i was just going through my inbox for the daily deletion of spam, when i noticed that one of my spams was "from" someone called dagmar sutherland. i was reminded of my stay in st. petersburg russia, when i was known by the alias dagmar. okay okay, that makes it sound like i was a spy. really, i was a student, and our program director had given us all fake student IDs (see, we were only summer students and summer students didn't get the real student IDs that got russian-price admission to concerts and museums, and on trains). i was a german student named dagmar (dammit i forget her last name. this is why i'd be a bad spy) and by using her info, i got into the Hermitage for the russian price (something like 15 cents, vs. the foreigner price of about $8. because of this, i got to go to the Hermitage every afternoon, if i wanted. i think i ended up going about 3 times per week, and would walk around bits i hadn't been to yet, or go see bits i had been to before, but just liked the floors.

alright. enough with my shady aliases. on to my underwear. i don't know if the rest of you women have this problem, or if i've just got particularly acidic, um, juices, but my underwear gets holes in the crotches faster than i can click the "buy" button on the victoria's secret web page. lately, every pair i take out of the drawer's got a big ol' hole right in the crucial spot. what's a girl to do?

so this weekend was the last one before we leave for tenerife. we were going to start off saturday with a trip to dorney park (water park), but alas, the contractors working on an apartment downstairs broke a water main and left us bereft of water for "30 minutes" which, of course, turned into 3 hours. by the time we had water back, and could do things like brush our teeth and clean our contacts, it was too late to make the drive. plan b was to go downtown and watch movies all day at the ritz (philly's art house theatre). we saw "dirty pretty things" and "swimming pool" before heading to the tla for an eels concert.

so. "dirty pretty things?" loved it. though i am continually amazed at how slow other movie-watchers are. so [spoiler ahead, you have been warned] you know when okwe drugs senor juan by giving him the spiked beer? ("what's this for?" "i've noticed your hands shake when you don't drink.") then senor juan gets all dizzy and passes out, and senay jumps up from the operating table, out of her supposed anestethic sleep, and together okwe and senay operate on senor juan? some people in the theatre didn't see that coming until after senay had jumped up and they were putting senor juan on the table. um, hello? did you not see the billboards? and even if you didn't, and were surprised at this plot development, could you please have kept it to yourself? we do not need to hear loud whispers of "oooohhhhhh, they're going to operate on HIIIMMMM."

swimming pool. also good, though i had read in a review that there was a "sixth sense-esque" plot device that leaves you feeling a bit disappointed in the ending, after such a suspenseful and crafty build-up. so through the movie, i was looking for it, and that might have ruined it a bit for me. in the line for the bathroom before the movie, the woman in front of me asked "did you just see 'swimming pool'?" i said no, but that i was about to. she said, "it's very good. very avant garde." then the woman in front of her chimed in with, "yes, very foreign." um, thanks. are you trying to impress me with your appreciation for modern art? mkay. after the movie was over, i could help but wonder if by "avant garde" and "foreign" they meant that there was a lot of nudity. (confidential to all the men out there. you can make your girlfriends/wives, who are sick and tired of watching crap like "gigli" just because you want to see some booty, happy by going to see "swimming pool" with them. they will get to see some delicious acting, a well-written script, and some beautiful bodies, and you can be distracted by ludivine sagnier, topless, and sometimes bottomless).

finally, the eels. generally a good show. coulda done with a few more frantic punk songs and a few less slow thoughtful songs, but hey, i'm not complaining. the start of the show was highlighted (literally) when mister e himself came up to the balcony, where karl and i were standing in primo spots right up against the rail (where a bit of only mostly unnecessary fear was telling us that the railing was not as sturdy as one might hope, and that we were going to be the first to fall to our deaths on the beer-covered concrete floor below), and asked if he could stand right here, in the spot between us, just for a minute. now, at this point, i had no idea who this jerk was, pushing his way to the front. but then i noticed he had a microphone, and figured he was someone associated with the show, and so refrained from saying something when he spilled my drink all over me. then he started playing a harmonica into the microphone, and the spotlight finds him, and suddenly everyone in the room is looking at him, and i'm standing right next to him in the spotlight. he plays his harmonica in my direction, and i smile, and then he leaves, and goes onstage. so there. my brush with fame for the day.

that pretty much did saturday in, and sunday we made our way slowly out of bed, and went for a bike ride down to manayunk, got some water ice (cherry for him, orange creamsicle for me), then coffee, and sat and read. by the time we got home, we were exhausted, and since it was 6.30 and the only thing we'd had to eat that day were 2 scrambled eggs, water ice, and coffee, famished. off to pizza rustica for dinner. we can only go there, really, when we're super hungry cuz otherwise we can't finish the pizza (well, individual pizzas), and it really doesn't heat up well.