, bathed, and surrounded by free whiskey and cigarettes. The choice is yours.

Also, I don't care what you think. About anything. Don't offhandedly tell me things like, "Well, you know that's how it is when you're on tour." Well, you know, this is how it is when you stay in somebody else's place. You clean up after yourself. You make yourself scarce. I don't even feel sorry that you're probably going to be late for your next show, or that you're going to have to eat gas station food on the way. SO THERE.

I LOVE YOU GOLDEN BLUE

Sometimes, when Blogger refuses to post your initial entry but wipes it out when you try to post it again, I can't help but think that maybe I shouldn't have written what I just did. So, you were going to hear all about my turbulent day, featuring changed locks, effusive people, unintentional door-slamming, and a movie, but I think I'll leave that for another time. I need some better horoscopes, dammit.

P.S. The new Sonic Youth album is really good.

I SAW MY DOG BUT HE'D SEEN THE LIGHT

So, yes, I'm back in Pittsburgh again again. This time it's for real for real. I still haven't really hung out with any of my school friends because I was really only back from PGSA for a week before driving 700 miles north to Montreal, vacation city of chilly late-summer North America. Well, I didn't drive. My parents did all of it, with me controlling the CD player and trying not to chainsmoke.

It was actually not so bad, if only it hadn't been such a long way. The first night we stopped in Buffalo (we started off after Mom got off work) at a charming place called the Tally Ho-tel. (I wish I had grabbed a coaster or a matchbook or something.) We got to Montreal about 5:00 the next day in very heavy traffic. There is something very different about the city (more European, or so they say); lots of window boxes with red geraniums and big swan-like lamposts at the train stations. I don't think I was fully prepared for the culture shock of finding yourself rather suddenly in a place where you don't speak the language, but I think I adapted pretty well.

There's always a little tension involved when traveling with your parents-- you want to seem like an autonomous world citizen, but you have to remember that you're also somebody's daughter and it's really not very nice to walk twenty feet in front of them the whole time. At least that's the way it's been with us, although I suspect that the fact that I live in a city has made me a little bit more comfortable being myself in other cities, even when that somebody has some curmudgeonly 50-somethings in tow, looking at maps such. (I say these things with love.) Anyway, this was the first family vacation in the history of the Smith family that hasn't been punctuated by at least one major family meltdown. I might attribute this to the fact that I've grown up a lot in the last year, but it's much more likely a product of my parents' acceptance of my nasty smoking habit, as well as my liberty to light up at will in the hotel bathroom, on the street, in the restaurant, and, heavens, in the rental car!

The highlights of the trip were mainly small things about the city itself. I loved Montreal. I want to move there. It seemed so calm and well-reasoned and interesting. McGill looked like a wonderful place to study (perhaps to get one's degree in Library Science?), and, maybe best of all, there were photobooths in almost every metro station, in color and black and white. It's not so much the photobooths themselves that impressed me, but what they signify, perhaps an unfairly romantic Amelie-esque desire to, well, be Amelie. Whatever. It made me happy. There was also a wonderful Jean Cocteau exhibit at the museum, a nice surprise. Of course we ate very well the whole time-- going out to dinner every night is a luxury I can hardly make sense of, but I had some great fillet mignon, salmon, and quiche.

And now I'm in Pittsburgh. This time it's on. No fooling around, no leaving after a week. No. I'm here. See you around.