A Love Letter to Diner

Dear Diner,

I love you.

Sure, you're sexist. Then again, you take place in 1959. If you weren't sexist, this would be a fantasy, and your strength is your realism. 

If any movie perfectly illustrates the dynamics of friendship without relying on stereotypes, this is it. You can keep your buddy films and your bromances and your coming-of-age. 

Diner is one of the only movies that leaves me with: Yes. This is how friends behave. This is friendship amongst a group of equals.  It's not about heroes and sidekicks or mentors and students or rivals that 'respect' each other.

I think one of the main reasons I identify with Diner so much is because there are (please don't hate me for where I'm headed, here) so fucking few healthy female friendships represented in popular culture. Why is it that female friends are always jealous and backstabby? My friends aren't like that. If I met a person like that, I would just not be friends with them.

Hollywood has very, very, very low expectations of friendship, especially with women. Stories about camaraderie are usually better friendship barometers than stories about friends.  Movies about growing up that are written or directed by a person who is, simultaneously, coming into their own self, are always the best.
 
Diner's success lies in the level of comfort these actors feel around each other, how they ricochet and couple and strain. I don't think I have a single friend I relate to in the exact same way as another. Friendships are fueled by reflection. It's how you respond to each other, the unique phrases you use, how you reminisce...if you reminisce at all. Some friends are for arguing and debates. Some friends need protection. Some give the best advice, some spill out a slow reveal of our similarities or flagrant differences.

The things that I remember about my friends are the parts that were easy, and those are the things I tell the most.  Staying up all night in on the train to New Orleans with Bobbay, shaking creamers because Muffy told us that if you shook a creamer, it would turn into butter. What did we talk about? Shit, I don't know. Buttermakers? I just know it was effortless and rad, and my favorite part of that trip was getting there. One summer I remember drinking around a fire reading passages from erotic novels with CrazyLiz and Phil and Tyler: I remember the nuances ("You know what word I'm not comfortable with? Nuance. It's not a real word" - Modell, Diner) and stress that each of used and how differently we all read the text. Driving around with Schmee in college looking for cigarettes, refusing to buy our own, just having a day. We weren't out of control or fucked up or anything, we were just...us. Sometimes it's the simple lazy times, when no one is faking it, when you're completely at ease and you don't need to work at anything, when you're not trying, when you're just effortlessly idle. But tthings end, and people grow.

Diner takes place just before the minute hand strikes sixties: the world is about to change, to call out the boys' collective narcissism and smash it up. But no matter what, they'll always have the guys at the diner.

Then they're getting married, having kids, starting new jobs and leaving town. But you know that the next time they're together, Modell and Eddie are going to bicker about absolutely anything and everything, Shrevie and Boogie will remain friendly, but tensely competitive, Fenwick will probably be drunk and brilliant and pissing off everyone else.

And it's stories we all know: the universal, gap-mouthed look Eddie gets when he realizes he just lost a pointless argument, but he still keeps arguing because he must, because he is making a goddamn point, and then later on he brushes it off, why so serious?

Seriously, Steve fucking Guttenberg is a goddamn genius in this movie (words that have never, ever been spoken, and technically they still haven't since I typed them, but whatever jerk). As far as I'm concerned his role (Eddie) is one the most well-actualized characters I have ever seen - because we know him, we can tell how he's going to react to anything outside the sphere of Diner because he does such a fucking perfect job reacting to things. I could go on and on and on, but that shit's boring to list and dazzling to watch. I'll let the movie do it.

In a way, I guess, it's about taking shit seriously: my serious business is much more fucking important than your serious business. Nah, just kidding, super sors, we cool?

Maybe it's because, stripped of the question of masculinity and what it means to be a man and all that bullshit (which I could talk about, but don't want to) Diner is really about learning who you are and admitting those faults, and how none of it matters with the people you love. 

Maybe I the reason I love Diner is because it's like...it's like when an old friend gives you a confident a kick in the ass and tells you to fuck off, so you do a round of shots and make fun of each other for five minutes and feel better about the world. 


Love,
Rassles

...

So I guess I have a Love Letters series now.  I mean, I do. Click here for the list so far.

Your Phone Is Dumb

LISTEN:

When I say you're being rude because you're constantly on your phone, it's because it's true.

When you tell me, "whatevs n00bs, you would do the same thing if you had a smart phone" I agree with your statement.

But here's the difference between you and me: I DO NOT HAVE A SMART PHONE, THUS I AM NOT ALWAYS ON MY PHONE.  Your argument is invalid. 

Is cocaine fun?  I'm sure it is.  It's probably awesome.  But I have no desire, ever, to do cocaine.  People on coke piss me off.  Because they're idiots.  Plus I would get dangerously addicted. 

(in the biz that's what we call a metaphor)

Thankfully, no one is sitting around trying to pressure me into snorting coke (we are in our thirties and have much better things to do, like high five strangers on the street and take pictures of ourselves with other peoples dogs, or go to the supermarket and purchase one grape).  But a minimum of three times a day someone tells me how annoying it is that I don't have a smart phone, which doesn't make any sense.

My phone always has a signal, always has battery power.  It can call and text.  My apartment is a dead zone, but that's my apartment, not my phone. 

Go on, get defensive.  Talk about how it's annoying that I...I don't know.  Cannot take or receive pictures.  You can talk about how it's annoying that I find constant phoning fucking annoying. I don't give a shit.

It's obnoxious.  Sure, I will joke around and ask people to look stuff up on their Galaxy.  Plus it's funny to fuck with people sometimes.  One time CrazyLiz and I texted Scooter just so he would tag us at a bar on Facebook.  Scooter was, obviously, at home in a completely different city.  But Liz and I refuse to get smart phones and people are constantly bitching about it.  If you care where we are so much, then do the work for us. Of course, Scooter is probably the one person that doesn't give a shit where we are or what we're doing, which made the whole thing greater. To us.

Can you people think of one legit reason as to why I would want a smart phone?  

1. GPS: I'm old school, I will straight up ask strangers for directions before I ask you to check your phone. Personal favorite people to ask: delivery drivers.
• Friends always argue, "No, you never ask directions."  That's a lie.  I never ask you to look up directions on your phone because I like to wander.
• To ask someone for directions, there is a requirement: we have to find a fucking person.  So until we find a person I cannot ask for directions.
• Caveat: I will ask for your help if you are being annoying and you keep on saying, "I can just look it up on my phone.  Why can't I just look it up on my phone?  This would be so much easier if I just looked it up on my phone."  THIS IS BECAUSE YOU ARE RUINING PERFECTLY GOOD WANDERING TIME.
• Honestly, your phone is fucking wrong half the time anyway. 
2. Knowing things:  I value people who have knowledge, not people who are good googlers. Your ability to google does not fucking impress me.  The worst is when people google things for the sole purpose of proving me wrong - I wouldn't say it if I didn't know it, dick. If that were the case I would preface the statement with, "I don't know if this is right, but..."  If you've never heard me say that, then you are not paying attention. Probably because you're on your fucking phone. Also, why are you being a lameball funsuck?  We could spend this time having a discussion with actual thought processes.  We could be yelling at each other for fun right now.
3. Photos:  I can bring a camera. 
• Argument:  "you get mad when you're not in pictures"
• No, I'm sad when I don't feel photogenic. There is a difference.
• Besides, saying, "OMG, take a picture of me doing this!  Wait, now take a picture of me doing this!" makes me feel stupid.
4. Videos:  I don't really care for them.  I don't want to be on Youtube.  I don't want to be famous.  Don't you think that if I wanted to be famous I would put my real name on this blog and try to monetize it somehow?  Yes.  I would.
5. Tagging:  I don't give a shit if I get "tagged" on Facebook.  Do you know why?  Because I don't give a fuck when anyone is tagged. 
   
   • The common defense that people use for this is: "Well, then I won't tag you."  Cool.  I'm not going to notice anyway, seeing as I -
     (a) don't have a smart phone
     (b) will not scour your page to make sure I was included in your tags when I get around to Facebook
   • Sometimes people point out whenever they do not tag me out of spite and mockery, which I get - like I said, it's funny to fuck with people sometimes.  I usually fake whine and laugh it off, but it's really starting to get old.
   • Is it sociopathic if I do not give a shit what people are doing at every moment of the day?  

So on the other side of the spectrum (obviously there are are exceptions):

1. I had an Oscar party on Sunday, and at one point I looked up and EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM EXCEPT FOR ME WAS LOOKING AT THEIR PHONE.  Granted, I was glued to the TV, and I totally ran over to my laptop every half hour to put something funny on Facebook. The purpose of our gathering was to be in a room and look at a screen together.  Adding more screens to the mix just made things hilarious. 
2. I'm guilty of asking people to watch a certain video or play a song, but that's putting in requests to someone who is already watching videos or listening to music. Perspective, people - if we're engaged in an activity together, the phone is secondary.  If you didn't have your smart phone we would just be doing something else.

But when you whip out your phone while we are having a conversation for the sole purpose of communicating with an outside party, you are sending a clear signal that you would rather be talking to the person on your phone than the people you are with.  I've written about this before:

"Shit. Hold on guys, I need to take this," I'm shaking as I leave the patio table in front of the bar and answer my phone, partly because it's cold outside, partly out of fear, and partly because I'm a little hungover. Or a lot hungover. Whatever.

This is a big fucking deal, because I don't do that. I also don't use call waiting, and I won't talk on the phone while I'm hanging out with someone else. It's fucking rude. Seriously, if I'm constantly texting someone when I'm around you it means I don't want to be around you.

Exceptions to these rules include but are not limited to (1) giving directions to a member of our party who has yet to arrive, (2) receiving directions for a destination to which we have yet to travel, and (3) my mother, because she only calls when something is wrong. 

Is this for your job?  Remember that part in Hook when Robin Williams answers his phone in front of his kids and then acts like a total dick?  That's you. You're the guy who forgot how to play. Go suck on a dead dog's nose.

There is a difference between "sorry, this might be an emergency" and "omg, Cute Guy just said something hilare on FB!  LIKE!"

Is it ironic that I write blogs on the internet but do not like smart phones? I'm not sure.  I write a blog to let out frustration, tell stories, share ideas.  And by "share ideas" I don't mean post pictures of things I like.  When I started doing this I did it to develop a dialogue for my thoughts, as a way for me to understand things about myself and why I behaved a certain way.  Meeting fellow bloggers was a plus - people who felt the same way I did about the concept of ideas but had completely different ideas themselves. I didn't really start sharing this blog with friends (other than a very select few) until all those bloggers all but disappeared and moved on...

I feel like the very nature of a smart phone - immediate gratification without thought or purpose - is discordant with the reason I like the internet in the first place. I like the thinking part. This is, perhaps, part of the reason why I don't like Yelp - it's letting random ass people do your thinking for you. It doesn't feel like sharing ideas, it feels like a fucking circle jerk.

Personally, I'm far more interested in why you like using a smart phone.  All of the positives I can think of for smart phone technology feel like negatives to me, so there must be a reason, and my inability to look at it from another perspective is worrisome.  So if anyone would like to explain it...please help.

They make me feel disconnected from people, disconnected from the world which is odd, since they're supposed to make you feel more connected.  They scare me. They make me feel boastful and superficial, and I do not like feeling that way.  People may see me as boastful or superficial, and that's fine.  I can't help that.  I just don't want to feel that way.  

Otherwise, from now on if I notice someone check their phone in the middle of a conversation without reason, I'm just going to walk away.

...

People say memories flow, but to me it's more like thick glops

Every Friday (or at least, usually every Friday, or some Fridays, or sometimes it happens that it's a Friday) I walk to the Harold Washington Library on my lunch break to admire the huge rooftop owls-on-fire thing they got going on and check out whatever book I got on hold.  I have to stop buying books and movies because I'm running out of shelves almost as quickly as I'm running out of money.  Plus libraries are bastions of awe.

This particular Friday was the first day of Lollapalooza, the music festival of sweat and metal, and the sidewalks on the way to the library are crammed with drunken teenagers who are crammed into as little clothing as possible.  When did tiny, tiny shorts become the norm?  It's slightly troublesome, seeing them strut amongst the suits, giggling and talking about bands I'd never heard of and bands that were popular fifteen years ago in the same sentence and breath, and all I can think about is how I want out of the mob so I can get my book and I realize not much has changed since high school. 

Lolla is something I'm not even remotely interested in.  Too many people, too loud. You have to fight for things that aren't worth a fight: being noticed, a conversation, a breeze.  I'm starting to think that living alone will suit me well because now I can officially become a lonely, battered drunk and write that novel I always knew was brewing inside, only I felt too guilty and comfortable ever to write it before.

That's a problem I have:  feeling guilty for taking time to myself.  There's always something to do, somewhere to go, something to see, and I love that.  But I feel guilty turning people down, I feel guilty when I talk to a stranger at a bar and ignore the people I came with.  Even for a minute.  I felt guilty going out and leaving CrazyLiz's cat home alone.  I felt guilty going out leaving CrazyLiz home alone with her cat.  I feel guilty right now because I started moving things into her room and she's been gone for a week, so I stopped. 

She'd been one of my best friends for fourteen years, and I think she was the hardest person to live with out of everyone.  She was always fearless and sensitive and completely irresponsible - the type of person who hears "do not do this thing that you want to do" and then she just fucking does it with a shit-eating grin.  Do not rollerblade down that twisty slide, CrazyLiz.  Do not pay for grad school with your credit card, CrazyLiz.  Do not call your ex-boyfriend, CrazyLiz.

But at the same time, she is funner than hell.  She's a person you call for adventures.  She's a person you call to listen to your troubles, or to help you get into trouble. She laughs harder and cries more easily and takes more life risks than anyone I've ever met.  Every day she pummels herself with as many feelings she can reach.  Running the emotional gauntlet.  In a way, CrazyLiz is better at living than everyone else because she hides nothing.  But that doesn't mean she's not exhausting.

There's a kid walking in front of me with his hat askew and he's talking to a girl wearing daisy dukes and it's weird.  But they don't call them daisy dukes anymore, they call them something else.  I don't know why.  Like when All-Stars became Chucks, which both of them were wearing all strategically flopped over on purpose, because it makes them look alternative, I guess. I'll never understand the allure of completely contrived effortlessness.  It feels like a shadow.  

"This is gonna be sick," he's saying to the girl.

"Totally."

"Seriously.  Cuz it's like, okay.  Sometimes I feel like I was born too late, you know?  I shoulda been in high school in the nineties.  You know, underground shows were literally under the ground.  And you found out about parties and raves and shit becuzza flyers, not Facebook, and shit wasn't all secondhanded and full of douchebags.  Raves were epic then, man.  My brother told me."

"I wish I like, knew more. About it.  And stuff."  The girl did that thing that pretty girls do, that thing that I've never been able to pull off properly, where you coyly look up at a boy using your eyes instead of your whole head. 

And I remembered being back in high school in '95, walking to a concert with a group of friends and talking to Justin, who I found moderately dreamy.  And my chin was tilted up full throttle and I was wearing overalls, chucks and a wifebeater, which was my favorite thing to wear to shows and concerts.  And I told him how I wished I was in high school in the late sixties when rock was raw and unashamed and being a rebel actually meant something, and he looked at me like I was stupid and he said, "So?  That's stupid."

And then Justin went over to Andrea, who wore skirts and looked like Audrey Hepburn and could do that coy thing with her eyes.  I loved being friends with Andrea because when she was around boys would follow, and I hated being friends with Andrea because they only paid attention to her.  And then she went to France for the summer and when she came home she was even prettier and more elegant and free, and she told me we couldn't be friends anymore because her boyfriend thought I was a dork and they didn't want me going to their parties.

All of this is glopping into my brain in thick mud pies, so I turn it off and switch back to dropping eaves on Lolla kids.

That kid's talking about Ween now, as if Ween were a force nature that shaped the hearts and minds of the teens of the nineties, and I want to tell him he's stupid because Ween was basically known for "Push the Little Daisies" and remained relatively obscure until about 2001 and then became retroactively relevant.

I don't, though.

...

We've Had it With Your Discipline

1. Saturday night I got drunk. Like meathead drunk. I was sloppy and slurry, and at the end of the night I felt very awkward when Apples definitely pulled me in for a long hug, smelled my hair and whispered, "I love you so much" while his girlfriend stared at us.

2. But Apples is an awkward guy, and making people feel awkward is pretty much his job. I've never met anyone better at making people feel awkward than Apples. Regardless, in my drunken stupor it affected me deeply and irrationally, and I wondered what he meant by it other than the usual and freaked out.

3. So I met up with M.E.'s girlfriend at a shitty Puerto Rican thug bar called Lockdown and complained for awhile about how "skulls are so mainstream" and "ironic t-shirts are for pussies" and overreacting with worry regarding Apples, because I was fucking hammered. It lasted an hour, maybe, before I crawled home at 3:30 and started making mahfuckin' stroganoff, what what.

4. My buzzer rang twenty minutes later because Al the Landlord forgot his keys and saw that our lights were on, so he came over and we cracked some more beers and woke up CrazyLiz around four, who grabbed a beer and cheers-ed in because she's a fucking rock star. Al was pretty shit-faced himself and he didn't want to wake up his girlfriend (who was asleep in his place upstairs) and we talked about toilets.

5. After much laughter and camaraderie, AltL grunted, "Check this out," slammed his foot on the coffee table and dragged up his pantleg Dreyfuss-style, and all I could think was, "YES! battle-scars!" but instead he slid a handgun out of his ankle holster and laid it moderately delicately on the coffee table. So there was a gun in my apartment.

"And there's my gun," he laughed, like it was nothing.

"Fyou think we're playing Russian roulette," I slurred, "then you got a 'nother think. Sthera rule bout cops n guns? Can you even do this?" AltL is also a cop.

"Ha! I know, I know. S'not loaded." He pressed a button or something to prove it to me.

I stretched out my hand and grabbed at the air. "Gimme, please."

AltL held the handle out towards me and I grabbed the gun like a light in the dark, but my motor skills were all scrambled and boozy.

"Cock it," he said.

I turned the gun over in my hand, gripped barrel and looked at him. "Is this the barrel? Do handguns have barrels? Or is that just shotguns?" He answered, but I did not pay any attention since I was holding a fucking handgun. I'd never held a gun before. I shot my first BB gun in like December, shit I think I saw my first handgun like a year earlier. One time I shouldered an antique rifle.

My mom is the Queen of the anti-weapon-people. We weren't even allowed to have water guns. I don't think I even used a sharp knife until I was eighteen (this is probably because I am an idiot, and not really the work of my mom). Which is stupid, I think, because it does not lead to careful respect for firearms, it leads to wonder and complete irresponsibility. At least for me.

So drunken Rassles held a handgun and tried to cock it like a pro. But I forgot how hammered I was, and my hand slipped off the barrelgrip and I jammed my finger and pinched my thumb in some snappy invisible crevasse, dropped the gun, and then snatched it midair like a slippery little fish because I have wicked good catching skills but sloppy, fidgetty fingers.

CrazyLiz gasped and carefully wrestled the gun away from my cold, drunk hands.

"Snot loaded, Liz," I scoffed at her. "Give it. I'm fine."

"I don't give a shit," she explained. CrazyLiz, the guffawed voice of reason. "You aimed it at me, and now you lose your gun privileges."

"Horseshit. I did not aim atchoo."

"Yeah, you kinda did," AltL laughs like an oafish donkey putz. I like AltL.

"I like you, Al," I say, and my head lolls. "Sors. I don't not know...I know I don't...I don't, um. I know not what I fucking do, man." My head collapsed on the arm of the couch because my neck stopped working, and I looked at AltL with heavy eyes. "Sors."

"It's cool."

I closed my eyes slowly. "Liz. LIZ!"

"What? I'm right here."

"I am sors for pointing guns."

"It's okay, sweetie."

"You don't call me sweetie. You are being...pphhhh something."

There was a series of serious of lock-n-load clicks and snicker-snacks, and I glazed over at CrazyLiz, who mobilized the gun like a soldier and passed it back to AltL with discerned respect. "You should put that away before she hurts herself." I wanted to grab it out of her hands and just cuddle it like a teddy bear.

Al reaches for his gun, and nods, smiling. "That's prolly a good idea."

"Fuck you guys and yer guns."

AltL looks at CrazyLiz, I think. My eyes were closed. "So she's never held a gun before."

"No, she hasn't."

"But you definitely have."

"I learned how to shoot when I was in elementary school," CrazyLiz did her CrazyGiggle. "My dad is kind of a fanatic."

"My parents are accountants," I interjected. Loudly. "They do Lord of the Rings puzzles and taxes." I realized how lame that sounded, so I had to add something badass and huntery. "But I can gut n' skin a rabbit in a minute."

"What'd she say?" AltL asked Liz.

"To feed the tigers," I slurred. "We put 'em in pumpkins."

"What? Tigers?"

"She worked at a zoo," Liz translates, "like eight years ago. She thinks she's an expert."

"Oh."

"Tiger blood. Hehe. What? If tigers eat rabbits do they have rabbit blood? AltheLandlord! you should take the test. I bet you'd be a eagle. What? Stop talking. Shhhh." I opened my eyes and looked up. "Can I see the gun again?"

...

Oh, and BITCHES. New header. Give me compliments. Jeeze.

...

Hypothetically, I am Awesome at Double Dutch

Someone called me quirky recently. I was confused and a bit insulted. I am not quirky. At least I don't think I'm quirky.

"Quirky" suggests a gleeful pride in your own peculiarities, whereas I don't think I'm very peculiar at all. Everyone else is peculiar for thinking I'm peculiar. I am just me. Peculiar is highly underused, as far as words are concerned.

But this guy was just so lame. I have to talk to strangers at networking events; it's a non-profit hazard. But do they all have to suck at the art of conversation? I don't give a shit about where you went to college. I don't think it's interesting that one time you and your buddies took a road trip to Miami and it was so wild, you just like got drunk and just acted stupid, your friends are so crazy! You're just like the guys in Entourage!

Sometimes having a conversation with strangers is like...it's like hypothetically, I'm fucking awesome at double dutch. But my turners are a T-Rex and a kangaroo and their quaint little arms just ain't fit for rope skipping. So I get all tangled up because they just don't have the skill to play, and after encouraging them to try and coaxing with candied meats and repeated failures at both, I snag the rope in frustration and jump alone while they watch. And I'm hammering the shit out of tricks and spins, I'm a butterfly on cocaine and I try to pass them the rope and they just look at me, and the kangaroo giggles to the T-rex, "someone has a lot of time on their hands. You're quirky." Fuck you. I just gave an Olympic oratory performance, you jealous fuck.

"You can't just ask people if they can hear punctuation," CrazyLiz says. "It's weird."

"How is that weird? Have you ever had a conversation with someone who only speaks in run-on sentences? It's infuriating, and I never get a turn."

"But you have to do small talk first, that's how it works. Those are the rules."

"Those rules are fucking stupid. Stupid."

"People need to be eased into your thoughts sometimes," she explains lightly.

"That's ridiculous. If you can't play, I don't want to talk to you anyway."

CrazyLiz laughs. "You are such a bitch."

"I have rhetorical fucking standards, is what it is. Quirky. They called me quirky. Who the fuck are you?"

"Well Rass, you've got your quirks."

I remain silent in protest and rub my forehead, because I've been drinking for about nine hours.

"Okay, for example: you bought a pair of boots. Instead of saying, 'hey, do you like my new shoes?' you throw yourself into a ten-minute expose about 'gratuitous boots' and 'buckle-fashion' and 'equestrian-decked pedestrians' or whatever, and you can say it to me because we've been friends for fifteen years, but strangers are just going to think you're crazy."

"They can't handle my shit. Charlie Sheen could handle my shit. And then this other girl starts talking to us and she's all adorable with big deer eyes and boring and she laughs at everything, and the guys are like spilling out of their seats to snag her attention. I'm sorry that I'll only laugh at your jokes when they're fucking funny."

"I thought that was a different conversation...didn't you already tell me this?"

"It happens all the fucking time."

"Okay, Rass, I'm going to bed, I can't have the same conversation again. I'm tired."

"It's just fucking bullshit. 'Oh, you drove a car? And you had a beer? In Miami? That's sooooo funny.' Spoons and gagging. Fucking trollop."

"It's six AM, can't we talk about this tomorrow?"

"And it's like, is that what they want? They would rather talk to someone who just fucking fawns over their insignificance and offers no actual thoughts or sentences to a conversation and I hand them fucking gemstones and ingots and it's like, 'oh, you're quirky. Oh, you're feisty.' Fuck you. I am brilliant."

...

The McFly Syndrome, Or: The Devolution of Sally to Four Loko

Everyone's dressed like they're about to go urban chic horseback riding, and poor Gyna has had to listen to me mention working in a stable about seven million bajillion times over the past several months, when I haven't been in a barn in years. Whenever I see people wearing fashiony riding boots and jeans that look like fucking jodphurs I get all sentimental. And then Mongo told this heartbreaking horse story, and the only solution I can think of to get myself out of this sewer of schmaltz and memory is to quit my job and become a professional carriage driver, which I would probably dominate and loathe.

Speaking of domination and loathing, Gyna sallied me into hunting for Four Loko last week because she said, and I quote, "So we need to have a Four Loko night before it is banned."

My whole face raisined and scowled. "How about we just punch each other in the throat for a few hours?"

"How about you stop being such a sally? You are acting like a lame old lady."

It's actually pretty easy to get me to agree to stupid shit: call me a sally, and I berate myself until I do it better and harder with triple the gusto (and no, you cannot sally me into blow jobs). I agreed to her proposal in the name of science and bravery, and we sallied forth--

Holy etymological epiphanies, Batman! If to "sally forth" is to embark on adventure, and I believe in adventure with all my brains, then calling someone a "sally" in place of yellow-bellied chickerlegs is just downright irresponsible. Besides, I don't know anyone named Sally that reacts like a ninny-headed Nancy-face whenever something unpleasant comes up.

BOOM. Solved instantly. Here we go: Nancy is the new Sally. I've never liked any Nancys anyway, they're all so shrieky and nasally. Nancys are the types of people that can't enjoy Four Loko for even comedic value. Nancys are teabagging hypocrits who ask stupid questions like, "If your friend was a lesbian, would you still hang out with her?" or "do you want to go to Fridays for dinner?" and they love movies starring Ashley Judd/Katherine Heigl/Kate Hudson (remember when Kate Hudson was like a clean glacier stream and then she went and made a crapton of movies that weren't Almost Famous?).

I think I was spoiled living with MoLinder, because we always had parallel tastes in movies and TV shows, and argued our differing opinions incessantly. CrazyLiz lives on a completely different plane of entertainment and I feel like a dick because I loathe half the things she loves, and I will tell her so. But when I tell her I don't like something - and it's this way with everything - I want her to defend it with the same passion she claims to feel for the story itself. I don't want her to say,"Oh" and then silence herself.

I want to hear why. I want everyone to tell me why they love the things they love, because "I just do" isn't enough for me. Drives everyone crazy, I know, but they drive me crazy. Can't you people just be on my side? I have to compromise for the sake of the world, shouldn't the world sometimes compromise for the sake of me?

So many people claim to love something and so few champion that thing with unbridled zealotry, it just makes no sense. I'm a fucking zealot for the things I love - that's how I love things. With insanity and repetition and constants. And like, math.

Right now I kind of love grape-flavored Four Loko.

...

Weddings are no longer the worst times of my life: first photoblog ever.

"Okay," sighs CrazyLiz, closing her eyes and cranking her seat back. "High Low, Wisconsin Edition. Begin."

"What do you mean? Like how many Highs and how many Lows?"

"Yeah. Five each."


"Okay. Highs? Bar with the tree at the bachelor party."

"Tree bar. For sure."

"Best Jukebox ever, super bonding music time with Phil's brother."

"I think my binding time with Phil's brother was a High."

"Well you got to make out with him, so I'd say your high supersedes mine."

CrazyLiz giggles like she's about to divulge in dirty, opulent secrets. "Until Liger Girl ruined it."

"Stupid Liger Girl."

"Did you know there's a Liger Farm in Romeoville?"

"You speak fictitious untruths. You are a fucking Liger Liar, silly sally."

"And you steal my make out partners. That was a Low."

"Concur." We pause to ridicule the audacity of Liger Girl on countless levels, because we're bitches that need to fill the three hour car trip with something.

"Okay," I start up again. "Taylor at the bachelor party. That fucking guy is like a roman candle."

"Who only drinks tequila."

"Neat," I remind her, pointing.

"Yes, only drinks tequila neat."

"And then we had to carry him down the hall to the hotel room after smashing him into the car like a drunken accordion."

"That reeks of tequila."

"Fucking Taylor." I take a sip of water, grinning.

"I got to kiss him too," she sighs, satisfied. "And cuddle. I would say cuddle time with both of them was a High."

"That's because you're a whore. I would say Taylor peeing on his pillow was a high."

"We saw his shween!"

"And then Phil had to follow the stream with the bucket and we made him sleep on it."

"You guys are such bastards."

"We are hiLARious."

"Whatever," CrazyLiz reaches forward. "Do we have any more beef jerky?"

"Fuck. Low: running out of road trip jerky."

"Lame." She puts on her sunglasses and leans back again. "Low? Not finding Otis Redding's memorial in Madison."

"High? Finding every single other memorial in Madison."

"Furious searching."

"Followed by extravagant failure. But then? Wrong turns equal super fun time."

"And Rassles' favorite museum of all time."

"Yes. New favorite museums. Could you imagine what would have happened if we didn't see that sign?"

"Yes. We would have napped, and my hangover would have mysteriously vanished."

"Small price to pay for the Circus World Museum."

"I love that you find a new favorite museum every year."

"I also love that about me."

"But you still had to wear that awful sweatshirt."

"Do not say things about my sweatshirt that you will fucking regret."

She cracks up. "Oh my GOD, that sweatshirt is such a fucking cock block."

"God forbid all of the smokin' hot dudes at the fucking Circus Museum want to stay away from us. THERE WAS NO ONE THERE."

"COCK. BLOCK."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"No you shut up."

"NO YOU SHUT UP."

"GAAAAHHHHHH. You know what? Fine. Okay. Lows: CrazyLiz talking mad shit about my fucking amazing-ass sweatshirt."

"Lows: Rassles wearing retarded-ass sweatshirts."

"I hate you so hard right now. Everyone loves that sweatshirt but you."

"That's because they all know to stay away from the Dorky Crazy Lady wearing Salvation Army rejects."

"I bought that sweatshirt straight from the fucking source. IT IS MY HOME JERSEY."

"THEN WEAR IT AT HOME."

"Oh, we are so in a fight right now."

"Whatever."

"Okay, okay. Highs. Circus Museum: climbing into the human cannon."

"Climbing into the off-limits human cannon."

"Having no one around to tell us to stop touching stuff."

"Climbing over all of the displays."

"And into creepy old traincars."

"Wearing circus costumes around the park that we found on a display rack."

"That cape was super itchy."

"You're a wuss."

"Plus it made me look huge."

"Mine was like a big gold moo-moo."

"Yes, but it was flowy and airy," I point out to her.

"And it billowed in the wind like a poem."

"Poems are known for being billowy."

"Okay. Next. Writing Phil's wedding vows for him after the rehearsal dinner."

I start to laugh, and quote our genius. "Your boobs look awesome from up here. This is because I am tall. Hey, if we have kids, are they going to be vegan like you? Because then I don't know if they can drink breastmilk."

"Low: Phil not using the vows we wrote for him."

"Seriously. Bullshit. High: beer canoe."

"High: dumping out the beer canoe and going canoeing in the lake."

"Okay, high: towel dancing on the bojangled dance floor."

"Oh, I loved towel dancing. Low: freezing cold."

"Low: everyone passing out and drinking and watching Big Fish by myself."

"High: you did not cry or fight with anyone."

"BEST WEDDING EVER!"

I think we had more than five of each.

...

Yester Me, Yester You

I've been mentally preparing myself for Phil's upcoming nuptials, because I am about 99% sure that come 3am I'll be sloppy, drunken, crying mess. I do not win at weddings.

Most likely I'll misquote my favorite authors while trying to explain my emotional plight to someone who will feel obligated to listen because they care about me just enough to put up with snivelly, yelling, abusive Rassles since I gave them advice that one time when they needed it. But they won't get it, they'll put words into my mouth and I'll snap at their lack of understanding because let's face it - I am a misunderstood individual, destined to wander the path of sage hermitage and loneliness and woe. I'll probably shoulder buckets of woe all over the fucking place, and when I spill it all I can just refill from the fuckloads of woeterfalls leaking out of craggy Woe Mountain that totally creates its' own woether, which, of course, is emo for "weather."

Woether, by the way, is 96 degrees and windless, relentless humidity and fat red bug bites. Seriously, for awhile there going outside was like wading through steaming salsa with shinfuls of papercuts. Me and CrazyLiz cranked up the dusty A/C unit, turned off all the lights, closed the blinds and watched three seasons of Buffy until the wind came back home.

I am so glad I don't live in fucking Florida.

Yesterday the wind returned, so I can breathe again. Phil and Rachel (fiancee) came over for porch drinking, and I warned them about dreading the wedding, and Phil laughed and punched my knee and called me a sally.

"Wait, I don't get it," Rachel asked, all concerned.

"Rossi gets drunk and feels sorry for herself at weddings," Phil laughed.

"You do?"

"Hey, I'm allowed wallowing."

"Why don't you just make your date take care of it?"

"Not bringing one. So I guess it's up to CrazyLiz to comfort me," I grinned evilly and smiled at her.

"Oh, fucking great," she sighed, and rolled her eyes.

"Aren't you bringing Adam or something?"

"Nah," I shook my head. "It's too complicated. I'd have to take him to the bachelor party, the rehearsal dinner, the wedding, Sunday Funday, camping - this is a big event, man. Any guy I brought would have to be dedicated to me for five days. Even Adam wouldn't do that."

"He wouldn't?"

"He's too clean," I shrugged. "His OCD would kick in, he'd need to wash his hands all the time--"

"He'd get his suit dirty," Phil laughed and chugged his High Life.

"Exactly. Plus, you told me, and I quote, 'if you're not bringing some dude you plan on sleeping with, I'd rather have you just bring Gyna.'"

"Wait - I said that?"

Rachel defended me. "I definitely remember you saying that."

"Wow, I am awesome. But now I feel bad, 'cause I like Adam. You know I just want you to get laid."

"Awww, thanks."

"And if you're not getting laid, then I might as well surround myself with hot chicks with big tits."

Rachel closed her eyes and scoffed. "Do I know Adam?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know Adam?"

"He's a friend. We're like each other's unofficial dates to everything."

"And that's it?"

"You know me. Plus, he can talk to anyone and he looks good in a suit."

"He's like Moby with emo glasses," CrazyLiz explains. "But like--"

"Like with a little bit of that guy from Crank," Phil adds. "And he always wears a long black leather coat, with a suit and like, combat boots."

I laugh. "He looks like he belongs in the Matrix. Like if Moby and Jason Statham merged in the Matrix. And were very clean and awkwardly quick-witted."

"Dude, EXACTLY."

"That is perfect."

"So," Rachel smirks, "why isn't he coming to the wedding?"

"Could you imagine Matrix Moby Statham camping? No. I don't really need a date anyway."

"Except to deal with the fucking crying," CrazyLiz laughed. She was being facetious. She cries way more than me. Because of the Crazy.

"Hey, I got an idea," Phil lit up, excited.

"What's up?"

"How about you just don't fucking cry at my wedding, you pussy."

...

I Am Allergic to July

I can tell I'm becoming responsible because I stopped getting those hangovers where I spend all day moaning and sweating and bitching about Margot Kidder's Lois Lane eye make up. Haven't had one of those in months. There are several reasons for this, the main one being dread, the second one being I stopped watching Superman whenever I had a hangover. Superman used to be my official Lonely Hangover Movie, but lately I've been watching Stardust because it reminds me of a guy I barely knew before I started having shitty summers. Or was it the first shitty summer?

I hate remembering unrequited crushes, but I do it all the same. Remembering them is much better than having them, because I can jiggle my memories around to convince myself he really actually returned the feelings and was too scared to act upon them. Or something.

The current unrequited crush is a fucking doozy that's been on and off for like three years, and whenever I see him I act like an asshole. Last summer he came into the office to drop of some prints when my face was at its most swollen. Even though I swore to keep the more attractive profile facing him during our conversation, when he asked how I was doing I immediately cranked my neck around, pointed at my jaw and declared, "Well, I'd be a lot better if I didn't have this fucking goiter growing out of my face. Check it, from this side I'm Marlon Brando."

"Wild One Brando or Apocalypse Now?"

"Doctor Moreau."

And then he laughed a real laugh, not one of those fake ones. See, it's those conversations that make him so dreamy. Do I have the balls to ask him out at all? No, and I don't think I ever will.

The past four summers, I've had some fucking ridiculous health problem. One summer I developed an allergic reaction to my lotion, and my hands were covered in cracks and blisters for two months before I discovered the cause. I didn't have health insurance then. Last summer was the swollen face and the liver ultrasound debacle, which was a fucking hoot. The summer before...okay, it wasn't so much of a "health problem" as it was a "crying problem."

On Saturday my eye swelled up. There is a fucking stye. Was a stye. It's basically gone now, but I look like I'm getting over a wicked shiner, and I've been make jokes about spousal abuse.

Tomorrow, the crush will be stopping by the office. Of course.

This post started off as one thing and now I don't remember where I am anymore.

Okay, so I'm actively avoiding hangovers. That, my friends, is the equivalent of willingness to accept responsibility for my irresponsibility. And old age. And the fact that MoLinder isn't here anymore and I don't have a drinking buddy at home.

But CrazyLiz moved in today, whom I love dearly, and along with her a one-eyed cat built like a tank named Oscar and a pepper-faced chocolate lab named Harley. Harley will only be here for a month, but hot damn, I'm excited.

For one month I will have a dog. Things are lookin' up for ole Rassles.

...

Awesome By Proxy

With MoLinder out, because she moved way...I'm sorry, for one second we must focus on MoLinder's raging malcontent. I'm a malcontent to begin with, and she is doubly so because she threatens my established order, which is the most important Order there is.

We must focus on the fact that she left me. Snapping fingers, blinking briefly, a flash of yellow cat eyes in the trees and she's gone. I lost an important password-laden post-it note at work around the same time and that was nothing compared MoLinder leaving, because post-its do not choose to unstick from places of import, unlike MoLinders. Post-its also don't snatch cuddly cats away like sticky catsnatchers, unlike MoLinders. Three cats, by the way. There were three cats and a MoLinder and now I have none of both.

I'll be okay.

(Distracting Explanatory Exercise: I want all of you raise your hand, palm facing the computer screen. Do it. Press your thumb to your forefinger real hard. That is how close I came to getting a dog, because I was lonely and dogs are better than most people.

Now, take your allied thumb/finger business and lick it. Do this very sexilly. Use those same two fingers to touch the tip of your nose with it. Take a big whiff. Do not remove your fingers. Look down your nose at what you're doing. Look back up here.

Do you feel smart? No, you don't. You feel fucking stupid. This was a futile, ridiculous idea for an exercise. It was about as good of an idea as me getting a dog.)

By the way, MoLinder, you don't just up and leave your fucking roommate. Unless you are offered a job across the country in the town where your guts were rooted and it pays double your current income. That is the only excuse for unsticking. So...well played, MoLinder, and yes, you can use me as a reference for your Department of Defense clearance, and I will explain that I am much more suited for the position because I used to play a lot of Stratego so I'm real good at hiding bombs.

Of course, I can just beck right and there's an arsenal of Potential Roommates, waiting to be drafted. Because let's face it: everyone loves me. Everyone loves me and they want to be me and since they can't be me they must live with me so they can be awesome by proxy. So MoLinder moving out was like flipping a steak on the grill, and now the Yellavitch, my little sister, is my roommate for the duration of the month. Either way, I get steak.

And then in July, CrazyLiz is moving in. I have good friends.

...

"It is well that war is so terrible, or we should get too fond of it."

So Sunday afternoon me, Slinger and CrazyLiz are at a bar for the Blackhawk's game.

More accurately, Slinger is there for hockey, I am there for chili and beer, and CrazyLiz is there for moral support.

In walks a gentlemen with heavy wool pants, a shmancy-frocky-lookin' men's dress shirt, fucking riding boots and these bad ass double-leather goldenrod suspenders. He looks amazing. I mean, he's not amazing-looking, but you know. Double-leather suspenders.

"How's the battlefield today, Terry?" calls a patron.

"Union won," Terry grunts as he seats himself at the bar.

"Bastards always do."

"Only on Sundays." Terry and the guy to his left keep on talking slightly hushed, but happily, and then the bartender delivers my potato skins so I temporarily forget about yellow suspenders because there's bacon in front of me.

"So where can I get a pair of suspenders like that?" Slinger asks him after we all exchange little zingers during a commercial break or something.

"You gotta fight for the Union." Terry doesn't look up and gulps his pint.

"And how do you get to do that?"

"Well, I got myself kidnapped as a Rebel and was forced to fight for the North."

"I woulda just been a double agent," Slinger giggles.

"They thought I was, sir," Terry continued. "After I was caught and taken across enemy lines, all I could hear was the click click click of cocked pistols and rifles aiming for me. It took 'em awhile to figure it out, that I wasn't a spy that allowed myself caught, and then they just...made me fight for the Yankees."

"How'd the Rebels feel about that?" I asked him.

"Well, they couldn't do much about it could they? Those Yanks are lucky I had a Union uniform as well." He chuckles to himself.

I glance at him. "So you have to bring your own uniforms?"

He still hasn't looked my direction, but he gives his beer a secret smile. "Well, when you've been doin' it as long as me you sort of invest in your own goods. Uniforms, pistols, horses."

"How long's it been?"

"Let's see, 'bout, ahhh," he licks his lips and squints while he counts in his head, "Bout fourteen, fifteen years."

"Hot damn."

"Yep, fifteen years. I've been in more battles than the soldiers in The War itself." He laughs. He finds himself brilliant. It's kind of mesmerizing. "Course, I'm dodging blunt objects and dry fire, with no worry for real bullets!" He roars again, having reckoned the secrets of survival.

"So you always get to wear them snazzy suspenders?" I tend to regress with my language, depending on the audience.

"Just today. That's what the yellow's for," he thumbs the yellow straps. "designates Union Cavalry. Actually it's mounted infantry when I fight for the South and then they're white, but--" he raises a finger "--Union's cavalry because they have the pistols as well as sabres, and Union's yellow."

"So you're on horseback?"

"Yes ma'am."

"That is awesome."

"I do enjoy it."

"So you got a horse for that?"

"Well, me and three of my buddies, we got him over at a Chicago police auction. We got lucky. 21-years old, doesn't shy at the gunfire." He takes a sip, and then corrects himself with a grin, "Well, fake gunfire."

"What's his name?"

Terry finally meets my eyes. "Sunshine."

I smile. "Nice." I slide my beer over to the rail. Neighbor's is the kind of establishment run on the etiquette of regulars. "So do you have a preference? As to sides?"

He smiles again. "Everyone wants to fight for the Rebels."

"Seriously? Come on. No one wants to represent the free states?"

"Now, we really just call them Yankees. Keeps things...well, we just call them Yankees."

"Damn Yankees."

"Damn Yankees."

I reach for the fresh beer in front of me and thank the bartender, whose name I don't know.

Terry starts up again. "Yeah, but I always fight for the Confederacy. You know, General Lee said he'd never fight against the Union unless it was in defense of Virginia herself." (All I want to do, by the way, is muscle into the conversation with stupid shit like, Robert E. Lee named his horse Traveller and Grant's horse was Jeff Davis and Traveller's original name was Jeff Davis but they were totally different horses and Jefferson Davis's horse was Blackjack but I'm not an asshole. Sometimes.) "It's more...almost important, representing the underdog. Not necessarily historically, almost emotion related. You try harder, even though we all know it's a reenactment...but it's always as if this time...this time we might win."

"But the Union always wins."

"On Sundays. Saturdays go to the Confederates."

I laugh. "So it's a weekend gig? How many battles you fight a year?"

"About, uh, twelve or so."

"How far do you have to travel for that?"

"Most're around here. But the Nationals last year were in Shiloh. That's in Tennessee."

"So not that far."

"Not that far."

I nod. "Is there anyone in your life liable to protest these getaways?"

"Not me. But I've been in it for so long...this is my family. My daughter, she's involved as well. She's got a whalebone hoopskirt. But I asked one of my buddies, I asked him--because he goes near forty these a year--he's a field officer for the Confederali --So how's it that Michelle let's you out on all these battles? and he says, Well, it's because I have no vices. I don't use tobacco, I don't drink alcohol, and I don't chase women and I don't play cards, so she let's me have this one thing."

"There you go."

"Ah, but then he says, he says ahhh, he says, But what goes after hours at cantonment she'll never know. And swear to god, that battle's over and there he is, smoking a cigar with a lady on his lap, dealing cards to a table of Yankees and swigging Jack right from the bottle."

"What a fucker," I smirk and take a sip of beer.

"Ma'am," he grins after a minute, all slick, "It occurs to me that you'd look mighty fine in a hoop skirt, if you'd be a willing participant."

I scoff and look down at my pajamas. Damn covered in grass stains and mulch smears from doing yard work with my dad. You know how every time you visit your parents they trick you into manual labor? I'm pretty sure I smell.

"That's very kind of you," I tilt my beer in thanks, "but if I can't be cavalry, I don't wanna play."

"You got a horse?"

"Nah, but there's gotta be one for me wandering around out there somewhere."

...

Sad Skills

Just came to realization, and I thought I would share it.

On the fourth of July I was playing bags over at Slinger's house, and although it's a wonderful game of douchebaggery, usually I'm not bad. Not first draft or anything, but decent enough where playing is not some thoroughly humiliating experience and partnering up with me isn't a chore. I hold my own.

But on that day, I was god awful. I couldn't properly throw, the bags were heavy, the boards were slick, I can make excuses until the Rapture, but the fact is I sucked, and I knew it, and I was pissed.

So CrazyLiz made a mockery of my sad skills.

Normally, I crave that kind of attention, and completely prefer some good-spirited ridicule to relentless encouragement. For some reason, however, this time aggravation set in. Big time. To the point where instead of tossing a bag at the board, I threw it at her laughing head.

Mind you, this was not some slick fastball, it was the awkward, elbow-first rainbow throw with the motor functions of a three-year old, and I completely missed her head and nearly knocked over a Tiki torch.

Which just pissed me off even more. Here I am, someone who has a small amount of pride in her skills in all things tossing after twenty years of mediocre athleticism, and I looked like a complete amateur asshole. Infuriated, punctuated by deep emotional chagrin for the mere fact that I was, in fact, pissed off at something so pointless.

Perhaps I can only take a beatdown when I'm not already upset. If I had started self-ridicule, that gives everyone free reign to jeer all they want. But until I'm comfortable with making fun of myself, I can't take the criticism.

So for the past two weeks, I've been afraid to participate in things, whether I think I'm decent or not. I'm afraid that if I try, I'll get derided for failing.

This is not a good mindset to have, and it's fairly new for me. Usually in those situations I would just throw myself into things, and fuck fear. But lately I've been holding myself back, like when I get intimidated by other bicyclists in the bike lane.

Obviously, with certain things I've always held myself back, but not something as fucking futile as bags. Or Rock Band. Or karaoke, or softball.

CrazyLiz can't be blamed for this at all, because she knows that I've got that masochistic attraction to public mockery, but for some reason, at that point in time, it was uninvited. I'm not upset with her at all, I'm upset with myself. If anyone had made fun of me I would have overreacted the same annoying way.

I wonder what spurred that reaction in me?

Most likely it was because the other players were so much better than I, and frustration set in. When people are obviously and painfully good at something, I'm always apprehensive to join in, as if I'll ruin their game. I shouldn't be, I shouldn't have that self-doubt. But it exists.

It doesn't make it much easier that my friends all seem to be so undeniably good at something. What am I good at? Well, I'm very good at shoving my nose into other people's business. Nigh unbeatable. Usually, though, I think my involvement is invited and I just run with it real far away, which is odd because I can't run fast at all, and you'd think they'd catch up with me and snatch their problems right back, but instead they just watch me skedaddle in slow motion and wait for me to return with solvent.

So I'm good at that.

I feel like things I used to feel pride in doing are being ripped out of me and tacked onto a tray for dissection, cheapened alongside everyone else's innards.

Blogging is like bouncing my self-perception off of others. I spend so much time giving welcomed advice, analyzing my friends, because it's what I do, and sometimes I feel like I would like to be analyzed myself.

And then I realize that I'm acting completely self-obsessed, and should shut up and start doing again, but I seem to have misplaced my balls.

Pondering.

...