On New Year's Eve I got good and drunk. Gyna was here. She brought Germans. There were all of these Germans in my apartment, and we drank White Russians and ate Caesar salad and Emi came over, who is Japanese, and Xtine who is Korean. But it was very unlike the Cold War, in all honesty, yet I imagined myself a diplomat anyway until I started doing that thing where I get angry for no reason, which passed quickly.
We went up on the roof and watched the fireworks at midnight. Drank champagne out of solo cups. The usual. I love it up on the roof. I think that was the turning point for me. After midnight everything goes downhill, because I never want to leave city rooftops when it's windy at night. Partly because of the dancing lights and fireworks and partly because it is really hard to put the ladder away. It makes a huge fucking racket.
Sometimes I think--no, I know--that I am extremely juvenile about things like rooftops and fireworks and champagne. I wonder if they felt it too, or if it was just me? I'm sure they felt something, everyone went off into their little corners and made out with each other and I just stood there staring at the skyline, feeling sad and alive. It was wonderful.
But then it's over and we're not on the roof anymore, and we're fighting with the ladder and it just kills everything completely and I'm embarrassed that something so pure has to end so ridiculously. And I'm nervous because I don't know everyone very well, except for Gyna of course and I will miss the hell out of her when she goes back to Munich tomorrow. Muffy is moving to South America for the summer. Just because she can. How does that work? I feel like I would be much more likely to up and move if it wasn't alone, because I'm not very good at making new friends on my own. I'm excellent at being introduced to people who have already heard about me, though. That usually works out well.
But on New Year's I was nervous. I would just talk and give prolific answers to very simple questions. And then I ask questions and receive simple answers, so I talk more and get angry at myself for talking too much until I say something offensive, and then I get angry at myself for being offensive and end up yelling at everyone when I'm mad at myself...I don't like it when my friends get down on themselves. It makes me sad and angry, because they are perfect. If they are perfect, what am I? Angry. This is how it works, I think in circles.
Did your mothers tell you to judge people by their shoes? Mine did not. Apparently Gyna and the Germans were told otherwise: you look at peoples' shoes. This has never occurred to me before, not until I really got to know someone. You look at their shoes? Really? I feel like if I paid attention to everyone's shoes I would get annoyed.
I feel like I would gravitate towards worn-down boots and stained sneakers, frayed laces. Or shoes that are ridiculous and overly-buckled, like too many elves got excited with their tiny belts, or shoes that aren't shoes and all and are just like leather ace bandages. I support walking around in slippers all the time.
Anything too tidy would make me nervous. Or someone who wears Toms, those shoes you send to Africa. Why don't you just donate money to an African charity? They need medicine and opportunity and release and they need us to stop dropping our unusable electronics to the African desert, because Africa is not a dump where you can put the stuff you don't want anymore, you fuckhead. You might as well just buy forty dollars worth of flip flops from Walgreens and put them in a box labeled "Africa" with a picture of a baobab tree and hope it gets there. Put money in the system instead of sending over canvas shoes that fall apart when you wear them every day.
Also, excessively well-groomed shoes confuse me. Do you avoid puddles just because of your shoes? That's ridiculous. Why else would you wear them? I specifically wear shoes so I can walk through puddles without hesitation. They are feet armor. Not accessories. Alas, this is where I differ from the world.
My mother told me to judge people by their stories. If my stories were shoes, everyone would think I was rich.
The next morning I was in the process of waking up and I thought I heard one of the Germans say that I came from wealthy parents. It kind of bugged me, because he does not know my parents. Then again he could have used a completely different word. He could have been talking about healthy parrots. "That's the thing about people with healthy parrots," is what he could have said.
I don't really understand what it means, but I think I heard it.
I am thirty-one years old right now. It just happened like three hours ago or something. I'm playing bingo tomorrow night - tonight - because now I'm an old lady.
...
Showing posts with label brouhaha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label brouhaha. Show all posts
Friday, January 6, 2012
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Who them girls you be with when you be ridin through?
Day 13, a song that is a guilty pleasure
First things first. I love Ludacris. I don't feel guilty about this at all, so does it count? Let's say yes, because someone is always surprised. I'm really not embarrassed by my love for Luda, but I'm not embarrassed by anything I love so fuck it. He's in a movie, I watch it. He does a song, I get it. Did you know if you go low enough, Ludacris will appear in your mirror? True story. I got lower than I ever really thought I could. Yeah, I practiced in front of that mirror. Just in case.
I have no story, no background, no explanation. Only joy and love.
I wish I could post the "dirty" version. How asinine is life when you can only watch a fucking Luda video with all those words glocked out? Also, I'm about 500% sure Luda and the Beastie Boys have better music videos than basically everyone ever, just for sheer ridiculousness.
...
First things first. I love Ludacris. I don't feel guilty about this at all, so does it count? Let's say yes, because someone is always surprised. I'm really not embarrassed by my love for Luda, but I'm not embarrassed by anything I love so fuck it. He's in a movie, I watch it. He does a song, I get it. Did you know if you go low enough, Ludacris will appear in your mirror? True story. I got lower than I ever really thought I could. Yeah, I practiced in front of that mirror. Just in case.
I have no story, no background, no explanation. Only joy and love.
I wish I could post the "dirty" version. How asinine is life when you can only watch a fucking Luda video with all those words glocked out? Also, I'm about 500% sure Luda and the Beastie Boys have better music videos than basically everyone ever, just for sheer ridiculousness.
...
Friday, February 26, 2010
We Should Feed Canada Some Mrs. Grass Soup, But Only Until They Feel Better About SUCKING SO HARD AT HOCKEY
Scene: Seven friends are seated at the bar at Neighbors (you wish you were there) watching the US/Canada Olympic hockey game. Two are Canadian, the other five are USAmerican, and all of them are awesome. Except for the Canadians (BITCH WHAT I SAID IT, EH?)
(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)
...
"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.
"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."
"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.
"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"
Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."
"They would be better if they were blue."
"Red, white and blue."
"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.
"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"
Slinger ignores her.
"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.
I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."
"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"
"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.
"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.
Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."
"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.
"Totally fake."
"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"
"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"
Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"
"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."
"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"
"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.
"No, swimming horses."
"I never liked that movie."
"You're lame."
"You're Canadian."
"Bitch, you know you're jealous."
"I wish I had a queen to cry to."
"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"
"They have cheese there, eh?"
The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.
"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.
"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."
"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.
"She's probably from Canada."
"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.
I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."
Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"
"Frogs."
After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.
"Agreed, that's horseshit."
"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."
"Like the snowboarding team."
"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."
"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.
The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.
"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."
"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.
"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"
"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.
I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."
"The Canadian Tuxedo."
"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"
"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."
"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"
Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."
"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."
"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."
"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."
"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.
Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.
And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.
...
(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)
...
"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.
"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."
"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.
"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"
Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."
"They would be better if they were blue."
"Red, white and blue."
"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.
"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"
Slinger ignores her.
"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.
I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."
"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"
"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.
"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.
Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."
"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.
"Totally fake."
"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"
"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"
Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"
"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."
"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"
"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.
"No, swimming horses."
"I never liked that movie."
"You're lame."
"You're Canadian."
"Bitch, you know you're jealous."
"I wish I had a queen to cry to."
"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"
"They have cheese there, eh?"
The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.
"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.
"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."
"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.
"She's probably from Canada."
"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.
I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."
Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"
"Frogs."
After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.
"Agreed, that's horseshit."
"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."
"Like the snowboarding team."
"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."
"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.
The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.
"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."
"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.
"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"
"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.
I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."
"The Canadian Tuxedo."
"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"
"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."
"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"
Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."
"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."
"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."
"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."
"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.
Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.
And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.
...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
In Hopes of a Snow Day, Here is a Blog Post.
I just got finished shoveling the sidewalk in front of my apartment complex because I am (a) selfless and (b) a philanthropist. MoLinder actually gave me the idea when she talked about how she was thinking about being a good samaritan and shoveling tonight, and I reminded her that she's from San Diego and shoveling a foot of snow is like preparing for trench warfare. She still did it, though, which means she's a winner, and then I hauled another round six hours later.
Everyone who knows anything about snow knows that the best way to shovel is frequently and slightly drunk, so I jumped on that shit. Not the drunk part. Don't get me wrong, LOST was on tonight, and it's veritably absurd to watch that show without beer unless there are wagons and twelve-step programs involved. I believe, and I could be wrong, but I believe it's actually a law. Whatever, pre-shoveling involved driving so I didn't get drunk, due to wisdom and responsibility.
Topic at hand: I need a new template, like, yesterday. So I've decided to enlist the help of everyone who bothers to read this.
I want a header image. I'm thinking something like a dirty-ass dive bar, one where they only bother to clean the tapper and pint glasses because really, nothing is more important than the beer. I drew one awhile ago and never bothered to put it up, and now I'm sick of it. I keep on opening the file and growling at myself out of consternation.
You know when you google images of dive bars and there are always pictures of spotless pubs that fucking wish they were shady? I dislike that.
Basically, help. Please. Sugar and stuff. All template ideas are welcome, but actual submissions earn more points and appreciation.
But the most important thing is this: whoever gives me the best concept will win a prize, which could range from a shitty poem to a fucking robot, depending on how much money I get in my next pay check. Granted, your robot would probably be a two-gallon bucket with some hot-glued pipe cleaner googly-eyes jammed on top of a toy remote control monster truck, but still very cool, right? Robot?
(Note: the poem is more likely)
Also, Chris from Letters: your drawing will be up shortly. I apologize for the wait, but work is eating me alive.
...
Everyone who knows anything about snow knows that the best way to shovel is frequently and slightly drunk, so I jumped on that shit. Not the drunk part. Don't get me wrong, LOST was on tonight, and it's veritably absurd to watch that show without beer unless there are wagons and twelve-step programs involved. I believe, and I could be wrong, but I believe it's actually a law. Whatever, pre-shoveling involved driving so I didn't get drunk, due to wisdom and responsibility.
Topic at hand: I need a new template, like, yesterday. So I've decided to enlist the help of everyone who bothers to read this.
I want a header image. I'm thinking something like a dirty-ass dive bar, one where they only bother to clean the tapper and pint glasses because really, nothing is more important than the beer. I drew one awhile ago and never bothered to put it up, and now I'm sick of it. I keep on opening the file and growling at myself out of consternation.
You know when you google images of dive bars and there are always pictures of spotless pubs that fucking wish they were shady? I dislike that.
Basically, help. Please. Sugar and stuff. All template ideas are welcome, but actual submissions earn more points and appreciation.
But the most important thing is this: whoever gives me the best concept will win a prize, which could range from a shitty poem to a fucking robot, depending on how much money I get in my next pay check. Granted, your robot would probably be a two-gallon bucket with some hot-glued pipe cleaner googly-eyes jammed on top of a toy remote control monster truck, but still very cool, right? Robot?
(Note: the poem is more likely)
Also, Chris from Letters: your drawing will be up shortly. I apologize for the wait, but work is eating me alive.
...
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Quilting and Grape Crush Are Like a Metaphor for Life Or Something
Lately I've fallen into the habit of just sitting around being awesome instead of like, going out and being awesome. I'm mastering the art of being awesome in the privacy of my own home, while hand-quilting, drinking various flavors of Crush (preferably grape, but there's been a lot of orange lately), watching things that star Bradley Cooper (or too many Italians), eating hazelnuts, and pretending I'm not a cat lady.
It's awesome. I promise.
You know what? Quilting is fucking hard. Really fucking hard. Maybe not hard hard, but there is a surprising amount of math and time and blood involved in this business (religion, math, and blood are necessary to give anything meaning - so I'm almost done. It takes time to make a religion anyway). I did not realize the intense situation I was throwing myself into. All willy-nilly.
I finished the top part. The quilt. By Christmas. I put in a box, gave it to my dad, and promised him I would finish the fucking thing.
I'm like a servant indentured to myself. I'm a slave driver with a human inventory of one. I'm like Cinderella and my own evil stepmother. I'm like a fucking Clydesdale, except how does one quilt with these massive hooves that are much better suited for hauling around beer?
The part where I actually sew the top and the bottom together, like a sandwich of scabs and tears...that part I just started, and I've got this giant fucking quilt and a wooden hoop and all of this bullshit thread, and THIS IS GOING TO TAKE ME UNTIL SPRING. I never want to sew again. But I'm going to finish it, I'm going to do this every day until it is done, because I said I would back in October when I started the damn thing. And it's beautiful, seriously, I'm incredibly proud of it, this fucking fabricated, desolate succubus, stitched together by determination and sentimental bullshit and love and self-loathing...I could sell this thing for five hundred bucks, easy. Probably more, if I sold it at Notre Dame. It's a domer quilt. Because the Dad is a domer. Everyone is a domer except for me.
I fucking hate Notre Dame.
So to keep me going, I'm drinking four cans of Crush a day because that shit is like crack cocaine, and watching Alias, because Will Tippin is like crack cocaine. And trying to avoid talking to MoLinder's cats, which is really fucking hard because they talk back. Verbally, not like psychically, and not with real words - they use total cat words. That would just be weird. Shut up.
...
It's awesome. I promise.
You know what? Quilting is fucking hard. Really fucking hard. Maybe not hard hard, but there is a surprising amount of math and time and blood involved in this business (religion, math, and blood are necessary to give anything meaning - so I'm almost done. It takes time to make a religion anyway). I did not realize the intense situation I was throwing myself into. All willy-nilly.
I finished the top part. The quilt. By Christmas. I put in a box, gave it to my dad, and promised him I would finish the fucking thing.
I'm like a servant indentured to myself. I'm a slave driver with a human inventory of one. I'm like Cinderella and my own evil stepmother. I'm like a fucking Clydesdale, except how does one quilt with these massive hooves that are much better suited for hauling around beer?
The part where I actually sew the top and the bottom together, like a sandwich of scabs and tears...that part I just started, and I've got this giant fucking quilt and a wooden hoop and all of this bullshit thread, and THIS IS GOING TO TAKE ME UNTIL SPRING. I never want to sew again. But I'm going to finish it, I'm going to do this every day until it is done, because I said I would back in October when I started the damn thing. And it's beautiful, seriously, I'm incredibly proud of it, this fucking fabricated, desolate succubus, stitched together by determination and sentimental bullshit and love and self-loathing...I could sell this thing for five hundred bucks, easy. Probably more, if I sold it at Notre Dame. It's a domer quilt. Because the Dad is a domer. Everyone is a domer except for me.
I fucking hate Notre Dame.
So to keep me going, I'm drinking four cans of Crush a day because that shit is like crack cocaine, and watching Alias, because Will Tippin is like crack cocaine. And trying to avoid talking to MoLinder's cats, which is really fucking hard because they talk back. Verbally, not like psychically, and not with real words - they use total cat words. That would just be weird. Shut up.
...
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
I Totally Fight Back
As some of you know, it is my birthday, and I will accept any of the following gifts:
1. shiny six-legged horses that you can plug your hair into and steer with your mind
2. flying fluorescent dragons with chocolate stains that you can totally ride
3. hammerhead rhinoceri with feathers
4. big giant robot suits with secret knives that you can wear
From the above list, you may have guessed: I saw Avatar.
It was pretty, but really dumb. Like James Franco in everything. Or Mark Wahlberg (I am a fucking sucker for those Wahlbergs). Or me, with my super hot 3D-hindering glasses and turtle legs and sweet fighting moves.
I just made up this rule: I am awesome at segways (segue is a stupid, downright unAmerican way to spell it). You see, mentioning my skills as a fighter is a charming, slippery segway sentence into the following very important story:
So I got into a fight on New Year's Eve which involved getting accidentally felt up and assaulted by some random dude who was in a completely different fight while I was waiting in line for the bathroom. He was thrown into me from close range - pinned me against the wall, slamcracked my head into the plaster with one hand and then wrapped his arm around me. I mean, it was probably to steady himself, but dude snatched my boob right after he hurt my head real bad. So, in suitable drunken retaliation, I grabbed him by the neck and jammed my hand into his lower back. Damn near folded him in half, but come on, don't do that shit, dude.
Apparently I fight back.
I didn't know that I would actually fight back, you know? Like you always want to be able to say you would fight back if someone attacked you (yes, I know this was accidental, but it still hurt and surprised the hell out of me) and now I know. I will fight back. I probably know judo.
And then the guy at the coat check jumped over his half door yelling, "break it up, break it up!" and I let go and held up my hands while the Accidental Assaulter called me a crazy bitch, and I gently reminded him not to fucking touch me again.
I was embarrassed for the rest of the night. Still am a little, which is why I'm telling the story over and over again until I'm comfortable with my sanity.
Oh, and then some stupid bitch asked if she could cut in front of me in the bathroom line because, and I fucking quote, "I just got engaged, so it's kind of my special day." It was hilarious. Being engaged doesn't make you special, girl, unless your fiance is James Franco. Or Mark Wahlberg.
...
1. shiny six-legged horses that you can plug your hair into and steer with your mind
2. flying fluorescent dragons with chocolate stains that you can totally ride
3. hammerhead rhinoceri with feathers
4. big giant robot suits with secret knives that you can wear
From the above list, you may have guessed: I saw Avatar.
It was pretty, but really dumb. Like James Franco in everything. Or Mark Wahlberg (I am a fucking sucker for those Wahlbergs). Or me, with my super hot 3D-hindering glasses and turtle legs and sweet fighting moves.
I just made up this rule: I am awesome at segways (segue is a stupid, downright unAmerican way to spell it). You see, mentioning my skills as a fighter is a charming, slippery segway sentence into the following very important story:
So I got into a fight on New Year's Eve which involved getting accidentally felt up and assaulted by some random dude who was in a completely different fight while I was waiting in line for the bathroom. He was thrown into me from close range - pinned me against the wall, slamcracked my head into the plaster with one hand and then wrapped his arm around me. I mean, it was probably to steady himself, but dude snatched my boob right after he hurt my head real bad. So, in suitable drunken retaliation, I grabbed him by the neck and jammed my hand into his lower back. Damn near folded him in half, but come on, don't do that shit, dude.
Apparently I fight back.
I didn't know that I would actually fight back, you know? Like you always want to be able to say you would fight back if someone attacked you (yes, I know this was accidental, but it still hurt and surprised the hell out of me) and now I know. I will fight back. I probably know judo.
And then the guy at the coat check jumped over his half door yelling, "break it up, break it up!" and I let go and held up my hands while the Accidental Assaulter called me a crazy bitch, and I gently reminded him not to fucking touch me again.
I was embarrassed for the rest of the night. Still am a little, which is why I'm telling the story over and over again until I'm comfortable with my sanity.
Oh, and then some stupid bitch asked if she could cut in front of me in the bathroom line because, and I fucking quote, "I just got engaged, so it's kind of my special day." It was hilarious. Being engaged doesn't make you special, girl, unless your fiance is James Franco. Or Mark Wahlberg.
...
Monday, December 7, 2009
Socks Set the Tone For the Whole Day
Every single morning I hit my alarm seven or eight times, throw my phone, hide under my pillow, and an hour and a half later I rocket out of bed because I'm late for work.
Open the blinds. Fuck. Feel the window. Walk over to the porch door, swing it open. Breathe.
Pick out my socks. Socks set the tone for the whole day. They are the most important thing in my wardrobe.
Every morning, in that order.
This morning there was snow. I could smell it coming, so I knew, but mostly I knew because everyone told me that there would be snow. I never check the forecast. Half the fun of weather is surprise.
In three days I will be in Mexico, and there won't be snow, and I won't need to check the weather. I'm excited, I can't wait, but it's December and this will be my first time leaving the winter during the winter and I prolly won't need socks.
This is weird for me.
...
Open the blinds. Fuck. Feel the window. Walk over to the porch door, swing it open. Breathe.
Pick out my socks. Socks set the tone for the whole day. They are the most important thing in my wardrobe.
Every morning, in that order.
This morning there was snow. I could smell it coming, so I knew, but mostly I knew because everyone told me that there would be snow. I never check the forecast. Half the fun of weather is surprise.
In three days I will be in Mexico, and there won't be snow, and I won't need to check the weather. I'm excited, I can't wait, but it's December and this will be my first time leaving the winter during the winter and I prolly won't need socks.
This is weird for me.
...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I Won't Mean Business On This Vacation
If we had spoken last Monday, hypothetically, and if you had said, "Dude, you are such a fucking douchebag" I might have defended my honor with ruthless abandon.
If you had texted me last Monday, hypothetically, and said, "All inclusive resort in Cancun + flight + transportation limited offer $500" I would have laughed at my phone and responded with my highly opposable thumbs, "you are a fucking loser" or whatever.
If we met at a bar last Monday, hypothetically, and our barversation ripened into an excited debate on vacation destinations, I would not have brought up any place in Mexico. Mexico isn't even in my top twenty-five Places To See While I Can Still Walk Moderately Quickly.*
Mostly this is because anything south and west of Kansas, in my brain, is "The Tropics."
And I'm not very tropical. I'm not one of those yellowy pink coltish girls that always wear flip flops and smell like sunshine. People don't look at me and think, "I'd bet the farm that that girl wears Hawaiian-hibiscus-print dresses," although they may perhaps think, "I'd bet this Hawaiian-hibiscus-print dress that that girl works on a farm."
Mid-west.
Secondly, I don't go on vacation. I take trips: there's a difference. "Vacation" implies relaxation. Usually I'm on a trip. Where I like...do stuff. Route 66. New Orleans. Alaska. Vegas (okay, maybe not Vegas).
But the fact is somewhere between last Tuesday and yesterday, we decided to go to a resort in Cancun. I couldn't pass this shit up. Six days, five nights, all-inclusive, flight, transportation, decent hotel, with a ringing total of $503.47 including tax.
I've had unintentional $200 bar nights before, where you wake up on the floor of your kitchen in the late afternoon with a fistful of corndog and a pocketful of receipts and an ankle-ful of sprain, and you swear upon green earth and stone that if your car is hopefully where you left it when you were sober twenty hours earlier, you'll swear off alcohol to preach the Word to heathens, and this time you mean it. Not like last time.
But that's not going to happen this time, no fucking way. This time I've already paid for alcohol. Because that shit's included, suckah.
And I know what people are going to say: don't go to Cancun, go to this place, where there are Mayan ruins and cave-diving, or go to this one place that is more beautiful and much more like the "real" Mexico. Or go to fucking blahgiddy blahgiddy blah blah blah, because the beaches are better and there are less tourists and more to see and do. Don't get kidnapped (exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point).
No.
You do not understand.
I am going to sit on the beach and get drunk on exotic pink things with umbrellas in them and read really trashy novels**, and I'm going to fucking like it.
I am going to lay around in a goddamn bathing suit, and no one is going to be able to see me because I am the same color as the sand, and I'll constantly forget where I put my sunglasses.
I am going to create a playlist in my head that alternates between "Kokomo" and "This Is It" and "Knights of Cydonia" and "Panama" and basically anything by Weezer, and I'm going to play it over and over again with my brain, because I don't own an iPod, and I don't care if you don't like those songs because you can't hear my brain anyway.
You have no idea how excited I am for this. I never do stuff like this. There's usually a point for things. There are mountains to climb (yeah, I totally bagged a peak) and long infamous roads to drive, drinking local brews, kayaking, legendary cuisine, church spirals and Irish pony races, biking along canals, wandering through Roman ruins, seeing monuments and palaces and the streets where they filmed Full House (everywhere you look, everywhere there's a place...somebody who needs you). Yeah. I've done all that business.
But I have no such expectations of Cancun, except for white beaches and booze. Booze that I have already paid for.
DECEMBER, BITCHES.
* List to come.
** Okay, so I have to buy some trashy novels. I've never been a trashy novel person, but I'm single and sneaking closer to thirty every day. It's about that time.
...
If you had texted me last Monday, hypothetically, and said, "All inclusive resort in Cancun + flight + transportation limited offer $500" I would have laughed at my phone and responded with my highly opposable thumbs, "you are a fucking loser" or whatever.
If we met at a bar last Monday, hypothetically, and our barversation ripened into an excited debate on vacation destinations, I would not have brought up any place in Mexico. Mexico isn't even in my top twenty-five Places To See While I Can Still Walk Moderately Quickly.*
Mostly this is because anything south and west of Kansas, in my brain, is "The Tropics."
And I'm not very tropical. I'm not one of those yellowy pink coltish girls that always wear flip flops and smell like sunshine. People don't look at me and think, "I'd bet the farm that that girl wears Hawaiian-hibiscus-print dresses," although they may perhaps think, "I'd bet this Hawaiian-hibiscus-print dress that that girl works on a farm."
Mid-west.
Secondly, I don't go on vacation. I take trips: there's a difference. "Vacation" implies relaxation. Usually I'm on a trip. Where I like...do stuff. Route 66. New Orleans. Alaska. Vegas (okay, maybe not Vegas).
But the fact is somewhere between last Tuesday and yesterday, we decided to go to a resort in Cancun. I couldn't pass this shit up. Six days, five nights, all-inclusive, flight, transportation, decent hotel, with a ringing total of $503.47 including tax.
I've had unintentional $200 bar nights before, where you wake up on the floor of your kitchen in the late afternoon with a fistful of corndog and a pocketful of receipts and an ankle-ful of sprain, and you swear upon green earth and stone that if your car is hopefully where you left it when you were sober twenty hours earlier, you'll swear off alcohol to preach the Word to heathens, and this time you mean it. Not like last time.
But that's not going to happen this time, no fucking way. This time I've already paid for alcohol. Because that shit's included, suckah.
And I know what people are going to say: don't go to Cancun, go to this place, where there are Mayan ruins and cave-diving, or go to this one place that is more beautiful and much more like the "real" Mexico. Or go to fucking blahgiddy blahgiddy blah blah blah, because the beaches are better and there are less tourists and more to see and do. Don't get kidnapped (exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point).
No.
You do not understand.
I am going to sit on the beach and get drunk on exotic pink things with umbrellas in them and read really trashy novels**, and I'm going to fucking like it.
I am going to lay around in a goddamn bathing suit, and no one is going to be able to see me because I am the same color as the sand, and I'll constantly forget where I put my sunglasses.
I am going to create a playlist in my head that alternates between "Kokomo" and "This Is It" and "Knights of Cydonia" and "Panama" and basically anything by Weezer, and I'm going to play it over and over again with my brain, because I don't own an iPod, and I don't care if you don't like those songs because you can't hear my brain anyway.
You have no idea how excited I am for this. I never do stuff like this. There's usually a point for things. There are mountains to climb (yeah, I totally bagged a peak) and long infamous roads to drive, drinking local brews, kayaking, legendary cuisine, church spirals and Irish pony races, biking along canals, wandering through Roman ruins, seeing monuments and palaces and the streets where they filmed Full House (everywhere you look, everywhere there's a place...somebody who needs you). Yeah. I've done all that business.
But I have no such expectations of Cancun, except for white beaches and booze. Booze that I have already paid for.
DECEMBER, BITCHES.
* List to come.
** Okay, so I have to buy some trashy novels. I've never been a trashy novel person, but I'm single and sneaking closer to thirty every day. It's about that time.
...
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Self-Diagnosis Is Never A Good Idea
Who: Me and a bunch of medical people.
What: I have an appointment.
Where: The Hospital across the street that looks like it belongs on Tatooine.
When: Six-thirty in the morning. Some Monday a couple of weeks ago.
Why: It's about the whole elevated liver enzymes thing.
How: Well.
Walking across the street to the hospital, it occurs to me: I am fucking tired. I am way too tired to be awake right now, and the fact that Dr. Cow Eyes even thinks I need to be here is horseshit, and I'm sure I have cancer and two months left to live. Two months tops. And I'm going to miss Halloween. And my high school reunion. Sure, that would be hunky dory if I didn't already have a supershrewd and foolproof plan to get drunk and embarrass myself. Never did that in high school.
Inside the hospital, there's a security guard behind a desk, so I march up to him. "Excuse me, sir? Hi. Good morning. Umm, I'm supposed to go...I mean, I have a--where do you keep the radiation department?"
He smiles. "What're you in for?"
"Ultrasound," I answer, holding my abdomen, and he nods, smiling broader. "Oh, no, I'm not preggers. It's for my liver. And gall bladder. I guess I have lots of enzymes or something." And cancer. I'm sure I have cancer. From which I will surely expire.
Mr. Security Guard holds the grin and gives me directions, and I follow them extraordinarily well because I'm an expert wanderer.
There's a desk and no people, probably because it's an ungodly hour and even the hospital staff knows it's very rude to be dishing out ultrasounds instead of breakfast. I ding the little bell, and a dude darts his head out.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, good morning, I have an appointment for an ultrasound. I'm not pregnant."
"That's okay." Of course it's okay. "Did you sign in?"
"Uhhhh...no."
"You have to sign in."
"Okay." Silence. Awkward. "Is there like a clipboard--"
"No. You have to go to the front desk." He leaves. Douchebag. I retrace my steps and mosey on back over to the Mr. Security Guard on the other side of the hospital.
"Hello again. Hi. Can I sign in?"
He shakes his head, still grinning, and points me in the right direction. Ten minutes later there's business exchanged once again, where I say "ultrasound" and "not pregnant" and "elevated enzymes" and "probably cancer" about seven hundred times, and the very encouraging Front Desk Lady laughs a lot and slaps a hospital bracelet on my wrist to keep as a memento for all the good times we had. I wish, silently, that I could give her a token in return, seeing as I'm going to die, and our friendship is at a close.
The more I tell myself I'm going to die from liver cancer, the funnier it is. I nod as I pass Mr. Security Guard, who salutes my crossing, knowing our friendship will also be brief.
When I get back to the radiation department there's a crapload of people there, but I only wait for a few minutes before some dude with a clipboard calls my name. He politely introduces himself. I explain to him that I spent all weekend google imaging liver and gall bladder ultrasounds and wikipedi-ing cancer, and remind him several times that I'm fucking terrified. Dr. Technician Guy leads me into this half-lit room and makes me lie down and lift my shirt up before slopping that goopy ultrasound bullshit all over me, and it's cold as balls.
So we're looking at the screen. "I'm going to go over your gall bladder first," he explains, "and I need to you take a deep breath and hold it."
He makes me hold that shit far longer than I thought he would, over and over and over again, clicking away on images. He looks confused, but says nothing. Perhaps it's just his Ultrasound Work Face. Or I have cancer.
"So," I start talking, because when I'm nervous I talk too much, "You think you'll ever get these in color?"
"It measure sound waves," he explains, and does not elaborate.
Duh.
We do the breath holding thing a couple more times, and I'm just laying there with my hands cupping my boobs, and then I realize that I don't want him to think I'm feeling myself up because he is old and this is not a porno. Besides, if it were a porno, I wouldn't be the star, I would be the disheveled girl they show walking out of the exam room before the real star enters all sexy and ready for lovin'.
"We are going to cover your liver now," he says deeply, and slides the ultrasound detector thingy over a little.
Well, look at that. I gots me a liver. Shiny little thing. "So, Doc," I raise my eyebrows and drop my voice, "is my liver a boy or a girl?"
He doesn't respond.
"You know? Right?" I'm snorting and grinning like a jackass. "Because, you know--crap, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. You probably hear that all the time. You know, with like, other people. I bet--"
"I'm sorry, you must hold still." Dr. Technician Guy is not amused by cheap levity. I miss Front Desk Lady.
Glancing up at the screen, I see dark floaty shadows. That looks familiar. That looks bad.
That looks like fucking cancer.
Holy fucking shitballs, I have cancer. Dr. Technician Guy knows it, and he's saddened. That must be why he didn't laugh. I have liver cancer, and he doesn't want to laugh at my mirth and hilarity because he'll develop an emotional attachment to me and be depressed by my unfortunate death, because I'm too young and vibrant to die so soon, and I have cancer, and it's going to be like that Mandy Moore movie, and who am I going to find to marry me before I die alone?
"Ummm--"
"And that's it," he concludes, scowling slightly, wiping off the ultragoop. "Your doctor will have the results in a few days."
"But is everything--"
"Your doctor will have the results in a few days." He forces a smile.
I leave the hospital nearly out of breath, and go to work. Spend all day looking at ultrasounds of liver cancer online, reading about tumors and completely destroying my hopes for survival. I'm sure I'll be yellow within days. I write this post. I do not feel like joking, or laughing, and I cry a lot. Everyone reminds me that if it were cancer, they would have acted immediately, but I'm convinced the entire medical profession is against me, and I don't listen.
My follow up appointment with Dr. Cow Eyes was that Friday. The day I decided to take a blog break. I don't have cancer. I am healthy as fuck, and will live forever, and she actually smiles at me. Those shadows that I thought were tumors were actually images of my pancreas. I am a dumbass, you see, because Dr. Technician Guy is very thorough, and hooked it up just in case.
So then I decided to take a blog break, went home, and got really drunk.
...
What: I have an appointment.
Where: The Hospital across the street that looks like it belongs on Tatooine.
When: Six-thirty in the morning. Some Monday a couple of weeks ago.
Why: It's about the whole elevated liver enzymes thing.
How: Well.
Walking across the street to the hospital, it occurs to me: I am fucking tired. I am way too tired to be awake right now, and the fact that Dr. Cow Eyes even thinks I need to be here is horseshit, and I'm sure I have cancer and two months left to live. Two months tops. And I'm going to miss Halloween. And my high school reunion. Sure, that would be hunky dory if I didn't already have a supershrewd and foolproof plan to get drunk and embarrass myself. Never did that in high school.
Inside the hospital, there's a security guard behind a desk, so I march up to him. "Excuse me, sir? Hi. Good morning. Umm, I'm supposed to go...I mean, I have a--where do you keep the radiation department?"
He smiles. "What're you in for?"
"Ultrasound," I answer, holding my abdomen, and he nods, smiling broader. "Oh, no, I'm not preggers. It's for my liver. And gall bladder. I guess I have lots of enzymes or something." And cancer. I'm sure I have cancer. From which I will surely expire.
Mr. Security Guard holds the grin and gives me directions, and I follow them extraordinarily well because I'm an expert wanderer.
There's a desk and no people, probably because it's an ungodly hour and even the hospital staff knows it's very rude to be dishing out ultrasounds instead of breakfast. I ding the little bell, and a dude darts his head out.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, good morning, I have an appointment for an ultrasound. I'm not pregnant."
"That's okay." Of course it's okay. "Did you sign in?"
"Uhhhh...no."
"You have to sign in."
"Okay." Silence. Awkward. "Is there like a clipboard--"
"No. You have to go to the front desk." He leaves. Douchebag. I retrace my steps and mosey on back over to the Mr. Security Guard on the other side of the hospital.
"Hello again. Hi. Can I sign in?"
He shakes his head, still grinning, and points me in the right direction. Ten minutes later there's business exchanged once again, where I say "ultrasound" and "not pregnant" and "elevated enzymes" and "probably cancer" about seven hundred times, and the very encouraging Front Desk Lady laughs a lot and slaps a hospital bracelet on my wrist to keep as a memento for all the good times we had. I wish, silently, that I could give her a token in return, seeing as I'm going to die, and our friendship is at a close.
The more I tell myself I'm going to die from liver cancer, the funnier it is. I nod as I pass Mr. Security Guard, who salutes my crossing, knowing our friendship will also be brief.
When I get back to the radiation department there's a crapload of people there, but I only wait for a few minutes before some dude with a clipboard calls my name. He politely introduces himself. I explain to him that I spent all weekend google imaging liver and gall bladder ultrasounds and wikipedi-ing cancer, and remind him several times that I'm fucking terrified. Dr. Technician Guy leads me into this half-lit room and makes me lie down and lift my shirt up before slopping that goopy ultrasound bullshit all over me, and it's cold as balls.
So we're looking at the screen. "I'm going to go over your gall bladder first," he explains, "and I need to you take a deep breath and hold it."
He makes me hold that shit far longer than I thought he would, over and over and over again, clicking away on images. He looks confused, but says nothing. Perhaps it's just his Ultrasound Work Face. Or I have cancer.
"So," I start talking, because when I'm nervous I talk too much, "You think you'll ever get these in color?"
"It measure sound waves," he explains, and does not elaborate.
Duh.
We do the breath holding thing a couple more times, and I'm just laying there with my hands cupping my boobs, and then I realize that I don't want him to think I'm feeling myself up because he is old and this is not a porno. Besides, if it were a porno, I wouldn't be the star, I would be the disheveled girl they show walking out of the exam room before the real star enters all sexy and ready for lovin'.
"We are going to cover your liver now," he says deeply, and slides the ultrasound detector thingy over a little.
Well, look at that. I gots me a liver. Shiny little thing. "So, Doc," I raise my eyebrows and drop my voice, "is my liver a boy or a girl?"
He doesn't respond.
"You know? Right?" I'm snorting and grinning like a jackass. "Because, you know--crap, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. You probably hear that all the time. You know, with like, other people. I bet--"
"I'm sorry, you must hold still." Dr. Technician Guy is not amused by cheap levity. I miss Front Desk Lady.
Glancing up at the screen, I see dark floaty shadows. That looks familiar. That looks bad.
That looks like fucking cancer.
Holy fucking shitballs, I have cancer. Dr. Technician Guy knows it, and he's saddened. That must be why he didn't laugh. I have liver cancer, and he doesn't want to laugh at my mirth and hilarity because he'll develop an emotional attachment to me and be depressed by my unfortunate death, because I'm too young and vibrant to die so soon, and I have cancer, and it's going to be like that Mandy Moore movie, and who am I going to find to marry me before I die alone?
"Ummm--"
"And that's it," he concludes, scowling slightly, wiping off the ultragoop. "Your doctor will have the results in a few days."
"But is everything--"
"Your doctor will have the results in a few days." He forces a smile.
I leave the hospital nearly out of breath, and go to work. Spend all day looking at ultrasounds of liver cancer online, reading about tumors and completely destroying my hopes for survival. I'm sure I'll be yellow within days. I write this post. I do not feel like joking, or laughing, and I cry a lot. Everyone reminds me that if it were cancer, they would have acted immediately, but I'm convinced the entire medical profession is against me, and I don't listen.
My follow up appointment with Dr. Cow Eyes was that Friday. The day I decided to take a blog break. I don't have cancer. I am healthy as fuck, and will live forever, and she actually smiles at me. Those shadows that I thought were tumors were actually images of my pancreas. I am a dumbass, you see, because Dr. Technician Guy is very thorough, and hooked it up just in case.
So then I decided to take a blog break, went home, and got really drunk.
...
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Aphoristic Truths
We have some universal aphorisms among the Circus circle of friends. For the most part, they are ironclad, disciplinary facts, untouchable truths that none of us will dispute. Things like "M.E. is a tool" and "Lance is a douchebag" and "Steve Status is not a douchebag" and "Schmee has very nice boobs" and "Rassles is the chillest and the illest piece of sweetness around and she deserves all of our respect and cashmoney." *
But here's the crazy shit: Steve Status was kind of a douchebag this weekend at Novo's birthday. It's like my entire belief system is crumbling all around me. He was even wearing one of those button up Dude Shirts with like the strategically swirly silver designs, and he put gel in his hair.
Schmee informed me that Status has always been kind of a douchebag. Touche.
This isn't fucking Scrote-lympics, Status. I understand that we do not hang out very often, but I'm disappointed in you.
So, Status: next time Jackson decides to kick holes in the Hyatt walls and piss down the hallway, LET THE COPS TAKE HIM AWAY. We don't want that guy around anyway, because he does dirtbag shit (like kicking holes in walls and pissing in hallways). That's why we always say "Jackson is a fucking dirtbag" and I get mad when he stands next to me.
We're not in college. This isn't fucking Nam. Sure, in a Deadliest Warrior Stand-Off between Status and Jackson...I'd like to say Status would emerge victorious, even though I get the feeling that Status is lead by self-appointed drunken chivalry that borders on tricky dickhead, and I don't like that. But Jackson is a dirty dirty dirtbag, beyond redemption, always creeping through that existential void of charmless scumbaggery.
Also: Stop asking me for advice on your love lives, guys. It's not my fault Stablin's best game is howling "baby" at hoodrats and rocking an unbuttoned shirt exposing his pasty-ass chest. Status, if your girlfriend of four months is cheating on you with other girls and you're uncomfortable with it you should ask her to stop or break up with her, even though it was cool at first. Lance, yes, you are a douchebag. Especially with your shirt off. Stop dry humping people in their sleep. No, I do not want to see whatever you're hiding beneath the sheets, go back to taking advantage of unfortunate young coeds.
I haven't seen them in nearly two years, and nothing has changed. It's still, "Dude, Ross, I need to talk to you about something, I'm so glad you're here. Moe licked my nipple. What do I do about that?"
Still, I'm glad I got to hang out two weeks in a row. There are few things better than people who are genuinely happy to see you. I miss those guys.
...
* In retrospect, I could have some of those words jumbled and/or erroneous in that last statement. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just made that up off the top of my head. It's alarmingly accurate in its elegance and simplicity, agreed? I propose, to all that are involved in making such decisions, that we change the current gospel that everyone says about me to whatever I typed up there.
I know what you're all going to say, though. Because it's the same thing you always goddamn say.
"Shut up, Rassles. You don't know anything."
...
Oh, and for the record: Jackson is not my friend. He didn't go to school with me. He's a tag-a-long: A friend of a friend who has nothing better to do than piss everyone off.
...
But here's the crazy shit: Steve Status was kind of a douchebag this weekend at Novo's birthday. It's like my entire belief system is crumbling all around me. He was even wearing one of those button up Dude Shirts with like the strategically swirly silver designs, and he put gel in his hair.
Schmee informed me that Status has always been kind of a douchebag. Touche.
This isn't fucking Scrote-lympics, Status. I understand that we do not hang out very often, but I'm disappointed in you.
So, Status: next time Jackson decides to kick holes in the Hyatt walls and piss down the hallway, LET THE COPS TAKE HIM AWAY. We don't want that guy around anyway, because he does dirtbag shit (like kicking holes in walls and pissing in hallways). That's why we always say "Jackson is a fucking dirtbag" and I get mad when he stands next to me.
We're not in college. This isn't fucking Nam. Sure, in a Deadliest Warrior Stand-Off between Status and Jackson...I'd like to say Status would emerge victorious, even though I get the feeling that Status is lead by self-appointed drunken chivalry that borders on tricky dickhead, and I don't like that. But Jackson is a dirty dirty dirtbag, beyond redemption, always creeping through that existential void of charmless scumbaggery.
Also: Stop asking me for advice on your love lives, guys. It's not my fault Stablin's best game is howling "baby" at hoodrats and rocking an unbuttoned shirt exposing his pasty-ass chest. Status, if your girlfriend of four months is cheating on you with other girls and you're uncomfortable with it you should ask her to stop or break up with her, even though it was cool at first. Lance, yes, you are a douchebag. Especially with your shirt off. Stop dry humping people in their sleep. No, I do not want to see whatever you're hiding beneath the sheets, go back to taking advantage of unfortunate young coeds.
I haven't seen them in nearly two years, and nothing has changed. It's still, "Dude, Ross, I need to talk to you about something, I'm so glad you're here. Moe licked my nipple. What do I do about that?"
Still, I'm glad I got to hang out two weeks in a row. There are few things better than people who are genuinely happy to see you. I miss those guys.
...
* In retrospect, I could have some of those words jumbled and/or erroneous in that last statement. In fact, I'm pretty sure I just made that up off the top of my head. It's alarmingly accurate in its elegance and simplicity, agreed? I propose, to all that are involved in making such decisions, that we change the current gospel that everyone says about me to whatever I typed up there.
I know what you're all going to say, though. Because it's the same thing you always goddamn say.
"Shut up, Rassles. You don't know anything."
...
Oh, and for the record: Jackson is not my friend. He didn't go to school with me. He's a tag-a-long: A friend of a friend who has nothing better to do than piss everyone off.
...
Monday, April 13, 2009
The City of New Orleans: And Dance by the Light of the Moon
Day Five: Continued.
We’re not in that courtyard for long. Four seconds or so.
Out one door, u-turn right into another, we walk through a small room full of jarred herbs and then right into the altar room. The room itself was small, but splattered with junk.
Every inch of wall adorned itself with chiseled artifacts and drapes of fabric, statues and tokens and everything anyone had left there over the course of the past twenty-five years or so, because in the end, this is a new temple.
In the back of the small room, entertaining two young women sitting on the floor, was Priestess Miriam, cackling like chicken. She had a throne, kind of, a normal chair someone had painted and draped with...I don't know, gauze? Doused in jewelry. Leathery and soft. She sat in front of a coffee table covered with tiny jars of crap, a notebook full of repetitive lines of the same scratchy gibberish, a house phone and a big old jar full of something.
We browse, touching nothing, conquered by this treasure altar of garbage and crap and love. People left cigarettes, lollipops, sticks of gum, pencils, pennies, whatever they could as offerings to whatever divine element. Thousands of coins just lying all over the floors and the tables, in scattered piles and mason towers. Dollar bills stuffed themselves in the corners, the hands of statues, crammed into any open crevice. Dried fish, cracked ballet slippers, golf balls, sketches and photographs, burned out candles…a freaking hubcap. Everything drips onto something else.
After a couple of minutes the two girls stand up and say their goodbyes, and Priestess Miriam opens up her jar and takes a long sip.
"Girls. Come on."
We all look around. Did she mean us? She wants to talk to us?
So we step towards her. The incense is lush. You can't help but move slowly, flowing with the simple extravagance of the room. With a slight lift of your foot you can feel the thickness of your limbs, the thickness of air, you swim through that room with a heavy, hesitant ease.
Muffy slowly guides us towards Priestess Miriam and chooses a chair, and the other three girls settle onto the floor while I sit on the remaining chair. Not so much on it as in it. Its paint and limbs moan.
"Wha' can I do for you girls?" our Priestess mumbles.
How about give me some of whatever’s in that jar?
We’re silently trying to connect our eyes, hoping someone will speak first, trying to remain courteous while scanning the collection of bones and canisters, pots and jars, ceramic and glass, bike handlebars. Forks. Napkins scrawled with prayers. A dumpster of hope and gorgeous, fleeting, trashy belief.
"Well, I have a prayer request..." Muffy hesitates, leaning forward.
The Voodoo Priestess leans back and pulls a scarred hand up to her temple. "Thass a heavy requess. Wha di you have in mine?"
"Well, ummm..." Muffy suggests, fumbling. "To uh...to make good decisions."
"Ohhhh, Lord. Wha dya need to desside? Iz i' something like, for a jahb, or for a...something more impohtin? Becuz..." she's interrupted by that phone. She stops talking completely, staring at it, waiting for the ringing to stop. "I'm poplar today! You know how that iz. Somedays you have no one, talkin' to the mine and the head, wondrin' where you--" deep sigh "--gotta be. An' then somedays you gotta be...e'rywhere alls atwonce." She spasm slightly, and leans back and laughs, loud and shriekish, hiding her face in her hands.
Muffy and I both laughed, uncomfortably. This bitch crazy.
In a good way.
"I gotta whet my whistle." She takes another sip from that jar in front of her. Moonshine? Totally. There are bottles of rum and whiskey littered throughout the room, full and half-full, hidden between handmade dolls and guitar branches.
Priestess Miriam starts chatting away, pausing strategically to grab the arm of her chair and cackle and squeal at her own jokes that none of us quite understand. She rambles for a good half hour, somewhat incoherent, but eloquently so, about politics, choices, living in Chicago.
Oh, she’s originally from Mississippi, but she lived in Chicago for years, where she met Priest Oswan and planned on running away with him to Belize, leaving behind her children, the church where she acted as bishop on the South side, her job at the hospital. And they stopped in New Orleans on their way to Belize, founded this temple, and never looked back.
I feel heavy and try to concentrate on her words, because they seem to make sense, but I have no idea what she says half the time. She pauses only in her story to stare at the randomly ringing phone, cackle at the sky. Grab the arm of her chair, sip from the jar. All hopped up on spirits.
She asks what we do for a living, what brought us to New Orleans. We tell her about the soup kitchen and the train, and she spirals into some story about how no one cared about New Orleans until a catastrophe, and now everyone wants to help. Shouldn’t they want to help the places that are always in trouble, all the time?
Sometimes, I think she takes little jabs at us, as Priestess, as a beautiful, drunken, philosophical savant. No, I know she does. She flat out makes fun of us. Not to diminish our self-worth, but as a matter of perspective. What do five white girls from the Midwest know about life in New Orleans?
Because in the end, when we take our turns explaining our jobs, we aren’t a group of young women who are individually on sabbatical, teaching special ed, finishing our masters, building playgrounds, and raising money for inner-city schools, who collectively choose to head out to New Orleans to volunteer at a soup kitchen. We are unemployed, an instructor, a wayward student, a salesperson, and an office manager, and we’re on fucking Spring Break.
...
We’re not in that courtyard for long. Four seconds or so.
Out one door, u-turn right into another, we walk through a small room full of jarred herbs and then right into the altar room. The room itself was small, but splattered with junk.
Every inch of wall adorned itself with chiseled artifacts and drapes of fabric, statues and tokens and everything anyone had left there over the course of the past twenty-five years or so, because in the end, this is a new temple.
In the back of the small room, entertaining two young women sitting on the floor, was Priestess Miriam, cackling like chicken. She had a throne, kind of, a normal chair someone had painted and draped with...I don't know, gauze? Doused in jewelry. Leathery and soft. She sat in front of a coffee table covered with tiny jars of crap, a notebook full of repetitive lines of the same scratchy gibberish, a house phone and a big old jar full of something.
We browse, touching nothing, conquered by this treasure altar of garbage and crap and love. People left cigarettes, lollipops, sticks of gum, pencils, pennies, whatever they could as offerings to whatever divine element. Thousands of coins just lying all over the floors and the tables, in scattered piles and mason towers. Dollar bills stuffed themselves in the corners, the hands of statues, crammed into any open crevice. Dried fish, cracked ballet slippers, golf balls, sketches and photographs, burned out candles…a freaking hubcap. Everything drips onto something else.
After a couple of minutes the two girls stand up and say their goodbyes, and Priestess Miriam opens up her jar and takes a long sip.
"Girls. Come on."
We all look around. Did she mean us? She wants to talk to us?
So we step towards her. The incense is lush. You can't help but move slowly, flowing with the simple extravagance of the room. With a slight lift of your foot you can feel the thickness of your limbs, the thickness of air, you swim through that room with a heavy, hesitant ease.
Muffy slowly guides us towards Priestess Miriam and chooses a chair, and the other three girls settle onto the floor while I sit on the remaining chair. Not so much on it as in it. Its paint and limbs moan.
"Wha' can I do for you girls?" our Priestess mumbles.
How about give me some of whatever’s in that jar?
We’re silently trying to connect our eyes, hoping someone will speak first, trying to remain courteous while scanning the collection of bones and canisters, pots and jars, ceramic and glass, bike handlebars. Forks. Napkins scrawled with prayers. A dumpster of hope and gorgeous, fleeting, trashy belief.
"Well, I have a prayer request..." Muffy hesitates, leaning forward.
The Voodoo Priestess leans back and pulls a scarred hand up to her temple. "Thass a heavy requess. Wha di you have in mine?"
"Well, ummm..." Muffy suggests, fumbling. "To uh...to make good decisions."
"Ohhhh, Lord. Wha dya need to desside? Iz i' something like, for a jahb, or for a...something more impohtin? Becuz..." she's interrupted by that phone. She stops talking completely, staring at it, waiting for the ringing to stop. "I'm poplar today! You know how that iz. Somedays you have no one, talkin' to the mine and the head, wondrin' where you--" deep sigh "--gotta be. An' then somedays you gotta be...e'rywhere alls atwonce." She spasm slightly, and leans back and laughs, loud and shriekish, hiding her face in her hands.
Muffy and I both laughed, uncomfortably. This bitch crazy.
In a good way.
"I gotta whet my whistle." She takes another sip from that jar in front of her. Moonshine? Totally. There are bottles of rum and whiskey littered throughout the room, full and half-full, hidden between handmade dolls and guitar branches.
Priestess Miriam starts chatting away, pausing strategically to grab the arm of her chair and cackle and squeal at her own jokes that none of us quite understand. She rambles for a good half hour, somewhat incoherent, but eloquently so, about politics, choices, living in Chicago.
Oh, she’s originally from Mississippi, but she lived in Chicago for years, where she met Priest Oswan and planned on running away with him to Belize, leaving behind her children, the church where she acted as bishop on the South side, her job at the hospital. And they stopped in New Orleans on their way to Belize, founded this temple, and never looked back.
I feel heavy and try to concentrate on her words, because they seem to make sense, but I have no idea what she says half the time. She pauses only in her story to stare at the randomly ringing phone, cackle at the sky. Grab the arm of her chair, sip from the jar. All hopped up on spirits.
She asks what we do for a living, what brought us to New Orleans. We tell her about the soup kitchen and the train, and she spirals into some story about how no one cared about New Orleans until a catastrophe, and now everyone wants to help. Shouldn’t they want to help the places that are always in trouble, all the time?
Sometimes, I think she takes little jabs at us, as Priestess, as a beautiful, drunken, philosophical savant. No, I know she does. She flat out makes fun of us. Not to diminish our self-worth, but as a matter of perspective. What do five white girls from the Midwest know about life in New Orleans?
Because in the end, when we take our turns explaining our jobs, we aren’t a group of young women who are individually on sabbatical, teaching special ed, finishing our masters, building playgrounds, and raising money for inner-city schools, who collectively choose to head out to New Orleans to volunteer at a soup kitchen. We are unemployed, an instructor, a wayward student, a salesperson, and an office manager, and we’re on fucking Spring Break.
...
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Even in the Face of Armageddon I Shall Not Compromise This.
Gaaahhhh Thursday night. Or Friday morning, whatever. Tickets have been purchased. I am shaking. Kevin got me theme-appropriate goody bag full of plastic cups, a t-shirt, and condoms, which will probably just sit there on my dresser, untouched. Because I'm the type of person that gets excited about movies like this.
Not that I mean to get my hopes up or anything, but the fact of the matter is I've been writing this movie in my head for twelve fucking years and to see it actualized onscreen is just very exciting. It could suck. It could dominate. What if it's as horrible as X-Men: The Last Stand? What if it's better than Batman Begins?
Life is getting to the point where previously steadfast friends are reconsidering their Rassles allegiance. I can tell, because they keep on saying things like this:
Patrick thought it was hilarious that you were so excited for the Creation Museum, and I was like, "Wait til the movie. Do not. Sit next. To Ross. I will be as far away from her as possible. Maybe in a completely different theater, I don't know."
- Gyna
There is no way I am sitting near you. You're just gonna punch me the whole time.
- Kevin
I'm just afraid that you're going to be sitting there by yourself, alienating the world and hitting strangers with your fist.
- Xtine
I am so not sitting next to you during the movie. I do not want to get hit, man. It's crap.
- MoLinder.
Fuck. Yes.
...
Not that I mean to get my hopes up or anything, but the fact of the matter is I've been writing this movie in my head for twelve fucking years and to see it actualized onscreen is just very exciting. It could suck. It could dominate. What if it's as horrible as X-Men: The Last Stand? What if it's better than Batman Begins?
Life is getting to the point where previously steadfast friends are reconsidering their Rassles allegiance. I can tell, because they keep on saying things like this:
Patrick thought it was hilarious that you were so excited for the Creation Museum, and I was like, "Wait til the movie. Do not. Sit next. To Ross. I will be as far away from her as possible. Maybe in a completely different theater, I don't know."
- Gyna
There is no way I am sitting near you. You're just gonna punch me the whole time.
- Kevin
I'm just afraid that you're going to be sitting there by yourself, alienating the world and hitting strangers with your fist.
- Xtine
I am so not sitting next to you during the movie. I do not want to get hit, man. It's crap.
- MoLinder.
Fuck. Yes.
...
Thursday, February 12, 2009
February 12th. 1809.
Today is an incredible day.
Not because yesterday sucked, and not because I totally called it, and my predictions of yesterday came soaring through within the past ten hours. Not because I'm really drunk right now, because I am, and luckily my penchant for backspace is now an official blogger enabler. I don't even fucking know right now.
But because, after yesterday and the threatening of the shank, and the awful week that The Captaihn had (as an aside, I'm blogging about this, because it's what I do, and I apologize for flashing your tits all over the blogosphere. Metaphorically. But you are naked all of the time because you are a model, and a good one, and fucking whate ver. Someday I will show off your work so I can soak your hotness by osmosis)
I might delete this tomorrow if I calculate it's unnecessary. And I might leave it up, because in the end I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
Right now I'm considerably impressed at my ability to type at all.
So yeah. I was right, and I am officially psychic.
But this is about (crap. I deon't remember anymore.) No. I remember.
Today is an incredible day because it's not only the 200th birthday of both Charles Darwin and Abrahm Lincoln, but because...
No.
Wait.
That's it. It's because it's the birthday of the both of them.
And I know this for two reasons.
One: am obsessed with Darwin. If anyone is all about this, read Darwin's Dangerous Idea, which is similar to taking the history of belief, the history of doubt, and the history of science, and smashing them together in this glorious bundle of yummy logic and calling it a book. There are diagrams and love.
Two: If you watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, they arrest Abe Lincoln and take him to San Dimas Jail or something, and when they ask his birthday Lincoln leans forward and says, as gravely as he is able, "February 12th. 1809."
I will never forget it.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll do this way better. But I'm drunk right now.
...
Not because yesterday sucked, and not because I totally called it, and my predictions of yesterday came soaring through within the past ten hours. Not because I'm really drunk right now, because I am, and luckily my penchant for backspace is now an official blogger enabler. I don't even fucking know right now.
But because, after yesterday and the threatening of the shank, and the awful week that The Captaihn had (as an aside, I'm blogging about this, because it's what I do, and I apologize for flashing your tits all over the blogosphere. Metaphorically. But you are naked all of the time because you are a model, and a good one, and fucking whate ver. Someday I will show off your work so I can soak your hotness by osmosis)
I might delete this tomorrow if I calculate it's unnecessary. And I might leave it up, because in the end I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.
Right now I'm considerably impressed at my ability to type at all.
So yeah. I was right, and I am officially psychic.
But this is about (crap. I deon't remember anymore.) No. I remember.
Today is an incredible day because it's not only the 200th birthday of both Charles Darwin and Abrahm Lincoln, but because...
No.
Wait.
That's it. It's because it's the birthday of the both of them.
And I know this for two reasons.
One: am obsessed with Darwin. If anyone is all about this, read Darwin's Dangerous Idea, which is similar to taking the history of belief, the history of doubt, and the history of science, and smashing them together in this glorious bundle of yummy logic and calling it a book. There are diagrams and love.
Two: If you watch Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, they arrest Abe Lincoln and take him to San Dimas Jail or something, and when they ask his birthday Lincoln leans forward and says, as gravely as he is able, "February 12th. 1809."
I will never forget it.
Perhaps tomorrow I'll do this way better. But I'm drunk right now.
...
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Definitive Home Jersey
At the keen age of eleven my family took a vacation to El Rancho Stevens, a kitschy kickin' dude ranch in Gaylord, Michigan. That's right. Sink it.
Other than the fact that some genius befitted this place with a superior moniker, El Rancho Stevens was excellent. Ponies, canoes, swimming, poker games, fucking tetherball...easily my favorite family vacation spot.
But the coolest thing about El Rancho Stevens wasn't just being completely captivated by a Tennessee Walking horse named Babe or eating bacon every morning or the ranch-wide nightly Ghost in the Graveyard game or participating in their "Dudeo Rodeo," or you know, fucking tetherball. You see, at El Rancho Stevens, I obtained the best sweatshirt ever.
It's been through a lot, my sweatshirt. I wore it all throughout junior high, where I was probably ruthlessly mocked. Then in high school I became all unsure and self-conscious, pulled in the sleeves and reversed it, afraid to be labeled because of the imprint galloping across my chest.
Once I hit up college I decided to see if I would get the stares for wearing it, and instead my friends shook their heads and laughed. "You are such a fucking dork," they'd say. I still turned it inside out sometimes, when I was particularly lonely and ashamed of the illustration.
Then came "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" and "Flight of the Conchords." All of a sudden, my sweatshirt is now the coolest thing anyone has ever seen.
It's amazing, really, how the tables have turned, how easily television shows can change a cultural perspective. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could have recognized my sweatshirt's awesomosity having never seen the show. But the fact of the matter is, whereas before I would get, "I cannot believe you are wearing that, you are such a fucking dork," the comments have turned into, "That is the most incredible thing I have ever seen in my life. Where did you get that?"
El Rancho Stevens, bitches.
This sweatshirt is peerless, nearly perfectly rendered and loveworn in all the right places. When my eyes glance downward at the label on the corner, I remember, fondly, those days at El Rancho Stevens, and how graciously this sweatshirt epitomized my personal essence and evolution, from adolescence to, like, second adolescence. My gothic shield of arms, my home jersey, my Sunday driver, devoted to my character until I've passed from this world into the next.
And etched upon my tombstone, instead of the usual years, the adopted measurement with which we limit our life, or even my name, given to that which cannot be summed, I choose this permanence, this last effort at eccentricity, my personal glow within the murk and the gloom--
...
Edit: I was going to wear it for the picture, but I decided against it. Boobs fuck up the silk screen. Booyah.
...
Other than the fact that some genius befitted this place with a superior moniker, El Rancho Stevens was excellent. Ponies, canoes, swimming, poker games, fucking tetherball...easily my favorite family vacation spot.
But the coolest thing about El Rancho Stevens wasn't just being completely captivated by a Tennessee Walking horse named Babe or eating bacon every morning or the ranch-wide nightly Ghost in the Graveyard game or participating in their "Dudeo Rodeo," or you know, fucking tetherball. You see, at El Rancho Stevens, I obtained the best sweatshirt ever.
It's been through a lot, my sweatshirt. I wore it all throughout junior high, where I was probably ruthlessly mocked. Then in high school I became all unsure and self-conscious, pulled in the sleeves and reversed it, afraid to be labeled because of the imprint galloping across my chest.
Once I hit up college I decided to see if I would get the stares for wearing it, and instead my friends shook their heads and laughed. "You are such a fucking dork," they'd say. I still turned it inside out sometimes, when I was particularly lonely and ashamed of the illustration.
Then came "It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia" and "Flight of the Conchords." All of a sudden, my sweatshirt is now the coolest thing anyone has ever seen.
It's amazing, really, how the tables have turned, how easily television shows can change a cultural perspective. Perhaps, just perhaps, they could have recognized my sweatshirt's awesomosity having never seen the show. But the fact of the matter is, whereas before I would get, "I cannot believe you are wearing that, you are such a fucking dork," the comments have turned into, "That is the most incredible thing I have ever seen in my life. Where did you get that?"
El Rancho Stevens, bitches.
This sweatshirt is peerless, nearly perfectly rendered and loveworn in all the right places. When my eyes glance downward at the label on the corner, I remember, fondly, those days at El Rancho Stevens, and how graciously this sweatshirt epitomized my personal essence and evolution, from adolescence to, like, second adolescence. My gothic shield of arms, my home jersey, my Sunday driver, devoted to my character until I've passed from this world into the next.
And etched upon my tombstone, instead of the usual years, the adopted measurement with which we limit our life, or even my name, given to that which cannot be summed, I choose this permanence, this last effort at eccentricity, my personal glow within the murk and the gloom--
"On a field, sable,
rearing-palimino-stallion-engulfed-in-wicked-ass-lightning, pink."
rearing-palimino-stallion-engulfed-in-wicked-ass-lightning, pink."
...
...Edit: I was going to wear it for the picture, but I decided against it. Boobs fuck up the silk screen. Booyah.
...
Friday, December 26, 2008
This Will Be Brief Because I'm A-Gonna Git Drunk As All Git Out
>Some of the best presents ever:
shag area rug (Which I bought for me)
curtains (now we can take down the blankets nailed to the wall, so that's the shit)
FUCKING EXIT HAMMER (for a quick escape, in case I have to drive off the pier again. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: I am not going back to the Gulag. Take that, Putin.)
roll of quarters (yeah laundry)
Clocky (so I'll wake up in the morning when I have to chase it)
miniature Lincoln Logs
some crazy little test tube with seeds and a tiny shovel so I can grow "real mountain wildflowers" in my urban setting
Sometimes, Christmas is the coolest.
...
shag area rug (Which I bought for me)
curtains (now we can take down the blankets nailed to the wall, so that's the shit)
FUCKING EXIT HAMMER (for a quick escape, in case I have to drive off the pier again. If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: I am not going back to the Gulag. Take that, Putin.)
roll of quarters (yeah laundry)
Clocky (so I'll wake up in the morning when I have to chase it)
miniature Lincoln Logs
some crazy little test tube with seeds and a tiny shovel so I can grow "real mountain wildflowers" in my urban setting
Sometimes, Christmas is the coolest.
...
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Excellent Update: Don't Hate, Superfans.
Added bonus of today, which is now another blog:
The boss gave me tickets for the Bears-Saints game tonight. I knew this was going to happen, because of the connectional hurricane in my head, after linking a story about the last free game I hit up. Which I will do again, presently. Row 7, bitches. You know what this means? Tonight I must master my control of my surrounding energy, and therefore temperature, because it's gonna be fucking cold.
Also, and if you read that link, does anyone else think it's odd that the last time I got hooked up with sweet seats for a Chicago team, I ran into Governor Blagojavich?
...
The boss gave me tickets for the Bears-Saints game tonight. I knew this was going to happen, because of the connectional hurricane in my head, after linking a story about the last free game I hit up. Which I will do again, presently. Row 7, bitches. You know what this means? Tonight I must master my control of my surrounding energy, and therefore temperature, because it's gonna be fucking cold.
Also, and if you read that link, does anyone else think it's odd that the last time I got hooked up with sweet seats for a Chicago team, I ran into Governor Blagojavich?
...
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Rock and Roll
Blogs I'd Invite To My Wicked Cool Blog Party
Ask And You Shall Receive
The Asshat Lounge
Betsey Booms
Blues of a Waxwing
The Cheek of God
The Cusp
The Daily Smoke
Diary of Why
Florida Girl In Sydney
Formerly Fun
A Free Man
Gimcrack Hospital
The Good Word of Sprout
Gwen Alison Wonderland
Gullybogan
Here In Franklin
Hallelujah!
Irrelevant Cheetah
Letter From Joshua
Life As We Know It
Mia Watts
Mountain Lover
Poor Penmanship
Praying to Darwin
Project Kickass
Renal Failure
Sack Posset
Say Hello to Jessica
Shaman's Blues
The Show Must Go On
SlapDashittery
Smile Now, Cry Later
Strange Dark Gypsy Girl
Tabbie. Like Cabbie. With a T.
Tourette's Cat
Trailer Park Refugee
Verbal Diarrhea
Voila, Moi
What I Like About the Universe
Yo Soy La Chamuca
Blogs That I Would Normally Invite To My Wicked Cool Blog Party But I'm Not Gonna Because They're Douchebags And Stopped Blogging For Like Two Months Or Something:
The Blackbeard Chronicles
Ducks of Happiness
Eating Chicken Vindaloo
Life in the River
Save Your Generation
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The Trifecta of Awesome
So blog awards are supergay, and if you're the type to affirm the consequent, it logically follows that blog awards are also superexcellent. Or, perhaps you're the type who adheres to fallacies of the undistributed middle, in which case it still logically follows that supergay blog awards are superexcellent. The only people that are not equating the supergay with the superexcellent are the people who support Proposition 8, and using my infinite and unparalleled powers of deduction, we don't fucking want their kind around anyway.
All this is coming to mind because Mongo gave me a blog award, and that's really neat.
Oh, but I couldn't take it, really, I couldn't. No. The real winners here are all of you, my readers, and anyone who wants to give me a blog award, because you've been blessed in so many ways. Not only are all of you very literate, but you have internet access and impeccable judgement. That's a fucking trifecta of awesome.
So thank you, Mongo, for your brain and for loving me. In appreciation, I've drawn a picture of how you look in my head.
And when I think of all we can accomplish, you, the reader, and I, the blogger...when I think of how amazing I am, and how you love me...well...I feel that only Donnie Osmond could properly express my feelings, because he's the best (and so am I), but I have this song stuck in my head and Grace Slick is a close second. And this song dominates.
...
All this is coming to mind because Mongo gave me a blog award, and that's really neat.
Oh, but I couldn't take it, really, I couldn't. No. The real winners here are all of you, my readers, and anyone who wants to give me a blog award, because you've been blessed in so many ways. Not only are all of you very literate, but you have internet access and impeccable judgement. That's a fucking trifecta of awesome.
So thank you, Mongo, for your brain and for loving me. In appreciation, I've drawn a picture of how you look in my head.
And when I think of all we can accomplish, you, the reader, and I, the blogger...when I think of how amazing I am, and how you love me...well...I feel that only Donnie Osmond could properly express my feelings, because he's the best (and so am I), but I have this song stuck in my head and Grace Slick is a close second. And this song dominates.
...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Sometimes I Hit Things
So obviously, I took today off so I could sit inside all day and get good and fucking drunk and celebrate because BARACK
I can't even finish the sentence. Love it.
Not to go around, you know, poking fingers at the sunrise, but this kicks ass, it's historic, there are obvious conclusions about the impact of this thing that we are all drawing simultaneously, and I was there.
I was there, and it happened, and in some ways, that's enough. It will never be enough, but it's edging towards it, slowly, and I know it, because I was there, and I wanted to hit things.
The night was riotless, however, and I was actually kind of upset, because I think everyone was getting pissed off at me since all I wanted to do was smash something. This is how I show joy, man. It was like fucking House of Pain of up in there, with idiots jumping around, wildebeast stampedes and hugging and screaming crying laughing and I don't think I've ever seen more high-fives in my fucking life.
"I just want to fucking shake something. HARD."
Schmee, being down for anything, turned towards me. "DO IT."
So I grabbed her shoulders and shook the crap out of her. Then I slapped Phil, and punched MoLinder, and poked the Random Guy That Gyna Knew Named Travis real hard and apologized because I could not believe it, but I knew it, and I could not believe it. And everyone was getting very frustrated with my aggression. So I bit CrazyLiz on the bicep, just because she told me not to. Sometimes, I regress.
Then there were speeches, and then there was Obama, and then there was silence. The audience collectively waited for him to speak, and pause, to give us the go ahead to jubilize the fuck out of ourselves. We did not want to disrupt him, he deserved his words. It was the most intense, respectful, anxious, and most lemminglike night of my life.
And then when it was over, we all walked out, calmly. Elated. In complete shock. We were a colony, migrating amongst office buildings, I fucking work here and it's dead and it's singing with life. The city blocked off all of the streets for a three mile radius for our walk away from the park, giving us time for the yakking away and climbing on things, but only to cheer, never to fight. And then one person would scream, and then everyone would scream, and strangers were friends and friends were closer. When you accidentally ran into someone, you would laugh and apologize, and they would laugh and yell, "OBAMA" and you'd respond in kind, and then hug. Am I a fucking hippy now?
Throughout the night, the crowd cheered in unison, moved united, stood up and sat down as one. It was moving, and it was fucking scary.
I've always felt extremely uncomfortable in situations where everyone in the room was acting as one. I do not like the sameness of that mindset, of those actions. Freaks me out.
In all honesty, I'm far more comfortable amongst tension and anxiety, where emotions collide. Apparently, I'm high strung. I couldn't think straight at all, and I'm always thinking about something. That's a lie. Clearing my mind is rarely a problem. The dichotomy is strange: rarely rushed, always slow, and simultaneously cranking away at all times. When the brain can't work, the body overcompensates and works harder. I'm not used to this chill, this acceptance, this complacency. But it was wonderful.
In there, at the time, there was no conflict, and everyone was all getting along and smoking pot that we found on the ground (I know, I know) and it was like goddamn Bonnaroo up in Grant Park, but instead of doucheass jam bands and drum circles we had Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper.
It was the first time I've ever understood how faith works. The stereotypical Evangelicals, who I've never been able to fully comprehend or identify with, have this profound, erratic understanding of belief that looks absolutely maniacal to outsiders, and now I understand.
Not that Obama is god, or in any way divine, or representing a higher power.
Do not misunderstand.
But honestly? This is the first time I've felt so inspired, so hopeful, so fucking relieved by someone who is, in all sense of the word, an authority. And I've never been accepting of that before. Ever. Not of an employer, or a manager, a judge or a cop or a political figure, or a teacher. It's not because I don't respect them. Recognizing another's dominant status? Never been good at that. But Barack gives the impression that he's none of those words, but aspires to learn what he can about all of them. The man is this eternal student, and there is nothing I have more respect for than the pursuit of knowledge in all forms.
He seems to hold a philosophy similar to mine: where there is no right and there is no wrong. There is you, and there is me, and we exist, and we are different. Our heads may clash, but that's how ideas, fuck it, worlds are born. Clash is good. He seems, at least for now, to hold this view not just of our country, but of the world.
He's completely human, and he's way better at it than I am.
And he's going to be The Boss.
And for the first time in my life, I am completely comfortable with that, and I can't think of anyone else better for the job.
How scary is that?
...
I can't even finish the sentence. Love it.
Not to go around, you know, poking fingers at the sunrise, but this kicks ass, it's historic, there are obvious conclusions about the impact of this thing that we are all drawing simultaneously, and I was there.
I was there, and it happened, and in some ways, that's enough. It will never be enough, but it's edging towards it, slowly, and I know it, because I was there, and I wanted to hit things.
The night was riotless, however, and I was actually kind of upset, because I think everyone was getting pissed off at me since all I wanted to do was smash something. This is how I show joy, man. It was like fucking House of Pain of up in there, with idiots jumping around, wildebeast stampedes and hugging and screaming crying laughing and I don't think I've ever seen more high-fives in my fucking life.
"I just want to fucking shake something. HARD."
Schmee, being down for anything, turned towards me. "DO IT."
So I grabbed her shoulders and shook the crap out of her. Then I slapped Phil, and punched MoLinder, and poked the Random Guy That Gyna Knew Named Travis real hard and apologized because I could not believe it, but I knew it, and I could not believe it. And everyone was getting very frustrated with my aggression. So I bit CrazyLiz on the bicep, just because she told me not to. Sometimes, I regress.
Then there were speeches, and then there was Obama, and then there was silence. The audience collectively waited for him to speak, and pause, to give us the go ahead to jubilize the fuck out of ourselves. We did not want to disrupt him, he deserved his words. It was the most intense, respectful, anxious, and most lemminglike night of my life.
And then when it was over, we all walked out, calmly. Elated. In complete shock. We were a colony, migrating amongst office buildings, I fucking work here and it's dead and it's singing with life. The city blocked off all of the streets for a three mile radius for our walk away from the park, giving us time for the yakking away and climbing on things, but only to cheer, never to fight. And then one person would scream, and then everyone would scream, and strangers were friends and friends were closer. When you accidentally ran into someone, you would laugh and apologize, and they would laugh and yell, "OBAMA" and you'd respond in kind, and then hug. Am I a fucking hippy now?
Throughout the night, the crowd cheered in unison, moved united, stood up and sat down as one. It was moving, and it was fucking scary.
I've always felt extremely uncomfortable in situations where everyone in the room was acting as one. I do not like the sameness of that mindset, of those actions. Freaks me out.
In all honesty, I'm far more comfortable amongst tension and anxiety, where emotions collide. Apparently, I'm high strung. I couldn't think straight at all, and I'm always thinking about something. That's a lie. Clearing my mind is rarely a problem. The dichotomy is strange: rarely rushed, always slow, and simultaneously cranking away at all times. When the brain can't work, the body overcompensates and works harder. I'm not used to this chill, this acceptance, this complacency. But it was wonderful.
In there, at the time, there was no conflict, and everyone was all getting along and smoking pot that we found on the ground (I know, I know) and it was like goddamn Bonnaroo up in Grant Park, but instead of doucheass jam bands and drum circles we had Wolf Blitzer and Anderson Cooper.
It was the first time I've ever understood how faith works. The stereotypical Evangelicals, who I've never been able to fully comprehend or identify with, have this profound, erratic understanding of belief that looks absolutely maniacal to outsiders, and now I understand.
Not that Obama is god, or in any way divine, or representing a higher power.
Do not misunderstand.
But honestly? This is the first time I've felt so inspired, so hopeful, so fucking relieved by someone who is, in all sense of the word, an authority. And I've never been accepting of that before. Ever. Not of an employer, or a manager, a judge or a cop or a political figure, or a teacher. It's not because I don't respect them. Recognizing another's dominant status? Never been good at that. But Barack gives the impression that he's none of those words, but aspires to learn what he can about all of them. The man is this eternal student, and there is nothing I have more respect for than the pursuit of knowledge in all forms.
He seems to hold a philosophy similar to mine: where there is no right and there is no wrong. There is you, and there is me, and we exist, and we are different. Our heads may clash, but that's how ideas, fuck it, worlds are born. Clash is good. He seems, at least for now, to hold this view not just of our country, but of the world.
He's completely human, and he's way better at it than I am.
And he's going to be The Boss.
And for the first time in my life, I am completely comfortable with that, and I can't think of anyone else better for the job.
How scary is that?
...
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