A friend of a friend was recently flying first class when he looked over to the seat next to him and realized he was traveling next to a pair of eyes. Real human tissue eyes. The eyes had a seatbelt. I asked if the eyes had a meal, but my friend didn’t know. I wondered if they would go veg or kosher. The guy knew they were eyes because it said so right on the box: HUMAN TISSUE – EYES. I guess it isn’t as bad as traveling next to a dead guy which I know has happened to people in the past. I am actually a little jealous that both the eyes and the dead guy got to go first-class.
Two back-to-back super sweet things happened to my brother and me on a short trip to Jack-in-the-Box. First, we stumbled upon something the devil hisself concocted – TACO NACHOS. For $1.99. Basically, take two or three regular Jack-in-the-Box tacos, cut ‘em in half and top with yummy goopy nacho cheese, jalapenos and salsa. WTF, you guys. It felt really disgusting eating those things and I feel filthy for saying they were delish. And while we were waiting in the drive-thru, we saw a van pull up and a guy with Down’s Syndrome got out drinking a Dos Equis. His two ho-ey sisters followed and then he stuck the beer under his sweatshirt to sneak it in. Sometimes I go for weeks without a single cool thing happening to me. And to have these things happen to me in the span of about 5 minutes was, well, freakin delightful.
I received a doodle from my co-worker, Steven the other day. He likes to leave me whacked out doodles of cute half naked girls flying airplanes or playing guitars. They usually accompany a note requesting that I do crummy things like deliver a letter or scan a document. This sketch was of an actual witness in a case we’re on as she testified on the witness stand. A word to the wise: if you are ever asked to testify in a federal court for say, a murder trial, you might want to steer clear of a t-shirt that reads “YOU AIN’T GANGSTA, YOU JUST FRONTIN.” Other shirts such as “SNITCHES GET STITCHES” or “SNITCHES IS BITCHES” are also not recommended. Just some friendly advice.
So this month off of FaceBook taught me a whole lot. Mainly, that FaceBook is an unnecessary waste of time. It taught me that your real friends will still find a way to talk to you via telephone, email, or snail mail. I also learned that I hate the new layout. Because, yes I’m back. I guess it was more of a personal challenge and, since I rarely challenge myself, I take great pride in the fact that I was able to boycott for an entire month. My friend Grover did it too and silently (unlike me) so I guess I’m not so special. I received a super-nice email from the Netherlands (can you believe I actually have someone that far away who tunes in to my random blog of nonsense?!) requesting that I plug a book. It does relate to a post I had about a year ago about the YONIVERSE see stakin-out-the-pervs-bacon-and-the-edge-of-the-yoniverse for more details. This plug I’m doing is for a book by a female artist named Christina Camphausen. Here is the website for the book: www.yoniversum.nl . It is very different than the yoniverse collages Steven’s mermaidy friend was making with acid trippy religious imagery of monks and dolphins, but it is worth a look. Tres Georgia O’Keefe. There is even a Blue Period. No pun intended. In her husband’s email to me, he says his wife regularly does paintings of women daring enough to have such an intimate portrait of themselves. I can truly not think of anything more intimate, nor daring than this.
Yesterday, the cat jumped on my toast. I think this may be why they tell you not to eat in the bedroom and not to put food on the bed. I put it down for a hot minute and SHAZAAMMM! He decided to jump on the bed and on the toast. He was covered in honey and my toast was covered in cat hair. It was a bad way to start the day but he was at least able to lick himself off. Cats are nonchalant jerks sometimes. I recently read that dogs will yawn sympathetically. I keep fake-yawning in front of Mr. Nichi but he doesn’t yawn back. Either he’s dumb, or unsympathetic….or else, he’s way smart and knows I’m a faker. I have no way of knowing.
My brother’s best-good friend recently got married. I love me a good wedding, so when I got the invitation, I got really excited. When I heard about the requisite pre-wedding drama with the dresses and the lazy bridesmaids and the fact that someone called DJ Happy was spinning, I knew I had to go. A week before the wedding, I drove my brother all the way out to the outlying ghetto of San Pablo for the bachelor party. Apparently, it was amazing. Strippers know how to get a party going. It’s in their nature. This one came all the way from Santa Cruz to shake it. Getting her out there = $200. Having her remove her tiny thong = $100. The “Bachelor Special” = pretty effing priceless. For a cool $190, the bachelor received a trifecta of (sorta) sexy services. First was the baby oil bath. Then, she grabbed one of those tall holy candles my grandma would burn in the sink on weekends—the kind with a Virgin de Guadalupe or a special saint on it. She unsexily poured like a pint of hot wax on the bachelor’s chest. I guess he screamed like a girl. The finale was strange. She whipped out the shaving cream and shaved the top of his ass. She squirted extra in the crack, pulled his pants up, and spanked him hard so the cream flew across the room. She gets an A+ for creativity.
The wedding was awesome. The mass was slightly tedious and the priest did everything out of order. He probably should have shown up to the rehearsal. They kissed before they were actually “man and wife” and then were kept up there for quite a while to sign all the paperwork right on the altar. I think I was in the restroom when they became man and wife. I needed to take a break. I used to be able to sit through an entire Sunday Mass but I think my heathendom has—among other things—rendered me weak, unfocused, and easily bored. I reverted back to my time-tested and highly reliable grammar school coping skills. I began studying the backs of people’s heads. I flipped through the missal. I began to day dream and tried to calculate the number of hours I had spent in this very dreary place and then attempted to convert that to days and then years. Much of my young life was spent in this very church and the only thing I really enjoyed was confession.
My pop was nice and got me a room within easy stumbling distance from the reception. Dinner was a scream, to be sure. I got seated with old family friends. The man fanned himself with a ladies fan the entire time. He doesn’t say too much. His wife said he had to conserve his energy “for later.” Yikes. This cute chubby girl at the table offered me some feta from a napkin she had taken from the wine and cheese reception. She talked to me for a little while about how much she loves feta. She was a peach. DJ Happy was spinning all the Latin jams. I asked him to play “Push It” by Salt-N-Pepa but that didn’t happen. I think I went back to ask for “Laffy Taffy” but that didn’t happen either. I danced just the same and impressed my brother and his girlfriend with my versatile dancing skills. For example, I wasn’t aware I knew how to dance to banda music. Or bachatas. But apparently, I have missed my calling. Sadly, this is a talent I can only access when drinking.
Ohhh well. In an attempt to master various talents/skills—think my failed tap career—I have decided to take a book binding class. That tap snafu really got to me. It made me feel like a loser and a quitter and someone with no tap capabilities. The last thing is true. Book binding might be more my speed. The first class was a bit of a doozy—the teacher told us we could go early but some especially bored individuals thought it’d be better to stand around and ask the teacher a lot of inappropriate questions. “Are you married?”, “do you have kids?”, and “want to adopt some?” were my faves. Closely followed by “what kind of car do you drive?” Man…6-hours every Saturday is going to be well-worth it.
I saw a very depressing commercial the other day. A mama polar bear and her baby bear were boogie boarding on a small ice sheet the size of…well a boogie board. Damn global warming. It sucked the air out of me to watch the poor bears on pathetically small ice floes and so I figure, hell, I gave money to save the honeybees, I should give some money to save the bears as well. My cousin is dealing with global warming anxiety in a much different way. He’s being sent to a therapist, firstly. Seeing as he’s still a little kid, the therapist told his parents to let it play out. And so he’s decided to build a boat so he can float on once the waters rise. It would be just big enough for him and his fancy long-haired dog. Which might be telling since he obviously has no plans for mami y papi.
My friend walked by a car of two dead guys the other day while eating some bacon from the cafeteria. She looked at the car and thought to herself now, that looks like a car of dead guys and she was right. The police took a long time moving these dead guys and even left them in the car and towed them in the car back to the crime lab. I wonder if they covered them. The SF Chron online featured a pic of one of the dead guys. He was just looking right at the camera. Not creepy at all.
Speaking of creepy, my co-worker handed me a list of creepy women (see my last post). I don’t think he understood the assignment fully. Here is the list:
1. Woman who had 10 abortions.
2. Woman who had her breasts removed and male genitals surgically attached.
3. Queen who bathed in the blood of young virgins for youthful skin (Eastern Europe, middle ages)
4. Gertrude Stein
5. My ex-girlfriend when she had PMS, a bad day at work, no pot and ran out of Prozac.
6. The older girl who hit me in the head with a muddy club with nails in it when I was 5 or 6 (no warning – I had several stitches in my ear) – my first encounter with a feminist.
7. Punk girl, singer in the Mutants (late 1970’s) who put raw liver in her coochi and went to work.
8. Joan Crawford (“Mommie Dearest“); Anne Sexton (drunk and masturbating in front of her young daughter); Lydia Lunch (used to be with Teenage Jesus and the Jerks)
9. Hillary Clinton and Janet Reno with respect to suicide of Vincent Foster and the Waco massacre (authorized by Reno).
10. Lorena Bobbit
11. Helen Gurley Brown – editor of Cosmopolitan, a “social x-ray”, refers to young womenas mouseburgers.
12. Woman with Munchhausen syndrome (makes her kid sick because she likes the attention and the drama at the hospital)
13. Big Nurse in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest; head prison guard in a woman’s prison in a film I saw (1950’s).
14. Emily Dickinson – lived alone, liked to go to funerals, called a “lesbian vampire” by Camille Paglia.
It is a very valiant effort demonstrating how well-read he is. I was asking for creepy qualities, but I suppose some concrete examples can be helpful. Most of these women aren’t really creepy according to my own highly complex and private definition of creepy. They sound distressed. Misunderstood. Except for maybe that queen who bathed in the blood of virgins.
My newest hero is that crazy chick who had her beloved pit bull cloned. Okay, that alone might make you crazy. I think she sold her house for the money to have this procedure done in Korea. I half-read a lot of news stories, so this might be all off. Well, it so happens that this is a lady with a past. A shady lady. A lady who, along with some male accomplice, kidnapped some young Mormon missionary in London in the 60s, ties him to a bed, bound his hands with fur-lined handcuffs and forced him to be her dirty little love slave. Hats off. Well, you know…she’s also wanted in Tennessee of all places. She got some 15-year-old kid to break into a house to get money for a fake leg for her beloved horse. Could you make this story up? Does she qualify as creepy? Because if that’s what it takes, count me in.
Oh yeah…for your viewing pleasure (those who haven’t experienced visual and rhythmic greatness)…I give you…
In the news…
There are times you can stumble across a news story that’ll sort of elate you. I’m not easily elated by anything I read in the paper, but last week was a doozy. I mean, the weirder, the better. It reminds me that this world is random and trippy and really, pretty unbelievable. The free version of our San Francisco paper has a crime page—“Crime and Punishment”—that lists various tales of mayhem, depravity and general weirdness. For example: “A convicted sexual predator who changed his name [from Michael Zasimovitch to Ava Zinlu—a marked improvement] at the request of the devil will be in court today for a trial on whether to keep him locked up in a state hospital.” His new name really does sound devil-given.
Right beneath that story is a notice that the trial date was set in the case of Eric Munoz, an interesting man who robbed some crummy bank in crummy Foster City while wearing a yellow hardhat. Fairly ordinary stuff until the note he handed the teller: “Bank Robbery, I Have A Gon.” Dude, he spelled robbery right and gun phonetically? Well, sort of phonetically. Another story further down recounts the dramatic police chase of some drug-selling parolee who ran into a random house and was found sitting on the toilet.
My best gal pal, Jim, used to live in some lean-to in the Mission full of very diverse and wacky characters. She took over a room that had been occupied by a guy who had gotten put away for attempting to rob a bank. His name was Rob, which seemed fitting. Anyhow, Rob eventually got out and developed some crush on Jim. He tried to woo her with his sexy bank robbery story and even took her for a ride in the country on his bad-ass motorcycle. Sad for him, it was all for naught—he was just too damn crazy. Filthy too, apparently, because all she had to remember him by was a holey mattress full of mouse babies.
In other news…my funny-renewal project is taking hold slowly. It’s hard to get that back sometimes. And so sue me if I’m lazy and decide to steal from real, authentic chat logs. Funny happens when you’re not trying. The other day Kristin and I were discussing the wonderfulness of hugging chubby guys. But we did have to hash out whether all-over chub beats out the pot-belly and we decided general chub wins by a landslide. This was about a 10-minute conversation. We then talked about our favorite soggy, smelly shoes that we each love and how we need to replace them. This was then followed by a lively discussion about ordering a box of maple-bacon lollypops. We have 4 of those babies en route as we speak. My friend Romeo sent me this link for baconphiles: www.royalbaconsociety.com. I told Kristin I think I might need the bacon panties—stat!—but she misinterpreted this and wrote: “OMG you need to date a chef or a fat guy to have bacon panties…oh wait, we are not talking edible.” Yes, as tempting as that sounds, it might just lead to some strange infection. We sound very crass, but I swear, we’re good gals. She saw a rickshaw for sale on craigslist. We’re thinking about making some extra cash on the weekends.
I have been considering the concept of creepiness for about a week now. As we all know, creepy girls are slightly more difficult to come by than creepy guys. And why is that? I polled some of my male friends for examples of things a normal girl could do to make them seem ‘creepy’. Following are some of their answers:
1) Making a voodoo figure out of a guy’s hair.
2) Arranging a meeting with his parents.
3) Making a fake character on Facebook or MySpace to befriend a guy’s girlfriend.
4) Taking something that belongs to you when she leaves your apartment—like your toothbrush. Or a picture of your family.
5) Going through the trash to see whether the guy has purchased any prophylactics.
6) Looking at you with no emotion.
7) Driving by a guy’s house to see if he’s there.
Well…it was partially what I was looking for. Certainly not as creative as I would have liked. I may just have to post this question on craigslist (yes, 2nd plug for craigslist) to see what the wack-jobs in these parts have to say about that. Stay tuned…
Man, I seriously am not a fan of hiatus-es. Hiati? Time off. From stuff I love—like writing—anyhow. But boy howdy, this past month has been rough. I’ve circled the emotional wagons, kids, (the second time I’ve used this phrase today) and my energies have been consumed in terrible and weird ways. My mom went back into the hospital which always throws my world upside down. It’s a fight to get back to that strange equilibrium I manage to invent. And so, I haven’t felt particularly funny. But, as I’m finding out, the importance of humor—even in the face of sadness and fear and shit times—cannot be overestimated.
Sitting in the stuffy hospital room I got to hear my brother tell of Vegas in the dead still heat of July. Like being inside a mouth. He’s an idiot for going this time of year. And all he did was drink and gamble and get real sick sitting next to the wave pool. He did go to Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum which was aiiight…but the real fun came when he went to the haunted house. They make you stand single file and hold the person in front of you by the shoulders—like a load of POWs. My brother was the last one in line behind his girlfriend and some of her extended family. One of her family friends has this daughter with no bones in her hands. Just cartilage. I guess she can’t really make a very good fist. Anyhow, this haunted house sounds super scary. People chase you and jump out at you and scream in your face. The girlfriend’s uncle got so scared he picked up and threw one of the scary guys. The girlfriend kept her eyes closed and pinched her boy cousin’s nipple. My brother spent the whole time looking over his shoulder and pushing the people in front of him as the scary guys chased him and screamed at him. I’m super jealous.
I got to tell of the weird cryptic email I got from my coworker that read:
A friend of mine in North Dakota is sending me the skull of a cow. For some reason he had to send it to my place of work rather than my residence, and it’s due to arrive on or about July 9. If a package arrives for me, that’s what it is. Thank you.
The skull arrived the day I walked down Bum Piss Alley and saw a man pick a pair of shorts up off the ground, hold them up to his waist and then sniff the crotch. He watched me watch him do it, too, the dirty bum.
My dad told some funny story about his father. My grandfather is a lunatic. He’s a very dangerous guy, actually. I guess some time ago he saw a plastic bag in the middle of the freeway and thought to himself, “I wonder if there’s some money in that bag.” He pulled over on the shoulder, got out of the car and quickly hopped—Frogger-style—across lanes of traffic only to open a plastic sack full of cat shit and litter. He has a very active imagination.
Old people tend to. My grandparents—I’ve said this many times—are a source of endless hilarity. I’ve been spending my Mondays with my mom’s mom and while she drives me ten kinds of crazy, I am always entertained. I could write book—Mondays with Kimi. And I could tell you what she might say at any given moment. Her phrases are on rotation: “Oh, the sun feels good on my back,” “Don’t get old, Katherine—getting old sucks,” “I hate hearing ambulances—it means someone is in trouble,” or “Where are we? I don’t recognize this town anymore.” She’s as sweet as can be and is always trying to stuff money down my shirt or give me See’s candy certificates. It gives me hope that old age won’t be as crappy as some make it seem. I’m telling humor can make your life way less awful. I just need to re-funny.
It was a hell of a week. My mom went into the hospital on Monday. She’s out now and down south collecting shells and roaming the seaside elfin forest with my pop and friends. Hospitals are awful places—even the very nice ones. They smell weird and there are loads of beeping alarms and weary faces. The first day I went over to visit, I walked in and my parents were laughing. My ma was wondering if she should have just laid there looking still with her eyes closed. Because that would have somehow been funny. Humor is essential during tough times—sick humor may be better yet.
I got bored today and so I decided to read through an old diary of mine from 1997-98. I thought it’d be a regular laugh riot—and it actually was very terrible and depressing! I think I read something about how loads of people go through some severe depression around their late teens/early twenties. Yikes. Not only was I super bummed, but I was also pretty lame. “I bought a pair of khaki stretch pants and three pairs of socks. I just put on a pair even though I’m going to bed soon.” Wow. That is an awesome display of both criminal fashion sense and too much time on my hands. I was incredibly self-critical. I actually have lists of things I disliked about myself. Or things I wanted to improve. Or just general complaints. And I really talk a lot about the boyfriend I had at the time and noted everything we ever did. Our weekly break-ups. Every feeling, every comment. It’s sort of sickening. Then I found a gem:
“I had a crazy dream that I had a crazy garden with huge old spiders that took care of me and when I was mad at someone, the spiders would kill them. Yay spiders! So, some security guard at Stonestown [mall] accused me of something I didn’t do and so I got him fired and he got placed in my secret garden along with all of his security guard buddies and the spiders (which were huge and hairy and brown) ate them. I hate those god damned security guards.”
Okay, WTF. Seriously. I am glad I am less hateful and strange as I was then. And talk about a Freudian field day.
And on that topic…my friend told me that she and another friend got waxed at the same time then, decided to compare. Brazilian v. Playboy. I’m not sure what the final verdict was. All I know is that, while not a prude, I have never thought about comparing my bits with others. It isn’t like challenging a friend to a foot race or seeing who can spit the farthest. I guess the benefit would be…well, I guess you would absolutely never have to feel shy around that person again. Maybe you’d even feel inspired to do things differently. This story was told to me right before we walked into a bar featuring a band called Farticus.
The seagull photo has caused quite a controversy (Note: if you are confused, please see previous seagull-related posts). The attorney brought it with him to court after I had signed it, “Our seagull, Cap’n Jack.” This excited the inmate to no end. He was tickled pink. He even used it to flag down the judge. He actually shouted, “Judge! My piss bag’s full!” The judge asked what he had in his hand and this prompted a five-minute long discussion to determine whether said photo could be considered contraband. You know, we might be sending hidden escape messages to a stiff-legged paraplegic. My friend Kristin thinks I may be unknowingly working for some strange vaudeville act. I’m beginning to think she may just be right.
Pac-Man makes me nervous. My dad loaded it onto his computer and was playing it for like an hour yesterday. He was sweating. There is something inherently freaky about being chased—doesn’t matter if it’s ghosties or some dirty little kid playing tag. When I was a kid I would hide in very lame places every day at 5:30 when I heard my pop make his way up the steps. He would always pretend I was a very good hider, but most of the time I’d be either under the table or standing super still in a corner. Not so bright. Even now, I often have the urge to run away when I hear approaching footsteps. I must have been traumatized.
Many fears and gnarly issues often stem from trauma. Childhood trauma. Of course, for some, trauma is an every day occurrence. My friend recently decided to be a dirty little freak and lock herself in handcuffs around a beam on her wrought-iron bed. Of course the time came to unlock the cuffs, and of course the key was nowhere to be found. Her man-friend decided he’d be really gentlemanly and help her rip one hand free before going to work. She was still half-shackled, so she really had to wrack her brain for a great solution. “That’s when it dawned on me to go to the fire station.” I am so sure. She rang the doorbell and waited as a small butch lesbian answered the door. Right as my friend (who now had a scrape on one hand from the yanking) was asking if this whole thing could be handled discreetly, a big burly sexy fire fighter came to the door, saw the handcuffs and called the whole firehouse over for a look. I guess they bolt-cut that baby off and she was set for her walk of shame past the now-open firehouse door.
Adult trauma can be just as bad, if not worse than playground teasing for having peed your pants again. Several reliable sources tell me so. Recently, a friend of mine went on the worst date I think you could dream up. I mean wow. A friend of hers told her about www.crazyblinddate.com. Do not, I mean really don’t go there and torture yourself. Unless you want a horrible adventure with some jerk and maybe you like psychological / spiritual pain and heartache. So, you sign up and they hook you up with some unknown person who you meet at some previously agreed-upon location. They send some blurred out picture of this date of yours via email. So my friend shows up to meet this self-proclaimed EMO guy he is visibly disappointed. He may have even let out a sigh. He was wearing a Baby Gap-sized sweatshirt for Christ’s sake and he was the one who was disappointed.
Then the awkward silence. Then the awkward conversation about nothing. About how he doesn’t work and he has no free time because he works. What? He cancelled his meal order, slammed down his credit card and said he thought she might have had some redeeming qualities, but alas…no. The kicker though—and seriously, I cringe when I think about it—is that after this terrible date, he tells her, “I have some super-duper Band-Aids for you.” Confused, she took them. “They should help cover your wounded heart.” He ran away down the street and she looked down and realized they were just ordinary Band-Aids. Jeeez. Like, I want to give him an award. That was by far the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard. And bizarre. Who are these people? If you want to read the detailed story: www.cupcakeg.blogspot.com.
This is for the birds…I saw a woman catch a sickly old pigeon the other day. I felt like a weirdo watching her stalk her prey from inside a local copy shop. This was before I realized everyone in the shop was watching her. “She works next door at the bank!” one of the guys shouted, “I think she’s a security guard.” Why, why, why. It’s a pigeon. And it’s a sick one to boot.
Back at a Southern California State Penitentiary, the attorney I work for was busy visiting one of our dearest clients—that ALLEGED cop-killing paraplegic I’ve mentioned in blogs-past. Well, the attorney told him all about the sea gull we’d named after him and he got all excited and amused and started screaming and banging the table with his fists. I have now been commissioned to take a picture of our pathetic, single-footed mascot so the prisoner can see his namesake.
Feeding the seagull is exhausting business. I feel like it’s a distraction, but to say so would be impolite. Every time freakin’ Cap’n Jack is even the slightest bit hungry, he knocks on the damn window. Last Friday I was given the task of putting on latex gloves and feeding him thawed out smelts. It sounds kinkier and far more fun than it really was. Some stinky fish juice landed on my foot. And now I have to fend off the other jerky two-footed gulls that try to eat Jack’s food. Yesterday there was even a crow. And two pigeons. We have slowly managed to make ourselves a working aviary right down the road from City Hall. And I have unwittingly become the new Bird Girl of the Tenderloin. Here is my pet:
This past weekend, my pop needed help with a self-portrait project for some photo class he’s taking. He asked me to help him with a death mask. There’s something very strange about slathering Vaseline and then plaster on your dad’s face. At one point one of the little straws I stuck in his nose fell out and I tried as gently as possible to shove it back in. I just ended up hurting him—I think—because all I could see was his body jerk around like a flapping fish. I’ve mentioned fish twice so far. I wonder if I can manage to somehow sneak one more fish-related story in somewhere.
I think I know how. Last night I was up late watching BBC America. On came a show I’d been meaning to catch since the preview—Love Me, Love My Doll. It was a documentary all about men who have formed “meaningful” and “loving” relationships with their Real Dolls. These dolls are really amazing and if I was lonely, rich, and sans any semblance of hope for a relationship with a real woman, I’d go out and buy me one of my own. They are fully customizable and supposedly feel like real women. They interviewed a woman who worked at the Real Doll factory and she said she’d had some interesting special requests: pregnant dolls, a doll that looked like an 80-year-old woman, and a doll with an over-abundance of pubic hair. I guess they ended up just sending the guy packets of additional hair so he could go as hella hair-happy as he liked.
The guys they interviewed were, as you can well imagine, characters. One of them was black guy named Davecat with emo bangs over one eye. His was an Asian doll—a pretty one with hooker hair and heavy eye make-up. They showed him lying in bed with her, rubbing her stocking feet. When she first arrived, he said, “…it was just sex, sex, sex…but now we use words.” He lives at home with his parents who just don’t understand. He feels tortured by his love for this doll. He still tries to date “organic” women sometimes but they end up just letting him down. I feel you brother.
Another guy was called Gordon and he was from Virginia. He had two dolls who were dressed in Wal-Mart attire. I don’t know how a factory worker can afford these dolls. Maybe there’s some kind of low-income, needs-based award offered. He admitted that the reason he did not have human female companionship was because he was very ugly. His words. He also said that before he got Ginger and Kelly, he was a doormat and that now that they’re in his life, he feels a sense of empowerment which I find refreshing. Disturbing…but whatever. Gordon also collects weapons like swords and semi-automatic guns—so his life, he feels, is full.
And these men cannot wait to get home to their dolls. They feel like they can go out into the world where real women exist and if they get rejected, man, it’s cool…I got me a hottie just waiting for me back home. And she never says no. One man took a lot of posed pictures with his dolls. He called them “family photos.” The dolls were doing things like reading books and sitting in lawn chairs in the garden. Gordon films himself with the two dolls. I took copious notes so as not to forget anything. I was apparently very impressed by this show. In one of the last scenes, Davecat sends his poor beloved on a two-week journey across the country for a tune-up. The repairman had dolls crammed in all over the place. He admits to having “tested out” a couple extremely attractive dolls which seems slightly unethical…not to mention a little gross. He tightened up Davecat’s doll’s limbs and cleaned her up because she was beginning to smell a little fishy. And there you have it—three fish references. And I’m only a little grossed out. For your viewing pleasure:
Yesterday I had to take a cab ride out to the Hall of Justice (which sounds a lot cooler and a lot more heroic than is actually the case) and it proved to be nothing short of amazing. Hailing cabs is one of my few and limited talents. On maybe a couple occasions it has not worked as expected. Like the time the cabbie angrily threw my umbrella at me through the rear window, or the time Vanna and I had to walk through the misty Santa Barbara morning looking like two soggy slags. The nice people at Carrows called us a cab.
Well, I waved down this cab right near the courthouse. I got in and realized I was in a movie. Had to have been. The cab driver was wearing a black leather cowboy hat with a matching black leather vest. And the soundtrack to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly was blasting over the stereo. I kid you not. And he drove like a madman. I thought to myself, for sure, this is the way I am going to die…in some crazy cowboy’s cab. That would just be the way I die. When we finally stopped and I was paying up I told him I liked his music and he handed me his cell phone number in case I would like to request him specifically.
The Hall of Justice, like all government buildings these days, makes you go through a metal detector. I had to take off my big leopard belt and then the guard asked me if I was carrying a corkscrew and could I show it to him, please. Of course, I grabbed the other set of keys with the mace attached and he flipped out and told me I couldn’t come in. And they don’t do the courteous thing and just hold it. He told I could hide them someplace outside the building and then just hope they’re there when I get out. And lucky for me they were there where I left ‘em—in some bushes. There is nothing as awesome as carrying mace and a corkscrew. The two-prong attack is probably the most effective.
So, I sort of thought to myself, I need to make me some quick and easy money. I like making money basically just so I can travel. I ran through Craigslist’s “Etc.” job listings and thought I found what I was looking for. I could be a medical test subject. I have asthma and so I found a PAID asthma study and emailed them for more information. It was all good until I got down to what exactly would be required.
In a span of 8-12 weeks, I would need to go in to have blood drawn, my lung function tested and an EKG on three separate occasions. Then, in an 8x8x8 room, I’d be exposed to some ozone gas and then made either run on a treadmill or ride an exercise bike for 30-minute intervals within a 4 hour time frame. 17 hours later, I would need to return for either some breathing test or some horrible procedure called a bronchoscopy.
“As part of this visit, you will have an IV placed in your arm and you will be given medications to relax you [this already sounds bad]. The back of your throat will be sprayed with a numbing spray [again, not liking the sound of it]. A small, flexible plastic bronchoscope tube (about the diameter of a pencil) will be passed down your throat and into your lungs. A number of samples will be collected from your airways…Following the bronchoscopy procedure nurses will monitor you for approximately 2 hours. You will need to be accompanied home by an adult companion.” Oh holy hell. That is just yucky. I like the way it casually describes this procedure. Almost like a spa visit. You will be relaxed and numbed and then a gnarly tube shoved down your throat. And the compensation for all of this? $1,100.00. It does note that you will receive a lesser amount if you don’t complete all your visits. I don’t think I can do it, though I feel Hawaii a-callin’ me.
My Granny’s cat, Tanny, died this past weekend. You might could guess what color cat he was. She called me with her shaky high old lady voice (that was somewhat more shaky than usual) and told me her neighbor had called her over to ask her if that was her smashed cat out on the road. Then he offered to bury it for her. And people claim chivalry is dead.
As I’ve gotten older and less religious, I sort of find that holidays seem to lack something like the magic they once had when I was a kid. Maybe it’s because we appreciated things more after sacrifice—like going to church or not swearing or eating sweets during lent and eating terrible fish on Fridays. Easter has become like any other holiday we celebrate that doesn’t mean too much—like Labor Day. Still, I do like the family get togethers and this year we drank Bloody Marys and decided to head to the salt marshes someplace near Fremont for some nature. There were birds and it was sunny and we felt like we were someplace very far away and remote. But then the white trash hoe-down found us and set up camp nearby.
It seemed to be a weird tribe of these awfully loud, fat women sipping beer and picking Easter ham out of their teeth. They were a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’, flying kites and scaring the birds away. One of the men folk found a 10-foot long hoe and began rooting around in the water until a park ranger drove over and cited him. The women made a scene and claimed police harassment and that the ranger had sped down the little path and almost ran over one of the youngsters “like he was breaking up a meth ring.” I guess the park ranger was threatening enough because they packed up that effing hambone and cleared the funk out. Maybe he flashed his piece.
I think I may be in a funk. And I think it may be because the Dirty Thirty is looming large. I’ve always had a hard time with birthdays and I’m not sure why but I distinctly remember thinking the eve of my 18th birthday, this is the last night I could commit some kind of crime and they’d have to sentence me as a minor. When I was going to turn 21 I thought, awww, now I won’t have to sneak drinks. And at 25 I said to myself, look, I got another 5 years to mess about and be a loser. And now I’m on the verge of somewhat of a milestone birthday and all I can think is, I sure as hell do not feel 30. It isn’t really that big a deal but it does make you reflect on some things. Where you are in life and whether you feel satisfied with yourself. Just stuff like that. Nothing worth freaking out about.
Adult fears are so lame. Like, seriously. Little kid fears are awesome. I look back and I sort of think, damn what a cute kid. Here’s the short list of things I was afraid of:
Robbers breaking in at night
Going to hell / purgatory
Aliens and/or alien abduction
Fireworks starting a fire on the roof on the 4th of July
The end of the world
Losing my permanent teeth in an accident
These fears only flooded my mind at night when I was trying to sleep. Or at school where the nuns frequently beat the most bizarre stories into our heads. My mom was probably not going to be in heaven with me, my pop and brother and the rest of the class. Generally I wasn’t fearful and the things I was afraid of were things asshole adults told me to fear.
Adult fears are far less creative and/or interesting. Am I going to live up to my potential? Will I find happiness? Will I marry the love of my life and have kids? Fear about debt and loneliness and disease and misery is just so un-fierce and really, really just…yucky.
To some degree, our good days and bad days get less fantastic as you grow older. I read my very first diary not too long ago. I wasn’t too sophisticated, mind you. “Easter Day 1984…Today was a great day! I learned to ride my bike with no training wheels! Today was a good day.” One of my bad days read: “Today was a bad day. My mom yelled at me for screaming and killing a ladybug.” My bad days nowadays really suck. Like, hey, so-and-so is sick and in the hospital and might not make it. Or so-and-so dumped me again. Boooriiiing. And my good days…well, those can still be amazing. I’m glad that hasn’t changed too much.