I was grateful to see that the typical naturopathic chic fashion was not in display at this conference - not like February. Green and purple Columbia sportswear fleece and scarves (at 50 degrees!?) ruled the place last time, and the place was filled with the stench of entitlement...the kind that gives liberalism and environmentalism a bad name. I could, if I put my mind to it and had nothing but time, write a satire about naturopathic culture...but the appeal would be WAAAY too narrow.
But I do feel more ready to attack autoimmune disease of all sorts and heal/cure it more effectively than my medical compadres. For my sake and for the sake of future patients, this is an unequivocally good thing. Do MDs really want to squash us out of existence? Fine. Let's see how well they handle autoimmune disease with their arsenal of steroids and...uh...yeah, that's about all they have, isn't it?
Now, how to get word out...
Don't bug me. Like the rest of America (or the part that actually cared), I was LIVID on Thursday night. But life goes on. As one charitable woman put it to Sir Tim of Gunn, Mondo's got his career. Gretchen needed the money to get out of debt. In a way, it worked out. Somewhat.
But Meana Garzilla and Duchess L'Orange got a LOT of 'splainin' to do otherwise. It's not just the title they're bestowing. They're fucking fashion experts. They're naming The Next Best Thing, and their peers are gonna hold 'em to it. (Or, to really vulgarize it, they've named America's Next Top Fashion Designer.) Heidi, you're acquitted. (Tangentially, Jessica Simpson has officially joined the ranks of those who look gorgeous with voluptuous curves. I say: Let her quaff milkshakes! See also: Carey, Mariah; Hendricks, Christina.)
Confidential to CDOT: It's nice that you've been cleaning up the I-70 Viaduct for these past few years. At a pace slightly faster than a snail on bennies would be nice, though. And does completed construction mean that there shouldn't be ANY sudden gravity-defying foot-deep dips in the asphalt, or am I wrong? Can I get a confirmation on this?
Sometimes shyness sucks. See a guy on the dance floor, mentally grope him for a half hour (combined time...I dance, wander and get drinks, see...), and finally see him in the men's room as we're washing hands. We stand next to each other...the sinks are a comfortable elbow-rubbing distance apart. He says hi, I say hi, we smile at each other, and...that's it. He soon leaves with his friends, none of whom are particularly hard on the eyes, by the way. But this one...rowr. (And yes, I do have free license to, *ahem*, window shop. And a bit more. We have our version of "the rules" written down. But as aforementioned, my shyness keeps me from moving any further, not "the rules.")*
*This last message brought to you by the Cuff Complex in Seattle, about 5 Cape Cods, Kylie's "Can't Get You Out Of My Head," "Blue Monday," (as if I need to say who's responsible for this slice of heaven), Daft Punk's "One More Time," and because it's 2010 and it's unavoidable, goddammit, "Bad Romance." (Again...do I need to state the source?) Oh, and about half a pint (so far) of Ben & Jerry's Magic Brownies. Which, actually, aren't as magic as they purport to be. Just raspberry and chocolate. Tasty, but not so "magic."
Long live 2003. The longer, the better...so 2004 can be squished out as much as possible.