Abysmal Chick

Fucking White Bitch

2011-01-24T22:50:00.005-06:00

I live downtown, I work downtown and I don’t have a car. Everyone I know knows this and yet everyone is usually very surprised and concerned when I tell them that I walk downtown.

“Aw really?” they ask as if I’ve just told them I’ve lost this week’s paycheck to gambling; with genuine concern, but in an “I can’t help you, you brought this on yourself” sort of way. I’m able to catch a ride now and then and sometimes I take the bus, but usually it’s just easier to walk. I like the exercise. Plus, this is Minneapolis! People in other cities make fun of us. Minneapolis looks like Mayberry to cities like Chicago or New York. And, as I like to point out to people, I used to live in New York City (way back when Monica and Rachael used to caffeinate at Central Perk, but still…) I know how to handle urban settings. Walk tall, look angry, and carry a can of pepper spray.

So one weekend evening I found myself on my own in an apartment that boasted one very sad head of broccoli and exactly nothing else to eat. I weighed my options. I could walk over to the convenience store where the best food option is either frozen pizza or chef Boyardee, or I could order something to be delivered. Unfortunately, downtown Minneapolis is severely lacking when it comes to food delivery. Basically one’s choice is between pizza and sandwiches. Chinese food is available, but only if you plan to spend at least thirteen dollars.

Another thing that sucks about this supposed big city is that everything convenient shuts the fuck down at by Friday at two. No fast food, no quick pick ups for one. Just bars, boutique hotels and fine dining. And I don’t need to be the sad lonely girl sitting at the two top while couples have their romantic date nights. How are they supposed to know that I am smugly judging them for their unimaginative love life and desperate need to fit in if I am all alone on a weekend night? Plus I just want something affordable that I can pick up and take home. I decided on Chipotle. Unfortunately, the closest Chipotle, nine blocks away is closed weekends. (Of course) So I had to settle for the next closest, thirteen blocks away.

“Aw really?” My boyfriend asks when I tell him my plans. I can hear his mother on the line, scolding him for not offering to drive me, but the fact is he is stuck in the suburbs and my mind is set. It’s seven p.m. and I want to eat NOW.

Because it is Minneapolis in January and it is cold enough to make a nun question the existence of God, I go online to check the bus schedule. I quickly realize it’s probably easier to walk and get the blood circulating rather than walk almost half way there so I can stand around freezing my tits off for a bus system that is famous for being ten minutes too late or five minutes too early. No, I can’t take the heartache of chasing a bus that is deaf to my screams and waves, and I won’t stand for waiting like a hopeful teenager by the phone for a bus that never comes.

Like the Vikings before me, I will conquer these frigid temperatures in search of sustenance. I come from Native American ilk, and from Finnish farmers. My grandmother bore fourteen children that all lived to adulthood. I, certainly, can walk the thirteen blocks to Chipotle. Besides, I lived in New York City once.

I layered on the winter wear until I sufficiently resembled Ralphie’s little brother in a Christmas Story and grabbed my pepper spray. There I was, comfy, warm and packing.

I made my way down Washington, passing the Guthrie Theater and several theater goers. I walked by children and grandmothers on their way into the Spaghetti Factory and laughed to myself. How silly everyone is to worry about me. There are people everywhere. Nice people. Patrons of the Arts, people with osteoporosis! I made it to Chipotle and ordered just as a crowd of teenagers stormed the place. At this point I was feeling quite smug. One, because I had beaten the rush and two because, even in my thirties, and dressed like the stay puff marshmallow man, I felt cooler and tougher than this particular group pimple faced pubescence. I was an experienced veteran of the city. I was Carrie Bradshaw in Bob and Doug McKenzie clothing.

My smugness was deafening. Or maybe it was the five foot snow banks that muffled the sounds of what I would soon encounter. It certainly obscured the construction that suddenly brought me to the point where the sidewalk ends….and the severely crazy man inhabiting its space. There I was; snow banks to the left of me, snow banks to the right, screaming crazy man dead center. The street light behind him was green, but the sidewalk was closed for construction so new condos could be built for new assholes. I would have to wait for the other light to turn green in order to cross Washington and get away from Mr. Cuckoos nest. But first, I had to walk past him. I reached for the pepper spray in my pocket as he stood facing me, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if waiting for me to throw the first punch. I scowled, bent my head down, and walked quickly.

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE? He screamed. YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME? FUCKING WHITE BITCH! Oh this is going splendidly, I thought. Why isn’t this damn light changing? I turned around and tried to give him my scariest look. “Don’t fuck with me.” I said, “I mean it.” I turned off the safety latch on my pepper spray and pointed it at him. I made sure that he saw what I had, but he didn’t flinch. Maybe because the damn thing was an embarrassing pink color, but pepper spray is pepper spray. Unfortunately, crazy is also crazy. I got the feeling that even if I did douse this guy with chemicals, it would be like spraying a wasp with hairspray. It was just going to get him angrier. I was scared, my chest hurt, but I kept it together long enough to check for oncoming traffic and crossed against the red light. Crazy dude kept screaming, FUCKING WHITE BITCH! FUCKING WHITE BITCH! I didn’t look back. From his screams, I could tell he had stayed on the other side of the street, but he was walking up the street in the same direction. FUCKING WHITE BITCH! FUCKING WHITE BITCH! BLAH! BLAH! BLAH! INCOHERENTNESS! ETCETERA! At this point I didn’t know if anyone else was around, but if they were, they were clearly too much of a pussy to help me, or at least believed that I was in fact a fucking white bitch.

Finally, I was able to duck into a public place, Sawatdee. The kind bartender looked at me with concern as I tried to quietly and calmly tell her my story. A waitress walked by and asked what happened. “A man was following her.” The bartender explained. “Oh.” The waitress said flatly and walked away. Wow, I thought. Whose the BITCH now?

The history of my tits

2010-08-27T20:54:00.004-06:00

I don’t remember having a flat chest. I know I had one. I’ve seen pictures. I also remember writing about my first bra in my diary. I had no real secrets to speak of at the time, but still my diary had a lock on it and only I possessed the key.

“Dear diary, I can’t believe it! Today my mother handed me the Sears catalog and told me to pick out a bra!” Apparently at the ripe old age of eleven I needed one. I’m not sure why. I found the thing years later in a box of old clothes. It was two pink triangles side by side with a tiny flower in the center. Harmless to look at, but to me it signaled the beginning of a very long and trying adolescence.

The summer after the Sears catalog experience, I went to YMCA camp and had my very first admirer. It was the eighties and he looked a little like Scott Baio (Foxes era right down to the denim jacket) so that was cool. But he quickly became unbearable and annoying to me and seemed to know facts about my life that I hadn’t even told him yet. Was he talking to my bunkmates? Creepy. I finally had enough and told him I didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore. (Even though we hadn’t even kissed) His friends got really angry with me. It was the first time I ever got called a slut.

By that fall I had already moved up a cup size, gotten dragged into a closet and felt up by a friend’s older brother, and I was full on distrustful when Mr. Piedmont, my sixth grade teacher, tried to give me a hug.

By ninth grade I had achieved C cup status and had to hold onto my boobs when taking the stairs. I was a virgin, yet there was still a rumor that I had tag teamed three seniors at once. That’s right, three…at once.

It’s been almost thirty years now that I have been part of the booby monster club. I’ve had men stare, touch, pinch, and beg to fuck them. I’ve had bra after bra squeeze tickle and scratch them before eventually giving into to their heft. I’ve developed a healthy sense of humor about them. I wish the same for my petite tittied sisters.

Still I see women who cry and hate themselves because of their involuntary membership into the itty bitty titty committee. Everyday women pay thousands of dollars and risk their lives to have tits my size. Is life really that horrible for them? Personally I have always loved small tits. I long for little circus tent shaped boobies. So small, you can fit them into a martini glass. Oh to have boobs that don’t require a bra. How freeing, how low maintenance, how economical!

But maybe it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation. Have small tits and be left alone, or giant gazongas with too much attention. I don’t know…..I blame men.

Back from outer space

2009-07-21T17:32:00.004-06:00

Hello blog, have you missed me? I've thought about you quite a bit the last few months, but I just didn't have much to say. I guess we all need a break sometimes.

So what have I been up to you ask? Playing shows with the band. We made a CD and have a tour coming up next month. We get to play in NYC! I am very excited as I have not been to the big bad apple since Princess Diana was alive and the Twin Towers still stood. God I miss the 90's.

I fell in love too. I think I've been in love before, but this is the first time it's felt real and, well, mutual. It's nice, but it's not as nice as they make it seem in the movies. I know we are great together. We even fight each other well. We don't get petty and we resolve things pretty quickly. Our only serious problems can be blamed on the world outside our bedroom. (yes he's moved in already) In the outside world there are bills to pay, horrid, venomous baby mamas and my disapproving parents. Fuck 'em says I. Mostly I am happy.

2009-02-13T22:21:00.007-06:00

I saw her today for the first time. No one had to introduce us; I knew it when she opened her mouth. This was not the first time I heard her speak. Before today I only knew her as PRIVATE on the caller ID. Before today, I only knew her as that voice on the other end of the receiver. No one had to introduce me to that voice. Every time I see PRIVATE on the caller ID, I ready myself for it. I am sad and exhausted like that voice. I am beaten down and alone and I want someone to pay for it. Like that voice.

I sigh and pick up the phone, she sighs and introduces herself. She doesn’t have to. I wish I could say that to her. I wish I could say I know who you are and I probably even know what you are going to say. You are a broken record of tragedy, limited imagination and enough intelligence and denial to argue yourself straight into an asylum. There are people upstairs she says. They are sliding on the floors. They are wrestling kidnapped children. They are cooking up methamphetamine and listening to loud bass thumping rap music, she says.

The renters moved out. They moved out just like that nice couple before, and the college students, and the single mom.

That residence is empty. No, no, no, she insists. Somehow the owner, who hates her, she says, has lent his keys to degenerate fiends. Or there are squatters. Or drug dealers. There are degenerate squatters dealing drugs up there.

I listen to her as long as I can because I think that is essentially what she wants. She’s lonely, I think. She is lonely and sad. She is frustrating. I think. She is frustrating and annoying. What do you want me to do, I think? I’m not security, and even security can’t help what is imaginary. You need a doctor and I am only a desk slave. I tell her I’ll do what I can, which is not much, and I try to get her off the phone. Rarely do I offer advice. It’s no use. She has a one track mind to misery.

If you think there are drug dealers upstairs, you should contact the authorities I say just to stir things up. There is the brief sound of hemming and hawing; of regrouping. I have interrupted her soliloquy. Her mind concocts the most paranoid of adlibs. She says she has a friend on the force (head of narcotics of course) who has told her that drug dealers like that would think nothing of killing a snitch. I giggle silently at that word. Snitch. I’m pretty sure those calls are confidential. I say, there are people at the desk and I have to assist them. It’s a lie. I say I’ll make sure to write up a report and discuss it with my manager. Again. I thank her and hang up; always pleasant but not too pleasant. If you’re nice, she’ll take a mile, and she’s already too far gone.

I saw her today for the first time. She never comes into the office, but today, there she was. I didn’t talk to her, I walked right past. She already had someone’s attention. Someone nice. That’s what you get. I take my time in the closet, very slowly hanging my coat and listening to that sad voice. She looks just like she sounds; tired, disturbed, and tragic; lethargically fighting defeat and heavy under layers of bags and baggy clothes. She is all scarves and dark colors and long hair. She’s a big, grey, talking, sighing blob. She is Eeyore. She is Debbie fucking downer and she’s won’t stop until she’s contaminated us all.

Everybody Poops

2009-02-12T20:48:00.002-06:00

Me like food

2009-02-10T01:03:00.028-06:00

This is a random post dealing mostly with food and irresponsibly. Meaning that I both ate lots of food and acted irresponsibly, or even; ate lots of food in an irresponsible manner. Meaning, I need to stop pigging out and drinking alone.

Oh don't worry, I didn't eat and drink alone every time. Plenty of times I was with someone. Plenty of times it was that other person providing the food. Homemade food. All the more special and tasty when someone has made it for you.

It started on Thursday when my vegan friend made lasagna. She cooked for her roommate and myself, and we chatted about India, Amsterdam, prostitutes and current events. Their stereo shorted out repeatedly and I jokingly suggested we play musical chairs. The roommate walked over to the stereo and fixed it in mere seconds. I congratulated him on his success. "I just fiddled with the knobs to make it better." To which I replied, "That's what she said." Yes, I am that immature. Thankfully everyone laughed and then we ate blood orange cake. Homemade, of course. I took some lasagna home with me. I ate it as soon as I got home because I have no will power.

Saturday. Band meeting to discuss upcoming recording plans. I get into it with the guitarist who has fuck all for listening skills. He just talks, talks, talks. I finally pull out the most immature of arguing tactics. I scream, "You don't listen, you just talk!" Over and over again until he shuts up. Remarkably it works. Our drummer makes us chicken soaked in Bourbon, I think, and something else, with potatoes on the side. Delish.

Later that same day was Loop's 30th birthday. (http://www.zazzle.com/volsungaloop) Her husband cooked Cuban food. How did he know my weakness for fluffy rice and shredded beef? Oh, and fried plantains! So yummy. I basically sat my ass in the same spot all night and ate till I lost all respect for myself. Eventually I stepped away to socialize.

This guy. I had never met this guy, and after five minutes of talking to him, I had to tell him to back out of my personal space. Honestly, I should have such problems more often. He was a cutie, but so flirty with everyone and I felt all dumpy so I was just not having it. It was comical. At times he'd move in so close and so fast, I would flinch and knock into stuff. He was good at what he was doing, I will give him that. *more party pics at http://flickr.com/photos/kittykatlounge/sets/72157613517830412/

But basically, I was feeling like this.

But what about the irresponsibility, you say? It started with fiscal irresponsibility on Sunday night. I had the Sunday blahs, no groceries, no motivation, plenty of alcohol. So I think I had some cereal and then some Jack. Don't cry for me. I live like a frat boy because I can. Eventually I craved more sustenance so I walked over to my favorite pricey restaurant, 112 Eatery. I had eaten there once before, and had one the best experiences ever. This Sunday may have topped it. It started out a little rocky. The server suggested a dish for me without warning me that it was extremely spicy. I choked down almost half when he asked me how it was. I could not hide my grimace and told him, as nicely as I could, that he should have given me a heads up about the bite. Then he asked me if I wanted to get something different, but I said I didn't want to be 'that girl.' Luckily for me, the manager was sitting to my left and insisted it would be no problem. Then she opened a menu and made a few suggestions. I ended up getting the lamb with pesto. Excellent food, and service above and beyond. Especially when you consider that I hadn't showered and was dressed like a total slob.

Still buzzing from my dinner, I stumbled over to Luce for irresponsible act number two; More wine and a pack of cigarettes even though I recently quit smoking. I end up talking to a man at the bar about god knows what. Thankfully, he does not hit on me, but we do step outside to smoke and he suggests we share a joint. When I get home, I'm a little suprised that I've once again made it back safely. This is just the kind of shit I shouldn't still be doing at my age. But the guy with the joint was at least forty. So what does that say?

Jul 19 2008 - downtown MPLS

2009-01-29T18:07:00.001-06:00

Hey, missing summer? Here's some video I took when the weather was still warm. I like to walk downtown sometimes when the drunks are out!

Jul 19 2008 - betterplaces

2009-01-29T18:04:00.001-06:00

AYDS Commercial Fail

2009-01-28T23:29:00.001-06:00

My mom used to use this product. Her little brother thought it was real candy and ate a whole box of it. He get VERY sick. But thankfully not AIDS sick. He's a real homophobe now, so that story always makes me smile.

2009-01-12T22:04:00.005-06:00

Oh hello, how are you? I'm fine. Still not writing. But I have pictures! Our band played Eclipse Records in Saint Paul. It's such a cool store and an awesome place to play. Depending on your age, the place will either remind you of Empire Records, or Pretty in Pink

See? Iona fits in nicely.

2009-01-12T22:03:00.002-06:00

They have cool ass old video games and pinball machines too, as if they weren't cool enough. I got my ass kicked on millipede.

2009-01-12T22:01:00.002-06:00

They don't have alcohol, but I managed because I'm a girl scout.

Looking admirably at our drummer as I flip him the bird. He likes to say mean/funny things to me.

2009-01-12T21:56:00.003-06:00

2009-01-12T21:49:00.003-06:00

Since it was all ages, the show was over pretty early. Some of us went to Turf Club and hung out in the clown lounge. Not sure how it got it's name. No clowns, but it's decorated like your grandpa's basement.

My hunters hat is apropos. Here's me doing impressions of the carcasses on the wall.

The End

Happy New Year!

2009-01-05T19:44:00.004-06:00

It was a bit of a three day celebration starting with our first performance at Christianson's Big V's. (that's me...drinking already)

2009-01-05T19:39:00.005-06:00

The next day it was off to the beautiful Turf Club in St. Paul. I've alway's wanted to play this place. (that's me...not wearing pants)

2009-01-05T19:32:00.004-06:00

Normally, I don't go out for New Years, but this year I joined some friends for dinner at the Loring Pasta bar, (I tried to take pictures, but the low lighting caused my picters to look like crap...BEAUTIFUL restaurant, though) Then it was off to the Varsity theater to rock out to E.L.NO, the ELO cover band, and the hardest working Minneapolis musician Mark Mallman. Yes, those pics didn't work out either, but we have plenty of proof that we drank and had fun.

2008-12-22T18:44:00.000-06:00

It's true I have been a sucky blogger as of late. Just can't think of much to write about, I guess. Last week I had laryngitis. Here are some pictures of the last fun thing I did before succumbing to infection.

2008-12-22T18:40:00.001-06:00

Happy?

2008-12-22T18:35:00.003-06:00

Best conversation ever

2008-12-09T21:55:00.002-06:00

The scene: Two crappy reality show competitors arguing before final elimination.
Skank #1: I don't like you. Who are you? You're nobody.
Skank #2: Ummm, ok, like, have you seen my MySpace? I'm kind of a big deal.

HAHAHAHAHA! If I didn't have a sore throat, I would STILL be laughing.

2008-11-27T18:17:00.003-06:00

We played at the Uptown Bar last Tuesday. Twas fun, although a bit fuzzy towards the end of the night. I must learn to pace the alcohol. I was nervous people would hate us so I decided to dress slutty in case we needed an emergency deterrent. Short skirt and animal print heels. I saw a few female haters giving my bare legs the once over as I teetered to my barstool. "Can you walk in those?" My drummer asked. "Of course not." I said, "They are uncomfortable and slutty." Then I looked over at the girls who giggled knowingly. You may not know me, sweeties, but you get it don't you? And then we ended up with this cool pic.

2008-11-02T23:14:00.002-06:00

Hey kids! had a GREAT show this weekend! please check out the video on our myspace http://www.myspace.com/greymatador I'll try to have more details about the show shortly....SO MUCH FUN!

Carrie Trailer

2008-10-31T20:25:00.001-06:00

Halloween + Carrie = Pure Joy. Happy Halloween!

11/1.....1st band up....1st show ever.

2008-10-20T16:48:00.003-06:00

The girl on the flier looks a little like I feel right now. But don't worry, I'm very good at hiding my sheer terror.

You had me at Sir Poe

2008-10-15T21:41:00.001-06:00

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —

I call dibbs

2008-10-09T16:31:00.004-06:00

I have been searching for an adult version of this shirt forever! If you ever see this shirt in my size, you can't have it. It's mine. I found this picture on Google. Poor girl's hair is teh gay.

Uninspired

2008-09-30T21:31:00.002-06:00

I am boring and uninspired lately. Sorry. I had a nice birthday, though. We took pictures, but I was unable to load them as of yet. Instead, I will post this picture of Christina Ricci, who I would look like if I were skinnier, younger, and if everyone squinted their eyes and drank copious amounts of alcohol.

This is all I think of when I see Palin

2008-08-29T17:00:00.002-06:00

HAHA! Pawlenty! SUCK IT!

Somewhere in my youth or childhood

2008-08-27T21:52:00.005-06:00

I’m feeling pretty boring and uninspired. The only interesting thing I did this week was make some homemade bread. I only mention it because I ended up having the biggest sense of accomplishment by making it. When it came out of the oven, I just stared at it for a really long time and placed my hands on it, feeling its warmth. I felt like I created life. I know it’s totally weird. I’ve made desserts and dinners, but nothing felt as satisfying as making a loaf of bread. It’s super cheap and tasty too. In fact, if anyone I know wants me to make them a loaf, give me a call. I’m dying to make more, but a gal just can’t eat that much bread on their own!

I’d also like to tell you a little about the trouble I got into at work. Basically, someone who has a lot of power and whom I couldn’t even pick out in a crowd decided that they didn’t like the job I was doing. Of his/her complaints, one was that I would not give out the personal phone number of someone in the building. Another was that I neglected to open a door for someone who had their hands full. (Most likely I didn’t see them because I usually do that for people) Nice complaints huh? Want to know how it was resolved? No verbal warnings, no write ups. Instead, they transferred me to another building. I KNOW, RIGHT???!!!

Pretty drastic if you ask me. I was mortified and very sad. However, it was explained to me that basically everyone else on the planet thought I was doing a good job, but that maybe it wasn’t the best fit.

So now I am at another building and I am totally having the last laugh. This new location is far less maintenance. I have a private office instead of being out in the open and constantly mistaken for concierge. I have less responsibilities AND I’ve actually been promoted to supervisor. (no raise though, just got one a few weeks ago)

My office is actually a condo with a patio, two bathrooms and a kitchenette. I get the whole place to myself AND it’s equipped with internet, TV with basic cable, DVD and CD player. MWAHAHAHA! I know what you're thinking, and no I can't get you a job, and since this is a public blog, I'd rather not say who I work for. Sorry. GET YOUR OWN SLACKER JOB!

OH, and the band recorded another song for the MySpace. It's just a rough thing we did at the rehearsal space. We have a gig in November too!

http://www.myspace.com/greymatador

Zippety doo dah

2008-08-14T18:12:00.003-06:00

You ever have one of those weeks? Work sucks, life sucks, finances in the toilet? Well I’m having one of those. And to make matters worse, I’ve been asked to meet with my boss tomorrow about some matter they can’t talk to me about at this time. Fucking great. Apparently I pissed off one of the rich assholes I work with; because I happen to disagree with their belief that I am their personal slave.

Plus my laptop just died. It’s a Dell and the warrantee is expired and I’m putting off talking to their tech support because I am told it is quite like the seventh circle of hell.

I am also dreading talking to my dad about this. He bought me the thing and he’s going to ask all kinds of questions that I can’t answer. My dad is retired and has shit loads of time on his hands to obsess over things. He also has this scary talent for attention to details and fine print, so I’ve come to believe he has some mild form of Asbergers or OCD.

Actually, because of the way he is, I’m hoping he might volunteer to talk to tech support. He’s their worst nightmare. He remains calm the entire time, but is unafraid to debate you and will not get off the phone until something is resolved. He always grabs names and numbers in case he is “accidently disconnected.” You just can’t get rid of the guy. He’s like the dude from Terminator two. Metaphorically speaking of course.

The only problem is, although I did not break my laptop loading massive amounts of sick porn, I do have a blush inducing browser history and some pretty saucy pics. The good news is that my dad is also very open minded, and respects my privacy. He’s the only family member who knows I worked at the peepshow. When I told him about it, he basically said, “I suppose I shouldn’t ask too much about the details of what you did.” Ummm yeah, excellent idea. Probably a good idea not to look around too much on your precious baby daughter’s computer as well.

So for now, I’ll have to try to post from work. Tricky….

Anyway, last night, having no Facebook, Raymi’s blog, or RedTube to pass the lonely hours, I took to watching reruns of The Golden Girls. I have to say, the writing still strikes me as quite good and funny. Probably the only reason a sitcom revolving around four old ladies living in Florida could ever be successful. It’s super funny if you imagine that those four ladies are totally the Sex and the City ladies in a few decades. Makes me giggle.

But then that stupid Nanny show came on and I had to change the channel. I did watch it long enough to find out that the shrill Jew with the skinny ass finally married her British pimp, Mr. Sheffield. I can’t look at that actor without thinking of my old roommate in NYC. When we were in our twenties, we attended Performing arts school. Our voice and movement coach was this Brit, pushing forty, who had apparently gone to school with and despised the actor who became Mr. Sheffield. Anyway this coach was a total pervert who fucked a new student every year and insisted on always wearing gray sweatpants and no underwear. My roommate was the 'chosen' girl of the that year and he would make her have anal sex him and he’d always suggest threesomes with me or one of her other friends. Next day we’d be in class, on the floor, doing breathing exercises like nothing had happened. And then of course he would always find some “instructional” reason to lean over and grope our stomachs and hips. He gave me and A+ though. Ah, the theater.

Did you hear me, Miss Kubelik? I love you.

2008-08-11T21:29:00.002-06:00

"Your mirror is broken"
"I like it that way. Makes me look how I feel."

Because I felt like it

2008-08-07T23:33:00.002-06:00

Chilling on Oxycoden

2008-08-04T21:52:00.006-06:00

Or my contribution to the Star Tribune's puff piece department AKA three minutes of your life you will never get back. http://www.startribune.com/local/west/26200629.html

Heleva Bottom Carter is in the kitchen pouring a Jack and ginger ale when she hears her friend sputtering in frustration. “This thing is cashed.” He says. In just three quick steps, Heleva’s tapped, cleaned and packed a fresh bowl for her guest.

Heleva lives in an old shit brown building in the city. Her kitchen dates all the way back to the ninteen eighties and there are cigarette burns on her floor and living room couch, but the view from the balcony invites compliments from all who see it. If you squint your eyes and look over to the left, you can almost see the remains of what was once the 35W Bridge before it collapsed, tragically killing at least a dozen people.

A large poster of Henry Charles Bukowski dominates the room. Hank’s looking admirably at a smiling nude woman who is young enough to be his grand daughter. “People wrote him off as a pock faced drunken loser until his fifties when he started writing poetry. Then they called him the poet laureate of skid row, and after that, horny, brainy chicks with daddy issues started flocking to his cock. He’s my hero.”

It’s time for Heleva and her guest to pour their alcohol into plastic cups and head downstairs where their sober cab buddy is waiting patiently whilst blasting Nelly Furtado on her stereo. “What the fuck is this crap?” Heleva and her friend ask in unison as they simultaneously scrunch up their noses as if smelling a very raunchy hot dog fart. Someone jokes that they would rather listen to Miami elevator music until Heleva points out that there is no such thing as Miami elevator music and to stop being such a poser since they’d never even been to Florida, let alone outside the state of Minnesota. “All you know about Miami is the Golden Girls.”

Everyone laughs sinisterly at the well played burn and their sober cabby is quietly relieved that she didn’t have to stay the center of ridicule for long.

“Whose house is this we’re going to, anyway?” “Some guy who works with the birthday girl.” “It’s a celebration for her and another co worker who’s getting married.” Heleva sighs disdainfully. “Fucking breeders.” “Yeah, I guess her maiden name is Merkin.” The tiny fuel efficient car erupts into laughter. “Haha! I bet she’s only getting married so she doesn’t have to be a pussy wig anymore!”

The group arrives at their destination to find a very fancy new home in a new neighborhood that was once lush forest and thriving farmland. “Wow, check out the fancy digs.” Someone says “I fucking hate rich people.” “Why?” “Because they think they can buy anyone and anything and thusly that the customer is always right even if they are nothing but bat shit crazy. Plus rich people always make you take your shoes off before coming into their house.”

“I don’t think you should judge the rich so harshly. Oprah Winfrey is rich and she’s always doing wonderful, charitable things with her money.” Someone argues. “Yes, but her years of clothes, shoes, make up and weave consumption is enough to plug a landfill. Plus, she could donate money and build schools till she’s crying like Oskar Schindler, it still doesn’t stop the fact that she owns several properties that stand mostly unoccupied while she vacations on private beaches and sleeps in hotels cleaned by hard working minimum wagers who can barely pay their bills.” “Besides, most rich people don’t make their money like Oprah did. Most rich people make their money off the blood, sweat and dreams of the less fortunate. They work for big tobacco, credit card and pharmaceutical companies. They work in sales and marketing and clutter the earth with all their stuff. They think of humans in terms of numbers and their children are usually raised with an annoyingly huge sense of entitlement. Stop trying to defend them with the Oprah argument. Most of them would gladly run you down with their Hummers if they were running late for a fondue party.”

The party turns out to be very pleasant as rich, white people are wont to throw very pleasant parties. It’s hard for anyone not to feel pleasant when one is stuffing one’s face with free alcohol and expensive cheeses.

Heleva spends most of the night talking to the bride to be’s sister who refuses to take her shoes off and also seems to share her contempt for the wealthy. “I tell you one good thing about the rich,” she says. “They usually have the best drugs.” With that, the two sneak off, unnoticed, to their hosts master bath. In the medicine cabinet they find a nice big bottle of Oxycoden. Under the sink they find a large dildo as well as legally and morally questionable pornography. Heleva places the dildo on the tub next to a child’s rubber ducky just to fuck with and disturb its owner. She looks thoughtfully at the fake cock. “I guess the rich aren’t that different from us after all." She pockets the Oxy and exits the bathroom.

It’s an afternoon party, so Heleva gets home before the sun has a chance to set. Alone, horny, and unable to reach her booty call, she gets online and searches for porn. Finally she finds something worth getting off to. Her face breaks into a slow, wide, loose smile. She shimmies out of her jeans, shaking her butt. The video is full of twisted, unsafe practices and many of it acts have been deemed illegal in most states. It’s the kind of shit Heleva would never agree to in real life, but she has a nice, good wank to it just the same. Outside, the sky is still pink from the sunset but quickly turning purple. Just like the ass of the porno’s lead actress.

At Last!

2008-08-01T20:10:00.003-06:00

See! I wasn't lying. I really am in a band, see? Please to check it out, thank you.
http://www.myspace.com/greymatador

Hand me the wine and the dice

2008-07-29T17:38:00.004-06:00

I went to my godfather’s funeral today. He was sixty three and died in his bed Thursday night, after convincing his fourth wife that his sudden shortness of breath was nothing to be concerned about.

I didn’t know my godfather very well. He divorced my aunt when I was around ten and I remember being shocked. At that age, it never occurred to me that someone might be having problems. My young eye had not yet been trained to notice the subtle nuances of a partnership in crises. I just remember thinking that our holidays wouldn’t be as lively anymore. I quickly resigned myself to more subdued family gatherings with my sad, chain smoking aunt, her sad, overburdened sister and my angry, half deaf, cigar smoking grandfather.

My godfather very much liked to have a good time. He met my aunt in a bar and he enjoyed manly things like old muscle cars, steak dinners, gambling, carousing, holding court, playing pranks, and general mischief. He was fantastic with kids, had four of his own, and could do a mean Donald Duck impersonation. My aunt had a predilection for this type of man. In fact, she married two other guys just like him. Coincidentally, they are all dead now; a fact that my father made sure to point out. It was his way of teasing his sister and we all had a bit of a giggle over it. We also made a few cracks about the toupees he started wearing after his second marriage. Some were better quality than others but they always had a similar theme; big, bushy and blonde like the backside of a female mallard duck. He was buried with his toupee, but if you believe what they tell you in church, he won’t need it where he’s going.

In fact, apparently when you die, not only do you get your hair back, but any lost limbs or teeth, all your aborted little babies and any beloved dead pets back too. On the way to the service my dad insisted that people always said shit like that when someone died. I argued that no one would dare say something so trite today, but sure enough, the minister consoled the grieving widow by assuring her that her beloved was now catching endless amounts of walleye in his fishing boat in the sky.

I really hated the minister at the service, who, of course, never even met my godfather. He blathered on about John 3:16, Philips 66, and Shenanigans 4:20. He talked about winged monkeys flying out of the Virgin Mary’s ass and baptizing all the true believers in endless amounts of delicious caramel syrup, also known as the blood of Christ. Ok, he didn’t say that exactly, but what he did say made just about as much sense to me. He dared to answer one of life’s big questions, why do people die. He said that death didn’t always exist, but was in fact created as a result of human sin. A punishment if you will. He then went on to say that after you die, you are immediately forgiven of all your sins. I took this to mean that I could continue doing whatever the hell I wanted and never even bother going to church. Thanks Jesus!

My favorite part of the service was at the end when friends and family were invited to stand and talk about the man. They told funny stories and painted the picture of someone far from perfect, but full of love. Hearing their words confirmed my conviction that when I die, I want people to skip the religious mumbo jumbo, open up some wine and go straight to reminiscing about the good times.

Finally his tiny young wife (who looked a lot like Karen Allen from Raiders of the Lost Ark) stood up and told the many mourners that if he could be there, my godfather would say that he had love in his heart for every single person in that overflowing parlor room. Then he would say something like, “Now let’s go have some fun.” So we went straight to the bar. And now I miss a man I never really knew.

lazy

2008-07-21T23:14:00.006-06:00

I'm being a lazy poo. Went to Tomapalooza this weekend. Perhaps I'll tell you all about it in the future. In the meantime, I took some shitty pictures. They are over here...http://www.flickr.com/photos/9627493@N03/

BROTHER AND SISTER

2008-07-15T23:07:00.001-06:00

Support local music! Have a nice day.

2008-06-23T22:48:00.003-06:00

I don’t often plan parties. For one thing, as a single person with no roommates, I have no one to share the work or cost with. Another problem is, as a host, I tend to go one of two ways. Either I stress out and run around making sure peanut bowls are filled and fretting over the amount of fun everyone's having, or I go in the absolute opposite direction and get shit faced drunk while I leave my guests to fend for themselves.

This weekend, at my pool party, I went for the latter. Thankfully I invited a lot of really cool people who have no problem joining in on the fun even if their host is too much of a drooly mess to muster a “thanks for coming” by the end of the night.

I started out ok, I had food and drinks set up, I greeted people, introduced people, tried to get the ball rolling. Little did I know I just had to drink a few margaritas to get ME rolling.

2008-06-23T22:45:00.004-06:00

All told, I think about twenty people showed up. I wish I had proof. I took pictures at the beginning when it was still small and contained. After that, all I remember is making a cocktail, losing a cocktail, making another and so on. Also, I never put my clothes back on after dipping in the pool. So yes, some mildly naughty pictures were taken. Think Mily Cirus meets Lastnightsparty.com meets the Lidsay Lohan knife pics with just a whisper of Bettie Paige for class. This doesn’t make me a slut, it just makes me really immature for my age.

By the end of the night I learned:
-Other than poolside, no one is not permitted to walk around my building in nothing but a swimsuit. (Might give the young boys a boner or the old guys a heart attack!)
-Several of my guy friends are smitten with a certain kitten. (http://kittykatlounge.blogspot.com/)
-All my girlfriends have slammin’ bodies.
-The next time I throw a party it’s BYOB.

The next day I found:
A half eaten roast chicken, blue smudges on my walls, (don’t worry, Coco, my mother has a cleaner that’ll wipe those off in a jiffy) and ALL of my diet Ginger ale consumed! It’s ok. What I lost in Ginger Ale, I gained in Jamison and several exotic beers.

Thanks again to everyone who joined in the fun.

2008-06-23T22:38:00.003-06:00

And in other news...

2008-06-23T20:58:00.007-06:00

The band had a photo shoot! Here's a tiny preview.

Rock Star Weekend 3

2008-06-17T00:20:00.003-06:00

Got together with the band. We tied up our collective bootstraps and worked on some recording, which is harder than it seems. Especially if you don't always have the proper equipment. (that's what SHE said!) We had to record the whole band simultaneously because we are not fancy pants wealthy recording artists who can record each person separately and adjust the levels. Yet. Thankfully our guitarist knew what all the little buttons and doodads were for. We recorded two songs and they sound pretty good considering we could barely hear each other while making them. We should have a myspace music page up by the 21st.

2008-06-17T00:18:00.004-06:00

Then it was off to a good old fashioned, backyard punk show. Met many interesting folks. A few under agers, but don’t worry the guy at the keg made sure to say, “You’re twenty one right?” before handing a beer to a very sheepish looking girl who said nothing. I abruptly turned around and demanded she tell me who was president when she was born. She looked like she might shit herself, so I just laughed and walked away.

I caught these two doing filthy things to each other in the bathroom. I’m guessing they were in high school too because, as they scurried to adjust themselves and make an exit, I could hear them discussing where they might go to fuck. He suggested a park or somthing romantic like parking a lot. Not a lot of options when you’re still living with mommy.

2008-06-17T00:13:00.005-06:00

I don’t know whose place that was, but it didn’t stop me from peeing in their toilet and posing with their children’s toys.

Several bands played. I didn’t really catch all their names. These guys were the youngest to play. I think they hit puberty just as they were hitting the stage. They did mostly (all?) covers. It was cute. Like if the muppet babies had a hard core cover band. My guitarist was a little critical of them, but I told him to shut it. Give ‘em a break, they're still wet behind the ears. There were a lot of older hard core punk types there, and it was like everyone there was in a band. I’m sure it was intimidating. They look nervous don’t they? It’s the same look my high school boyfriend had when I showed him my boobs for the first time. Humbled and terrified.

2008-06-17T00:09:00.005-06:00

My favorite performance was the Bloody Turncoats. If you get a chance, you should check them out.

I’m sure there were other great bands, but we had to leave early to head to V’s for the freak show.

2008-06-17T00:03:00.006-06:00

Before we left, we bumped into the lead singer of this new local band called the No No’s. The No No’s are a hard rocking band and their singer has a great big wonderfull voice. But she’s this young, petite, blonde thing who doesn’t come across as extremely worldly, in my opinion. I barely know her, but she seems very nice, and we’re equally curious and supportive of each other’s music endeavors. However, I’m pretty sure I scared her with my big mouth and ambiguous sexual morals. I told her this story that I thought she’d find funny. I told her that the bassist had been admiring her boots as she walked in. I didn’t hear her correctly, and I said, “Yeah, I think they’re like a B cup.” The singer kind of had this look on her face like I had just crapped on her carpet, so I high tailed it out of there.

2008-06-17T00:00:00.002-06:00

Then we headed to the freak show. It sucked. Actually, the opening band was decent. The lead singer was adorable, but I would have just stayed at the other place if I wanted to hear more music. Then some asshole in a suite and prerecorded music wrapped him self up in the American flag and sang a bunch of stupid songs FOREVER! He looked like he thought he was a genius. I toyed with the idea of walking up to the stage and punching him square in the balls. So then after that this guy with bubbly skin got on stage and bitched about how hard it was to get a job and make friends because everyone thought he was contagious. At this point I stepped outside for a smoke. Soon after, we went to Perkins. Now THAT’s a freak show!

More pics...click older posts

2008-06-16T23:49:00.007-06:00

And don’t forget dear old dad! On Sunday my parents and I went to Punch pizza for dinner and were all disappointed. Their pizza is soggy in the middle, and their sauce tastes funny. Nice employees, though.

Drank more wine at the Stone Arch Arts Festival.

This girl was very good if you like soft country western music. Beautiful voice. Didn’t catch the name. Something Rae. (no, not Rachael!) Their peddle steel player was fucking awesome. I should know, I used to fuck a peddle steel player.

2008-06-16T23:38:00.006-06:00

I got these cool ass necklaces at the festival. One necklace was reversible. I picked it because one of the picture reminded me of a picture we had growing up. Turns out she had used old postcards she had found in Paris. Oh lala!

So after spending all day in the hot sun and drinking wine, my dad and I rallied and went out for some late night karaoke and MORE drinking. I sang some Rush and Tenacious D because I enjoy giving boners to nerdy men.

And then Monday came. Back to work, bitch! Rock star weekend is over. For now.

I won't show you my ass. I prefer to talk out of it.

2008-06-10T23:59:00.007-06:00

My mother and I have always considered ourselves feminists by the truest definition of the word. Feminism as defined by dictionary.com is:

1. the doctrine advocating social, political, and all other rights of women equal to those of men.
2. (sometimes initial capital letter ) an organized movement for the attainment of such rights for women.
3. feminine character.

In other words, equal rights, bitches. It’s not as complicated as some would have you believe. I’m happy to tell you it is not the indoctrination of little girls into lesbianism, or the destruction of family values. Also, and some of you may be disappointed to hear, this has nothing do with the way a woman should choose to conduct her life. For example, using the word bitch is not an anti feminist act. Well, only if you use it the way I did, which is more in a slangy jest. (It’s one of those vernacular gray areas like when the brothers call each other the N word.)

Feminism is the opportunity to live life the way I choose. It does not have a say in how I choose to live it.

This is where my mother and I differ. She was a child of the sixties when the feminist and sexual movements were just gaining some leg. New opportunities were popping up for women in the workplace and in the bedroom. In all the excitement, beliefs were morphed. Like many of the movements of the time, Feminism turned extremist. Opportunities for women in the workplace turned into disdain for the housewife. Any woman appearing to subjugate themselves to a man was systematically kicked out of the so called sisterhood. Since sexual freedom was so new, no one could understand why a woman would try to sell her sexuality. A concept some might call slavery. Of course they would be wrong, since stripping pays way better than slavery.

My mom thinks it’s sad that some girls in America have no other chance to make a good living other than stripping, prostitution or just wearing something sexy to move up in the world. If that’s their only choice, then yeah, I think that’s sad too. It definitely does not jibe with feminism. But what if we do have all these opportunities and we still choose to feed the male libido for profit? In my opinion, this is where we actually end up tipping the equality scales. Not many men can make the kind of money women do by getting sexy. How many famous male porno stars can you name besides Ron Jeremy?

Now look at the third listed definition of feminism; feminine character. For most women feminine character is unavoidable much like masculinity is unavoidable for most men. The mistake is to confuse these traits for weakness or toughness respectively. Each trait holds its own unique power. Many of us use it to our advantage without even thinking about it. Who hasn’t flirted their way into or out of a situation? Even Gloria Steinem used her body as a tool to get a job as a waitress for Playboy. (Ultimately exposing the poor working conditions of her fellow female coworkers.)

As for me, I work all day for peanuts at a “respectable” job. Meanwhile there are women like Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends who frolic all day like half naked, brain damaged nymphs and they are rolling in cash. Who’s the bitch now?

Rain, rain, go away

2008-06-06T00:30:00.001-06:00

I always thought angst was kind of cool, and that a bad attitude was sexy. I voraciously consumed all things surly and honed my technique at a very young age. Black was my uniform, an indifferent glare my calling card. I made certain never to let on that I was once a fair haired child, carefree and prone to anthropomorphizing my stuffed animals, day dreaming about being a cheerleader and marrying Ricky Schroeder.

Somewhere along the way the façade became real. I can't pinpoint exactly when it started. Maybe it came with the explosion of grunge rock. I know it ended with binge drinking and Hitler documentaries.

Soon I was writing angry letters to the editor and reading feminist poetry in dark coffee shops. Was it political unrest? The riot grrrl movement? Perhaps it was merely living with heartache after heartache and topping it with a heaping pile of rejection.

All I know for certain is that I began to permanently scowl and curse at my television. Witnessing happiness in my fellow mankind became unbearable. Traditional ideals like family and children sent a shudder to the very core of my soul.

But when, exactly, did I become such a huge bitch?

Today I went to the grocery store. As I stood in the checkout line, I watched a little boy play with his tiny toy car. The floor of the store was so shiny, smooth and vast; that he couldn't resist testing the surface with his treasured trans am. With each new stroke and "vroom vroom" he rolled farther along. When his mother was sufficiently distracted, he threw all caution to the wind and sent his prize sailing along the floor as fast and as far as his toddler hands could thrust it. The car, of course, immediately lost all control and flipped dozens of times in a matter of three or four feet. Just as quickly, the young boy raced to recover it.

Moments before he reached his destination I had a fleeting and evil impulse. I thought how funny it would be to step in front of this child and give the toy a good swift kick, sending it hurtling away from it's owner.

Maybe my mood was already soured by having to be in a grocery store,which, as everyone knows is one of the top five most depressing places on the planet, but I took great pleasure in this fantasy.

The little boy retrieved his car, and for the first time I saw his face. He wore such an expression of utter joy and accomplishment. He had gotten away with something. He had this childish itch to scratch and happily, he had satisfied it. Suddenly, I could feel the immense pleasure of this silly little act too. For a moment I was a kid again and I remembered just how it felt. It made me want to cry.

2008-05-18T18:17:00.001-06:00

My imitation of this dude-> http://kittykatlounge.blogspot.com/2008/05/aint-no-party-like-lutefisk-sushi-party.html

Xanadu

2008-05-13T09:07:00.008-06:00

What did I do this weekend? I went to an 80's prom theme party with people who actually remember the 80's. One woman wore her original dress from 1983. I found a dress in the back of my closet that I think I bought because it reminded me of my green polyester dress. I decided to go with the Xanadu/Olivia Newton John look.

2008-05-13T09:02:00.008-06:00

Once we arrived, we were directed to this huge party bus.

We drove around the lakes for a while, and then we were taken to this place with lots of crazy rooms.

Theres a coffee cup in the kitchen!? Wwwhhhaat?

Whatever. Let's dance!

2008-05-12T11:13:00.001-06:00

So we took turns posing in front of stuff.

2008-05-12T11:09:00.006-06:00

Hey mom, remember how I used to always dream about building a room with a waterfall, a giant guitar table, and a huge bottle of wine?

And remember how I used to go on and on about how I'd just love to have a lifesized I dream of Jeannie bottle room? Well I got that too.

What was this place? Who knows. Perhaps it was Xanadu. Well, a cheesy Xanadu. Like the movie.

I trust you to kill me

2008-04-26T00:49:00.007-06:00

Oh Keifer, I never got into 24, but I really dug Lost Boys. However, at the time I was more into Corey Haim. I know, what the fuck, right? Wait, have you and Corey ever tied one on together? Just imagine! Naw, Corey's got some serious addiction problems. He'd probably do a couple shots and then instantly become obsessed with scoring some cocaine. He's not a fun drunk like you and I.

And look how cute your mugshot is. It's the cutest mugshot in Hollyood and you didn't even try like that faker Paris Hilton! Your mugshot reminds me of a really good school photo. You're like the boy girls stare at for hours in their yearbooks.

But you really MUST stop drinking and driving you naughty boy. You have lots of money for limos and cabs and lots of friends you can call. Awww. I know your sorry. Do your time and be safe.

Japanese to English

2008-04-23T01:06:00.002-06:00

I was reading a friend’s latest blog entry http://kittykatlounge.blogspot.com/ when suddenly a memory of an old coworker popped into my head. I don’t think I’ve thought of her once since I quit the peepshow. I want to say her stage name was Jasmine, but I don’t exactly remember.

You know how when you’re watching particularly bad television and a really racist stereotype of an Asian person comes on? You know like, “Love you long time, me so horney, I can’t pronounce my L’s?” Well that’s pretty much Jasmine in a nutshell. Only the shell was indeed quite nutty.

She once told me she had to leave Japan because she “accidentally” got mixed up with the mob there. Then there was some story of how she could go to jail because, at that time, she had also been unwittingly driving around in a car with a dead body locked in the trunk. Her English was pretty bad, so the details were fuzzy. It struck me though, that her stories, although scary and serious, seemed funny when she told them. I think she was doing it intentionally.

It was funny listening to her describe shows to prospective buyers. Even without a perfect grasp of the language she’d always go for the hard sell. Some guy would just be casually walking by on the way to the bathroom and she’d say “Hey, come here, you like a pooosee?” “Why don’t you give money for pooosee?” “No?” “You gay?” Then of course the men would think she was a prostitute and I’d have to step in and explain. Usually this would end up helping me get a show, so I thought Jasmine was just fine.

However, she had some very gross habits. She was a petite woman with a pudgy gut and she LOVED to eat. She was always ordering Chinese food mostly and she would sit in the peepshow display room slumped down on the couch, a bowl of hot noodles balanced on her belly, legs spread like an old man, wearing nothing but a thong and a pushup bra. Then she would proceed to burp and shoot her, practically naked, ass farts all over the communal couch.

But the real kicker was when she decided to tweeze her pubic hair on that communal couch right in front of me and every employee and customer in the store. I was AMAZED! And you know what? She was equally amazed when I begged her to stop. She couldn’t understand how it was a faux pas. Then again, most of us were doing far weirder things in the private shows.

What the dress did

2008-04-21T11:45:00.020-06:00

Once upon a time in the seventies, my aunt wore a polyester green dress to her junior high school dance. Years later, the dress ended up in a box of costumes in my basement. By the nineties, I had rediscovered the green dress and wore it to a costume party. I went as disco girl or something. It was at this time I started to notice the awesome powers of the polyester green dress. It was beyond comfortable. It had no waistband, and the polyester always clung to my hips in a flattering manner. It was sleeveless, but had a cute little matching cover up. It had the appearance of dressy attire, but felt more like I was wearing nightgown. The perfect dress.

Ok maybe it's not perfect. The style of it is very dated and it's starting to show it's age. I've had to sew up a hole or two, the armpits are discolored, but since I chopped off the bottom and changed it from a gown to a nineties inspired Courtney Love looking dress I've had beer dumped on it, slept in it, walked through wooded areas in the black of night, attended at least one bachelorette party and one block party in it. All in total comfort.

My Aunt, who now has two grown children of her own shakes her head in disbelief to know that the dress still gets worn. I can't wait to show her the pictures from this weekend.

My friend Oliver took me to the gun range. I had only shot a rifle at summer camp, but this was very different. First off, it's loud as hell at an indoor shooting range. It was hard not to flinch sometimes. The guy next to me had a gun that sounded like a cannon even with ear protection on. His bullets were causing some major damage to his target. I kept wanting to scream, "This is my BOOMSTICK!"

I had many mixed feelings at the range. Since I'm kind of scared of guns, I felt anxious, but one of the keys to shooting well is to relax. I kept taking yoga breaths as I aimed and pulled the trigger. Shooting a gun feels great once you get going. It feels powerful. Like organized chaos. It's similar to the feeling I get riding on a motorcycle. Only the gun felt a little better because I had less chance of harming myself. I did pretty well too, although mostly I wanted to jump up and down and wave my gun around screaming like a cartoonish gold prospector or strike a pose like Bonnie and Clyde. Behavior like this, however is not actually encouraged by most gun enthusiasts.

There was also a bit of sexual energy going on there. I think guys who are into guns get a little excited to see a woman who might have similar interests. Let's face it, most girls tend to shy away from those things, so yeah, I guess it would be little hot to see a girl who shoots. Take Annie Oakley or the bikini clad machine gun toting video babes, for example.

So then after the guns, we went to a friends birthday party. It was fun and I'd show you pictures, but apparently, all I did that night was stand in a corner stuffing food into my face. Not pretty. Although maybe a guy who's really into food would be impressed? Well in that case, here's one pic with my guitarist Roe-k and the lovely bassist Xtina.

2008-04-20T03:20:00.000-06:00

2008-04-20T03:10:00.000-06:00

2008-04-20T03:04:00.000-06:00

2008-04-20T03:00:00.000-06:00

2008-04-20T02:57:00.000-06:00

2008-04-20T02:53:00.000-06:00

WHATEVER

2008-04-20T02:48:00.001-06:00

Kinda shy for an extrovert

2008-04-14T20:32:00.006-06:00

Sorry it's been a while since I've written. I've started composing a few posts, but I can't seem to finish them.

Still doing the music thing, although it will be a long time till we actually play out. I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I had a bit of a celebrity sighting at the new rehearsal space. I saw Sean Daly and Anthony Davis of Atmosphere. I didn't say anything to them because I am an insecure coward, and didn't want to come off as an over excited groupie, but there they were in the flesh. I practically bashed head on into Mr. Daly, but I just said excuse me and scurried away. I don't know if they rehearse at the same space as us or what. I hope so. They are local boys who made good and I look up to them. It would seem like a good omen.

I also have some pretty good/fucked up memories associated with their music. Maybe I'll tell you about it sometime.

Rock Star Weekend Part II

2008-04-05T23:39:00.013-06:00

The night started at 11:15. I got home from work, poured a cocktail and other things, constructed the evening’s outfit. Made it over to Gluek’s by midnight. Normally Gluek’s on a Saturday night is not my kind of crowd, but the one appeal they offer is live band karaoke. Plus Roe-K, my guitarist, wanted me to meet this guy Peter who leads the band there and apparently has some top of the line recording equipment in his house. Roe-K really respects this guy and wanted to have me sing for him and possibly see if we’d all like to get together at some point and make some music.

Gluek’s was fucking crowded with people I normally tend to dislike. I was barely there five seconds when I am immediately trapped behind some drunk, daddy’s girl desperately trying to win the affection of the dude who checks ID’s. Suddenly Roe-K appears, grabs my hand and swiftly rushes me ahead of the line and to a man who stamps my hand, no charge. I saved five whole bucks. Roe- k knows people.

I order a Jamison on the rocks and peruse the list of songs. Sadly, the selection is as void of personality as the crowd, which consists mostly of white trust fund babies and SUV enthusiasts. Let’s see, should I go with the Proclaimer’s 500 miles, or Alanis Morrisette’s You otta know? Bobby McGee gets sung (and usually butchered) too many times in any karaoke bar. In fact it was being sung right then, by a woman who was actually doing it quite well.

I decided to go with good old Hit me with your best shot. Immediately I am ushered to the stage. Like I said, Roe-K knows people. But shit! I hadn’t taken my coat off yet. I hadn’t even taken a sip of my Jamison! Plus I was following a successful Bobby McGee. My legs felt shaky.

I couldn’t really hear myself, but apparently I did well because Peter told Roe-K to defiantly give him a call. Plus some guy kissed me on the cheek and told me he wanted to have my babies.

We all parted ways at the bar around one. I had just enough time for a drink and a slice at Luce’ before the bar closed. On my way over, I bumped into Shorty, who is someone I have affectionately referred to as a bootlicker. He lives in my building, and he gets off by being kicked in the balls. I don’t normally spend any time with Shorty because he has such a one track mind, but he’s not so bad when you’re drunk and feel like abusing someone. I asked him if he wanted to join me but he said he couldn’t. Well now, maybe I knew he would like it, or maybe I thought it would make for an interesting sight on the crowded city street, but I decided to kick him straight in the balls without warning and curse him out. He dropped to his knees and moaned with pleasure, “Thank you mistress!” I laughed and walked away.

At the bar I started talking with a young woman who was alone with a book of poetry. We had a pretty nice discussion about the importance of anger and depression. Without it, we would never appreciate happiness, or get angry enough to fight for something.

Then just as things are shutting down, Shorty appears. I make him walk me home because I’m feeling drunk and bossy. When people walk by, I punch him in the balls. He begs me to take him home, but I tell him my boyfriend is coming over and I’d rather spend my time with a real man. He says he’d like to suck my boyfriend’s cock while I watch.

We get to the building and into the elevator when he immediately drops to his knees and starts kissing my boots. Something he does every time we’ve ended up alone on the elevator. When we get to his floor, I give him a push with my boot and tell him to jerk it off alone. I get home and wait for the ‘real man’ to show up.

Five minutes later and I’m at home, singing hit me with your best shot and trying to imagine how it sounded to the audience that evening when suddenly I hear a light tapping on my door. Usually when someone comes over, the phone rings, and I have to buzz them in. Who the fuck is this?

I look out the peephole and, I shit you not, it’s Shorty wearing a dog collar, deep throating a black dildo and gently tapping at my door. For about three minutes he does this as I sit in my apartment in an annoyed state of shock and awe. My neighbors better not have fucking seen that.

Finally the real man comes over and fucks me within an inch of my life. I try to tell him about Shorty, but he’s just gotten back from a wake and is maybe not in the right headspace to hear such a story.

Woke up late the next day and picked up Roe-K for a very productive rehearsal and writing session. I’m quite proud of what we’ve come up with so far and we seem to work well together although I did call him an asshole at one point. What’s nice is that we are freakishly comfortable around each other and I can say all kinds of weird shit like, “I got fucked so hard last night I had to apologize to my pussy today. Then the condom broke and we had to get some Plan B. I made him go into the drugstore with me so I wouldn’t look like such a pathetic slut.” Roe-K is like a good girlfriend with a strong mental constitution.

We end the practice with dinner at Psycho Suzi’s. I sit and quietly lust over the burly bartender with the tattoo sleeves of Japanese inspired mermaids. I top off my evening at home with leftovers and a Netflix movie; I trust you to kill me. I decide that Kiefer Sutherland and I would make great friends.

Your lawyer is a masturbator

2008-04-02T23:47:00.007-06:00

He was and probably still is a regular at the peepshow. Regular enough for us to know what he did for a living and regular enough for us to know what he wanted. A creature of habit, he would often appear at the same time and the same day of the week.

Most of the girls were afraid of him because he never smiled and rarely spoke. Even while he masturbated to your tits, he scowled. It was hard to tell if you were doing what he liked, till he finished. And he always finished. It was never with a smile, of course, but always with his tie tossed over his shoulder like he was settling in to eat a nice big dinner. (or like a continental soldier if your ears hang low)

The memories of most of my old customers are a blur of penises and perversions. But some, like this scowling lawyer, are burned perfectly into my brain.

It’s been almost two years since I worked the peepshow. My hair is different, but I occasionally wonder what would happen if I’m ever recognized. I’ve concluded that most guys wouldn’t want to shout out that they once jerked off to me in a cum soaked booth. Worse case scenario, they will scratch their heads and insist I look familiar.

Yesterday I saw the lawyer. There I was at my new fancy job and fully clothed in conservative business attire. No stilettos and cigarettes, no thigh high strut, no jiggle of the tits. No smells of disinfectant and lube. No sounds of orgasm in the distance.

As usual the lawyer was wearing a tie. But this time he wasn't putting money into a machine. This time he was standing next to his wife and holding a bottle of champagne, perhaps awkwardly? Maybe he recognized me. It was too hard to read his surly poker face. But I was hoping he was shaking in his man panties if only for a moment.

I took a look at his wife. She had a pretty crabby face too, but attractive. Much older than any of the girls her husband might solicit. In fact, she looked about my mom’s age. Raise your hand if you’ve seen this guy's penis! Raise your hand if you’ve seen my nipples!

As they left, the lawyer’s wife thanked me. Ummm…you’re welcome?

Saturday

2008-03-26T00:15:00.007-06:00

Saturday is a day worth mentioning. Lots of shit happened in a slacker wanna be rockstar sort of way. Got up, kicked my man out of bed and threw on some tights, short sweatshirt dress and topped it off with some pigtails and an orange hunting cap. This is important to mention since the next stop was Fleet Farm where I met my guitarist to get keys made for our new rehearsal space. We got a lot of looks. If you are ever feeling invisible, put on something slutty and go to a place like this.

Discovered that Fleet Farm sells camouflage bikinis. Almost bought one, but at a place where you can buy three dollar t-shirts, the thirty dollar suit seemed like a rip off. Plus, I was feeling a little too fat and pasty for swimwear.

Met up with the bass player, a cool chick of twenty-three who is tall, single, blonde, and heterosexual, but recently chopped off her hair and keeps getting mistaken for a lesbian. Went shopping at the Salvation Army for some furniture and decorations for the space. Got a table and spent about eight bucks on old albums to staple to the walls for inspiration and to break up the crazy bright purple walls.

Rehearsed for about three hours then broke for dinner. Drummer couldn’t join us, he took off for the Mike Dougherty concert.

Had a burger at the Triple Rock with guitarist and cute bass player. The bassist had this thing I had never heard of. It’s like a piercing, but technically an implant right above her cleavage. A metal thing you can screw jewelry into. Kind of cool, but unfortunately, it was starting to look infected. The bassist wasn’t sure, so she left us for an appointment to get it checked out. Smartass that I am, I made sure to yell out, “Goodbye, I HOPE IT’S NOT INFECTED!” as she walked out, and for a minute the joint went silent. I only mention this because it was totally hilarious.

Got a stamp on my wrist from my buddy who works the door there. Not because I wanted to see the show, but because I thought the stamp was amusing. It said, “Are we there yet?” My wrists are pretty small, so the word ‘yet’ got cut off. He placed it right below this cut on my wrist I had gotten days earlier after a nasty fall. The guitarist took a picture of it with his phone. The result was impressive. It looked like I had tried to slit my wrist, and in the background is a partial Budweiser sign and the backside of a barfly. We discussed making this our first album cover.

Met up with the guitarist’s girlfriend at his place and drank whiskey while we played with/laughed at their two kittens and their hyper, needy, overweight pug dog. Talked rock, listened to some tunes, discussed how we would do it better, and how we would never be pussy sell outs.

Took a cab over to Turf Club to watch some bands. Got pretty drunk, while guitarist and girlfriend got sleepy. They left, I stayed. Told them to leave their door unlocked since I was planning to crash on their couch.

Bar close time, and I was hungry, not sleepy. Walked over to Perkins where I was the only white chick in the non smoking section. Waited FOREVER for biscuits and gravy. Ate my food and called the cab company where I was told it would be about thirty minutes for my ride. FUCK.

Looked around and noticed a guy eating alone and wearing a Misfits sweatshirt. Still a little tipsy, I decided to sit at his booth and introduce myself. He seemed a little weirded out at first, but quickly warmed up. He offered to drive me back to the guitarist’s place and then proceeded to tell me way too much about himself. I learned he was not much of a drinker, never fucked but “made love,” had a huge penis and a stupid nickname, was raised by an abusive single mom, and made sure to have a separate ring tone for every single one of his friends.

Rode back with Misfits guy and sat helplessly trapped in his car while the snow began to fall heavily and he regaled me with tales of how awesome he apparently was despite being heavily medicated for severe anxiety. Made the mistake of giving him my phone number. Never quite found the right time to tell him I was already dating someone. I guess technically I am a tease.

Finally made it to guitarist’s door and found the damn thing locked. They had forgotten to notify the roommate that company was coming. At this point it was about four a.m. and I was sober, so I just drove home and happily crashed in my own comfy bed.

The next day, Misfits guy called twice. I let it go to voicemail.

RAWK

2008-03-18T10:44:00.004-06:00

Sorry It's been a few days since my last post. Like Danny Zuko says, "I've been rockin' and rollin' and what not.)

After a long, depressing, fat inducing winter, I am finally getting the chance to record with my band. It sounds really pretentious when I say that, but I don't care. I'm having the greatest time. I love writing and acting, but I've always wanted to collaborate with someone musically. Finally, I've found someone I really meld with in that way. It's hard to find this kind of person. Maybe even harder than finding true love. This is not to say that our music will blow your mind, make you instantly orgasm and of course get us some high falooten record deal. I have no expectations and no need to please you. I'm purely in it for the creative and narcissistic aspect. That's right bitches, I'm lead singer. Finally all those hours lip syncing to old Van Halen rocords has paid off. A dream realized.

So soon we'll have a MySpace page up, but in the meantime, I've started my own music page. It's http://www.myspace.com/thejaclynsmithcollection.

The music on this page is all me. I sang into a webcam mic and added music from a cheap software program,. so it is FAR from polished. The first song is the first one I ever wrote with the software. (Mixcraft 3) The second is a song I wrote yesterday in about ten minutes. I hope you get the humor of it. I kind of hate my vocals on the second one. I tried to rerecord this morning, but I'm having technical difficulties. Just keep in mind that I sang this after working an eight hour shift, smoking a bowl and imbibing in a glass of whiskey. I was also in my underwear if that helps bring some sexy back. Anyway, check it out if you want.

Tip Toes

2008-03-07T15:45:00.009-06:00

Maybe it’s because I started drinking as soon as the liquor store opened today, but I’ve just watched the most interesting movie on Netflix. J’adore Netflix, although it’s too bad they don’t offer porn.

I had never heard of this movie (called Tip toes,) but I rented it because the cast list was pretty impressive. Matthew Mcconaughey, Kate Beckinsale, Gary Oldman, Patricia Arquette, Peter Dinklage.

For those of you who don’t know Peter Dinklage; First of all…..PETER DINKLAGE? Are you KIDDING me? You poor fucker! I’m SO sorry your parents are stupid assholes. You and the Olympic Swimmer Misty Hymen should really meet for coffee.

What makes matters worse is that Peter Dinklage is a dwarf. It makes me think of that scene in Fear and loathing in Las Vegas when Dr. Gonzo screams, “Did you see what god just did to us?!!!” Maybe it’s not politically correct to feel sorry for someone ‘horizontally challenged,’ but shit, you have to admit he’s got more than enough obstacles to overcome.

That said, may I also admit that I would totally FUCK Peter Dinklage. That dude rocks. He’s the most attractive little person I’ve ever laid eyes on AND he’s a fantastic actor and in case you didn’t know, I am a total whore for talent.

So it also stars Matthew Mcconaughey who can smoke all the weed he wants, impregnate all the women he wants, workout in a semi’ homosexual way on the beach with as many men as he wants, hell, he can even play the bongos and eat crackers in my bed. He’s an attractive, laid back man and that’s all I need to know. The plot is that he’s the only normal sized guy in a family of dwarfs. He accidentally impregnates his love, Kate Beckinsale, and conflict/hilarity ensues.

Which brings me to Miss Kate; I don’t know about her personal life and I don’t care. I want to kiss Beckinsale’s buttery, sweet muffin, and although I don’t exactly know what that means, I will say that whatever disgusting thought you are having right now, that is precisely what I intend to do. I truly believe that Kate Beckinsale pisses whiskey and shits only butterflies and rainbows. If you claim otherwise, I will smite thee.

Actually, Matt and Kate are the leads so if you don’t like the movie, you can always spend the time wondering how a Matt and Kate sandwich would taste. (homo)

Honorable mention goes to Patricia Arquette. First off Pat gets points merely for being an Arquette. Arquettes rule. David is like Crispen Glover but funny, Alexis is transgender AND played a young boy in an 80’s video by the Tubes. Rosanna had a song written about her and….two words…After Hours. But Patricia is an anomaly. She’s built like a blonde bimbo, has that high soft girly victim voice and yet there is an inner tough guy in all she does. She plays whores the best because of it. This makes her the ultimate cinematic girlfriend. If you only watch this movie and True Romance, she would have you believe that she was Mother Theresa and/or Miss America if it weren’t for the fact that she grew up in a trailer on the edge of town and had to fight off her father and two brothers all her life whilst fucking her masochistic English teacher. Patricia should have been in After Hours. She’s the girl you lose your job for. She’s the girl that dreams of a Beaver Cleaver existence if only Ward Cleaver fancied cock rings and piss play.

Let us not forget Gary Oldman. In the nineties, I wanted to chop Gary up and smoke him. I wanted to put his entire face up my ass while he recited Shakespeare. When I read the synopsis for the movie, I thought there was a misprint. It said he was playing a dwarf. Misprint, right? No. Never under underestimate the power of Oldman! All you need is a little person body double and well placed camera angels and BAM! If Gary weren’t so famous, the visual trickery would not be so obvious.

What I truly loved about the movie was its humanity. I don’t know anything about its author, but I get the feeling dwarfism was a subject very close to his heart.

Little people have many challenges. Not just socially but physically. I can't imagine what it's like to try to be an actor. Currently little people tend to be cast as magical or humorous charactes like leprechans. When they aren’t fighting prejudice, many are dealing with intense physical pain. This is pretty much what I learned from this movie. That and how much I would totally fuck a dwarf like Peter Dinklage. Without a shirt he looks like a buff ten year old with tattoos. Is that wrong?

Looking for roommates

2008-03-04T03:13:00.010-06:00

Anyone looking for an apartment in Uptown? My friend, who is a very nice guy, has found himself in a shitty situation. His two roommates have not been paying rent and will be evicted by the end of the month.

My friend gets to stay, but cannot cover their share. (4 or 5oo a month each) He has to either find two new roommates, or a new place.

It's pretty obvious that it would be easier not to move, but he kept whining in my ear tonight and hemming and hawing. "But I don't want to move."

I was like, look, your apartment is great (typical Uptown place...old woodwork...on the second floor of a house...centrally located near the CC club) you just need to advertise and I'm sure there are plenty of people who would love to move in with you. (he's super laid back, very easy to live with) But he continued to whine and mope which was irritating and not like him at all.

I guess his landlord will place an ad this week, but I told my friend to try to do a little advertising on his own. I thought I'd help him out and do a little shout out here as well. Seriously, it's a nice place. And doesn't every hipster want to live in Uptown?

Titty Hard On

2008-02-27T03:46:00.007-06:00

How great are tits? They’re super rad! They feed babies, hide cash, compliment fashion and have a huge fan base. It’s the only body part that looks better when you gain weight. You just have to find yourself a low cut flowing frock and once again you are not only a presentable representation of a human being, but a fuck worthy sex goddess built to be reckoned with.

Tits have a double whammy sex appeal. First off there are two of them to fit into your two hands* and secondly they have each been individually kissed with nipples. Nipples are like snowflakes that come in brown and rose hued colors. They change shape when you touch them. A woman has no control over her nipples. The nipple is like her tell.

Of course, you don’t have to just be sexually aroused to get them hard, but that’s what we’re all thinking. Yep, we’re all thinking MAN she is hot to trot! I bet she likes it dirty! But you’ll be safe because everyone will think you are inadvertently hard and not assume that you planned the exposure all along like a woman does with cleavage.

What’s great is you don’t have to have a big rack to rock the nips. In fact it’s easier for the small chested because you don’t have to wear a bra. For some reason, once you are big enough for a C cup, bra makers think you want padding which makes no sense to me whatsoever. Why must we be forced to be prudish about our pretty nipples? They should be a fashion accessory and, like the beauty mole, enhanced for effect. Keep the little guys covered for some mystery, but in these times of war make sure they are poking through for a hearty salute.

Jennifer Aniston was the queen of the titty hard on. Seriously, go watch some old Friends reruns. She had a fascinating combination of both boobage and nips. I’d really love to know what kind of bra she was wearing. Between that and her hair, it was probably half the reason people watched the show.

*My apologies to those with out boobies or hands. Don’t worry; I’d still fuck you for your mind.

Smile!

2008-02-25T06:39:00.003-06:00

I am afflicted with permanent crabby face. I once got kicked out class in the sixth grade because the teacher thought I was shooting him crusty glances. I have to walk around in public with a forced Mona Lisa smirk just to look normal. Otherwise I apparently look like I enjoy kicking puppies or memorizing the s.c.u.m. manifesto. (Valerie solanas, people, look it up)

It’s true I am a sarcastic feminist with a taste for black clothes and verbal cruelty, but all in all I am a pretty happy sort of gal.

What I don’t enjoy are requests from men I don’t know asking me to smile. Yes I look crabby, but is this any of your business? And if you are so concerned with my unhappy face, why not ask me how I am doing rather than commanding me to act as if I’m inexplicably happy?

If I were a guy would I be getting as many requests to suddenly grin on demand? Or would I be revered as brooding and dangerous? Who walks around grinning constantly? The mentally challenged, and people on X, that’s who. So if you really want to see me smile, bash my brains out or drug me.

Cigarette Mash

2008-02-22T03:12:00.006-06:00

I am trying to quit smoking again. This will be my 6347th attempt. I feel slightly more than serious about it this time. For one thing, I’m actually making the effort to ignore the whiney little bitch voice in my head that insists we light one up when drinking a cocktail, after dinner, during boredom or whilst perusing pornography.

I’m trying to find a replacement for the appetite suppressant that cigarettes used to be for me. Currently I am eating a pound of Starburst candy and drinking myself to sleep. There are wrappers and shot glasses everywhere, just like in college, minus the smokes.

I would also like to lose a few pounds and reduce my caffeine intake, but it’s a serious balancing act when a person has more than one vice. I always felt bad for Chris Farley. That man knew he would die one day soon if he didn’t clean up his act, but he smoked, drank, took heavy drugs and loved to overeat. I suspect he also liked the occasional side order of pussy and caffeine jolts. (who doesn't!) Fuck! Where does one start. They all feel great, and they’re all dangerous. You can’t just quit all those fun things in one day.

So this is how I plan to juggle my current situation: Spend the first half of the day eating yummy vegetables and exercising, spend latter half of the day chemically altered, mindlessly eating fructose, and smugly justifying it all by telling myself that at least it’s not a cigarette. One step at a time baby!

So if you see me, and I have a fag in my hand, just slap that sucker to the ground. I’ll probably get pissed and not talk to you for a while, but you can survive on your own self satisfaction without me for a while, hmm?

A history of family

2008-02-21T08:23:00.005-06:00

It was obvious Petra was a mistake. Her mother was fifty two years old with two ten year old girls by the time she had come along, so Petra’s first memories seemed more like stories from a history book. Anything her family had done, any trips they had taken, any experience seemingly molding who they were as a family, all happened before Petra was born and this left her with an unshakable feeling of loneliness. She was an outsider, an observer of her own tribe. By the time she was eight, everyone had moved on to a new phase in their lives; one that had little room for children. The twins left for University which inspired her mother to take some classes at the community college. Her father, who had always wanted a son, spent most of his time in the basement reading old biographies and collections of poetry. Petra learned quickly that attempts for their attention were futile. She never danced, sang, ran about or told stories of any kind, because she was either met with silence or a distant ‘uh huh.’ She became like a ghost in the house, listlessly wandering through the exceeding quiet.

The twins, Petra’s sisters, also referred to as ‘the girls,’ would come home every so often for a holiday or weekend, and the light and sound of the house would be instantly turned on and magnified. It was such a wonderful feeling for Petra. So good, it almost eclipsed the fact that when someone made reference to ‘the girls,’ they meant only the twins and not her. She would sit, on the footstool in the kitchen watching her family’s animated conversation. Mother would be up and down getting coffee and snacks, and dad would finally emerge from the basement. They became people Petra didn’t recognize. Ones that talked and laughed and looked you in the eye as they smiled with love. She’d hear the old stories over and over again and reveled in them, wishing she could have been there, imagining her parents when they were younger and wondering how she would have reacted had she been there. She wished she had such special memories to share. She wished she had a story to tell that would finally get them to look at her.

Petra longed to feel like one of ‘the girls.’ She wanted to feel the same sisterhood the twins so obviously felt with each other. Watching them together, their closeness was clear. Their minds and bodies would move serendipitously in tandem.

The twins knew their younger sister needed to be close to them and wanted very much to make her feel a part of things, but there was not much they could do for the shy little girl since they were rarely living at home anymore. They also had a hard time being close to Petra because of a secret they had kept since children. A pact unexamined and life altering.

It wasn’t until age ten that Petra found herself a real friend to play with. Her name was Heidi and sometimes she would invite Petra over to her house after school. Heidi’s mother worked from home and would always make time to sit with Heidi in the kitchen to drink hot chocolate and ask about her day. Petra would watch transfixed over her quickly cooling cocoa. This mother daughter duo had the same kind of closeness the twins had. They touched often. They hugged, tickled and fussed as Heidi’s mom would repeatedly try to brush the hair form her daughter’s face. Heidi would whine for her to quit, but it was an obvious jest. Petra could see the love in their eyes as they looked at each other. She tried to imagine a time when her mother had looked at her like that.

Thanksgivings were always a pretty miserable time for Petra’s family. The only surviving relatives living close enough to visit for the holiday were Petra’s grandparents Olive and Clem. Every year, stoic Clem would drive his wife two hours north to see their last surviving daughter. Every year Clem would sit in front of his plate of turkey with one ear at the dinner table and one ear tuned to the football game, and every year Clem would say absolutely nothing as his wife of sixty five years belittled every single adult at the dinner table, with special attention focused on their son in law.

The twins, now twenty, were also not immune. “You girls have gotten awfully fat lately.” “Feed you a lot at school, do they?” “Better be careful because you have very fat genes on both sides of your family.” “Look at your daddy, his hips are so round he’s practically a woman,” She laughed, “And you already have your mother’s double chin.”

“Can I go to Heidi’s now?” Petra asked. She had been invited to her friend’s house to have pie after dinner and she was very excited to see how other families spent the holiday. Surely they didn’t have crabby old ladies yelling at them. They didn’t have an exhausted looking mother or a father who sat quietly with his head down as his manhood was repeatedly insulted. Petra pushed her plate away and got up from the table. Her grandmother grabbed her by the wrist as she walked by.

“Now this one,” Olive said holding the girl in a tight lock, “I suspect this one won’t have to worry.” She’s got the Magneson genes all over her and her mother’s firm jaw line”. “She’ll look like Audrey Hepburn one day.” Petra was confused. “I thought you said mom had a double chin?” The volume in the room went silent while the noise of the football game grew to an almost deafening roar. Everyone stared at Petra. “Who’s Magneson?”

Olive’s mouth was so close to Petra’s ear that it made a ringing noise as she yelped “Jesus, Marion, haven’t you told her yet?” “Gregory, I suppose that was your brilliant idea.” “Never could own up to your own bad mistakes.” “You always expected someone else to take care of your messes.” Petra’s father, head still down, stood up from the table and excused himself to the basement. The twins began to sniffle back tears and at last Petra’s mother looked the young girl straight in the eye, although coldly. She sighed very deeply as if admitting a sort of defeat and began to speak mechanically, almost like someone had put a coin in her to deliver a recorded message.

“Your real mother was my cousin.” She said. “Your father was going to divorce me and be with her after she gave birth to you, but she was killed in a car accident. Your father couldn’t handle it alone, so we worked things out. I’m not your real mother, Petra.” “I’m glad I said it, it’s time you knew.”

There was sound in Petra’s head. A sound she didn’t recognize was coming from her belly and cutting through her throat as she heard it rise to the surface and extricate itself from her body. “I hate you!” She screamed. Each word became an elongated cry, “I hate you!” She broke free from her grandmother’s grip and put on her coat and hat. Then she burst through the front door and into the blindingly bright sun and icy air. Her mother’s words circled and floated above her head. “I’m glad I said it Petra.” She tried to run away from it as fast as she could. She tried to trade the vision of her mother’s cold stare for the stabbing cold air she was now gasping into her lungs. But with each gasp came a new thought. Not my real mother. Not a real family. I’ll never belong with them. Alone, alone, alone. She ran all the way to Heidi’s house before stopping just short of the door to calm herself. Her mother’s cruelty was unbelievable. Only a stranger could be that cruel. Only someone not bound by blood would act like that. She grabbed a handful of snow to wipe her tears and cool the flush from her cheeks and forehead.

When she walked into her friend’s house, she saw something very different from her own Thanksgiving experience. People were everywhere. There were children wrestling and running, adults sitting on couches and on the stairs with plates of pie on their laps, talking loudly to hear themselves over more people talking loudly. Everyone laughing and enjoying each other, no one was fighting and everyone was family. They were everything Petra hoped for. Then she saw Heidi who immediately grabbed her and dragged her into her bedroom.

“God I hate my family.” “I wish they would leave already, my cousins are tearing up the place and my mother keeps forcing me to talk to people I barely know.” “She keeps telling me I’m being rude, she’s such pain sometimes.”

Heidi’s mom walked in just then with two plates of pie. “Hi girls, thought you might want to try some of this pie. It has Snickers candy in it.” Heidi sighed disgustedly. “Knock much?” Her mother ignored the dig. “Your grandmothers leaving pretty soon, Heidi, why don’t you go say goodbye.” Heidi rolled her eyes and stomped out of the bedroom. Her mother sighed as she plopped herself onto the bed next to Petra. “She’s a bit crabby, I’m afraid.” “Not used to having so many people in the house, I guess it gets on her nerves. But this is her family. It’s big and it’s loud and she’s going to have to get used to it whether she likes it or not.” She laughed. “How about you, Petra, did you have a good Thanksgiving? I’ll bet your family isn’t as crazy as ours.”

With that, Petra burst into tears. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. They didn’t know how good their family had it. They were big and full of love and loud voices and touching and laughter. They probably didn’t lie like Petra’s family did. They didn’t have a father who slept around.

“Oh Petra.” Heidi’s mom immediately began consoling the girl. “Petra, I’m sure it’s not all bad, honey, there, there. The woman couldn’t believe she was actually saying ‘there, there’ to the girl, but she had no idea what was wrong so she said all the stereotypical things one says to a crying girl. “It’s going to be ok.” She said, not because she knew everything was going be ok, but because she understood that everyone in this world had their own burdens to bear and that, in effect, somehow really did make everything ok. She cradled the girl and let her sob onto her shoulder.

Then Petra did the oddest thing. She kissed Heidi’s mother on the lips. She put her lips to Heidi’s mother’s lips and held them there as long as she could. She wanted to feel close to someone and she wanted to kiss someone like they kissed in movies right after they said they loved each other. She didn’t know how to kiss, so she smashed her lips into the woman’s face and grabbed her head to hold it there. Heidi’s mother pulled away, shocked.

“She’s not my real mom.” A lump formed in the back of Petra’s throat. “My dad had an affair and I was born and I ruined everything.”

Heidi’s mom did not know what to say. She pulled Petra back into her arms just as Heidi walked in asking what was wrong. “Petra’s having a bad day, honey lets give her a hug.” Heidi became weepy upon seeing her best friend’s face. “Don’t be sad Petra. I love you, don’t be sad.” The three of them sat on the bed as they held each other and listened to the muffled sounds of celebration. It was the first time Petra remembered being held and she was overcome with a feeling of relief. Now she knew she didn’t have to look to her family for support. She didn’t have to work so hard for their love. Love could be found anywhere and despite what her family believed, it didn’t have to be by blood.

It's not me, it's you.

2008-02-11T08:47:00.000-06:00

My first boyfriend bought me a teddy bear and a balloon that said I love you on it, even though we’d only been dating a few weeks. It was extremely embarrassing for all parties involved except maybe for my parents who got to watch with bemused smiles a group of silent, sullen, awkward boys shuffling in a hunched-back pack, with bears and love balloons in hand, through the living room and to the basement where most Jr. High School parties are held.

That balloon freaked the shit out of me. Did he even read that balloon before he bought it? Dammit, what does he want from me? I’m fourteen!

Years later and I’m still not sure what that kid’s deal was but what I do definitely remember is that for the rest of the night he kept grabbing my hand and putting it on his crotch. It was in plain sight of my best friend too and she even pointed it out and told him it was weird, but he kept doing it anyway like a dog with a humping problem.

The very next day I had my friend call him to say I wanted to break up. Easiest breakup ever.

It’s too bad grownups can’t break up like that. I’m sure plenty of people think it’s rude, but I like the idea of a relatively uninvolved third party politely and respectfully giving me such news. They may get yelled at, but since they’re not emotionally involved, the harm could be less severe. Plus there’s at least one calm cool head to lay out any post breakup details. The swapping of personal things, money owed, videos and pictures to be erased or destroyed.

It also saves me from having to go into the details of why I no longer wish to fuck you. Instead, the dumpee will be contacted by a third party via phone or email with a general statement of intention to end any future romantic contact. All questions or notes of appeal may be sent via email. Response not guaranteed. XOXO.

Author's picture for book not yet written, plot not yet created

2008-02-08T11:29:00.000-06:00

Hello there. Please read my book that doesn't exist.

2008-02-08T11:25:00.000-06:00

Here I am getting all porno on your asses. You likey?

2008-02-08T11:14:00.000-06:00

and then I got bored.

I am only human...I take it back. I'm Killroy! Killroy!

2008-01-31T02:27:00.000-06:00

Damn you Target. How dare you sell a vintage style Styx t-shirt that says do mo ari got toe Mr. Roboto on it for the reasonable price of $9.99. I'm only human! The only reason I haven't bought it yet is because I am trying not to buy so many t-shirts. I am a grown lady and i'm trying to by grown lady type clothes. Plus it's red and red always brings out my blotchyness or accentuates my red face when I am red faced drunk. Make fun all you want, Mr. Roboto rocks.

Bumfuck Nowhere

2008-01-25T12:26:00.000-06:00

Holly had a hard time sleeping since her parents had moved her to the middle of bumfuck nowhere. Maybe it was because she was fifteen and her body wouldn't do what she wanted it to. She bled every month now and couldn't run without jiggling. She used to be a tomboy, but now the boys couldn't be bothered with her unless she was willing to fuck them or be the butt of their jokes. She didn't rate much higher with the girls either. Fitting in with them meant she would have to dress in designer clothes and talk about things that bored her. She'd have to be quiet too. Holly wasn't used to being quiet. She was used to snorting when she laughed, making faces, playing with her food, and telling jokes about bodily functions.

Her only friend was a well endowed girl named Marcy who had lost her virginity at the age of twelve. After the news of this spread through their little town, Marcy's reputation was forever spoiled.

Holly and Marcy would sneak out after their parents went to sleep to smoke cigarettes in the park and talk about the things they would do when they were finally old enough to move out. They made a pact to move to New York and become actresses. Sometimes they would go to the airport and dream of being on the planes taking off to new and exciting places. Anywhere was better than the town they lived in. A place invented in the late sixties by an unimaginative architect. Full of one story ramblers and strip malls that were closed on Sundays. God's day. When they weren't dreaming of the future, they were bitching about the present. There was never a damn thing to do. Even if they did have a car, there was nowhere to go. They would get on their bikes and peddle away to the edge town where they were met with nothing. No trees, no mountains, no lights as far as the eye could see. It felt like the end of the world and image left Holly feeling suffocated.

The only thing good about Marcy's bad reputation was that occasionally she'd get an invite to a boy's party; some older boy, a senior or a guy who had already graduated high school. Marcy was always good about including her chubby loud friend Holly in the mix, and the boys didn't care as long as Marcy was there. Good old slutty, big titted Marcy.

Usually Holly didn't drink, but one night she got fed up and gave in. She was tired of being invisible. She was tired of people in her town making snap decisions about her. Either she was nothing, or she was something to be scrutinized and always with bad results. The conclusion was always that she was a freak. She never looked right and she never acted right, so she decided to drink to drown out their judgment.

Marcy faired well at the party because of her looks and her smile and the fact that she always knew how to talk to a guy. Holly sat in the corner observing the party and drinking some awful concoction. She stayed until almost everyone left. She stayed until Marcy got so drunk she started to barf and some guy old enough to know better held her hair back in the futile hope that all his work for the evening would not go to waste. He was going to hold her hair until she got well enough to sleep with him. This made Holly laugh. What an asshole, she thought, and laughed out loud, spilling her drink on the white carpet and pissing off her host.

After staining the carpet, it was clear that no one wanted Holly around. Marcy was too drunk to care about her friend anymore. "Go, Holly, go. I'll be fine." She giggled as the college boy held her up by her waist.

So Holly left. It was stupid, but she left because everyone, including her friend, wanted her gone. Holly walked home past the ramblers and past the park until she was in front of her high school. It was past midnight, but she noticed someone at the front door of the building. It was the drama teacher. She stopped and stood quietly as she watched her teacher taping something to the front door. It was the cast list for the school play. Holly had almost forgotten about her audition. Suddenly her stomach twisted with excitement. She waited until the teacher drove off and then stumbled up to the door. It was hard to focus in her current state and she swayed a little as she tried to read the tiny type. Finally she found her name. It wasn't the lead of course. She wasn't pretty enough for the lead, but she was talented. Talented enough to get a pretty big part, the character lead. The meaty role. It was all Holly had dreamt about for weeks, and there it was, blurry through her drunkenness, but still written plain as day. A lead part and she was only a freshman! People would be pissed on Monday. There was a certain assumption in her school, hell in the whole town as to who would be cast as what, and Holly had just thrown a wrench into all of their plans. She felt higher than she had ever felt in her life. And then she had to pee. Badly. She laughed as she tried to stumble home and then she thought, fuck it. Fuck them. She pulled down her pants right there and squatted down to pee. She pissed all over her stupid high school lawn like she was pissing on the faces of everyone who ever judged her and laughed at her. She stared up at the dark sky and it's bright wonderful stars. The stars she wished on every night. She was going to be somebody. It was obvious now. She had something special in her. Something no one could take away. Something that would take her far away from this awful town, and she would never be back again.

The Brule Report - Digestion Problems

2008-01-24T02:36:00.001-06:00

Because I am wierd. This clip's for you!

Donminatrix is not in my job description

2008-01-21T10:32:00.001-06:00

I’ve decided that one of the guys I work with is a foot fetishist. It’s not like I just decided this about him willy nilly, although I do enjoy making stuff up about people I don’t know just for pure entertainment. It’s a nice way to quietly appease my judgmental side without hurting anyone’s feelings.

For example, although I’ve never met Celine Dion, I choose to believe she has a very unpleasant odor. Not an unclean smell, but imagine if you will something that is the opposite of unclean. As if she is so terrified by her own natural stank that she has to douche herself three times daily and soak herself in expensive flowery old lady perfume.

Most of my judgments are insufficiently researched and based on arbitrary past experiences. I went to college as a theater major, so now I’m convinced I have an excellent gaydar. I believe I can spot a pathological liar a mile away since I’ve dated at least two of them. I’ve never dated a foot fetishist (as far as I know) but I used to go to a local bar famous for performing S & M themed shows (spanking and the like, all perfectly legal and consensual) and the bar was frequented by men I like to call “bootlickers.” Bootlickers are a docile breed of men who will by you drinks all night long if you allow them to worship your boots as you make cruel fun of them with your girlfriends. Shit, why don't I go there anymore?

Anyway, this guy I work with has the tendency to comment a little too much on my shoes, his gaze always lingering a bit too long as if they had Dolly Parton’s breasts attached to them. Seriously, I’ve never had a man make me feel so dirty by looking at my feet without at least buying me a drink first. He is also decidedly bossy without merit. I’m not opposed to disagreeing or saying no to him. I'm pretty sure he secretly likes it. It's just that I always feel a little uneasy when, after our confrontations, he gets this seemingly funny look on his face and immediately excuses himself to the bathroom. I don't get paid enough for that.

Sure as hell don't tell them about your blog!

2008-01-16T08:17:00.001-06:00

The less your coworkers know about you the better off you are. As far as those people are concerned, you are a church going teetotaler with a large family that continually demands your attention.

By withholding information you will have more excuses to get out of work or a work related function. I once got out of a half day’s work by making up a runaway kid sister.

Just be warned. Letting them know even the most insignificant detail of your life could cause future problems.

For example, if you mention you will be heading to a party that evening and you call in the next day because you are sick with the “flu.” Everyone will know that you are full of shit. Lets say you are excited about the plans you’ve made with a person you are attracted to so you chitchat about it at the water cooler with Maude from accounting. Mostly because you never have anything good to talk about with Maude from accounting and you do not have teenaged children to kvetch about nor do you watch Grey’s Anatomy. When Maude sees you the next day with a tiny rats nest in your hair, a big smile on your face, and yesterday’s outfit, she’s going to know you are a whore.

It may not even be as bad as that. I made the mistake of mentioning to a coworker that I’m in a band. It’s something I do that has nothing to do with work. It is the antithesis of my job and it’s something that involves screaming, sweating, brilliant but dirty lyrics, alcohol, smoky rooms and the fantasy that I might get laid in a very hot and steamy manner as a result of it all. It’ll probably be the cause of most of the sick days I’ll be taking this year. It is not something I wish to talk about while wearing dress pants in a cubicle under fluorescent lights. Sober. It’s especially annoying when my coworker who is a woman as old as my mom keeps insisting that perhaps one day I’ll hit the ever elusive “big time” and then she can say she knew me when. Why do people feel the need to do that? Say you like acting or singing and suddenly everyone’s talking about Oscars, record deals and ‘Fucking DeNiro man!’ Talk about pressure. You can’t just do it because you love it? Noooo! Fame and world domination is the only acceptable destination. How egotistical and delusional. No wonder those kids look so crushed on American Idol. We have such high expectations. Which isn’t to say I don’t like to dream about that stuff sometimes, it’s just the effect is ruined when I feel I’m forced to discuss it with Maude. What I really want to say to her is look, lady, I am thirty-five years old and I just wrote a song about my love affair with a vibrator, and although we absolutely and truly DO rock, I really just don’t see us on the Top of the Pops any time soon.

AA Meeting

2008-01-15T11:40:00.000-06:00

I love the way red wine makes me feel. Rosy cheeks, the giggles, warm liquid in my toes and in my head. It’s always wine’s fault when I’m uppity. It’s always wines fault when I have something to say. Something wise, funny, thoughtful and sad. Red wine is ancient and the nectar of the gods.

Just, please, don’t drink the stuff on a date. You’ll stain your teeth a light pink with random chunks of ruby, and your lips will have an inner red mustache. Picture something the opposite of a Kool-Aid mustache.

You’ll be sitting there thinking you’ve regaled her with tales of wonder, personal income and psychical strength, but really you will be horrifying her with your blood stained zombie face. And your bad breath.

Try a nice Pinot Noir. Or vodka. Or beer, you pussy

Where's my shirt?

2008-01-08T23:46:00.002-06:00

Years ago, I used to watch Nick Swardson do open mic standup at ACME comedy club. Even as a young amateur, he was hilarious. He does this bit where he compares babies to drunk people (which I’ll post) that has a very ‘funny cause it’s true’ ring to it. I definitely know babies walk like drunk people.

My mom just sent me some pictures of myself as a baby and they are blowing my mind. First, because I can’t believe what a tiny skull I used to have and second, because I have no recollection of this time in my life. My earliest memory is three years old and even that is very fuzzy. It’s like getting wasters at a party and seeing pictures of yourself later, and you’re like, “When the hell did I do that? And why am not wearing a shirt?”

That black and white photo is my mugshot by the way. (DUI)

Nick Swardson - Standup - Babies

2008-01-08T23:46:00.001-06:00

Nick Swardson on Jimmy Kimmel Live 4-9-07

2008-01-08T23:45:00.001-06:00

I just have to add this too because there is a story about 3:45 into it that makes me laugh super hard.

Oh won't you let me be your teddy bear?

2008-01-03T11:56:00.000-06:00

I don’t remember when we first met. I just remember him always being there with that stupid grin on his face. He was my boss at the time and I naively assumed we were working closely together because I was being groomed for a promotion. Then one day after work, and with that same stupid grin on his face, he made his best attempt to nonchalantly ask me out for a drink. It was at that precise moment everything became crystal clear.

There is a power in being pursued. There is a high in seeing yourself through another person’s eyes. Up until then, every man I had dated seemed lifeless, passionless, and generic. The other men were just goals I had achieved. They were half assed consolation prizes for persistence.

I loved being wanted and needed so much. It made me feel like I was real like in that children’s story, the Velveteen Rabbit. Because he loved everything in me, I made myself love everything in him; his bad habits, his brooding, his insecurities. Love would soon change him too, but for the worse. I realized that I had been his goal and his prize. But nothing is much of a prize when it becomes so easy to win.

Things got complicated, but still we pressed on. We tried. We tried hard because we knew there was still something there, deep down and never quite tangible. But we couldn’t get back to the way it had been when I was clueless.

So we took turns hurting each other, even though he was better at it than I was. Now the relationship was a game I didn’t want to play, and I kept getting my ass kicked. Finally I walked away. Maybe I was pushed.

And yet still there was something there. Months would go by with nothing and then he’d call. Do you want to play a game? I miss you. I’m lonely. I want to be friends. God I still want you. Stay the hell away from me. I could be everything for you. I want to take care of you. You need to leave so she doesn’t know you were here.

The final straw was degradation. And still there was something there. It stayed there years later when saw each other at a party and he took me aside. He had something important to tell me. He had gotten married.

I was used to him giving me bad news so I acted like I didn’t care. “Oh yeah, how’d that happen?” His answer cleverly avoided anything having to do with love. Maybe he was trying not to hurt me, maybe he didn’t want me to make a scene, or maybe it was because he knew there would always be that something between us. I still felt it. But now I knew it was something that would never see the light of day or grow. It was something forever cemented in the past. An old soft rabbit he used to cry on, tell secrets to and couldn’t sleep without.

Like taking candy from a baby

2007-12-31T01:59:00.000-06:00

One beautiful sunny afternoon, my good friend and I decided to go for a walk. At the time I lived in the suburbs near a golf course community. We strolled along the black asphalt trail admiring the simple landscaping, man made ponds, and the five repeating architectural varieties of white and beige houses that lined it. We passed some children playing in their yard. They ranged in age from about three to eleven and they were all blonde. The youngest, a curly headed girl could have sprouted wings and floated above us with a harp and we wouldn’t have doubted for a minute she was a real live angel, because that is exactly what she looked like. She gazed up from her sandbox, smiled her perfect little smile and said hello. My good friend, who loves children very much and even has a degree in early childhood development was instantly smitten. “Helllloooo!” She said in that weird high pitched voice people get when they talk to children. They exchanged the kind of pleasantries one exchanges with a child before we headed on down the trail.

On our way back, we noticed the little girl again. This time she was standing along the edge of the yard and appeared to be waiting for us. The older children were seated in a clump behind her and now seemed more interested in our presence. I could sense my friend’s excitement as we approached the child. She opened her mouth to speak to her again when suddenly the girl began to scream at us. “You suck!” She said, “You’re fat and stupid!” “You stink!” We stood there for a minute shocked. I noticed the children behind her laughing and elbowing each other. My friend tried to control the situation with tactics she clearly learned in college. “Now, that’s not very nice.” She said. “Please try to…” “You suck! You smell! You are a stinkbutt!” Now my friend was getting pissed. “Where is your mother?” “YOU ARE A POOPEE PANTS!” The little angel screamed with all her might, and she was really getting worked up now. Her face bright red, a huge gob of spit ran down her chin. Her fists were clenched and she was squatting a bit as if to reach way down into the lower depths of her tiny bowels and pull out the loudest scream with all of her might. “POOOOOPEEE PAAAANTS!”

I never studied children academically, but I paid a lot of attention to them when I was one, so I knew exactly what was going on. Clearly the older children had teased her for being soft, and if there is one thing a little kid hates, it’s to be teased by the older kids. This little girl was screaming for redemption. Years ago, I had been that child, terrified of looking stupid and getting teased. It took me years to hone the art of responding to such torture. It required an ‘I don’t care’ attitude, a memorized arsenal of sarcastic comebacks, and quiet, calm observation of the other person’s weaknesses.

I stood there remembering all of this and waiting until she had exhausted herself and stood there panting and triumphant. She smiled softly, satisfied with her performance. For about ten seconds no one made a sound. The children waited to see what the adults would do. At this point I could have let the little girl win. Maybe I could have helped her to save face in front of her peers. But the little girl inside of me was having none of that, and my adult ego was never going to let a three year old get the best of me. Nope, sorry angel, you have your whole life ahead of you and you are going down.

Finally I spoke up. “You have some drool on your chin,” I stated flatly, “Oh and your diaper is showing.” The older children erupted in laughter as we walked away victorious. Yeah, maybe it wasn’t a fair fight, but it still felt very, very, good.

Bill Hicks - Play From Your Fucking Heart

2007-12-27T00:39:00.001-06:00

I'm pretty sure my "soulmate" is dead.

That's Two

2007-12-21T03:55:00.000-06:00

Twice this week I have been mistaken for a lady of the night while at work. It happens when I step out for a smoke. The first time some guy just invited me into his car. I don’t know if he was planning to actually pay for sex, but it’s my sneaking suspicion that he was not some Good Samaritan cruising the streets at three a.m. for wayward souls.

Tonight, I stepped out and some guy in a green hummer rolled down his window and began talking loudly to his passenger. “She must be on the job.” He announced like a obtuse American tour guide in a third world country. “Who else would be hanging out on the street corner this time of night?” Apparently, I am a deaf prostitute. I shot him a crusty glace and looked away.

Now, maybe it’s wrong for me to think this, but since we all seem to making assumptions, I’m going to go ahead and assume that this guy is from a small town or at least a far away suburb. I’m assuming this because I grew up in both types of areas and I remember hearing all sorts of wild rumors about the big, bad city of Minneapolis.

In high school, I tried to get my suburban friends to go with me to the Uptown Theater at midnight to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show. They practically shit their pants with fear. They only agreed to go once I assured them they would not get beat up and or raped.

Then there’s my parents’ neighbors kid. He and his buttfuck townie buddies decided to take a trip to the Twin Cities. At this point in their short lives, their only experience with big city folk was limited to the ones who vacationed in their town during the summer and had earned the nickname “twin citiots.”

Once fully ensconced in our fair metropolis, they walked the streets of downtown nervously. A man stopped them to ask, “Do you have the time?" Suddenly the boys let the worst of their imaginations get the best of them. Every rumor they had heard, every cautionary tale their worried mothers had told them, grew deep and festered quickly into their consciousness. They shook with fear and ran away. They thought he had asked, “Do you have any diamonds?”

Yeah, that’s right kiddies. Stay at home, safe in your little Peyton Places. There’s nothing here but prostitutes and diamond burglars.

Hot Kiss - Juliette and The Licks - Dir: Steve Glashier

2007-12-14T17:21:00.001-06:00

ROck yer Friday!

Wacky Panties

2007-12-12T03:57:00.001-06:00

So how’s your love life?
Not bad I guess, better than it usually is and never as good as it was when I was younger.
Yeah?
Yeah. But we have a good time together. We’re still getting used to each other and shit.
And shit?
Well yeah, it’s just. It’s just different than being alone, you know?.
Like how?
Like I notice more stuff about myself.
Such as?
Habits, affectations. Certain words I may use too often. Or the fact that I consistently talk during and to television shows. Sometimes, when it’s too quiet, I get uncomfortable and I have to say something even though it might not make sense or particularly pertain to anything. Even in high school if I would talk to a guy on the phone, I’d be so terrified of a lull that I developed this habit of saying “ouch” a lot. I wasn’t hurt, I would just mindlessly say “ouch.” Then the boy would ask me what was wrong and I’d have to make something up. “I fell off the bed,” I’d say. Or “None of your damn business.”
None of your damn business?
I’m telling you it would just come out mindlessly. Sometimes it would be rude or an outright lie. Not a horrible lie or anything, just very random. Like one time I told this guy that I enjoy wearing wacky underwear to work, which wasn’t true. I only said that because we were lying in bed and I hadn’t done laundry in a while so I was wearing this sort of weird looking underwear. It made me insecure and I suddenly felt the need to justify it.
How weird are we talking?
They look like boy’s briefs but with baby blue trim.
Ok.
And they have this woman’s face on the crotch and she has big hair.
Alright.
And they say “like totally” on the butt.
I see.
I was about to go put on some white tights and a skirt and they were the closest thing I had to matching panties.
Ha, ha, panties.
So, of course he asked me why I like wearing wacky underwear to work and, of course he had every right to ask me why I like wearing wacky underwear to work, because what kind of person would ever make a statement like that with out having some sort of explanation to back it up? A statement like that begs clarification, but I didn’t really know what to say because, in fact, I wasn’t wearing them because they were wacky, I was wearing them because they were the closest thing I had that matched.
Why so important that they match?
I heard that only trashy women wear mismatched underwear. Plus my skirt was really short, but not in a sluttish way, a cute way.
Uh huh. So what did you tell him?
I told him that wearing the underwear was like a private little joke with myself. That when I’m at work I can say, “Look at everyone.” “They’re all so serious, it’s a good thing I’m wearing this wacky underwear.” And you know what? As soon as I said it, I believed it.
I think you may be on to something.
I thought so too. That’s why I’ve been doing it ever since.

Lemonade and Fudge

2007-12-11T05:33:00.000-06:00

When I was twelve, my classmates and I used to point to our chests, then our crotches then our butts and say, “milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner fudge is made.”

We used to have make out parties at each others houses after school. I once flashed my underwear to a kid I had a crush on, and sometimes when the teacher would step out of the classroom, this girl Becky (who always wore dresses) would stand on her desk, lift up her skirt and pull down her underwear.

On the playground one of my classmates would grab all the boys’ asses and yell, “fresh bread!” We would sing songs like; I love you, you love me, homosexuality, people say we are friends, but we’re really lesbians. OR; Marijuana, marijuana, LSD, LSD, scientists make it, teachers take it, why can’t we? Why can’t we? And who can forget the classic; Glory, glory, Hallelujah. Teacher hit me with a ruler. Stood behind the door with a loaded 44, and there ain’t no teacher no more, no more.

We were TWELVE! We’d never get away with that shit now. Although, I think I’m gonna bring back that milk, milk, lemonade thing. That bit always kills!

Winter means never having to shave your legs.

2007-12-03T03:32:00.000-06:00

Thank god for winter. This is what I ‘m thinking as I get dressed to go out Friday night. Thank god for Minnesota. The land of “holy fuck it’s cold out, why isn’t that idiot wearing a hat?”

I love Minneapolis because we are large enough to be metropolitan, but small enough to lose that big city pretense once the first cold snap hits.

I trudge through the snow in my sensible, warm boots. I pass the weekender girly girls squealing as they stumble through snow banks in high heels and no coat. Silly little things don’t know that there are places to go where there is no cover charge or dress code. A place where the drinks are cheap and the men admire a woman who can wear an orange hunting cap with subtle irony and pair it with her grandmother’s handmade scarf with practicality and aplomb.

I get to the bar and blend right in with the other sensible sexy girls. We’ve figured out that most men don’t care what we wear as long as it’s easy to take off later on. And the men who do put that much importance on appearances will likely leave you for a fancier model later anyway. No thank you sir, I prefer a man who appreciates a woman for her sparkling conversation and choice of long underwear. What’s that baby? You like the earflaps on my hat? Well maybe I’ll keep it on while we get busy. The boots too? Kinky!

This is what goes through my head as I sit at the bar and observe the unstoppable mating rituals of my compatriots. I’m not here to meet anyone, I’ve got a man. A winter boyfriend if you will. Someone to keep warm with during these frigid months, someone to drink beers with on the couch before we do the old slap and tickle, someone who likes a girl with wooly hats and an aversion to frostbite.

Thank god for winter. A time when you can hibernate, gain weight, stop shaving your legs, cover it all up in layers of cotton and down and still get laid. God bless us, everyone.

I'm stupid therefore I'm starving

2007-11-23T05:39:00.000-06:00

In case you don’t know, I work nights. The AM is my PM, so I spent Thanksgiving morning watching the Macy’s parade and, at the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, sipping cocktails. I figured it was a holiday, and I had just finished an eight hour shift, so what the hell. Plus, I needed a little lubricant while I got my place nice and clean for company. I’m officially celebrating T.G. day on Friday, to avoid having to go to work in a turkey coma.

So I got the place nice and sparkly, and by the time the Broadway cast of Xanadu was singing their little hearts out in Herald Square, I was feeling quite the buzz and belting it out with them. What can I say? I’ve loved the Xanadu movie since I was ten. Back then, Olivia Newton John and roller-skating were my world. Throw in the music of E.L.O., and now you’re talking pure 80’s heaven!

Eventually, it was time for bed, so while the rest of my fellow Americans were eating (more than the usual) large amounts of food, I was fast asleep. Unfortunately, the cocktails had really knocked me out, so I could not drag myself out of bed until the very last minute.

I raced around to get ready for work. I did not pack a lunch because, honestly, I ran out of food three days ago, but I was NOT going near a grocery store that close to thanksgiving. Plus, I needed room in my fridge for the holiday dinner my guests were bringing.

I thought maybe I’d stop by the little market on my way to work, which, remarkably, was open, but I was worried about being late so I decided to skip it thinking I’d just order something later.

STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!

11/23/07. 12:00AM; Abysmal Chick learns that NOBODY delivers food Thanksgiving night. Not Dominoes, not Pizza Hut, not Papa Johns. I mean, C’Mon! Aren’t you guys supposed to be corporate whores who will do anything for money? Shouldn’t you be sacrificing your employees’ personal lives for greed and profit? I’M working.

And what about Pizza Luce’? You guys are supposed to be all punk rock and too cool for school and shit. Shouldn’t you be open just as symbolic fuck you to such a traditional family obsessed Rockwellian holiday? P.S. change up your menu once in a while. Your appetizers are sad and overpriced.

Finally I called Jimmy John’s. Come on you cute little stoners with your tasty sandwiches and salt and vinegar chips, PLEASE be open! At this point I was so hungry, my hands shook and I was starting to get weepy. It’s bad enough to have an empty stomach, but an empty stomach consisting only of ten hour old whiskey is pure torture.

My stomach fluttered with excitement as I heard someone pick up and say, “Jimmy John’s, how can I help you?” Sweet baby Jesus! I calmed myself and asked for delivery. The voice on the other end was condescending. “Sweetheart, we’re closed. I’m just getting the bread ready for tomorrow.” Dammit! “Then don’t ask how can I help you.” I said, “And don’t call me sweetheart.” Actually, I didn’t say that. I wanted to, but I just hung up the phone and started to cry.

Eventually, I found and old Weight Watchers frozen meal I had abandoned in the break room fridge because it just looked too gross. Surprisingly, it was quite good on an empty stomach. Unfortunately, it was frozen, diet, Chinese food, so of course I was hungry and hour later. But I’ll tell you what, I’m gonna be pretty thankful once I get me some of that turkey. Oh sweet bird, the things I’m gonna do to you.