Let me preface this one with as much simplicity as possible: Boomer is fucking retarded.
...
Having no idea what day this is going to be published, I might be redundant in saying that while Rassles is out, getting drunk and rowdy, which is nothing new, only now she is doing it in a city other than Chicago, she has asked me to guest post for her.
Which you can pretty much take to mean that she hates you. She really hates you. While she and I seemingly think of the same freakish things pretty often, she does so with big, awesome words and with a writer's spirit, heart and grace. I do it like a stoned, skater kid who just might be all of 15 years old. Also? She seems really social and I'm kind of anti-social. She makes this stuff seem funny and attractive to people. I make it seem like it came from the brain of a shut-in who only has cats to talk to.
However, I'm pretty sure the day is going to come when Rassles and I will finally meet face to face and the world is going to have to be put on notice because the sheer awesome energy of what will manifest with that meeting will just be too much for most people to handle.
I imagine the conversation will looking something like the following (I'll skip the weird, awkward greeting where we just look weird and awkward to each other), I simply call it "RAWR!":
Rassles and Boomer, sit on bar stools with beers in hand.
Rassles: Rawr!
Boomer: Rawr, Teen Wolf, Nards! Ha ha ha.
Rassles: Total Kenny Loggins, Danger Zone, RAWR!
Boomer: OMG, Scary German Guy - Juke Box Hero!
Rassles: BACON AND FOREIGNER!!!!
Boomer: RIIIIGHT! AHHHH! RAWR!
Rassles: What are you looking at, dicknose?
Boomer: Never say die!
Rassles: RAWR! Random movie quote, obscure reference to something weird.
Boomer: Ah, I'm the only one in the world who gets your obscure reference right now, we so rock and everyone in this bar HATES US!
Rassles: Another round?
Boomer: Dude! Bring it! Robots.
Rassles: Shivs. Rawr!
Boomer: You're awesome.
Rassles: No, you're awesome.
Boomer: NO! You. Are. Awesome.
Rassles: I know.
See? I told you she hates you. This was complete crap.
...
Showing posts with label freeloading ghostwriter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freeloading ghostwriter. Show all posts
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Daydream
Oh, New Orleans is incredible. I love it here. I could be wrong, I mean, I'm totally time traveling right now. Or am I practicing divination? Irrelevant, I don't believe in fate anyway.
You guys better be good and ready for some soul right now, because Formerly Fun is going to let us see into hers a little bit, and then she's gonna go wax some vagina. She's the most intelligent vag-waxer in the world, although I really have no experience with estheticians and I don't know anyone else who gives Brazilians for a living. I also do not know any Brazilians. Obviously I fail today. Like everyone that I pay attention to (yeah, that means you, blog readers, because I really don't have the attention span for boring people) FF is fascinating. Unlike some of you jerkoids, she's astute, adept, and quietly hilarious.
So with this in mind, when she asked for a theme to inspire her discourse, I offered "Daydream."
...
I am an extroverted introvert who has always enjoyed the space inside my head. I have frequently said I could be relatively content in prison given time to myself, books and maybe a sundry of art supplies. Oh, and freedom from random shiv shanking. My husband has told me more than once that this ability to withstand confinement coupled with the fact that I watch so much Forensic Files scares him a little. Just don't do anything bad I tell him, and you don't have anything to worry about. Sure, I'd miss the outside world but my imagination would make a fine companion for ten to life.
I grew up an only child and an avid daydreamer. Stacks of books took me far past the borders of the city where I grew up. Books gave me the pieces to build upon. When I was young, most of my daydreams took on different forms of wish fulfillment. I was a jet-set fashion designer, a symphony conductor, a foreign double agent and even a ballerina, never mind I'm only five foot tall. I was Karen Von Blixen on a coffee plantation in Kenya, going on safaris, learning to use a gun. I was the muse Kira from Xanadu skating figure eights in my basement, the soundtrack booming from my giant 1980s boombox. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Karana from Island of the Blue Dolphins, Francie struggling for a better life in Brooklyn.
Many of my reveries wreaked of the dramatic. I was never very graceful but I can sing so many of my fantasies were my own little musicals, put on in my bedroom for no one else but me, and maybe a reliably unimpressed house cat. Think one part theater, one part the Judy Miller Show. Put on the soundtrack to Evita ad I was Eva atop a balcony addressing the little people. I think I wore clear through my vinyl copy of the Grease soundtrack. I would tease my hair, put on slutty clothes pilfered from my moms closet, slip on my red Candies and stand in front of my mirror with one of my mom's unlit Winston lights dangling from my lips. Tell me about it stud. True to girly-girl form, every daydream had an accompanying outfit.
Once in awhile, someone else was let into this usually personal reverie. Ask my cousin about the impromptu operas I performed for her. Scarves tied to our heads babushka style, I'd sing/talk about being taken from our parents in Russia(no we're not Russian) and being forced to be slaves of a prince, or labourers in a work camp. I'd see the expression on her face at first was one of skepticism and mild embarrassment but it quickly turned in to full scale buy-in as she tightened her babushka and lamented with me about the mother country. I think my mom might have made me watch Doctor Zhivago one too many times. Even as we got older and the “operas” stopped, she'd still call me a couple of times a week at bedtime and make me sing to her over the telephone until she fell asleep. I guess that could be considered a delayed standing ovation.
Now that I'm older with a husband, three kids, two cats, one dog, a mortgage, a small business and more, many of my daydreams have been replaced by anxiety dreams. Daydreaming as a child was probably the result of plenty of time on my hands and an active imagination. My adult anxiety thoughts are no doubt the result of not enough time on my hands and that same active imagination. Now I worry less about the monsters under my bed and more about the dust mites. Did I leave the wax warmer on when I left the spa? Is it burning down at this moment, the fire trucks littering the street to hose down the inferno. A florist five businesses down got held up at gunpoint a year ago. I wonder what if they had hit my spa and found me and my massage therapist instead of a doughy, overweight gay bear peddling petals? Are my children getting enough DHA, Omega 3s? I hope that toy the bebe is chewing on doesn't have lead in it, damn the grandparents and their Big Lots, Chinese imported, lead ridden, foot gouging, room cluttering, car littering crap.
Thanks to 9/11, the fact that our house is in a relatively busy airport pattern, and probably too many Donnie Darko/Weeds viewings, I have visions of planes careening through our roof. I worry about my husband being hit and smushed accordion style in the crazy L.A. rush hour traffic. I follow a truck with steel pipes battened in and I ponder decapitation by steel pipe before switching lanes. I think about people breaking into my house and taking my children, Darfur, unequal education opportunities, poverty, peacekeeping, climate change, biodiversity and ecosystem losses, oceanic dead zones, child sex rings and world hunger. Don't get me wrong, I don't obsess and I'm not at the point where my anxiety requires medication, well more medication. It's just that I have so much now that I have so much to lose. The dangers of the real world are so much scarier than the stuff that worried me as a kid.
Now my wish fulfillment daydreams are saved for my frequent bouts of insomnia. As my husband lay next to me, still save for his rhythmic breathing, and the kids are safely tucked into their beds, and the dog lays on her cushion in the corner of our room and the cats are curled up on any one of the beds of my children, this is when I feel calm enough to dream bigger. I'm not Sandi or Francie or Ludmila anymore but I do see myself doing the things I hope one day I will. I see myself traveling around the world with my husband. I see a time in the future where I have some time to myself again, time to read, to draw, to meander through a day with nothing to do. I see my children grown and healthy, happy living their own lives, being their own people. I see myself holding my grandchildren, released from the responsibility of raising them right, free to spoil them relentlessly to my children's chagrin. I see myself a few years from now, walking up to a podium at a small bookstore to give a reading. I see my husband and I, hitting each milestone in our life together, our relationship morphing to fit the changes in our lives. I see myself calmer, mellowed with age, wizened with experience, though I'm pretty sure I will always avoid those giant steel pipe carrying trucks.
...
You guys better be good and ready for some soul right now, because Formerly Fun is going to let us see into hers a little bit, and then she's gonna go wax some vagina. She's the most intelligent vag-waxer in the world, although I really have no experience with estheticians and I don't know anyone else who gives Brazilians for a living. I also do not know any Brazilians. Obviously I fail today. Like everyone that I pay attention to (yeah, that means you, blog readers, because I really don't have the attention span for boring people) FF is fascinating. Unlike some of you jerkoids, she's astute, adept, and quietly hilarious.
So with this in mind, when she asked for a theme to inspire her discourse, I offered "Daydream."
...
I am an extroverted introvert who has always enjoyed the space inside my head. I have frequently said I could be relatively content in prison given time to myself, books and maybe a sundry of art supplies. Oh, and freedom from random shiv shanking. My husband has told me more than once that this ability to withstand confinement coupled with the fact that I watch so much Forensic Files scares him a little. Just don't do anything bad I tell him, and you don't have anything to worry about. Sure, I'd miss the outside world but my imagination would make a fine companion for ten to life.
I grew up an only child and an avid daydreamer. Stacks of books took me far past the borders of the city where I grew up. Books gave me the pieces to build upon. When I was young, most of my daydreams took on different forms of wish fulfillment. I was a jet-set fashion designer, a symphony conductor, a foreign double agent and even a ballerina, never mind I'm only five foot tall. I was Karen Von Blixen on a coffee plantation in Kenya, going on safaris, learning to use a gun. I was the muse Kira from Xanadu skating figure eights in my basement, the soundtrack booming from my giant 1980s boombox. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder, Karana from Island of the Blue Dolphins, Francie struggling for a better life in Brooklyn.
Many of my reveries wreaked of the dramatic. I was never very graceful but I can sing so many of my fantasies were my own little musicals, put on in my bedroom for no one else but me, and maybe a reliably unimpressed house cat. Think one part theater, one part the Judy Miller Show. Put on the soundtrack to Evita ad I was Eva atop a balcony addressing the little people. I think I wore clear through my vinyl copy of the Grease soundtrack. I would tease my hair, put on slutty clothes pilfered from my moms closet, slip on my red Candies and stand in front of my mirror with one of my mom's unlit Winston lights dangling from my lips. Tell me about it stud. True to girly-girl form, every daydream had an accompanying outfit.
Once in awhile, someone else was let into this usually personal reverie. Ask my cousin about the impromptu operas I performed for her. Scarves tied to our heads babushka style, I'd sing/talk about being taken from our parents in Russia(no we're not Russian) and being forced to be slaves of a prince, or labourers in a work camp. I'd see the expression on her face at first was one of skepticism and mild embarrassment but it quickly turned in to full scale buy-in as she tightened her babushka and lamented with me about the mother country. I think my mom might have made me watch Doctor Zhivago one too many times. Even as we got older and the “operas” stopped, she'd still call me a couple of times a week at bedtime and make me sing to her over the telephone until she fell asleep. I guess that could be considered a delayed standing ovation.
Now that I'm older with a husband, three kids, two cats, one dog, a mortgage, a small business and more, many of my daydreams have been replaced by anxiety dreams. Daydreaming as a child was probably the result of plenty of time on my hands and an active imagination. My adult anxiety thoughts are no doubt the result of not enough time on my hands and that same active imagination. Now I worry less about the monsters under my bed and more about the dust mites. Did I leave the wax warmer on when I left the spa? Is it burning down at this moment, the fire trucks littering the street to hose down the inferno. A florist five businesses down got held up at gunpoint a year ago. I wonder what if they had hit my spa and found me and my massage therapist instead of a doughy, overweight gay bear peddling petals? Are my children getting enough DHA, Omega 3s? I hope that toy the bebe is chewing on doesn't have lead in it, damn the grandparents and their Big Lots, Chinese imported, lead ridden, foot gouging, room cluttering, car littering crap.
Thanks to 9/11, the fact that our house is in a relatively busy airport pattern, and probably too many Donnie Darko/Weeds viewings, I have visions of planes careening through our roof. I worry about my husband being hit and smushed accordion style in the crazy L.A. rush hour traffic. I follow a truck with steel pipes battened in and I ponder decapitation by steel pipe before switching lanes. I think about people breaking into my house and taking my children, Darfur, unequal education opportunities, poverty, peacekeeping, climate change, biodiversity and ecosystem losses, oceanic dead zones, child sex rings and world hunger. Don't get me wrong, I don't obsess and I'm not at the point where my anxiety requires medication, well more medication. It's just that I have so much now that I have so much to lose. The dangers of the real world are so much scarier than the stuff that worried me as a kid.
Now my wish fulfillment daydreams are saved for my frequent bouts of insomnia. As my husband lay next to me, still save for his rhythmic breathing, and the kids are safely tucked into their beds, and the dog lays on her cushion in the corner of our room and the cats are curled up on any one of the beds of my children, this is when I feel calm enough to dream bigger. I'm not Sandi or Francie or Ludmila anymore but I do see myself doing the things I hope one day I will. I see myself traveling around the world with my husband. I see a time in the future where I have some time to myself again, time to read, to draw, to meander through a day with nothing to do. I see my children grown and healthy, happy living their own lives, being their own people. I see myself holding my grandchildren, released from the responsibility of raising them right, free to spoil them relentlessly to my children's chagrin. I see myself a few years from now, walking up to a podium at a small bookstore to give a reading. I see my husband and I, hitting each milestone in our life together, our relationship morphing to fit the changes in our lives. I see myself calmer, mellowed with age, wizened with experience, though I'm pretty sure I will always avoid those giant steel pipe carrying trucks.
...
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Ridicule
Hello, friends.
I'm going to go ahead and assume that I am currently (a) drunk, or (b) passed out right now. It's very hard to tell considering the fact that these posts were written in the days of yore compared to where you are right now.
Today I give you Ginny from Praying to Darwin, who is the first blogger that I ever really read other than myself. And I did read myself, over and over and over again. But Ginny is one of those bloggers that you read and you think you know, but you don't fucking know. She's got high-quality storytelling coupled with good timing and good taste (by which I mean just like mine). She rules. I wish I could just sit here and gush all day, but I have a hangover to deal with. Probably. She wasn't quite sure what to write about, so I gave her a word: Ridicule.
...
Let me just begin this post with an aside about how much I frakkin' love Rassles. I love her. A lot. She's written some of the most brilliant stuff I've read, ever. This one sunk it's hooks into me, and I've been smitten ever since. As far as I'm concerned she is The Shit.
So when the person you think of as The Shit, asks you to guest post, well, you blush a little that she thought of you, and then hope you don't embarrass yourself.
Which, dovetails nicely with the topic she gave me. “Ridicule.”
I got all angsty, wondering what the hell to do with it. And then it came to me. A story that, until now, I have seriously never, ever told another human. Crap, I'm pretty sure I never even shared it with a stuffed animal. So, here goes:
I grew up in a desert. This little piece of the Canadian prairie that gets so little rainfall, it actually qualifies as desert. There were no lakes, no rivers, and ponds never lasted more than 5 minutes. The reservoir up the road was more green ick and mosquitoes than water. The nearest town was an hour away. Frolicking in a pool would never have justified a half tank of gas. So I didn't learn to swim. I'd never even been to a pool. Until Grade 2.
In Grade 2, they tell us we're all, the entire elementary end of the school (50 kids), going to the next town over, to the pool, for the last day of school. I take the permission slip home. And then, we realize, I have nothing to wear. Never been swimming, ergo, no swimsuit. We're poor – can't justify the purchase of a suit, specifically for swimming, when god only knows if I'll ever need it again. But we've got these city relatives who send bags of hand me downs. And at the very bottom of one is a swimsuit. Praise be to the city relatives.
So we get to the pool, I go into the change room, struggle into the suit. I've never had one on before, and its stretchy and snappy and a little inscrutable, but finally, I get it on. The other girls' suits are pink, purple, ruffled, but above all, cute. Mine? Isn't. Red and white. Maple leaves, and the word “Canada” over and over. They're staring at me, all of them, and some of them are whispering. And I'm just wishing so hard that I had something cuter to wear.
But I really, really want to go swimming in a real pool. So I walk out onto the pool deck. Ignoring those girls with every muscle in my body. I stand on the cold cement, survey my surroundings.
A Grade 3 boy sees me, does a double-take, stops splashing.
“Holy crap, you guys, look at Ginny! If she had boobs, they'd be hanging out!”
It wasn't the maple leaves, the garish white on red color scheme, or even the unintended display of patriotism on my suit that made those girls stare.
No, it was the fact that I'd put the racer-back swimsuit on...backwards.
...
I'm going to go ahead and assume that I am currently (a) drunk, or (b) passed out right now. It's very hard to tell considering the fact that these posts were written in the days of yore compared to where you are right now.
Today I give you Ginny from Praying to Darwin, who is the first blogger that I ever really read other than myself. And I did read myself, over and over and over again. But Ginny is one of those bloggers that you read and you think you know, but you don't fucking know. She's got high-quality storytelling coupled with good timing and good taste (by which I mean just like mine). She rules. I wish I could just sit here and gush all day, but I have a hangover to deal with. Probably. She wasn't quite sure what to write about, so I gave her a word: Ridicule.
...
Let me just begin this post with an aside about how much I frakkin' love Rassles. I love her. A lot. She's written some of the most brilliant stuff I've read, ever. This one sunk it's hooks into me, and I've been smitten ever since. As far as I'm concerned she is The Shit.
So when the person you think of as The Shit, asks you to guest post, well, you blush a little that she thought of you, and then hope you don't embarrass yourself.
Which, dovetails nicely with the topic she gave me. “Ridicule.”
I got all angsty, wondering what the hell to do with it. And then it came to me. A story that, until now, I have seriously never, ever told another human. Crap, I'm pretty sure I never even shared it with a stuffed animal. So, here goes:
I grew up in a desert. This little piece of the Canadian prairie that gets so little rainfall, it actually qualifies as desert. There were no lakes, no rivers, and ponds never lasted more than 5 minutes. The reservoir up the road was more green ick and mosquitoes than water. The nearest town was an hour away. Frolicking in a pool would never have justified a half tank of gas. So I didn't learn to swim. I'd never even been to a pool. Until Grade 2.
In Grade 2, they tell us we're all, the entire elementary end of the school (50 kids), going to the next town over, to the pool, for the last day of school. I take the permission slip home. And then, we realize, I have nothing to wear. Never been swimming, ergo, no swimsuit. We're poor – can't justify the purchase of a suit, specifically for swimming, when god only knows if I'll ever need it again. But we've got these city relatives who send bags of hand me downs. And at the very bottom of one is a swimsuit. Praise be to the city relatives.
So we get to the pool, I go into the change room, struggle into the suit. I've never had one on before, and its stretchy and snappy and a little inscrutable, but finally, I get it on. The other girls' suits are pink, purple, ruffled, but above all, cute. Mine? Isn't. Red and white. Maple leaves, and the word “Canada” over and over. They're staring at me, all of them, and some of them are whispering. And I'm just wishing so hard that I had something cuter to wear.
But I really, really want to go swimming in a real pool. So I walk out onto the pool deck. Ignoring those girls with every muscle in my body. I stand on the cold cement, survey my surroundings.
A Grade 3 boy sees me, does a double-take, stops splashing.
“Holy crap, you guys, look at Ginny! If she had boobs, they'd be hanging out!”
It wasn't the maple leaves, the garish white on red color scheme, or even the unintended display of patriotism on my suit that made those girls stare.
No, it was the fact that I'd put the racer-back swimsuit on...backwards.
...
Monday, March 23, 2009
When I Was Young and Full of Grace
Triggering off the guest postage, as an introduction to a week I like to call, "What it's like when Rassles isn't blogging," I asked the writer from the newest blog I'm obsessed with to play on here.
Although A Free Man is still new to me, technically, I'm playing catch-up on his blog, and it's really super neat. Partly because he's got this Michael Stipe thing going on, and partly because he's an excellent writer with good stories to tell, and partly because he's got this glorious, fair outlook on on everything that's inspired by feelings rather than complacency. That's a killer combination.
So because I'm in New Orleans right now, he's driving in a post about his time there. Oh, I can dig it.
...
“Turnaround is fair play”, my fictitious folky uncle always would have said. Rassles fills in for me while I was basking on an Antipodean beach, so I fill in for her while she is no doubt drinking Bourbon Street dry. I jumped at the opportunity when I saw the words ‘New Orleans’ and guest post, because I’ve got a story I’ve been itching to tell since I started blogging.
I made a crucial novice blogger mistake back in those early days – I gave the URL to my Grandma. Now she’s no elderly internet prodigy, but she can peck out a few letters and being an older lady she’s got the patience to wait for her Paleolithic dial-up connection to sputter out a picture of her great-grandson. But the critical bit is that she occasionally reads whatever nonsense I’ve posted for the day and calls me up on the carpet the next time I talk to her on the phone.
Long story short – I have to censor myself over on my site. Have to leave out the juicy/sexy/tragic stories. But no more. I’m hoping that dear Grandma won’t bother to follow the link over here, granting me the anonymity that I so covet.
(Grandma, if you’ve found your way over here. Please stop reading. Nothing to see here. Why don’t you give Esther across the lake a call and go out for a nice stroll.)
Sometime in the early spring of 1993-ish I was wallowing around in Florida’s capital city. I had rented a cheap cockroach infested studio in an old house in a particularly fetid part of Tallahassee. I was half in school, half working and half drunk – really doing only the latter with any kind of verve. Most of all, I was bored.
So one Friday afternoon, I called up an old school friend – let’s call him Erwin because that will annoy him - who happened to be in another Florida university town and said “Erwin, let’s go to New Orleans. The Big Easy.”
“Yeah”, Erwin replied, “let’s do that sometime.”
“No, let’s go tonight.”
Erwin was always the yin to my yang. Responsible and well-mannered where I was reckless and boorish. Studious and serious to my lucky and drunk. But to his credit, he had an inner rebel that needed little plying to leap out. About three hours later – around nine o’clock at night - Erwin pulled up in the drive. I was prepared with a towel, a swim suit, a bottle of Southern Comfort and half a sheet of blotter acid.
“I’ll drive”, I declared and with a grinding of gears and a cosmic groan.
I have a philosophy of life by which I stand pretty firmly. It’s not a great philosophy, nor really one to live with. In fact it’s more of an excuse for bad behavior than a philosophy per se: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Fifteen or so years later, I can’t imagine why it would have seemed like a good idea to pop two tabs of LSD onto my tongue as I accelerated onto I-10, but there must have been one.
I honestly can’t remember if Erwin dropped acid that night or not, but either way he’s an idiot. It’s a six hour drive from Tallahassee to New Orleans dead straight through dank cypress swamps down I-10 – fortunately for anyone that may have encountered a late 80’s Japanese pick-up truck piloted by a drug addled moron on that late night. Curves or hills may have resulted in a different story told by a Panhandle coroner or Alabama state trooper.
You’ll be surprised to hear that I don’t remember much of that long midnight drive. Only one thing in fact – R.E.M.’s “Life’s Rich Pageant” playing on a loop on my truck’s tape deck. Particularly…
Over and over.
I’m not a religious man. I’m a scientist. I demand empirical evidence before declaring a truth. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that there is some kind of benevolent higher power out there, because Erwin and I crossed Lake Ponchatrain with the dawn sun peeking up behind us a matter of hours later. Unscathed, slightly damp (to this day I don’t know why) and beginning to come down.
Ladies and gentleman, Bourbon Street at five in the morning is not a nice place when you’re coming down from an LSD trip. It stank of urine and vomit, was littered with trash and comatose drunks. It looked more like my fraternity house after a kegger than the depraved glamour that I had in my head. Both Erwin and I, being sensitive intelligent lads, hadn’t fared well with the ladies thus far in our young lives and I know I had visions of exotic, smoky voiced New Orleanian ladies of the evening that were riding streetcars just waiting for a little piece of A Free Man-boy to complete their day. When I saw what, even to my sexually naive eyes, was clearly a drag queen vomiting into a Dauphine Street gutter I realized that I wasn't getting lucky that morning.
We sat in Jackson Square for a little while shivering both mentally and physically. I took a slug of SoCo and said, "Let's go."
And we did. And that might have been the end of the story. But I decided to take the scenic route home, the long Highway 190 causeway across Lake Ponchatrain which ends up in the small town of Covington. At that time, and today for that matter, Covington Louisiana means only one thing to me - Walker Percy. If you don't know who Walker Percy is then you're either a Yankee or a moron and you should get off the internet and go read "Lancelot". If you do know who Walker Percy is, you'll understand why Erwin and I spent a good part of that day scouring the cemeteries of this sleepy Southern town looking for his headstone. If you've ever read "The Thanatos Syndrome" you'll understand why we spent the rest of that day drinking Southern Comfort at his grave. And if you've ever read "The Last Gentleman" you'll know that he probably would have approved.
I always like to end my posts with a take-home message - a lesson learned. But I don't think I have one for this story. I don't do acid any more nor do I drink Southern Comfort. But this particular adventure has little to do with those decisions. I think I'll throw it up to Walker:
"You live in a deranged age, more deranged that usual, because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing."
...
Although A Free Man is still new to me, technically, I'm playing catch-up on his blog, and it's really super neat. Partly because he's got this Michael Stipe thing going on, and partly because he's an excellent writer with good stories to tell, and partly because he's got this glorious, fair outlook on on everything that's inspired by feelings rather than complacency. That's a killer combination.
So because I'm in New Orleans right now, he's driving in a post about his time there. Oh, I can dig it.
...
“Turnaround is fair play”, my fictitious folky uncle always would have said. Rassles fills in for me while I was basking on an Antipodean beach, so I fill in for her while she is no doubt drinking Bourbon Street dry. I jumped at the opportunity when I saw the words ‘New Orleans’ and guest post, because I’ve got a story I’ve been itching to tell since I started blogging.
I made a crucial novice blogger mistake back in those early days – I gave the URL to my Grandma. Now she’s no elderly internet prodigy, but she can peck out a few letters and being an older lady she’s got the patience to wait for her Paleolithic dial-up connection to sputter out a picture of her great-grandson. But the critical bit is that she occasionally reads whatever nonsense I’ve posted for the day and calls me up on the carpet the next time I talk to her on the phone.
Long story short – I have to censor myself over on my site. Have to leave out the juicy/sexy/tragic stories. But no more. I’m hoping that dear Grandma won’t bother to follow the link over here, granting me the anonymity that I so covet.
(Grandma, if you’ve found your way over here. Please stop reading. Nothing to see here. Why don’t you give Esther across the lake a call and go out for a nice stroll.)
Sometime in the early spring of 1993-ish I was wallowing around in Florida’s capital city. I had rented a cheap cockroach infested studio in an old house in a particularly fetid part of Tallahassee. I was half in school, half working and half drunk – really doing only the latter with any kind of verve. Most of all, I was bored.
So one Friday afternoon, I called up an old school friend – let’s call him Erwin because that will annoy him - who happened to be in another Florida university town and said “Erwin, let’s go to New Orleans. The Big Easy.”
“Yeah”, Erwin replied, “let’s do that sometime.”
“No, let’s go tonight.”
Erwin was always the yin to my yang. Responsible and well-mannered where I was reckless and boorish. Studious and serious to my lucky and drunk. But to his credit, he had an inner rebel that needed little plying to leap out. About three hours later – around nine o’clock at night - Erwin pulled up in the drive. I was prepared with a towel, a swim suit, a bottle of Southern Comfort and half a sheet of blotter acid.
“I’ll drive”, I declared and with a grinding of gears and a cosmic groan.
I have a philosophy of life by which I stand pretty firmly. It’s not a great philosophy, nor really one to live with. In fact it’s more of an excuse for bad behavior than a philosophy per se: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Fifteen or so years later, I can’t imagine why it would have seemed like a good idea to pop two tabs of LSD onto my tongue as I accelerated onto I-10, but there must have been one.
I honestly can’t remember if Erwin dropped acid that night or not, but either way he’s an idiot. It’s a six hour drive from Tallahassee to New Orleans dead straight through dank cypress swamps down I-10 – fortunately for anyone that may have encountered a late 80’s Japanese pick-up truck piloted by a drug addled moron on that late night. Curves or hills may have resulted in a different story told by a Panhandle coroner or Alabama state trooper.
You’ll be surprised to hear that I don’t remember much of that long midnight drive. Only one thing in fact – R.E.M.’s “Life’s Rich Pageant” playing on a loop on my truck’s tape deck. Particularly…
I believe in coyotes and time as an abstract
Explain the change, the difference between
What you want and what you need, there's the key,
Your adventure for today, what do you do
Between the horns of the day?
Over and over.
I’m not a religious man. I’m a scientist. I demand empirical evidence before declaring a truth. But I can guaran-damn-tee you that there is some kind of benevolent higher power out there, because Erwin and I crossed Lake Ponchatrain with the dawn sun peeking up behind us a matter of hours later. Unscathed, slightly damp (to this day I don’t know why) and beginning to come down.
Ladies and gentleman, Bourbon Street at five in the morning is not a nice place when you’re coming down from an LSD trip. It stank of urine and vomit, was littered with trash and comatose drunks. It looked more like my fraternity house after a kegger than the depraved glamour that I had in my head. Both Erwin and I, being sensitive intelligent lads, hadn’t fared well with the ladies thus far in our young lives and I know I had visions of exotic, smoky voiced New Orleanian ladies of the evening that were riding streetcars just waiting for a little piece of A Free Man-boy to complete their day. When I saw what, even to my sexually naive eyes, was clearly a drag queen vomiting into a Dauphine Street gutter I realized that I wasn't getting lucky that morning.
We sat in Jackson Square for a little while shivering both mentally and physically. I took a slug of SoCo and said, "Let's go."
And we did. And that might have been the end of the story. But I decided to take the scenic route home, the long Highway 190 causeway across Lake Ponchatrain which ends up in the small town of Covington. At that time, and today for that matter, Covington Louisiana means only one thing to me - Walker Percy. If you don't know who Walker Percy is then you're either a Yankee or a moron and you should get off the internet and go read "Lancelot". If you do know who Walker Percy is, you'll understand why Erwin and I spent a good part of that day scouring the cemeteries of this sleepy Southern town looking for his headstone. If you've ever read "The Thanatos Syndrome" you'll understand why we spent the rest of that day drinking Southern Comfort at his grave. And if you've ever read "The Last Gentleman" you'll know that he probably would have approved.
I always like to end my posts with a take-home message - a lesson learned. But I don't think I have one for this story. I don't do acid any more nor do I drink Southern Comfort. But this particular adventure has little to do with those decisions. I think I'll throw it up to Walker:
"You live in a deranged age, more deranged that usual, because in spite of great scientific and technological advances, man has not the faintest idea of who he is or what he is doing."
...
Friday, January 9, 2009
Schmee
Everyone who doesn't know me in real life and doesn't give a shit about this has to deal with it for one more day, because Schmee is last, but certainly not least. She's got a lot to say. Most likely because out of all of my friends, we've probably had the most adventures together.
By the way, there is a higher probability of me giving up drinking than finding pictures of Schmee, "The Homewrecker," where she is (a) not hugging someone (b) not making "sex face" or (c) not hammered.
LYLAS! (yeah, we do that. Shut up.) Here's what she's got to say (and like I said, there is a lot):
(M.E. steals the phone from her)
M.E. - (wasted) Duuuude. This girl was HOT. She was SO hot. And oh my god SUCH a good kisser.
SCHMEE - Nice job, M.E. Work it.
RASSLES - (from the background) Whatever the girl didn't even have a fucking bra on. I fucking hate you, M.E.
Who was the random girl, you ask? Well, it was our soon to be Whore Captain...Captain Ammo herself. And so began the debauchery that is LBK. It was an era that consisted of theme nights, good singing, bad singing, whore chants, LOTS of liquor, and blacking out. I would try and list some good memories but they were all pretty damn good. Well, that, and the fact that all the blacking out would make for quite a few holes in the stories...Damn those soco lime shots.
POST COLLEGE/NOT LBK BUT STILL KARAOKE
There was a period of time where Rassles, M.E., and I took our karaoke obsession to a whole new level by finding almost every dive bar in the burbs that had karaoke and pretty much becoming regulars. I mean, we actually drove around with the Karaoke Nite Life newspaper in our cars in case we absolutely needed karaoke and it was an off night at our regular bars. Talk about obsessed. Anyway, this is the time period in which some of these memories took place.
The many times we went to Rory's and got free pitchers and shots until after the bar time because the owner was obsessed with me, almost to a creepy degree. He had a girlfriend of course, because this was when I was an unintentional Homewrecker. Oh, and Rassles bought him a hat he wanted once which got us even more free booze. Sweet. In the end we found out they shut the bar down because he was arrested for sexually assaulting some chick after hours. What a classy establishment that was.
The time we went to a bar in the middle of nowhere because M.E. wanted to enter the karaoke rap contest. I sang my first song, tripped over the microphone cord and fell off the stage. a;ljks;kdjf "I'm gonna start calling you the One Beer Wonder...hehe" (Quote from the douchebag DJ that was in love with Rassles and comments like that being the reason she wanted nothing to do with him).
Then me and Rassles ended up at some random dude's apartment (Rassles kept calling him Beaches so we never figured out his real name) where we smoked a bunch of pot and watch Vanilla Sky. At about 7 in the morning we got a taste for McDonald's breakfast and had to eat our food in front of a bunch of people wearing business suits who were on the way to work. Gotta love going out on weekdays. That was probably the weirdest night of my life...
All the nights doing karaoke at Where Else? cuz Where Else? would we go?
Being in love with the old man who sang Sinatra at Sponge Reef.
RANDOM MEMORIES OF, OR WITH YOU THAT MAKE ME LAUGH
The time you slept over at my house in my sister's room and when I woke up you were watching Hook and playing with Tarot cards, hung over as hell.
The time we left Goldies (bar that sells dollar PBR's and lets you play old school Nintendo...Best. Bar. Ever.) and you baffed black bile in your hand...And then stared at it for about 2 minutes before cleaning it off on your shirt. Stop drinking whiskey!
Every Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo. Especially the first one where Miles Long did magic tricks and pulled a gerbil out of your boobs. HAH. Everyone better be coming to PCCCC 6 on Saturday!
The time we dominated at flippy cup. Which time do you ask? You're right. I should be more specific because we always dominate. the time when Flips McGee and the Cup Killers got 3rd place out of 40 teams in Chicago, and got everybody at McFaddens to chant, "Bull-shit" because we so obviously won that round. That referee was a dumb bitch.
All the nights we made stroganoff and watched Coupling. "Ohhh, Jeffrey..."
All the times we've dominated the jukebox and made people listen to Chicago and Foreigner.
The time we dressed up as the Ghostbusters for Halloween and you made awesome proton packs for us out of Carson Pirie Scott boxes. And then, you had a giant pink care bear tell you that "he's hit a girl before and he'd do it again." All because we kicked his ass in flippy cup.
Alright, I'm gonna cut myself off right there because this is becoming the longest blog on earth. I've been slaving over it for 3 days. And now I have to go back and edit the shit out of it to make sure I'm satisfied. This is why I do not blog. It stresses me out. And I feel like I'm doing homework.
In closing, I would just like to say thank you, Rassles. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for introducing me to my boyfriend, and Orazio's, and The Can, and Neighbors, and all of your Ville friends. And thank you for not getting mad that I hang out with all those people, all those places more than you do. Oh wait, you do get mad about that. Most of all, thank you for being you, because without you, I would not be the person I am today. I hope you think your present is blog-tastic and you have a Happy Biffy Baffy Birthday.
Love,
Schmee
...
By the way, there is a higher probability of me giving up drinking than finding pictures of Schmee, "The Homewrecker," where she is (a) not hugging someone (b) not making "sex face" or (c) not hammered.
LYLAS! (yeah, we do that. Shut up.) Here's what she's got to say (and like I said, there is a lot):
I’ve decided to follow Ammo’s lead and do a list of Top However Many Memories I Can Think Of Involving Rassles. Well, that’s how it’s going to start at least. Chances are this blog will be all over the place. Deal with it.
COLLEGE
1. The time we drove around for hours smoking cigarettes to “Freebird” and then changing the lyrics to make up our own song about cigarettes. It went something like…"Man, I neeeeed a ciga- reeeeeee-eeeeeeeette. OhhhhOh ciga-reeeeeeeee-eeeeeeeeeette" Don’t lie. You all just tried to sing it in your head and it was magical….
2. The time we sang “Tiny Dancer” at the Bullpen and we made up dance moves. Then we realized the song is about 10 minutes long and we looked like idiots. Lame.
3. The time the Bullpen got raided because there was a wet t-shirt contest (which Emi won even with a blue t-shirt on. What a hooker.) and I had to hide in the bathroom because I wasn’t 21 yet. Rassles brought me beer and talked to me over the stall until the cops had cleared out. That’s when I knew I had a true friend…
4. The time Fraya and I showed up at The Shithole (Rassles’ house her senior year of college…name is self explanatory) after about 14 hours of drinking (damn, the OZO’s and their Octoberfest) desperately needing help from Rassles because I had taken a nasty spill (YEAH parentheses) and hit my head on the curb. Instead of helping me she broke out the video camera and got footage of me trying to have a conversation with the tomato in my Wendy’s hamburger. Could we say life-ruiner???
5. The time we had a massive flippy cup tournament at The Shithole, filled with team chanting and everything. The sad part is that nobody can remember whose team won because we were all so hammered. It was definitely either mine or Rassles’ team though.
6. The morning/afternoon after the flippy cup tournament when we tried to solve The Mystery of the Inflatable Snowman. Afkjls;dfklaskdl. That deserves a blog all to itself. Git er done Ross.
7. Later that same day when I got home and checked my messages I had one from Rassles that said, verbatim, “I was fuckin HAMMERED last night. HAM—MURRED. I puked. And it looked like thousand island dressing…
8. Another one of the many times Rassles’ broke out the video camera was after a drunken night at the Bullpen when everyone that was at the bar came back to The Shithole (Are we noticing a pattern here?) and people started taking turns sledding down the stairs in a laundry basket….Classic.
9. One of our many movie nights, which were basically just an excuse for us not to do homework, she brought over the movie Secretary insisting that it would be great because she loves James Spader. So we watched it, blushing and laughing awkwardly throughout. “Cream potatoes! Four peas! ….edward!!!”
10. The time Rassles came back to Augie for my 21st birthday and she recorded every drink/shot I had on a piece of cardboard from a Coors light box. And when I puked after the 20th one (first and only time I’ve ever puked from drinking and only the second time I’ve ever puked in my life. I know, I rule.) we went back to Bobbay’s house where I was forced to take a hit of weed as my 21st “drink/shot”. Then we proceeded to watch the “you got a fuckin dart in your neck!” part from Old School about 10 times…while laughing uncontrollably of course. I feel tired.
11. The countless hours we spent with the Animal Book taking the quiz for ourselves, and for others, over and over and over again. And the fact that she still talks to me even though I’m a sea lion who supposedly “has conversations that lack substance and logical grounding.” ARH,ARH,ARH. Life ruined again.
12. COLLEGE… NO PARENTS… BURRRRRR
LBK
One of the first times Rassles ever went to Live Band Karaoke she was with Emi. Sadly, I was not there. But I did get quite the phone call from a pissed off Rassles in the middle of the night. The conversation went a little like this….
SCHMEE - What the hell happened? Why are you so mad?
RASSLES - Fucking Emi makes me come out to fuckin live band with her and then leaves me in the fuckin corner by myself all night while she makes out with some fuckin random girl.
(keep in mind, these are the days before Emi was a full blown lez. As far as we knew she still dated dudes but just made out with our lesbian friend Kate from time to time. Oh how things have changed…)
Cont.
SCHMEE - Well that’s interes—
RASSLES - (Interrupting) It’s fucking bullshit! I had to sit there while every dude at the bar came up to me asking if they were my friends and what their deal was. And the---
(M.E. steals the phone from her)
M.E. - (wasted) Duuuude. This girl was HOT. She was SO hot. And oh my god SUCH a good kisser.
SCHMEE - Nice job, M.E. Work it.
RASSLES - (from the background) Whatever the girl didn't even have a fucking bra on. I fucking hate you, M.E.
Who was the random girl, you ask? Well, it was our soon to be Whore Captain...Captain Ammo herself. And so began the debauchery that is LBK. It was an era that consisted of theme nights, good singing, bad singing, whore chants, LOTS of liquor, and blacking out. I would try and list some good memories but they were all pretty damn good. Well, that, and the fact that all the blacking out would make for quite a few holes in the stories...Damn those soco lime shots.
POST COLLEGE/NOT LBK BUT STILL KARAOKE
There was a period of time where Rassles, M.E., and I took our karaoke obsession to a whole new level by finding almost every dive bar in the burbs that had karaoke and pretty much becoming regulars. I mean, we actually drove around with the Karaoke Nite Life newspaper in our cars in case we absolutely needed karaoke and it was an off night at our regular bars. Talk about obsessed. Anyway, this is the time period in which some of these memories took place.
The many times we went to Rory's and got free pitchers and shots until after the bar time because the owner was obsessed with me, almost to a creepy degree. He had a girlfriend of course, because this was when I was an unintentional Homewrecker. Oh, and Rassles bought him a hat he wanted once which got us even more free booze. Sweet. In the end we found out they shut the bar down because he was arrested for sexually assaulting some chick after hours. What a classy establishment that was.
The time we went to a bar in the middle of nowhere because M.E. wanted to enter the karaoke rap contest. I sang my first song, tripped over the microphone cord and fell off the stage. a;ljks;kdjf "I'm gonna start calling you the One Beer Wonder...hehe" (Quote from the douchebag DJ that was in love with Rassles and comments like that being the reason she wanted nothing to do with him).
Then me and Rassles ended up at some random dude's apartment (Rassles kept calling him Beaches so we never figured out his real name) where we smoked a bunch of pot and watch Vanilla Sky. At about 7 in the morning we got a taste for McDonald's breakfast and had to eat our food in front of a bunch of people wearing business suits who were on the way to work. Gotta love going out on weekdays. That was probably the weirdest night of my life...
All the nights doing karaoke at Where Else? cuz Where Else? would we go?
Being in love with the old man who sang Sinatra at Sponge Reef.
RANDOM MEMORIES OF, OR WITH YOU THAT MAKE ME LAUGH
The time you slept over at my house in my sister's room and when I woke up you were watching Hook and playing with Tarot cards, hung over as hell.
The time we left Goldies (bar that sells dollar PBR's and lets you play old school Nintendo...Best. Bar. Ever.) and you baffed black bile in your hand...And then stared at it for about 2 minutes before cleaning it off on your shirt. Stop drinking whiskey!
Every Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo. Especially the first one where Miles Long did magic tricks and pulled a gerbil out of your boobs. HAH. Everyone better be coming to PCCCC 6 on Saturday!
The time we dominated at flippy cup. Which time do you ask? You're right. I should be more specific because we always dominate. the time when Flips McGee and the Cup Killers got 3rd place out of 40 teams in Chicago, and got everybody at McFaddens to chant, "Bull-shit" because we so obviously won that round. That referee was a dumb bitch.
All the nights we made stroganoff and watched Coupling. "Ohhh, Jeffrey..."
All the times we've dominated the jukebox and made people listen to Chicago and Foreigner.
The time we dressed up as the Ghostbusters for Halloween and you made awesome proton packs for us out of Carson Pirie Scott boxes. And then, you had a giant pink care bear tell you that "he's hit a girl before and he'd do it again." All because we kicked his ass in flippy cup.
Alright, I'm gonna cut myself off right there because this is becoming the longest blog on earth. I've been slaving over it for 3 days. And now I have to go back and edit the shit out of it to make sure I'm satisfied. This is why I do not blog. It stresses me out. And I feel like I'm doing homework.
In closing, I would just like to say thank you, Rassles. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for always being there. Thank you for introducing me to my boyfriend, and Orazio's, and The Can, and Neighbors, and all of your Ville friends. And thank you for not getting mad that I hang out with all those people, all those places more than you do. Oh wait, you do get mad about that. Most of all, thank you for being you, because without you, I would not be the person I am today. I hope you think your present is blog-tastic and you have a Happy Biffy Baffy Birthday.
Love,
Schmee
...
Thursday, January 8, 2009
M.E.
I totally didn't go into work today, because I am sick as fuck, and it's far more important for me to rest up and be healthy for Pub Chugga Chugga Choo Choo on Saturday than it is for me to, like, work and stuff.
So I got lucky with making people write things about me, because I don't have to put any work into blogging. Just cut and paste, beeotch.
Today I'd like to welcome M.E. to the stage, "The Pink Bat." One of my oldest and dearest, humble and modest and completely and totally full of herself. And for some reason, with better game than like, anyone I've ever met. Be careful. This one is long, because M.E. doesn't only love me, but she loves herself.
Happy Birthday!!! Smooches!!!
------------------------------------------
I have known Rassles for almost 10 years now in many different capacities. She is one of my best friends that I met freshman year in college and has always supported me and somehow manages to tell me things about myself before I even have the chance to realize them. Rassles underestimates herself and the inspiration she offers to me and others around us. She has always been the one to document our friends' shenanigans, whether it's with a video camera, pictures, or her blog. That's why I feel so compelled to return the favor by adding to her birthday blog with a recap of memories of '08 with Rassles. I love you, Rassles!
1) We started off 2008 with the infamous Pub Chugga Choo Choo, the most insane day-long commitment to drinking and debauchery. Ross is a genius because she came up with the idea and keeps the tradition going every few months. I swear if she applied the intricate planning and detail that go into this event to her career, she could easily run her own company. And anyone who combines our friends with a train and a pub crawl is brave. It brings all of our friends together--it's the one party where both city and suburban folk come together and can truly have a good time. I'm not sure if it's the ridiculous amounts of alcohol or the novelty of riding the train all day with 30 friends or all of the possibilities that seem to present themselves throughout the day. Whatever it is, the pub chugga chugga choo choo is magical.
2) In my opinion, the most surprising thing Rassles did this year was to get a tattoo, a comic she used to draw as a kid. I just never thought I'd see the day and I expected more build up to it. If I ever pictured her with a tattoo, I would've never picture it to be on her forearm. But that's just how it happened...she showed up at my house one day, rolled up her sleeve and was like, "dude, Debbie gave me a tattoo last night."
3) Rassles was great for putting up with me as I went through a painful breakup this summer. Even though she dealt with my endless agony for a few months straight, she always lent a helpful ear when I needed it. It all came to a climax the night when she blacked out and yelled at me for about an hour about how stupid I was being and how my ex was even stupider. I think she even told me she wanted to slap me.
4) As if I don't hate American Girl dolls enough, I think the most terrifying moment of 2008 for me was seeing Rassles and two of my friends dressed as the American Girl dolls while holding their respective twin dolls. It gave me the heebie jeebies.
5) One of my favorite nights with Rassles this year was when we went to see NKOTB. I offered her my free ticket because I knew she didn't have any money and even more importantly, I knew she wouldn't be afraid to act like a kid with me. We definitely turned into a couple of schoolgirls that night. I witnessed her nearly faint when we saw Donnie sing his solo. Later that night, we met a guy named Kevin at a dive bar and by some stroke of fate, drank a bottle of wine with him until the wee hours of the morning while he told us his life story.
6) I brought her to Ben Folds, another free ticket I thought she could use. The show was a lot tamer than his normal live stuff, and Rassles left really pissed off because all she saw were lame couples making out all night. For a second, I thought she might join the angry hipster fight we saw outside the show. She just wanted to dance the whole night away, but there was no dancing in sight.
7) I'm surprisingly still friends with her even though we had a bit of a falling out this summer. She was supposed to bring our blankets for camping but didn't. All I had to sleep with was a tarp. Ross is very reliable for things like bringing the best bloody mary ingredients in town, but then sometimes forgets essentials like blankets. She ruins my life.
8) Rassles helped me get through some of my most boring days at the office by getting me addicted to Typeracer, an online game where you compete to see who can type a paragraph fastest. I never thought that typing alone could make me sweat. I am secretly competitive, as I'm learning Rassles and most of our friends are too, so this game was perfect.
9) I went through a phase of suggesting off the wall part-time jobs for Rassles because I knew she was looking for some extra cash. I suggested some jobs I was finding on Craigslist for movie reviewers and store promotions and other things but best of all, sent her a link for porn reviewers. After she was seriously considering it and she was telling people she reviewed porn for a living, we found out it was just another stupid moneymaking scam. Lame! I really had envisioned her getting a lot of free porn and all the whores gathering to drink beers on a regular basis to watch the awful titles that she was working on that week.
10) When the whole porn reviewing thing fell through, my next idea was for her to take a stab at being a standup comedian. After sitting through some painful open mic performances, I knew Rassles would have what it takes to be better than any of the acts I had seen. That dream kind of died when I tried to introduce her to open mic standup night. The problem was, the bar ended it the week before without me knowing...I still think standup comedy would be a great fit for Rassles. Her naughty laugh alone would captivate the audience. Or even if she just got up there and read her daily blog out loud, she would definitely steal the spotlight.
...
So I got lucky with making people write things about me, because I don't have to put any work into blogging. Just cut and paste, beeotch.
Today I'd like to welcome M.E. to the stage, "The Pink Bat." One of my oldest and dearest, humble and modest and completely and totally full of herself. And for some reason, with better game than like, anyone I've ever met. Be careful. This one is long, because M.E. doesn't only love me, but she loves herself.
Happy Birthday!!! Smooches!!!
------------------------------------------
I have known Rassles for almost 10 years now in many different capacities. She is one of my best friends that I met freshman year in college and has always supported me and somehow manages to tell me things about myself before I even have the chance to realize them. Rassles underestimates herself and the inspiration she offers to me and others around us. She has always been the one to document our friends' shenanigans, whether it's with a video camera, pictures, or her blog. That's why I feel so compelled to return the favor by adding to her birthday blog with a recap of memories of '08 with Rassles. I love you, Rassles!
1) We started off 2008 with the infamous Pub Chugga Choo Choo, the most insane day-long commitment to drinking and debauchery. Ross is a genius because she came up with the idea and keeps the tradition going every few months. I swear if she applied the intricate planning and detail that go into this event to her career, she could easily run her own company. And anyone who combines our friends with a train and a pub crawl is brave. It brings all of our friends together--it's the one party where both city and suburban folk come together and can truly have a good time. I'm not sure if it's the ridiculous amounts of alcohol or the novelty of riding the train all day with 30 friends or all of the possibilities that seem to present themselves throughout the day. Whatever it is, the pub chugga chugga choo choo is magical.
2) In my opinion, the most surprising thing Rassles did this year was to get a tattoo, a comic she used to draw as a kid. I just never thought I'd see the day and I expected more build up to it. If I ever pictured her with a tattoo, I would've never picture it to be on her forearm. But that's just how it happened...she showed up at my house one day, rolled up her sleeve and was like, "dude, Debbie gave me a tattoo last night."
3) Rassles was great for putting up with me as I went through a painful breakup this summer. Even though she dealt with my endless agony for a few months straight, she always lent a helpful ear when I needed it. It all came to a climax the night when she blacked out and yelled at me for about an hour about how stupid I was being and how my ex was even stupider. I think she even told me she wanted to slap me.
4) As if I don't hate American Girl dolls enough, I think the most terrifying moment of 2008 for me was seeing Rassles and two of my friends dressed as the American Girl dolls while holding their respective twin dolls. It gave me the heebie jeebies.
5) One of my favorite nights with Rassles this year was when we went to see NKOTB. I offered her my free ticket because I knew she didn't have any money and even more importantly, I knew she wouldn't be afraid to act like a kid with me. We definitely turned into a couple of schoolgirls that night. I witnessed her nearly faint when we saw Donnie sing his solo. Later that night, we met a guy named Kevin at a dive bar and by some stroke of fate, drank a bottle of wine with him until the wee hours of the morning while he told us his life story.
6) I brought her to Ben Folds, another free ticket I thought she could use. The show was a lot tamer than his normal live stuff, and Rassles left really pissed off because all she saw were lame couples making out all night. For a second, I thought she might join the angry hipster fight we saw outside the show. She just wanted to dance the whole night away, but there was no dancing in sight.
7) I'm surprisingly still friends with her even though we had a bit of a falling out this summer. She was supposed to bring our blankets for camping but didn't. All I had to sleep with was a tarp. Ross is very reliable for things like bringing the best bloody mary ingredients in town, but then sometimes forgets essentials like blankets. She ruins my life.
8) Rassles helped me get through some of my most boring days at the office by getting me addicted to Typeracer, an online game where you compete to see who can type a paragraph fastest. I never thought that typing alone could make me sweat. I am secretly competitive, as I'm learning Rassles and most of our friends are too, so this game was perfect.
9) I went through a phase of suggesting off the wall part-time jobs for Rassles because I knew she was looking for some extra cash. I suggested some jobs I was finding on Craigslist for movie reviewers and store promotions and other things but best of all, sent her a link for porn reviewers. After she was seriously considering it and she was telling people she reviewed porn for a living, we found out it was just another stupid moneymaking scam. Lame! I really had envisioned her getting a lot of free porn and all the whores gathering to drink beers on a regular basis to watch the awful titles that she was working on that week.
10) When the whole porn reviewing thing fell through, my next idea was for her to take a stab at being a standup comedian. After sitting through some painful open mic performances, I knew Rassles would have what it takes to be better than any of the acts I had seen. That dream kind of died when I tried to introduce her to open mic standup night. The problem was, the bar ended it the week before without me knowing...I still think standup comedy would be a great fit for Rassles. Her naughty laugh alone would captivate the audience. Or even if she just got up there and read her daily blog out loud, she would definitely steal the spotlight.
...
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Gyna
You know what's some bullshit? Getting old. I am sick as fuck right now, and instead of drinking it away last night I bought some cough medicine and went to bed.
At least I got someone else to write again for me today. I've been downing Robitussin all morning, and I'm gettin' a little woozy.
Everyone, I would like to introduce Gyna, the "BFF." Just you know, read what she wrote and leave me to my Tussin.
Alrighty then- Happy Birthday and here is your blog present. You better not edit this all to make me sound lame. Also I demand a hot photo of me.
Rassles Blog Take 96
What is so daunting about this task is not the judgment about my writing skills (you can all suck it) but the mere fact that I don't want to fuck it up and just try to sum up the awesomeness with a bad story. No one wants to read a bad story- especially in stranger blog form (I now hope that you do have strangers reading this otherwise, maybe it won't be so bad!).
But back to the task at hand, all Rassles, all the time. First things first- I love that we went to the same college at the same time and didn't know each other and never hung out. I think that was nature's way of saving our lives because there could have been some scary consequences. Meh. I think we made up for it in the past couple of years.
Once I made the wise decision to finally come to live band, I was well on my way to what became my sole purpose in this life- writing a blog entry for you. From that first night on, I was hooked. I hated all karaoke experiences prior to that night- but since it was Dead Icon night and there was good singing to a band, it made all the difference in the world. You then were the driving force to get me out on the stage to sing in front of people. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, but now I just inflict pain on those that listen to my brazenness. We sang Under Pressure which was kinda bad. Then we tried it again weeks later and it was still bad- we should really work on that song.
The next couple of awesome karaoke stories that I thought about telling were all fuzzy, drunken stories of yelling out car windows for cheeseburgers and falling down and exposing body parts and kissing weird boys while waiting for some fried mushrooms (don't believe me? i am sure there are some photos somewhere around here...)
Lap dance from that one guy- remember him? he was ... interesting
Oooh tower
Told you people fell- at least I was nice and helping someone up
Flippy cup action
See ultimately when I sat down to finally write this (yay for procrastination!) I didn't want to go sappy, so I stopped watching Little Women for writing advice. I tried to then review photos from the past few years and most of them were either too embarrassing to look at or I noticed how young we looked and that scared me more.
What I saw in those photos were how awesome we were together and how much awesomeness you have brought to the city. And while most of those times seem like ages ago, we at least sometimes get to ride the bus home after work together- and that is cool for many reasons mostly because it is where excellent schemes are hatched. I love that you bring along adventure when you come to hang out, except for when it is a bad adventure. I mean I guess what I discovered most is that when I start stories about you, it always comes out as an inside joke- you had to be there to experience it. So instead of coming up with my top ten Rassles stories and make everyone jealous of our lives, I am going to give you some advice- which you should heed since I am like almost a month older than you are.
Rassles, there are some things I want you to tackle in your 28th year and there are many things I hope for you to experience as well. I hope that we get to do more tarot readings for each other as I think that is fun times. I also hope that the crazy psychic lady was right and you do fall in love this year (and if the other night was that guy, then jackpot!). I also hope that when you fall in love that he takes you to the opera and makes you fall in love by translating the song into english and you get all sappy and make out (hehehe I so did not turn off Little Women- suckers). I almost hope that you lose your contact again on a stage and do that weird, swimming search dance. I hope you throw that Teen Wolf party because I want to make a shirt for it. I hope that there are more camping trips in the future. I also hope that you seriously think about making a goal to write a book because I am pretty sure people would want to read it cause you are funny and not an asshole. Also, I hope you dance (couldn't resist as usual from the lame, obvious joke).
Thanks again for not being a lame-ass friend!
Oh and HOLLA!!
...
At least I got someone else to write again for me today. I've been downing Robitussin all morning, and I'm gettin' a little woozy.
Everyone, I would like to introduce Gyna, the "BFF." Just you know, read what she wrote and leave me to my Tussin.
Alrighty then- Happy Birthday and here is your blog present. You better not edit this all to make me sound lame. Also I demand a hot photo of me.
Rassles Blog Take 96
What is so daunting about this task is not the judgment about my writing skills (you can all suck it) but the mere fact that I don't want to fuck it up and just try to sum up the awesomeness with a bad story. No one wants to read a bad story- especially in stranger blog form (I now hope that you do have strangers reading this otherwise, maybe it won't be so bad!).
But back to the task at hand, all Rassles, all the time. First things first- I love that we went to the same college at the same time and didn't know each other and never hung out. I think that was nature's way of saving our lives because there could have been some scary consequences. Meh. I think we made up for it in the past couple of years.
Once I made the wise decision to finally come to live band, I was well on my way to what became my sole purpose in this life- writing a blog entry for you. From that first night on, I was hooked. I hated all karaoke experiences prior to that night- but since it was Dead Icon night and there was good singing to a band, it made all the difference in the world. You then were the driving force to get me out on the stage to sing in front of people. It was the most terrifying thing I have ever done, but now I just inflict pain on those that listen to my brazenness. We sang Under Pressure which was kinda bad. Then we tried it again weeks later and it was still bad- we should really work on that song.
The next couple of awesome karaoke stories that I thought about telling were all fuzzy, drunken stories of yelling out car windows for cheeseburgers and falling down and exposing body parts and kissing weird boys while waiting for some fried mushrooms (don't believe me? i am sure there are some photos somewhere around here...)
Lap dance from that one guy- remember him? he was ... interesting
Oooh tower
Told you people fell- at least I was nice and helping someone up
Flippy cup action
See ultimately when I sat down to finally write this (yay for procrastination!) I didn't want to go sappy, so I stopped watching Little Women for writing advice. I tried to then review photos from the past few years and most of them were either too embarrassing to look at or I noticed how young we looked and that scared me more.
What I saw in those photos were how awesome we were together and how much awesomeness you have brought to the city. And while most of those times seem like ages ago, we at least sometimes get to ride the bus home after work together- and that is cool for many reasons mostly because it is where excellent schemes are hatched. I love that you bring along adventure when you come to hang out, except for when it is a bad adventure. I mean I guess what I discovered most is that when I start stories about you, it always comes out as an inside joke- you had to be there to experience it. So instead of coming up with my top ten Rassles stories and make everyone jealous of our lives, I am going to give you some advice- which you should heed since I am like almost a month older than you are.
Rassles, there are some things I want you to tackle in your 28th year and there are many things I hope for you to experience as well. I hope that we get to do more tarot readings for each other as I think that is fun times. I also hope that the crazy psychic lady was right and you do fall in love this year (and if the other night was that guy, then jackpot!). I also hope that when you fall in love that he takes you to the opera and makes you fall in love by translating the song into english and you get all sappy and make out (hehehe I so did not turn off Little Women- suckers). I almost hope that you lose your contact again on a stage and do that weird, swimming search dance. I hope you throw that Teen Wolf party because I want to make a shirt for it. I hope that there are more camping trips in the future. I also hope that you seriously think about making a goal to write a book because I am pretty sure people would want to read it cause you are funny and not an asshole. Also, I hope you dance (couldn't resist as usual from the lame, obvious joke).
Thanks again for not being a lame-ass friend!
Oh and HOLLA!!
...
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
MoLinder
First order of business: It is my birthday.
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Ammunition
After a surprisingly sober fun night at Ian's Party last night (it's wierd that I have readers that won't just know what I'm referring to by dropping Ian's Party, so I feel obliged to link such things so I don't have to elaborate), I've decided to spend all day drinking in honor of my upcoming birthday. I have also decided to be the annoying girl with the Hannukah birthday (eight crazy nights) because I have every right to be.
And I've officially accepted that I will never join the twenty-seven club.
All that aside, I have no stories, because I don't feel like it, but here's another tidbit from another one of The Whores, Ammo, "The Captain."
And this is how she feels about me:
Here is a list for my favorite list maker! Happy Birthday, Ross! (These are in no particular order, except how I am remembering them)...
p.s. I am not drunk.
1. When she broke her glasses in two pieces, she went to Starbucks. Realizing she cannot see the menu, she monocled with one lens to order a coffee. Priceless.
2. Her drunk voicemails are the best. I never thought I'd listen to an inebriated train of thought and be thoroughly entertained.
3. She taught me how to make White Russians. Now I can finally drink milk! Thanks Ross!
4. Her turkey man mass text will be one of the most epic moments I have ever had standing outside Petco checking my cell phone.
5. She is the only one that can sing a song that was meant for two people to sing. Both male and female parts and make that shit work.
6. She has a contagious laugh. You cannot be human if you don't laugh with her.
7. Her blogging is comparable to eating White Castle. You crave it, generally are drunk when you consume it, and usually feel ashamed afterwords for giving in.
8. She can make a cold night outside The Hidden Cove a lot more tolerable, with a cigarette that is.
9. She is one of the most generous, kindest and smartest people I can say is one of my friends.
10. She is the only one I can text, "I have beer", or "Let's get fucked up" and will be over in about an hour.
11. She recently taught me that wearing long sleeved sweaters, getting drunk and having your period all at the same time is a bad idea. Never thought of it!!
12. I never get tired of her dropping F-bombs in "Total Eclipse of the Heart".
13. She managed to play off Jackie Brown for Tarantino Night...and it worked.
14. She makes me feel less ashamed of saying "Fuck" or "Fucking" in every/every other sentence.
15. Her gin story makes me feel like I should cut back on the Bombay.
16. She is an interdimensional traveler, which can be helpful.
17. Feckin. That's it.
I hope this made your day. I wish you many interdimensional travels for your pub chugga choo choo! Once again I am a tool for working and missing it.
Happy Birthday!!!
Ammo
...
And I've officially accepted that I will never join the twenty-seven club.
All that aside, I have no stories, because I don't feel like it, but here's another tidbit from another one of The Whores, Ammo, "The Captain."
And this is how she feels about me:
Here is a list for my favorite list maker! Happy Birthday, Ross! (These are in no particular order, except how I am remembering them)...
p.s. I am not drunk.
1. When she broke her glasses in two pieces, she went to Starbucks. Realizing she cannot see the menu, she monocled with one lens to order a coffee. Priceless.
2. Her drunk voicemails are the best. I never thought I'd listen to an inebriated train of thought and be thoroughly entertained.
3. She taught me how to make White Russians. Now I can finally drink milk! Thanks Ross!
4. Her turkey man mass text will be one of the most epic moments I have ever had standing outside Petco checking my cell phone.
5. She is the only one that can sing a song that was meant for two people to sing. Both male and female parts and make that shit work.
6. She has a contagious laugh. You cannot be human if you don't laugh with her.
7. Her blogging is comparable to eating White Castle. You crave it, generally are drunk when you consume it, and usually feel ashamed afterwords for giving in.
8. She can make a cold night outside The Hidden Cove a lot more tolerable, with a cigarette that is.
9. She is one of the most generous, kindest and smartest people I can say is one of my friends.
10. She is the only one I can text, "I have beer", or "Let's get fucked up" and will be over in about an hour.
11. She recently taught me that wearing long sleeved sweaters, getting drunk and having your period all at the same time is a bad idea. Never thought of it!!
12. I never get tired of her dropping F-bombs in "Total Eclipse of the Heart".
13. She managed to play off Jackie Brown for Tarantino Night...and it worked.
14. She makes me feel less ashamed of saying "Fuck" or "Fucking" in every/every other sentence.
15. Her gin story makes me feel like I should cut back on the Bombay.
16. She is an interdimensional traveler, which can be helpful.
17. Feckin. That's it.
I hope this made your day. I wish you many interdimensional travels for your pub chugga choo choo! Once again I am a tool for working and missing it.
Happy Birthday!!!
Ammo
...
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Little Red
In honor of my birthday, which is coming up in three days, I'm having The Whores write little snippets on the fly about me for my blog.
In case you were unaware, and you probably are, some of my friends and I call ourselves The Whores. We all bonded over being obsessed with live band karaoke (as if you haven't yet gleaned that I'm completely engrossed in it) and that escalated into obscene, overpowering friendships where we constantly embarass, esteem, and enliven each other.
We used to spend all of our time at a certain bar, and some douchebag put up a post on Craigslist's missed connections one day about us. This post was from "the MAN at the bar" (Mothers) to "the whores" that were setting back the standards of womanhood by getting drunk and being unladylike in general. Which is amazing. You know what it's like when you get seven bold personalities together, people who are completely unafraid as long as they're with each other? That's what it's like. I don't know if I know of any group of women that are as intelligent, independent, hilarious, and in control as The Whores. Well, when you're out of control on purpose, you're still in control, right?
The ridiculous part about that? He was hitting on us all night and we kept shooting him down, which is why he was so angry. Also, he neglected to mention that not a single one of us hooked up with anyone at the bar, and that we were with a bunch of dudes, too.
They better not care that I'm putting a picture of us up here. I tried to pick a cleaner one, even though this was nearly two years ago (on Rabbit Night) and M.E. is dressed up like a vibrator. I was going to be Bunnicula, but I just completely failed. And Jesus, my hair is long.
The following was written by Xtine (Little Red) former roommate and lead singer of a band currently on hiatus that I horribly, sloppily played in a couple years ago. She does a mean "Jolene" and an even better "Run to the Hills," but her best songs are the ones that she wrote herself.
Ross has what would be characterized to some as a "naughty laugh." And by "some" I mean everyone, but especially British guys who have no shot. The day Rahm Emanuel got posted I texted her saying she must be in love, first because he's hot, and second because nobody is happier to know you have her in mind than Ross. This is in part because she is an accredited life ruiner and wants to control your mind, but that's usually not bad because it means she will get you hooked on Heroes or something equally awesome. Best roomie ever, worst pool partner ever, bag/costume-maker extraordinaire, Bo Peep, big big boobies, and she can do a mean Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Oh, and she's kinesthetic. What more?
...
In case you were unaware, and you probably are, some of my friends and I call ourselves The Whores. We all bonded over being obsessed with live band karaoke (as if you haven't yet gleaned that I'm completely engrossed in it) and that escalated into obscene, overpowering friendships where we constantly embarass, esteem, and enliven each other.
We used to spend all of our time at a certain bar, and some douchebag put up a post on Craigslist's missed connections one day about us. This post was from "the MAN at the bar" (Mothers) to "the whores" that were setting back the standards of womanhood by getting drunk and being unladylike in general. Which is amazing. You know what it's like when you get seven bold personalities together, people who are completely unafraid as long as they're with each other? That's what it's like. I don't know if I know of any group of women that are as intelligent, independent, hilarious, and in control as The Whores. Well, when you're out of control on purpose, you're still in control, right?
The ridiculous part about that? He was hitting on us all night and we kept shooting him down, which is why he was so angry. Also, he neglected to mention that not a single one of us hooked up with anyone at the bar, and that we were with a bunch of dudes, too.
They better not care that I'm putting a picture of us up here. I tried to pick a cleaner one, even though this was nearly two years ago (on Rabbit Night) and M.E. is dressed up like a vibrator. I was going to be Bunnicula, but I just completely failed. And Jesus, my hair is long.
The following was written by Xtine (Little Red) former roommate and lead singer of a band currently on hiatus that I horribly, sloppily played in a couple years ago. She does a mean "Jolene" and an even better "Run to the Hills," but her best songs are the ones that she wrote herself.
Ross has what would be characterized to some as a "naughty laugh." And by "some" I mean everyone, but especially British guys who have no shot. The day Rahm Emanuel got posted I texted her saying she must be in love, first because he's hot, and second because nobody is happier to know you have her in mind than Ross. This is in part because she is an accredited life ruiner and wants to control your mind, but that's usually not bad because it means she will get you hooked on Heroes or something equally awesome. Best roomie ever, worst pool partner ever, bag/costume-maker extraordinaire, Bo Peep, big big boobies, and she can do a mean Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Oh, and she's kinesthetic. What more?
...
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