holding violations and those who love them

I'm about to attempt my first season of fantasy football.

Jesus takes the hand-off...

People always seem to find it odd that I like football. It doesn't usually register high on the List of Things Homos Should Enjoy, usually falling somewhere between church and flannel. However, I maintain that any sport where one man's taint is another man's hand-warmer raises a plucked eyebrow no matter how aghast middle America would get at that assertion.

wandering fingers a happy center makes

Even though it takes me out of the running for Queer of the Year, I like many others will spend the next sixteen or so weekends arranging my activities around who pulled the 10am game. I like blitzes and punt returns and can even hold my own in a debate over the effectiveness of the Wildcat Formation, which to the confusion of my brothers in the rainbow does not involve Andrew Lloyd Webber in any way. I am not however a stats master, which is what I'm quickly deducing this whole fantasy world is all about. Thankfully the computer does everything on autopilot, so it's yet another new-found hobby that furthers my ambition of becoming the laziest human in existence.

I'm actually going to be in two leagues, commanding the forces of Beaver Fever in one and The Hail Marys in the other. Seeing as how I know absolute dick about who is good in what position this promises to be a comedy of errors not unlike when I would occasionally play pick up basketball with the guys in college.

flagrant foul? friendly game? you decide.

I will provide occasional updates as BeavFeve and the Marys grind their way through the season, hopefully allowing me to brag at my awesome predictions and unflappable instinct.

I realize this only digs the not-getting-laid hole that much deeper.
But c'mon, I also wear cargo shorts to bars.
Game on.


it's my party; or, Thelma and Louise return!

Tomorrow is my birthday.

Chinese women? Rubber boots? Cake?
Best. Birthday. EVER.

I love birthdays, specifically mine. Blame it on being an only child, but my birthdays have always been celebrated with pomp and circumstance comparable to a presidential inauguration. Even with all the brouhaha, I've never been big on "wanting." I didn't ever sit and make a list or anything like that. I'm pretty easy. This morning I woke up and AK had put my present next to me like a creepy summer Santa; a two-disc collectors set of The Big Lebowski! I nearly piddled (and instantly wanted to make a White Russian). Point being, I'm not hard to please.

Not to say there aren't a few things that would put a twinkle in my eye. Examples:

(1) Jason Mraz. I was going to say "singing me happy birthday," but let's be honest I don't care if he punches me in the face while filing his taxes as long as he's close. Heavy teenage girl sigh.

(2) Botox under my arms. Supposedly it works? I sweat like a tranny in Texas, and it's not pretty. But $800 to paralyze my pits? I'll just continue to stain my undershirts, thanks.

(3) One day where every street in LA is only open for me. Holy SHIT. Can you even imagine? Post-apocalyptic style, no one around, and I could get from LAX to Burbank in 12 minutes. I would make unprotected left turns for hours, just because I could. Pure. Fucking. Bliss.

(4) Two words: free porn. And none of that ten second preview crap, the real deal. Don't you judge me. I have NEEDS.

(5) A barbecue. We don't have a patio or anyplace to put one, but barbecues are awesome. Even though my desire for one is further proof that I'm a lesbian. Whatever. I'm fine with that.

But I doubt I'll wake up tomorrow to a beautiful songwriter, dry underarms, or any of the rest. And that's OK. Of course there's stuff that's fun to think about, but when it comes to actually needing stuff, my mom already sent me razors and some chapstick. So pretty much I'm good to go.

Oh, and on the birthday theme this is definitely worth sharing... my grandma sent me Thelma and Louise on DVD. No idea why. Made even more ridiculous by the fact she sent me Thelma and Louise last year as well. So if you were planning a gift within the category of insanely obscure DVD's now found in the dollar bin, scratch it off....Granny has that base covered.



when in wine country...

What did I do this weekend? Oh you know, hung out here...

...to be in attendance for this:

Such a quality weekend. A few quick notes on the subject:

(1) Going out to small-town bars the night before a wedding is a very risky move only to be attempted by trained professionals. The morning of their big day I woke up on the bathroom floor of a Fairfield Inn with half a cookie in my hand and my dignity somewhere in a bar called The Forest. Nothing says "congratulations on your big day" like dry-heaving in a tie.

(2) Don't drive I-5 in the summer with no AC. For those keeping track at home, that's 6+ hours in the godforsaken furnace of the Central Valley cooking in your own juices. The kids nowadays call that an "epic fail."

(3) When you take a step back and assess your surrounding cast of characters in life , I hope you're lucky enough to find -

- a bridesmaid who wakes up with blood on her dress and a genuine uncertainty as to whether or not she boned the night before.

- a dance partner who knows what you mean when you insist she "does the koala" with you....bonus points if she doesn't hesitate in accommodating that request.

- a friend that refers to her vagina as "the valley of solitude."

- a partner in crime that insists on naming the joint he or she just rolled.

- a buddy that insists he's justified in drinking out of the bottle when the reception runs out of glasses. Especially when it's a wine bottle. That he's filled with beer.

Will you have these exact friends? Doubtful. But hopefully you find something similar. People with little shame and less tact, but with hearts the size of the kegs they'll eventually empty. The type of true friends that come together regardless of time and distance and can reunite as though not a single day has passed. Find those people, and hold on to them tight.

No job, paycheck, address or label will ever come remotely close to enriching your life like they will.

**to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent, I feel compelled to note the above anecdotes are not necessarily attributed to those shown. But great picture, yes?**



I never truly explained my old blog, so with this new beginning I want to make sure we're all properly acquainted.

nice to meet you

I loved my old blog, the way you love a favorite stuffed animal even when the fur starts to fall off. I started it early on in college, partly as a means of venting transitional angst, but mostly because I got the feeling I'd want a loose record of my shenanigans
; a rare moment of foresight on my part. I called it Almost California, a title I ripped off from a Chuck Palahniuk essay about the futility of trying to be something you're not. When I moved to LA in January of '08 it became a place to record observations and stretch a bit more of the literary muscle I paid ol' Chappy U so much to strengthen. If you ever want to re-visit the good, the bad, and the inappropriate, older posts can be found here.

And now this. What is Cabbages and Kings? I don't know yet, and that's the basis of its appeal. Random musings? Occasional updates on my life? Pretty things I want? Guarded attempts at actually growing as a writer? Yes. All of the above will most likely happen, sprinkled with questionably amusing images that I find on the inter-web.

I do realize that is more or less what the old blog was about. The similarity does not escape me. However, this symbolizes my version of a bold move in the right direction. This is less about form and more about function. Being someone that's always been terrified of failure, letting loose creatively does not come easily.
So this me letting my hair down, in a sense. I might not always have a point, but the same can be said of real life, so I feel somewhat justified. If you get how this message all ties in with the abundant Alice in Wonderland references, go ahead and add two gold stars to your chart. Ya done good.

So that's that, amigos. Thanks for checking in on my little corner of the world. Even if I never know you were here, the mere chance that someone somewhere is sharing my art is enough to keep my dreams from becoming another raisin in the sun.

Namaste, my lovelies.


extra onions, hold the sass

I might have to curtail my semi-weekly trips to Subway. In theory it's good for lowering my fat intake, but I'm not sure my blood pressure can handle it.

I love the house-that-Jared-built as much as the next guy, but interacting with the other $5 footlong fans about does me in. Subway's whole catch is building a sandwich the way you like it. I get that. No olives? Sure! Extra lettuce? Knock yourself out! But some people take this freedom of choice to a whole new level, and it takes every calming thought I can muster to keep me from activating Beast Mode all over their whiny, demanding asses.


Some recent examples of lunacy, and I swear to the virgin mary in a sticky bun these are true:

- A woman today got into a heated debate on whether or not wanting another cheese slice constitutes "extra", as in she'd have to pay the additional .30 for her provolone. One cheese slice. Thirty cents. People that argue anything under a dollar should be beaten with blunt objects and sterilized on the spot. Fact.

-Also today, a guy asked if the woman making the sandwich could spread out the pickles more evenly. There were six people behind him in line, including the Great Cheese Battle of '09. Seriously? And yes, I can check myself and admit it probably took her an additional ten seconds to reorganize his pickle situation, but it's not about me. I had nothing but time. It's the principle of the matter. Really sir? REALLY? If you're that OCD / fussy, do us all a favor and stay home. You can get out the jar of pickles and a ruler and blow your anal-retentive wad all over your sandwich. But don't be the Demanding Douche of Petty Town in public. It's unbecoming.

-Those two space-wasters are nothing compared to my favorite guy from last week though. He had that sort of older, pompous, part-time professor look about him that screams self-importance.

I don't even know who this is. Prime example though, yes?

He stood at the register and asked Maria (yes, I know their names) to explain the price points of the menu, i.e. how each item breaks down cost-wise in relation to everything else. And was appalled, just appalled, when the minimum wage sandwich stuffer couldn't succinctly describe the economic strategies of the company.

Now I don't speak much Spanish, and Maria doesn't speak much English, but there is a universal expression understood worldwide that screams:

Ugh. It only gets to me because of the years I've spent on the other side of the counter. It takes so little to be a good customer, and in turn a good person. Smile. Say please and thank you. Be attentive and follow directions. Maria and Connie and Luz, they're people too, and because I treat them like humans we've become friends. Even though you might feel the urge to get huffy and demeaning because you're older/whiter/richer/smarter, whatever, just remember that service employees are humans, not droids. They feel happy, and sad, and most importantly, they all understand how to fuck with what goes in your mouth in ways you can't even begin to comprehend.

So as Burger King used to say....have it your way. But don't shit on the hand that feeds you.