Turn Signal

Why can't you use a turn signal? ANY OF YOU? Mad scientists built a lever into your wheeled robot house, on purpose, just so you could alert other robot drivers that you are moving laterally. And just to keep it simple, this lever lives next to where your fucking hands go.

Your assumption that you can just weave in and out of traffic all willy-nilly with little regard for your fellow travelers is fucking egregious. EGREGIOUS.

As with all things in life, when you make a decision, please take a second to reflect on how your decision is going to effect the people around you, and in the world. Even Ashton Kutcher knows that small actions make a difference, and he's a fucking dumbass. Then he made a shitty movie about it and made things worse. Don't see it. It's terrible and it doesn't make any sense. In a bad way, not in a good way. Ashton Kutcher did not consider the butterfly effect of his own movie back in 2004 that makes me feel angry today. The fucking nerve.

Thor 2 didn't make any sense either, but that movie goddamn ruled. Do you know why? Because the filmmakers didn't try to logic something that they didn't really understand, they were just like, "um, bibbity bobbity bifrost SCIENCE = MAGIC BLOODSMOKE" and then everything was fine.

Ashton Kutcher, on the other hand, tried to explain something that he didn't understand to serve his own agenda, like when Christians appropriate "science" for their religimagic, which is backwards. Technically not Ashton, but the guys who made that movie. You can't say "magic because of science." That defeats the purpose of fucking magic. Science will negate the magic. BUT! Undiscovered science? That is magic. Do you see? Idiots. EGREGIOUS.

Don't try to make sense of something you cannot fathom in the first place. Or...no, that's wrong. Always try to make sense of things. But do not flaunt your blatant misunderstanding of a concept on film. Talk to someone who knows what the what before you act like an idiot.

Then again, I got my shit on here, and I have absolutely no fucking idea what I'm talking about.

I didn't get in a car accident or anything. I just really don't like cab drivers. They're slippery bastards.

AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT? I don't think cab drivers really like NPR! I think I just get into a cab and they switch the radio to NPR because I have glasses and I dress like a hungover junior high school teacher. Well, your deduction is inaccurate, cabbies, because I like my ignorant pop music from time to time, and I'm only wearing these pants because finding pants I enjoy is very difficult, and I'm not as cultured as you think I am. BOOM!!!! Suck it.

GRYFFINDOR

Please Allow Me To Nerd Out

I caved and watched John Carter about a little over a month ago because I was on this Friday Night Lights kick and needed more Taylor Kitsch, and I'm now on a one-woman crusade to make everyone watch it because it's awesome. 

Remember when I said I wrote something about Star Wars?  I said it before and I'll say it again, talking about Star Wars is fucking cliche, but when something shapes your childhood pretending it's not important to you is just plain silly.  

Then again, this isn't really about Star Wars at all - and it's more about how Hollywood fucks things up sometimes, and how they get it right sometimes. 

Here is the abridged version of what I wrote a month ago:

First of all, I loves me some JJ Abrams.  Alias and Lost are two of my favorite shows, Super 8 was fun (but waaaaaay too polished and aware for a coming-of-age movie) and I thoroughly enjoyed Star Trek, although I am an infant in Trek lore, so any arguments about JJ ruining Star Trek with lens flares don't even register. 

But the man is a walking gimmick.  His name a gimmick.  Obviously he's not as gimmicky as someone like Peter Jackson, who couldn't identify a gimmick if a hobbit kicked him in the nards.  Peter Jackson is so gimmicky he's George Lucas.   Since JJ gained a reputation as a creator of cult TV his name evokes certain feelings of dedication and camaraderie, and Star Trek was his breakthrough for those people who hadn't caught on yet.  

For Star Wars we need a director who is pure and raw with a coming-of-age feel, not well-seasoned and mature with little adolescent idiosyncrasies.  Maybe the guy that directed Attack the Block, but then again THAT was his coming-of-age movie. If this were a few years ago I'd say Rian Johnson, but Looper pushed him up a notch from Brick, which was like watching a snake juggle knives and I mean that with the utmost respect.  Star Wars should MAKE the director and not the other way around. People are looking at this thing in a totally wrong way.

Of course, Star Wars is itself a gimmick, it's a classic hero story and it's totally a coming-of-age movie, and not in the when-oh-when-will-I-lose-that-v-card sense, but in a teenager-learns-to-make-decisions-for-someone-other-than-himself kind of sense. And it works because it was made by a man who was, at that time, coming-of-age in his career. 

Kind of like - okay, Andrew Stanton, who did Wall-E and Finding Nemo, would have been a good choice.  But then he made John Carter.

Before that he hadn't yet made the full transition into adult topics - the first of a trilogy is always about finding your footing and beginning somewhere, so it would make sense to have a director transitioning into more adult topics while still appealing to children - hence "coming of age." JJ did his "coming of age" movie with Super 8, but the problem was he make that movie AFTER HIS OWN DIRECTORIAL TRANSITION, which was Felicity-era JJ, so it was compiled of memories of what things were like, not experiences of how things ARE. 

It's harder to portray that emotional innocence if yours is gone - it'll only work once.

That's why movies like Stand by Me (Rob Reiner grows up) and Now and Then (Lesli Linka Glatter grows up) actually work, but movies like Moonrise Kingdom fail.  Moonrise Kingdom was very cute, yes, but it was never innocent.  Parts of it were supposed to be, but it was far too cunning to ever get there. It was Wes Anderson waving around a giant lollipop yelling, "LOOK AT MY FUCKING LOLLIPOP BECAUSE LOLLIPOPS ARE INNOCENT."
  
The kicker is this: John Carter is what the Star Wars prequels should have been: a vehicle fully aware of the tropes and cliches involved in the story so it utilizes them to its advantage.  Sensational, pulpy, cheesy, and ridiculously fun. 

Compare that to something like Snow White and the Huntsman, which was just a series of bullshit used and irrelevant ideas that were painted to look pretty, completely oblivious to both source material and innovation. 

• Exhibit A: Fuck you, Rupert Sanders.  Use real fucking dwarves.  Haven't Peter Dinklage and Warwick Davis taught Hollywood anything in the past two years?  
• Exhibit B:  Queen that is mean because of some dumb groan-worthy background story that villifies feminism (a woman's only desire for power is to get back at the man that wronged her!  Not everything is about you) and instead turns an otherwise interesting power-hungry character into a hackneyed woman who is bad because she is getting old and ugly, and women do not like to be ugly.  You know what could have made a rad story?  Re-write the whole damn thing to focus on Charlize Theron's rise and fall as The Evil Queen.  It could be like Wicked (the book, not the shitty musical about shallow BFFs that fight because they totally have a crush on the same guy).
• Exhibit C:  Pretty girl that everyone believes is special but we have no fucking idea why, since she's boring and annoying.  And then Thor is all like, "you're a girl, you can't survive in the forest" and she's all, "no, I'm really pretty so no one will kill me" and then Rupert Sanders is like "let's give her a sword for no reason so we know she's a strong woman now! Swords = strong." (??????) 

That movie doesn't mean anything.  It's a pretty movie with pretty people who are all terrible.  

Granted, John Carter doesn't necessarily mean anything either other than the celebration of telling a fun story.  It's also a pretty movie with pretty people, but they're presented differently.  When they give the princess a sword, it's not a novel idea that she's a woman with a sword.  It's not supposed to represent a transformation - everyone in the movie can use a sword.  All of the women and all of the men.  This is never pointed out with a line like, "Our women are equal!" It's just the way it is.  There's no reason to point it out.  Our villain is the bad guy because he wants to be a bad guy. Our hero is the hero because he's...well, it's because he's fucking American.  But they amp that cheesiness up too, and nearly satirize it but never get all ironically detached and uselessly sarcastic, and I dig that. 

I would love it if Andrew Stanton was captaining the Disney Star Wars franchise.  But maybe not anymore...after all, he already made his John Carter.   

...

You Can Be A Winner

My favorite thing about The Game of Life (I'm definitely talking about the board game) is that everything in Life is up to Chance and taking risks, and I do not believe in Fate.  

College in Life is a choice - you can still dominate the game without it.   Being a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher has absolutely nothing to do with all of the other shit Life throws your way, because there are all of these priceless artifacts to discover and mountains to climb and thieves to catch.

When I was little I always wanted to be the lawyer (not the doctor - doctors are scary) or skip college and go straight to the ponies. Skipping college, however, was not an option.  Skipping college was not even allowed in a hypothetical board game in the Rossi house. 

So I'd cross my fingers and pray for lawyer, and if I wasn't a lawyer I would consider cheating, but never do it.  I despise cheating.

One time I cheated in college and then I viciously scolded myself to tears.  (You do NOT cheat you are better than that no you're not you don't work for anything you expect recognition for shit you didn't do because why because you're a fucking worthless person and guys can't even stand to LOOK at you, you can't even fake smart or pretty and there's no reason to even be around people if you can't give them something to think about or something to look at...etc.)

Luckily, I do not scold myself anymore.  Do you hear that?  I DO NOT SCOLD MYSELF ANYMORE. 

My sister also wanted to be the lawyer, and if she didn't get her way she would pout and scream and yell until the whole family would say, "oh look your spin was a 7 instead of a 3 and you're totes a lawyer, LYLAS" so she would shut the fuck up, and then I'd be all, "Well I wanna be a lawyer tooooooo" and then everyone would just get majicked into lawyers and we passed money around and kept on starting over and starting over and never finished the game.

I feel like that means something.  After awhile I came to loathe that game, and I just played it again a few weeks ago and now I know:  this game is fucking rad.

...


One of my other favorites was Mastermind.

I was terrified to play Mastermind at first. In the back of my head it was forbidden, reserved only for adults because it unlocked secret psychoses and taught you about the power of temptation when faced with brutal truth and brains, like a right of passage or an emotional ordeal venturing into the depths of chaos - and not an intangible realm of chaos but the chaos within myself, I would be confronted with my most tumultuous fears that would RIP ME THE FUCK APART and then the overlords will watch, silently, as I struggled to puzzle myself back together.

Eventually, after a few years of being terrified of this game, which sat in an easily child-accessible cabinet along with Life, Candyland, and Don't Break The Ice, I would take out the mangled box and hypnotically stare at the cover before shamefully jamming it back into the pile of games.  How could I ever defeat this villain if I never accepted his challenge?  Also, does he have polio?

This went on from the ages of 5 to 8.  I really let this game psych me out.

Then one day I asked my parents if I could play Mastermind and they argued over who should teach me, I remember, and my mom won out in the end.  We started playing constantly, and I remember thinking that I was so silly for assuming so much about a game based on the cover of the box.

Here's something fucked up that I just realized, just now, because I tried to find a copy on Amazon, and I thought, "I want an old school one, with the ambiguously-evil Professor White Guy and His Indian Mistress."

What?

Where did I learn that?

My parents definitely never taught me that.  They never said I wasn't allowed to play, they never told me to leave it alone, I just took one look at the cover and was like, "That guy and his young racially different girlfriend are going to make me feel terrible about my brain."

My parents had the Deluxe Edition from the first picture - and when I was looking for images of these games, I was flustered.

They all feature a white Bond villain in a position of power, backed by his racially-diverse feminine counterpart, who is purposely lounging with curvy mystique, casually lining the contours of her body with a graceful arm, her other arm resting behind the Master himself...

But wait.

Is he the Master, or she?  She always looks bored and in perfect control, whereas he is in the forefront with shrewd pomposity - and I feel like, although he is our competition - she is our threat. 

This is terrifying.  WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?  AM I A RACIST? That must be it, I am a complete racist - look at the words I used above - forbidden, mystique - were all of those words conjuring up some kind of irrational fear in me as a child because this game had a brown woman on the cover?  And because I am white, she is an other so she's playing by different rules...was that my thought process?  How did that happen?  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. (Don't yell at yourself, don't yell at yourself, you have done nothing wrong DO NOT YELL AT YOURSELF)

I've never understood the idea of saying "I don't see color, it doesn't matter to me" because it fucking matters.  Skin color shapes our identity, and ignoring such a massive, outward aspect of someone's identity is sad. 

I must delve deeper.  I must think more about this. 

Why is she the threat?  Because she looks like a fucking puppet master, that's why!  Obviously draping one arm all like, "See, nothing here" and then the other one is all hidden because it is TOTALLY STUFFED INSIDE HER BOND VILLAIN VENTRILOQUIST DUMMY.

She's a threat because of that haughty, dispassionate composure. She hasn't had a single day of happiness in her life, unless you count all the times she eviscerated her enemies with her mind.  Perhaps it's because the set-up of the picture is too perfect - the shadowed man pressing his fingertips - when and where did the pressed fingertips as a sign of villainous aggression originate?  Why is this a thing?  Are we, as people, predisposed to associate the body language behind pressed fingertips with a threat, or are we conditioned to do so because bad guys do it in movies sometimes?

I will have to research this. 

...

Giving It Up

I wrote this incredibly long blog post about Star Wars. 

Not posting it.  (Yet?)

The most interesting thing that came out of writing 42 inches of ramblings on fucking Star Wars - something I never, ever in my life expected I would do - was that I feel an intense shame at loving something so cliche.  Even something as simple, universal, and super duper neato as Star Wars. 

Instead of posting I berated myself for looking into things too deeply, for being embarrassed because I care about something.  I'm not proud to love something childhood-defining like Star Wars anymore.  I feel trite and generic and unsuitable, I feel the premature (and totally unlikely) slings and barbs from millions of internet strangers who will judge me for the banality of my mind and HOLY MOTHBALLS am I afraid of being wrong and being judged by those who are more worthy of attention.  I'm afraid of being pigeonholed into a girl who does things to impress people instead of a person who wants to do them. I'm afraid of being a fraud.  No, that's a lie.  I'm afraid of people thinking I'm a fraud.

I know I am not a fraud.  

Now I'm mad about something that hasn't happened yet. ACCEPT THE WAY I VIEW MYSELF WITHOUT PROOF, PEOPLE.  I AM SPECIAL. I DEMAND YOU BELIEVE THAT I WROTE THIS THING THAT WOULD ESTABLISH AN OPINION, BUT I AM NOT SHARING THAT OPINION WITH YOU.

Maybe I'm adhered to old personality traits to an unhealthy degree, identifying with a self that brought me so much social discomfort that I won't let go out of sheer obstinence (fuck you, word derivations, this is way better than obstinateness) or for fear of losing my identity, when in reality identity is something we create rather than succumb to.  We build upon our natural tendencies and choose to show people what we are comfortable showing.

The identity that I've created for myself, it appears, is built upon anger, bitterness, humor, otherness.  I'm sure of who I am but really unsure as to why.  That's why is Star Wars is relevant.  

Obviously this is not really about Star Wars at all, it's about every form of entertainment I gravitate towards and how I allow them to shape my perception of myself and the world.  But it's also about how I allow my feelings about these stories shape how I see myself, it's about how I congratulate myself because I value specific things.  That's fucked. (It's okay if I'm lonely, I am a "good" judge of television shows!)

Please allow me to nerd out:

Right now nerds are a hot topic (well, let's be honest, nerds have been a hot topic for years) because of the obvious things:  the generation of people who grew up feeling shame for loving things now resent the universal acceptance younger fans have in society and the world at large.  Since the elders have been trained to feel shame for their very existence, they now feel it for resenting these young fans because this is what they wanted for themselves, and they worked hard to make things easier for the next generation of "nerds", who aren't even nerds anymore because nerds are "overly intellectual, obsessive, or socially impaired," and nerdy interests are no longer things that make one a social outcast. The elders are jealous.  

So instead of admitting the above paragraph is for true, elder nerds call the newcomers fake and phony, which is fucking stupid.  It's a purely selfish thing.  

It's purely selfish and narcissistic for me to refuse to give a reader the chance to make a decision about me, as a person, unless I've guided them strategically towards that decision.  It makes me controlling.

I've never wanted to write about the topic of nerds.  There are people out there that are better suited for those writings, people that are respected, people who beat the topic into the foundation of the internet, people who do not need someone to validate their expertise.  Besides, who wants to read my thoughts on that crap?  Throwing more water in the rat soup will yield more soup, but it doesn't improve the taste.

Fuck it. I'm going to post my thoughts on this shit because I fucking damn well want to, and I don't care if it bores you.  Once I started to believe I was abnormal and wrong as a person I turned paranoid.  No more.

This year for Lent: I am giving up guilt and shame.

...

Reasons for Things

Let's get one thing straight:

Zombies are annoying.

Fucking annoying.  And if you think this is some "trying to be hip" shit, fuck off.  In the dawn of the craze I just laughed along with everyone when they were all zommed out.  I loved Shawn of the Dead.  I read The Zombie Survival Guide.  I watched the George Romero movies because it's what I do, I watch all the movies. It's pointless to have an opinion on something I know nothing about.

I used to allow music to fall into that trap - I would assume I didn't like a band without ever listening to them, due to some some convoluted and irrelevant connection I made.

But that stems from the insecurity I had when I was a freshman in college and I pretended to like things so people would like me (Dave Matthews Band, Pink Floyd, Jimmy Buffet).  Remember that episode of Full House where DJ pretends to like cars? It was like that.  Obviously I learned nothing from FH.  I also vehemently denied my love for Buffy the Vampire Slayer (before a rooster crows YOU WILL DENY ME THREE TIMES) and cheap fantasy.  I wanted to be cool very, very badly.

I didn't want to be that girl I was in high school, harassed in the hallways, never dated anyone, ate lunch alone in a bathroom stall (Mean Girls really hit home for me).  My closest friends didn't invite me to parties because I was so caustic and dorky.  Then I found out some of my male friends called me "the dyke" behind my back because I "talk like a dude" and "play softball" they treated me like a novelty instead of a real person with feelings (of course I had a crush on two of them even thought they treated me terribly, why? Because teenagers are dumb. Like zombies.).

It took me a long time to get over stuff like that.  I was shocked when someone wanted to spend time with me, terrified it was just to tease me.  When someone actually seemed to enjoy my company I grew distressed and confused, because I was a worthless loser and I didn't deserve it. 

I still have to re-convince myself every single day that my friends and co-workers aren't ashamed of me. So I repeat this: I am fucking awesome. If I say it enough, it will be true. Right?

How the fuck did I get here?  Shit. Scroll up.  What's the point?  Right.  Zombies.

So I tried really hard to squeeze myself into what I thought other people thought was cool, and then I realized: um, fuck those people.  I came out of the closet as a Pink Floyd hater first, which I knew would get me the most vitriol.  But I was educated.  "Roger Waters has the worst voice ever.  The only good songs are sung by David Gilmour, who is a dreamboat."   And so on.

I was so fucking proud of myself.  Became an authority.  Did research, deduced my technical and emotional reactions and told everyone my conclusions.  Absorbed myself in musical history and just basically ignored every song that came out from 2004-2010 unless someone literally shoved it down my throat.  Got really into John Cale and Harry Nilsson. Hipster, right?

Goddammit.  Zombies.

Zombies are annoying.

That whole digression illustrates three very important things:

1. This anti-zombie thing is not a conclusion I arrived at willy-nilly.  I watched a lot of shitty movies and one shitty TV show to make sure I was right. HOWEVER: I did it all under the assumption that I wouldn't like it.  Which, of course, affects the outcome considerably.
2. I really wanted to be a part of the zombie thing, because I love being a part of things, but...I couldn't feign interest. I've never been able to get into it.  
3. I now have a huge personal aversion to doing things just because other people do them, which is, of course, the nature of zombies.

So I like my apocalypses either (a) zombie-free or (b) clever to the point of insanity.

I like them slightly cheesy, gritty, and full of hopeful camaraderie.

I like rag-tag misfits, but the good kind, not the bitchy, whiny Glee kind (the thing about Glee is that NO ONE LIKES THOSE KIDS BECAUSE THEY'RE DICKS, not because they're singing homosexuals. This isn't 1997.)

I like my writing hyper self-aware or blissfully dismissive.

I like my heroes with defining characteristics other than "alive" and "outnumbered."  I mean, the thought of a world of undead going about their day looking for flesh to eat is not a pleasant one and is surely mighty creepifiying, and I get the damn metaphor, guys.

But the real reason...okay. Breathe.

I don't talk about this because even thinking about it is giving me skin flares and that thing, you know, that thing where it feels like someone is squeezing your heart but so they can make juice out of it?  That thing? What's it called? Fear. 

That's how I feel about this.  I can do this. This is me being vulnerable. Is admitting your fears showing vulnerability?  Fuck yeah it is. 

Cannibalism scares the piss out of me. The fucking piss.  Have you ever seen Ravenous? God, I'm grossed out just thinking about it. Or Cannibal Holocaust? I watched that alone - oh, god, when...four years ago? But I read it was the most controversial movie ever so I had to watch it, I had to, and I literally threw up.  Actual throw-upping.  It happened.  Kkkkaaahhhkkk.  Nguah. Ngaaaaaah.  Vom sounds.  Breathe.

So it's not the zombies that scare me.  It's what comes after them from a genre standpoint.

Zombies are just like, cannibal-lite.  They're just a step below.   Zombies + Human Centipede = SCARY HORROR CANNIBALISM HORROR GATEWAY OF FUCKING HORROR.  I want the zombie shit to stop so the cannibal shit never starts, because once we mainstream cannibal horror movies I AM GOING TO HAVE STEADY, CONSTANT NIGHTMARES FOREVER AND I LIVE ALONE.

Now you know.


...

Red Man Says Nein

This is Part 11 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

The next morning I inhale breakfast, where I do not have coffee because Germans are bad at it.

Throughout the day it becomes sufficiently clear that Gyna and Patrick are diplomatic travel guides, and they lead us prudently through East Berlin lending purpose to the day.

I ponder noisily about streets and directions, hammering my brain to remember how to get places that I haven't been in nine years.  "Is it...I think I know where we are!  I feel like we're supposed to turn left. Last time I was here, I think we went this way...like there is a huge building and field, and then a huge building and a field...but I guess, I mean...it doesn't look like that anymore...am I remembering it wrong?  You guys?" Then I realize that most likely no one is paying attention to me since we are in FUCKING BERLIN AND IT IS AWESOME, as well they shouldn't.

We stand at a crosswalk before Brandenburg Tor, waiting for the Ampelmann to start his green strut. But he is taking his sweet ass time.  I don't care how jaunty your hat is, little man, I just want to cross--

"Red Man says nein," Gyna hisses at me.  Menacingly.

"Red Man says nein!" I snap in imitation, stepping back from the street. 

"Red Man says what?"  MoLinder asks, with faux innocence. She knows damn well what Red Man says, because we have been shouting "RED MAN SAYS NEIN" at each other for a fucking week.  Gyna told tales of the Ampelmann the weekend before.  Of his green gallant stroll.  His red commanding sincerity.  And being silly people who like silly things, we joked heartily about a thing we heard about that one time, joking about an experience someone we know know had directly in anticipation of having that experience ourselves eventually, which is, of course, an optimistic way of going about your life and therefore quite unusual for the likes of us.

"RED MAN SAYS NEIN!" 

(This conversation continues with slight variance at every single crosswalk in Berlin).

We mildly stress over where we could sit, shit, and have a beer, because foreign lands are thirsty business.  After entering and leaving no less than forty-seven establishments on our way to finding a very particular one within a maze of alleyways, we finally saunter into a particularly awesome one with a giant, coin-eating, flapping, blinking bat automaton serving as herald, like the skeletal insides of an unemployable Jim Henson creation, marking the entrance to gritty bars and dancing for quarters, but whatever the German equivalent of a quarter is.

I want one. I want hundreds. I want to line the block with them and collect my quarters and never pay for laundry again.  I imagine stealing this one, just draping it over my shoulder and carrying it through across streets of Berlin until, alas! Red man says nein, and I return it to its alley, dejected.

Directly across the the way from this thing is a bar called Eschschloraque (know this: I had no idea what the name of this place was until ten minutes ago, much less how to pronounce it.)  The bar requests no pictures, which is a shame, but I imagine a rule like that accomplishes two very important things; (1) it's the kind of thing that keeps a place like this from being driven into the ground by complete overexposure, and (2) things are more fun when there's a supercool mystery about a place, such as, "omg why can't we take pics this is place is so rad gaaahhh".

The bar itself is deceptively dingy.  Soft long-loved couches, old wood and mottled walls, but clean, with good music. Plus, you know.  Aliens.

At least I think they are aliens, but that's the thing about aliens.  They are more likely sculptures, or cardboard cut-outs, or shadowy corners or those dangly spinny things that we hang above sleeping babies that are not disco balls and they are not chandeliers and they are not plants and they are not lightbulb chains and they are not spiders and they are not rainclouds and they are not ominous thoughts and they are not, but can be, models of the solar system and THEY ARE MOBILES.  Sweet fuck, I was going crazy just then, and I knew if I kept listing things they were not I would figure out what they were.

Those were there.  Mobiles.  They felt alien.

It's a cool fucking place.  Usually cool places reveal my idiosyncracies and expose me as a fraud and an outsider.  This place, fantastically, comforted the glaring parts by ignoring them, assuming a place has that magical capability.

I went outside and loitered for a few minutes, watching the giant metal bat-thing crank into life.  There was a gallery, you know, full of these terrifying, clanking sculptures.  I have a great respect and penchant for all thing ridiculous...but as we were nearing the end of the trip with limited time, I had to put a decision to my comrades, who unanimously voted no clanking sculptures.  I didn't argue, and I didn't really care about skipping it - at this point, I just wanted to spend time with Gyna and I didn't give a fuck what we did.

Which was, basically, hang out and enjoy the good company.

...

I am totally quirky and adorable

Someday I am going to be the type of person that leans against door frames wearing only a bathrobe and sipping a cup of freshly ground coffee, gazing into a distance of infinite possibility.  I will be that person.

On Saturday I will buy a new fancy bathrobe.  A dark one.  The type of bathrobe that says, "Look out, fucking world.  I drink steaming coffee and I wear this luxurious bathrobe outside, which I borrowed it from my very attractive lover.  He smells like fresh bread and lumber, and so does this very soft robe.  I am comfortable saying the word lover.  I drink wine that was fermented and bottled in important years.  I am a published author.  I have excellent boobs, and I never fart.  Ever."

Or maybe I'll be the type of person that stays at bougie, Pompidou-y hotels that look like Threadless t-shirts in Berlin, because I'm totally going to visit Gyna in Germany one month from now (HOORAY!).  I will be a sartorial inspiration to all of these people that live in hip, fancy places like Barcelona and Budapest and Tel Aviv, and I will say things like, "Radiohead is so overrated" and they will all say, "totally" but then secretly be ashamed because they like Radiohead and are afraid to speak up in my presence because I am Cooler Than Everyone.  Then someone will say, "You know what?  I am a legit closet Radiohead fan" as if that was something you needed to be in the closet about in the first place, and I will grin because I control their likes and dislikes and dreams.*

Topcraft: like this, but without the damn unicorn.

Because I was watching Blade Runner (twice. in a row. who does that) and drinking Beringer blush out of a mug that I heated up in the microwave and sketching out designs for this thing I'm going to make and hang up somewhere, a kind of Barbara Remington-y/ Topcraft-ian cell mural thing, which is something that I've dreamed of since I was a wee tot.  And I thought, "Was this memory implanted in me?  This pull I have towards an art style that does not have a name (I think), and I know because I have been googling for hours?" I'm always drawn back to it whenever I think of ideals, this kind of beautifully flat, modern, shitty-Boschian style? Do other people have a fascination with this style too?  Once I post a blog about it, am I going to see it fucking everywhere?  Perhaps, since Topcraft is now Studio Ghibli.  Whatever.  All I know is I want it.  All over the place."

So I'm thinking this as I sketch and measure tediously, because I am going to quilt the mural, I think, and I'm trying to figure out why it bothers me so much (what is it? I don't know, but it fucking bothers me) and then I realize it doesn't bother me.  Which is odd, because everything fucking bothers me.  But it doesn't, and I'm happy because I'm doing something I've always wanted to do and working in a puzzle-like medium that I instinctively understand, and I'm incorporating art that has followed me since I was a child, and I'm happy.  And I really, truly, for the first time ever - I don't care that it's trash, that Barbara Remington is accredited with creating the worst book covers of all time, that Topcraft animated some of the shoddiest cartoons (but not The Last Unicorn, which is perfect), and I don't care because I've always loved them and identified with them, and instead of doing my usual bullying defensive thing when I guard things I love, I'm calmer.  This is what I love.  You cannot change that with your criticism, and you will never make me second-guess my ability to perceive.

I only wrote this post to prove how quirky I am.  I might take all of these ideas and put them on Pinterest.  (No, I won't)

On another note, isn't all this post-rock, techno-with-high-octave-low-fi-vocals stuff wicked boring?  I think it's wicked boring.  Stop making me listen to it, please.  

...

* EDIT: I do not hate Radiohead (I just don't really care about them either way, like Pearl Jam), I just think it's funny how easily swayed people are.  Maybe this should read, "Someday I will be the type of 'cool' person who can make people feel self-conscious about their opinions."  I don't really want to be that kind of person, but it's fun imagining I could be.

...

Debates for the Universe

Is there a God? Why is it that when you slice a seashell in half, you find math inside? Why can't I start working at noon as I am not a farmer? Does a man really want a woman with a sense of humor, or does he just want a woman who laughs at his jokes? Who is the sadist that keeps on airing those ASPCA commercials?

When did irony stop functioning as a rhetorical device and become a cultural slogan for sloppy contrast? Who steals my pens when I'm not at my desk? Are dragons real? Chickens and eggs, which came first? Who is the most important musical figure since the inception of Rock and Roll: Elvis, Les Paul, or the Beatles as a cheeky whole? Why does everyone buy Puffs and still call it Kleenex?

Who coined the phrase "throw you under the bus"?  Where do they live?  Is it near a bus stop?  Why do people repeat that phrase when it makes no sense and sounds fucking idiotic?  Why are potato stems useless? How many apple seeds can you eat before you feel the effects of the cyanide? How is it statistically possible that I am undefeated in air hockey (Holla)?

Does anyone ever enjoy a Hollywood reboot? When did rope become irrelevant? How did Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup become a proven placebo cure-all for everything bad ever ever?  How did I get so close to one set of grandparents and retain such antipathy for the other? Fucking magnets, how do they work?  Which is better: quality or nostalgia; sub-question: So which is the best Weezer album?

My grandpa died last night.  This one.   I am sad.  My grandmother, from the other side of the family, passed away about a month and a half ago.  I was not nearly as sad.  Oh, I really want to get drunk. 

...

We Spend Our Lives On Trial

This article just punches me in the chest, because I had to deal with that bullying shit for years (of course, I retaliated by yelling louder and pointing out how the things they loved were stupider). I still have to deal with that shit, although on a much smaller scale. I hate getting that look, that confused, oh-she's-one-of-those-girls looks. I don't have socially acceptable interests. At least not among extroverts. And by "extroverts" I mean "guys who don't live in a basement." Hey guys - GET OUT OF YOUR BASEMENT AND COME TO THE BAR.

It's easy to get addicted to being bullied after having it define you for years. Of course now I have this ridiculous arrogant air about me because yes, I was bullied for being smart and nerdy and not very feminine, so say it. Go on. Say what you're thinking.

And then it's my fucking turn.

They called me crazy because talking back, of course, is a sign of mental dysfunction. Teachers never stepped in, mostly because in high school the bullying is all sidelined and mental and pansy-assed. The smart kids (who were the biggest assholes) trap insults into class discussions during Literature of Romance and Tragedy, "I think it's commendable that Hester just bears all of the persecution with nobility. I admire that. It's always obnoxious when they fight back. Right Rassles? Wouldn't you agree?" The most neanderthal, and the rarest, hang out in the cafeteria near the quiet, greasy-haired kid in a black trenchcoat and combat boots and loudly talk shit about his clothes and music from a short distance. So I would walk over there in my little sweater vest and khakis (fuck you, mom) and call them gutless and make fun of their shoes or their hair or something and just walk away.

This did not make me popular. If anything they ignored me.

Of course, in college my behavior was a virtue. I think it's just because students didn't know me well enough to know that you're supposed to avoid me, like all those kids from kindergarten through the end of high school. Then again, in college we clung to the people we knew would have our backs, because that place was like a fucking battleground where everyone was fighting to be the most awesome.

So...now you know why I'm a fortress.


Day 5: a song that reminds you of someone

Basically every song reminds me of someone, it's just that sometimes that person is myself. I thought long and hard about this. Who would I honor with words, affection and song?

You better be reading this, asshole.




Gyna is moving to Germany in one month. This makes me very very sad. Gyna is leaving and now I'll be swimming in a sea of couples and pairs. Goddammit. Having someone like Gyna around, someone who perfectly balances the excruciatingly rational with the excruciatingly silly, is kind of nice.

You remember those guys I mentioned above, the ones who live in basements? Gyna is the girl they approach at the bar. It makes sense, she wears glasses and is roughly shaped like a superheroine. Sometimes I get eerie osmosis loiterers that stand close to me and laugh at my jokes but never say anything, just soak up my shine, but Gyna gets picked up and then they want to see her again.

That's because Gyna laughs readily, tells good jokes and engages in the ridiculous (like when she threw a Four Loko party with eight flavors of Four Loko chilling in wine coolers, plates of lavish cheeses and grapes on the vine, bowls of fruit, delicate crackers, and the 100 Sexiest Music Videos counting down on the TV), she's whipsmart and knows a lot about a lot of things. She is also very self-assured and fashionable, but the good kind of fashionable because she still hangs out with me when I wear Pumas and a t-shirt to a club (not that I go to clubs willingly but birthdays are birthdays) and she's all cleavage and fancy jackets and heeled boots with belts on them, even though she shakes her head and calls me an asshole (which is fine, because I know very well that I am being an asshole when I deliberately dress down so I don't have to talk to douchebags that hang out at fucking clubs which will let me in because my friends are hot).

I just noticed something when I was fielding through pictures: there are lots of pictures of me and Gyna going places and sitting on things, like motorcyles and barrels with saddles on them and strange hands.

Also, she rides in my sidecar. Or I am her driver. Not sure which is which.

So "Youth Gone Wild" is our official karaoke duet. There's really no reason for it other than the fact that it's a bad ass song.

...

Walking Down the Street Last Friday After Many Beers and Rums

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

Rass: And turning it into a bar?

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

(puzzled, Rassles continues shuffling down the sidewalk)

Rass: Adam?

Adam: Madam?

Rass: It already is a funeral home.

Adam: I believe it is actually an abandoned building.

Rass: Of course, of course.

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

Rass: And caskets. Do not forget caskets.

Adam: Brimming with caskets.

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

Adam: You know what else brims in caskets?

Rass: Fear. And the undead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rass: You also know me.

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

Rass: It's a gift and curse.

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

Rass: --of calamitous intent?

Adam: Exactly.

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

Adam: I was thinking The Reverend.

Rass: Classy, but weak. And obvious.

Adam: It is not obvious.

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

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

Rass: I'm The Boss.

Adam: Well of course, but-

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

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

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

(evil, maniacal laugh)

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

Rass: That I invented for you. Just now.

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

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

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

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

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

Rass: Just give me a place and a time.

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

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

...

The Interrupting Cow

I used to put on my mom's make-up when I was like ten, drawing a superhero eyemask or a shiny star on my forehead like the Lady Amalthea. Once I tried to make myself look like Jessica Rabbit, with the big purple eyelids and round, red lips, and the mom told me I looked silly and was brave to wear such a ridiculous mask and made me wash it off immediately, so I spread toothpaste all over my face and ran around, crying out melodramatically, "What have you done to me? I'm a unicorn. I'm a unicorn!" until someone paid attention or I sufficiently annoyed the fuck out of everyone. Or something like that.

But usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials--which was a trick I learned from my friend Karla who maturely reasoned out the beauty and health benefits of toothpaste facials all on her own after watching her big sister Margot do it (Karla was unaware that Margot did not actually use toothpaste)--usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials I got in wicked trouble for wasting shit, and then I had to wash the woodwork and pull weeds.

The first junior high sleepover I went to all these girls brought their Caboodles full of make up and gave each other makeovers, and I made myself a breathtaking black eye and dropped a line about fighting in a phalanx a la Civilization to tinkling ridicule because I was unaware that there were people in the world who did not think Civ was the most awesomest computer game ever, let alone people who did not think computer games were awesome to begin with. Fucking weirdos, right?

They made fun of me for awhile, called me a loser, reminded me that boys didn't like girls who liked computer games and never wore make up (they were basically right), and they tried to fix me. Then we watched Pretty Woman, a movie that made me nervous and uncomfortable because it was just about kissing and I didn't understand why she wanted to be with the asshole guy I didn't know why she didn't just get a real job and take care of herself, and they laughed since I obviously didn't understand love and the importance of beauty, so I hid in the bathroom and cried because I knew they were right, and I would never be as beautiful and sophisticated as the rest girls that had life figured out in sixth grade.

They never invited me over again. Told everyone at school that I was weird like a boy and that something was wrong with me because I didn't even like Pretty Woman. And so began the battle of Rassles v. The Pretty Girls, a battle that rages on to this day but only in my brain.

So I have another wedding to go to in a few weeks, and I the other day I decided that this time, for this wedding? I'm going to wear actual make up, not just mascara. Fo' reals. But I needed to practice my brushstroke. I'm initially goonish at anything that requires delicacy, but I've got pretty good muscle memory. I figured I could get this shit down after a few tries, easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Feeling revolutionary, I opened up my make up case. I decided that if this worked it would change my life. Perhaps, just maybe, I should wear actual make up like, all the time. I could look like a grown up instead of a child playing make-believe. I could wear make up to work, you know? Or to bars? Of course, my friends would point it out constantly; I must be prepared to hear, "Are you wearing make up?" at least once a day for six months or so. Still. The possibilities were endless, and kind of exciting. Not super endless because, well, I only have gray, brown, and three shades of green eyeshadow (St. Patrick's Day, 2004). But still. I have to substantiate my place as a feminine consumer before I hit thirty in January. After thirty you have to call yourself a woman and women wear fucking make up, so do it, even if you think it's stupid.

Half an hour later I'd completely forgotten trying to be pretty and painted on a very convincing Frankenstein Monster Face. With scars. I am so awesome at making myself look like the Frankenstein Monster. I should go Frankenstein Monster pro.

So now you know why I haven't finished the casino story.

...

* You know, I like Pretty Woman a lot, when I'm not going all propaganda-brain. (She is valued by everyone in power for her naive, radiant beauty and her ability to subserviently follow orders! She knows about cars which adds surprising depth to her gentle, yet radiant character! Controlling man purchases her love and affection with fancy things! Fancy things make women complacent and enthusiastic love slaves!) But I do think it's fun and ridiculous.

Solitaire

"No, don't eat anything," I say. "You don't need to. Anything. You are just refilling your water and that is it." I plunge myself towards the kitchen, swimming. "And getting ice. Be glad you don't live in a fucking swamp." Fill up my glass and open the freezer, quickly grabbing the top ice cube tray and spilling slushy, half frozen water all over myself. I sigh and look down.

"FUCK. That feels glorious. Leave the water on the floor. You don't give a fuck, no you don't. You know who gives a fuck? Doesn't matter. Not you. Get ice cubs," I crack a second, frozen tray, "and get the fuck out of here." I open the freezer again to put them back and my hand tickles a heavy sealed bag. "Unless you am eatin' them fucking ice cream diblets," I snatch the bag and slam the freezer door. "Them're acceptable. Spiritually and physically. In fact, might as well finish 'em. Ain't wrong with that. Your stomache's all grumblypantsy and you're a stupid bitch either way. Ice cream heals everything but heartache."

The bag won't open. "Fuckin sticky frozen horseshit," I say, and angrily gut it open with a carving knife and pop three of those little things in my mouth. "Okay. Don't do that shit again. And then tomorrow, you will ride your new bike. Clandestine bikes are no good, they must be ridden, you farthead. Even if it's hot. Yes, even if it's hot, because velocity craps wind. Seriously. If you don't there will be shmonsequences. Speaking of hot: do not dutch oven yourself tomorrow morning. That's for the winter." There aren't a lot of the ice cream dibs left in the bag. They're gone quickly. I stare at inside the empty bag and consider licking the chocolate lingering on the palm of my hand, and look around to make sure there are no hidden cameras in my kitchen. I stare at my hand and jam it under the sink faucet, convinced that someone in the world can see me. "Okay. Go back to the lazy boy. Don't forget your water. You will pass the Mystic Cave Zone on the first try, why? Because you are not a sally. You are...well, you're not sally."

I walk down my dark hallway, pausing at the closed door to the empty second bedroom. I have to work in seven hours. But first I have to beat Sonic 2, and before that I have important doorknobs to ponder.

I stare at the doorknob. "You are not a sally. You are stronger than Dr. Robotnik, you will free woodland creatures and collect the chaos emeralds, and you are not as lonely as you think you are."

I look away from the door and start walking back over to my lazyboy. "Also, while you're at it? Talk to yourself more. It's extremely sexy and all the rage in France."

...

I AM INCEPTING IDEAS INTO YOUR MINDS

So I've decided that I need something, anything, to distinguish my blog from others. Somehow. Basically, I need a header image.

And as bullshit as it sounds, I want you guys to help me. Please. I have zero confidence in aesthetics. Mostly because people are constantly telling me ridiculous shit like, "you like weird, ugly, gnarly things."

I disagree.

I like things that are bad ass.

What I really want is something no one else has. Because I have individuality issues.

Schmee had a brilliant idea at one point, that I should ask all of our friends to drunkenly draw on napkins at the bar, and use those for an image. The problem with that lies in actually getting people to do it before they're distracted by Jager bombs or something.

So I mocked up some header images to give you guys an idea about the kind of thing I'm looking for*. I am neither artiste nor digital genius. I only have MS paint and a crappy scanner to work with, here. You guys, I'm sure, have all sorts of niftly gadgets that make your lives easier and more arty.

Will you, will you, will you help me? Fuckers? Please? Draw something on a napkin and email to me or something. You're writers, you're creative, you can come up with ideas. Paint me a sonnet. You can do it, right?

Of course I am right. I am always right.

Do I want a sign like that, or like a forest of out-of-focus beer bottles? But I like movies better than beer (I can't believe I just admitted that) so yeah. What about like, a film reel? No, too overdone. I could get a tattoo with the blog title, take a picture of it, and use that as a header. I'm just trying to incept some ideas here, people. Work with me.

Speaking of inception...I am all up in that movie. Nolan and I aren't fighting anymore, which is a good thing, because I was really worried that we would have to break up, and he's so dreamy. Anyway, all is right with the world because his dreams are way different from my dreams, because I have like, Trojan horsebirds with doorknobs, and it's like this Russian doll of worlds - which is similar to Nolan, but different enough. Next up on things that I'm worried will ruin my book even though they came out in 2006? Special**.

* If you're familiar with Chicago...do you recognize the second one? Because it's modeled after the greatest sign in the city.

**Michael Rappaport seriously needs to be in more movies. If I ever get to pick all the actors I want in the movie that I'm writing in my brain, he'd be in it. Him, Joseph Gordon Levitt, Harvey Keitel, Jack Nicholson, Jeff Bridges, Elliot Gould (I am obsessed with Elliot Gould), Sam Rockwell, and Chris Pine. There. It's like a fucking dream. Can Jackson Publick act? I want him too. All I need is women***, but I don't want to think about that right now.

***Okay, I got my actresses in my fake movie that I haven't written: Sigourney Weaver, Summer Glau (in my head, Summer Glau is young Sigourney. Don't fight it.) Frances McDormand, Rosario Dawson, Claire Danes, Joan Allen, Freema Agyeman (bitch needs to get off British TV and into movies where more people can be in awe of her), Katee Sackhoff, and Emily Deschanel.

...

Now I want your dream cast. GO.

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bastards always do."

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

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

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

"And how do you get to do that?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How long's it been?"

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

"Hot damn."

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

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

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

"So you're on horseback?"

"Yes ma'am."

"That is awesome."

"I do enjoy it."

"So you got a horse for that?"

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

"What's his name?"

Terry finally meets my eyes. "Sunshine."

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

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

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

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

"Damn Yankees."

"Damn Yankees."

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

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

"But the Union always wins."

"On Sundays. Saturdays go to the Confederates."

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

"About, uh, twelve or so."

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

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

"So not that far."

"Not that far."

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

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

"There you go."

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

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

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

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

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

"You got a horse?"

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

...