Oooooooeeee!!! How I love the end of Daylight Savings…idiot farmers. We get back an hour in the Fall and I love it. I take it back, farmers are not idiots. I have farmer ancestors. They’re good folk. I digress. It felt good to lie in bed and know I could sleep in longer. I could have laid there all day but I had to git up and make myself my week’s worth of meals. Yep, it’s come to this.
At first it’s not so bad. I make what I like. But after the second day, things get a little…I don’t know…predictable? Boring even. I try to make things exciting with sauces or variations or side salads. By Thursday I’m pretty much done for and cannot imagine ever eating this thing I’ve been eating like ever again. This week it’s chicken mole. I suppose it could be worse and I could be bitching about eating ramen and ingesting all that sodium. I even wrote a poem for class about ramen:
Im tired and cranky and Im sitting and eating my lonely
a mouse squeeeeeaks
Im alone no longer
This happened. I was confused because right when the mouse squeaked I moved in my chair so I thought it was me. And then I heard it again. So unappetizing!
It wasn’t as bad as the time my brother and I heard the rats in the movie theater. I think we were watching Lost in Translation. Before the movie started we heard them start their rat chatter and, for whatever reason, I am always in disbelief. Like that just cannot be what I think it is. There’s no way! But yes, rats exist and we apparently go to the same places. Well, you hear a rat…that’s one thing. Once the movie started we saw those jerks run back and forth behind the dang screen. They seemed larger than need be—a total visual effect I think.
Before summer started I woke up one night to a horrifying series of shrieks. It was ungodly. And puzzling. I leapt out of bed and ran to the window and tried to see something. My iPhone flashlight isn’t worth a damn. After about an hour of this screech, I went outside and looked up into the pine tree and saw three raccoons mating. Oh very nice. These bright animals mate in the trees. As such, the male raccoon has something of a barbed penis and this barb does not release the female until—I guess until he’s had his own release. We tried to hose the suckers down but they just climbed higher. We turned toward benign projectiles—it was getting desperate after all. They gave up and we did too. Ickiness abounds. I’m sure their sweet little babies are around terrorizing cats and eating garbage. Nature is just so neat.
I have been reading all about this panhandling 4-year-old and his mother and had the crummy fortune of seeing them on my way to BART. I hate being enraged (it’s bad for wrinkles) and there I was, spitting mad that this woman had her 4-year-old out there tugging at our heartstrings, emotionally manipulating even the hardest of us by panhandling. Don’t do that. And the trouble is apparently, there is nothing anyone can do to stop this. People have tried. The authorities have been contacted but they say they cannot remove a child from a parent unless it can be proven that they are being abused and/or neglected. And the kid does look clean and healthy. His mother is clean, healthy and fairly well-dressed for a lady hobo. I guess making a 4-year-old beg for loose change isn’t considered abuse or something. I read a follow-up story about some Good Samaritans who took up a collection to buy plane tickets for the family to move back east this past winter. By April, they were back to begging in San Francisco. I know that kids think the weirdest things are fun, but this seems to push it a bit too far. And to think, we were just ranked one of the meanest cities when it comes our handling of the homeless.
Recently, my grandfather’s brother had to have some kind of emergency surgery. My grandfather is one of four brothers. He’s the oldest, and the healthiest. The other three are always almost dying. I’m glad I got some kind of tough genes because these tough, grumpy old kooks have been holding on for years. My dad asked my grandfather why his uncle was in the hospital this time. “His iris fell out.” This boggles the mind. “What do you mean his iris…that’s impossible. You mean his cornea got detached?” “No, like I said, his iris fell out.” On top of having tough genes, evidently, I also come from a long line of freakshows.
In case you’ve missed the tragic love triangle that’s been playing out at the San Francisco Zoo…I shall regale you with a tale of deception and intrigue. So, of course, San Francisco has a pair of gay penguins called Harry and Pepper. Some years back, they just hunkered down and decided to give it a go and make a life for themselves. They nested together. Sulky Pepper finally had a companion. The two were given an egg to care for and apparently were very good and vigilant egg-sitters. When their chicky was born, the zookeepers said the two were the best dads ever. Well, fast-forward SIX years. Their neighbor, a male named Fig, died and left behind a poor floozy widow named Linda. Linda, suddenly alone and in need of male attention, turned to Harry. You can imagine how this ends. Not well for our friend Pepper. This sudden split caused a lot of drama and heartache and Pepper had to be sent away for a little while. I realize that humanizing these animals is just plain babyish, weird and maybe just a little lame, but it is pretty amazing too.
Ok so…I figure I’ve taken enough of a vacation from my writing. The month of October was sickening and strange. I didn’t think I’d have to submit an obit or sit in a pew at my mother’s memorial service for at least another few months maybe. Never, I had hoped, since I was a little girl. I tried to meditate one night when I was maybe 7 and all I could think about was how horrible it’d be when my parents die. I don’t think I slept at all that night and I never did meditate again. You never think about these things until they happen. And then you have to do things like make funeral arrangements and shop for a black dress that you wish you could wear someplace else.
I’m kind of handling things much better than I had anticipated. When I thought about it happening, I thought I might fall on the floor and maybe faint. Maybe I’d sink into a depression and maybe I’d rip at my clothes and want to cut my hair off with some dull blade. You seriously think strange things like this. But no. I did not do any of those things. I was still able to laugh at things and cheer people up. I was able to organize my thoughts and take care of business and cook. I guess my rational side sort of stepped it up. Not to say I didn’t cry my guts out or that I don’t still break down. But I feel like I need to honor my mom by doing what she would want me to do: be strong. And besides that, I feel her around me which I realize sounds corny and super cliché, but it’s the dang old truth.
And so, I’ve decided to pick up the writing which sort of makes me happy and complete and less loserly.
And besides, I need a creative outlet. A low-brow means of communicating the raunchy and crappy things I see or (unfortunately) experience. For example. Today as I was walking down Bush Street, this crazy cat lady passed me by with a veritable stroller full of cat with ribbons and bells ‘round their necks and she actually said, “Fuck you” right in my face. I was way too amused to be mad. Cat people are a crazy ass lot. I love Mr. Kiki Jones with all my heart, but I do not think this love is unhealthy.
My best good pal Jim is a kitty foster mommy these days and I wish she’d rethink this since one of them almost literally killed her. I got to visit the bastard cat when she dragged me to some kitty adoption-a-thon they have at her local pet shop. It was much cuter than I had imagined and slightly less fierce. I guess one day the cat in question was acting kinda funny and smartly, Jim decided to try to pick her up to give her some love. The cat chomped down with all its might and Jimbo thought some antibacterial soap and some sweet TLC would nurse the nasty-ass wound back to health. No. It wasn’t until she got the sweats and her hand swelled to three times the size of a normal human hand and two red streaks of infection made a run for her heart that she deemed it worth a visit to the ER. They wanted to keep her overnight but she refused. She is rugged.
I am not so much. I feel broken sometimes. I burned the roof of my mouth chomping on a hot garlic brussel sprout and I guess it was worse than I thought because a piece of my palate actually fell off. As in…it shed. As in, that is so damn gross but I just had to tell that story real quick. Do things like that happen? Do pieces just fall off sometimes? Because if so, I need to be prepared. I am no leper so far as I know and I plan on retaining all my necessary body parts. We already know the mind is not safe.
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.
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.
What can be said about WonderCon but “damn.” I’ve been going for the past four years and every year I come away with a new take on the interesting and weird world of fanboys and girls. This year I made it a point to go to the Costume Masquerade. Right. Cart before horse. WonderCon is an annual convention held here in SF for comic book, sci-fi, and movie fans. It attracts ‘em from way far and wide and all levels of…shall we say commitment? I count myself a step below a fan. I’m just not. I like the spectacle; I like the parades of costumed die-hards; I like the bizarreness of it all. I’m not really into crowds so periodically I find myself having to take breathers with the other convention-weary.
This year I was so weary, I didn’t get any really good photos and so most everything I’m finna’ show you has been “stolen” from other people’s Flickr accounts. I think the highlight of my week (and possibly month) was the costume competition I began to tell about above. Mar, Grover, Bianca and I made a point to jockey for the best place in line and ran in to get the best seats we could. Before the show a guy was walking around handing out his “business card.” Here it is:
As groovy an image, it might better serve him to have…I don’t know, a name or phone number on it?
Once we were seated, the anticipation nearly killed us. What would follow can only be described as sublime. I sat there and was basically treated to 30-some-odd groups of people gracing the stage in costumes they’d made themselves. It was clear that half the people there didn’t know you had to put on a skit. So, they’d saunter across the stage looking 10 kinds of horrified. There were some who were very prepared like the troop of chubby red-headed belly dancers.
The rule was DON’T LAUGH. I think that was the only rule. But how can you contain yourself when 4 rotund girls step on stage as She-Ra and friends and dance and pull XXL-sized panties out of their bras and throw them on stage? Or what about when the Star Wars Good Guys disco danced and waved light sabers as the super old and crippled person playing Yoda just sat and swayed? There was some dumb bimbo who walked across stage all sexy and called herself the Queen of Heartbreakers. She flashed her crotch when she got to center stage.
Also in full effect: an amazing Spiderman 3 re-enactment, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, some anime kids who ended their performance with some DDR-inspired moves, a dancing gecko and the Sesame Street Yip-Yaps. It was incredible. I have not been simultaneously elated and horrified since that “I Can’t Find My Breadcrumbs” performance piece a few years back where the meanest black girl I knew flung herself on stage wearing a thong and a skirt made of rag strips. Amazing.
At the end, the Spiderman kids won and I think it was well-deserved.
Sometimes I feel like this must be it. Things cannot get better or be funnier. And then my brother’s girlfriend tells me about how some distantly related aunt ran off with some other married lady and raised their two kids (one of whom is called “Rico Suave”) in the suburbs. I guess this distantly related aunt met another lady she fancied and they had some brief encounter. This lady was just not sure she wanted to leave her family for this new life and so this distantly related aunt somehow stole a pair of the lady’s underpants and took them to a voodoo practitioner who cast some kind of lesbian love spell. We have yet to hear whether it has worked or whether she has missed her knickers.
In other animal news, I now officially have a pet seagull with one peg leg. I’ve named him Jack D. in honor of one of our badass clients who is a paraplegic cop killer. I believe this seagull must only be able to swim in sad little circles and so I’ve decided to take pity on him and feed him buttered bread or whatever’s handy. The woman I work with fed him a hard-boiled egg. He actually knocked on the window the other day to get my attention. I feel very blessed like some modern-day St. Francis. Anyhow, it’s a welcomed change from my usual role as victim of bird attacks.
Remember that old dumb game to derive your stripper name? First pet name + first street you lived on? Mine would be AppleHead College. Which isn’t really going to get me anywhere fast. Anyhow, my boyfriend’s brother found out his best friend’s little sister has an internet porn site. It isn’t a very good one. I guess Marcus found out that this girl has an alias, Candi M., and so, like a good 21st century digital boy, he Googled it and lo and behold. The friend does not know. And Marcus has no intention of telling him because the guy will go all kinds of crazy. I want to anonymously write Candi M. and tell her she might want to consider some kind of artistic director. For example, maybe don’t wear a stained jean jacket while half-naked in the backyard? I might also consider removing the tag from the inside of the see-through undies. That is me, anyhow.
The internet is a crazy, mixed-up place. I think sometimes it can be wonderful and I can find recipes for strawberry jello-and-pretzel salad and reconnect with people who knew me during the banana-clip phase. But you also come across weird things. Dark things. And then there’s that thing about losing touch with human-kind. Many of my friends have gotten signed up with sites like e-Harmony and the like. And then one of them got drunk e-Harmony messaged. What happened to the good old-fashioned drunk dial? I wouldn’t trust myself drunk in front of this thing. I suspect these things do so well because rejection seems slightly less terrible online. We are slowly growing all soft and losing our coping skills.
Still, I know the sting of rejection. It happened just last week in tap. We were supposed to all pair up and practice this new move. Everyone but me had a partner—even Unibrow Cosby-sweater—and so this nice old math teacher took pity on me and asked me to join him and his partner and it was nice but I felt so damn dissed! If the mulleted woman with the sports bra and camel toe were there, I’m sure she’d have asked me.
My friend goes on all these service calls to god-forsaken places like Bakersfield. He made friends with some lady named Sunshine who asked him to dinner one night which was great until he realized she wanted a baby-daddy for the three rugrats she had at home. He saw her a week or two ago and she asked him to dinner as usual, but he told her he couldn’t…he had to get home in time to vote. That is a new and original rejection that I think must be used sparingly.
Ugh. So I was sick a bit ago and I mean sick-sick. Like for two weeks. I thought I had the strep and so I went to the doctor who looked at my throat and groaned and took a culture but said it wasn’t strep. “Just some weird viral thing. Swish with this Magic Mouthwash,” (yes, that’s its scientific name) “and don’t eat for a couple days…don’t worry it won’t kill you.” Ouch. It didn’t kill me but it made my throat shed which is something new to me. I don’t honestly care to repeat that again. Pieces of you should not fall off.
So Wayne sent me this link to the 90-day Jane blog (http://90dayjane.blogspot.com/) which is basically a chronicle of the 90 days before this gal Jane offs herself. She hasn’t picked a method yet and she isn’t exactly depressed, but she wants to exercise her right to kill herself if she pleases. My knee-jerk reaction was…what an asshole. Give me a freakin’ break, you lunatic. And then I really gave it thought and decided she was sort of brilliant. Well, assuming this is a social experiment and not really some poor girl’s suicide blog. Because…if you read the comments people leave on her blog (and there are SO many) you’ll see this incredible range of reaction. Of course some are sympathetic. Some want to exploit this by asking for an interview. And others are (big surprise!) hateful and lame and suggest good and creative ways to kill herself. Lots of people suggest she do a shit-load of drugs and have lots of unprotected sex because, well, if you’re already at day 83, what does it matter? I kind of suspect it’s a reflection of the sort of vapid people who troll the internet (and I am guilty as charged) more than anything else. I mean, these people are who make this newsworthy:
Last Wednesday was my very first tap dance class ever. I’m turning over a new leaf. It’s time to step outside of my cozy comfort zone. And this class is sure to do just that. The room is small for the thirty or so people we’ve got in that class. Students at City College range from fresh-out-of-high-school teens to Tenderloin call girls to random twenty-somethings looking to do something with their free time to super drop dead old folks and everyone in between. And if you think about what a freak-infested town this is to begin with, just realize that a good deal of that freakshow population has, at any given point in time, gone to City College. And we’ve got a good healthy dose of freakishness in this tap class.
Kristin and I were sitting down waiting for the class to begin when in walks this guy with a unibrow, a Cosby sweater AND a page-boy haircut. I couldn’t have envisioned this any better. And he does a flying split-leap into the center of the room. And this was only the first few minutes of class. During the teacher’s talk, he sat there mumbling and doing floor exercises and did all these butterflies so as to flash his crotch. In our direction. He kind of reminded me of one of my uncles which is totally unfortunate.
The teacher kept getting irritated despite the fact that she’s very kooky and sweet. She had to lay the smack down a couple times on Cosby Sweater and once on this crazy red-head who kept asking questions in an attempt to get out of class early. “Can I add?” “Will there be enough space?” “Are these the right kind of shoes?” “Can you just add me now?” And then finally the girl looked like she was going to explode and she said (to the class), “Can I just tell a funny story? On my way to class I found a parakeet. But I don’t want the parakeet. I tried to call animal control but they wouldn’t come out for a parakeet. I don’t know what to do but I have to go.” It isn’t like a freakin’ wounded raccoon or man-hungry mountain lion. Then the teacher tried to tell some story about how some other student found a bird and it was the best tap class because no one tried to tap too hard. It struck me that maybe that someone was playing some practical joke because how random had this first 30 minutes been? And was this a preview of the next 18 weeks?
I’m one of those smug jerks who actually thinks they can conquer any challenge. But when the teacher made us tap in stocking feet I knew I was in for it. I think this class might kick my ass.
I have this feature on my WordPress account that lets me see what search terms people have used to find my site. Here’s a list of the big winners:
Model gay eye patch.
Brother makeup panties.
Allergy to Windex.
Fat girls wrestle.
Gum graft with cadaver tissue.
I am so appreciative of all the freak traffic I’ve got going on. I love it! If only the freaks would leave awesome comments on some stuff like, “Hey, Windex poisoning IS a very important problem. You wouldn’t be laughing if your eye swelled up the size of dang old golf ball!” Or, “You need more pictures of Asians girls with eye patches. I feel robbed.” And, I wish the real Baby Jessica would write me personally and tell me what the hell she’s been up to all these years?! Like, is she a party girl? Does she still fall down a lot? What are her views on Scientology? I think I might have found her on MySpace—it’s her assuming she never moved out of that crummy little Texas town. But right when I was going to click ‘Add as a friend?’ I found I couldn’t do it. I am so disappointing.
But…I have found my Doppelganger. Well, actually my friend Romeo found her online and showed her pictures to me and I showed her to Mario who just HAD to contact her and say: “You look just like my girlfriend! It’s creepy!” And it is. We pose the same way. We have the same bone structure! What’s crazier is that we even have the same interests like crafts and food and we both have sinus problems. I wish she didn’t live on the other side of the country or I’d force her to be my friend.