there is a thing and it's called growing up

Dear  Peter Pan,

I had no intention of loving you as much as I did, and I had slash HAVe no intention of turning this into a love letter because half of my criticism is complaints,  but fuck off, I've had a few bottels of wine and this shit is happening

I cannot, first of all, that believe that I believe that they took away the thing that made the Mary Martin Peter Pan a big fucking deal in my life which IS. You guys. It's so sad.

(scroll to the bottom if you're all like what's the point, TL:DR)

And sad things are good?L ARe they good? I always thought that the acceptance of sad things was good. Not everything can be happypants sing song time and Peter Pan is one of those things, because in the end Peter and Wendy totally fight and get all you grew up fuck off and wendy is all you didn't because you're a silly bloody boy and that means something.

So here to me is the thing: Peter Pan. PETER. PAN. It's about being a child, yeah, whatever. You're a child and you have no comprehendible (WORd?) sense of danger, so you're all pannish and then Wendy is a grtown as person who understands life, so when pan comes back into her window and shit she's supposed to be all I AM A GROWN ASS LADY WHO KNOWS ABOUT YOUR LIFE AS A DANGER PUPPY and then she schools his ass on adulthood. But instead,  in this fucking live teleplay of magic and wonder and crocodiles that function as time-telling devices, the passage of time, of adulthood and the goddamn beauty of JM Barrie, who is not a pedophile because pedophiles actively seek out sex with fucking children and technically he didn't do that, even though his work suggests a macabre fascination which is creepy as all get=out (dude, you named your hero after a little dick). Just because you find children attractive doesn't mean you're all pedo, HOWEVER finding children sexually attractive is FUCKED and I shouldn't even have to mention this but I just did because honestly? It's a thing, and although we don't have any proof and although we don't know if his life involved abuse I guess what I'm saying is inaction? I don't know. I feel like areally, really terrible Bible.

Maybe I'm alone in this, but there are scertain stories that I read or watched or listened to or paid attention to as a child that affected me particularly because they were sad. You don't nneed to go around telling your children about the Holocaust, but maybe you should? Is ten old enough for Holocaust tales? That's not a thing. I don't mean that. But I kind of do.

Maybe it's because I had parents that gave me very honest, historical answers for questions I had, and if I had questions they couldn't answer, they literally told me to go to the library, so I did. Eventually I would ride my bike there...starting in 5th grade? Yes? But I would ride my bike to the library then, and I would sit in the aisles and read about things.  Read about everything.

And I know, from experience, that my questions and ideas made/ MAKE people uncomfortable.

In retrospect I think this is a good thing, but who knows? Some people believe that they grew into their current personalities because when they were younger they were adventurous with authority or substances and that makes them more worldly or knowledgeable - I think I feel the same way about that in some ways, because let's be honest, I would seek out histories and logic like a sponge. But other people sought out different experiences...actual ones? They followed a path that led towards a different kind of risk. Let's be honest: Dude, I was so super straight edge. Until I was eighteen I was basically at the library or work, and work was a video store. My entire existence was founded on my ability to relate one idea to another, however disjointed. Still is, pretty much, but now I'm not nearly as ashamed of myself as I was before.

It didn't matter how much I idealized rebellion, or how much I was drawn to the idea of a Neverland. The parts that struck me most about those stories was the part where reality sets in, where we have to accept that our lives are not a fairy tale, because wanting is different than experience. Wendy grows up and she realizes the dangers of Neverland, but she doesn't regret going. However.

However. 

HOW. EVER. As an adult: half the point of the wonder of Neverland is choosing to go there even though you're not supposed to. When your mom is all like, okay, 11 year old daughter, you can leave the house with a man-child, but be back before autumn, to you I say fuck off.

Supposed to is more combustible than oil.  I've written about that before, and never eloquently.

Supposed to involves adhering to principles that you did not define for yourself, and I think THAT is the key. I was never rebellious as a child, in the general assumption that rebellion involves the wrong crowd or the wrong substance, but I was rebellious because I know that whatever I thought I was supposed to do was avoided. You guys, I am so drunk right now. I was rebellious because someone would say, "but we're supposed to behave this way" whether "that way" was following the rules of Christianity or the rules of rebellion where you dye your hair and wear altnernative clothes and act like a dick to peoplel and take a bunch of ecstacy and pretend your expierience ius realer than someone else's.

At least I know, always always always, that I did what I thought was true. Not RIGht, but True.

Peter Pan IS SO SAD. IT'S SO SAD. It's sad because Peter kidnaps Wendy since she didn't know any better, and then she grows up and he comes back and then kidnaps HER DAUGHTER. I understood that as a child. I did book reports on that shit.

The Last Unicorn is sad because...well, because it's about loving someone who is incapable of reciprocating. Where the Red Fern Grows is sad because it's about separation. The Giving Tree is sad because it's about surrender. The Velveteen Rabbit is sad because it's about helplessness. Stone Fox is about the compassion of strangers, The Devil's Arithmetic is about sacrifice, 

Obviously other books and stories are sad, but these are all the stories I mentioned are for children. Children wonder why, but the greatest thing about reading these things when you're a child is the fact that you ASK WHY.

And when you ask an adult that has a modest bit of understanding, that is how you learn.

Peter Pan is sad because it's about adrenaline and the different ways people respond to it. Just because it's withing the guise of children, and racism and sexism, doesn't change the fact that its strongest suit is the fantasy rooted realism, perception changes, nothing is absolute, and hence the absolute ridiculousness of Peter Pan. In case you don't get it: Growing up and understanding that your actions have consequences is NOT A BAD THING.

So: Do what needs to be done, and accept the consequences. It's not about being fair, or right. It's about accepting the fact that your actions affect people. Always. And you probably can never predict why or how, but know that they exist, and your job as a human is to deal with that. That is the point of Peter Pan: there are repercussions and reactions that are beyond your control. And by stealing those lines away, by turning the story of Peter Pan into a fantasy where you can do whatever and not worry about what happens to the people that surround you, you're cheapening the story.

Make a decision, and deal with the consequences. You can hope for the best, but no amount of fairy dust is going to surpass the events of your life.

It is soooooooo a good thing. I mean, don't be shitty. Stop being shitty. I've told my share of lies. No  one is perfect, and super duper definitely one hunderd thousand definitely not me. Just...you get it. There's no need for further explanation. All I'm saying is that right now I think I'm laying some serious truth, but not like bricks to build a wall and more like a beat. Stop talking, Rassles.

You guys, seriously. I have had so much wine. I can't believe I was able to type all of this.
...

Like Mountain

This is Part 7 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

The thing about stories, I mean, the reason things can feel terribly exciting is unrelated to action and unrelated to meaning and completely related to truth.

The truth behind an action, the motivation for an action or inaction is the truth of a story.  Doing something for the sake of telling other people about is a quest for fame, not life.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of that when I get all weird.  Why am I doing this?  Oh yeah.  For me.  To prove to myself that I'm not a waste.  Because honestly, this is about me. 

...

(I wrote all of that earlier, and now it's four-thirty and I'm drunk, but not too drunk, so hopefully this makes sense)

We forced ourselves out of bed the next morning and Katsisch was still pretty drunk, but we stumbled to the train and onto a plane and I snored the entire flight like a jackass.

Snoring, by the way, is a relatively new thing for me, lifre-wise.  I think it started about two years ago? People complain about being single because they're lonely, they want love, sex, passion, someone to make sure they get home okay, someone for all-bed-all-day Sunday, for speaking in codes, for adventuers, for no other security than wrapped arms, for boozing and lazing and facebook updating, for dirty guilt and thought dumps, for hate and shame and squishing and groping, for dreams and futures and memories and all of those things that romantifc comedies make us believe we want, because really, we fucking do...but as of this moment, right now, I really need a chronolurgical snoring timeline.

Then Copenhagen came along, looming like dappled Legos, the city equivalent of cool, but rude, and everything there felt broken somehow but proud and healing.   There was mystery leaking out of the cobblestones, because people were elusive and because every night the Tivoli would gear up just slightly in preparation for opening day, and it was eerie and sinister and always afterhours, and I was always afraid bad little boys were being magicked into donkeys because that is the goddamn scariest shit I've ever seen in a Disney movie ever, other than puppies being skinned and sewn into haute couture, and WHO THE FUCK WRITES CHILDREN'S BOOKS?

Hans Christian Anderson does.  I feel sorry for Copenhagen, wonderful wonderful Copenhagen, because their mascot is a stupid martyred mermaid bitch that gives up everything so she can walk on daggers and die for the love of a douchebag who was never really that into her anyway, god girls are dumb.

And the fucking cunning grandeur of it all is this: Copenhagen doesn't fucking want your pity.  They want your money.  They want to charge you eight dollars to ride the bus.  They put holes in their money (how quaint!) so silly Americans say things like, Oh, this looks like a donut! I will spend this willy-nilly.  Look at me, I am well-traveled! Did you know ketchup packets and butter pats cost extra?  Hooray, I get to use my octagon coin! 

I know this because every time I used a donut coin I felt validated as a human being who has experienced other cultures.  It's a brilliant scheme. 

But then! They have secret trampolines along the coast that you can just fall onto if you aren't paying attention, and it's not uncommon to accidentally wander into a palace or a fortress shaped like a star.  And they have a land with zero rules and red wagons full of puppies that are NOT being made into fancy clothes for rich ladies, and there are so many drugs and skate parks and brilliant graffiti murals, and you can buy beers for fifty cents.

But thar be monsters, and some of those monsters are scary orange meth-heads from Thailand who wink and raise their eyebrows at MoLinder, who is 5'10" and a curvy, brickhouse nightmare.  Gyna is also a curvy brickhouse nightmare, but she wasn't there.  Honestly, now that I think about it: we all have giant boobs. We could rest trophy collections on them, or encyclopedias.  Plus, we've read encyclopedias.  We are walking library shelves.  The reference section.

(I've used my backspace key soooooooooooo many times)

"You are like mountain," the meth-head said to MoLinder, hourglassing his hands.  He moved and wiggled like an amateur surfer, but since the ground was flat it was obvious he just had serious gravity problems. The open sores on his face pulsed.

I laughed and MoLinder ignored him.  His friend dropped a boombox and hit play. "You dance?  Me?" 

"No thank you," MoLinder said, then ignored him properly.

I didn't.  "You look like you're trying to balance on a rickety bus."

"Ah?" He smiled at me, gray-toothed and wobbly.  "Dance?  You dance?  You think I funny?"

"No dance.  Yes funny," I laughed again, and sipped my Christiania beer.

"He is a zombie," Katsisch whispered loudly, and a stray dog peed on my Pumas.

...

You Take Your Own Life In Your Hands

day 21 - a song that you listen to when you’re happy

"Wull, yeah," Michelle shrugs and cuddles her shins.  "Just on the floor."

"Just...on the floor."

"Just on the floor."

I taking a long pull from my beer.  "I don't get it."

"Well, it doesn't occur to people to...you know.  Look down."

She's right.  I set the beer on the table, pick up a pair of scissors and start cutting the paper in front of me.  "And you just find it there.  All the time."

"It's not just me," she says, delicately peeling a piece of tape from the back of a pinwheel and shifting its location.  We're making pinwheels.  It's very Martha Stewart. "I mean, I have friends that work at bars and they say that after their shift when they're cleaning up they find a ton.  You know, people get drunk and they're stupid.  They drop things."

"I just don't buy it.  I mean, I've found like a dollar before.  Usually in my own pocket.  Or something.  Or a nickel. I find nickels.  I find fuckloads of nickels." 

"No, I don't even bother with, like, nickels," she laughs and shakes her head, thick black curls shading her face.  "Sometimes I'll find a dollar and I'll just be disappointed."

"So you're finding what?  Big bills?"

"Usually.  I found sixty the other day at Rainbo, just three crisp twenties laying on the floor.  Yesterday there was a ten crumpled up on my lawn.  I just pick 'em up.  You know, and like, drug dealers are bad with money and they drop things all the time.  I find cigarettes too, but I don't smoke so I'll just give those away."  She turns to set her finished pinwheel on the ground, then tilts her head with a soft pause, staring at the thing.

"It looks good," I say.  She smiles and drops it on the pile.  "So just cigarettes?  You just...pick up loose cigarettes? Or packs?"

"Oh, like, packs.  I wouldn't pick up just like, a cigarette."

"No, of course not.  That would be ridiculous."

Xtine laughs from the other side of the table, but Michelle just keeps talking.  "And then when I find like, a pack of cigarettes I'll give them to a friend in exchange for drinks." 

"Prison currency."

She laughs.  "Yeah, I guess."

"This is bonkers.  I can't believe you just find money.  Like laying around.  Did you know about this?" I flap a maniacal pinwheel at Xtine, who is jamming wooden dowels into carved wine corks and getting glue all over her kitchen table.

"Michelle is just lucky," Xtine giggles, wiping her fingers on her skirt.  She hands me the dowel, and I fasten the pinwheel to the wine cork with a thumbtack and give it a spin.  "Oh, they look so fucking good."

"Your wedding is going to be awesome," Michelle tells Xtine.  

"I know," Xtine laughs.  "Everyone is going to be so jealous.  And we're almost done!  But I'm thinking about starting a pinwheel sweatshop. Michelle, you ready to get back into the work force?"

Not sure if I heard right, I ask, "You're not working right now?"

Michelle looks sheepishly through her hair and shakes her head. "Mmm mmm."

"For how long?  Does it suck?"

"Three years or so."

I stop making pretty pretty pinwheels to look up in disbelief.  "What the hell?  So you don't have a job?  Other than finding money?"

She laughs and doesn't answer.  "Right now I'm making wedding decorations in exchange for cookies, lentil soup and wine."  After a brief silence, she adds, "But I can't give away all of my secrets."

"I had no idea finding money and cigarettes was such a lucrative business." 

"I dunno. I find at least thirty or forty dollars a week.  You just need to look down.  That's what people don't realize," she shrugs, pulls her knees closer to her chest and starts cutting another piece of paper.

"I'm so confused."

"Just, like I said.  Just look down.  It's there." 




...

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."

...

It's February. People Are Bound to Get Hurt.

So apparently growling, "I see yer a geologist now, ye bastard!" is not the appropriate way to congratulate a co-worker on her recent engagement, and even the further explanatory phrases of "geologist? rocks? precious stones? are you fucking engaged, or do I need to take my metaphors elsewhere?" aren't warranted.

There are two of them right now in the office. Engaged people. With fee-on-says. One question popped right after the fucking other with giggling and rings and sweet fucking Christ you should see the blood diamonds these guys dug up for my co-workers,.

I've been waiting for this day, when all my co-workers are married baby-makers, and not one of them asks when it's my turn to settle down.

So here's my question: is that because my co-workers are fairly progressive (because they are, and that's one of the reasons I like it here) and they know that people don't need to be married to be happy (not that I'm very happy - we all know I am an angry, confused, smashed little car crash)? Is it because they don't think I have a chance in hell of ever getting married in the first place? Is it because they don't give a shit about me or my relationship status?

I am far too insecure to be dealing with this right now.

What did you guys get for Valentines Day? I got bronchitis, a flat tire, a new mole, and a papercut on that skin between my thumb and my forefinger. Bullshit. Stupid February.

...

DB the Squeakwel

So I'm looking through my old blog drafts, right, like the ones I did not post, and I noticed one from the night before New Years Eve. The night that MoLinder spontaneously flew back to Chicago, and Sean was in town from Alaska and we got 2drnk2fxnlolz? Yes. That night. And I woke up in media res, balancing my laptop on my knees in what is now known as The Battle of Le H'ang'ouvres, which is the kind of hangover you get after drinking too much wine, yes? Oui.

Anyway, I don't know if you remember way back when, but MoLinder and I used to sit around and get wasted and yell at each other, and that was basically our very favorite thing to do ever. For her entire visit we talked about doing another drunk live blog, but we never got any further than this, which I'm posting more for MoLinder than anyone else and found just fifteen minutes ago:


So MoLinder is in town right now. And although I don't necessarily feel like moLinder is ar requirement to have good drunken coinversation, let's fucking face it; molinder is a requi9rement to have goot drunken converation.

It begins elsewhere.

Me: I am going to drunk and I am going to navigate this. I am going to Tim Gunn it.

MoL: You are going to make it work. Why did you get more soup than me?

Me: Because I wanted it more.

MoL: You know what I will take your Mrs. Grass, but only under duress. Do you hear me? DURESS.

Me: Fuckin I hope you get herpes.


Post date and time:
12/31/2010 6:42 AM

...

A Sunday at the Empress, Fyra, Attica

Okay, I rushed. Fuck. All of a sudden I feel pressure to be good at this, and inventive or something, like I'm taking a creative writing class. I don't like it.

Part the First
Part Deux, Harlot
Part Tres, Notion

The door slams behind me and I'm pissed. "Why is this necessary?"

"We're trying to avoid making a scene out on the floor."

I understand. Rassles would definitely make scene. Or make fun of me. I'm hungry. This would be far more enjoyable if they took me to the buffet. I follow the guard into a small gray room with two benches and a long metal table, and she sits me down. "Someone will be with you in a minute."

As the door closes behind her, I check my phone. No service, of course. Ludicrous. They could give me something to read, just to be polite. I decide that I will not cooperate. Especially if they make me wait more than ten minutes.

Ten minutes later, another woman with a clipboard enters the room and sits down.

"Hi, I'm Samantha."

"Hello."

"I'm with the gaming board. I'm just going to ask you a few questions, if that's okay." She has one of those metal clipboard boxes that has secrets inside. If I had a clipboard like that, it would be full of candy. "Name?"

"It's not okay, and I don't have to tell you anything."

"Well, yes. You do."

"Am I being arrested?"

"No--"

I shake my head. "Then I definitely do not. Why am I here?"

"We just need to ask a few questions."

"You've been asking questions. Do you keep anything inside that clipboard?"

"Why are you here?"

"I have no idea. If I had that clipboard, it would be full of candy."

"I mean, why are you here at the casino?"

"Because you refuse to let me go home and eat dinner. Could you please tell me why I'm being held here?"

"We just need to investigate a few things."

"Like what?"

"Please, could you cooperate?"

"Fine."

"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Yellavitch Rossi."

"Social Security number?"

"I will not give that to you, and you have absolutely no right to ask for it."

"It's just protocol."

"And it's within my rights to refuse your request."

Samantha glares at me, visibly exhausted. How many hours a week does she deal with this? "Fine. What brought you to the casino?"

"My uncle is in town. We like gambling."

"Is your uncle a gambler?"

"He's a pit boss in Vegas."

Samantha perks up. "He is?"

"Yes."

She writes down something that I don't care about. I fold my arms. "Your last name is Rossi?"

"Yes."

"Is that Italian?"

"Yes."

"Is your uncle a Rossi?"

"No, he's a FitzPatrick."

"Oh. And he lives in Las Vegas."

"Yes."

"Did your uncle teach you how to play craps?"

"Yes."

"He did a good job. I heard you won a bit of money early on."

"I lost a bit of money too. You don't think I cheated, do you?"

"I'm just investigating something while they review the tapes."

"You guys are idiots."

The vagueness circles around for a little longer. She asks me if I have a job, if I went to college, if my family is heavily involved in the casino world, how often we gamble. If there was a clock, the hands would be moving backwards. Wasting my time. I look at my phone; I've been here nearly half an hour.

"I do not see how any of this is relevant."

"Honestly, we're just--"

"I will not answer any more questions. You obviously think I'm a member of some Italian gambling racket or something, like my family is the mob. We're just trying to have a nice little Sunday at the Empress. As a family."

Samantha gives me the "oh girl" head tilt, and there's a knock at the door. A tiny man peeks his head inside. "All clear. I'm sorry young lady, we've been keeping you here too long."

"So she's clean?"

"As a whistle."

"I can go?" I stand up. "Thank god. What were you going to wrongly accuse me of doing?"

"The fella next to you thought you stole his chips while he went to the bathroom."

"The haphazard chip guy? Jerk. He couldn't just do it to my face?"

"It's a pretty common scam, actually. Accuse someone of taking advantage of you, make a scene, we offer a free buffet to calm them down--"

"You gave him a free buffet?"

"Yeah."

"What are you going to give me for being cooperative and law-abiding?"

The tiny little man grins in snarky surprise. "What would you like?"

"Five free buffets."

"Five?"

"One for me, one for my sister, one for each of my cousins."

His grin widens. "I think we can do that for you." He and Samantha escort me out of the room and back onto the casino floor where my sister and cousins are having a sit-in in front of the penny slots. So melodramatic. They trip over each other to stand as I walk over there.

"Well?" David asks.

"I got us five free buffets, bitches."

...

"Did they play Good Cop Bad Cop?" Rassles slams her car door shut and looks over at me with that mischievous, overly-enthusiastic face she reserves for when people get into trouble or mom bakes cookies.

I lean back in shotgun and close my eyes. "I don't know what that means."

"You know, it's like one of them is all, 'where are the other drugs going?' and you're all, 'I don't know man, I got a family' and then he grabs your collar and jams a Desert Eagle in your face and the other cop grabs his fist and is all, 'O'Malley! You're outta control, man, she's just a kid, this isn't fucking Saigon!' and then they hand you a Kleenex and give you delicious cake."

My sister is a fucking idiot. "I definitely did not get cake."

"Man, that's bullshit."

"They don't give you cake," David chirps from the backseat. Snidely. "And that's the most back-ass, convoluted description of Good Cop Bad Cop I've ever heard."

"Fuck you, and yes they do."

"Cops never give you cake."

"Every time I've been in an interrogation room I was offered fucking cake." She turns on the car and revs it a bit, like that's going to make her bullshit more plausible.

"You have never been in an interrogation room!" Sometimes I think Rassles is completely delusional.

"Irrelevant," she brushes it off, as if it's completely acceptable to tell blatant lies.

"Is this like that thing with CrazyLiz's cat?" I wonder, "Where you're all, he's got a half-eaten ear and one eye and the other eye's like THIS," I cross my fingers in an X over my eye, "and he's all mangled and limping and eats pureed fish out of a tiny feline syringe."

"I am somewhat prone to hyperbole," Rassles giggles to herself.

"I don't know how you have friends."

"I tell good stories sometimes."

"Are you going to fucking blog about this?"

"Ummm, duh. And I'm going to do it from your point of view." We pull out of the parking lot, headed towards the highway. And dinner.

My pocket is full of buffet coupons. So many coupons. I pull them out to look at them and silently gloat. "Just make sure you mention the part about keeping candy in the clipboard, because I would totally do that. Because then whenever I carried it anywhere it would make super-satisfying clinky candy sounds."

...

A Sunday at the Empress, Tres, Notion

Oh, this is going to be a multi-parter. I started writing it, you know, and thought, 'there ain't no way people will pay attention to one giant post like that. You should create suspense. The kind of suspense that lasts months, like Paranormal Activity but with gambling and a realistic storyline.

Part the First
Part Deux, Harlot

Security escorts Yell back into a stark hallway and I am pissed. Don't you take my sister, you sonsabitches. She is the bravest, smartest person in the world. She's going to be President some day, I fucking swear it. We're going to be like the Emanuel family: Yell's gonna be President after revolutionizing public policy, I'm going to be a super savvy author that writes brilliant, mind-blowing bullshit prose, in like iambic pentameter and stuff, and Katsisch is going to be angry and jealous about it. We're going to give TED speeches and go on Letterman just like all the other white liberals who fantasize about changing the world, I mean, there's a goddamn fantasy all planned out and the security guard at the Empress is fucking it all up because she's a stupid bitch with stupid hair who waddles like ET. Ho-lee fuck, what if she's an alien, and they recognized Yell as the strongest example of our species in the room with their brain scanners and this isn't a casino at all, what better way to disguise your fucking space ship with it's blinky twirly lights and oddly shaped exterior than by pretending it's a casino? Fuck, they're going to probe the bejeezus out of her.

But then, it's Yell. She'll escape through a complicated series of slight-of-hand shit, and like disable all the cameras with her withering gaze and forceful self-righteous speeches, and they'll take her to their leader and she'll just smart-ass her way into their hearts and minds, and then she'll be the new alien leader and they'll end pollution by altering the basic make-up of their advanced weaponry.

"I am thinking some heavy shit right now, guys."

We wait. We wait for a good twenty minutes. Shit. We're late for dinner. I make the call.

"Mom?"

"Hi hon, you guys on your way back?"

"Um. We've been delayed."

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything's fine. Yell's been detained. They've got her in like a holding cell or something and they won't tell me what's going on. I might break something."

"You're kidding me."

"Never."

"Oh my god. She is going rip into them."

"I know, right?" Pause. "You think they think she's underage or something?"

"I have no idea, but I know that--hold on."

I wait. "I asked if they thought she was cheating--"

"Yell would never cheat."

"I know that, but--"

"Hold on." She starts jabbering with family in the background. I hear my dad laughing hysterically and saying something like, 'they took Yell? HAHAHAHA. She's going to get herself arrested for verbal assault. I am woman, hear me roar, right?'

"Okay. Uncle Dave and I are coming back there."

I tried to imagine slim, soft-spoken Uncle Dave standing up to casino thugs. "Is that really necessary?"

"He'll know what questions to ask, it's his job."

"How about he just tells me the questions to ask?"

"Honey, no. We're coming. Call us if something happens."

"Lame."

"It's our decision. Wait - Katsisch says you called to gloat - sorry - rebelliously gloat over being victimized by the man," she laughs.

"Tell her to sit on it. And make the Fonzie sound."

"Goodbye, honey."

"Peace out, Mums." I turn off my phone and turn to the entourage. "Yeah, the grown-ups are coming."

"Fuck, I'm gonna go have a cigarette." David storms off.

We slink down to the floor of the casino, guarding the doors all stern and depressed. My dad calls back. Twice. Basically, he just wanted to remind me that Yell is probably back there defending her rights and being brilliant and strong, and that if it were me I would be cracking jokes like I "do on Facebook" because "everyone thinks" I'm "goddamn hilarious." Duh.

"Oh sure, Dad, nice. They take Yell and we're all, poor Yell! She'll give them a piece of her mind! They take me and it's funny."

"If they took you, you probably deserved it. We'd just leave you there."

...

Walking Down the Street Last Friday After Many Beers and Rums

Adam: See this funeral home? I'm thinking about buying it.

Rass: And turning it into a bar?

Adam: No, and turning it into a funeral home.

(puzzled, Rassles continues shuffling down the sidewalk)

Rass: Adam?

Adam: Madam?

Rass: It already is a funeral home.

Adam: I believe it is actually an abandoned building.

Rass: Of course, of course.

Adam: I mean, it is just brimming with potential.

Rass: And caskets. Do not forget caskets.

Adam: Brimming with caskets.

Rass: Which are, in turn, brimming with potential.

Adam: You know what else brims in caskets?

Rass: Fear. And the undead.

Adam: Exactly. (we pause for a few seconds and get our bearings) Okay, so you know the World Superhero Registry?

Rass: Of course. That's where I do my online dating.

Adam: (pointing his finger at me) Touche. Well other than being rife with suitable boyfriends for you--

Rass: I fucking know what I'm getting into.

Adam: --you know how it's like, a collection of profiles that list certain qualities for each individual hero?

Rass: All of them fight crime and none have powers. It's very disappointing.

Adam: There's one more thing they all have in common: not one has an arch enemy.

Rass: Oh, please tell me we're going to drive to Ohio and start a fight with a fake superhero!

Adam: I'm thinking about it. I know karate.

Rass: You also know me.

Adam: Yes I do, and you are freakishly strong.

Rass: It's a gift and curse.

Adam: As is my impeccable timing. So here's what I'm proposing: we form a guild--

Rass: --of calamitous intent?

Adam: Exactly.

Rass: You could be The Funeral Director! and your funeral home will be our secret base. And you can have zombie henchman, oh, I get this now.

Adam: I was thinking The Reverend.

Rass: Classy, but weak. And obvious.

Adam: It is not obvious.

Rass: Oh come on, Scary Preacher Man is so cliche.

Adam: FINE. But we still need something for you.

Rass: I'm The Boss.

Adam: Well of course, but-

Rass: I dish out evil memos regarding the rules of the break room, and use up all of the toner in the printer without replacing the cartridge. And then I call my assistant into my office at 4:59 and make her stand there with a clipboard while I talk on the phone for fifteen minutes. But I don't let her leave, oh no--

Adam: I think you're missing the point, here.

Rass: --and when I hang up I'll ask her what time it is and then just send the bitch packing. But it's too late! She's already missed her train! She'll have to stay at the office an extra hour, and we don't pay overtime!

(evil, maniacal laugh)

Adam: I was thinking something a little more evil, and a little more power-centric. We need to do something those superheroes have to fight. We need a plan. See, I've got a funeral home slash zombie henchman factory.

Rass: That I invented for you. Just now.

Adam: Only after I directed you towards that line of thought--

Rass: --because you're the Funeral Director--

Adam: --which was my evil plan all along.

Rass: Whatever. So what do we got for me?

Adam: I really want a teammate who will fight fire. With their bare hands.

Rass: Just give me a place and a time.

Adam: Anywhere there is a fire. And constantly. In fact, I say, fight fucking fire with such alarming brutality that fire will think twice before burning anywhere near you.

CrazyLiz: Oh my god, you guys, shut up.

...

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."

...

What Happens In the Oreo Lounge...Happens Every Day.

(Scene: An office. Friday afternoon. Three twenty-something girls are chatting in the "break room," but none of them call it that. About two years ago one of these ladies (that means me, a-holes) changed the room's Caller ID to "The Oreo Lounge," no one else in the office knew how to work the phones to change it back. She considers this a personal victory. Back then, there were fuckloads of Oreos, like, all the time. Which is weird, because back then she was thinner. She is now considering an all-Oreo diet. She remembers how well the Oreos softened when she dipped them in her coffee (The Oreo Lounge was always out of milk). Those were some delicious fucking Oreos. Perhaps a trip to CVS is in order. Oooo--and white cheddar Cheez-Its. Those need to happen.)


Nat: I just like, you know, being spontaneous. Like Howie is way more down to earth about stuff, but I'm like hey, you know, let's go out to dinner, let's see a movie, let's do something! But all he wants to do is watch baseball.

C-Bird: Same thing with Eric, but instead of just like, going out, we've got team conflict.

Rassles: Why'zat?

C-Bird: (she rolls her eyes) He's a Cubs fan. (the co-workers nod in understanding. Nat sucks in a breath)

Rassles: (taking a sip of her coffee) I like him.

C-Bird: You would.

Rassles: You guys are so brave. You're like a sixties bi-racial couple. Will your children be raised to be snobs or racists?

Nat: What's that? Cubs or Sox?

(Rassles nods, gravely)

C-Bird: I can't even think about that right now.

Nat: I think she'll teach her kids to be more open-minded about which team they choose. Things aren't always in Cubs or Sox. Sometimes you gotta hit that-uh-Bear middle ground.

(The three girls laugh a little, and do that thing where they simultaneously sigh out "yeah," and then they politely laugh again.)

C-Bird: Still, getting him to go out with my friends is like herding cats.

Rassles: I love that phrase. But I like to substitute "cats" with "hamsters." I support alliteration.

C-Bird: (completely ignoring her) It's like we're settling into this routine.

Nat: Yeah. Come home, work out, eat dinner, watch TV, sleep.

C-Bird: Lather, rinse, repeat. Everything gets so boring. Let's shake it up a little, you know?

(A man sticks his head into the Oreo Lounge)

Thomacz: Ladies! I've just been off the phone with Action Man. He has given us permission to leave work around two this afternoon, provided the mail has arrived.

C-Bird: Thanks!

Rassles: Thank you, sir.

Nat: I knew it.

Thomasz: You ladies are very welcome. (he pops back out to go spread the news to other co-workers)

Rassles: Yeah buddy. (she turns to her co-workers) We should totally celebrate and grab a drink or something. An off-work-early drink of awesomeness.

C-Bird: Yeah, I prolly should just get home. I told Eric that I thought we were getting off early, and we were gonna grab an early dinner.

Nat: Yeah, I can't either. I gotta work out.

Rassles: You work out every night.

Nat: Well, if you've got a schedule you stick to it.


So much for fucking spontaneity.

...

Like A Dream I'm Flowin' Without No Stoppin'

Yesterday morning I woke up with the Mighty Mighty fucking Bosstones in my head, which is obnoxious because I have never, ever, ever in my life enjoyed their music because it all sounds like blaring Kraft singles and growly, chain-smoking hamsters. That's the impression that I get.

But for thirty five seconds I had this lyrical couplet skittering through my brain--I'm not a coward, I've just never been tested, I'd like to think that if I was I would pass--and for thirty-five seconds I found them lyrical geniuses. Genii. Every single time I think of the plural of geniuses, I wish it were genii. Is this the appropriate spelling? Confer and report.

Then I showered singing Tom Jones (because you gotta sing Tom Jones in the shower, people. I been really feelin' Tom Jones, lately, because his voice is as bright and bombastic as the fucking sun). Went through my usual morning routine of creaking across the hallway in my towel seven hundred times to retrieve forgotten bathroom items, got dressed, made my hair look a little bit pretty, missed the bus, drove halfway to work, missed another bus, sweated through the hot wind, pulled my hair up because it didn't look pretty no more, got on the next bus, became absorbed in my book, missed my bus stop, walked two blocks back to work, entered the office half an hour late and all the morning sweat froze directly to my trembling body because it is fucking freezing in my office.

Someday I will live in a world where this every morning scenario will result in a meet-cute between me and my future not-husband (marriage is a gimmicky trick), who will hopefully have the rich, virile purl of either (a) Tom Jones or (b) MCA.

So was sitting at my desk, imagining myself traipsing around the heat-sensitive Predator-vision forest with lumberjack gangsta MCA (this is a go-to personal fantasy - if you try to knock me you'll get mocked), when it started storming outside and everyone in the office freaked out.

My phone rang. I answered. "So what'cha want?"

Co-worker Amy hyperventilated into her end of the reciever, "It is like thunder and lightning out there."

"Whoa. Superscary."

"It is. You need to come back here and see this."

"Gimme a few."

"Okay." She hangs up.

Phone rings again.

"Dude, are you looking out the window right now?" Co-worker Natalie rushed out before I can even come up with a interesting greeting.

"What window? I have no window."

"It is like thunder and lightning."

"Thunder and lightning, huh?"

"Yeah, it's like Thunder! Lightning!"

"The way you love me is frightening. Shit, what song is that?"

"What song?"

"You know. It's like thunder (thundah!) lightning (lightning!)...the way you love me is frightening!"

"I have no idea."

"Yes you do. Like a million people sing it. Goddammit."

"Whatever, just come look out the window."

"Fine." We hang up. The phone rings again, and I just pick it up and sing, "It's like thunder (boom!) lightning (crash!)."

"How'd you know from all the way over there?" my boss asked, laughing.

"This storm is all the rage."

"Yes it is. I need you in here in five seconds, JJO's got a question about the Floyds' Patron gift."

"Yessir." I hung up the phone and booked over to the corner office, watching the dark wind through the windows on the way, trying to remember that fucking song on the way, recalling details about the Floyds on the way.

Action Man has JJO on speaker, who's saying, "We need to get the Advisory Board to approve of that funding, knock on wood."

AND THEN I FREAKED THE HELL OUT.

...

Explanatory Links:

"The Impression That I Get" by Mighty Mighty Bosstones (check out the microphone that guy is rockin - it looks like he's singing into a giant fucking Smith & Wesson)

"Knock on Wood" by Eddie Floyd

...

LATER EDIT: Just so you know, we have thunder and lightning. We have it in spades. But this was thunder and lightning with limited rain and a cloudless, yellow sky and 40 mph winds - where lightning spidered across the sky - the entire sky - and thunder lasted for twenty seconds at a time. This was some near tornado weather shit.

...

Rock My Adidas, Never Rock Fila

"Rossi! Donation from Sieman, huh?" My boss, The Action Man, calls from down the hall. (Is there a word for like, powering up so you can properly snap into action? I might have to invent one. Actually, I think it's ackshinackshinackshinackshinackshin.)

I snicker. "Khkhkhkhkh - semen." (Okay, so khkhkhkhkh is my weak attempt at properly spelling out a snicker. In live oration, I am a professional Snickerer, and one never mistakes my snickering for anything, but on the internet it just looks like the call of Cthulhu. Also, I am twelve.)

Sure enough, Action Man steams around the corner like fucking turbine and points at me with a ferocious grin. "Rossi! Are you kickin' the new K-knowledge?"

I stop my snickering to gasp as he chugs past. "Sir! Did you just drop the science like Galileo dropped the orange?"

He turns at the door and winks. "I believe I just did."

"I can't believe you're all up in the Beastie Boys."

"Saw 'em in '88!" he yells from outside, and as the elevator dings onto our floor I can hear hammering out, "Right up to your face and diss you..."

My boss is excellent.

...

"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."

...

Here's the Thing: When in Rome

MoLinder is leaving. Moving back to San Diego in three weeks. I am deeply distressed. I am mildly deeply distressed.

So now whenever it's just the two of us hanging out we just get fucking wasted and yell at each other about politics or something way less significant and way more tangled in bullshit and false, undeserved superiority. But we agree on everything so shouting is fucking futile, yet inevitable, and nothing ever makes sense.

Since both of us are tenacious, zealous, and wise as hell, mostly our conversations go like this:

"I just feel like such a...like, an asshole. Because I'm all like, yeah, I fucking read that book and it sucked. But I don't want to hurt people's feelings, but then I almost DO want to hurt them so they'll fucking learn how to discern good literature from crap. And the writing is awful, and the story is lame-"

"You know what? That's bullshit." MoLinder is mad.

"Why can't people ever give us stories we've never heard before?" I am drunk.

"Who says shit has to be new to be fucking quality?" We are both drunk.

"Do you know how hard it is to create a story that hasn't been told?"

"That's why I like Stephen King."

"It's fucking impossible."

"Because knows, he understands, that reading is for enjoyment."

"Yeah but, 'member when you were fifteen when all stories were new, and then you took all those crap lit classes that taught you archetypes-"

"Read because you love to read, not because someone found a fucking deeper meaning. Because you know what? Deeper meaning? Metaphor? Is CRAP."

"-but BOOM. Life ruined. You will never be original because now you know all about fucking rhetoric and tropes and shit."

"And I'm a Lit Major."

"Tropes ruin my life."

"You know why I like to read? Because it's fucking fun. That's why. And that's why I like Stephen King, and I don't give a shit if that makes me like mainstream or whatever."

"But I want to identify with it, I want it to mean something."

"So you won't read anything that isn't like, important. You're a fucking elitist."

"No, that's not it. Well, yeah, I'm an elitist."

"HA! See! Stephen King would spit on you. He sees through your lies."

"I hate elitists. Because they're all, 'murmurmur, fuckin' some French shit. Ohmygod, David Eggers and some author no one's heard of.' You want me to name-drop some shit? Because I will name-drop fucking elusive cultural references all over your ass. Not when I am drunk."

"ELITIST."

"But I don't mean like, important to society, I'm talking important to me and my values which include but are not limited to ONE! movies. And TWO! beer."

"Ah, yes. Okay."

"So take something like fucking Twilight. I know, I know-"

"See, it's just fun, man, you know? Stop hating on it."

"I hated it so much I threw the book. But like, you hate East of Eden and that's one of my favorites."

"I fucking hate Steinbeck. No. No, I just fucking hate East of Eden. Fucking Cathy? Is a bitch. And the whole Cain and Abel thing-but you know what? You cannot compare the two, they are not the same type of book. Twilight isn't like pretentious classic literature where people are all, 'whoa, themes and deep shit.' It's just easy and fun."

"What, like your hatred of East of Eden has more validness or whatever than my hatred of Twilight? I read that book because I watched the movie."

"Well--"

"I didn't give a shit about Steinbeck, it was all, 'Oh, James Dean, you're so dreamy.' James Dean was my fucking R-Pattserbin or fucking whatever, except like, dead for forty years."

"Whatever, Cedric Diggory is hot."

"Plus, I promise you that more people have read Twilight which automatically makes it more culturally significant."

"That's just sad."

"It's true." I pause to drink my white russian. It is 4am. We both have to work in four hours. "So I am totally right."

"About what?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"Ahhh. When in Rome."

...

Sometimes It Skips a Generation

Last Sunday Afternoon. Not yesterday. The one before that. Whatever.

"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 third 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. 

I do not idly chat with my mother. She is smart, exact, realistic, calm, retentive, genuinely polite and all business, which is why I answer her phone calls.  Also, I'd been waiting for her to call me all morning.

"Hey, Ma."

"Hi, hon. What's going on?"

"Well..." I don't want to tell her. I've called her twice today, and I don't want to tell her. "So...okay. So you know how I...shit."

"Honey."

"Sorry. Okay." Breathe. Breathe. "The bike got stolen. Atticus. Is gone."

"What? Oh no, honey, I'm so sorry."

"And I'm sorry, it's all my fault, I take full responsibility and I promise, I promise, I promise I will do my damnedest to find it."

"Well, bikes get stolen. How did they get through the lock?"

"See, it wasn't locked."

"Oh? Why not?"

"It was in the back hallway, and it's only accessible through one of the apartments. Unless someone left the back gate and the back door unbolted, which is unlikely. I think."

"Still, honey, you know you should always lock-"

"Yes. I know. Always lock your bike, always lock your car, always lock your door. I know this. I know." My mom doesn't understand things like this. Making little mistakes. There are rules, you see, and you follow them.

"Well honey, obviously you didn't know."

Gaaaaahhhhhhh. "Yes. You're right. I'm sorry. It was locked all winter, and I moved it last weekend and forgot to lock it up and some son of a bitch took the damn thing in that four day period of time and I'm sorry for screwing up. Again." I'd left my lock draped over the handlebar with every intention of putting it back on just after doing...something. Whoever stole the bike had coolly placed the u-lock on the window shelf. Tauntingly.

"It's not your fault," she assures me, with complete sincerity. "It's that other person's fault for breaking the law."

"Yes. I know." She says that now. But in four years I'm gonna do something stupid and she's going to be all, well, you need to be more careful. Remember when the bike got stolen?

"Did you file a police report?"

"No, not yet."

"Well honey--"

"That's why I called you. I need the serial number. I can't find my copy of it." Total lie. I never wrote it down because I never found it on the bike. Because I am a dumbass.

"Oh, I'm sure I have it filed." I am positive she has the original paperwork from 1970-whatever and everything. "I'm actually on the road right now, so I can't get it for you until a little bit later."

"Thanks. And you know, I think I found it on Craiglist. I'm sure I did. And I emailed them and they never got back to me, and then they totally just pulled the bike from the ad completely. Like it was never even there. They had to know it was me."

"How would they know that?" I wish she was being patronizing, because then I could blame her for giving me low-self-esteem or something while venting to my imaginary therapist. No, she is honestly inquisitive. Much more infuriating and harder to prove.

"Because I posted a note with my email address all around the complex and I used that same email address to contact those sonsabitches and I know that whoever stole my bike had to be friends with someone in the building. They had to be. Otherwise, I mean...yeah. They had to be allowed into that hallway by a person who lives there. So I'm thinking that the sonsabitches were warned that I was on to them."

"When did it become okay for you to swear?"

"I'm sorry." Shit.

She sighs. "I guess that's entirely possible."

"But okay, listen to this - so I set up a fake email address and I emailed them this morning and they got back to me within a minute. Seriously. I said I was Phil, and me and him are going over there tomorrow night and we're totally gonna steal it back. I'm talking stealthy, cloak-and-dagger shit. I mean business. Pretend I didn't swear. Sor."

"Please don't steal it. You should call the police."

"I know, you're right. I'm sorry, I just got excited and said 'steal.' I promise we will call the police."

"Don't say things you don't mean."

Fuck. "I apologize. I already talked to the cops and asked them if they would go with me. They said I had to verify it was my bike first, and that I should call 911 if I found it."

"Really--"

"And then I asked if finding my stolen bike on the property of another was worthy of an emergency phone call, and the policewoman said, 'Hell yeah, girl.' So I gots legal permission."

"Well okay, then."

"I'm sorry for interrupting you, before. I just want you to know that I'm taking care of it. I got this down. Seriously. Except for the locking-the-bike part."

"I'm glad. And now you know why we always remind you to do these things. One day, like this time, you might forget. I know you would never be intentionally careless. And you know, in the end - and you don't want to hear this - but you will learn from this."

I fucking wish that was some passive-aggressive shit, but I know it's not. It reads like some passive-aggressive shit. Believe what you will, but know this: you don't know my mom. You never have to ask her if she's mad. Ever. She tells you immediately. Granted, she hasn't been mad at me for years, not since I lived at home after college. Then it was constantly, you know, "I'm mad at you because you got drunk and skipped your cousin's wedding shower" (I WAS LOOKING FOR A MISSING SNOWMAN) or "I'm mad at you because of your secret tattoo" or "I'm mad at you because the dog ate your cigarettes and now there is tobacco in the carpet and when did you start smoking?" or "I'm mad at you because you quit grad school and didn't tell me and if you refuse to take any steps towards a substantive career you need to be out of this house by October."

"Thanks, Ma." Get mad at me. Why the fuck aren't you mad at me?

"Don't worry, honey, I'm not mad at you." Well you fucking should be. It's so much easier to give myself a hard time if I have a fucking reason to do so.

"Good. I was worried." Shit shit shit. Guilt.

"You can't blame yourself for this. I'll get you that serial number later, but I have to go now, okay?"

"Okay."

"Stop it. Do not blame yourself."

"I'm not."

"I don't want you feeling guilty about this. I know how you are. And don't do anything...silly."

"What, like stake out potential burglar addresses that I found on Craigslist? I'm doing that tomorrow night."

"Just don't. You know what? Nevermind."

"Thanks."

"I gotta go. Later, okay?"

"Later, skater."

"Bye, honey."

I hang up the phone and head back over to the table, shivering. It's cold outside. My posse has moved to an adjacent patio table in the sun.

"The Mom?" Muffy asks as I sit down again.

"You know it."

"Did she have it?" MoLinder jumps in.

"Filed away."

"I told you. Accountants, man, they save everything," Sean laughs.

"You know, I love my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever in the world, but I fucking hate my mom because she's the most responsible woman ever. In the fucking world."

...