• Chicki, Breasts and Thighs

    I got felt up by a 90-year-old woman today. Yes, you read that right. Wait, I’ll get to that. Sasha and I made a 100-mile trek up to Carmichael, CA to go to my friend’s baby shower. I had to bribe her with a trip to Sonic. Incidentally, Sonic ruined our lives because we felt so guilty eating it, we couldn’t eat anything else the rest of the day. So, I’m lying in bed starving and Sasha decided to eat a can of tuna and go to sleep. I digress. As we sat there pondering whether to get the cheesy tots Sasha remembered being in high school and visiting a very old lady who was an expert bra fitter. She decided we had to go.

    My experience with bra ladies has not been very positive. Sometimes they’re rough and try to wrangle your breasts like they hate them. Sometimes they do not know what they are doing and insult you by providing you with a bra that’s too big ‘round with cups that are far too small. Chicki Downs in not that bra lady. For one, she is 90 years old. She’s seen her fair share of breasts so I suppose nothing is surprising. And she’s spot on with her sizing. I’m getting ahead of myself again. I think Chicki will do that to you. She gave Sasha some directions to her pad. She told her to come after 6 p.m. because “that’s when the dining hall closes.” Oh. So we showed up and sure enough, it was a retirement community. A little old lady with a walker greeted us. She was a peach.

    She took us to her room and showed us her dressing room and told Sasha to take off her shirt. She worked some wicked magic on Sasha because she was defying gravity when Chicki was done with her. “DO HER! FIT HER!” Sasha screamed. So before I knew what was what, I found myself half naked and being helped into a lacy beige bra by some quivery old hands. She told me to jump when I was done. I didn’t want to, but did. I have a hard time saying no to old people. She told me to do these special breast enhancement “exercises” (self breast massage) and so I suppose I will. She is, after all, old enough to know best. She also made me touch one of her breasts to see how firm they were. Once wasn’t enough so I had to do it again. It was slightly weird, to be honest. But she was right—they were awesome for a 90-year-old.

    We’ve got to go back next week to pick up our super sweet and super pricey bras. But we have to be sure to be there after church but before the Valentine’s Day Ball. She’s got a hot date with a much younger man. I think he’s 70 and it’s slightly scandalous.

    And now for more tales from the gym. My pop takes weekly steams/saunas at the craptastic 24-Hour Fitness nearby. A couple weeks ago a new freakshow hit that scene. A chubby middle-aged Chinese lady entered the sauna wearing an itty bitty bikini top and disturbingly small bottoms. Dark tufts of pubic hair peeked out the sides. To make matters worse she began a series of high kicks which revealed her insides. As in, I think I just saw her baby. All this while staring intently into everyone’s eyes. How creepy. When she finally left my dad overheard some guys talking about the last time she paid them a visit. She sort of danced around slowly handing out her business cards. Massage. First hour free! Good lord—and I thought I had weirdos at my gym. I just have guys who swig milk and passionately lip sync to R. Kelly while working the elliptical.

  • Just Words…

    I always get accused of being “citified”. I readily admit this to be true. I haven’t ever run around town without shoes or fallen into a huckleberry patch or chewed on the end of a piece of hay while floating on some homemade raft while the cicadas swarm overhead. I’ve never had occasion to make out in a hay loft and run from a farmer’s pitchfork. I don’t like bugs – least of all, the bitey, stingy kind. I do, however, watch shows like Survivorman or Man v. Wild and think to myself, by gum, I think I could survive. I do – and I’ve mentioned this in previous posts. I have complete confidence in my survival skills. I know not to sweat too much. This will pose a problem for me. You’re not supposed to sweat or you’ll lose vital body liquids and will dehydrate and maybe even catch hypothermia – weather providing. But I digress. Being called citified is some kind of a put down. It means you’re lame. I was called citified recently – right before a country lady with a pig thrust a stranger baby in my arms and told me I looked like a natural.

    My friend Grover grew up in Marietta, some small town outside Hotlanta. It’s right next to a big chicken statue, I guess. Sometimes he says some strange things. I decided I had to make an inventory of these weird words. It all started with rooty toot.

    Rooty toot. n. The cardboard tube inside a roll of paper towels or toilet paper.

    Ok..WTF.

    Really? I do like it though – very colorful. Sounds fruity and strangely thirst-quenching. Here are a few more:

    Rain bird. n. Lawn sprinklers that rotate and spit water.

    Donkey dick. n. The spout on a gas can. (As per Grover’s wife’s suggestion, a call will soon be placed to a Georgia hardware store to verify this technical term)

    Snake doctor. n. A dragonfly.

    Titty biscuits. n. 1. Smegma. 2. Funky dirty skin pills that form on the body when one is unshowered and basically pretty grimy.

    All nouns all the time. Anyhow, I’ve always been sort of enchanted by the way southerners talk. They’re very colorful people. They don’t just say, “it’s hot in here.” No. They say, “it’s hotter’n two rats humping in a wool sock.” A gal isn’t just “unattractive.” No. “She’s so ugly, she makes a train want to take a dirt road.” There are a lot of these, you see. Hyperbole. Exaggeration. Suddenly everything in life is far more exciting. I think we need to spice up our use of the English language. Remember when they tried to get ebonics recognized as a language in  California schools? It didn’t really get very far, otherwise, shoot, I’d have an advanced ebonics degree by now. Damn you Bill Cosby!

    The other night Mario had us watch a wonderful and uplifting HBO documentary called “Cat Dancers.” Sounds cute right? Sounds sweet and full of cutesy little fluffballs in stupid costumes and maybe people like me making them dance like idiots, right? Not so much. Basically, it was the most gut-wrenching shit I’ve ever had to sit and watch. Mario is scarred as well. Basically, dancer boy meets dancer girl. Boy moves away to New York; girl soon follows. Boy and girl get real famous doing adagio acrobatic dance. But they need to take it to the next level, of course. So, they decide to incorporate wild cats like panthers and tigers into their routines. This, obviously, proves to be a massive, fatal mistake. These people apparently crave spice. Girl (well, at this point, old lady) finds some young hunky circus conductor to join their act—on stage and between the sheets! Yes. This is a true story. They also get some exotic white tiger but these jerks tend to be inbred and a little nuts and prone to violence.

    Of course the tiger attacks the young hunky circus conductor and kills him dead. And five weeks later, the now suicidal old woman (who has since decided to quit eating and bathing) gets killed by the same jerky tiger. The old man (who is super fond of wearing really bad wigs) is now left alone with no love and no animals and at the end, the animal preserve that had housed his remaining cats goes under and he euthanizes them. It was not a happy movie. I think we had to turn on something funny to try to undo that whole trauma. On that note…happy new year!

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69vO9ScXLV4]

  • Milk, Milk, Lemonade, Judicial Debacles, and Furry Lovage

    Not too long ago my grandfather committed a felony. Ahh, maybe misdemeanor. And, knowing him, it isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done. He gave my little cousin what he thought was a sparkling lemonade. It was a Smirnoff Ice. My cousin, sneaky bastard that he is, of course didn’t say anything until his mom caught him drinking and then he blamed my Grandpa. My Gramps, incidentally, looks like a gingerbread man—all toasty brown with white icing hair and goatee. For whatever reason, I always imagine him climbing a rope with a knife in his teeth like a pirate. Savage.

    I had an opportunity to read through some anonymous juror questionnaires the other week. People try really hard to get out of jury duty. They’ll admit to being “slightly racist” Evangelicals. In response to “do you have any negative opinions about defense attorneys?” one guy wrote, “lawyers are like a box of chocolate…” I get the Forrest Gump shot out, but seriously, why would you respond that way? A lot of people wrote “don’t understand” on all the answer blanks and claimed not to be able to speak English. I kind of hate that excuse because I feel like if you’re here in this country, and you’re driving a car and you’re voting, I don’t know, you might need to be able to understand some basic English. You need to be able to participate in systems we have in place like jury duty. Am I wrong? But I guess on the same note, if I’m looking at doing hard time in the clink, I’d like people who understand what the hell is going on. What a crummy conundrum.

    One of our clients was recently granted an order to wear normal clothes at his trial. This is important because the second you see a guy in the orange jumpsuit, you automatically assume certain things. Like, he’s an asshole criminal. Hence, the order. The attorney generously pony-ed up some money for the client’s parents to buy him some decent, presentable, court-worthy clothes and so they took that money to Burlington Coat Factory and went to town. Hells yeah! They brought back a crapload of acceptable and boring pre-packaged shirts and ties, slacks and a pair of generic dress shoes. Somehow the client caught wind of this and asked his mom to return the clothes and get new ones because he wasn’t “trying to look like a choir boy.” He got his wish. Hanging in our office are the new-and-improved clothes: dress shirts with whacked out sparkly designs and loud insignia. Embroidered nightmares. Oh, and a pair of sweet Adidas.

    My cat molested me the other day. It isn’t something I’m proud of, or even really that comfortable addressing, but I think I need to just get it off my chest. I was lying on my bed reading a magazine and he was cuddled up on my back. I suddenly felt some rhythmic, furry grinding on my back and turned around and saw the kitty lipstick. It was real awkward, I’ll say that. Our eyes met for a quick second before the horror set in and I stood up and screamed his most hated words, “what are you doing!?” He ran away and the next day I found that he had worms. I don’t know that there is a link there, but he is a filthy beast.

    One of the Glamour “articles” I was reading while I was getting assaulted made mention of the town of Mt. Isa, a remote-ish Australian mining town where the mayor gave a newspaper interview in which he urged “beauty-disadvantaged women”, asking them to move there where the man-to-woman ration is something like 5-to-1. I wonder how effective this plea will be. Do you think this was a topic at the town meeting?

    Any finally, fresh from Facebook, my friend posted the following video. It is hot. It is sexy. It is highly choreographed. I have now watched it 5 times. Enjoy:

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iI_Fp851zFI]

  • A Bad October and How I Cope

    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.

  • Thoughts on Love and Cats on Toast

    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.

  • A Boy and His Fancy Dog, A Carload of Dead Guys, Creeps Part 2, and A Great Modern Hero

     

    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…

    [youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-aGTNS13SDU]

  • In the News, Bacon Lollys, and Creepy Girls

    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…

  • Emotional Hiatus and Re-funnification

    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:

    Hi,

    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.

    SG

    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.

  • The Games Sick People Play, Seagulls, Other Women’s Woos, and Farticus

    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.

  • TRAUMA in HANDCUFFS and on BLIND DATES

    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.