A Love Letter to Bread

Dear bread,

As far as love letters go, I've already fallen behind on these bad boys. I refuse to give up now.

So, dear bread, for you I shall write Shakespearean sonnets. Multiple sonnets written with the same theme, by the way, are totally called a crown of sonnets. How rad is that? I love that. It's like a George RR Martin novel. Speaking of which, if I ever have a son and give him two alliterated middle names beginning with R, will he automatically become a best-selling fantasy novelist? Let's hope. 

My sad attempts at poetry did not go over well in the past, but fuck all. I think it's fun. More fun poetry is what I say. No joke, I walk round shouting it.

Shit. UPDATE:

So the past two months have yielded ZERO worthy sonnets, so I think I'm just going to post some screw ups and notes that I just...it is not fucking easy to write about bread, you guys. 


Ode to Bread #1: The Sourdough

This taste and smell is the hearth of hearts (gag yourself)
Warmed and golden brown, with crunch
Snuggled crumb sponges and flirts
With the cushioned strength to pad a punch  (< punching bread should be a thing. make it a thing.)

If breads and scientific theories shared beers,
Sourdough and cosmic expansion would bond
They'd bro around and feed for years
- stories about heritage (because of starters) and stuff. Rhymes with bond?

That slight sour snap is electric, literally
(something about protons, taste cells and triggers)
- With a...goddammit, SHUT  UP.
A thick, snacky respite from life's...rigors? ??? eh?  Visit rhymezone.

(This line is about how bread is delicious)
(This line is about loaves and fishes)


"There is evidence that the protons that are abundant in sour substances can directly enter the sour taste cells. This transfer of positive charge into the cell can itself trigger an electrical response." - kinda neat. mention that.



Ode to Bread #2: Fraternity

You're there when I knead you (ads;lfkjasd;flkjsdfl;kdsf I am hilarious)

Sourdough
omg zucchini bread is soooooo goooood
Breaking bread is universal
share your bread
IT IS A SYMBOL OF FRIENDSHIP

gggaaahahahahaha

punching bread (because frat brothers punch each other? f;aldksjfa;sdlk full circ)
bakin bread (bacon bread?)
makin bread
makin money
gettin paid
workin WHAT
gettin laid

Writing about bread is HARD. Like crust. what.


Ode to Bread #3: Shall I Compare Thee

Thou musn't. Shit. Thou mustn't shy from olde Englishe ck olde-type spelling.
If thou shalt hap to fail to rise,
For want of leaven, there's naught so sad
Thine self is leveled! O damn mine eyes!
Condemned me to darkness, my flour comrade


Ending lines, no matter what:

I sorrow for celiacs but fad-jumpers suck
Gluten-free is not a real thing, you fuck. 


Ode to Bread #4: Haiku, Bitches

Bread tastes so damn good
I could eat like a fuckton
just trust me, okay?

...

See, I told you this was hard.

Love,
Rassles

...

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

Oh Snap

Going to Vegas with your sisters and cousins is probably a wee bit different than going with friends.  Probably.

One afternoon we wake up and around 1pm and decide to just amble down the strip to Mandalay Bay and visit the sharks, gambling a bit and drinking the whole way. 

Anyone who has wandered the Strip can tell you exactly how fucking awesomely preposterous it is - like the spoiled, overindulged offspring of Tony Montana, flaunting a wealth that means nothing, like bathing in champagne that costs $2 a bottle or surfing an ocean of pesos, building giant plasticine effigies of Roman civilization with none of the transcendence of time but thrice the august majesty (lookin' at you, Caesar's Palace, you grand crapbastard).

We know it's a facade, we feel the hollow insides and we celebrate the skin of it because it's something to celebrate, as if we as a society are so hyperly aware of our absence of depth that we just told ourselves, "Ah, fuck it. We will never build anything greater than our ego.  Put an Eiffel Tower on it."

And then, amidst all of that, are a bunch of card-snapping whore solicitors.

You know who I mean - those people standing on every single corner slapping business cards for hookers with balloon boobs and nipple stars, shoving them in your face as you pass by.  It's a Vegas tradition: hookers with business cards.

David and I pokemoned the fuck out of those cards.

We got them all.  Every single one of them.  We accept every card with grace, and if a solicitor does not offer one, we request one.  Our pockets are bulging, my purse is completely jammed with hooker business cards.  By the end of the round trip up and down we count 894 cards. 

Then we get drunk, lose a bunch of money playing craps (lame) and more playing blackjack (lamer) and decide to head back out to the Strip, but this time we pick a corner and start snapping cards at tourists.  They hate us. 

After about fifteen minutes (probably more like four minutes, who are we kidding?) a man struggles up to us.

"Yo.  Ya'll are on my corner."

David and I look at each other.

I don't know what to say.  "Uhhhhhmmmmm." 

"Well, we were just...well..." David begins, doing an awkward giggle scoff.  "We just...we have all these cards." 

"Yeah, see?"  I pull them out of my pockets. 

"Well.  Ya'll wanna traffic?  Here, feed that garbage can.  Go on.  Feed it.  Here.  Take these." He gives us his cards.  We get back to snapping.

This guy is awesome.  He buys us forties, tells us all about bein' a pimp.

"Is it hard out there for a pimp?" I ask.  "You got a whole bunch of bitches jumpin ship?"

"Girl what?"  He's never seen Hustle and Flow. 

I last only for about an hour.  Maybe it was twenty minutes.  Time in Vegas is different than everywhere else.  But either way, eventually I decide to tap out and go to bed.

"I got a suite up at Harrahs," he says when I say goodbye.  Wanna come over?  Party?"

Terrified of being sold into sexual slavery and waking up in Bangkok less a kidney and clitoris, I politely decline.  Besides, Bangkok is one of those places I never, ever want to visit because it's hot and there are 14 million fucking people walking around and I hate crowds.  Hate them.  If New York City made me claustrophobic, what would Bangkok do to me?

David, however, agrees to go.  I'm too tired to care.

"So," I said to David the next morning, over bloody mary breakfast, "What did you do last night?"

David's grin spreads over his face and he raises his eyebrows high.  "Not cocaine."

From Beneath You It Devours

I promised people (if you don't remember this promise, I did not promise it to you) that I would write about the first time I met Crackhead Chris. 

The first time I met Crackhead Chris was on Black Wednesday.  Let's go there, shall we?

There is a strong chance I've been drinking for about nine hours.  So dawn is stalking up on drunk me because it's 5am. I'm flying out of cab in front of my apartment. 

I scramble-crawl on all fours up the six stairs to the front door of my building, which is what I do when I am whammered and I think no one is looking.  I stop at the top with a growl (it sounds so ugly when I put it like that, but what am I going to do?  Pretend I don't make angry growly noises?) and my eyes catch a pair of boots in the shadowy corner. The boots grunt and it smells like cigarettes.  I can't look up because this is embarrassing, but I'm hopeful that I know this person well enough that they're thinking oh it's just Rassles being drunk again.  "Paul?  Al?"

The stranger takes an audible drag and holds it in like a gutter.  "I am not Al." Exhale.

"I am feeling a bit vulnerable," I say loudly, head down.  Do not look up at him, I think, because if he doesn't see your face then he won't ever know who you are ever, and you won't know who he is ever, and then if you ever see him again you will not be embarrassed and revert back to this exact moment when you crawled up the stairs to your apartment on all fours in front of another live human being who exists and has eyes.  "Dammit, stop being a nancy."  I look up.  "Noooooooooooooo you are not Al. Sors." The stranger extends a hand and pulls me up.   "Thanks," I say.  "Do you live here!"  It is an exclamation, not a question.

"Basement."

"Nice." I pull my keys out of my purse.  They look very confusing.

"You?"

"There."  I point to my porch.  "But you are not allowed to break in." 

"I won't. Promise."

"Eggggggggsellent."  My fingers are sticky little frogs.  Drunk frogs.  "My keys are very difficult.  Help me, neighbor.  I am stranded."

"Yep.  Lemme finish this."  He takes a long pull.  "You live here long?"

"Like seven years or something.  Can I have a sip?"

He looks at me, then his cigarette.  "What?  This?"

"Yes please."

"A sip?" 

"Just a little one," I say. We share it. "Why are you out here at 5am?"

"Holy shit, is that what time it is? I thought it was closer to six.  Cab is coming at six."

"What, are you going to the airport or something?"

"Yeah, I'm flying home for Thanksgiving.  These damn...fucking...you know?  Holi-whatever.   It's like, what? Am I just full of it?  Like money?  Sure I have, you know, a car, but I have to fly and shit.  You know?  You seeing family--today? Are you? And I have to pay rent--SHIT--remind me.  Before we go inside, remind me to get rent. Could you, ah, could you do me a favor and give it to Al for me?  I'm gone til Wednesday.  You get high?"

"Hmm? Yeah, no.  I have this condition, you know, where drugs make me fucking insane and I hate myself."

"Kay.  Okay."  He unlocks the door and we head in. 

I pause at my door. "Oh, and you have to give me your rent."  

"Yeah, that's...okay.  I'll go get it.  Be right back.  But you're coming with me, that's right.  Coming?  Downstairs?  I need to pack, I think.  Unless you want a beer?  I got all these cough drops.  And it's cash, by the way, so make sure he gets it."

"I could have a beer."

"Babe, I felt that about you."  Babe?  Uncle Jesse calls people babe.

Residents call our basement The Catacombs.  At least, I called it The Catacombs at a party one time, and at least one person picked up on it for at least one week. In my head it's The Rabbit Hole.  Sometimes.  Technically, I have a list of names for the basement, but those are my favorites.  Those two and Moria and Hades and The Seedy Underbelly of Ukrainian Village, The Ant Farm.  Morlocks live there, mole people and a Balrog, and their leader is Edgar Friendly...basically anything that alludes to being underground applies here, and we could go on for quite some time listing things, but that would get tiresome, I think, so I'll spare you, even though I am full of ideas about underground things.  

She gave me this.

Years and years ago, whenever a new resident moved in, the building owners would hammer up a particle board storage unit and hinge any old door they could find, so the whole basement is a series of oddly-sized, mismatched doors throughout dark and twisted brick passageways.  Before she moved out the artist on the third floor would hang failed commissioned watercolors of pets and koi ponds all over the walls.  She gifted me one of a gray horse, actually, because it got smudged and watery in a flood and she caught me staring at it one laundry day because I have this book that--no, that is a story for a completely different day. It's no even a story, though, just a plate-of-shrimp coincidence.  I love talking about that shit, but there are two things audiences don't give a fuck about: coincidence and dreams.  Then again, I don't write this blog for you.

It just occurred to me that the past two blog posts have contained pictures of horses.  Show more adversity, Rassles.  No, not adversity.  That word is incorrect.  You're thinking of something else that ends in --versity. 

He shoulders his way through his front door, and holds it open for me.  Furniture everywhere - not feng shui'd or really organized in any logical manner.  There is a hutch in the middle of the floor, and a couple of dressers just scattered about the place.  Some couches.  The floor is clean, but every surface of furniture, including the couches, is covered with old bags of take out and empty bottles of Gatorade.

"You get high?" he asks me again.

"No thanks."

"Are you sure?  Can I?"  He walks over to a dresser, pulls out a bowl and hits it.  He keeps trying to pass it to me and I keep refusing.  He talks.  He talks about living in California and playing the stock market and making $80,000 and losing it and living off his parents and how he's GOING to have all this money and his boss gave him a ride home from work and his car is booted, and he's a bartender who sells cough drops and Gatorade and weed, and he tells me about all of the girls that are all up on his dick right now.  And he talks about baking cookies and doing laundry and eating pussy.  And he's not used to Chicago and it's cold here, and do I want to hit this?

And I just laugh and nod, saying, "Wow" and "seriously?" and "no fucking way, dude.  No.  Fucking.  Way."  I marvel at his ego-maniacal wretchedness--that obnoxious salesman mentality where he watched too many movies about grifting and he pitches his charm with overly exaggerated tension, but he's sure he can fool people into thinking he's special.  I wish I wasn't so mesmerized by it, but I can't understand: does he really think I believe him? 

I realize my beer is gone and I should probably go to bed or something.

"Dude.  I should probably go to bed or something."

"You sure babe?  My taxi'll be here soon, can't you just wait with me?"

"Nuh-uh, I am exhausted."

"That's cool.  Let me just get you the cash."

"Cool.  Whatever."

"I just gotta--I gotta find it."  He disappears.  It feels like he's gone for ten minutes, but it's probably about thirty seconds, because I am hammered and my concept of time has never been strong.  "Babe, can you help me?" He opens a cabinet on the hutch.  "I don't know...I can't find it. Get the kitchen."

"Okay." I head over to the kitchen and start looking through empty cabinets, under the sink, in the fridge, which is full of beer and styrofoam boxes of leftovers.  There is a lone box of Ritz crackers on top of the fridge. "Where do you keep your food?"

"Have you seen my couch?"  He laughs from the other room.  "I don't have any food.  It's not in there, I'm never in there."  I shrug and join him by a dresser.  "It could be in one of these..." he starts to say, and he takes out a drawer and dumps it on the ground and kicks through the contents.  "It's rolled up," he adds.  "The money."

I open a drawer and I look at him.  "So I can just...take out the drawer?"

"Yeah, do it."

"And just dump it out?"

"Yeah."

I did it.  "What now?"

He turns towards me slowly.  "I don't know. Throw it over there."

I glance at the drawer in my hand and casually toss it over my shoulder, which is more cumbersome than it sounds since dresser drawers are quite bulky.  It crashes onto the ground behind me.

Chris stares at me. 

I raise my eyebrows.  Open another drawer, dump its contents on the ground, toss it.  Chris pulls out another one, spills it over my head and chucks the empty drawer at the wall.  I kick one at him from across the room, he blocks it with another and knocks it back towards me.  I throw it onto the couch, he throws another and smashes his coffee table, and we're just going around and destroying all of the random furniture he has laying around his apartment, looking for a roll of cash and making a terrible mess.

"Are you sure you have it in here somewhere?" I ask him.  "We're out of drawers."  

"It's gotta be," he mutters, ripping cushions off his couch and jamming his hand into its depths.  "It's just gotta."

"What about your bedroom?  The bathroom?  Loose bricks or floorboard?"

"Do you see any floorboards?"

"You could make some, now, out of all these broke-ass drawers.  Is it bad luck to break a drawer?"

"Oh my god," he says, leaping over a pile of discarded drawers and bolting into the bathroom.  I follow him.  He opens his medicine cabinet, and there on the shelves are about ten rolls of cash, rubber-banded together, just sitting in a fucking row.  He snags one and brings it over to me, counting out tens and fives until he hits rent.  He starts to hand it to me, but stops.  "Envelope," he shouts, and begins to dig through the wreckage.

He finds a half-smoked cigarette and lights it, and then picks up an AT&T phone bill, rips it open and stuffs all of the cash inside before he realizes it does not fit.  "Hold on," he says, throws the cigarette into a corner and disappears into the kitchen.

He comes out with the box of Ritz, empties the rolls of crackers into a drawer on the floor and puts the cash-stuffed AT&T envelope inside, folds it closed and hands it to me.  "Make sure you hand it to him," he says (meaning Al), completely serious.

"Of course," I answer.  "Okay, I gotta go."

"See ya, babe," he says, walking me to the door.  "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Happy Thanksgiving."

...

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.

...

I'm about to ruin Sucker Punch for EVERYONE and I don't even care because I sympathized with the dragons

Days 11 and 12, a song from your favorite band and a song from a band you hate and I'm sorry for reviewing a movie but I'm very angry because this movie was horrible

You know, whenever I want to escape my horrible real life where John Hamm is hammering an icepick into my heavily lined-eye, I like to escape to a magical Sailor Moony realm in my head where I'm a whore in a whorehouse where the whores aren't even proper whores with sexual providence and snappy comebacks and drug addictions, they're all weepy angelic ballet dancers who are blondely baffled that one keeps knives in kitchens (they are women, and whores at that, so illogical stupidity is forgivable), because kitchens are mysterious and vile just like potatoes and fat people. Apparently no one keeps knives in drawers or in wooden countertop knife holsters but everyone has shimmery tactical shotguns and thigh-highs and soldiers bleed steam (PUNK!) and it's totally okay to go around slitting the throats of adorable baby dragons napping on beds of bones hidden in the bowels of Mordor, and then the whores all kill terminators with their samurai swords on the train that's going to contaminate all of the water in Gotham and throw Molotov cocktail tantrums elbow-first like sex pansydolls with ginormous blinky-eyes. And then Don Draper is all, "I'm starting to think lobotomies are old hat, this is my last one I swear, and then I'm going into advertising" and all the rapey people simultaneously arrive at the enlightening realization that rape is wrong, and hey guys, I don't think this is a good idea because she has the golden sacrificial face of an ANGEL and that urinal hasn't been cleaned since the first time we raped someone in here back in the good ole days o' rapin' but lately they bitches been gettin' stabby.

So there were pretty okay fight scenes sometimes, although I never got the impression that these girls were kicking ass so much as they had really easy targets (you trained your men to fight in 300, do us a favor and make your women do the same, asshole), and I'm glad Zack Snyder at least tried, embarrassingly so, but you know what Snyder? Shut the fuck up. The best part of your movie was when you started killing whores because you couldn't think of anything else to do with them. It was hilarious.

Back to the meme.

So I couldn't decide if I should post the hand-painted original video, which is awesome, but a little too ADD and seizury for me right now after a night of Sucker Punch.



And I'm not going to post a video from a band I hate, because right now the thing I hate most is the soundtrack of Sucker Punch and its literal lyrical narration with grrrrl power covers of songs that were perfect to begin with.  So I'm going to post a Beastie Boys video because they make me happy.

...

Apparently it's Emily Browning singing the covers, and she's the main actress. That makes things a little bit okay-er since she utters two sentences in total. You should have just made it a battle musical escapist world and nixed the whorehouse. Poorly done, Snyder. Call me next time and I will Tim Gunn things for you.

...

Hypothetically, I am Awesome at Double Dutch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Those rules are fucking stupid. Stupid."

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

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

CrazyLiz laughs. "You are such a bitch."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It happens all the fucking time."

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

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

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

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

...

I Can Go Twice As High

I try to be all casual with my books, but I can't help thinking that from now on they should be categorized by color instead of intentionally haphazard favoritism. You know what I mean: the top two shelves are bursting with the books that are the best, but they're staggered by size and color and age and binding to give the appearance of carefree, random shelvism when in fact each book was strategically planted next to another that provided a surprising and instantly approved juxtaposition, proving I am eclectic, blithe and approachably worldly. I mean, could you imagine how preposterous I would look if my bookshelves indicated I was snobbishly elite, or even worse - vapid and fatuous? I know. I know, right? omg lolz.

The first thing I do when I get to someone's house is cruise their books, and then I judge them mercilessly. So of course I have to prepare myself for the day when I come over to my own house and realize how much insight I can offer to the human condition because my book collection is intuitively brilliant.

Browsers (the few) always comment on Breakfast of Champions, so it's front and center. Probably because they're jealous. My copy is very hip and vintage, with a faded cover and green-painted edges. If I ever write a book, I will demand green-painted edges on the pocketnovel edition or fucking mutiny.

Immediately after BoC you'll find Roving Mars: Spirit, Opportunity, and the Exploration of the Red Planet because I am sciencey, serious, and smart; then Gods of Pegana, which no one has ever heard of because I'm obscure as fuck; The Martian Chronicles for irony; Easy Riders Raging Bulls: How the Sex-Drugs-and Rock 'N Roll Generation Saved Hollywood because I am edgy, liberal and interested in relevant history; Mr. Popper's Penguins because I am fun-loving and adorable; and a horizontal stack of comic books and National Geographic(s) because I am well-varied in my media sources, which is something I learned to do at my small liberal arts college. Oh, and it's capped with an old, peeling globe that still has Soviet Russia on it that sits on top of a thesaurus which I promise I did not use for this post.

So after enjoying this carefully constructed representation of self on a shelf for a few years, it's time for change. Placing so much effort on ensuring my favorite books are seen initially by apartment guests is neurotically fascist. As someone who's always gone for seeming intelligence over aesthetic appeal, people could think I am - dare I say it? - pompous. The nerve. Two-years-ago era me would crack her knuckles and snicker at their misguided inference.

2011 era me thinks that putting so much thought into things is tiresome. Perhaps I should be more accepting regarding stupid stuff. The majority of people in the world don't put a quarter of this effort into their bookshelf coordination. The majority of people in the world don't even have a fucking bookshelf to coordinate.

I am an ass. People in Haiti need houses. I read about it in National Geographic.

Now that imaginary bullshit people think I'm pompous, fucking posers, I came to the realization that everyone likes things that are pretty. Since I'm more comfortable changing the order of my books than my appearance, I think it's time to color-code the bookshelves. Like a reading rainbow.

...

* For the record, I strongly oppose the Mr. Popper's Penguins film adaptation because I can't stand Jim Carey and everything should star Tom Hardy. Everything.

...

Terribble, Powerful, Wondrous

Apparently yesterday was Draw a Dinosaur Day and I didn't get the fucking memo. It sounds like the most asinine thing I've ever heard of, but far cooler than Talk Like a Pirate Day because I've never been very piratey and I've always been very terrible-lizardy.

You should see me at the Field Museum: it is my meth. I just creep around, twisted and cranked and ready to burst in a euphoric fury of rushing, chatty blood, suddenly expertly obsessed with every -ology they got cased up in there. Honestly, any guy that asks me to go to the Field Museum with him will be gettin some, or at least fling himself into danger by being the victim of one of my soul-crushing crushes. Museums are so dreamy.

It's been a few months since I had a decent museum trip (and by "museum trip" I mean "museum trip," this isn't some sick, dinosaur-induced analogous reference to "doing it" (and by "doing it" I mean "doing it")) and I'm thinking about just heading over to the Field this weekend (which I have been saying for weeks) because it's my favorite museum in the world. Ever. All other museums are barren, dank, desolate establishments, and the Field Museum is the sun. It's the place against which I judge all other houses of artifact.

I understand that in most internet lists created by professional museum analysts (because if it's on the internet, it must be true) the Field Museum doesn't even crack the top fifty. Most of them are art museums.

I don't give a shit how important your art is.

FACT 1: A museum without bones is not a real museum.
FACT 2: My art should be at the Field Museum. See above sketch for reference.

Argue with me all you want, my mind was made up twenty years ago. Best museums in the world, ready? GO.

1. Field Museum
2. National Museum of Ireland - Natural History
3. Creation Museum

Do not argue with me because I am right.

Okay, fine, argue with me. You are entitled to be wrong. But if you're going to spout off some shit about Jurassic Park and how the velociraptor was actually the size of a turkey and blahgiddy blah blah: duh. I know. I been to the Field Museum, bitches.

...

Edit: I don't know if you know this about me, but I have a gift: I can draw a decent sketch of anything. After doing this quick dinosaur...I miss drawing.

...

Nerding Out - Squared

"What, dear father, are you talking about? Look at this. LOOK." I violently pound the computer screen with my finger.

"Hey, don't touch-" Dad flicks my hand.

"Gaaahhhh, stop it." I flick him back.

"Do you have to touch everything?"

"Yes. Okay, seriously, THE LAST UNICORN is being made into a graphic novel and Peter S. Beagle is going to be there."

My dad shakes his head. "Chick stuff."

"Oh. Em. Eff. Gee. The Last Unicorn is one of the GREATEST STORIES EVER TOLD."

"Is not. You're delusional."

"Is so, and...you're bad at parenting."

"Stupid movie."

"Is not."

"You know, the biggest regret of my life is introducing you to movies. You waste all of your time on garbage."

"Worst dad ever. Can't you just support what I love?"

"Maybe if you tried loving something else."

"What, like The White Shadow? 'I'll be behind you every step of the way like a white shadow' or whatever? Come on."

He laughs. "Okay, that show great, okay? Great."

"Neil Gaiman's going to be there."

"Great." (Great is an oddly spelled word, don't you think?)

I squint at him. "You think Mr. Graham could get us tickets for the Kick Ass premiere?"

"Honey, I don't think I have that much pull with him."

"Pssssh, don't hurt to ask."

"No, really, I just don't feel comfortable asking. And with Jamie, it does hurt to ask. Guys are asking him for favors all the time. And I'm on his good side and I want to keep it that way, okay? And that's the end of that." My dad has been buying comics from Mr. Graham for like 25 years. I used to board comics at his store back when I was like ten or eleven while my dad helped him with accounting stuff, and Mr. Graham would slip me scandalously-packaged candy and overstocked comics.

And that is why I crave Devil Girl chocolate bars whenever people talk about Excalibur. Which is like, you know. All the time. I mean, just yesterday I overheard my coworkers reminiscing about the good old days when Shadowcat and had a pet spacedragon and lived in Great Britain with Nightcrawler and that freak parallel-universe girlspawn of Jean-and-Scott.

Okay, actually? They were discussing Precious, and I tuned them out because that movie looks stupid. I did not tell them it looked stupid, not outright. But they made the mistake of asking my opinion, which I gave uninhibited. I should really know by now that when I don't care about something everyone is fucking personally offended.

You'd think I ran over their baby with a lawnmower or something.

When some people hear that you don't care about something they love, they mortar corners in your wake and rip your stance ad hominem. After awhile, you begin to associate That Thing You Didn't Care About In The First Place with nothing but anger and fightin' words, which evolves into hate just because of rabid packs of fans who erroneously attribute words like "awesome" to things that are super mediocre (I'm looking at you, Dave Matthews Band and Avatar and Dan Brown and Ryan Gosling and 3D movies).

Perhaps, and I don't know if this has ever gotten through your oatmeal-and-shreddy-hambone retardo skulls, but perhaps you and I just have different opinions. This is fucking America. We're allowed opinions. Oh, everyone except for you. Because your opinion, by the way, is dumb.

Back at the ranch after my long, long digression:

"I guess I understand," I mope to my dad, "but you're still lame." (I almost forgot how this all started).

Basically Mr. Graham got my dad like superbackstagepasses for this thing. At first I was afraid of being not quite fangirl enough to go, but I'm geeking out over Chicago's first big comic convention.



I am a superdork.

...

Say Crack Again.

Because of Erin, I took this ridiculous 485-question personality matrix thing to determine what jobs properly suit my personality.

Why do I do this? Personality quizzes are my fucking crack.

Yes, I seek answers in life by trying to jam myself into a category that was probably created by some old man sitting at an electric typewriter in his underwear with an opium lamp and a wicked grin. Yes, I talk about quizzes all the time. Why? It's the only good thing about Facebook (I think my favorite was: WHAT KIND OF BAD ASS FUCKING AWESOME DINOSAUR/WEAPON COMBO ARE YOU?).

Either way, basically, I love personality assessment crap, sitting around and analyzing the semantics of every sentence (I am familiar with the seduction of the couch! And I totally only succeed by the sheer force of my personality rather than actual skills! I would be riding a Velociraptor wielding a flaming sword! OMG I do eat food!) probably because...I don't know.

Because they always tell me that I'm fucking awesome, and I crave impartial validation.

So either way, I took this thing and was given the Top Three jobs that suit me, and I had to go and dick around with the other 300 jobs on the list to determine my top ten.

Okay. Ready? Here we go, in order of compatibility:

1. Criminal Investigator/Detective
2. Corrections Officer
3. Paramedic
4. Bartender
5. Clergy
6. Surveyor
7. Judge
8. Loan Officer
9. Psychiatrist
10. Gynecologist

So then I tried to sit around and pick apart what all of these things said about me because I am a ridiculous human being and I like to think I'm insightful. Cuz I'm an ENFP.  Or sometimes an ENTP which means I AM insightful, and I don't just THINK I am.  Hrrrm.

We learn, based on the job results listed above, the following: I value manners and respect, but not morals and authority. Extroverted, but not always friendly. Want to help people out of obligation rather than sympathy. Easily irritated but very hard to offend. Can work under pressure (this is arguable. It would be more accurate to say that I finish what I start, although lately? I haven't been finishing anything. LAME). Interested in others. Am not afraid of you or them, but I am afraid of me. Apparently I'm also interested in vaginas.

Speaking of vaginas, you like how creators of this quiz group fixin' the lady bits with fixin' the streets, the criminals, the insane, the broke, and the godless?

So many layers.

Also, I demand that everyone take more personality quizzes and tell me your results. You are exempt if I made you do it before. And if you don't like your result, I will take it for you and get a way fucking better answer because I mean come on people, do I have to fucking figure everything out for myself?

...

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.

...

Top Twenty-Five Places To See While I Can Still Walk

Okay. So the fact that this list even exists makes me a pretentious fuck. But, it's there, and I love it, and it's boring, and you don't care. But I know that at least Sid cares. It's full of links and pictures, because apparently that's how I do things now. Enjoy or ignore, whatever. I just want to go some places a whole lot.

1. Egypt. Travel the Nile from Cairo to Aswan. I have to put this as one whole entry, because there are so many goddamn things involved in this that my head is collapsing on itself just thinking about it. This would take at least three weeks. At least.


2. Lascaux Caves, France. This is one of the only things on like every single list of shit to see I’ve ever made. And I don't like France. Even though you can’t go into the original caves anymore because of mold and shit, they've got a replica (Lascaux II) right next door. To this day, this is like my all-time favorite piece of art, ever. And after I’ve seen the cave paintings, I’m getting it as a tattoo.

3. Petra, Jordan. Thank you, Indiana Jones.

4. Angkor Wat in Cambodia. The trees of the earth are swallowing the palace inch by inch, ripping it apart block by block. Blows my fucking mind.

5. Shark Bay, Australia. Come on, people. It’s called Shark Bay.

6. Cappadocia, Turkey. I don't even know where to begin.

7. Jasmund National Park, Germany. I’ve been imagining this place since like elementary school, when I saw the chalk cliffs in a painting. But the painting focused on this one famous outcropping of rock that totally got destroyed in a landslide a couple of years ago. PS: Dork alert: what does that outcrop remind me of? I'll give you a hint: It starts with a "M" and ends with "-inus tirith." Aaaaaaaand then everyone stops reading my blog.

8. The Uffington Horse. I probably love this for the same reason that I love the Lascaux Caves and Jasmund – it’s like a four hundred foot prehistoric chalk geoglyph in England. Of a horse. Or a dragon. Who knows?

9. Yellowstone. I know. I know. I've never been to Yellowstone.


10. Wudang Mountain. Wander through sacred Taoist monasteries, learn Kung Fu. God, some stuff rips my world asunder. I refuse to ever travel to China without seeing it. I can feel it starting. You know what this means, don't you? I'm going to be doing nothing but thinking about this and watching Kung Fu movies for the next month. And someone has my copy of Zhuangzi, which I'm pretty sure I lent out in like 2004, so I'm prolly never reading that again. Gaaaahhhh. Wudang Mountain ain’t nothin’ to fuck with.


Those are just the places I can name off the top of my head. Is all of this stuff possible to see in one lifespan? Can anyone other than Anthony Bourdain or Rick Steves pull this off? Fucking watch me. I may be broke, but I’m crossing off these top ten if it kills me.


The rest, in no particular order:


11. Lhasa, Tibet: Come on, look at this picture. Can you feel it pulling your soul?

12. Hike the Appalachian Trail. It would be excellent if I could just take off a season and get all of this shit over and done with, but then I would have to be, like, in shape and stuff. Besides, I can't afford to not work. What am I supposed to do? Write a book about it and make millions? That is soooooo Bill Bryson.

13. Machu Picchu. I'm pretty sure everyone's familiar with this, since it's like the IT destination for white people. Thank god that doesn't diminish it.

14. Ajanta and Ellora Caves, India. You know you see shit like this in your dreams.

15. Scotland. From Fingal's Cave and Isle of Mull to Loch Ness, lake to river to lake to river to lake.

16. Alberta Badlands, Canada. Ginny, if I ever visit you, we’re going there.

17. Grand Canyon. I’m not going into detail here, but it involves riding a burro. Which technically doesn't require walking, but shut up. Whatever.

18. Tikal, Guatemala.

19. Mauna Kea Observatories, Hawaii. FF, you lucky motherfucker.

20. Dinosaur Valley State Park in Texas. Nikki introduced me to this shit. Thank the world for her.

21. Skellig.

22. Island County, Washington. Are you allowed to walk across Deception Pass, which sounds way scarier than it looks? Because I want to.

23. Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

24. Iceland's Ring Road. Not only is this a bad ass road trip, but it's all Jules Verney.

25. The Fucking Moon.

I know, there aren't really any cities on here, and it's all very touristy. Well, it's my list, jerks. Cities would be on a list of just places to go. Then I'd have to add Verona and Tokyo and Edinburgh and Cape Town and stuff. And sure, we can walk there. But these places you need to feel the ground, because they're made of the ground, or into the ground. That's what it is. That's the pull, right there.

Now that this list is over, I feel like I've done it wrong. It should be places to walk. Like "across hot coals" as well as the Appalachian Trail. Or on this rope bridge.

...

The Grand Illusion: Sure, I Work Here, and I Can Pass For Your Kind, But I Will Never Be One of You.

Sarah wasn't actually asking me this question. She just happened to be standing in front of my desk while she was asking co-worker Caroline. I'm not surprised that she didn't ask me. We don't really get along.

It's not so much that we don't get along, I guess. I like them a lot, they're all very enjoyable people despite the fact that they'd never heard of Kurt Vonnegut (which is like saying you've never heard of goddamn Mickey Mouse). But we aren't friends outside of work, even though we're all roughly the same age. And this is why:

"So guess who's playing at School of Rock this year?" Sarah tags Caroline.

"Who?"

I watch them, interested.

"You're never going to believe it."

I raise my eyebrows and totally interrupt. "What's School of Rock?"

"It's that fundraiser SM High School has at the House of Blues every year. Wait, didn't you go last year?"

"Nah, prolly not." We here at Save the Underprivileged Students of Chicago have so many fundraisers to hit up it's hard keeping them lined up all nice and pretty. But I'm sure I didn't go, because the price of beers at House of Blues exceeds $5, and that's $4 too much for a shithole venue like the House of Blues.

Besides, like I said, the coworkers and I don't see eye to eye. (As an aside, I'm trying to think up some clever Title for "my co-workers", but the only thing I could come up with is "The CoWoks" which sounds regrettably similar to "The Ewoks," and I don't want to give the impression that the CoWoks are comparable to big fat two-legged shitzus with crude spears and treehouses, mostly because these CoWoks are far more intelligent than I am. Plus that name sucks. Suggestions welcome.)

"Okay, whatever. Well, last year it was the Lovin' Spoonful, and it was horrible."

I want to argue with her just to be contrary, and show my unswerving support for "Do You Believe In Magic?" but then I remember that I don't really like that song very much, and just nod in understanding.

"But this year? Guess who's playing?"

Caroline jumps in. "Journey!"

"Styx."

"GET RIGHT OUTTA TOWN." I am in awe.

"You know who they are, right?" Sarah asks, excited. "They're the band that plays that one song, you know, Come Sail Away."

My awe swells to straining proportions as the CoWoks struggle to sing the chorus. Sarah is very proud of herself for this name drop, beaming like a beauty queen.

"Djyeah," I stutter breathily, which is actually a superfancy, highly applicable combination of the abbreviation for "Didja really just insinuate that my ridiculously hefty familiarity with rock and roll history was too base to recognize the crazy famous band to which you refer?" and "yeah." And then I started laughing hysterically.

"Isn't it insane?" she adds. "How did they get them to play?"

"Well, Styx is from the South Side."

"Are they really?"

"Yeah, and I think one of them went to seminary. I wonder if they went to SMHS?" That would certainly be logical, since SMHS is a Catholic school, and the only people that hit up seminary are those crazy Catholics.

"Wait, what else do they sing?" Caroline asks.

"Duh, like, Grand Illusion. And Lady. And Lorelai. And Renegade."

They look at me blankly, so I urge them with a flawless singing rendition of, "Oh mama I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the laaaawwww..." recognition shines on their faces, but only slightly, so I skip ahead a couple lines, "Hangman's coming down from the gallows and I don't have very loooongg...WAAAHHHHH!" (CLOSED-EYED AIR PUNCH). "The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me. A renegade who had it made, muh-nah-nuhnuh-nuh-nuh..." (whatever, you can't expect me to know all of the lyrics).

"Buh-duh-duuuhhhhduh maa-aaan," Caroline chimes, skipping to the last line of the chorus.

"Exactly."

"You have way too much free time on your hands."

"Not really."

"Why do you know all of this?"

"Because while you guys were studying in college, I was memorizing liner notes and lyrics to dumbass rock songs. Hence the C+ average. And one D. Which was horseshit, because that bitch professor was totally gunning for me."

They both scoff, smiling, and Sarah shakes her head. "You're so weird."

There's a pause, and I retort brilliantly, "Whatever, I think you guys're weird."

...

Proof That I'm Immature and a Total Nerd

I don't know if you've heard, because this is like, hot off the press business, but last night a new trend hit the streets. Nevermind, of course you haven't heard yet, because I invented it due to my massive Awesome. I start trends and stuff like every day.

So it's not really a trend so much as a stupid fucking nerd game that I'm playing with myself, but whatever. You are going to love it. Or perhaps, this will be a turning point on my blog, where everyone realizes that I am completely and totally full of shit and a waste of space and time, atmospherically, dimensionally, and interwebically.

Whatever. Any statement I put forth must be regarded as fact. This is predicated almost entirely by my infallible insight, obsession with Harry Potter, and a deep, unrivaled understanding of American History. And because I just finished watching the HBO John Adams miniseries which basically makes me a Fucking Expert In Everything.

I've spent the past twelve hours figuratively placing former US presidents in Hogwarts Houses.

It. Is. Way. Fun.

But if you lack that rumbling, volcanic desire the place every single person you meet in personality and social categories, you probably don't give a shit. But I do that. I'm like the human Sorting Hat. I meet you, and within my brain you are immediately assigned a color, an animal personality, a Hogwarts House, a walk song. A smell. Then everyone is filed and cross-referenced. In my brain.

Apparently, I like saying "brain."

For example, let's take Schmee. Violet, sea lion, Hufflepuff, "Rio" by Duran Duran, and giggles. She is also very shiny. Yeah, Schmee, you smell and sound like giggles. Get over it.

Sometimes, people get confused and offended when I talk about how they smell and sound, so I don't do that anymore. Except around M.E., she gets it. Because it's not like, "Hey, you smell like garlic, did you eat spaghetti?" it's like, "You sound blue-ish, but not in a sad way, in a color way" and then I have to explain what blue sounds like, and do you know how hard that is? It looks like how cilantro and secrets smell, and tennis balls and just-about-to-snow. Sometimes people sound like colors that are unscented, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Task at hand: Presidents and Hogwarts Houses. Essentially, this is the most fun my head has had in weeks.

So like, Obama, Jefferson? Bush the first? Ravenclaw.

Both Roosevelts? Truman? Andrew Jackson? Gryffindor. (Now, now, I know we don't all like Jackson for that shit he pulled with the Trail of Tears, but if we're going to base all of our presidents' valor and bravery off of how they treated the Native Americans, every single president up until Carter...okay, every. single. president. would be considered evil).

Nixon? McKinley? Clinton? Slytherin.

Reagan? Polk? Ford? Hufflepuff.

Awwwwww yeah. I got shit down. I am one cool motherfucker. Self-high-five.

...

Oh, The Heart of Rock and Roll Is Totally Still Beating.

It's strong and it's sudden.

My bladder is cruel, sometimes. I can't hold it in much longer. "Dude, I gotta pee so bad."

The Smith Sister glances at me, sympathetic, and offers, "My mom would tell you to just not think about that whole like...area."

"But that's so hard--I mean, with Huey Lewis right there, on the stage."

She laughs big and coughy and raises her hand. "Okay, nice. Up high. That right there? You get a high five for that."

I fucking love high fives, I don't know why. I will never, ever turn down a high five. I love their cheesiness, I love the douchey, simple, sporting camaraderie they signify.

Huey Lewis is like the musical equivalent of the high five.

"I just want to give him a big fucking hug," I sigh.

"A naked hug."

"Well he's just so dreamy."

"Ahhhh, the power of love."

"I WANT YOU TO BE MY DAD!"

This stupid ass concert is going to make me hoarse, and I really, really can't hold it in much longer.





...

If You Leave Me Now...

I'm just going to come out and say it. No bullshit.

One of the best writers on the internet is a goddamn quitter. His blog is gone, his life is busy, fucking whatever. We are sooooooo in a fight right now.

Do you hear that, Pistols at Dawn? Can you feel my pain from states away? Can you feel the pain of us all, the loyal readers of Save Your Generation? No announcement to the troops, no, "see ya, wouldn't wanna be ya," you're just going to disappear? I had to learn about it from Red and Del-V? Horsecock.

I really don't know how he can expect any of us to continue without him.

He might not have been a great man. Or even a good man. He might not have been humble, sensitive, or thoughtful. But goddammit he was clever, and hilarious to the point of tears, and one of the most original minds I've read. Other than my own. Of course. Even though sometimes reading his blog was downright eerie, considering his habit of sounding a lot like me. So, in reality, my devotion to Pistols was actually a devotion to myself.

Granted, most of his thoughts were a jumbley slathering of tedious references yoked together to form a coherent but pointless and slanted stance on something that no one in their right mind would give a shit about...but that was part of his charm and allure. Hook 'em with pretty, rhythmic prose and self-congratulatory assholery.

I would link his posts, but alas, cannot. He's gone and blocked the whole damn thing. However, I shall now introduce you to my secret weapon: something I like to call Google Fucking Reader: An Exercise in Cutting and Pasting. And now, here are some of my favorite Pistols moments.

Drunk Pistols (nearly as fun as drunk me, but not as obsessed with Bruce Willis, being a straight male):

Awesomer than you give it credit for: drinking all night in the middle of the week. Seriously, don't you have to be up in like an hour? Ans: effing paaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrty!

Good point. Well met, me.

Man, you know what's awesome? Everyone liking you enough to buy you drinks all night. That's like all the alcoholism minus all the cost: sweet-ass sweet. Also: boobs are even more majestic than previously believed. Still, girl: that Christian guy? Really? Also, sentences with colons in them: apparently my favorite thing.

And sober Pistols, complete with a perfect example of his typical reference-laden sentence structure:

One of the strangest aspects of describing something artistic to someone else is that everything becomes the third angle of a pop culture triangle - discernible in relation to two other fixed metaphorical points.

For example, if your friend says, "Hey, you went to see Black Kids last night - what do they sound like?" And since you saying, "Like a band that plays rock songs" wouldn't help anyone, you'd say something like, "Like a Cure album playing over a club's PA while New Order sound checks their synthesizers and backing vocals."

And that wouldn't be quite right, but it'd be close enough, mostly because the person who asked was only being polite and didn't really care anyway.

So you know. Enjoy that, and tonight I will be getting very, very drunk, singing the sweet tunes of Peter Cetera in memory of the one that blogged away.

But really, I'll be enjoying the spring. Gyna: bikes tonight? Bikes tonight. Please and hope so.

On another note: If any of you decide to up and quit for good, please let me know, so I can grieve properly alone in my room and listen to "If You Leave Me Now" on a loop, instead of waiting for your triumphant return in vain.

...

Later Edit: I would like to let everyone know that Pistols' excuse is the following:

...Alas, there's just a lot going on these days and I can barely make time for that, let alone making a bunch of dick jokes on the interweb...

Which I'm sure is part of the standard email he sent to all of his fans, because he's really quite lazy.

...

Love. This. Song.

This happens every couple of years. Someone mentions Three Dog Night and then I get this song stuck in my head, and wish people listened to the Elvis version more.



It's impossible for me to sit at my desk and watch this in silence. I start shaking, and my lungs vibrate with life, like I have a mangling, vital addiction to bomb-ass hooks, bellowing lyrics and sequined tuxedos.

We rented a car for the trip home from New Orleans instead of taking the train, riding the Blues Highway up from Nola to Chicago, stopping in Memphis for a couple of hours. Graceland was closed. Of course we did Beale Street, saw the Lorraine Motel...

More days of my life deserve to be devoted to Memphis.

I definitely need to go back and hit up Graceland. Not that I'm the biggest Elvis fan or something, but sometimes? Motherfucker owns.

...

Frickin' Gorgeous

I know this is just a pointless update, but I just want everyone to know that I TOTALLY JUST GOT VENTURE BROS. SEASON THREE IN THE MAIL AND I'M GOING TO IMPLODE IF I DON'T GET TO WATCH IT SOON.

Seriously, just listen to this fabulous line exchange in regards to a giant late 1960's death ray:

"If that were a woman I'd marry it."

"And I would jeopardize our friendship by nailing your hot wife."

Sigh. I will never be cool.

...

The City of New Orleans: Professional Drinkers Association

Day Three.

Because of the shatness of Bourbon Street, on Monday night we bought PBR silos and loitered on the sidewalk behind the cathedral in Jackson Square Park. Okay, sure, technically only Coors Light comes in silos, being the silver bullet and everything [nards] but you can't full well call a 24 oz can of heaven a tallboy when it's more than a tall order and you're drinking double the pleasure. So "silo" it is.

After striding around the block for awhile, two dirty crackheads plopped next to us on the sidewalk. We carried on conversations within our own individual groups, laughed at the same jokes and threw sporadic conversational interjections at each other.

A stranger ambled up after about half an hour, saddled with a low-slung back pack and munching out of a box of Crunch Berries with a long-handled spoon.

"Hey strangeh," called a crackhead. "Where yeh headin'?"

"Down Frenchmen street. There's a [some musical style] band playing at [some bar] and they got [some drink specials.]"

"Niiiiiice. I'll be headin down theah lateh."

"Cooo, maybe I'll see ya."

"Aiight. I'll be lookin fer the boxxah Crunch Berries." They exchanged smiles and a handslapfingersnap, and Crunch Berry Guy drifted away with his box and spoon.

I looked at Muffy. "I am hungry. And that guy was awesome."

"Dude. Yes."

"He is not an amateur."

"Hell no, that guy's definitely a professional. I'll bet he gets paid to be fucked up."

"I would pay him to be fucked up."

"I would give you half."

"And then I'd double his fucking salary."

"Crunch Berry Guy is so pro he's got a Masters In Professional Fuckedupness."

"Yeah, but that M.P.F. was bestowed upon him in the streets. Being a Professional in a field such as ours is a natural talent. That's some shit you can't learn at Tulane."

"Fuck Tulane."

"Unless he went to Kellogg. Now that's a school for Professional management."

"HAH! For sure, dude. And Crunch Berry guy manages to mix business and cereal."

"Dude, cereal is business. That's what they teach you at Kellogg."

"Cereal is serious business."

"They should really leave cereal for the Professionals."

"PDA 2009, dude. P. D. A."

We hung out there for a couple of hours before wandering back to the hotel, where I ate some Cheetos, wrote a drunk blog, and then convinced Muffy and Amber to head back out with me.

I led them to the casino across the street. I was just itching to play craps. Seriously itching. Took twenty dollars cash and an ID, because if I'd had plastic on me I would have diced my ass off. Nearly two hours of craps and free drinks, and I passed out back at the hotel with fifteen still in my pocket. Muffy and Amber weren't as lucky, but then again, they don't play craps.

And I am a Professional.

But the highlight of the night was back on the sidewalk, leaning against the fence behind that cathedral.

"I came here twenty-two years ago with my dad--" the older dirty crackhead began, his voice surprisingly clear and pleasant, without an ounce of the grit we expected, "--and he was like, I'll be right back."

He paused to light a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. "I'm still waiting," he exhales in an expert stream of smoke. "He never came back."

We exchanged secret glances, listening in on his confession.

"So I fucking went to Mardi Gras and sold my roller skates for crack."

...

Psychological Warfare

For Fat Tuesday, Gyna finds out about a bar with $3 liters of something that sounds delicious. We leave right after work and take Bowser dze German, who introduces us to his friend Philip, who is also from Germany and visiting Chicago.

"So how did you like the Field Museum?" I ask after a few. I am a Member of the Field Museum, which means I have a fancy tote bag and my name on a bunch of mailing lists.

"It was nothing. It was crap," Philip shrugs.

"What?" I bug out at Gyna.

"I know, I told them to get Mold-A-Rama dinosaurs and everything.”

“The whole thing was a little Discovery Channel," Bowser laughs.

“Exactly. That’s why it’s awesome,” I mutter. Philip looks at me and mouths egzakilty? I nod.

“Ja, egzaktily, with the gift shop and Sue dollies,” he mocks. “Tell us where we find out about dze real American dinosaurs. Wie sagt, ah, intelligent design and wonderful nonsense."

“Oooooo, like the Creation Museum." Gyna raises her eyebrows.

"Egzaktily! There is one?"

"In Kentucky,” I explain. “I went last year, and it is hilarious. They hate Darwin because he’s the devil. And they murder lambs like over and over and they have their own Garden of Eden and the guards have rifles and it’s goddamn wicked ridiculous."

"It is good? Are you a Creation…nista?”

“No, but I also don’t believe in talking mouses, and I—“

“Mice,” Gyna and Bowser correct me, grinning. Simpatico, those two.

“What?  What did I say?”

“Mouses. You said mouses.”

 “Yeah, well. Mice. Whatever, I would go to Disneyland tomorrow if I had the funds. Oh! And they have hip archangels who wear drug rugs and sunglasses and talk like they’re from California and talk about how science is wack and Jesus is your homeboy.”

"Well, that is what I want to do then." Philip turns to Bowser. "We will go tomorrow?"

"I can't. I have work."

"But it is so...America. Christians...und, and...and guns! Don’t be wack."

"I want to go, but I leave for Houston tomorrow," Gyna whimpers.

There's a slim needle of silence. The last time I went to the Creation Museum I caught a lot of atheistic hell for ‘supporting ignorance and everything that is wrong with America’ and ‘giving them money so they can teach our children mythology instead of science’ and I’m like, yeah, but, you know. Funny. "Fuck it. I got personal days.  Let’s go.”

"You'll go? Really? Wickedawesome!"

"Ausgezeichnet!" I say, which is a German word I think I understand but really don’t.

We agree on a five-thirty am departure and slow down the beer before scattering home.

"I made a friend dzis morning when you were late with your car," Philip says at five-fifty-five, coiled with patience while I house my coffee.

"And how is that?”

"A young man came up to me, ja? and he said to draw my portrait. So I gave him ten US dollars."

"Dude. Schmuck."

"Schmuck? Schmuck. And yes, I know, I know, but it was such a nice portrait." He pulls a pencil sketch out of his jacket and shows it to me. It's horrible.

I laugh like a wrecking ball. “He gave you a ponytail.”

He smiles with pride. "Yes, well I now know I need haircut. I think it’s wickedawesome."

"It's on the back of an excel spreadsheet."

"Axel spredshit? Oh I know, I gave him dze, ah, the paper."

"And apparently ten dollars. You could have just given that to me, you know."

"I like to think dhat I pay for a story to relate."

Philip flicks the sentence aside with his odd translational English and admires his shitty portrait. I’m jealous. No young man ever asked to draw my portrait for ten US dollars, and I’m a nubile lady. A friend of mine has a face like a gently carved bolt of lightning, and artists are always trying to catch it on paper and hilariously failing. She isn’t a professional model or anything, just a breathing muse.  But you can’t capture the shattering sincerity of lightning bolts without the right lens, yet they keep trying.  Now I’m jealous of her too.  Dammit.

We drive for a while.  Kentucky is far from Chicago and we don’t have any directions, but I don’t think we need them since I read road maps when I’m in the bathroom.  Perhaps maps would be more useful in the car.  “If we hit Indianapolis, we’re going the right way.  All the roads lead to Indianapolis.”

“Similar to Rome. I think that is wickedawesome,” Philip grins.  “We will arrive.”

“Good. I don’t stop in Indiana, even for directions. People here keep bodies in their basements.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.  Because I have unwarranted prejudice.”

“Why is that?”

“I think it’s the accent.  There’s a soft, um, hostile—?” I glance at him and he nods—“pattern to speech here.  As if people don’t trust you. It’s probably unintentional.”

 “Are we driving between the Bible area of America? Perhaps they know you have so little respect for them."

“I guess.  But we aren’t in the Bible Belt.  Not right now.”

"Belt? As if for trousers? It supports what covers the sin—that’s intelligent. I wish we were.”

“We will arrive.”

 Two hours in and I have to remind myself that I should not speak English like a river, but a light rain. I apologize to Philip about this but he thinks it's hilarious.  I complain about Journey for like a bajillion minutes. After five hours and only one false exit all that quality bathroom time with maps proves worthwhile and we turn onto Bullittsburg Church Road where the museum lives.

Families scuttle around the parking lot like beetles, and the Creation Museum thrums dead center with the Garden of Eden dinosaur topiary rolling muddy and green beside it.  Philip strolls towards the doors and opens them with flourishing reverence, on the cusp of jest, but only because I realize that doors should always be opened that way.  I mean with honesty and zeal, never as a flippant remark on genuine excitement.

I watch him marvel as we walk the path through Genesis. There’s an alien alchemy to the Creation Museum, where bunnies and Velociraptors share honeycombs and drops of morning dew. I touch Philip’s shoulder and point to a red snake in the trees, glittering like a Chinese dragon while Adam and Eve bathe in a pool. I blush at their nakedness. Bearded Philip looks eerily like Naked Adam and I tell him so. Naked Adam is not necessarily a dreamboat, but it makes me picture Philip naked. I glance at his jaw. There is something about jaws, but not Philip’s jaw, which is good. Who needs a crush inspired by anatomically biblical mannequins and frivolous jawlines?

 He snaps a picture of the exhibit.  “A second portrait,” he explains.

I watch Philip as Adam and Eve slaughter a lamb on an altar for clothing, and study his curious face while Cain shadows over a bloody Abel. He thoughtfully regards the miniature model of Noah’s Ark where giraffes and horses and Brachiosauruseseses board the vessel in pairs.

I drag him to the flood diorama because it’s my favorite: scrappy, quarter-inch figures scramble on scarred rocks, wrestling bears and punting each other into the waxy, jagged sea. They’re determined to survive even after Noah didn’t pick them for his survivor team. I loiter for a while, memorizing their sins. “I just love how they try,” I say, and then turn to smile up at Philip, but he’s across the room.

Philip floats through it all, casual as a sonnet. He is here without a trace of irony, I realize.  It makes me jealous again, so I counter these bursts of jealousy by repeatedly calling myself a stupid, jealous bitch and or telling myself to drop it. Like a dog. Drop it. Drop et. Humanity has come so far from the days of sharing honeycombs with Velociraptors.  We hear drums in the distance, horror over the death of Christ and mourn for him. It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. In this building, and nowhere else, I want to believe. Only when I am here, I think, because they deserve that much. Science really can be used to verify a predetermined outcome. (No, it can’t.) But the museum is beautiful. We take lots of pictures.

“They don’t do, ah,” Philip makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, “Ash Wednesday.”

 “No, Creationists think Catholicism is evil.” Up ahead, an animatronic prophet is writing ancient texts.  “Are you Catholic?”

Philip sniffs. “Germany is very Catholic. And yes, we are evil. Remember the Holocaust? And Indiana Jones films?”

We stroll through the garden because that is how one is supposed to walk through gardens, stopping at the petting zoo to admire the zedonks and there’s a terrifying turkey thundering next to a camel. Philip pets a pig. I try to feed a wallaby but it runs away.

We decide to stop in Cincinnati for a bowl of chili and hit up a White Castle instead.

“White Castle,” I explain between bites, “Is the quintessential American food. It’s our entire cultural mindset packed into a square. I always want more White Castle, but in reality I don't need it. Ever. Because the idea of White Castle fundamentally opposes its physical manifestation – what we have is this. And then I have to pay the price for fantasy and indulgence. With my bowels."

“So...America makes you shit?" Philip winks. Why don’t people wink anymore?

I laugh, burning words. "No. No, not at all. But—yes. Because everything we love becomes shit. Because we smash it til it’s unrecognizable and then we mercilessly ridicule that which was once good until all that's left is poorly executed snark.”

"So...White Castle is snark?"

"I guess this has nothing to do with White Castle."

Later on Philip asks if we can stop in Indianapolis for a pair of Vans.

“What are you thinking?” I ask as we browse Shoe Carnival.

“I am thinking today was, ha, wickedawesome. I think when you come to Germany I know where I will take you, egzaktily.”

I've been given so much crap for supporting this museum just by paying to go there. But seriously, it's like Disney World, but with Jesus and dinosaurs and mass slaughter, and dead sheep are just lying all over the place. Completely macabre, like they're trying to scare you into agreement.

The propaganda tactics employed throughout the place are genius. Sometimes very, very subtle, and sometimes outright obvious. Every exhibit is designed with the distinct purpose of making non-believers feel guilty and the believers feel righteous. Perfectly constructed psychological warfare.

Although I believe that Creationism is firmly rooted in mythology, I believe even more strongly that people reserve the right to believe in what they want. So, I will support the Creation Museum, because no matter what, different mindsets are worth noting. In the end, it's just exciting and fun, like a Voodoo or Scientology museum, or watching Ghost Adventures.

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