becky haycox

Month: September 2007

  • i’ve been a bad bad blog

    dancing robot einstein

    I have installed this naughty-sounding WordPress plugin for this blog called Bad Behavior. It’s like a virtual dom has taken over, showing spam comments who’s boss and denying them from what they want to do the most — begging me to let them tell me about Levitr@, pen1s enlarging and adfarms.

    But the spam has been extra bad and not worthy, and needs to be punished further. So I have clicked the extra-discipline button called Strict Mode. Take that, you filthy spambots!

    All this is to tell you that if, by accident, the Strict Mode decides to give you a spanking and deny you from posting, tell me right away, and Daddy will make it all better.

    All this is also a shoutout to those who know the alternate meanings of this post. Hee hee!

    Hilarious photo titled dancing einstein at wired nextfest, courtesy of flickruser xmelbellex. Thanks for letting me use it!

  • self-love

    The Ukulady

    Maybe yesterday afternoon’s sudden squall of death/disaster trauma helped me to let go in a strange way, but last night, reading excerpts from my most personal of personal teenage diaries, to a room of strangers*, was some big fun. This was part of “Cringe Night”, hosted by Thessaly the Ukulady (pictured above) at the Theatre Asylum in Los Angeles.

    I read aloud undoctored accounts of my first successful exploration of self, as well as the first exploration of self by another. I did have to take a couple moments here and there to blush and stammer, but crackers and jam, people sure did seem to enjoy it. I know I was completely compelled by the other readings. Something about the realness brings a voyeuristic goodness into it, as well as a visceral, empathetic attraction.

    During the short Q&A, the audience was outraged when I revealed that my high school crush had, around my 17th birthday, kissed me then ignored me forever after. In fact, we all shouted, on the count of three, “Fuck [crush’s name]!”

    I am booked to read more excerpts on October 3. As 13-year-old Becky exclaimed, in her usual pique:

    Oh, what am I coming to? Do all teenagers behave this way?

    *except for Seth, who laughed in all the right places.

    Wow. As if this relentless self-praise and promotion weren’t enough, I have neglected to mention that I blab endlessly in what will be a four-part podcast that was recorded a little bit back by Michael and DJ Dean, my new favorite South County undercover freaks. Michael I sort of knew Way Back When, and it has been a treat to reconnect and to hang out with him and his bride as they create art on every level all the time. Check out Clone the Homeless for a well-rounded tour of their labrynithical minds.

    What is going on with all this podding? And reading? And writing? And stuff? It’s like a creativity volcano in herrre.

  • death, be not an asshole

    I was musing, this week, on the coincidence of three friends concurrently going through some sad, hard, death-related things, when, today: wham! Make it four friends.

    And WHAM, just now: me. Just got the news that someone I know and love just died — what? the fuck?

    Death and disaster need to be given a sedative and sent away; just for a little while, please. But oh no. That’s not the way it works. One can only gird oneself, trying not feel that deep and unpleasant shock every time that stupid becloaked jack-in-the-box jumps out.

    When you lose someone, I’m never going to be the one who tells you that it is all for the better. The words “closure” or “healing” will not be uttered by me. I’m not the one to talk to when you need to be painted a pretty vision of your loved one walking hand in hand with your flavor of saviour.

    I’m going to be the one to agree with you about how much it fucking sucks. And, when you’re ready, tell you maybe there’s something less heavy and maybe even something approachable (and free of bad juju) about it, the whole death/loss experience. And when you tell me to shut up and go away, I do so, as I know it’s different for everyone, and it changes every second.

    This is all stuff that American Grieving 101 tends not to teach you. It’s a horrible class and I wish someone would rewrite the lesson plan.

  • madness by olfaction

    Weedfish

    Weedfish, originally uploaded by hambox.

    The degradation of my mind started yesterday evening, when I held a wee one-year-old on my lap while others gave her bits of cooked salmon to hold, nibble, and smear all over herself and her human high chair. In a highly adorable fashion, of course.

    Once one reeks all over with the scent of salmon, it kind of blurs the senses — everything kind of looks, tastes and feels like fish — a weird variation of the beer-google, at least in my tainted mind.

    This is a problem, as I am highly sensitive to fish, and ingesting it is, let’s just say, a dicey dicey proposition.

    So maybe I accidentally ate something fish-soaked last night, I don’t really know. What I do know is that the smell of salmon is following me like the eau de cologne in Hell’s duty-free shop. I laundered and scrubbed and disinfected my clothes and me last night, but almost got dizzy at the smell of my car’s interior this morning. After opening windows and wiping down steering wheel, radio knobs, etc. with Wet-naps (which I keep in my glove box for just this type of emergency), the stench remained. It followed me into my office, into the lunchroom. I started feeling a little green around the pun-intended gills.

    At this point, co-workers were looking at me worriedly and speculating on my gestational status (which is, barring an immaluate, messiah-producing miracle, impossible). I wandered outside, sniffing the air. Is the ocean just particularly stinky today?

    I paced around, nose twitching, and considered approaching a stranger to ask “do you smell that? something salmony?” before I realized that I was starting to look really crazy. I remedied that by putting my cellphone to my ear, so anyone witnessing my erratic behavior could just mentally excuse it as a particularly distressing call.

    I am hoping that this phantom-fish syndrome will end before I resort to taping jasmine blossoms to my upper lip or affixing a foil helmet upon my troubled head. Why the helmet? Why not? It seems to be a requirement among us members of the screwloose set.

  • Youth and Stupidity

    Keep Out

    Keep Out, originally uploaded by hambox.

    The planets align strangely this week, align in such a way that I feel maximum embarrassment at my past lives and the things that I did and did not do.

    Today, the Nest of Vipers Podcast releases the latest episode titled “Young and Stupid” in which I, among others, recount a story of being (you guessed it) young and stupid. I shan’t recant any elements of the tale I tell in the ‘cast, but I do want to say here: I related a very confused and very short period of my life.

    Adding to the hot-faced mishmash, I am continuing to prepare for next week’s Cringe Night, an evening of performers that plan to read excerpts from their own diaries. Oh and yes, I’m one of those performers; oh and yes: some extremely personal “firsts” will be shared with the world.

    I am unsure why I am sharing all these small, mildy entertaining closet skeletons with anyone who possesses a set of ears. It might have something to do with testing the boundries of my strange new life — after all, there are no parents to be nervous about shaming — but what I think it boils down to is this: I was asked to do it. And, as some of you may find out, I’m kind of easy.

    Young and stupid details:

    Cringe Night details:

    Wednesday, September 19: Cringe Night! Diary Entries read aloud!
    With Becky Haycox, Larry Blum, Elizabeth Oyebode, Don Black, Ewan Chung! 8pm, $7.

    Part of the The UkuLady’s Ponyshow at Theatre Asylum
    6320 Santa Monica Blvd.
    LA, CA 90038

    www.TheUkuLady.com
    www.myspace.com/TheatreAsylum

  • florid prose

    most comfortable chair in the history of all chairs

    As I am idly lookie-looing for a credenza and a couch, I subscribe to RSS feeds for these two webpages: “Furniture for Sale” for Santa Barbara and Ventura’s craigslists.

    Most of the time: ugh and feh. I’m continually amazed at how many ugly couches are released into the world.

    Tonight, I came across a post that caught my eye. The title: “Most comfortable chair in the history of all chairs”.

    Cute. Intriguing. Even though I don’t need a chair, I clicked the link. Greeting me were several photos of a seemingly-ordinary-looking ecru easy chair and ottoman, sitting in a driveway. I read on, skeptical, when suddenly, my breath was taken away:

    This chair will cradle you like your mother did when you were a new-born and the dearest thing in her heart. It will rock you to sleep when you are tired and comfort you when you most need love. I have never, in all my life, know of or heard of a chair such as this. Truely a once in a lifetime opportunity to owns this magical piece.

    That is some spectacular hyperbole. I felt the sting of tears before I shook myself and stared again at the pictures. Suddenly, the $200 price tag seemed like mere chump-change when I could have my ass cradled in pure magic. Every television show I numbly half-watch while sitting in this chair will become sparkling cotton candy for the eyes. Every piece of junk mail carelessly tossed on the ottoman will transform into a gleaming pile of golden doubloons. Teeth will be capped. Toes manicured. Soul repaired. Life: complete.

    Thank you, chair! Oh, thank you!

  • cheers n’ jeers

    great googly moogly, they won an emmy.

    – – – – –
    CHEERS!

    deek in a box

    Winners, Outstanding Original Music And Lyrics
    Dick In A Box

    – – – – –
    JEERS!

    Loser, All Nominated Categories
    Project Runway. What is wrong with the world?

    – – – – –
    CHEERS!

    Winner, Outstanding Reality Program
    Kathy Griffin: My Life On The D-List

  • fleeting impressions of a 28-hour trip to San Francisco

    One-way colour tunnel

    One-way colour tunnel, originally uploaded by hambox.

    • My great friend Sybil braving the Bay Bridge and the myriad of asshole drivers to pick me up at Oakland Airport

    Cam Hut Thuoc

    • Forcing Sybil to then drive all the way to the Richmond to my favorite Pho place. I would not resort to this if Ventura County would just step up with some decent Viet food (and asian food in general, ahem)
    • Forcing Sybil to then drive all the way to the Sunset to meet DP for soy lattes and cookies
    • Eating at Slow Club with Molly and catching up on our newly (and surprisingly) interesting lives. In every version of every alternate universe, Molly and I are at Slow Club, catching up.

    glowyglowyglowsticks

    • Going to a party full of Burning Man one-week-later people. I stole a big handful of glowsticks. Next.

    paparaz-orgy

    • The main event: Bryce‘s birthday party at the Climate Theater. Unfortunately, the space got doublebooked with a party of (you guessed it) Burning Man a-holes. I tried not to kick the fun-furred asses of the interlopers freeloading our booze.
    • Hugging and kissing my friends in a deep and meaningful manner. How I miss my SF improv peeps.
    • Taking my pants off and whirling them above my head to whooping onlookers. [no image available]

    be mine!

    • Sunday brunch at St. Francis Fountain with MM, and John and Stacey. I spied the sparkler immediately but patiently waited till they told me themselves: engaged! I have been secretly hoping for this from the first minute I saw them together.

    now that's a art car that's not stupid

    Daiso!

    cream puffs

    • Beard Papa creme puffs — my maiden voyage. A vanilla one. Then a green tea one. Another thing to be angry at Ventura about. Why don’t we get Japanese creme puff stores?
    • A near-fiasco trying to get home, with United Airlines being at its most dreadful United Airline-i-est. But I got home, indeed I did.

    Message to Violet/Spark

    • I have to wear flip flops at work today, as I hobbled my feet this weekend with the jumping and hugging and cavorting. I wore flip flops to work today, which means my sartorial standards have entered the handbasket bound for hell.

  • don’t freak out!

    A fine young man, fellow improviser and nerdlinger extraordinaire named Parker managed to guide me through the process of changing my blog theme. It’s a little jarring, n’est-ce pas? I was in a little bit of a hurry to experiment, so I kind of randomly picked one. However, Parker has shown me how to customize the look of the thing, which I will over the next few days. So, changes/improvements to come.

    Stay calm. I know your nerves are jangled from the sight of an actual designed visual interface (as opposed to the default WordPress template I’ve been using). For those of you who read from their feed interface, you may carry on without worrying.

    Great big thank yous to Parker. May there be many more patient, kind, smart humans like him out there.

  • And!

    More attempts to make room in my brain by disgorging bits and pieces.

    I almost won these from eBay.

    https://beckyhaycox.com/images/nixonping.jpg

    That’s right: vintage Mao and Nixon pingpong paddles. I am a little broken up that I did not win them. Can’t you see them on the kitchen wall? I do not lie when I try to convey to you the depth of my fascination with Nixon.

    feed the head now!

    And! Feed the Head is a perfect game for me: Easy, pointless, short, non-murdery, cute and totally surreal. I still had to find a walkthrough, though, as I am impatient and kind of dumb at times. [found through How’s Robb?]

    And! Create your own kaleidoscope online? Yes please.

    And! Snippet from a vintage email I wrote to a friend in the summer of 2001. I was so charmingly amish:

    Cell phones might be handy on an occasional basis. Actually getting one gives me the jeebies.

    And! The amusing Patton Oswalt wants to say this to Elvis Costello, and so do I:

    Your music makes a cake in my soul.

    And! One more quotable quote from my friend, the amazing [and I mean amazing] Thessaly:

    If I owned a bakery it would be called Puffy Puffy Yum Yum and I would rename every baked good the Butter Cream Fat Pouch.

    Nixon mention, check. Pointless Flash games, check. Damn, the early 2000s seems so far away, check. Patton! Check! Fat pouch, check check check!