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."
Showing posts with label ridic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ridic. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Monday, October 8, 2012
Deals
So last weekend, someone smashed into my car while it was parked on
the street. I found it Monday morning, the rear driver's side quarter
panel was fucked.
I've never been in an accident before (okay, technically one time some asshole rear-ended me on the highway when I was driving my parents' van), but a hazard of street parking is that my car is just covered with dings and dents. Someone ripped off one of my hubcaps like the Hulk. There's a massive pound in the side door, scratches all along the body, the bumpers look like a cat's scratching pole. I just leave them there. I kind of like them.
But this new one was going to need repair. I haven't been looking forward to it, going through the motions of taking it in for an estimate, they would probably just change the whole damn panel, whatever.
So this afternoon I'm shopping around for Halloween costume gear. An old red van pulls up behind me as I'm getting back to my car.
"Honey, you look like you need some body work done," the driver growls, smiling through dark brown teeth. "What would you say if I told you I could fix it up here, right now, and give you a good price?"
"I would say fuck off."
He laughs a deep, hacking belly laugh and turns to the guy riding shotgun. "She reminds me of my daughter Rassles." Now for the sake of story, he didn't say Rassles, he said my first name. But as I have yet to mention my first name on this blog I'm going to keep it that way. Most of you know it already. Whatever.
I turn and look at him. He's probably in his mid-sixties, a dirty looking bastard, and his friend isn't much better off.
"Listen," he says, "I'll give you a good price. Now if you were to take that car in your deductible would be what, $500?"
"$250," I answer.
"Okay, well, I'll do it here and now for $250. If you were a man I would say $400, but I know how you girls are." He chuckles. "I got five daughters and eleven grandchildren, believe me, so I know how you girls are, with your shoes and your make up."
Obviously this man doesn't know me.
"Tell you what, you can just watch us work, it'll take thirty minutes, and I promise it'll look 90% better."
Now, I don't really need it to look 90% better. I have no problem driving my dented car. It suits me. Drivers avoid me on the highway.
"You're thinkin' right now, right now you're thinkin' these dents give it character, ain't ye?" He laughs. "You're thinkin' that people get out of your way on the highway."
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking."
"I'll tell you, we'll make it look real nice. $250 asking price, that's a deal."
I pause. "You have all the stuff you need in your van?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Tell you what. If you teach me how to do it, I'll give you $200. And you teach me and let me do it myself. I've had enough strangers fuck up my car, so if anyone's going to make it worse, it'll be me."
He laughed again. "Damn if she don't remind me of Rassles! She look strong enough to you? Yeah, I think she can. Okay, you've got a deal. Now we can't really do it right here, so how about you follow us down over there by the street?"
"You got it." I hopped in my car and followed him to an empty area of the parking lot, just next to the busy street. Am I doing this? Am I going to fix my car in the parking lot of JoAnn Fabrics? Why the hell not.
He lumbers out of his van, and he's much shorter than I thought, a good 300 lbs. He wobbles over on bow legs, matting down the greased hair on his head, chewing on a Marlboro.
"You got a card or anything?" I ask.
"No I don't, but here." He gives me his cell phone number and then asks me to call him so I can watch him answer it. "Hello?"
"Hello!" I say.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"Rassles. What's yours?"
"Ha! Wouldn't you know? I'm John. Pleasure to meet you. You do sound just like my daughter." He tosses his cigarette and ends the call, then sticks out his hand, hard and yellow and covered in grime.
I shake it without hesitation. "Likewise."
"Okay, you ever done body work before?"
"No, sir."
"Well, ha! You're gonna learn." John smiles and I nearly wince at the sight of his jagged, stained teeth. They look almost like wood. Either way, he feels friendly.
We open the trunk, and he sees that I've already pulled the side felt of the trunk off. "You try to do this yourself already?"
"No, sir, but my fuel door is broken so I open it through the drunk."
"Smart girl. Been like that long?"
"A few years. One time I pulled into a gas station and a guy with the exact same Civic pulled next to me, and we simultaneously opened our trunks and popped the door from the inside. It was nice to know I wasn't alone."
He chuckles again and brings out a body hammer and a thick dirty towel. "You sure you want to do this?"
I nod and take the hammer, wrapping it in the towel.
"Okay, now you just roll it on in there. Slow. You want to roll the hammer from the outside toward the middle, not just hack at it."
I take a deep breath. I feel rad. I work at this for a minute or two.
"Okay, now come around over here. Now this here's a slide hammer. And what I need you to do is screw this right into the body and yank it out o' there."
"You want me to drill holes in my car?"
"Don't you trust me? You think we'd just put holes in? We're gonna fill 'em up, don't you worry."
He points to where I need to put the bit of the slide hammer, and sure enough I screw the damn thing into the side of my car and yank it out. He points to another spot and I do it again. Five holes later, and John thinks I'm the greatest person in the world. This is because I am the greatest person. In the world. We sand it down.
His friend, Hal, comes over with a tray of goo. "Bondo mud," Hal explains, "it's a fiberglass body filler. This is the body filler," he says, and then he squirts some blue shit onto there, mixing it up with a spreader, "and this is the hardener. I'd let you do this, but it's kinda messy."
"There's an art to Bondo," John says. "It takes practice. Now, your hand is gonna look different than my hand. And I say that I would probably do a better job of this--"
"I'm sure you would, but I want to learn." I take the tray and start spreading pale blue shit all over the holes, all over the dent, all over everything, while he and Hal ramble on.
"Now, you're gonna want to ask your boyfriend, providin' he's worth his salt, you're gonna wanna ask him to help you sand this down."
"No boyfriend," I say, crouched down on the ground, smoothing out the Bondo.
"Pretty, smart girl like you? It's a damn shame. All these fool boys runnin' around with girls can't help themselves out of a paper bag. You tell any man you have your eye on to give me a call, and I'll let him know what he's missing."
Hal tells me not to wash the car for at least a day, wax it down later. As if this car has ever gotten a wax. Ever. I'm excited and proud of my work, and I hear the rattle of a spray can, and turn to see John spray-painting the shit out of my car.
Kind of. Spray-painting with silver that nearly matches my car. Spray-painting only over the mud. Spray-painting lightly and only in that one area. He offers to do the bumper.
"Please don't. It's just gonna look more fucked up when it gets tapped again. And again. And again and again."
They laugh. I pull some cash out of the ATM and give to them.
"Thanks a lot guys."
"Thank you, Rassles. Now don't forget to call me with any questions on further touch ups. Free of charge."
"Oh, I will."
As they drive away, I look at my car. My parents are going to kill me. I'm 31 years old, and my parents are going to fucking kill me because I did this to a car that I paid for myself, and what happens when I sell it or trade it in or whatever....I know people are going to think I'm an idiot. I know that they'll think I got talked into a scam. I know that it looks...it looks like shit. It looks like some amateur asshole couldn't afford to get their car fixed properly.
And I don't give a fuck. I feel like a bad ass.
...
I've never been in an accident before (okay, technically one time some asshole rear-ended me on the highway when I was driving my parents' van), but a hazard of street parking is that my car is just covered with dings and dents. Someone ripped off one of my hubcaps like the Hulk. There's a massive pound in the side door, scratches all along the body, the bumpers look like a cat's scratching pole. I just leave them there. I kind of like them.
But this new one was going to need repair. I haven't been looking forward to it, going through the motions of taking it in for an estimate, they would probably just change the whole damn panel, whatever.
So this afternoon I'm shopping around for Halloween costume gear. An old red van pulls up behind me as I'm getting back to my car.
"Honey, you look like you need some body work done," the driver growls, smiling through dark brown teeth. "What would you say if I told you I could fix it up here, right now, and give you a good price?"
"I would say fuck off."
He laughs a deep, hacking belly laugh and turns to the guy riding shotgun. "She reminds me of my daughter Rassles." Now for the sake of story, he didn't say Rassles, he said my first name. But as I have yet to mention my first name on this blog I'm going to keep it that way. Most of you know it already. Whatever.
I turn and look at him. He's probably in his mid-sixties, a dirty looking bastard, and his friend isn't much better off.
"Listen," he says, "I'll give you a good price. Now if you were to take that car in your deductible would be what, $500?"
"$250," I answer.
"Okay, well, I'll do it here and now for $250. If you were a man I would say $400, but I know how you girls are." He chuckles. "I got five daughters and eleven grandchildren, believe me, so I know how you girls are, with your shoes and your make up."
Obviously this man doesn't know me.
"Tell you what, you can just watch us work, it'll take thirty minutes, and I promise it'll look 90% better."
Now, I don't really need it to look 90% better. I have no problem driving my dented car. It suits me. Drivers avoid me on the highway.
"You're thinkin' right now, right now you're thinkin' these dents give it character, ain't ye?" He laughs. "You're thinkin' that people get out of your way on the highway."
"Yes, that's exactly what I'm thinking."
"I'll tell you, we'll make it look real nice. $250 asking price, that's a deal."
I pause. "You have all the stuff you need in your van?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Tell you what. If you teach me how to do it, I'll give you $200. And you teach me and let me do it myself. I've had enough strangers fuck up my car, so if anyone's going to make it worse, it'll be me."
He laughed again. "Damn if she don't remind me of Rassles! She look strong enough to you? Yeah, I think she can. Okay, you've got a deal. Now we can't really do it right here, so how about you follow us down over there by the street?"
"You got it." I hopped in my car and followed him to an empty area of the parking lot, just next to the busy street. Am I doing this? Am I going to fix my car in the parking lot of JoAnn Fabrics? Why the hell not.
He lumbers out of his van, and he's much shorter than I thought, a good 300 lbs. He wobbles over on bow legs, matting down the greased hair on his head, chewing on a Marlboro.
"You got a card or anything?" I ask.
"No I don't, but here." He gives me his cell phone number and then asks me to call him so I can watch him answer it. "Hello?"
"Hello!" I say.
"What's your name, ma'am?"
"Rassles. What's yours?"
"Ha! Wouldn't you know? I'm John. Pleasure to meet you. You do sound just like my daughter." He tosses his cigarette and ends the call, then sticks out his hand, hard and yellow and covered in grime.
I shake it without hesitation. "Likewise."
"Okay, you ever done body work before?"
"No, sir."
"Well, ha! You're gonna learn." John smiles and I nearly wince at the sight of his jagged, stained teeth. They look almost like wood. Either way, he feels friendly.
We open the trunk, and he sees that I've already pulled the side felt of the trunk off. "You try to do this yourself already?"
"No, sir, but my fuel door is broken so I open it through the drunk."
"Smart girl. Been like that long?"
"A few years. One time I pulled into a gas station and a guy with the exact same Civic pulled next to me, and we simultaneously opened our trunks and popped the door from the inside. It was nice to know I wasn't alone."
He chuckles again and brings out a body hammer and a thick dirty towel. "You sure you want to do this?"
I nod and take the hammer, wrapping it in the towel.
"Okay, now you just roll it on in there. Slow. You want to roll the hammer from the outside toward the middle, not just hack at it."
I take a deep breath. I feel rad. I work at this for a minute or two.
"Okay, now come around over here. Now this here's a slide hammer. And what I need you to do is screw this right into the body and yank it out o' there."
"You want me to drill holes in my car?"
"Don't you trust me? You think we'd just put holes in? We're gonna fill 'em up, don't you worry."
He points to where I need to put the bit of the slide hammer, and sure enough I screw the damn thing into the side of my car and yank it out. He points to another spot and I do it again. Five holes later, and John thinks I'm the greatest person in the world. This is because I am the greatest person. In the world. We sand it down.
His friend, Hal, comes over with a tray of goo. "Bondo mud," Hal explains, "it's a fiberglass body filler. This is the body filler," he says, and then he squirts some blue shit onto there, mixing it up with a spreader, "and this is the hardener. I'd let you do this, but it's kinda messy."
"There's an art to Bondo," John says. "It takes practice. Now, your hand is gonna look different than my hand. And I say that I would probably do a better job of this--"
"I'm sure you would, but I want to learn." I take the tray and start spreading pale blue shit all over the holes, all over the dent, all over everything, while he and Hal ramble on.
"Now, you're gonna want to ask your boyfriend, providin' he's worth his salt, you're gonna wanna ask him to help you sand this down."
"No boyfriend," I say, crouched down on the ground, smoothing out the Bondo.
"Pretty, smart girl like you? It's a damn shame. All these fool boys runnin' around with girls can't help themselves out of a paper bag. You tell any man you have your eye on to give me a call, and I'll let him know what he's missing."
Hal tells me not to wash the car for at least a day, wax it down later. As if this car has ever gotten a wax. Ever. I'm excited and proud of my work, and I hear the rattle of a spray can, and turn to see John spray-painting the shit out of my car.
Kind of. Spray-painting with silver that nearly matches my car. Spray-painting only over the mud. Spray-painting lightly and only in that one area. He offers to do the bumper.
"Please don't. It's just gonna look more fucked up when it gets tapped again. And again. And again and again."
They laugh. I pull some cash out of the ATM and give to them.
"Thanks a lot guys."
"Thank you, Rassles. Now don't forget to call me with any questions on further touch ups. Free of charge."
"Oh, I will."
As they drive away, I look at my car. My parents are going to kill me. I'm 31 years old, and my parents are going to fucking kill me because I did this to a car that I paid for myself, and what happens when I sell it or trade it in or whatever....I know people are going to think I'm an idiot. I know that they'll think I got talked into a scam. I know that it looks...it looks like shit. It looks like some amateur asshole couldn't afford to get their car fixed properly.
And I don't give a fuck. I feel like a bad ass.
...
Friday, June 29, 2012
But you know. Sweden.
This is Part 8 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.
We go to Sweden, mostly because we can. We were in Denmark and now we're in Sweden, like going to fucking Indiana. Trains over there have designated baby areas because they are designed by geniuses. Katsisch, MoLinder and I avoid them neatly. Twenty minutes tops, and we're standing in cold, gray Malmo.
Unsure of our first move, we head to Starbucks to check in at 'Sweden.' It feels right, but MoLinder can't find a proper signal, and we leave to wander slowly down an empty street towards what we suspect is a castle or a fortress or something, stopping every so often to see if MoL can jump on the FB. She is fucking determined to check us in.
"It's fucking cold, hurry up," I tell her, annoyed.
"Chill the fuck out. It's not real if it's not on the FB. Besides, I thought you looooved the cold. Oh, I'm Rassles, and I loooooove the cold, I'm so much haaappier when it snows."
"Shut up. Smart phones are dumb." I look around. "Is that a...is that a house falling into the canal?"
"Hord orn...jursh...hord orn..." Katisch looks up from her phone, also trying to check in, holding her gloves in her teeth while she fidgets and shivers.
"That's awesome," MoLinder says, tapping away on her phone.
"Ish mor rike a shurd."
"A what?"
Katsisch yanks her gloves from her mouth. "A shed."
"Whatever, I'm gonna tell people it's a house." I take a picture. "Do you think it's like a warning?" We stand at an open intersection, and the wind whips around us. I put on my gloves. "I should have brought my hat."
"Well, you didn't." Katsisch is only wearing a zipped sweatshirt. Well, and pants and stuff, of course. She keeps sniffing. She is allergic to Scandinavia, and she's been leaking out of her face ever since we landed in Copenhagen, poor thing, and she can't find any allergy medicine because, well...she's afraid to ask the Scandinavians for help. She's not as leaky when we're indoors, but standing all exposed on this barren, windy street is probably not helping.
"Want a Kleenex?" I ask her.
"I'm fine, let's just start moving."
"Got it!" MoLinder calls, successfully checking us in on FB. "Now you guys can stop your bitching. Where are we going?"
I pull out the map from my pocket, because I have no problem being a blatant tourist. That's something I never understood. "The castle thing is in this park."
"Okay, you guys, let's just go, can we walk, please?" Katsisch sniffs pathetically and crams her gloved hands into her pockets. "This way?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"It is too cold for 'I think so.'"
"I'm sure."
"Fine." She hunkers down and walks into the park, heading between tall hedges that block the wind.
These gardens are probably gorgeous in the summertime, but right now everything is soggy, brown and gray. People would Instagram the ever-filtered fuck out of this place. Rugged little blue flowers litter the ground in front of a quaint stone windmill. Geese are honking and shitting all over things, and there is a fucking moat around the castle.
"I think the entrance is on the other side," I tell them. We walk briskly, because seriously it is cold as fuck. Duh. Sweden. No one is around.
"Is this place free?" MoLinder asks. "Are you sure we can go inside?"
"I'm sure. I think there's a museum or something in there."
"What kind of museum?"
"I don't know. Probably a history of the castle or something. It looks kinda cool from out here, though, don't you think?"
"Yeah, I'm down for whatever."
We walk to the front of the crumbly red castle and hear a blazing trumpet, freezing just in time to watch a giant white swan dive-bomb some geese that are lounging in the moat. It's terrifying. We all start laughing.
"What?" Katsisch giggles.
"Dude, swans are bitches," MoL smiles.
"God, I love it here." I and turn to the bridge across the moat. "Shall we?"
We cross the bridge - was it a drawbridge once? - and walk inside a courtyard. It starts raining. We bolt inside.
A giant stuffed giraffe welcomes us into the castle, and we glance around before heading over to the front desk to buy our tickets.
"Tak," I say to the guy after paying, and he smiles, handing me the tickets. We decide to head over up to the ramparts to soak in as much history as possible, and start the trek up the stairs. We turn, following signs for the history of the castle, and walk into a room full of tiny medieval figurines acting out clandestine activities. Everything is in Swedish, but we can glean mildly their meaning. A life-size scene shows a soldier shitting in a bucket and drunken monk baffing into a barrel. Sickness? The plague?
Turning, we face a collection of dioramas showing literally straw-haired figurines being raped by pirates, muscling the castle's bellows, rotating in jail cells on small metal spikes with tortured faces. A mirrored tower of clay pots tricks us into believing the collection is triple its actual size, crude murals of jesters and the castle guard decorate the walls next to shattered pieces of brick that you can touch, just so, even if you aren't supposed to. Of course I touch everything.
Random planks of beloved ships and gallows are nailed haphazardly all over walls, Swedish descriptions taped beneath them, typed onto yellowing paper years ago. We obviously don't understand a word of it.
We turn a corner and we're in a circular brick tower laced with arrowslits that have been plexiglassed up, revealing the rainy skies outside. Piles of cannonballs are scattered around every curve.
Portraits litter the walls. They're hundreds of years old, but without protective laser-trips and glass casing. We can just run our fingers over the oil paint, fondle the gold frames. In the middle of it all there's a lush black and white autographed photo of Spencer Tracy.
The next room is full of ancient furniture and grayed curtains, but again, we can touch everything. There are no signs forbidding running our rain-tinged fingers over the velvet, nothing preventing us from resting our asses on four hundred-year old dining chairs. We can just sit, feel, consume medieval tapestries and frayed leather globes. The Swedes don't give a fuck.
We stroll in a daze, constantly calling to each other: "Holy shit, look at this. Look at this. I'm just caressing the portrait of an ancient Swedish king, like nothing."
Eventually we encounter a weathered suit of armor pointing to our right, with a piece of paper masking taped to its chest: an arrow following its extended arm, indicating THAT WAY.
"That way" is a twisting, brilliantly red carpeted staircase encased with more funhouse mirrors. It seems out of place, but you know. Sweden. We climb it. At the top to the right are signs indicating downward again, down a deep wooden stairwell. To the left is a slippery brick hole blocked by plexiglass, a worn down shit chute leading outside the fortress. We go right. Painted cat-paw footprints trail down the steps, and in English it indicates: Children's Museum.
Giddy, we follow the footprints.
...
We go to Sweden, mostly because we can. We were in Denmark and now we're in Sweden, like going to fucking Indiana. Trains over there have designated baby areas because they are designed by geniuses. Katsisch, MoLinder and I avoid them neatly. Twenty minutes tops, and we're standing in cold, gray Malmo.
Unsure of our first move, we head to Starbucks to check in at 'Sweden.' It feels right, but MoLinder can't find a proper signal, and we leave to wander slowly down an empty street towards what we suspect is a castle or a fortress or something, stopping every so often to see if MoL can jump on the FB. She is fucking determined to check us in.
"It's fucking cold, hurry up," I tell her, annoyed.
"Chill the fuck out. It's not real if it's not on the FB. Besides, I thought you looooved the cold. Oh, I'm Rassles, and I loooooove the cold, I'm so much haaappier when it snows."
"Shut up. Smart phones are dumb." I look around. "Is that a...is that a house falling into the canal?"
"Hord orn...jursh...hord orn..." Katisch looks up from her phone, also trying to check in, holding her gloves in her teeth while she fidgets and shivers.
"That's awesome," MoLinder says, tapping away on her phone.
"Ish mor rike a shurd."
"A what?"
Katsisch yanks her gloves from her mouth. "A shed."
"Whatever, I'm gonna tell people it's a house." I take a picture. "Do you think it's like a warning?" We stand at an open intersection, and the wind whips around us. I put on my gloves. "I should have brought my hat."
"Well, you didn't." Katsisch is only wearing a zipped sweatshirt. Well, and pants and stuff, of course. She keeps sniffing. She is allergic to Scandinavia, and she's been leaking out of her face ever since we landed in Copenhagen, poor thing, and she can't find any allergy medicine because, well...she's afraid to ask the Scandinavians for help. She's not as leaky when we're indoors, but standing all exposed on this barren, windy street is probably not helping.
"Want a Kleenex?" I ask her.
"I'm fine, let's just start moving."
"Got it!" MoLinder calls, successfully checking us in on FB. "Now you guys can stop your bitching. Where are we going?"
I pull out the map from my pocket, because I have no problem being a blatant tourist. That's something I never understood. "The castle thing is in this park."
"Okay, you guys, let's just go, can we walk, please?" Katsisch sniffs pathetically and crams her gloved hands into her pockets. "This way?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"It is too cold for 'I think so.'"
"I'm sure."
"Fine." She hunkers down and walks into the park, heading between tall hedges that block the wind.
These gardens are probably gorgeous in the summertime, but right now everything is soggy, brown and gray. People would Instagram the ever-filtered fuck out of this place. Rugged little blue flowers litter the ground in front of a quaint stone windmill. Geese are honking and shitting all over things, and there is a fucking moat around the castle.
"I think the entrance is on the other side," I tell them. We walk briskly, because seriously it is cold as fuck. Duh. Sweden. No one is around.
"Is this place free?" MoLinder asks. "Are you sure we can go inside?"
"I'm sure. I think there's a museum or something in there."
"What kind of museum?"
"I don't know. Probably a history of the castle or something. It looks kinda cool from out here, though, don't you think?"
We walk to the front of the crumbly red castle and hear a blazing trumpet, freezing just in time to watch a giant white swan dive-bomb some geese that are lounging in the moat. It's terrifying. We all start laughing.
"What?" Katsisch giggles.
"Dude, swans are bitches," MoL smiles.
"God, I love it here." I and turn to the bridge across the moat. "Shall we?"
We cross the bridge - was it a drawbridge once? - and walk inside a courtyard. It starts raining. We bolt inside.
A giant stuffed giraffe welcomes us into the castle, and we glance around before heading over to the front desk to buy our tickets.
"Tak," I say to the guy after paying, and he smiles, handing me the tickets. We decide to head over up to the ramparts to soak in as much history as possible, and start the trek up the stairs. We turn, following signs for the history of the castle, and walk into a room full of tiny medieval figurines acting out clandestine activities. Everything is in Swedish, but we can glean mildly their meaning. A life-size scene shows a soldier shitting in a bucket and drunken monk baffing into a barrel. Sickness? The plague?
Turning, we face a collection of dioramas showing literally straw-haired figurines being raped by pirates, muscling the castle's bellows, rotating in jail cells on small metal spikes with tortured faces. A mirrored tower of clay pots tricks us into believing the collection is triple its actual size, crude murals of jesters and the castle guard decorate the walls next to shattered pieces of brick that you can touch, just so, even if you aren't supposed to. Of course I touch everything.Random planks of beloved ships and gallows are nailed haphazardly all over walls, Swedish descriptions taped beneath them, typed onto yellowing paper years ago. We obviously don't understand a word of it.
We turn a corner and we're in a circular brick tower laced with arrowslits that have been plexiglassed up, revealing the rainy skies outside. Piles of cannonballs are scattered around every curve.
Portraits litter the walls. They're hundreds of years old, but without protective laser-trips and glass casing. We can just run our fingers over the oil paint, fondle the gold frames. In the middle of it all there's a lush black and white autographed photo of Spencer Tracy.The next room is full of ancient furniture and grayed curtains, but again, we can touch everything. There are no signs forbidding running our rain-tinged fingers over the velvet, nothing preventing us from resting our asses on four hundred-year old dining chairs. We can just sit, feel, consume medieval tapestries and frayed leather globes. The Swedes don't give a fuck.
We stroll in a daze, constantly calling to each other: "Holy shit, look at this. Look at this. I'm just caressing the portrait of an ancient Swedish king, like nothing."
Eventually we encounter a weathered suit of armor pointing to our right, with a piece of paper masking taped to its chest: an arrow following its extended arm, indicating THAT WAY.
"That way" is a twisting, brilliantly red carpeted staircase encased with more funhouse mirrors. It seems out of place, but you know. Sweden. We climb it. At the top to the right are signs indicating downward again, down a deep wooden stairwell. To the left is a slippery brick hole blocked by plexiglass, a worn down shit chute leading outside the fortress. We go right. Painted cat-paw footprints trail down the steps, and in English it indicates: Children's Museum.
Giddy, we follow the footprints.
...
Monday, February 13, 2012
If Coyotes Lived In My Basement, They Would Probably Be Like This Guy
The guy that lives in my basement is a total crackhead. It's either that or he has a serious case of PTSD, which is entirely possible. He reminds me of a coyote. A talking coyote that is on a fuckload of cocaine. If I were to choose an animal to represent Crackhead Chris, in all of his haphazardly temperamental and beleaguering charisma, it would definitely be a very tall coyote on a fuckload of cocaine.
He moved to the building a couple months ago. His parents and Al the Landlord's parents are old BFFs from Ireland, and when Crackhead Chris got home from Iraq, Al gave him the open basement apartment as a family favor. I first met him at about 5am Thanksgiving morning, and we were wasted and throwing drawers (like wooden drawers, not skivvies) and looking for cash. That, however, will be another story. This is just the set up.
Crackhead Chris sells Gatorade and Halls Defense cough drops by the gajillion. There are boxes of that shit all over the basement. One time he knocked on my door, gave me a handful of cough drops from his coat pocket, kissed the air and disappeared down the stairs, rambling in a jiffy on his cell phone the whole time. I put them in a bowl and threw them away a week later because they made me nervous.
Sometimes he just comes over, chats for fifteen minutes at hypersonic speeds and abruptly leaves. Our conversations have no rhythm or logic to them, we both just talk, uninterrupted, at the exact same time. It makes sense to do things this way since his sentences never have any reasonable flow in the first place, and go something like, "Baby, you ever been to LA? I like clouds. Cumulus and shit. Do you have any tape? Like clear scotch tape? My balls itch, sorry, hold on. You know one time I dropped a box of Gatorade on my foot and it hurt like a bitch. Babe, your chandelier looks like a spider. Would you get mad if I shaved in your bathroom? Those are fucking Double Dare pants, that shit cray. Your clock is wrong, or is it me? I used to play the stock market but I had no idea what I was doing and I lost like six fucking grand I shit you fucking not. And it was like, oh, hey, have you ever had kwi-no-ah? I mean, keenwuh...quinoa... awe, heart, I could eat the fuck out of some andouille." And then he puts his hand on my boob and I tell him to go home.
It is starting to get very tiring.
...
He moved to the building a couple months ago. His parents and Al the Landlord's parents are old BFFs from Ireland, and when Crackhead Chris got home from Iraq, Al gave him the open basement apartment as a family favor. I first met him at about 5am Thanksgiving morning, and we were wasted and throwing drawers (like wooden drawers, not skivvies) and looking for cash. That, however, will be another story. This is just the set up.
Crackhead Chris sells Gatorade and Halls Defense cough drops by the gajillion. There are boxes of that shit all over the basement. One time he knocked on my door, gave me a handful of cough drops from his coat pocket, kissed the air and disappeared down the stairs, rambling in a jiffy on his cell phone the whole time. I put them in a bowl and threw them away a week later because they made me nervous.
Sometimes he just comes over, chats for fifteen minutes at hypersonic speeds and abruptly leaves. Our conversations have no rhythm or logic to them, we both just talk, uninterrupted, at the exact same time. It makes sense to do things this way since his sentences never have any reasonable flow in the first place, and go something like, "Baby, you ever been to LA? I like clouds. Cumulus and shit. Do you have any tape? Like clear scotch tape? My balls itch, sorry, hold on. You know one time I dropped a box of Gatorade on my foot and it hurt like a bitch. Babe, your chandelier looks like a spider. Would you get mad if I shaved in your bathroom? Those are fucking Double Dare pants, that shit cray. Your clock is wrong, or is it me? I used to play the stock market but I had no idea what I was doing and I lost like six fucking grand I shit you fucking not. And it was like, oh, hey, have you ever had kwi-no-ah? I mean, keenwuh...quinoa... awe, heart, I could eat the fuck out of some andouille." And then he puts his hand on my boob and I tell him to go home.
It is starting to get very tiring.
...
Friday, September 16, 2011
Glamorous Batman
I gave a sermon about The Little Prince and The Pink Panther and did an impromptu interpretive dance to a poem by A. A. Milne because the reader said, and I quote, "This is a poem by A. A. Milne, and while I'm reading Rossi will do an interpretive dance."
"Shit. I mean, shit. Sorry. Go ahead." And then I vogued with my flowing sleeves and the awkward grace of a dancing bear on a tricycle, and only gave the thumbs up once. But never in my sermon did I directly bring up how many men Xtine has slept with, which was hard to do because Paul stopped by before the wedding for a beer on my porch and left me with this: "just don't say anything about that time that she fucked those two gay dudes on my couch." Which is my couch now, by the way, and I silently blessed myself for washing the cushions.
She and Kevin had popcorn vendors roaming around while we sipped a meet-cute of champagne infused with cotton candy (invented by Adam Moby-Statham during a happy accident) and sang karoake. We went to a bar afterward where Adam and I teamed up against another co-ed team of attractive pool sharks (I was his wingman, because my dress had wingsleeves) who took their eight ball very seriously. My sleeves kept on getting in the damn way. Fucking pool.
I dislike playing pool at bars with people who insist that we follow professional rules. Recreational softball is nothing like the major leagues and touch football isn't nearly as convoluted as the NFL, but tall hipster males take their sharking very seriously. At one point I yelled, "Who the fuck are you, Minnesota Fats? This isn't a goddamn Paul Newman movie." And then he tried to get me to play again, which in retrospect was a good sign but me and Adam were through with trying to woo these people and besides all I could think about was how rugged and lumberjacky Kevin's little brother had grown in the past two years after fighting wildfires in California and I really wanted to touch his arm and talk to him about spaceships and conspiracy theories as a continuation of our last conversation in 2009 after we played Risk on his birthday. Which I won, by the way.
But alas, I have gained - ho-lee FUCK - 22 pounds in the last two years. That was the last time I stood on a scale. I've decided to blame my stolen bike and my friends who left me (I am looking at YOU, MoLinder and Gyna) for this weight gain, because even though I know the bulk of it is bite-size Butterfingers in groups of seven and 2am pizzas (which I blame on CrazyLiz), I refuse to accept responsibility. Something will have to be done, and I will have to find more obscure things to blame until I am either (a) satisfied or (b) amazing-looking.
Despite how awesomely I glowed in my dress, how I felt like glamorous Batman on a winning streak in Vegas, I was not mentally capable of starting that conversation and was afraid I would make some joke about how much both of us had grown in two years and come off sounding desperate, which technically I was. Alas.
Weeks and weeks ago, after hearing about the dress, the Smith Sister Savannah said to me, "Ross, for my wedding? I would never, ever, ever make you wear something like that," which was her kind way of saying "don't you fucking dare pull that neon circus-garb out again for my wedding."
Coincidentally, Savannah's wedding was the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, so after I woke up the next morning I had to get my ass in gear to officiate another wedding, which will, of course, be discussed in a later post, because I have run out of wine and it is time for bed.
...
EDIT: Aaaaaaand there's the dress. I don't have any pictures of me in it where you can really see it in all it's glory.
...
Monday, March 7, 2011
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."
...
"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."
...
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
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.
...
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.
...
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Casual as Castles
I don't want to pressure you to respond to comments, although more Rassles = more better, but I'd like your opinion on this. Someone said "if you're laughing at what you're writing, stop drinking." There seems to be a fundamental flaw there, but I can't put my finger on it.
- JMH, The Good Word of Sprout
You know, I would say that it's just plain wrong, because I am fucking hilarious and currently sober. But then I realize: ever since I stopped drinking as much as I useterr, everyone is so much less interesting, including myself, and I am easily the most interesting person I know.
For example, lately I've been nonstopgoogling pictures of Putin with various adorable animals. If anyone is a Real Life Magnificent Bastard, it's Vladimir Fucking Putin. I think it's the nose. He looks like Hitler Youth Julius Caesar, like he could be the fucking Emperor of Everything. I don't know if he's a hero or a villain, and I don't care. He leans like Jordan Catalano, casual as castles. He's carved from ice and homophobia and St. Bernard puppies, he burns like an Unextinguishable Thing That Brightly Burns. I am fascinated by pictures of the man, and I'm amused by my fascination even more than I am by Putin himself. My self-obsession is way meta-er than yours.
I think that someone who would declare something as ridiculous as that quote from JMH up there (who, obviously, is on my side here) doesn't really understand laughter and hilarity to begin with. Why would we listen to someone so ignorant? It's sweeping generalizations like that that kill society. Say something with assuredness and people will accept it as truth whether they understand it or not.
Most likely whoever said that is of the opinion that laughter is just discomfort at being confronted with the truth (people falling, feeling embarrassed, dirty jokes, close-calls) and they've ruled out the kind that comes from sheer joy of living. Someone reads too much Robert Heinlein.
But chances are it was said by a humorless cement-carving with weak, narrow shoulders and wide feet. Someone whose nose is far too small for their face, perhaps. People with too-small noses always need to be fucking taken care of. Victims have dainty little noses. I'm instinctively more watchful and protective of small-nosed people, because how can you properly take care of yourself when your nose is that small? How can you possibly make good decisions when you can't smell danger in the distance with your pert little sniffer? Haven't you ever desired a proud, handsome, substantial nose that suggests monarchial conviction? A nose that makes you seem, dare I say, a little more like Putin, a man whose nose is sweeping and elegant?
It's not that I distrust small noses or that I dislike people who have them, they just have poor interpretive skills and are bad at finding things. I just made a list of all of my friends with noses too small for their faces, and they're an adorable batch of noses growing on lovely people, but I'm totally right: they require way more emotional energy than everyone else. They need more reassurance, they're more easily offended, they enjoy being coddled and served.
I should write a book about this, about judging people's noses. And people will believe me because my nose is odd and prominent and because I say things confidently.
Either way: yeah, JMH. That person whoever said that shit was so wrong, and I'm sorry this post had nothing to do with it.
...
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
A Sunday at the Empress, Tres, Notion
Oh, this is going to be a multi-parter. I started writing it, you know, and thought, 'there ain't no way people will pay attention to one giant post like that. You should create suspense. The kind of suspense that lasts months, like Paranormal Activity but with gambling and a realistic storyline.
Part the First
Part Deux, Harlot
Security escorts Yell back into a stark hallway and I am pissed. Don't you take my sister, you sonsabitches. She is the bravest, smartest person in the world. She's going to be President some day, I fucking swear it. We're going to be like the Emanuel family: Yell's gonna be President after revolutionizing public policy, I'm going to be a super savvy author that writes brilliant, mind-blowing bullshit prose, in like iambic pentameter and stuff, and Katsisch is going to be angry and jealous about it. We're going to give TED speeches and go on Letterman just like all the other white liberals who fantasize about changing the world, I mean, there's a goddamn fantasy all planned out and the security guard at the Empress is fucking it all up because she's a stupid bitch with stupid hair who waddles like ET. Ho-lee fuck, what if she's an alien, and they recognized Yell as the strongest example of our species in the room with their brain scanners and this isn't a casino at all, what better way to disguise your fucking space ship with it's blinky twirly lights and oddly shaped exterior than by pretending it's a casino? Fuck, they're going to probe the bejeezus out of her.
But then, it's Yell. She'll escape through a complicated series of slight-of-hand shit, and like disable all the cameras with her withering gaze and forceful self-righteous speeches, and they'll take her to their leader and she'll just smart-ass her way into their hearts and minds, and then she'll be the new alien leader and they'll end pollution by altering the basic make-up of their advanced weaponry.
"I am thinking some heavy shit right now, guys."
We wait. We wait for a good twenty minutes. Shit. We're late for dinner. I make the call.
"Mom?"
"Hi hon, you guys on your way back?"
"Um. We've been delayed."
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. Yell's been detained. They've got her in like a holding cell or something and they won't tell me what's going on. I might break something."
"You're kidding me."
"Never."
"Oh my god. She is going rip into them."
"I know, right?" Pause. "You think they think she's underage or something?"
"I have no idea, but I know that--hold on."
I wait. "I asked if they thought she was cheating--"
"Yell would never cheat."
"I know that, but--"
"Hold on." She starts jabbering with family in the background. I hear my dad laughing hysterically and saying something like, 'they took Yell? HAHAHAHA. She's going to get herself arrested for verbal assault. I am woman, hear me roar, right?'
"Okay. Uncle Dave and I are coming back there."
I tried to imagine slim, soft-spoken Uncle Dave standing up to casino thugs. "Is that really necessary?"
"He'll know what questions to ask, it's his job."
"How about he just tells me the questions to ask?"
"Honey, no. We're coming. Call us if something happens."
"Lame."
"It's our decision. Wait - Katsisch says you called to gloat - sorry - rebelliously gloat over being victimized by the man," she laughs.
"Tell her to sit on it. And make the Fonzie sound."
"Goodbye, honey."
"Peace out, Mums." I turn off my phone and turn to the entourage. "Yeah, the grown-ups are coming."
"Fuck, I'm gonna go have a cigarette." David storms off.
We slink down to the floor of the casino, guarding the doors all stern and depressed. My dad calls back. Twice. Basically, he just wanted to remind me that Yell is probably back there defending her rights and being brilliant and strong, and that if it were me I would be cracking jokes like I "do on Facebook" because "everyone thinks" I'm "goddamn hilarious." Duh.
"Oh sure, Dad, nice. They take Yell and we're all, poor Yell! She'll give them a piece of her mind! They take me and it's funny."
"If they took you, you probably deserved it. We'd just leave you there."
...
Part the First
Part Deux, Harlot
Security escorts Yell back into a stark hallway and I am pissed. Don't you take my sister, you sonsabitches. She is the bravest, smartest person in the world. She's going to be President some day, I fucking swear it. We're going to be like the Emanuel family: Yell's gonna be President after revolutionizing public policy, I'm going to be a super savvy author that writes brilliant, mind-blowing bullshit prose, in like iambic pentameter and stuff, and Katsisch is going to be angry and jealous about it. We're going to give TED speeches and go on Letterman just like all the other white liberals who fantasize about changing the world, I mean, there's a goddamn fantasy all planned out and the security guard at the Empress is fucking it all up because she's a stupid bitch with stupid hair who waddles like ET. Ho-lee fuck, what if she's an alien, and they recognized Yell as the strongest example of our species in the room with their brain scanners and this isn't a casino at all, what better way to disguise your fucking space ship with it's blinky twirly lights and oddly shaped exterior than by pretending it's a casino? Fuck, they're going to probe the bejeezus out of her.
But then, it's Yell. She'll escape through a complicated series of slight-of-hand shit, and like disable all the cameras with her withering gaze and forceful self-righteous speeches, and they'll take her to their leader and she'll just smart-ass her way into their hearts and minds, and then she'll be the new alien leader and they'll end pollution by altering the basic make-up of their advanced weaponry.
"I am thinking some heavy shit right now, guys."
We wait. We wait for a good twenty minutes. Shit. We're late for dinner. I make the call.
"Mom?"
"Hi hon, you guys on your way back?"
"Um. We've been delayed."
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah, everything's fine. Yell's been detained. They've got her in like a holding cell or something and they won't tell me what's going on. I might break something."
"You're kidding me."
"Never."
"Oh my god. She is going rip into them."
"I know, right?" Pause. "You think they think she's underage or something?"
"I have no idea, but I know that--hold on."
I wait. "I asked if they thought she was cheating--"
"Yell would never cheat."
"I know that, but--"
"Hold on." She starts jabbering with family in the background. I hear my dad laughing hysterically and saying something like, 'they took Yell? HAHAHAHA. She's going to get herself arrested for verbal assault. I am woman, hear me roar, right?'
"Okay. Uncle Dave and I are coming back there."
I tried to imagine slim, soft-spoken Uncle Dave standing up to casino thugs. "Is that really necessary?"
"He'll know what questions to ask, it's his job."
"How about he just tells me the questions to ask?"
"Honey, no. We're coming. Call us if something happens."
"Lame."
"It's our decision. Wait - Katsisch says you called to gloat - sorry - rebelliously gloat over being victimized by the man," she laughs.
"Tell her to sit on it. And make the Fonzie sound."
"Goodbye, honey."
"Peace out, Mums." I turn off my phone and turn to the entourage. "Yeah, the grown-ups are coming."
"Fuck, I'm gonna go have a cigarette." David storms off.
We slink down to the floor of the casino, guarding the doors all stern and depressed. My dad calls back. Twice. Basically, he just wanted to remind me that Yell is probably back there defending her rights and being brilliant and strong, and that if it were me I would be cracking jokes like I "do on Facebook" because "everyone thinks" I'm "goddamn hilarious." Duh.
"Oh sure, Dad, nice. They take Yell and we're all, poor Yell! She'll give them a piece of her mind! They take me and it's funny."
"If they took you, you probably deserved it. We'd just leave you there."
...
Monday, September 27, 2010
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.
...
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.
...
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Like A Dream I'm Flowin' Without No Stoppin'
Yesterday morning I woke up with the Mighty Mighty fucking Bosstones in my head, which is obnoxious because I have never, ever, ever in my life enjoyed their music because it all sounds like blaring Kraft singles and growly, chain-smoking hamsters. That's the impression that I get.
But for thirty five seconds I had this lyrical couplet skittering through my brain--I'm not a coward, I've just never been tested, I'd like to think that if I was I would pass--and for thirty-five seconds I found them lyrical geniuses. Genii. Every single time I think of the plural of geniuses, I wish it were genii. Is this the appropriate spelling? Confer and report.
Then I showered singing Tom Jones (because you gotta sing Tom Jones in the shower, people. I been really feelin' Tom Jones, lately, because his voice is as bright and bombastic as the fucking sun). Went through my usual morning routine of creaking across the hallway in my towel seven hundred times to retrieve forgotten bathroom items, got dressed, made my hair look a little bit pretty, missed the bus, drove halfway to work, missed another bus, sweated through the hot wind, pulled my hair up because it didn't look pretty no more, got on the next bus, became absorbed in my book, missed my bus stop, walked two blocks back to work, entered the office half an hour late and all the morning sweat froze directly to my trembling body because it is fucking freezing in my office.
Someday I will live in a world where this every morning scenario will result in a meet-cute between me and my future not-husband (marriage is a gimmicky trick), who will hopefully have the rich, virile purl of either (a) Tom Jones or (b) MCA.
So was sitting at my desk, imagining myself traipsing around the heat-sensitive Predator-vision forest with lumberjack gangsta MCA (this is a go-to personal fantasy - if you try to knock me you'll get mocked), when it started storming outside and everyone in the office freaked out.
My phone rang. I answered. "So what'cha want?"
Co-worker Amy hyperventilated into her end of the reciever, "It is like thunder and lightning out there."
"Whoa. Superscary."
"It is. You need to come back here and see this."
"Gimme a few."
"Okay." She hangs up.
Phone rings again.
"Dude, are you looking out the window right now?" Co-worker Natalie rushed out before I can even come up with a interesting greeting.
"What window? I have no window."
"It is like thunder and lightning."
"Thunder and lightning, huh?"
"Yeah, it's like Thunder! Lightning!"
"The way you love me is frightening. Shit, what song is that?"
"What song?"
"You know. It's like thunder (thundah!) lightning (lightning!)...the way you love me is frightening!"
"I have no idea."
"Yes you do. Like a million people sing it. Goddammit."
"Whatever, just come look out the window."
"Fine." We hang up. The phone rings again, and I just pick it up and sing, "It's like thunder (boom!) lightning (crash!)."
"How'd you know from all the way over there?" my boss asked, laughing.
"This storm is all the rage."
"Yes it is. I need you in here in five seconds, JJO's got a question about the Floyds' Patron gift."
"Yessir." I hung up the phone and booked over to the corner office, watching the dark wind through the windows on the way, trying to remember that fucking song on the way, recalling details about the Floyds on the way.
Action Man has JJO on speaker, who's saying, "We need to get the Advisory Board to approve of that funding, knock on wood."
AND THEN I FREAKED THE HELL OUT.
...
Explanatory Links:
"The Impression That I Get" by Mighty Mighty Bosstones (check out the microphone that guy is rockin - it looks like he's singing into a giant fucking Smith & Wesson)
"Knock on Wood" by Eddie Floyd
...
LATER EDIT: Just so you know, we have thunder and lightning. We have it in spades. But this was thunder and lightning with limited rain and a cloudless, yellow sky and 40 mph winds - where lightning spidered across the sky - the entire sky - and thunder lasted for twenty seconds at a time. This was some near tornado weather shit.
...
But for thirty five seconds I had this lyrical couplet skittering through my brain--I'm not a coward, I've just never been tested, I'd like to think that if I was I would pass--and for thirty-five seconds I found them lyrical geniuses. Genii. Every single time I think of the plural of geniuses, I wish it were genii. Is this the appropriate spelling? Confer and report.
Then I showered singing Tom Jones (because you gotta sing Tom Jones in the shower, people. I been really feelin' Tom Jones, lately, because his voice is as bright and bombastic as the fucking sun). Went through my usual morning routine of creaking across the hallway in my towel seven hundred times to retrieve forgotten bathroom items, got dressed, made my hair look a little bit pretty, missed the bus, drove halfway to work, missed another bus, sweated through the hot wind, pulled my hair up because it didn't look pretty no more, got on the next bus, became absorbed in my book, missed my bus stop, walked two blocks back to work, entered the office half an hour late and all the morning sweat froze directly to my trembling body because it is fucking freezing in my office.
Someday I will live in a world where this every morning scenario will result in a meet-cute between me and my future not-husband (marriage is a gimmicky trick), who will hopefully have the rich, virile purl of either (a) Tom Jones or (b) MCA.
So was sitting at my desk, imagining myself traipsing around the heat-sensitive Predator-vision forest with lumberjack gangsta MCA (this is a go-to personal fantasy - if you try to knock me you'll get mocked), when it started storming outside and everyone in the office freaked out.
My phone rang. I answered. "So what'cha want?"
Co-worker Amy hyperventilated into her end of the reciever, "It is like thunder and lightning out there."
"Whoa. Superscary."
"It is. You need to come back here and see this."
"Gimme a few."
"Okay." She hangs up.
Phone rings again.
"Dude, are you looking out the window right now?" Co-worker Natalie rushed out before I can even come up with a interesting greeting.
"What window? I have no window."
"It is like thunder and lightning."
"Thunder and lightning, huh?"
"Yeah, it's like Thunder! Lightning!"
"The way you love me is frightening. Shit, what song is that?"
"What song?"
"You know. It's like thunder (thundah!) lightning (lightning!)...the way you love me is frightening!"
"I have no idea."
"Yes you do. Like a million people sing it. Goddammit."
"Whatever, just come look out the window."
"Fine." We hang up. The phone rings again, and I just pick it up and sing, "It's like thunder (boom!) lightning (crash!)."
"How'd you know from all the way over there?" my boss asked, laughing.
"This storm is all the rage."
"Yes it is. I need you in here in five seconds, JJO's got a question about the Floyds' Patron gift."
"Yessir." I hung up the phone and booked over to the corner office, watching the dark wind through the windows on the way, trying to remember that fucking song on the way, recalling details about the Floyds on the way.
Action Man has JJO on speaker, who's saying, "We need to get the Advisory Board to approve of that funding, knock on wood."
AND THEN I FREAKED THE HELL OUT.
...
Explanatory Links:
"The Impression That I Get" by Mighty Mighty Bosstones (check out the microphone that guy is rockin - it looks like he's singing into a giant fucking Smith & Wesson)
"Knock on Wood" by Eddie Floyd
...
LATER EDIT: Just so you know, we have thunder and lightning. We have it in spades. But this was thunder and lightning with limited rain and a cloudless, yellow sky and 40 mph winds - where lightning spidered across the sky - the entire sky - and thunder lasted for twenty seconds at a time. This was some near tornado weather shit.
...
Monday, March 29, 2010
I Refuse to be a Weenus*
I am completely losing my tolerance.It's like whenever I go out I need to adjust my whole game plan, because right now? It takes four beers.
Not only that, but bars are full of unreliable liars (me), because I was trying to figure out how I got so fucking wasted on Friday night, and I decided based upon how much money I had in my pocket/wallet that I had "LIKE FIVE FUCKING BEERS," and I was one off.
And Gyna told me that according to the beer list at the bar, Dragon's Milk was like 8% alcohol, or at least "less than 9," and Kevin said it was "like 10" and I just made up numbers for fun.
Of course, I am obsessing over this. I mean, I need to know, otherwise I'm worthless. Because four beers (I had four, not five) at 8%? That's like eight Coors Lites or six PBRs. What am I, some sort of fucking weenus?
And so, with my shriveled, dehydrated pride, I am figuring this crap out. That's how it works. There is naught quite so demeaning as gratuitous weenusness. More importantly, I am proving that I am not a weenus by researching the shit out of this. Because a true weenus would just take it, they would just be all, "Oh well, I guess I'm a weenus," internal monologue over, but not I! Someone of my caliber must dissect and immerse and obsess, because that is behavior worthy of a nonweenus, albeit a neurotic, high-strung non-weenus, and I refused to be labed otherwise (meaning I want to be labeled a nonweenus. You people need to pay attention, and by "you people" I mean "you weenuses").
See, that's how you do it. You feel like a weenus, so you just make everyone else feel more weenusy to negate your own personal weenussery. My logic is flawless.
On with the investigation.
Brewery website: 10% ABV
Beeradvocate: 8.5% ABV (weenus)
Old School Bottle (pictured above): 10% ABV
New School Bottle (not pictured): none listed. Does this imply that it's non-alcoholic? (WEENUS)
Beer List at the Map Room: ("something less than 9%")
Me: "LIKE 9.5% BITCHES"
I don't know who to believe. This is causing me serious mental trauma.
Now I have another dilemma: no matter what, my tolerance is going down. Time to slow myself, paced-like. As much as I love being drunk, I seriously loathe being wasted.
...
*I would like to add, as a little aside, that I debated exactly how I wanted to spell "weenus" for a good half hour. This was the funnest.
...
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Worst. Scrimmage. Ever.
Is it too hard to ask that you just keep up with me? (Not you guys, that guy. From upstairs.) Because if you can't follow my line of conversation, if I have to keep on handing you spoken footnotes every time I reference something, if you just stand there like a dumb bastard...
When I'm on, when I'm talking? This shit's real. We're the leads in a Robert Altman flick, and I'm playing five characters. You cannot trip, you cannot hesitate, you cannot rewind unless it's part of the joke. It doesn't need to make sense, you asshole, this is about meandering and leaps and propulsion - do you trust me? Because if you do this right, if you know who's on first? There could be magic.
Dude, I have been trying very hard to have a crush on you, but this is just not working for me. You aren't funny or smart or even a little bit cute. I can't do this anymore.
We're breaking up.
Fuck you, I know we weren't dating in the first place, but this whole chance routine? The one where you bring our mail that gets accidentally delivered to your office and then you loiter awkwardly in front of my desk? Not working.
If you had the fucking sack to play along - I just - I mean - is that so fucking hard? People, all of you, serious question: is it so hard to find a proper verbal sparring partner?
Obviously you're paying attention to me, and that's flattering and all, but the fact is you're a squirrel. You aren't shiny and you can't fly, and I kind of hate that you're what I have to work with. You're like an afternoon snack of salt-less crackers and things that are just not delicious and how is this fair when that bitch over there got interesting snacks, like girl scout cookies and bacon and cigarettes.
Gaahhhh.
This is very aggravating.
Okay, I'm asking your name today, and if you fucking stutter?
"It's ah uh sorry I'm uh uh Jim hey."
Go home.
...
When I'm on, when I'm talking? This shit's real. We're the leads in a Robert Altman flick, and I'm playing five characters. You cannot trip, you cannot hesitate, you cannot rewind unless it's part of the joke. It doesn't need to make sense, you asshole, this is about meandering and leaps and propulsion - do you trust me? Because if you do this right, if you know who's on first? There could be magic.
Dude, I have been trying very hard to have a crush on you, but this is just not working for me. You aren't funny or smart or even a little bit cute. I can't do this anymore.
We're breaking up.
Fuck you, I know we weren't dating in the first place, but this whole chance routine? The one where you bring our mail that gets accidentally delivered to your office and then you loiter awkwardly in front of my desk? Not working.
If you had the fucking sack to play along - I just - I mean - is that so fucking hard? People, all of you, serious question: is it so hard to find a proper verbal sparring partner?
Obviously you're paying attention to me, and that's flattering and all, but the fact is you're a squirrel. You aren't shiny and you can't fly, and I kind of hate that you're what I have to work with. You're like an afternoon snack of salt-less crackers and things that are just not delicious and how is this fair when that bitch over there got interesting snacks, like girl scout cookies and bacon and cigarettes.
Gaahhhh.
This is very aggravating.
Okay, I'm asking your name today, and if you fucking stutter?
"It's ah uh sorry I'm uh uh Jim hey."
Go home.
...
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Mimickry and Intelligence Are Two Different Things
Let's get one thing out of the way right now: I get more annoyed by the fucking Olympics every time they start up again.
Shut up. Don't argue. For a whole month no one has any opinions about anything, they just regurgitate what they read online about the Olympics.
Now this is important, because even outside of Olympic eventing, very few people have their own opinions at all. Most of them just repeat bullshit they read in an article online, and when I ask some derivative of, "So how do you feel about that article? What does it mean?" my conversational nemesis will be all, "fucking right on" because they have no substantive deductive reasoning skills and are most likely an African Grey Parrot.
And I'm accused of "looking into it too much," but all I can think is, you aren't looking into it enough.
Here is the thing: you want to talk about the Olympics? Fine. I will pay attention if you give me an original assessment other than a variation of "that was cool" or "that was not cool."
Otherwise, every single fucking person tries to have the exact same fucking Olympic conversation with me, one they heard someone else talking about on the fucking news, and I just say, "Yeah, I heard that same exact thing." Hopefully that response will rightfully give them impression that don't I care about their mimicry skills. Skills as a mimicist. Mimicksist? Mimicker?
But no, they will keep talking. Suddenly everybody in the world is a fucking luge expert after reading some article where Shaun White says, "the luge is totally dangerous, bro " and then they wikipedi for two hours until a rabbit trail leads them to the entry on parity transformation, and then they overload and update their Facebook with “Just spent two hours on Wikipedia. FML.” And then all these grammatical geniuses respond with “ur to funny!”
Fascinating, I know. I'm a snob.
Sure, Olympians deserve some recognition. They work hard and make their bodies do crazy endurance business. They are fearless, which is incredible. But there's no rush watching people get a rush. It's just frustrating reminder that I have never been bobsledding. Which must happen someday.
Actually, if the Olympics were full of people like me, you wouldn't be able to tear me away from the television. Because believe you me, my grace is peerless. Like strapping skiis on a triceratops.
...
Shut up. Don't argue. For a whole month no one has any opinions about anything, they just regurgitate what they read online about the Olympics.
Now this is important, because even outside of Olympic eventing, very few people have their own opinions at all. Most of them just repeat bullshit they read in an article online, and when I ask some derivative of, "So how do you feel about that article? What does it mean?" my conversational nemesis will be all, "fucking right on" because they have no substantive deductive reasoning skills and are most likely an African Grey Parrot.
And I'm accused of "looking into it too much," but all I can think is, you aren't looking into it enough.
Here is the thing: you want to talk about the Olympics? Fine. I will pay attention if you give me an original assessment other than a variation of "that was cool" or "that was not cool."
Otherwise, every single fucking person tries to have the exact same fucking Olympic conversation with me, one they heard someone else talking about on the fucking news, and I just say, "Yeah, I heard that same exact thing." Hopefully that response will rightfully give them impression that don't I care about their mimicry skills. Skills as a mimicist. Mimicksist? Mimicker?
But no, they will keep talking. Suddenly everybody in the world is a fucking luge expert after reading some article where Shaun White says, "the luge is totally dangerous, bro " and then they wikipedi for two hours until a rabbit trail leads them to the entry on parity transformation, and then they overload and update their Facebook with “Just spent two hours on Wikipedia. FML.” And then all these grammatical geniuses respond with “ur to funny!”
Fascinating, I know. I'm a snob.
Sure, Olympians deserve some recognition. They work hard and make their bodies do crazy endurance business. They are fearless, which is incredible. But there's no rush watching people get a rush. It's just frustrating reminder that I have never been bobsledding. Which must happen someday.
Actually, if the Olympics were full of people like me, you wouldn't be able to tear me away from the television. Because believe you me, my grace is peerless. Like strapping skiis on a triceratops.
...
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Guess what song has been playing in my head all day.
From now on, I think, I'm going to imagine I have my own a capella background singers. Like my own Pips lurking off to the side, just out of the corner of my eye, echoing every declaration I make with smooth harmonies (Woo-hoo smoo-hooth).
And then whenever I say something particularly hilarious (funny) they'll do a little grapevine sidestep punctuated by knee lifts and locomotion arm circles - that would be the shit (I know it would)
Inevitably people would get annoyed with that, because I am frequently hilarious (funny all the time)
I don't even know if the Pips could keep up with my lightning-quick quips (quips).
My Pips (pips) will have crazy good muscle control and talk like the Micro Machines guy (if it don't say Micro Machines) just to keep up (then, oh then, it's not the real thing).
They should probably be able to hold their breath for over a minute just in case I'm on a roll.
Like astronauts (space)
and spelunkers (caves)
and magicians' assistants (oh yeah - fucking magic!)
And then they could offer me advice in barbershop harmonies when I'm deep in thought, leaning on iron-wrought vine railings (railings) which happens far less often than I ever thought it would. I used to think that iron railings were like everywhere, what with all those people leaning on them and singing at the moon or something (dreams don't always come true, uh uh. No. Uh uh).
After all, it's impossible to think very deeply without leaning (leaning).
And my Pips agree. Don't you, boys?
(You know we do)
...
And then whenever I say something particularly hilarious (funny) they'll do a little grapevine sidestep punctuated by knee lifts and locomotion arm circles - that would be the shit (I know it would)
Inevitably people would get annoyed with that, because I am frequently hilarious (funny all the time)
I don't even know if the Pips could keep up with my lightning-quick quips (quips).
My Pips (pips) will have crazy good muscle control and talk like the Micro Machines guy (if it don't say Micro Machines) just to keep up (then, oh then, it's not the real thing).
They should probably be able to hold their breath for over a minute just in case I'm on a roll.
Like astronauts (space)
and spelunkers (caves)
and magicians' assistants (oh yeah - fucking magic!)
And then they could offer me advice in barbershop harmonies when I'm deep in thought, leaning on iron-wrought vine railings (railings) which happens far less often than I ever thought it would. I used to think that iron railings were like everywhere, what with all those people leaning on them and singing at the moon or something (dreams don't always come true, uh uh. No. Uh uh).
After all, it's impossible to think very deeply without leaning (leaning).
And my Pips agree. Don't you, boys?
(You know we do)
...
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Spring Cleaning
I love it when it's warm enough to sit on the porch in boxers but cool enough to drink hot coffee without shaking your fist at the sun. That's good weather: hot drinks and chill breeze and sunshine and techniclor trees.
That's a fucking poem, right there, and sometimes I can live inside one.
This weekend I was supposed to go to the dentist. This is way more satisfying than it sounds, because Dr. Good (actual name) is one of my best friends from college, and he's the local dentist in a small farm town out in rural Illinois with his wife, the town librarian. Bunch of land, old rickety farmhouse, "town" is miles away. A trip to the dentist means a five hour drive, country roads, green fields, and sitting around a fire getting drunk and talking about comic books. With very clean teeth and a librarian. Cutest. Shit. Ever.
But, there's thunderstorms and tornadoes wandering around out there, and the Goods' basement flooded and their hot water went out, and Dr. Good had to cancel. The tribulations of living in a rickety farmhouse are disastrous, because it means you don't get to hang out with me. So, my teeth will be cleaned when I have another free weekend to drive five hours to the middle of nowhere.
Instead, we cleaned the apartment, and I made MoLinder dangle our sweet shag rug over our balcony while I beat it with an old golf club. We've decided to get plants, which I will probably kill. Or the wind will get all pissy, and instead of potted porch plants we'd have shattered terracotta scattered on the sidewalk.
It can only end badly. But I ain't so afraid of losing something that I'm not gonna have it. That's a quote from somewhere, but I forget the source. And it's kind of untrue, because really, I'm afraid to own lots of things, like metal shelves and mistakes. But I want neither of those, they're just inevitable, while gardening is an easily escapable fate however desirable, sooooo...nevermind.
Then I got it in my head that it was time to clean out our storage space in the building, which I've never used, but I need the space. My old roommate lived here for about seven years, and when she moved she just left everything in there. So I bought a shiny pair of bolt cutters, having no key for the padlock, and busted that shit open. It was very B & E.
There was a whole bunch of shit that needed to be tossed. Old couch cushions, dirty bedsheets, a useless TV, a sweet, un-salvageable wooden card table with clawed feet and seriously bad finishing. Broken house phone.
A thick, worn, black leather and metal S&M jockstrap with matching fistcuffs.
You know. The usual.
...
That's a fucking poem, right there, and sometimes I can live inside one.
This weekend I was supposed to go to the dentist. This is way more satisfying than it sounds, because Dr. Good (actual name) is one of my best friends from college, and he's the local dentist in a small farm town out in rural Illinois with his wife, the town librarian. Bunch of land, old rickety farmhouse, "town" is miles away. A trip to the dentist means a five hour drive, country roads, green fields, and sitting around a fire getting drunk and talking about comic books. With very clean teeth and a librarian. Cutest. Shit. Ever.
But, there's thunderstorms and tornadoes wandering around out there, and the Goods' basement flooded and their hot water went out, and Dr. Good had to cancel. The tribulations of living in a rickety farmhouse are disastrous, because it means you don't get to hang out with me. So, my teeth will be cleaned when I have another free weekend to drive five hours to the middle of nowhere.
Instead, we cleaned the apartment, and I made MoLinder dangle our sweet shag rug over our balcony while I beat it with an old golf club. We've decided to get plants, which I will probably kill. Or the wind will get all pissy, and instead of potted porch plants we'd have shattered terracotta scattered on the sidewalk.
It can only end badly. But I ain't so afraid of losing something that I'm not gonna have it. That's a quote from somewhere, but I forget the source. And it's kind of untrue, because really, I'm afraid to own lots of things, like metal shelves and mistakes. But I want neither of those, they're just inevitable, while gardening is an easily escapable fate however desirable, sooooo...nevermind.
Then I got it in my head that it was time to clean out our storage space in the building, which I've never used, but I need the space. My old roommate lived here for about seven years, and when she moved she just left everything in there. So I bought a shiny pair of bolt cutters, having no key for the padlock, and busted that shit open. It was very B & E.
There was a whole bunch of shit that needed to be tossed. Old couch cushions, dirty bedsheets, a useless TV, a sweet, un-salvageable wooden card table with clawed feet and seriously bad finishing. Broken house phone.
A thick, worn, black leather and metal S&M jockstrap with matching fistcuffs.
You know. The usual.
...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
That One Time
On Friday, MoLinder and I were hanging out on the porch when we saw a particularly blustery gust of wind fucking around with a nice, clean dollar, trying to force it into the sewer. Seeing it as a sign, MoLinder jumped off the porch and ran out onto the street, snagging the cash.
"We are so fucking winning the Mega Millions."
"I can't believe no one's ever thought of just doing this before. Sitting around, getting drunk, waiting to win the lottery."
"I know. Douchebags. We are awesome and brilliant."
"And original."
"Yes we are."
A flawless plan for financial success, no doubt. Find a dollar, buy a Mega Millions Quick Pick, receive $78 million. It's just so simple. And then I'm buying a real, live pony (or maybe a burro. Or both), which is all I ever really wanted anyway, other than you know, constant love and desire, complete devotion from the proletariat, unlimited Cool Ranch Doritos, beauty, and uh, immortality.
But we forgot to account for the fact that I am one unlucky motherfucker, which is why I never play the lottery. Gambling is fine when it involves rules and skillful deception. Or dice. Seriously, I have more moxie playing the penny poker slots than asking the guy at 7-11 for a Mega Millions Quick Pick.
So we totally didn't win. You just missed out on a lifetime of listening to me brag about That One Time I Won The Lottery And Bought A Pony (Or A Burro. Or Both).
Your loss.
...
"We are so fucking winning the Mega Millions."
"I can't believe no one's ever thought of just doing this before. Sitting around, getting drunk, waiting to win the lottery."
"I know. Douchebags. We are awesome and brilliant."
"And original."
"Yes we are."
A flawless plan for financial success, no doubt. Find a dollar, buy a Mega Millions Quick Pick, receive $78 million. It's just so simple. And then I'm buying a real, live pony (or maybe a burro. Or both), which is all I ever really wanted anyway, other than you know, constant love and desire, complete devotion from the proletariat, unlimited Cool Ranch Doritos, beauty, and uh, immortality.
But we forgot to account for the fact that I am one unlucky motherfucker, which is why I never play the lottery. Gambling is fine when it involves rules and skillful deception. Or dice. Seriously, I have more moxie playing the penny poker slots than asking the guy at 7-11 for a Mega Millions Quick Pick.
So we totally didn't win. You just missed out on a lifetime of listening to me brag about That One Time I Won The Lottery And Bought A Pony (Or A Burro. Or Both).
Your loss.
...
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
My Dowry Is A Doozy
I've been getting phone calls every damn day from my dad to make sure I'm heading over to the parents for tree decorating on Sunday.
He also did that thing where he makes me feel guilty for being picky about shit I own. He wants a Christmas list from me. Don't you understand, Dad, that I want everything in my possession to completely represent me? As an individual? To show off my unique and original taste in objects and decor?
And that's why I want this very exclusive Moorish tile rug (in Espresso) from Pottery Barn.
Obviously, this will legitimize my roots as a moor from Morocco and simultaneously lower my heating bill, and I can feel that thing rise every time I turn the heat up a degree. Me and MoLinder went as high as sixty-two degrees the other day. I know because we designed a Galilean thermometer out of a two-liter, cracked ping pong balls, old saint pendants and bent beer bottle tops to track our heater. I told you I was like MacGuyver.
Basically, every single day, me and my dad have a variation of the conversation I had with him ten minutes ago:
"So you're coming home this weekend, right? It's your sister's birthday."
"Dad, you know Katsisch doesn't give a crap if I'm there or not."
He laughs. Dad laughs at everything. "What about your dear old Dad? Don't you think I want to spend time with my worthless daughter?"
"Well, Dad. Shameful tolerance of my abusive father would add to my worth."
"It's a good thing your dad makes the big bucks. Your dowry is a doozy."
"What's it up do these days?"
Sighing deeply, he pauses. "My entire comic book collection. And like, seven goats."
"Even the mint Watchmen? I totally had dibbs."
"Well, honey, I mean...how do expect us to marry you off to some guy if he doesn't get anything good? What about my grandchildren?"
"Dad, it's gonna take more than goats and comic books to get someone to breed quality kids with me." I pause, for a fraction. "Maybe we could throw in, like, the family cookbook."
Big laugh from the big dad who makes the big bucks, and he huffs, "Our food sucks."
Damn. Got me there. "I guess I'm just as worthless as we thought."
"It's because your dad's a dork."
"Yeah, thanks a lot."
"You're not as bad as your sister. I'm gonna have to give someone the Wii to get her out of the house."
"You don't have a Wii."
"Well...Wii'll see after Christmas." He cracks himself up. "Seriously, for real now, you have to come home this weekend to decorate the goddamn tree."
...
He also did that thing where he makes me feel guilty for being picky about shit I own. He wants a Christmas list from me. Don't you understand, Dad, that I want everything in my possession to completely represent me? As an individual? To show off my unique and original taste in objects and decor?
And that's why I want this very exclusive Moorish tile rug (in Espresso) from Pottery Barn.
Obviously, this will legitimize my roots as a moor from Morocco and simultaneously lower my heating bill, and I can feel that thing rise every time I turn the heat up a degree. Me and MoLinder went as high as sixty-two degrees the other day. I know because we designed a Galilean thermometer out of a two-liter, cracked ping pong balls, old saint pendants and bent beer bottle tops to track our heater. I told you I was like MacGuyver.
Basically, every single day, me and my dad have a variation of the conversation I had with him ten minutes ago:
"So you're coming home this weekend, right? It's your sister's birthday."
"Dad, you know Katsisch doesn't give a crap if I'm there or not."
He laughs. Dad laughs at everything. "What about your dear old Dad? Don't you think I want to spend time with my worthless daughter?"
"Well, Dad. Shameful tolerance of my abusive father would add to my worth."
"It's a good thing your dad makes the big bucks. Your dowry is a doozy."
"What's it up do these days?"
Sighing deeply, he pauses. "My entire comic book collection. And like, seven goats."
"Even the mint Watchmen? I totally had dibbs."
"Well, honey, I mean...how do expect us to marry you off to some guy if he doesn't get anything good? What about my grandchildren?"
"Dad, it's gonna take more than goats and comic books to get someone to breed quality kids with me." I pause, for a fraction. "Maybe we could throw in, like, the family cookbook."
Big laugh from the big dad who makes the big bucks, and he huffs, "Our food sucks."
Damn. Got me there. "I guess I'm just as worthless as we thought."
"It's because your dad's a dork."
"Yeah, thanks a lot."
"You're not as bad as your sister. I'm gonna have to give someone the Wii to get her out of the house."
"You don't have a Wii."
"Well...Wii'll see after Christmas." He cracks himself up. "Seriously, for real now, you have to come home this weekend to decorate the goddamn tree."
...
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Cyanoacrylate
So, since my life is a walking screwball comedy, I just superglued my fingers together.
That stuff really works.
Know what gets off superglue? Not much.
MoLinder saved the day with nail polish remover. Thank god someone around here wears nail polish, because I sure as shit don't. Makes up for the fact that she's the one who gave me the goddamn superglue in the first place.
She was all, "Yeah, I don't think it's open, so you're gonna have to do that, you know--"
"Pokey thing?"
"Yeah."
"Okey dokey...Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Gaaahhh. You are a goddamn liar."
Most of it's off now, but I can't feel my thumb. It's an odd sensation, touching myself with foreign opposable appendages. I keep on rubbing my forearm. And I can't decide if the thumb numbness is the superglue, or the fact that I smashed it with a hammer an hour ago.
Home improvement is treacherous.
...
That stuff really works.
Know what gets off superglue? Not much.
MoLinder saved the day with nail polish remover. Thank god someone around here wears nail polish, because I sure as shit don't. Makes up for the fact that she's the one who gave me the goddamn superglue in the first place.
She was all, "Yeah, I don't think it's open, so you're gonna have to do that, you know--"
"Pokey thing?"
"Yeah."
"Okey dokey...Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. Gaaahhh. You are a goddamn liar."
Most of it's off now, but I can't feel my thumb. It's an odd sensation, touching myself with foreign opposable appendages. I keep on rubbing my forearm. And I can't decide if the thumb numbness is the superglue, or the fact that I smashed it with a hammer an hour ago.
Home improvement is treacherous.
...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Route 66 Ratings: California, 28 points.
August 30, 7:30 AM CST Flew out towards San Diego.
August 30, 9:30 AM MST Layover in Denver. Promptly book it to the bar and down several Bloody Mary's and some Oatmeal stout. Seriously, Colorado's got good beer.
Theres this older dude there who is a retired Army Lieutenant from Colorado Springs, and we talk about the election for awhile. He thinks McCain is a joke, but Obama doesn't understand war (he was a Hilary Clinton supporter, oddly), and leaves me with the best quote ever:
"Honey, you don't create lives by pulling out early."
August 30, 2:00 PM PST MoLinder picked me up at the airport and I got a tour of San Diego, which is beautiful and friggin' hot as balls. Apparently, I arrived on the only humid day of the year.
August 30, 7:00 PM PST Padres game. +10
August 31, 9:00 AM PST Wake up and hit the San Diego Zoo. Pandas. I win, bitches. Giraffe feeding: long purpleblack tongues wrapped around my hand. But best thing ever: the spotted hyenas were out. I love the hyenas. Love. MoLinder and her sister might have been getting kind of annoyed with me. + 40
August 31, 8:03 PM PST Started packing the car.
August 31, 10: 26 PM PST While engrossed in a Ford-sized game of Tetris, we run out of beer. - 5
Shit don't fit. - 2
We upack duffels and shove their contents into plastic Target bags so it all fit in six-inch nooks and crannies scattered throughout the car. We slip shoes into convenient holes between boxes and oddly-shaped carrier bases. Pilot chairs pull forward and tilt up, quilts and sleeping bags are unrolled, spreading across our seats to maximize space. - 10
We stretched that car's capacity and weight limit with possessions, knowing fully well that the next day, we'd add two cats and ourselves. Goody goody gumdrops.
September 1, 7:30 AM PST Wake up and start adding the final items to the car.
September 1, 8:30 AM PST We are pissed that not everything fits and throw silent tantrums.
September 1, 8:31 AM PST I switch out my own slightly broken suitcase for a garbage bag and toss it in a dumpster. My heart cracks, a little. - 15
(I would like to give a retrospective shout out to my suitcase and all the goodies that MoLinder had to leave behind at the last minute so she could move back to Chicago and be my new roommate, including but not limited to: shelves, end tables, pretty framed pictures, and a very posh coffee maker. Your sacrifice brings me to tears.)
September 1, 9:04 AM PST We hit the road.
And by "hit" I mean "start driving" and by "road" I mean "road." Route 66 starts in LA, and we're not driving all the way to fucking LA and then sitting in traffic, so we just go northeastish until we hit it.
We're armed with mahfuckin' Triscuits and coffee and are invincible. I am absolutely giddy, and dreaming of all the poeple we'll meet. Shitty motels, greasy diners and bearded bikers at cheap bars, Harley gangs and classic scenes. It's all very gritty Norman Rockwell in my head. I cannot wait. + 10
September 1, 10:00 AM PST Pretty pretty mountains. + 10
September 1, 10:54 AM PST We hit The Road.
And by "hit" I mean "merge onto" and by "road" I mean Route 66." + 5
We are out of coffee. Actually, I think I have some left, but it's all lukewarm and just makes me tired instead of invincible. Fucking coffee. I need a cigarette. - 4
September 1, 11:15 PM PST I make MoLinder veer onto Historic 66 for our first detour at Baghdad Cafe. It takes us like ahlf an hour to find it, because we're idiots. It's right on the fucking road. Every time we pass a red building, I'm all, "THERE IT IS" and I whip out my disposable camera because my other one is five years old and made of crap. Eventually we pass the actual cafe and I make MoLinder pull up in front of it so I can lean out the window and snap a picuture, and that's it. We're done there. + 2
This would become a pattern throughout the rest of the trip.
September 1, 12:08 PM PST Desert. I've only seen it from planes or Vegas hotel rooms. But now I'm seeing it up close, in all its nothing and glory. + 10
September 1, 12:10 PM PST Fucking hot as crotch*. The desert is fucking lame. I yearn for snow. - 20
* that's for Bluestreak.
...
August 30, 9:30 AM MST Layover in Denver. Promptly book it to the bar and down several Bloody Mary's and some Oatmeal stout. Seriously, Colorado's got good beer.
Theres this older dude there who is a retired Army Lieutenant from Colorado Springs, and we talk about the election for awhile. He thinks McCain is a joke, but Obama doesn't understand war (he was a Hilary Clinton supporter, oddly), and leaves me with the best quote ever:
"Honey, you don't create lives by pulling out early."
August 30, 2:00 PM PST MoLinder picked me up at the airport and I got a tour of San Diego, which is beautiful and friggin' hot as balls. Apparently, I arrived on the only humid day of the year.
August 30, 7:00 PM PST Padres game. +10
August 31, 9:00 AM PST Wake up and hit the San Diego Zoo. Pandas. I win, bitches. Giraffe feeding: long purpleblack tongues wrapped around my hand. But best thing ever: the spotted hyenas were out. I love the hyenas. Love. MoLinder and her sister might have been getting kind of annoyed with me. + 40
August 31, 8:03 PM PST Started packing the car.
August 31, 10: 26 PM PST While engrossed in a Ford-sized game of Tetris, we run out of beer. - 5
Shit don't fit. - 2
We upack duffels and shove their contents into plastic Target bags so it all fit in six-inch nooks and crannies scattered throughout the car. We slip shoes into convenient holes between boxes and oddly-shaped carrier bases. Pilot chairs pull forward and tilt up, quilts and sleeping bags are unrolled, spreading across our seats to maximize space. - 10
We stretched that car's capacity and weight limit with possessions, knowing fully well that the next day, we'd add two cats and ourselves. Goody goody gumdrops.
September 1, 7:30 AM PST Wake up and start adding the final items to the car.
September 1, 8:30 AM PST We are pissed that not everything fits and throw silent tantrums.
September 1, 8:31 AM PST I switch out my own slightly broken suitcase for a garbage bag and toss it in a dumpster. My heart cracks, a little. - 15
(I would like to give a retrospective shout out to my suitcase and all the goodies that MoLinder had to leave behind at the last minute so she could move back to Chicago and be my new roommate, including but not limited to: shelves, end tables, pretty framed pictures, and a very posh coffee maker. Your sacrifice brings me to tears.)
September 1, 9:04 AM PST We hit the road.
And by "hit" I mean "start driving" and by "road" I mean "road." Route 66 starts in LA, and we're not driving all the way to fucking LA and then sitting in traffic, so we just go northeastish until we hit it.
We're armed with mahfuckin' Triscuits and coffee and are invincible. I am absolutely giddy, and dreaming of all the poeple we'll meet. Shitty motels, greasy diners and bearded bikers at cheap bars, Harley gangs and classic scenes. It's all very gritty Norman Rockwell in my head. I cannot wait. + 10
September 1, 10:00 AM PST Pretty pretty mountains. + 10
September 1, 10:54 AM PST We hit The Road.
And by "hit" I mean "merge onto" and by "road" I mean Route 66." + 5
We are out of coffee. Actually, I think I have some left, but it's all lukewarm and just makes me tired instead of invincible. Fucking coffee. I need a cigarette. - 4
September 1, 11:15 PM PST I make MoLinder veer onto Historic 66 for our first detour at Baghdad Cafe. It takes us like ahlf an hour to find it, because we're idiots. It's right on the fucking road. Every time we pass a red building, I'm all, "THERE IT IS" and I whip out my disposable camera because my other one is five years old and made of crap. Eventually we pass the actual cafe and I make MoLinder pull up in front of it so I can lean out the window and snap a picuture, and that's it. We're done there. + 2
This would become a pattern throughout the rest of the trip.
September 1, 12:08 PM PST Desert. I've only seen it from planes or Vegas hotel rooms. But now I'm seeing it up close, in all its nothing and glory. + 10
September 1, 12:10 PM PST Fucking hot as crotch*. The desert is fucking lame. I yearn for snow. - 20
* that's for Bluestreak.
...
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