- I've always wanted to have fun hair. Badly. But now that its days are numbered, I'm just happy to have hair at all.
- At one point or another of childhood I took swimming lessons, golf lessons, art classes, radio classes, and one day of vacation bible school where I cried so hard they gently told my grandma it was probably best I didn't return. Telling, very telling.
- I generally don't think about outer space because it weirds me out.
- The first song I ever karaoked was "Nothing Compares 2 U" by Sinead O'Connor.
- I feel ashamed when I admit that I don't know how to drive a stick shift.
- If I ever adopt a boy, I already have the name picked out.
- I generally despise movie theaters.
- Everyone makes fun of the way I pronounce "measure"...and I still don't know how my way sounds any different.
- The right shoe always goes on first. Not that I think it's good luck or anything. It just does.
(1) I know you hated 2010, but I think it set you up for an amazing 2011. I have faith, and I know you do too.
(2) You are my favorite mistake.
(3) Vienna waits for you, by Billy Joel. Listen, and then listen again.
(4) I doubt I'll ever find a happiness like when we sit on the beach at sunset and talk about what we're thankful for.
(5) Thank you for calling my bullshit, amongst a million other things.
(6) Fly that freak flag, baby. Fly it high, fly it proud.
(7) Life by and large sucks from 21-23. It gets better. Promise. Hunker down and stay the course.
(8) You would never guess how much I look to learn from you.
(9) Ecclesiastes 3:1
(10) Do what you love, and fuck the rest.
Day 1 - 10 things you'd like to say to 10 different people
Day 2 - 9 things about yourself
Day 3 - 8 ways to win your heart
Day 4 - 7 things that cross your mind a lot
Day 5 - 6 things that you wish you'd never done
Day 6 - 5 people that mean a lot, in no particular order
Day 7 - 4 turn offs
Day 8 - 3 turn ons
Day 9 - 2 smiley faces that describe your life at the moment (author's note: yeah, no)
Day 10 - 1 confession
This is so much better than doing work, i.e. why I opened my computer to begin with.
Not in a Grinchy way. I still love me some Christmas. But I'm spent. I have a week's worth of beard and bags under my eyes. I haven't slept more than five hours in I don't know how long. There is a beautifully decorated tree downstairs, candles and fire lit, festive hors d'oeuvres and the casual chatter of a girl scout troop reunion, and I'm holed away upstairs, watching free porn clips while haphazardly packing for a ten day trip.
I'm not joking about any of that, by the by. Most notably the girl scout party and the porn.
I'm not not excited to go home. Home, and engagement party, and New Year's Bash. Don't take this the wrong way. I'm simply, as the French probably don't say, le tired.
I want no Blackberry. I want no schedule requests, I want no fake-pleasant-work voice, I want no movement, I want no nothing. I want to go to a forgotten beach with a book and Ziploc of the painkillers associated with a major surgery.
Not the little Ziploc either. We're talking freezer bag.
I'm not not happy. But I need a few deep breaths. Full time-out, charged to the home team.
I don't need to remember how perfectly absurd and wonderful my life is, because I think about it every day.
Forget the two front teeth....all I want for Christmas is more of the same.
And to me, it doesn't not make sense. And that's all that matters.
On the homestretch...I need Christmas, an Ambien, and a few deep breaths.
Continuing the 2010 trend of trying new things, I went to a real salon. The kind of place where they bring you beer, massage your scalp, and display spray-painted art on the wall that resembles a fancified vulva. This is a drastic departure from the processed plastic hell that is my typical Supercuts experience. Having had the same hair style since Clinton's first term, I thought it was high time to try something new.
I am not necessarily proud of the fact that my definition of breaking the mold is underwhelming to most. I rarely change my order, let alone eat somewhere I've never tried, but I am how I am. And I maintain that there are worse ways to get a thrill than walking a different route to work.
But back to the hair. In a complete departure from character, I just told the man to do something. Anything. I am about as hip as a tape deck, so my concept of what is currently cool should never be trusted.
So he did something different. Not multiple colors or layers by any means, but a noticeable difference. And I feel fun! And fresh! And I bought real product (although he didn't completely sell me on the necessity of a hair dryer)! Overall I'm quite pleased.
And a little ashamed I don't let go more often.
This has been my realization over the holiday break. Sometimes you just have to fuck it. I'm tired of "Ohdeargodbutwhatif..." So what? Hair grows back. Life goes on.
I spend too much money on good champagne for turkey day. But it was damn tasty, and I got to share it with some of my nearest and dearest. And after I type this, I'll probably never think about how much it was again. But I'll remember that it was good, and that makes it worthwhile. And that's all that matters. There's a vast, vast amount of things and places and people I won't get to experience before I die, for a variety of reasons, and I think that's true of everyone. Might as well try as much as possible, whenever possible. And if it sucks, you don't do it again. But at least you tried.
So I didn't hike Malaysia, or eat exotic roots, or tattoo stars above my hoo-hah. But I like remembering that steps, no matter are small, all move you in the right direction.
Lather, rinse, repeat -
-Do not assume that because you are Sally Sunshine at 6am that everyone else is too. I apologize, overly-exuberant middle aged couple, but I do not have a life boner over being at the Sacramento airport before dawn.
-Do not lose your shit at work. This is a big one, and I came dangerously close to violating my own rules on Friday. Instead, step outside, smoke the hell out of a Parliament, do your work, and get the fuck out. Then, by all means, lose your shit. But until you're a safe distance away, never let 'em see you cry.
-Do not make excuses. I for one smell that stink a mile away. Make an informed decision, stand by it, and if you were wrong, own up. I'm starting to think the entire world needs to grow a pair.
-Do not say there isn't time. There's always time if you make something a priority.
-Do not put so much as a Hershey's fucking Kiss in front of me, because I am officially pudgy. Balls.
- Do not forget to be thankful. Not just this week, every goddamn day. Fo' real.
That feels good.
Something more positive in the near future, promise.
Can I get a "hellz yes" for the short week?
Lusty but indirect. Kind, but also using friendship as a means to sex. Oh, that feels gooood. You are The Backrubber.
We call you “The Backrubber” because you straddle that fine line between coming on to someone and just treating him nicely. Backrubs are just one example; you’d meet for coffee, or talk about books/movies, or even argue a little bit, all the while mostly preferring to screw.
Your indirect approach is not some evil trickery, but rather a result of your open mind. You’d enjoy either love or sex, but the latter definitely doesn’t require the former. While you are responsible and ambitious, you absolutely DON’T have uptight views on relationships. So ultimately, you just enjoy a man, and let things take their course. If he wants you, great. If not, that’s fine too.
Though you’re not thinking too much about Love at this point in your life, odds are, when the time comes, you’ll be very happy settling down. Your ideal mate is gentle and horny, just like you.
So screw me. Or don't. I'm fine either way.
If you had ketchup packets in your glove box I'd have french fries on my floorboard. If you had an "I'm with Stupid" t-shirt, I'd have a pro wrestling hat. If you shouted "Yahtzee" at climax, I'd shout "Bingo." If you produced a television show called "America's Funniest Animal Attacks," I'd suddenly get mauled by a panda. What I'm trying to get at here is that somehow, someway, you and I just seem to be made for each other.
I'm going to tuck it away for now, but I think it was a solid purchase. Hopefully one day the Yahtzee to my Bingo finds it as poignant as I do.
I am a balloon days after the party.
However, you're never given more than you can handle (no, honestly) and now life is coming down off its eight-hour high. Several deep breaths and muttered threats later, I came across this:
And while I can't shed clothing just yet, I took the message to heart. Back to work, smile in place.
Get naked and do your thing -
No. To break the shitty-blogger ice, I give you this:
Now lest any panties get into a wad, this is of course not a personal statement. If I were actively doing blow I'd be a size 2 and the most couture bitch on the block. No, it just REALLY makes me laugh, so clearly it earned feature placement in this, the blog post long overdue.
Thanks for not giving up on me. More inappropriate, random, and ultimately pointless musings coming soon.
hugs not drugs -
It's weird to me because I vividly remember that day. The rain, the phone calls, the holy-shit of it all. And now here I am, fast-forwarded almost five months to the day and everything is indeed OK. I just put my new first day of work outfit in the dryer, a hot little J. Crew pant and button up combo that screams professional-homo-in-the-big-city. It will be worn with my new backpack. Satchel? Sack for my shit. REI calls it an"urban sling" but that's a little too swishy even for me. This whole commute thing is new to me, so I needed a trusty sidekick for my train/bus/walk extravaganza that comes with living opposite a large body of water from one's place of employment.
I don't really know what I want to say. It's surreal. The move, the living arrangement, part time work, now full time work, San Francisco, etc....I'd say happy ending, but it's still one giant beginning. The major lessons have been gallons of patience, oceans of optimism, and finding that delicate balance between working to accomplish and letting fate do its thing. It's been good. Real good.
But I'm trying hard to keep this in mind as well:
I have lots of awesomeness happening. More than most. But as quickly as it arrives it can depart, so the focus is on acknowledging and enjoying every aspect of my current good fortune.
Take some time to appreciate this week.
Also, please send positive vibes so I get on the correct bus. I'm still moderately inept at public transit.
Thanks, Friends -
I'm brimming with goodness. There's job potential, it's officially summer, LA is figuratively (and will soon be literally) on the horizon, and Landon fuckin' Donovan proved that he needs a wheelbarrow to haul his gigantic red white and blue balls around South Africa.
Not actual blue balls, I'm sure. I'm guessing somewhere around 73% of Americans would sleep with that man right now.
Now get out there, position your junk in front of a swimming pool jet, and enjoy yourself some summer.
As these trips would approach, I would become the typical child I rarely was- should I get Chip or Dale's autograph first? Would we swim in the pool every day? And no, I can't clean my plate because how could one think of eating when Peter fuckin' Pan is so close I can practically feel the breeze as we fly over London?
I'm fairly positive I didn't actually say fuck. And my parents never made me clean my plate. But you know. Generalizations.
My dad was consistent in addressing my overwhelming anticipation, much to my elementary dismay.
"This moment is the best of the whole trip. Before you know it, it'll all be over, and it'll be a good time but nothing will get you quite as excited as dreaming about what could happen."
That's not verbatim. I still had a gap in my teeth, and with the understanding that twenty years have passed and me currently being two nightcaps deep, that's the gist. You get the point.
The most brilliant moment in your life still won't make your heart race like it did when you imagined it the day before.
And that's not a bad thing. But as adults we learn that this is a double-edged sword. Anticipation is a magical feeling, but if allowed to manifest without restraint, even great experiences are followed by an asterisk even if you'd never in a million years admit it's there.
It was great, but...
The key is to separate the excitement and the expectation.
Tonight, the longest day of the year, I am signing a non-disclosure agreement. I'm double checking my driving directions, and trying to find matching dress socks without holes in the toes. Not that I anticipate having to take my shoes off, but just in case. I'd die of humiliation if I looked like the bumpkin that couldn't afford decent socks. I don't have a job interview tomorrow. I have the job interview - the one that would validate my degree, the one that doesn't have a downside, the one that would allow me to order an appetizer without thinking twice about whether it was a special enough occasion.
Generalizations, but more true than not.
That kind of a job interview.
And I'm excited. But after a handful of fool-me-once occasions, I'm cautious on the expectations. Tapping the breaks, here's the truth as it stands: I have a job. I have a bed. I have people that love and support me. And after the handshakes are released and the "describe a time when you overcame adversity" situations are addressed, my life will go on. And it's exciting to think about new responsibility, new experiences, and making actual money. But it's just that, a thought. An expectation.
This weekend I'm driving to LA to see a smattering of Best Friends, capitalization intended, and everything will be perfect because I expect nothing and am excited for everything. Maybe we'll embark on the sort of ridiculous booze-fueled adventures that we'll bring up at each others weddings. Or maybe we'll just sit and talk for hours, making the same jokes that continue to prompt laughter no matter how many times they're repeated.
It's about separating the excitement from the expectations.
A lot could change tomorrow. Or nothing could change at all. Generalizations, but either way on this, the longest day of the year, I'm sure as the sun finally sets that it will rise again tomorrow. And regardless of what happens, I don't feel foolish for expecting more good things just over the horizon.
Conclusion: I need to (a) have the sort of drought-ending sex that requires stretching and a signed waiver, or (b) be taken out behind the shed like Old Yeller because there's simply no hope left.
At this point I think either option is completely justified.
Here's to living the high life -
“There is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually happens retrospectively, but it happens eventually. This is the person who unknowingly sets the template for what you will always love about other people, even if some of these lovable qualities are self-destructive and unreasonable.
The person who defines your understanding of love is not inherently different than anyone else, and they’re often just the person you happen to meet the first time you really, really, want to love someone. But that person still wins. They win, and you lose. Because for the rest of your life, they will control how you feel about everyone else.”
How trite, I know. A song, never our song because there was never a we, but a song all the same, background to a cheesy montage of unrequited god-knows-what. But you can't un-feel. So the song will occasionally appear, I will play a rousing round of what-if, and he will win. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Want more sad-sack? This morning I was turned away from Happy Donut because after digging all the change from my console I was still twenty-five cents shy of my requested chocolate bar, no filling. This shanty sells hard-boiled eggs in a basket next to the register, and suddenly I'm the pathetic one. No donut, no lover, just an empty-handed walk back to where things don't always go our way.
Oh well...the person or the snack, it's likely both would have left me unfulfilled.
Here's to eventually getting the good stuff -
Why do I care?
Rue McClanahan = Blanche Devereaux, patron saint of late 80's booze and lust
My drunk alter ego since 2004 = Blanche St. Patience, an ardent fan of booze and lust
There is your dot-connection. This is why she gets a dedicated post, and Gary Coleman does not.
I hope she's up in heaven with Bea Arthur and Estelle Getty, sitting around the kitchen table like they always did, passing time till Betty White eventually joins them for pie.
Not for any rhyme or reason. But it happens, ya know? Things are just as hunky as they are dory, and then BAM I get a chemical spike all up in my gray matter and let's just say it's best to let the calls go to voice mail. When shit goes down, internally or otherwise, I circle the wagons Oregon-Trail style until it's safe to ford the river. No Indians in, no cattle out. Lock-down mode. You played the game in fourth grade. You know how it works. All I'm saying is that my self-issued hall pass is for your benefit, Mr. Kite.....I aim to keep the bitching to a minimum. Demons come and demons go. C'est la vie.
So enough on that. The long and short of it: I'm crazy but the clouds have cleared and now we're back on the wagon, trudging west toward the promised land. And I have news, and things, and stuff, and all of it worth sharing. Chuck Palahniuk has written that all he does is listen to other people's stories and re-tell them in his books. That's what I'm aiming for tonight. Little nuggets of information that are quick and random as sex on Craigslist.
- If you like Bloody Mary's, you must do this: get a big ol' jug of cheap vodka. Buy a pound of fresh jalapenos, and cut them into manageable chunks. Put that, seeds and all, into the vodka. Let it sit for at least a few weeks (if not months), turning the bottle occasionally. Use in a regular BM (bloody mary, not bowel movement) recipe and impress all your friends with your awesomeness.
- I'm going to take a paddle-boarding class this summer, and it's going to be awesome. No really, I can do it cheap through work. There's even one offered on my birthday. Sign? Me thinks so.
- Last week at work a woman told me that a single goose generates up to a pound of shit a day. She knows this because she owns a business that keeps geese (and their shit) off of golf courses and other public areas. She ended up buying grey boots so when she stepped in shit it would be less noticeable.
- That same day a child came out of the dressing room with a hygienic liner from a bathing suit crotch plastered to her face like a big pussy-blocking mustache.
- I went to the National AIDS Memorial Grove in SF this past weekend. This was not a wise choice given the fact I was on the aforementioned rag, but whatev. Point being I came across this boulder, read the inscription, and promptly lost my emotional shit. I can't even explain why, and maybe that's the point.
- Lastly, today I treated myself to some retail therapy. I'd had my eye on this shirt for quite some time, and given the peaks and valleys of the past week, I felt as though I deserved it. A small reminder of the goodness all around. So of course now I'll share it with you, with the added bonus of big bossy beaver-face to add a little excitement to your Wednesday.
Keep on keepin' on, my little pioneers. It's a long road, but I hear it's worth it.
(Also, read this post from Coke Talk and take it to heart, particularly the difference between self-exploration and self-indulgence).
And that's all I have on that topic. Go forth and be awesome.
In completely unrelated news, if you ever leave a massive pile of discarded clothing on a dressing room floor I will come to your place of employment and defecate in/on/around your workspace. That is my fair warning now that I'm back in the retail world.
Lastly, upon visiting this weekend my sixty-nine year old grandmother made a beaver joke. Straight-up double entendre regarding the irony of my chosen stuffed bedfellow and my avoidance of vagina.
I was never the kid that wondered if he was adopted. I clearly belong with the crazies.
And I have to be to work in not-too-many hours, so off to bed with me.
But seriously about the clothes....it's just unnecessary. Goddamn.
This is why we can't have nice things.
Poor Fergie the Focus. She made it three years without so much as a scratch, and now I don't even get the temporary relief of someone else to blame. The glass isn't cracked and the whole apparatus is still attached, so a trip to the scrap yard is not in her near future. It's just that hindsight is important; it keeps us aware of our surroundings and on the right path. The last thing I needed was a fresh reason to second-guess my judgment, on the road or otherwise. But to steal a Seuss-quote (that I will ALWAYS equate with a certain best friend) -
an empty purse,
a crazy universe?
My philosophy is simply,
things could be worse.
I want it poster-sized in my eventual abode. Well, not for always. Let's be realistic. I would not host brunch for the Kennedy's with this over the serving set. But ya know....time and a place. Regardless, I want magic tracked all over my house.
This woman was undeniably pure gold. I hope I run into her again.
Also, if you've put two and two together and realized I was by myself in the liquor aisle at 6pm on a Saturday night, feel free to lick my tits. Sometimes you have to make your own entertainment, alright?
Happy Saturday. Bottoms up.
Don't feel obligated to respond....I think I already know the answer.
May all your mid-week celebrity fantasies come true -
*It's a very old SNL reference. If you didn't get it, our friendship is on the rocks.
And I couldn't be happier.
I'm finally to the point where I care significantly less about being impressive, and goddamn it feels good. I can't proclaim to not care at all. That would be an exaggeration. But I'm 24, living in a garage, working part-time, and I can't help feeling like I'm getting somewhere special, in that "not all progress involves forward movement" sense.
You don't have to agree with me, obviously. But cards on the table? I feel like a majority of people in their 20's just fall in line with what we're told to do by the omniscient force that is society. You get a degree or two, start up that 401K, find love or something close enough, make spawn, buy a boat, hurry hurry run run run because if you don't check 'em all off by the time your number is up, you do not pass go and most certainly do not collect your 200 dollars.
And to that I say...meh.
Sure some of that is nice. Saving money is smart. Relationships are apparently swell, for some people anyway. However, I know these people. A lot of them, and you do too. The ones that are better off, insert finger-quotations, than me. And a majority of them just aren't that happy. They're happy enough, but that enough is what kills me the most. We've all settled for enough at one time or another, because of course it's better than nothing. Wanting more is scary. Change and uncertainty are scary. But nothing worth having comes easy. Fact.
My big risk is finally paying off, though I am savvy enough to know that's a matter of interpretation (see: broke, garage, retail). I realize that if tomorrow my graduating class was to publish a "Where are they now?!?" pamphlet, my little entry would not illicit gasps of envy and intrigue. And that's okay. I used to be far more judgmental, grossly so, but now? Do you take care of yourself and those who depend on you? Are you doing something that makes you feel fulfilled? Does it suddenly dawn on you at random times how great your life is? Then we're gravy. I don't care if that's happening in a tent or a townhouse, as long as it's good for you, it's good for me.
I guess as I meet more and more intriguing people in life, I'm realizing those who are happy, not enough, but truly happy, happy even when there's not a ton to be happy about....they're happy because they followed their hearts even when it wasn't impressive. When it didn't fit the preconceived mold. When they fucking winged it. And I respect that.
So here I am, occasionally working, always hoping, and never doubting. Things are good. It may not be impressive to others, but it's more than enough for me.
I was going to end on that, but I've been saving this nugget for a while and it seems an appropriate time to include it: (via)
Minimalists see life like this: either you can spend your money on stuff, or you can spend it on experiences. They have learned that stuff doesn’t bring lasting happiness or golden memories.
So they spend their money on living life. On seeing the world and building relationships with the people who live in it. At the end of your life, do you want a garage full of crap or a heart full of memories and friendships?-J
This is what I do now. I weed. Actually, the weeding is a new thing. Most days I run a local path, passing geriatrics in sweatsuits, looking like they should have disintegrated decades ago.
The sweatsuits. Not the old people. That tissue paper-esque parachute material that was never a good idea.
Although I can't blame them. No need to be fashionable at noon on a Tuesday. All the good-looking and successful men are, ya know, working and whatnot. But I run all the same, because having a firm ass somehow reassures me that my entire existence isn't completely for naught.
After a run I'll saunter down to Safeway under the guise of groceries, but really leaving the house period is quickly becoming reason enough to shave one's balls. Really put that best foot forward. But that outing got old quick as I found that some people, for god knows what reason, still find it appropriate to write a check for groceries.
Get the fuck out. Get. The. Fuck. Out. GETTHEFUCKOUT. Who still does that? People in the 'burbs, apparently. In Hollywood, going to the store was practically a military exercise with all the forms of crazy you encountered. Here it's like a bad prime time sitcom, where people ACTUALLY stop and chat about what so-and-so went on to do after high school while blocking all access to the cereal aisle. Then they go and write checks for skim milk and cat food. And I die a little inside.
Weeds. Exercise. Food. Game shows. Resumes and cover letters and two references that are not members of your family. And on sneaking occasions, sixty seconds of existential crisis to the tune of:
I've already had my scrambled eggs, and after watching half of a True Life (I'd relocate for love, natch) my food has definitely settled enough for me to proceed on to my planned run around the reservoir. Thing is, it's raining. Hard. And while I'm all for romping in the rain, I'm sitting inside a comfy house with two warm dogs spooning my thighs, wearing slippers I stole from a roommate years ago. Actually, upon further review I'm wearing sweats I stole from the same roommate as well. Weird, especially considering he's 6'7" and I maybe come up to his nipples, but size is of no relevance when it comes to comfort.
Not that that has much to do with anything. But if you're jonesing for another hit off the random pipe, the dogs have moved on and my thighs are now cold.
Ohhhhhh the comedy and tragedy of being unemployed. Happy mask or sad mask, doesn't matter much because no one can see you up there in the cheap seats, taking in life's drama as a weekday matinee because why the fuck not? You've got nothing but time.
That was my fancy way of saying other than an interview with The Cheesecake Factory at three, I'm what you would call available.
Comedy and tragedy. What I really should say is I need to be finding a rehab program for a family member, but that one-liner tends to silence the crowd. Instead I'm going to keep watching the rain; it's not providing answers, but it's also not posing more questions.
Final act? If the big Cheese doesn't want me, I could foresee a postscript involving tears on the third floor of the Walnut Creek Town Center parking structure, the exasperation stemming from this, that, and the other but mostly the other.
Ha...as I wrote that sentence, yet another email popped up:
Although we were impressed with your background and experience, we have decided to pursue other applicants who more closely reflect the requirements for the position.
And that was to haul my fancy-educated ass around as a pool boy. No joke.
Comedy and tragedy, how closely they live.
I'm a massive life-suck for undertaking the biggest changes of my life in the past weeks and failing to riff on that in any way, but ya know...shit happens. Hopefully I'll be back on the wagon soon, but currently my words would leave an emo aftertaste, so instead I'm ordering up a vague sandwich, hold the details.
For the record, my life is awesome. Really and truly. I'm just having a rough weekend trying to help fight the demons of others when I'm already worn down from going five rounds with my own.
Keep calm and carry on I guess....we'll get through this. We always do.
my friend Jess - "...so that's the line I used on that hot lez over there. Too cheesy?"
me - "No not at all. I'd totally give it up if someone said that to me."
old gay bartender, without missing a beat - "By the looks of you, I'm guessing you've given it up for a whole lot less."
Yup. Got called out, and I loved it. Old gays are the best. Those bitches are tough as nails because they were gay before it was cool. Gotta respect your elders.
I have more updates and random thoughts I've been meaning to share, but this whole not-having-a-home thing is shaking up the routine a bit. Hopefully once I get a nap and a burrito in me I'll be back in the saddle.
When it's time to work, work hard.When it's time to play, play hard. Remain mindful of this, and you'll go further in life than most people.
I'm writing that more for me than anyone else. But it's definitely universal. Gotta remember that fun ain't free, and progress ain't easy.
How did we feel about the usage of color up yonder? Green for spring? No? No one cares. Also I saw Topanga from Boy Meets World (who isn't famous enough for me to know her real name) while lunching at Luna Park today, and by default this makes my day awesome.
That's all. Was it good for you? I feel you had to fake it as to not hurt my feelings. So here's an added bonus we can all relate to:
OK now that's all.
Someone I represent once told me that when she really cut loose, her ultimate naughty treat was an avocado. I told her she really lived on the edge.
I went so far as to hold a chocolate bar in my hand before remembering that swimsuit season favors those who don't resemble sausage in a casing. So back to the shelf it went, and I just had my apple, and fuck that. It tasted like an apple and nothing like a dark chocolate.
But really it's not the apple's fault.
All I'm saying? If you want candy, get candy. But don't take it out on the apple when you end up feeling let down. It never promised to be anything different; you just hoped it would be.
Something to be cognizant of, lunchtime and all the time.
Keep It Reasonable, Friends -
- pre-packaged cheese slices, expiration unknown
- half a jar of jalapenos
- open bottle of Yellow Tail chardonnay
- raspberry jam
- chicken stock
I'm currently sans-pants (by choice) and even more sans-money (not by choice), so walking to the store is 100% out of the question. I keep staring at the cupboards longingly, hoping that the magical Food Fairies will remember that I'm more or less a good person and make something appear as an offering of goodwill. No luck yet. Just cockroaches. No Food Fairies.
I shouldn't even admit this, but I just counted my quarters I keep for laundry to see if I had enough to get Domino's delivered.
That's all I have. Feel better about your life? I hope so. But if this describes your Sunday nights as well, just come on over, we can be fail-friends. Bring snacks.
I like that photo, but I guess it's kind of deceiving. I don't mean to suggest that I spent all evening wearing my sad-pants. On the contrary, I quite enjoyed the walk down memory lane. But since I try (as much as possible) to live in the present, acknowledging the past is kind of like jumping in the ocean; even though it's fun, it can still be jarring.
I found my old fraternity paddles, which made me miss chapter meeting on Sundays; I found old cards from family and friends, which made me miss those I see on rare occasions ; and I found my dildo in a Crown Royal bag, which made me miss dorm room sex. A lot.
Moving is weird like that. It's not just the physical act of transporting your belongings. It's seeing what you hold on to and what you've finally made peace with letting go, and of course that reaches far beyond what you can place in a box . This will be my tenth move in seven years, so I have to remember that even though there's always trepidation when the sorting begins, I'm still alive and still happy and in possession of incredible riches regardless of cash value.
Of course, now I'm still not packed for this weekend. Eff. But I'm off in an hour, spending the afternoon cruising through my old friend The Central Valley, then spending three days in Napa and San Francisco. With trusty camera in hand, I hope to make more memories worthy of a spot on the shelf, an ever-present reminder of how damn fortunate I really am.
Happy Thursday friends. May your bracket picks prove wise.
Mississippi school sued for canceling prom over lesbian student - CNN
OK, I don't do a ton of social commentary on el bloggo. I'm very neutral on the issue of bloggers hauling out their soapboxes. Sure, news is an ever-renewing bag of topics, and having an email address and a keyboard in 2010 allows you to preach far and wide on whatever the hell jiggles your bits at that moment. That being said, I am a firm believer that those who feel compelled to comment on every last sociopolitical issue, regardless of their knowledge on the topic, are generally insufferable and high on my list of individuals I'd sterilize if given the chance. Notice how I never say much about the military or the economy? That's because I don't know dick about either. See how easy that is?
Just saying, I don't feel I've yet abused my right to comment now and then. But being quaintly queer and having attended high school, today's post is dedicated to states full of backwater bigots and those who love them.
You can read the whole story here, but long story short a lesbian student wanted to wear a tux and bring her girlfriend to prom.
Let's stop right there. She did not ask to bring a greased hog and a strap-on in a little cummerbund. Just her girlfriend. Also, she wanted to wear a tux. Apparently in Mississippi this is the equivalent of wearing someone's pussy as a mask on the dance floor and then forcing everyone into communal devil worship while you burn the place down, because the school district put the kibbosh on that shit faster than you can say First Amendment.
A regular laugh riot, no? But wait, there's more! Here's the Board of Education's statement:
The decision was made "taking into consideration the education, safety and well-being of our students."
So in this instance, "education" must mean "keeping them sheltered from anything remotely like real life", "safety" must mean "if the dykes show up, bet your sweet ass someone will assault them", and well-being clearly equates to "they can't breathe our air or we'll catch it too."
Yet another reason not to fight states when they threaten to leave. You know what, Mississippi, we re-thought the whole secession thing. Take Utah with you, then you both can go hang out with Uganda and have a big ol' hate-party. Genital mutilations, then punch and pie.
Aaaaaaaaaaaand deep breath. The sarcasm train has come to a full and complete stop.
This is real life. No joke. Twenty-ten, we're living in the fucking future, and people are still being told what to wear and who to love if they expect to be left alone.
This. Shit. Still. Happens.
Treat other people the way you want to be treated, folks. Just because someone may hear different music doesn't mean they don't deserve to dance.
As you can gather, I've had better Mondays.
However, this weekend had some high points that make the days when life takes a dump on your chest decidedly more tolerable. For one, a younger brother from another mother camped out Friday night to audition for Last Comic Standing, so along with El Dondo I went to pay him a visit. And what moved me was that he knew it would mean taking a train to LA, walking across Hollywood, spending a whole day amongst painfully un-funny wannabes, sleeping in the rain, and ultimately standing alone on stage, showing strangers two minutes of what he holds dear to his heart, knowing deep down it would probably end with a quick dismissal. And he did it anyway. I won't even sit at home and submit my writing to unseen editors for fear of rejection. The kid has stones.
And I like knowing there's that sort of courage in the world.
After that El Dondo and I took our show on the road, cruising the Sunset Strip, winding through Beverly Hills and Pacific Palisades, down to PCH to greet the ocean, then back up the freeway through downtown. It was beautiful and calming and sometimes we chatted but mostly we listened, because the world around us had plenty to say. It was pointlessly important and worth every minute.
And I like knowing there's that sort of peace in the world.
And on Saturday night I drank too much...first time, of course. As I was in no shape to operate a toothbrush, let alone a car, Hinger took me to a combo burrito shop and donut store, open twenty-four hours for your convenience. And I don't know what exactly set me off, but he made me laugh....and it went downhill from there. I laughed until I had tears streaming down my face. Until I fell off the yellow plastic stool. Until everyone that frequents such an establishment at 2am set down their snacks and just stared at the gasping, squealing freakshow and the 6'7" man-ginger calmly munching a burrito next to him. I can't attribute exactly why, but I do know I haven't been that uncontrollably gleeful in ages.
And I like knowing there's that sort of happiness in the world.
I'm so broke my bank accounts have taken me out of the equation and just started bailing each other out. That's fine. On any given day I might be cowardly, or agitated, or sad, or all three. But the good stuff, it's still out there. Just gotta remember where to find it.
Namaste, bitches. Don't let the man get you down.
Oh, and don't think before that we were talking about Africa. No, no....we were talking about the black man sitting next to us.
This took me back to my grandma telling the story of when her sister dropped her (n-word only rappers can say) baby doll down the one-holer back on the farm. True story. Ask Grandma. She'll tell you without batting an eye.
And if your family isn't from the Midwest, a one-holer is an outhouse.
See, you learned something today. Never say I don't enrich your life. Knowledge is power!
They were part of my sloshball uniform. I was a proud member of team One Night Stand, not to be confused with the competition, team Hair Bands. Sloshball is kickball, like in grade school, but with a keg at second base, not like grade school. At least not my grade school. We only made it six innings before what little decorum we initially displayed washed away. I peed in public. More than once. We stood united somewhere near the imaginary pitcher's mound in the pouring rain and belted out the Star Spangled Banner, because the universe and Coors Light compelled us to do so. I did my first keg stand and mud wrestled people I just met. It rained more, people puked in the outfield, and once the keg was empty we went all walked home for pizza and naps.
My life may be a lot of things, but thankfully it's not boring.
Oh, and remember how it's March? Yeah, that happened.
What do I have to look forward to today? Other than eventual sobriety, that would be a meeting with a six year old aspiring child model and his overbearing mother. Since I'm still full of whiskey and sass I feel like serving up a steamy bowl of Reality Soup to this harpy of a woman. Can't wait to look her in the eye and tell her that her child simply isn't that special. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it. God I can't stand children on a good day.
And Pat Benetar is on the radio. Maybe today is looking up. Me and Pat versus Satan and Macaulay Culkin Lite. Not an ideal Friday, but hey, I take what I can get.
Yup. That's it. Sorry you'll never get the thirty seconds it took you to read this back. Now talk amongst yourselves. Mama needs a cold compress and a quiet room.
I've even used my fuck-you voice today. One upside to being of the rainbow is having a killer snatchy/condescending tone; it comes in the kit we get upon joining the Sequin Squad, along with Madonna's Greatest Hits and a bottle of chardonnay. When used at full force the bitch-tone leaves a burning sensation reminiscent of a wet slap on the ass. But fun as it is to employ on occasion, I hate the tone because it means I'm worked up. Tension is not my jam. As such, I thought I'd take this opportunity to list some of my favorite things. Elementary, yes. But until I get the aforementioned pudding, this will have to do.
meat and cheeses platters
parallel parking on the first try
Maker's on the rocks
any opportunity to use the words "fancy" or "biscuit"
flying first class
sex that still has that new-car smell
the smell of sunscreen
walk-offs on the dance floor
three day weekends
Happy Thursday amigos. Even if it's something lame like whiskers on kittens...always remember what gets you through the day.
"You should know, I could deliver you a top shelf orgasm. Just a real blue-ribbon fuck. Not a doubt in my mind."
And then walk away.
I might take that for a test drive soon....nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
Happy mid-week. Go balls out on something tomorrow and see what happens. Life is for living.
It's weird, when real shit hits the fan, big shit, important shit....I tend to exit stage left. Not in a bad way. I just don't write about it at length, and talk about it less than the unimportant nonsense that tends to rule daily conversations. Like watching my first episode of RuPaul's Drag Race last night. Holy hell. Wigged, duct-taped messes lip-syncing to beat the band. New favorite show. But that's neither here nor there.
I've noticed a trend with big decisions in my life. They just seem to...happen. Little fanfare. Little commotion. I didn't have a crazy experience picking a college. I hardly did any research, applied at two schools, and went to my second choice because I got more money. And looking back I wouldn't have changed my experience for the world.
When in school, I fell into a major, never did an internship, and found a job one week before graduation. Held it for six months to stay afloat, then in one week's time quit, moved, and started a new job in a new city with no idea what I was doing. And it's been an incredible two years of growth and realization.
Now I'm faced with a departing roommate, a stale job, and a restlessness that's been slowly growing for quite some time. I don't have a plan, and given history I'm becoming comfortable with that reality. Kelly sent me the following today (from here), and it now my mantra for the foreseeable future:
Stop listening to everybody around you.
Stop following aimlessly.
Stop making excuses.
Start going after what you want.
Don’t apologize for those decisions.
Some decisions you make will be wrong.
You will fail.
Some decisions you make will be spot on.
You will succeed.
Some decisions you make will just be.
That’s OK too.
You know what you want. Your friends and family know what they want for you.
There is a monumental difference between the two.
It’s the difference between being happy and just being.
You can’t please everybody.
Most people won’t agree with you.
Agreement is safe.
Acceptance is safe.
Doing what you’ve been doing is safe.
Short and sweet. I'm going to Vegas in two days, and I'm going to leave life behind. I'm going to drink whiskey excessively in public and play $3 blackjack on tables with burn holes in the felt. I'm going to toast some friends hello as they've just recently returned, and toast others goodbye as they prepare to depart. If I find a zen moment amongst the neon, I'll be thinking about that monumental difference mentioned above.
Then I'm going to come back and start seeking some danger.
Recently I find myself taking a mental inventory of my room each night before bed. I know this has to do with my imminent move, because it's not something I usually do. Not actually thinking in terms of size, quantity, or value, but more along the lines of sentiment and origin.
Tonight I keep looking at a picture propped up on a shelf. I don't have many hard copy pictures anymore thanks to the wonders of modern technology, but this one I've had for six years. It's an action shot of me and my best friend from home. We're at her mom's house, in the back living room, and I remember it like it was this morning. It's a textbook action shot, candid to the point of embarrassment. We're off-centered and oblivious, belting out Wham! as if our lives actually depended on it. What you don't see is us getting stoned beforehand and eating lasagna out of the pan, or me getting a handjob on her mom's brand-new couch after everyone else passed out. What you do see is happiness. Living in the moment happiness. Happiness even though my hair was too short and her mouth was wide open, both of us waking someone up before they go-go. We were nineteen and everything was perfect.
But of course it wasn't perfect. There were undoubtedly the standard doubts and disappointments. But now the rough edges have been smoothed by time, and all I see is the happiness.
I lead a pretty awesome life, even when it's not. You probably do too. Let's make that a focus for the remainder of the week, yes?
Namaste, friends -
I need a fucking plan.
I do not plan. I make short term arrangements, occasionally even booking trips a few months in advance, but I'm much too laissez-faire in my views of the universe to really think that my arbitrary timelines make a damn bit of difference in the big picture. I haven't an inkling where I'll be in ten years, and neither do you. So I generally float on the vibes of nature and heed action cues as they present themselves.
As for now: message received, Powers That Be. Subtle as a studded dildo.
Now is my moment to practice what I preach. I have to let go, give myself up to the moment and know that the beauty of these situations lies in the unknown. This is not to say I didn't allow myself a minor breakdown. Yesterday around 4:30pm, I quietly stepped away from my desk out into the rain, where I promptly dissolved into a rousing chorus of alternating sobs and "fuckfuckfuckwhatdoIdonowfuckfuckfuck."
The poor UPS man stumbled upon me and probably thought he'd unearthed a puffy-eyed storm monster with a wicked case of Tourette's.
After I'd emptied myself of the initial panic, I came back to the realization that this is it. All the repeated mantras of faith, the professed need of change, the late night what-if sessions....it's here. It's time. Deep breath, head held high, time to show off what we're been working on.
This is not a test. Proceed quickly but cautiously. There's no need to panic.
Everything will be OK.
Occasionally on Tuesdays, I'll head westward and meet up with my surrounding cast of characters for a little dollar taco action. It so happens they live across the street from an El Torito. Not just any El Torito though; it might actually be a faux-mexican portal to hell. I'm pretty sure the penal system has a higher standard for customer service. The servers ignore you, the food takes forever, and actually prying the bill from their hands could be a competitive event. It's a big joke of an experience wrapped up in a lukewarm tortilla.
And yet, we go back.
I know....it doesn't make any sense. This is California, meaning Mexican restaurants are on every corner, within a stones throw of a pot dispensary and an In-n-Out. But we all have similar situations in life. You know something is bad, or at the very least not good, and still you rationalize sticking with it. Well, it's cheap. It's close. It's easier than cooking.
He didn't really mean it.
I don't know any different.
It could be worse.
Same stale chips, same stale results.
Where does toughing it out end, and being scared to change begin? It's such a bitch of a conundrum. Like with the food situation. It is true that it's cheap, and walking distance is crucial since a DUI is decidedly bush league. But do those factors outweigh the shit-tastic experience we're then certain to have?
I only bring it up because choices much larger than"blended or on the rocks?" are on the horizon. Nothing to freak out about yet. I'm staying calm and remaining seated at this point. But as February marches on it's becoming apparent that this larger question of comfort versus complacency will be taking center stage.
Not a bad thing, just the way it is. Can't have your flan and eat it too.
I did take the time to verify, and yes, he was 100% serious. Maybe it's just me, but "by the way" is usually followed by a logical afterthought or small side note. Giant squid hunting fits neither of those requirements, especially considering the sentence before he was talking about brewing his own beer.
But would I trade this for a life where my social circle didn't occasionally offer a random calamari hunt? Not for all the fish in the sea.
Happy Tuesday -
Somehow my company missed the boat on spam protection, because we get everything. For a few weeks, it's Canadian prescriptions. My boss was bombarded with gold watches. Then I got big black beauties. Followed by Viagra at 80% off. And now, Russian brides.
Today I got back from lunch to find this subject line:
HELLO MY SWEET KITTY! DO YOU COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT MY RUSSIAN PUSSY?
Um....no? Sweet Kitty keeps his distance from all pussy. Pretty sure I'd remember one with communist tendencies and poor grammar.
What kills me is that these people actually make money. Schemes only last as long as they're profitable, so someone out there is shelling out $3.95 a minute for god-knows-what, but I'm betting it involves Anastasia and a bottle of vodka.
Continuing the theme of societal hemorrhoids....the cast of Jersey Shore. I hate even bringing them up, but yesterday I got my W-2 in the mail, the annual reminder of just how much Uncle Sam enjoys anally pile-driving the working man. After I sobbed into my pillow (not really) and poured a stiff one (really), I got online to find out that those goons back east are going to make 10K an episode for a twelve episode season. Six figures, just to act inbred on television for a few weeks.
My figures start with a "3" and end shortly thereafter with a "go fuck yourself, poor person." Commence face-stabbing.
Online whores, media whores, and yet I feel like the dumbest whore of all. I try to be proper and corporate, with my business card and my labeled files and my secure vanilla existence; meanwhile the freak shows on the fringe laugh all the way to the bank.
I'm not saying I'm going to go wax my downstairs and buy a webcam. But a better balance of money and happiness? Finding that would definitely warrant a fist-pump.
I've got a case of the Mondays reminiscent of grade school, when you fell down at recess and Mom made the tuna with too much mayo so it made the bread all soggy, and Mrs. Stewart let some other douche be the line leader even though it was YOUR turn to be the line leader, and you're pretty sure everyone hates you because this is not how it's supposed to work.
Of course you'd go back on Tuesday and maybe Mrs. Stewart would be hungover so you'd get to color all afternoon, and fuck if there's one thing you love, it's coloring. And everything would be okay.
I'm bringing my Crayolas tomorrow in the hope of a better day. Feel free to do the same.
I am rounding the corner on 25 and still spell "judgment" wrong. Every. Fucking. Time. It's maddening.
For no reason in particular I'm listening to slow trance-y techno, which while perfect for drugs and long talks, is not conducive to being positive and productive when home alone. My room looks like a Goodwill exploded, our kitchen is a biohazard, there are emails to write and checklists to cross off, and all I really want to do is watch The Big Lebowski.
As I just momentarily daydreamed about a nightcap somehow appearing in the form of a white russian, a roach took a leisurely stroll across my bed. Well, halfway across. I took a few seconds to silently curse this overpriced infested shanty I call home, then Raid-ed his buggy ass to hell and back.
I even flicked him onto the floor first, lest I Raid my sheets. Two points for planning ahead.
What I'm getting at is I want to go back to Saturday afternoon, when we climbed to the top of LA and silently sat in the sun, breathing in the joy that comes from being above it all. In case you're not from these parts, the best part about rain in LA is that all the smog and dust and ego disappears, and for a day or two afterward everything is as clear and beautiful as the postcards would have you believe. What most citizens of this fair city take to be a punishment, a burden, a struggle, in actuality it creates the opportunity for something amazing to emerge.
The trick during the rain is to remember that it's temporary.
There has been a lot of hardship lately, friends and strangers alike. While I'm slightly baffled at the sudden rainstorm of misfortune, I'm hoping that everyone will not only make it through but also be blessed with a clearer view on the other side.
chin up, lil soldiers -