If you have a website and say you don't check your referring pages . . . you're lying.
Here are the Googles people used to find this. 'Natural Blonde' is a perennial google, but so far my faves are 'bored soul,' 'fat ass pantyhose,' 'lifted niece's shirt' (you pervs!), and 'strange life thing.'
'Projectile vomit record' concerns me.
Here we go:
erica smith
Erica Smith
erica
guppies
natural blonde
nudity
scary thing
Josiah Shufflebotham
The Snow it Melts the Soonest
blog-wonkette
erica smith music
floating life
floating yoga
gay penguins
myriad creatures
pictures of birthday party
1-800-95-TRUCK
2004 email guestbook of erica
Birthday Party Pictures
Bitch Life
Burns bring autumn's pleasant weather
ERICA
Erica Billings
Erica blonde
How to look great naked
Ken Saro's biography
Pictures of Erica Smith
Ryan Adams sighting Village
Smoochie Lite
The Snow It Melts the Soonest
The Uncloudy Day
The snow it melts the soonest
UNCLOUDY DAY
Uncloudy Day
WANDER LUST
Westlin Winds
alan young trifecta
alien octopus graffiti
anna nicole smith boob fall out awards
anna nicole smith trimspa
anna nicole titties
antihoot
aol guestbook 2004
beck paper tiger gainsbourg
become your dream
ben and jerry's free scoop coupon
bored soul
boypants
brazeer wear women
brazeers
bye bye blanky
cat rubbing head against hand
chelsea rec center
chemical smell on ann taylor clothes
chous
coolest album 2004
dann baker
e-sRGB
electricity bridge air gap
emptied her wallet
ennui go
erica americana
erica archer
erica smith frederick
erica smith pictures
erica(blonde)
fat ass pantyhose
floating life movie
floating on ionized air
free homemade body butter recipes
fung wah bus black t-shirt
giant fish
gillian welch and david rawlings
gold stilettos
happy birthday wendy
hopefulness
hot to trot
http://www.maidmusic.com/
hypomania and phone calling
i love you all the way
in love floating feeling
jeans long skrit
judy roderick
july 2004 email address of Rick hotmail.com aol.com
karen dalton it' so hard
li po on a banquet with
life mysteries
life of a waitress
lifted niece's shirt
look busy
lyrics anne briggs
marcucci ice cream
no more my lord
now westlin' winds
nudity life
odd sightings
party life pictures
paula carino
peanuts wah wah
pictures of birthday parties
pictures of ill fitting bras
pictures of thinking caps
projectile vomit record
ron sexsmith and 2004 or 04
scary things that happened in the night
scary things that have happened
sightings about life
snoopy birthday pictures
snows the melt the soonest
snows they melt the soonest
snows they melt the soonest lyrics
strange and scary
strange life thing
tarp laci peterson
the snows they melt the soonest
titties
unclarity
upshirt pictures
what is the song on the trimspa ad
wonkette blog
www.maidmusic.com
8.23.2004
8.18.2004
I sense a new phase coming.
As with all life-changing phases, it began with a profound malaise. After a weekend of giddiness listening to a few rough mixes for the new record -- they sound fresh and smashing to my ears -- I crashed badly. I kept thinking how I'm going to be going in for another round of dogged persistence, trying to get gigs where no one wants to book me, or a review from a rag that keeps saying yes yes yes and never comes through.
So be it. It's like old the tradeoff that love brings pain. You know it's going to hurt, but you must go ahead with it.
Pushing music made by your little ole self is exhausting, humiliating, and expensive. It's also the closest I'll ever come to having true freedom. I can make the songs say whatever I want, sound however I want. I also got the best boys around to help make the music come into flower, and that's something.
Many of you reading this are artists; you know what I'm talking about. It might be the only taste of glory we feel in our lifetime.
Coincidentally, when I got home last night a little alt-music rag was waiting in my mailbox. For the past few months I've been throwing the mags on the pile without reading them. I'm simply too jealous to read about so-and-so playing the Beeswax festival and what a great time it was. I want to play the Beeswax festival, but the queen bee never returned my calls.
Yet I opened up this issue of the mag. And bingo: first I got bugged. Tell me: In times like these, why do articles, presskits, and the like describe someone who 'deserves' a wider audience? About half the people they're talking about already get Christmas calls from Sir Elton, and the other half are sixth cousins of a Wainwright. Who 'deserves' more than they have? Or less? Do I 'deserve' to get hit in the head and killed by a falling flowerpot, or do I 'deserve' a hit single? If I profess that my pet has been kidnapped, and then 'discover' that she was at home sleeping under a blanky the whole time, do I 'deserve' a full page of publicity in the Post?
So I had my requisite snit. Then, however, I actually started to enjoy reading. Fuck if I've forgotten there's a new Wilco record out. And a new Tift Merritt coming! She's so good, goddamn her, I love her.
So I was getting happy and excited. I started wanting to make music (and not minding having to make obnoxious phone calls).
And a new record is coming.
Eventually.
Nitey nite.
As with all life-changing phases, it began with a profound malaise. After a weekend of giddiness listening to a few rough mixes for the new record -- they sound fresh and smashing to my ears -- I crashed badly. I kept thinking how I'm going to be going in for another round of dogged persistence, trying to get gigs where no one wants to book me, or a review from a rag that keeps saying yes yes yes and never comes through.
So be it. It's like old the tradeoff that love brings pain. You know it's going to hurt, but you must go ahead with it.
Pushing music made by your little ole self is exhausting, humiliating, and expensive. It's also the closest I'll ever come to having true freedom. I can make the songs say whatever I want, sound however I want. I also got the best boys around to help make the music come into flower, and that's something.
Many of you reading this are artists; you know what I'm talking about. It might be the only taste of glory we feel in our lifetime.
Coincidentally, when I got home last night a little alt-music rag was waiting in my mailbox. For the past few months I've been throwing the mags on the pile without reading them. I'm simply too jealous to read about so-and-so playing the Beeswax festival and what a great time it was. I want to play the Beeswax festival, but the queen bee never returned my calls.
Yet I opened up this issue of the mag. And bingo: first I got bugged. Tell me: In times like these, why do articles, presskits, and the like describe someone who 'deserves' a wider audience? About half the people they're talking about already get Christmas calls from Sir Elton, and the other half are sixth cousins of a Wainwright. Who 'deserves' more than they have? Or less? Do I 'deserve' to get hit in the head and killed by a falling flowerpot, or do I 'deserve' a hit single? If I profess that my pet has been kidnapped, and then 'discover' that she was at home sleeping under a blanky the whole time, do I 'deserve' a full page of publicity in the Post?
So I had my requisite snit. Then, however, I actually started to enjoy reading. Fuck if I've forgotten there's a new Wilco record out. And a new Tift Merritt coming! She's so good, goddamn her, I love her.
So I was getting happy and excited. I started wanting to make music (and not minding having to make obnoxious phone calls).
And a new record is coming.
Eventually.
Nitey nite.
8.17.2004
A Short Psychohistory of My Ass
I'll come up with a Milosz poem as soon as I can dig through my books at home. It seems so long ago that I used to read loads of poetry.
In fact, lately I worry that I have regressed and become stupid.
You know what I'm talkin bout. If you've been tuning in to these pages with regularity, surely you have noticed an unhealthy obsession with food, animals, and shoes. Where o where are the lists of books-2-read of my youth? Have they been supplanted by a fixation on the lists of flavors of Tasti D-lite?
Part of me thinks this is overcompensation for an overserious adolescence. Living in a world of ideas with which I had no real experience, I diatribed over the Duchess of Malfi and Dostoyevsky. But how long can you pull that off while wearing shit brown chipmunk shoes?
Such aggressive disregard for taste only got worse when I graduated and got a job. Neurotically insisting on wearing pantyhose even in the summer, at a job where my colleagues couldn't care less, I sweltered and went through cans and cans of Static Guard. Becoming immersed in Shakespeare and Bukowski at the same time triggered a psychic catastrophe that brought me an even worse curse on the overly intellectual: Psychotherapy.
Perhaps psychotherapy has been my true downfall. It's a mosh pit of the mind in which dreams, thoughts, urges, and actions come together as their own big, humming reality––a veritable playpen for egobrainiacs. Somewhere along the line, wrestling with the beasties, I stopped reading so much. I also started dressing a little sexier and graduated to pilgrim shoes.
But I wonder if, as a result of tapping into my unconscious urges, the frivolometer has gone in to the red. Perhaps there is a tradeoff to feeling more free, more honest, and more sharp and daring. Maybe you lose your mind a little. I can't stuff myself back into the shell of my old self, much like I can't stuff my ass into most of my dresses (but do anyway), and the result is a kind of teetering 3-martini embarrassment.
Maybe it isn't psychoanalysis to blame -- it's rock 'n roll.
And we're out of time.
In fact, lately I worry that I have regressed and become stupid.
You know what I'm talkin bout. If you've been tuning in to these pages with regularity, surely you have noticed an unhealthy obsession with food, animals, and shoes. Where o where are the lists of books-2-read of my youth? Have they been supplanted by a fixation on the lists of flavors of Tasti D-lite?
Part of me thinks this is overcompensation for an overserious adolescence. Living in a world of ideas with which I had no real experience, I diatribed over the Duchess of Malfi and Dostoyevsky. But how long can you pull that off while wearing shit brown chipmunk shoes?
Such aggressive disregard for taste only got worse when I graduated and got a job. Neurotically insisting on wearing pantyhose even in the summer, at a job where my colleagues couldn't care less, I sweltered and went through cans and cans of Static Guard. Becoming immersed in Shakespeare and Bukowski at the same time triggered a psychic catastrophe that brought me an even worse curse on the overly intellectual: Psychotherapy.
Perhaps psychotherapy has been my true downfall. It's a mosh pit of the mind in which dreams, thoughts, urges, and actions come together as their own big, humming reality––a veritable playpen for egobrainiacs. Somewhere along the line, wrestling with the beasties, I stopped reading so much. I also started dressing a little sexier and graduated to pilgrim shoes.
But I wonder if, as a result of tapping into my unconscious urges, the frivolometer has gone in to the red. Perhaps there is a tradeoff to feeling more free, more honest, and more sharp and daring. Maybe you lose your mind a little. I can't stuff myself back into the shell of my old self, much like I can't stuff my ass into most of my dresses (but do anyway), and the result is a kind of teetering 3-martini embarrassment.
Maybe it isn't psychoanalysis to blame -- it's rock 'n roll.
And we're out of time.
8.16.2004
Odds 'n Ends! Odds 'n Ends!
1. Alien octopus sighting! I was on the bus when I noticed a bright yellow truck parked at Union Square South. It was covered in all kinds of colorful graffiti. I was admiring the mélange when suddenly I saw 2 familiar almond eyes staring back at me. Octopus dude! The bus pulled away, and our friend receded into the background. I gotta get one of those teensy digital cameras so I can be prepared to snap it at any moment.
2. My mind wandered to Neck Face, another favorite, and my subsequent Googling of him was much more satisfying.
3. This random Internet photo is evocative of Saro's formative months, as she and her littermates were raised by a German Shepherd by the name of Bear.
2. My mind wandered to Neck Face, another favorite, and my subsequent Googling of him was much more satisfying.
3. This random Internet photo is evocative of Saro's formative months, as she and her littermates were raised by a German Shepherd by the name of Bear.
8.11.2004
8.10.2004
To the inquiring mind
. . . who, somewhere in the comments section, had politely asked about my body products:
"Hi, I would like to know where you got your ideas to sell your products and what you use as a preservative so that the products don't go bad?"
I decided to make my own products when buying others' products was becoming insanely expensive. The fact that Origins charges you $30 for their salt scrub is nothing short of thievery. I'll custom-make something fresh for one-fifth of that price.
I also don't like the additives and crap that are put into a lot of products. Most lotions have alcohol in them, which cannot possibly be moisturizing. Commercial lotions are nice because they have a light texture. But if I want a light texture I'll make a light oil-based concoction. If I want deep, power moisture, I'll use my booty butter.
Thirdly, I like giving people unique homemade gifts.
As for preservatives, I don't use any so far, with the exception of the fridge. There are a few natural products such as rosemary oil that would work if needed. I have borax as a emulsifier, but I haven't used it in earnest yet.
Soon I'll have a webpage up so you can buy products if you want them.
Thanks for asking!
"Hi, I would like to know where you got your ideas to sell your products and what you use as a preservative so that the products don't go bad?"
I decided to make my own products when buying others' products was becoming insanely expensive. The fact that Origins charges you $30 for their salt scrub is nothing short of thievery. I'll custom-make something fresh for one-fifth of that price.
I also don't like the additives and crap that are put into a lot of products. Most lotions have alcohol in them, which cannot possibly be moisturizing. Commercial lotions are nice because they have a light texture. But if I want a light texture I'll make a light oil-based concoction. If I want deep, power moisture, I'll use my booty butter.
Thirdly, I like giving people unique homemade gifts.
As for preservatives, I don't use any so far, with the exception of the fridge. There are a few natural products such as rosemary oil that would work if needed. I have borax as a emulsifier, but I haven't used it in earnest yet.
Soon I'll have a webpage up so you can buy products if you want them.
Thanks for asking!
8.09.2004
Hey, what day is it?
For the benefit of the 2 of you reading this, I apologize for being blog delinquent as of late. It's been a joyous and harrowing week or so. I've been wrestling with a backlist catalog that eerily resembles The Blob, boogieing among killer waves, vanquishing evil bacteria and viruses, and much, much more.
The little ditty that follows is officially too much information, but I'm going to share it with you anyway because it's amusing and I have no class.
There was a phone message on my work machine this morning from my girl-doctor's office. I had gone for a tune-up a few weeks ago. They call you when something is wrong, so immediately my antennae go up. It was a familiar, deliberate voice with an Eastern European accent.
"Yes, hello, Erica. This is Marika from Dr. Krause's office. I just wanted to follow up with you about the tests you had done . . . "
I start to think fast. Test, test test . . . ok they tested me for chlamydia . . .
"and I wanted to let you know that it came up positive . . . "
Now that's a new one. The blood plummets to my feet.
"and I think this is what you and Dr. Krause were expecting . . . "
Oh, really? Speak for yourself!
"So give us a call at the office . . . "
I'm standing and leaning over hard, my elbows on the desk.
"Oh wait. I'm sorry. Your test is negative."
Now my head is on the desk.
"I'm so sorry. Well, give us a call if you like. Thank you, Erica."
click.
The little ditty that follows is officially too much information, but I'm going to share it with you anyway because it's amusing and I have no class.
There was a phone message on my work machine this morning from my girl-doctor's office. I had gone for a tune-up a few weeks ago. They call you when something is wrong, so immediately my antennae go up. It was a familiar, deliberate voice with an Eastern European accent.
"Yes, hello, Erica. This is Marika from Dr. Krause's office. I just wanted to follow up with you about the tests you had done . . . "
I start to think fast. Test, test test . . . ok they tested me for chlamydia . . .
"and I wanted to let you know that it came up positive . . . "
Now that's a new one. The blood plummets to my feet.
"and I think this is what you and Dr. Krause were expecting . . . "
Oh, really? Speak for yourself!
"So give us a call at the office . . . "
I'm standing and leaning over hard, my elbows on the desk.
"Oh wait. I'm sorry. Your test is negative."
Now my head is on the desk.
"I'm so sorry. Well, give us a call if you like. Thank you, Erica."
click.
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