Happy Thursday morning, peeps!

Some things which are awesome:

1. Sleeping in my bed, instead of folded up on my loveseat with a book under my face

2. Waking up at 8 am and running (slowly) before work

3. Making ice blendeds at home, thereby avoiding the $5 latte that has come to exemplify American spending habits.

4. Going to artwalk tonight, and carousing around with pals that I wish I saw more often.

I’ll come back with pictures of my favorite art work laters, folks. I’m crossing my fingers for pho.

High five,
Lady Mc Wardelby

This weekend I got an urge to live like a mobster.

Squeamish about thrill killing, I decided my best course of action was to just open a speakeasy in my garage. I pictured a circle of my friends playing penny poker and sipping whiskey from mismatched glasses. Maybe a cigar would be brandished, and I would wear pinstripes.

But everyone wanted to go to Punky Reggae instead.

La Cita was a mess: festering, sweaty, dude-heavy. We soon split to Charlie O’s to find it empty, save for a ghost-y figure dancing alone on the parquet floor. One round later, we wandered outside to discover that MJ Higgins, an art gallery in the bottom floor of the ramshackle Alexandria Hotel, was far from closing up shop. Past a doorman with a fierce ZZ Top goatee, the gallery was a maze of work by downtown artists, and the hotel lobby was throbbing with men, disco lights, and remixed pop. A speakeasy, in full swing. But not quite the vibe I was looking for.

We heard a whisper from the bouncer about yet another speakeasy, six blocks away. “Look for some scary people loitering in an alley,” he advised. Duly noted.

We tiptoed past sleeping bags, saw rats the size of chihuahuas and argued about the order of the downtown streets until we found the alley, and the scary loitering people. It was dank, and smelled like the elephant exhibit at the St. Louis Zoo. Turning on heels, we started back to the car. “Dude, I know an awesome speakeasy.” Georgia said. “It’s called “Alie’s Garage.”

Until next time, comrades, stay safe, and watch out for rodents of unusual size.

Miss Alie Ward

PS- this post also went up on mah work blog, but absent from that entry are pictures of Sharpie neck tattoos, arguably the best part of the weekend.

F the LBC

…and Georgia and Katherine get Sharpied…and probably skin poisoned.

As I’m sneaking this post in during work, I’m just going to play the “If I could” game with myself:

1. Eat anything right now: it would be braised swordfish in some sort of fancypants wine reduction sauce with a side of some sort of really delicious potato item. And an iced tea, lightly sweetened with a bullshit hippy sweetener like stevia. Posh!

2. Be anywhere right now: I would be in a garage in a state other than California, with warm air at night, in a hammock, with some paintings drying nearby, and a crappy boombox playing Grizzly Bear’s “Knife.”

Rather, I’m still at work. But “work” today involved a long chat with the director of the Steve Allen Theater about a guy who was born in a carnival, then I ate some chocolate, watched a trailer for the movie “The Thing”(research) and am now re-writing a story about Bjork and some yaks. Not too shabby.

Deadlines loom, so I’m off to finish them up. Please tell no one of this egregious time mis-management.

High five,

I set up this Blogger account nearly two years ago with an obvious lack of ambition, as evidenced by my absence.

I had to get through 4 help screens to crack into the mutha again, but now that I’m in, I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. It’s like remembering the combination to your junior year locker, opening it up and finding an orange peel and a yellowed, brittle hall pass.

It’s nice to poke around anyway, and now that I know the combo, perhaps I’ll store more of my musty Wardtardation in here from time to time.

Remind me though– if you please– no more posts about posting. I’m allowing myself this one, serving as a means of reintroduction, kind of like walking around mawing the words “I ..am …spekking…Fronch” for the sake of the language. After that, hopefully something more substantive will issue forth from my Wardly brain.

Until then, please rock on.

It’s Saturday night, and after this week’s hearty dose of sleep deprivation, and yesterday’s overconsumption of distilled spirits, I am taking a breather from the nightlife for at least 36 hours.

I can hear the bars on Franklin getting out for the night- last call is always like the 3pm bell sounding at a middle school. Hoardes of hyperactives released all at once, and I could set my watch to the drunken bellowing that rings through the neighborhood at 1:47am. But despite the nightly racket, I very much appreciate being within sauntering, then stumbling, distance of some quaint little drinking holes.

Alright, I’m folding these bones onto themselves, and getting under rumpled covers at last. After three days, I’m finally ready to sleep.