My Name is Earl Meets Apocolypse Now: A Letter from My Ex

Ever have an ex that you really despise? Or someone whom you're glad to not ever think about (because we try to be mature and move on) but if their name comes up you spit on the ground and look around for material to burn them in effigy?

Unless you are a true Buddhist, have had a lobotomy, have great meds, or have just never left your house, you most likely have had such a person in your life. I know I have.

Such a vortex of negative emotion incarnate decided to send me an email yesterday, after we have not spoken in over 9 years:

Hi,
I know we haven't talked in so long, but I am making a list of people I have done wrong in my life and you, of course, are on the top of the list.

I want to formally apologize for having treated you so terribly in our relationship. I know the things I did made you feel terrible and I was with all those other girls while we were together...but I want you to know that none of them meant anything to me, really (well, except Shannon, that girl from the restaurant where you got me the job? She was really nice).

I hope that you are well and are happy with your life. I ask _____ and ______ about you from time to time; they say that you seem to be doing great and keep very busy. It's been so long, you've moved on with your life, and I'm sure that these things are all water under the bridge and you're thinking this email is really stupid...but I wanted you to know I'm sorry. My sponsor thought that it would be good for me to do this, and I feel it's a good way for me to move forward in my life - and make ammends to those I've hurt.

If you would ever like to talk about this, please email me back.

Your Friend,

S.L.


What does he think this is, an episode of My Name is Earl?

What in hell just happened here? I was doing just fine, despite the occasional moment when my mother would bring him up What ever happened to...?, or when I would see someone who really reminded me of him, or when he would come up in conversation with a mutual friend. This asswipe was pretty much my first love, so you can imagine there is a bit of emotional tendrilage going on...but I pretty much felt okay with everything.

I tried to take responsibility for the fact that I let this idiot control my emotions for the greater part of three years of a relationship and a possible two years afterwards in the "aftermath" (every see Apocolypse Now?), I tried to bear my part of the burden because I allowed the relationship to go on after the complete horror-show (the horror...) that was my life with this Fucknugget at the tender age of 20-25.



So what - he feels the need to make peace so that he can get on with his life? Apparently his ass hit a wee bit of rock bottom if his sponsor suggested he do this. My Name Is Earl is not a fictional program. They MUST have based that character on my ex. I swear...I thought that when I first saw the show...but I was laughing then. Little did I know how it would come back to haunt me...(the horror...)

I'd like to take a moment and dissect, if I could:

...but I am making a list of people I have done wrong in my life... - Ya got about two hours, you two-faced bastard? You fucked over more people than there are pills in my bottle of Xanax that I've had to take to try to get over the trauma of being with you, you sack of shit.

I want to formally apologize for having treated you so terribly... - Gee, thanks. How about the two or three grand you owe me for rent, food, and whatever else I paid for, you sonofabitch?

...and I was with all those other girls while we were together... - Oh, you mean anything with two holes and a heartbeat between the ages of 13 and 50 that you slept with while we were together? Remember the time I came home and found you in my bed with that sixteen-year-old, the one with braces? Ah, fun times.

...they say that you seem to be doing great and keep very busy... - In other words, you heard I've been married and divorced twice, due to the shell-shock of having been with your skank ass.

...I'm sure that these things are all water under the bridge... - Ah, actually, no. It WAS until you wrote my ass and awakened this shit, like something out of The Mummy. Now, I'm pissed.

My sponsor thought that it would be good for me to do this... - Ah, good to see that you still can't think on your own. Nice to hear it. I hope your liver got destroyed before you came to this realization, you prick.

Your Friend, S.L. - Wow, I suppose all the crack you smoked before I picked your sorry ass up off the sidewalk and took care of you must really have destroyed your brain, yes?

And so, as you can see...I'm really handling this with a mature attitude.

My main goal was to share the freak show (the horror...) that fell into my lap as of yesterday, and try to perhaps shed some light (through catharsis) on why this arrogant, self-serving, righteous idiot would try to pull something out of Flatliners on me.

Gee, I feel better.

Star Jones Booted Because She Lost Weight?

I am not one to watch The View - I never have been. I couldn't tell you what time it's on or what channel. I could give a rat's ass, to tell you the truth. I think I've tuned in while sick and channel flipping, catching some kind of rant about something.

I also don't know anything about Star Jones and her views or what her relationship was with the other women. I had assumed that it was as close as it could be when a bunch of powerful women sit at a table together on broadcast network television and talk trash about everything in the world: you call someone your friend but you sleep with one eye open. I know that much from having worked at local cable TV station in St. Louis, MO; I got backstabbed more times than I care to mention - the irony is that it was really only by management, not my fellow co-workers. Well, except for the men, who all but one, couldn't find their own ass with two hands and a road map and didn't like having to share the spotlight with chicks.

But I digress...

I do find it disturbing that it is mentioned in this article that Star Jones' major weight loss (which turned her from a fat chick into a hot babe) and her marriage (publicized because everyone thinks he's gay) seemed to "turn off" audience members, according to research.



So what, people wanted her to stay fat so that they could feel better? Did Barbara Walters find that people might start making fun of her excessive face lifts if they didn't have a fat chick sitting next to her?

I am overweight. I have been struggling with my weight ever since I was 7 years old. But I am not going to sit here and say "oh, it's okay if you're fat, fat chicks are healthy and sexy and there's nothing wrong with us!"
I think that is such a crock of shit. It's an excuse because we have a food addiction and an inablity to cart our asses to the gym. Or we have chemical imbalances that need to be looked into. Regardless, nobody in their right mind can sit here and tell me that Star Jones looked better FAT. Perhaps we were used to seeing her that way, and it made us feel comfy because she was matronly.

Matronly sucks. I had a lady give up a seat for me on a train once several years ago (before I lost a lot of weight) because she thought I was pregnant.

I was not pregnant. The worst thing in the world is to be "matronly" before your fucking time. If these catty women got pissed off that perhaps Star Jones was coming into her own and feeling better about herself, well, tough shit.

Let's get down to the real reasons why...and quit this bullshit about statistics say that the public prefers her fat. Fuck the public. Who's the public, anyway? A bunch of fat chicks watching the show while they tend to their kids. Of course they want someone up there that they can identify with. And that is the sad part - they'd rather someone be unhappy with their self esteem and personal image, have poor physical health, and stroke their own problems with being overweight (or if they're not overweight, whatever "pro-woman must also equal pro-fat" agenda they have) just so the ratings can keep up.

It sounds like this could be true, though, because they got another fat chick - Rosie O'Donnell - to take her place. Now, I am happy they picked Rosie, because they are at least not afraid of hiring a gay woman. Hooray. They substituted one discrimination action with one lack therof. Only thing is, I'm not all that fond of Rosie. I hear from people who have met her that she really is a bitch - that it's not a joke. But, oh well...I bet they all are.

Funny, though. They hired someone who once again, looks almost as bad as the rest of them. You've got Walters, who looks like she's one step ahead of the chick whose body fell apart in Brazil from too much plastic surgery; you have the other chick who looks like Bette Midler after a night of binging and a car accident; and some other chick, who nobody cares about but she's young and can string a few words together in between the other two babbling about bullshit.
Oh yeah, this is gonna be great.

Now, like I said, I'm talking out of my ass here, because I don't know what really went on behind closed doors, or why Ms. Jones was fired/is leaving. All I know is that Barbara "I can't close my eyes because my facelift won't let me" Walters is quoted as saying that audience surveys didn't like the fact that Star Jones lost weight.

I call INFINITE BULLSHIT on that. Totally.

It reminds me when Suzanne Somers and Joyce DeWitt got their panties all in a bunch when my Mom started getting lots of fan mail and ganged up on her. I was nine at the time, but I remember Mom being upset about it.

It's all the same thing. Catty bitches ganging up. Schoolyard bullshit in a grownup world. And it's downright pitiful.

If people ARE outing Star Jones because she was thinner - they should really, really be ashamed of themselves. Really.

Rush Limbaugh Detained For Viagra - I Didn't Know He Still Got Laid

photo: www.BradTrent.com

Why do I find this so funny?

According to AP News, Rush Limbaugh was detained at a Florida airport when border patrol found he had Viagra without a prescription while examining his luggage after returning from the Dominican Republic. Due to his legal problems after having been busted for illegally scoring painkillers, they're crawling all over him about this one, too.

Talk about embarassing. I almost feel sorry for him...almost.
I mean, I don't hold it against him for scoring painkillers. Hell, I take them myself. I don't hold it against him for having Viagra - I had no idea that there was anyone around that wanted to have sex with him. I suppose that's why he had to go to D.R...

All's fair though, and if he hadn't been such an asshole (I'm not even talking about his political stance here - I'm talking about just being a real bastard) so many people wouldn't stand up and rejoice any time something just short of death and horrible disease happened to him.

Big Brother: Scarier Than I Ever Imagined

When I think of Big Brother, I usually think of the government (namely ours), George Orwell, the year 1984, and the time that both of my big brothers conned me into two separate games of 52 Pickup in the same day.

I had no idea that there was a reality TV show with the same name. Nor was I prepared for the horror - that it was an annual thing every summer, and this year it's back! Number 7! And they picked the biggest assholes from all the other shows to face off as to who would have the honor of being the "head of household."

I swear to god, I'm so out of the loop when it comes to TV. I don't know if that's a positive or negative.

I was feelng mindless tonight (as if that's ever a change) and found myself in front of the television, staring at CBS like it was the missing link. While brushing my cats, these back-stabbing, evil, snotnosed, socially retarded people were paraded in front of me, highlighting how they had fucked over (er, and fucked) their other housemates to get ahead or win previous shows, and why I should vote that they be allowed in this Big Brother:All Stars show.

The irony.
"I'm an asshole. I was evil and conniving. That's why you should vote for me!!!"

Of all of them, this one is the biggest asshole, but at least he's totally honest that he's an asshole, so at least you know what you're getting into.

The only ones that seemed nice were the two queens, Bunky and Marcellas, who although vain little bitches, seem to have a a decent bone in their bodies, and the fat nerdy guy. I hope one of them wins.

Perhaps I'm being a catty whore (pause for response) but all the women except this chick got on my last goddamn nerve. At least she seemed up front and perfectly ornery. The rest of them are a bunch of Anna Nicole wannabes who boinked anything not nailed to the floor or clawed its eyes out in an attempt to win.

What upsets me more than anything, though, was that I even spent time watching this reality-tv black hole bullshit. What the hell is wrong with me?

Gay Male Porn, Baseball, and My Mom

I was checking out some gay male porn tonight on a blogsite - by chance. It was actually very entertaining...

Before you laugh - you might laugh even harder if you find out how I came across this interesting porn/erotica/political site...I was doing a search for my Mom, Ann Wedgeworth, and this chap had written a post in April about films chosen by the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a series focusing on Baseball being a "metaphor for American Culture" - and the subsequent article on it in the New York Times.

He mentioned a list of excellent films that didn't get mentioned in said article, one of them being Bang the Drum Slowly starring Robert DeNiro, Michael Moriarity, and my Mom. Mother played Bobby DeNiro's girlfriend Katie in that film.

I'm always thrilled to see when someone mentions my mother (I was even thrilled to see her mentioned as a Hot Slut on the site D-Listed, and she giggled, of course) in either a favorable way or at least gives her credit for projects she's worked on.



So, anyway, I stayed on the site a little longer and found some rather interesting pictures to say the least, for the main focus of this site is gay male erotic/porn pics, info and commentary. Wow. It was well worth the trip - I really hadn't seen anything like that in a while (I'm a little out of the loop). Funny how either gay male porn or lesbian porn are the only pics/vids where the people are actually hot?

Straight porn pics usually have a hot chick, but the guy looks like he just survived a trip down Junky Lane, just to get hit by a bus and run over by a cement truck afterwards, followed by a case of herpes. Ick. And they're never into it. They're mugging for the camera and trying to not look at each other because they're as grossed out as we are.

Check out Naked Came I for a trip on the interesting, opinionated, gay adult wild side, if you are so inclined.
IT DOES HAVE LOTS OF ADULT PHOTOS - SO DON'T GIVE ME ANY SHIT, BECAUSE YOU WERE INFORMED OF SUCH, AND IT JUST MEANS YOU'RE AS INTERESTED AS I AM IF YOU CLICK THE ABOVE LINK.

Song of the Day: Me'Shell NdegéOcello - Pocketbook

Me'Shell NdegéOcello - Pocketbook
from the album Cookie: The Anthropological Mixtape

This is a SEXY song. Makes me want to go strum a bass and have sex. Ayuh, ayuh.

Breaking News...

... more like Breaking Wind. Have I become such a cynical bitch that I can't help but think that every "news" story that wafts into my living room over the idiot box is some brand of political propaganda? Sure, I'm as susceptible as the next gal to the seemingly genuine grass roots flavor of journalism sported by Anderson Cooper, but dear Lord, how much speculation about "Homegrown Terror" can be presented as actual news? Although the most disconcerting fact to ponder is... why the hell can't I stop watching?!

Dear Dick, You're A Dick

Sometimes You Just Need To Say, “You’re a Dick!”

Me?

I don’t say it with flowers, I say it with dried deer genitalia. . .

(Screeeeeech!)

Huh?

Yup, deer dick! Bambi Penis, the real deal.

My boss has infuriated me for close to a year. He’s smart and funny, but chooses to be a lazy, complacent fuckwad instead of a decent boss or caring educator.

It really drives me into a fury. A few months ago: corners, mumbling, rabid, by 10am. . .

I’ve come pretty close to losing my temper on his complacency and condescension a few times:

I like to make “silent deals” with the stupid people I’ve had to work for. Not all people, just the stupid, or selectively-stupid.

It goes like this:

Don’t question how I teach or the level of care I give my students, you can barely remember their names and could give a shit if your laziness takes their self-confidence down crucial notches.

The majority of my students are workin' folks who haven’t had the privilege of parental connections or plushy educations to buffer their banging lurch into the real world.

Not that my boss has any huge advantage, but I can tell he’s smart enough to understand what a pickle some of these kids are in, and he just doesn’t care. My (now previous – “you can’t fire me, because I quit!”) boss also seems comfortably middle-class, and it just irks me that he’s happy to fail my students who can’t afford the bus fare to show up, and never have money for food, without my boss looking into it.

The damned school gave them loans, preparing them to fail on the government’s dollar. . .

This isn’t every student of course, but certain ones make my claws and fangs just twitch. . .I’m a Leo, don’t fuck with this Mama Lion.

Maybe it’s build up, I dunno – I can’t stay in shit holes that long before needing to crawl out.

So. . .anyway, my boss? He’s a Dick. . .

And a while ago I ordered a package . . . that oddly came from a pet supply store, which I didn’t put together until I realized the beef jerky was really rawhide, and weird . . . dried deer dick.

And me? I’m always half into the joke when I really should just keep my mouth shut, so I’m like. . .


Dear Dick,

You’re a dick.

Oh wait?!

Who’s the BIGGEST dick I personally have to make nice with every day?

My Boss!


So. . .I saved the package, savored the notion, and popped it in my bag this morning, my last day at the factory, at the usual buttcrack dawn. He’s never there when I march in to teach my 8am, so I pinned it behind his monitor. . .

“Just a subliminal, visual note from me to you, so you know that I know you’re a Dick. . .”

I told a few of my pals at work. They were equally alarmed by my gross immaturity, and jealous: Wishing that they could do the same. Me? I was chillin’ like a villain, rude as a landmine. . .and I just waited. . .

Tick tock, your tax dollars at work, I teach YOUR children.

Knee-deep in my own self-satisfied amusement, I wander back into the faculty lounge, and the boss is like, “Did you put this here?” He’s spooky. His eyes can go from mean old man who’s a drunk bastard with a bad gambling habit to the most innocent, sparkly little boy. If he could channel that I bet he could be a priest or a character actor for the small stage, instead he’s a lazy half-assed middle-aged, middle-manager at a for-profit, bull-shit school that promises gold and barely keeps their hay clean of all the shit building up.

I sorta looked at him in that deadpan “I’m already dead, I’m so remote” poker-face I inherited from the Cowboys on dad’s side and the stone-cold Vikings on mom’s. . .and smiled quickly to switch gears before I showed my hand.

“Eee-eew,” I managed to squeal, doing my best dumb white girl, to throw him off. “That’s so gro-oss. . .” I managed to chirp, and kept my eyes open and mouth shut. Satisfied, he asked another professor, my male-doppelganger: someone equally obnoxious and capable of the subtle finger-waving:


Dear Dick,

Fuck you, deer dick. . ..


that I had pinned in El Bosso’s cubicle.

“Wow, maybe I’m taking it too personally?” The Boss kept asking other people throughout the day. . .

Me?

I like to give a gift that KEEPS ON GIVING. . .

Because sometimes, it’s best to say “You’re a DICK” with . . . well, a dick.

The road to hell is....a bicycle path.

So I no sooner stepped out of a doctor's office in the outer boroughs today when I started being pursued by, and subsequently sexually harrassed by, a dude on a bicycle.

Now, by right, I probably should have been flattered by this attention, seeing as the guy was a good 10 years younger than myself and pretty cute, and I was wearing no makeup and dressed like a slob.....in which condition, in case I'd actually need to tell you, I basically look like your average run-of-the-mill worn out old hag. However, I was not flattered, merely pissed off as all fuck. And why? Simple. I do not like cyclists.

Yes, all in all, people who ride bikes annoy the bloody bloomin' fuck out of me. The ones in Central Park piss me off, all those stupid, out-of-shape yuppie scumbags with their flabulous cubicle-butts stuffed into spandex shorts and those ridiculous-looking helmets jammed onto their big empty heads, like a murderous swarm of short-bus escapees. I dislike bike messengers as well, not only their flagrant disregard for traffic signals and pedestrian crosswalks, but also their unseen managers for being too fucking cheap to hire people with cars to do their bidding. But most of all, I hate recreational cyclists who insist on riding their bikes on the motherfucking sidewalk, their front wheel a half a goddamn inch from my ass. I do not care if it's good exercise, I do not care if it's fun, and I could care less about the fact that you cannot afford a car or a garage in which to store your car. You are a grownup, not a 12-year-old kid, and this is New York, not some open field in Bumfuck, Idaho. You haven't got the finances for a car, can't be bothered with public transport, and want cheap exercise? Walk, you bloody ingrate! Hell, if you insist on travelling by sidewalk, not only is walking free of charge and good cardiovascular exercise, you might actually be able to get where you're going faster since it's easier to weave your way through a crowd when you haven't got a gigantic metal thing attached to your ass. Finally, choosing to get from point A to point B a pied as opposed to on your stupid bicycle not only cuts down your chances of being sued, but also drastically reduces your risk of being bludgeoned to death by a pissy, overtaxed redhead.

So needless to say our friend on the bike did not get a sample of this ass. Instead, he got the cap of my water bottle tossed nonchalantly into his front wheel. No, he didn't fall over, but he got the message....

Que Sera

It isn't like I'm ever angry. I get angry at myself, at traffic, at little brats running around on the subway. That's about it. My middle finger fell off somewhere between First Baptist Elementary and Lala Land. Lala Land being the foggy expanse of my fatalistic conscious. Que Sera. Whatever will be. My nose falls off. Yay. Now I'm like Michael Jackson. I lose 3/4 of my hearing. Yay. Now I can read lips through window panes. Bush is elected president. Yay. Now Doonesbury will be good again.

Didn't happen though, Doonesbury has been sucking royally lately.

Que Sera.

Pain hurts.

I have just been informed that I am going to have to have another angiogram. As anyone who's ever had one knows, that shit hurts like an unholy motherfucker. I really don't mean to sound like a whiney baby, but for god's sake, man. In case the universe hasn't noticed, I am dealing with plenty of health-type problems right now (namely, CANCER), I don't really need any more. I most certainly do not need to hear the words, 'Well, once you're done with your last round of chemo, we'll talk about when to schedule the angiogram'.

For those of you who don't speak medical euphamism, that translates roughly to, 'Once we're done pumping you full of poison that's going to make you puke up enough of your guts to fill the fucking grand canyon and kill whatever brain cells the drugs, alcohol, and last who-the-fuck-remembers-how-many rounds of chemo didn't get, we're going to reserve a room for you so some sadistic bastard can shove a scope into your heart via your leg. Well if your leg has a pulse by then, anyway....if not, we'll just shove it in through your arm and possibly kill you.'

Ehh.....fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Oh, and on a completely unrelated note, if someone tells you to listen to the song 'Skin Sarabeth' by Rascal Flatts, DO NOT DO IT. Particularly not if you have/had/know someone who has cancer. It will depress you to the deepest depths of depression.

Okay, I'm done now....now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

My Pride: It's What's For Dinner!

I am so fucking disgusted.

No, really, I am.

I just had to sit through a two-hour meeting with people who I am supposed to be leading (by default, because the leader isn't there and I'm second in command; actually, I'm tied second with someone else, and that person isn't there either) and NOBODY respects me. It's so obvious that although I am hustling to get these people to where they need to be (because several of them won't do it for themselves) it's not appreciated - at all - and they could really give a rat's ass about what I have to say.

In fact, let me not use any metaphors here, any smokescreens. Maybe I'll regret this tomorrow, but I'm super pissed off, and I created this site as a forum to rant and discuss - and by god, if I have to take shit outside I can at least come here.

My fucking theatre company does not appreciate me. I am the Associate Artistic Director. I am also the daughter of the Artistic Director. Now maybe some offspring of certain actors have gotten parts or gotten ahead due to their connections and they can't act their way out of a paper bag.

That is not me. Sophia Coppola I am not. And it's not like I got the keys to the kingdom here; more like the keys to a Ford Pinto.



I can honestly say, and this is coming from someone who is about as neurotic and insecure as you can get, that two things in this world I know I can do: I can act and I can write. And I'm developing an eye for teaching acting and critiquing - and I intend to direct. People whose acting I respect and who are happy to see a peer flourish are very enthusiastic about the work I have done and the vision I have about where I want to take it. These are the people who I will have to start my own company with. Who I will teach beside and carry on my father's name. It's as simple as that.

Why should I struggle to put together a production or a showcase of scenes with people who patronize me and barely tolerate my running the show in the absence of my Dad? Why should I hold my tongue when I try to assign scenes (because some people can't seem to figure out that three pages does not a 10-15 minute scene make) and offer to direct and they roll their eyes?
Because I said I would do this, and I'm going to do it. I didn't ask for this responsibility - I'm not some egomaniacal asshole who is trying to take over her Daddy's empire. My father is not well and is starting to run down, and this was dropped into my lap like a pile of steaming shit.

I've been busting my proverbial balls to keep these people entertained with material when we didn't have any. Did anyone else bring in scenes to do? One person - and that is one good thing I can say. What would have been a happy ending to that side road is if she wouldn't roll her eyes when I critique the acting. Apparently she doesn't think that a fellow student of Ernie's should be offering suggestions to peers. She can kiss my half-Puerto Rican ass.

I say that's what a fucking theatre company is all about: acting peers helping each other, through an understanding of the work, and being on the same page. Warming up together, working together toward a common goal of honesty and reality on the stage. Trust. Respect. Understanding.

Jesus Christ. This is harder than any marriage I've been in - and I've been married twice - currently working on divorce #2. My friend told me to walk away from these people - tell them to take their fucking scene night and shove it if they were going to treat me with such disrespect.

"Well, I was married for four damn years in an unhappy marriage, I suppose I can deal with three months of hell." I said.

"Yeah," he said, "but it's like you were married to a whole little army of husbands all in one shot."

He's got a point.

where have all the intelligent people gone?

Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe I expect too much from people. Or maybe I just work in the wrong place. Whatever it is, I am so tired of it. I need to be around my own kind.

I work in a place where kids ~ and I use this term loosely ~ from all different background come to "get educated" (but that's for another rant). These people are the ones for whom college was an afterthought. Listening to them talk to each other is like listening to the most bastardized London cockney. Today I overheard something I think was about some girl's baby-daddy who just got another girl pregnant but since he was still staying with her, she really didn't care and oh, did she know anything about Tamika who says that she slept with him too? 'Cuz if she find Tamika, she's gonna kick her ass.

Huh?

Ok, this gets me closer to my point.

It's the constant breeding of the stupid that kills me. It's never ending! It seems that on a regular basis I get to meet the cream of the crop. These are the beings who are part of the 2-brain-cell clan ~ where one of those brain cells is reminding the other to breathe. The challenge is that since these 2 brain cells are otherwise occupied, there's no room for common sense and this is why they reproduce so quickly. I'm learning whenever I meet a member of the clas, they have 20 kids and are expecting a set of twins in 8 months. Why does stupidity feel it necessary to constantly win the race against the intelligent to bring more of its kind into this world? Apparently where I work, I see the majority. And I think I've met their leaders. Let me tell you, it's not pretty.

As this 2-cell group gets stronger, I've seen it draw away the others. My coworker pal will be running away at the end of the month. Dammit. Now there's one less of us. Who the hell does that leave me with?

If my kind has moved to another planet, I can only hope they remember me back here and come to find me.

OCD at the Local Coffeeshop

What is wrong with people?

I just went to go get coffee and an egg sandwich from my favorite coffee shop around the corner. I had been walking Chico, and decided to carry him in with me while I made my order.

Before I even got into the shop (or even picked him up to carry him in there) some asswipe started making huge barking noises directed at Chico from his car. Many of you know that Chico is a little min pin; a hearty, fat bastard, but a little dog nevertheless.

Chico flinched, already freaked out by the pit bulls in our neighborhood (that is a whole other rant). It was easy to see that the sounds this guy was making were having deleterious effects on my Mouse. The asswipe did it again.

"Hey!" I shouted, "I bet if he was a pit bull and you weren't in your car with the doors locked, you wouldn't be fucking with him, would you? Why don't you go fuck yourself, you stupid prick?"

Perhaps not the most intelligent or mature response to the situation, but it got the desired effect. He looked at me wide-eyed, shut his mouth, and as the light turned green, sped off. I don't take kindly to people terrorizing my dog or any of my other animals, and I will happily puncture someone's artery in their defense. Verbally or otherwise.




So that leads me to the beginning of my rant...I picked up Mssr. ChicoMouse, Esq., and headed into the shop, the idea of coffee and eggs on a roll quite appealing.

I gave my order to people who already know what I want (I know these folks; I sent flowers when the owner's husband passed away) and since there was nobody in there except for a man and his little girl (who didn't like that I'd told the guy in the car to bugger with such delicate syntax) I sat down on a chair next to the door with my little dog in my lap.

In walks a man - and he's one of those people that you can tell something's not quite right: he was fondled by his Scoutmaster and later realized he enjoyed it; his Dad dropped him on purpose during a game of "upsy-daisy"; or somebody accidently gave him a partial, yet unsuccessful, lobotomy when he actually went in for a hernia operation - I don't know. All I know is, is that this guy went from being a neurotic coffee monger to a MAJOR pain in my ass in .2 seconds.

"You shouldn't have that dog in here," he sniffs, wagging his finger at me. I wanted to break it off.

"Sir," See? I was being polite. "Sir, I made an order. I'm sitting with him on my lap waiting for the order. People bring their dogs everywhere."

He wasn't having it. He tightened his asshole and replied:
"This is an eating establishment. It's against the law to bring that dog in here. You could be fined, they could be fined. What with all the hair and bacteria particles and..."

And he kept going.

I sighed loudly.
"So in other words, the fact that the doors to the street are wide open and it's almost like we're sitting outside, and that I can spit and hit a place that I can bring my dog into, all the bacteria is here, right now, because I brought my dog in here?"

He went on about it again.
"So I'm to believe that you bathed him, groomed him, and didn't let him walk on the street before you brought him in here? Because otherwise he has tons of bacteria and filth on him."

I had it. I picked Chico up, stood up, and started to walk outside to wait for my coffee and food. I didn't want this freak to cause a problem for the coffeeshop.

"Sir, I understand - in fact, we all understand - that you have OCD and an unhealthy pre-occupation with germs - in particular, my dog's germs. So, I'm assuming that YOU showered already? That you are groomed? Did you change your underwear? Did you let your feet touch the ground before you walked in? Because those are all deal-breakers right there."

I was starting to get worked up.

"Because I'll tell you - I just woke up, I haven't showered yet. I didn't even brush my hair. Next thing you'll tell me is that I can't come in here, you obsessive-compulsive freak."

The shop was silent.
Johnny, the cook, bagged up my coffee and egg sandwich.

"Here you go. Pay me later, eh?"
In other words: Please don't kill the customers. They really aren't as weird as you are.

Ramblings of Ringworm Girl

Ringworm girl. I really am a "Ringworm Woman", but I look like a girl and definitely have a mental giggle (MOL) at the idea of me being a woman. That's weird, which totally belies the fact of how violently *normal* I am.
OK now that I'm done not making sense, here's my point. I look young. I do not feel even as young as I am. Ready for some bitching? Want some whine with this cheese?

I feel like a decrepit and worn out old woman, and if this is 36, what's next? PMS, PMS related migraine, heartburn, arthritis. These were not things I had a decade ago. Getting older is very disenheartening. I am a big puddle of wet and fungus ridden discontent.

Moving right along, I would like to talk about the World Cup. What it means to me. Absolutely nothing. Sorry. It means my ex boyfriend Joe watches it Saturday in Long Island and then gets into Manhattan much later to see me. It also means I wait to eat until he arrives, and then the acids in my evil and vindictive stomach start to wait, and begin to simmer.

So, yay, World Cup! Arguably the coolest soccer thing ever. I think? My ex boyfriend is walking around with a World Cup shirt on. He looks like a demented squirrel on crack sometimes. What times? When I tried to put a little 'cover your gray' brush on temporary hair color in his ponytail.

"I have to take a bunch of retarded people swimming in a pool!" he screeched, flailing wildly. "What did you just put in my hair? Hair dye? Oh and it wasn't funny when you painted my toenails pink when I was sleeping either!"

His face was wildly distorterd and I thought,"Demented squirrel on crack!" Why did I have the brush on hair color that distressed weasel nose so much?

Because my two silver hairs obviously bred and gave birth to a whole litter of silver hairs all over my very dark brown head. I'm a damned silver fox. I'm gray haired, have holes burned in my stomach, and have every PMS symptom that exists.

Except for well, let's see- there's bloating, headaches, food cravings, abdominal cramps, headaches, tension, breast tenderness, and joint pain. Eh, no. Unless there are some other ones on another list, like wanting to be a man. Oh, wait, I think I would do that. Maybe then I'd have more to say on the World Cup.

So the point of this post is:

yeah. Sums it right on up.

Song of the Day: Portishead - Sour Sour Times

Portishead - Sour Sour Times
from the album Glory Times

This Is Too Hilarious.

I'm lovin' it, is what I am.

I really doubt that in the history of presidencies, anyone has so justifiably caused so many people to be angry, disgusted, outraged, and confused as Dubya. The man is a walking circus act. I mean, let's face it: when the man who is supposed to be in charge of the Free World has to ask someone when he can go to the bathroom?

It would be oh so very funny if this man wasn't our President but some other country's...like a little country out in the middle of nowhere with population 20 people.

That said, I was not a fan of Clinton, either, and felt that although he was a brilliant man, his attitude towards women was misogynist, patronizing and socially unacceptable at best. He also dropped the ball on many foreign policy and domestic security issues, and never really left the trailer park (I'm sorry, but stealing furniture out of the White House and charging people to sleep in Lincoln's bedroom is just TACKY).

Unfortunately, I think that there was a knee-jerk reaction to how he ran things (oh! the Republicans hated him so much - kind of like the way Democrats...and, uh, 49% of America hate Dubya) that made people swing the other way - and this side of the pendulum is such a horror show.

However: God bless all my pals who send me these little pictures...it makes me smile on days when I want to pull a Falling Down Michael Douglas and take out an entire block of people.

I Want My $$$ Back!

I want my money back. I figure that after the 35 years of income the United States government has made off my existence, it should be no sweat to return some of those funds to someone they keep insinuating is a non-citizen, right?

I mean really, if they’re not going to treat me like a real member of the system, then I figure I should opt out for a while and live off that neat escrow fund they’ve set up for me.

I hereby invite all queer or otherwise marginalized people who are just trying to protect themselves and their loved ones to do the same.

You won’t let me get married? Well can you return all the taxes and legal fees we’d save if you deemed us worthy of your legal recognition?

(People balk at how much weddings cost, well imagine if all the ceremonies in the world would never provide you and your partner the adequate legal protection, and to add insult to injury you’d have to spend about the same amount as you would on the ceremony.)

I watched in horror and disbelief as you deliberately ignored your own citizens to let them drown, starve and ultimately go homeless merely because they weren’t the right tax bracket or part of your knee-jerk voting club. Well gosh, I’d like my own convention-ready compound too! Can I have mine in Hawaii? (No one has to be flooded out of their homes, but I’m sure all that money you’ll make with Katrina could buy me a house and a couple one-way tickets, right?)

You keep starting wars and jacking the gas price to profit your oily, scumbag corporations. Your wars lead the children I’ve been trying to teach and motivate to their deaths by offering them no other economic alternative for higher education.

Huh...

Well, can I take all those kids before you try and kill them, and start my own nation-state so we can decide for ourselves whether everyone who doesn’t believe in some blue-eyed Jesus is really the devil?

Because right now I keep confusing the devil with, well...you.

And you have my money, and I want it back!

Shakespeare in the Park - Macbeth Does Central Park

They're doing MACBETH this summer in Central Park for the Shakespeare in the Park run that they have every year. How exciting! I'm a nut for the Bard, having taken more Shakespeare classes than I should have in college (hey, I WAS an English major after all, although my bastardization of the English language, grammar, and spelling would never let on that I had been) and having studied acting and directing for a summer in London.

Here is the info:

MACBETH
Written by William Shakespeare
Directed by Moisés Kaufman

June 14 - July 9, 2006
Tuesday through Sunday
All shows at 8:30pm!
No performance July 4, added performance July 3.
Click here for a performance schedule.

All I know is that Liev Schreiber is in it, and he's on my "I would sincerely like to pound you into next week" list. That combined with the fact that it's one of my favorite Shakespeare plays (the other being Hamlet), will most likely insure that MY ass will be in a seat for a performance. I suggest you do the same.

For more of this post, see Voodoo Jive...

The Bisexuality Epidemic

Is it just me or are all females these days bisexual? Take a quick glance at sites like MySpace and it sure would seem that way. Girls as young as 13 and 14 pose for their 'default profile picture' making out (usually quite poorly) with their best friends, and any chick worth her salt is going to list Angelina Jolie as someone she'd like to meet. But do any of them really like females? I mean LIKE them like them? What do you think?

Backtrack - I am bisexual. As in, I'm physically attracted to and have enjoyed sexual activity with both males and females. I have been this way since I was quite young, and initially, my lesbian side was something that disturbed me quite a bit. See, I was raised long ago in a land far away, where girls kissing girls wasn't considered sexy or even remotely acceptable. The fact that I was attracted to other females and the possibility that I might be....gasp!....gay, was actually a source of constant worry for me, as I tried my damnedest to purge any attraction I might have to women from my head and body by more or less screwing any guy who asked. I don't know what the hell I was trying to accomplish, but to a 15-year-old Catholic kid who feared for her heterosexuality, I guess it was a weak attempt at finding the Mr Right who would be so incredibly good in bed that I'd forget any desire I might have for the female body.

Long story short, that plan didn't work. Yes, I still fuck boys, but I also still very much like the ladies. I have since learned, though, that there's nothing wrong with that. Some people think there is, but some people are also profoundly retarded. Some people (like my ex-husband) honestly believe bisexuality is something that can be grown out of, so how much creedence can we really give to their opinions? I don't view bisexuality as a good or a bad thing myself, it's just an orientation, and it does in a sense make me more fortunate than others, since I can basically have two partners at once without 'cheating'.

But when I say 'two partners at once', I do mean a girlfriend and a boyfriend....not a girlfriend for my boyfriend's amusement. Which leads me back to the MySpace bisexuals and why I hate them so fucking much.

I have only been socializing online for a little under two years, with all of that socialization happening on MySpace. I've never approached the internet with the purpose of finding dates, because in my opinion, only losers do that (more on this later). I did end up going on a few dates, most of which crashed and burned, but then again, most dates I've been on period have crashed and burned, so the net isn't nearly as different to real life as I gave it credit for being.
The only difference I could see, after being on for a few months, was that finding women to date would probably be a bit easier, seeing as orientation is there for everyone to plainly see....which mine usually isn't when I'm just out walking the streets.

And I did get emails from girls. Lots of them. However, most of them weren't actually interested in women 'that way'. They claimed to be, but upon further examination, they were just submissive straight girls in relationships with men who wanted to see them get it on with another female they (by 'they' I mean the boyfriends) found attractive. Most of the girls even admitted their boyfriends had handpicked me for them.

Now I don't know about anyone else here, but when it comes to me and sex, I am not big into the whole 'performing for an audience' thing. I'm particularly not into it when the person I'm fucking isn't actually getting anything from it, which I'm going to assume a straight girl isn't going to be. If I have a boyfriend, I have no trouble pleasing him, but pleasing someone else's boyfriend? Ehh....fuck that shit. I'm in it for the pleasure of my partner....not someone else's. You want me to fucking perform for your skank ass, you are bloody well going to be paying me for my time.

Likewise, the guys who write me now, after seeing pics of me and my girlfriend, who want us to
'perform' for them need to be beaten within an inch of their sorry little lives. The fact that we are both bisexual does NOT insinuate, no matter what anyone else on the internet or anyplace else has led you to believe, that we are sluts or performing whores for hire. We might like men, but the chances are pretty good that does not include YOU. We are not going to provide you with a show to jack it to. If you want to fantasize about us, there is unfortunately nothing we can do to stop you, but we really don't need to be provided with the details of what you do when you think of us together, and we sure as hell don't want to act out for you. There are plenty of girls around who live to pleasure random men, and most of them are on MySpace. Please, for the love of god, find them....and leave us alone.

And for those gals, the ones who for whatever reason, have made bisexual the 'thing to be'....please stop it. You're giving the rest of us a bad name. MySpace and sites like it need to add another orientation to the list....'straight but will do anything with anyone if it means I'll get some cock'. Please lobby to make that so. That way you'll get what you want and the pigs you're looking to attract will leave poor old half-dykes like me the fuck alone.

Song of the Day: Björk - Possibly Maybe

Björk - Possibly Maybe
one album it's on is Telegram

Morning Commute Report

It sucked.
But then again, you were probably expecting me to say that.

What is up with people who glare at you when you gently bump into them on a packed train? For Chrissake, they should just take a goddamn cab if it's that much of an issue.

To the woman who busted my proverbial balls this morning, I have something to say:

First of all (and I can say this because I'm about 12 pounds overweight right now), if you're so fucking fat your ass takes up more than one seat, you have NO right to complain if I bump into you on the train. You should be happy that I didn't accidently step on one of the rolls of fat that are dripping off your Jabba-the-fucking-Hutt hips. Considering that we both look like Shamu, it's best not to attract to much attention to us, so shut the FUCK up.

Second, don't roll your eyes at me and sigh. I don't need the Shenay-nay attitude combined with the bovine expression. Save it for someone who gives a rat's ass. I have only had one coffee, I'm going in to a job that is about as interesting as picking my toenails (and about as profitable), and I want to get away from the guy with B.O. standing next to us as much as you do. I don't need your bullshit. Learn some fucking manners or do us all a favor and jump in front of the train the next time it comes around.

Third, don't knock my ass over as you try to get out of the train. You already gave me grief during our hellish 8 or 9 minutes ride to Union Square, don't make it worse by flattening me up against a goddamn pole as you try to use the Jaws of Life to extract your fat fucking ass out of the seat and out the door. I will shove back. With elbows.

And to the two queens that wouldn't stop babbling loudly about absolute bullshit:

Please save it for after you're out of the train, or at least lower your voice. I'm not interested in hearing nasal voices loudly describe the joys of Kenneth Cole and clubbing in my ear when I haven't had a chance to wake up...and also, when I don't have enough money to a) go out clubbing and b) buy the Kenneth Cole purse for $348 that I want. So CAN it, bitches.


This has been a Commuting Report.

I plan to be in this book. Maybe you can be in it with me?

tales from gotham
Everyone has stories that only could happen in New York. Crazy supers. Middle of the night subway rides, unhabitable apartments, insane jobs, nightmare roommates . . .
think about it—you must have 5 running through your head right now.
We want your stories. Your funniest, scariest, most outrageous, unbelievable stories about life in New York City, to be featured in our upcoming book, Tales from Gotham.
Please forward this to everyone you know. And be back in touch. Email, call, send us your story, or let us do the writing.
Kim: 212-463-7134 or bkim7@aol.com
Elissa: 212.741.8864 or elissa@elissastein.com



To spark your memories, see if any of the following brings back a story that could only happen in New York.
transportation & housing: subways, buses, bikes, taxi cabs, boats, sailing, skateboards, cars, stuck in traffic/traffic jams, city
road rage, tunnels, pedestrians, pedestrian right-of-way issues, helicopters, hot air balloons, pedicabs, vespas, motorcycles and
segueways, apartments, neighbors, landlords, co-op boards, squatting, buying property, real estate agents, neighborhoods, decor,
furniture, sleeping arrangements, murphy beds, lighting, candles people & work: co-workers, bosses, interviews, wages, firings,
hirings, self-employment, sales people, odd jobs, dream jobs, temps or temping, jobs from the third ring of hell, “not my job,”
and only-in-new-york jobs, strangers, coincidences, celebrities, dating and dates, best and worst dates, friends, friends-of-friends,
old friends, end of a friendship, lucky meetings, unfortunate meetings, waiting on line, seen-on-the-street, visitors, family visiting, tourists, experiences with people from other countries fashion: fashion shows, weirdest/worst outfits, inappropriate attire, work clothes, bad uniforms, fashion designers, models, hairdressers, shoes and boots and sandals, shoe stores and clerks, purses,
perfume, make up, too much make up, bathing suits, nude beaches, sunscreen, hats, caps, jewelry, piercings, tattoos, thongs,
jeans, costumes, fashion magazines animals—pets and pests:pets, other people’s pets, squirrels, pigeons, police horses,
birds, rats, mice, lice, butterflies, bedbugs, roaches, infestations of all sorts, trips to the zoo, dog runs, dog hotels food &
beverages waiters, restaurants, diners, chefs, wine, picnics, barbeques, caterers/parties with catered food, dinner parties,
recipes, romantic dinners, ordered lunches, business lunches or dinners, bagels, pizza parlors, cafes, health department,
unusual places for meals, unusual meals, vomit tales, drinking tales, drunk strangers or friends or coworkers crime, disease
& accidents: lawsuits, break-ins, thefts, eye witnesses, jury duty, the mob, neighborhood watches, police, police stations,
security guards, attacks, white collar crime, drug dealers, stomach flu, hospital visits, accidents witnessed, accidents experienced,
wheelchairs, canes, outbreaks entertainment & weather: author readings, nightclubs, dancing, live music, concerts, street
musicians, DJs, subway musicians, instruments, films being made, movie theaters, acting in a play or film, Broadway, mimes,
jugglers, strippers, drugs, singers, clowns, circus, trapeze artists, horse & carriage rides, religious holidays, Halloween, parades,
Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, 4th of July and fireworks, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, New Year’s Eve, caught
in the rain, snow storms, sweltering in the city, hail, ice patches, sledding, skating, swimming, fountains, sprinklers, umbrellas,
city aromas in the summer children & sports: birthday parties, park experiences, restaurant experiences, friends at school,
school experiences, classes for toddlers, baby yoga, gifts, questions, field trips, spelling bees, t-ball, Little League, soccer, soccer
moms or dads, jogging, basebalgames, health club experiences, health club classes/teachers, yoga class, boxing, pilates, bike
riding, rollerblading, tennis games, ping-pong, volley ball business: opening a new business, dealing with a business (dry
cleaner, contractor, etc.), stores visited, stores in your neighborhood, dollar stores, department stores, spas art, education
& culture: gallery openings, statues/sculpture, museum trips, art classes, artists, performance art, dance, dancers, portfolios,
plays, school and university experiences, Learning Annex classes, teaching a class, tutoring, mentoring, learning something new
(an instrument, etc), fundraisers, donations, asking for money, thrift shops, benefactors weddings & parties: good and bad
proposals, witnessed proposals, NYC weddings, receptions, wedding dresses, bridesmaids, bar & bat mitzvas, DJs, planned
events, birthday parties for adults, weird or wonderful gifts, unexpected gifts, worst or best gifts, awkward moments bad things
happen when you leave New York: weekend getaways, tropical vacations, trips home to family, sleep-away camp, extended
vacations, second homes, the Hamptons, the Jersey Shore, CT, upstate NY, the Berkshires, airports/JFK/LaGuardia/ Newark,
passports, plane rides, stranded.

Anti-Trendiness is the New Black

These people aren't for real. They can't be. They just can't!

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? Of course they're for real. And knowing how a lot of people think these days, they probably honestly believe they're fighting for a very seriously important cause, too. Because, I mean, conformity is wrong, is it not?

*retch*

For a very long time I have needed some sort of kick up the arse to write about this. Not the anti-iPod brigade themselves....fuck, I didn't even know they existed till a couple of days ago....but the sickening trendiness of the 'anti-trendy' set. Let's back things up a bit, shall we? Knowing the way my rants go, we might never actually get back to the anti-iPod people, but then again, we really don't need to, do we? They did their job by giving me my entre, and they're whoring their own selves plenty, so they really don't need any more of my help.

Now, I have to admit, not too long ago, I used to be a die-hard Anti-Trendy. I would not buy name-brands. Read fashion magazines (but only in the shops, wouldn't DARE give those WHORES a penny of my hard-earned booze money!) and did exactly the opposite of everything they said. I even went so far as to abruptly STOP doing anything that became trendy, even if it was something I'd been doing for years and years earlier. I was out-of-control. And even though I knew that on some level, the 'mainstream' was controlling me and my actions, I kept it up for way longer than was sensible, because, well, I just could not have people mistaking me for one of them.

But then one day I grew the fuck up. Okay, maybe not totally, but in this area anyway. I didn't want people to think I was one of them? If I'm really so fucking anti-establishment, I wonder, why the hell do I even care what they think? Oh, yeah....that's right....if I was, then I wouldn't. Anyone whose opinion matters (and there aren't too many of them) knows I'm not a trend-chasing jackass, and everyone else can suck my proverbial cock. Living in society, we all eventually end up doing, buying, and/or using things that support the 'establishment', so anyone who claims they don't is an even bigger poser than the trendies they're protesting. At this point in my life not too many people care what the fuck I do, buy, or wear, since the very fact that I do do, buy, or wear it at this age makes it uncool by default, so I will be damned if I'm going to waste one more minute of my time bending over backward to resist 'The Man'.

But that's just me. And to be honest, as sick to death of myself and my poser-ism I was, I didn't have to make too many changes to myself to end my BS once and for all. After a while of actually LOOKING at OTHER people, often younger people, but more upsettingly, people my own age as well, I realise that some folks aren't just posers, they're bloody delusional. I mean, covertly buying Top 40 CDs? Buying name-brands from the popular retail chains at full price and either ripping off or covering-up the logos? And most recently and possibly funniest of all, buying those taboo top-of-the-line iPods and then running out to replace those horrendous, telltale (and really good quality if you ask me) white earphones with generic black ones. These guys are almost as ridiculous as anyone who'd use the 'anti-trendy' bent to whore their own overpriced, lower-quality product. (Heh....would you look at that....I DID manage to get back on topic!) What exactly are these people hoping to accomplish by their actions? I have no idea myself, but all I see them doing is supporting EVIL BIG BUSINESS while posing as all punk and outsider-ish, or whatever the fuck they want us all to think they are....because when it comes right down to it, all that really matters is what random passerby think of you, right? Great then. Because I think you're a fucking idiot.

To close, and to honestly and truly get back to iPod, I fucking love my iPod. I am not an Mac Geek (talk about trendy) or anything else of the sort, but I am a music addict and a gym rat, and I need my music to be with me 24/7. I need music when I'm walking the street alone, because goddamn it if the herds of Sheeple and the honking car horns don't make it damned near impossible to concentrate on where the hell I'm going. I need as much of my music as possible to be contained in as compact a case as possible, and I need that case to have as long a battery life as possible. I need it to be easy to load from any computer in any place, and easy to recharge. I don't want it to require tons of extra accessories to make it work. And my skinny little 30 gig iPod meets all those requirements. So what if everyone else has one? I have one, I like it, and that's all there is to it.

I make up for it thousand times over in thrift store purchases anyway, so who the fuck cares?

(I've never bought one solitary item from The Gap in my entire life! Love me!)

99 and Holding?

On myspace I don't usually use my actual age, because then I come up easily in searches. Whether it's a dirty old man, or a dirty little boy they are going to write something I definitely do *not* want to read.


I had recently used the age '56'. I had a few young men offering to have 'sex with me if i take them out' which I found mildly amusing. I received a multitude of friend requests for 'over 55 dating services' that had profiles. I finally decided today that this would be the one time I'd rather be 99.

Not long after, a 20 something girl writes,"You are so hott! How old are you, really?"

I responded that I was 36. So she quicky writes back and asks if my pictures are 15 years old or something. I responded no, not at all but thank you I guess. So she then responded telling me that I have a really talented doctor.

The conversation ended right there. I can't say if I'm glad she thought I looked young enough to have a 'good doctor' or dismayed that I'm an age where people would react that way. Well, at 29 I recall people saying,"Oh man, you don't look THAT old."

At 23 I had an agent for clubs I worked at. He wanted me to be in magazines which I never did. He said I had such a sweet and fresh look, but was 'over the hill' for Playboy. He said I was 'no 19 year old', he was a lecherous 50 something man who called himself... well, his last name was 'Savage'. Savage my 36 year old chunky ass.

Anyway, what's my point? Fuck age. It's one of those things you just can do nothing about, and over time it just keeps getting more and more out of hand. Like I remember my sister's thirtieth birthday party at some place on Varick St. and Leonard like it was yesterday, but it was 19 fucking 94. She's not 30 like I think here and there, she'll be 42 this month. I'm no early twenties neophyte. Not like I was one in my early twenties exactly.

The catch is this: My outside and my insides are not copasetic as a team. I have not felt decent a day since my jaw got totalled in 1997. That's among other things, more other things than I'd ever care to list. I should look like Medusa at this point. Maybe that's the one bone I've been thrown. I might prefer to be a really healthy and pain free hag face, oh and also not be neurotic. It's 3:15 am, I should just STFU already... sorry.

Cats

Lately my life as a crazy cat lady has taken a turn into 'truly insane cat lady' territory.


It began with my oldest cat seeming a bit thin. I was certain that I was being paranoid, but I took her to the vet. End of story: she died. My cat was terminally ill and a lot of trying to save her resulted in a lot of money spent and a lot of tears and a lot of emptiness in my apartment from the loss of my girl.


Resulting in my stepfather and mother offering to get me a kitten as a gift.The reason was not great. My stepfather felt my Samantha was a defective cat, as she died at age 12 of renal failure, and he wanted a hand in choosing a prime piece of grade A quality feline. Apparently I am too idiotic to get my own cat. I did it because my family was saying how good it would make him feel if he could help.


So reluctantly agreed, and my stepfather was very persistent with this plan.
We spoke several times a day about what catteries I contacted, what breeds I liked, and when kittens might be available. He was always emailing and calling about cats.


This was all driving me slowly insane, so I told him that the catteries had long waiting lists and I was temporarily giving up the search. I wanted a few months of quiet, just me and my remaining cats at that point.


Surprise! He found a breeder in Florida where they live and found she had a couple of kittens ready to go. He sent me a link to the three babies. Unfortunately, one of them made me loopy. A little bicolor blue named "Irish Luck". I agreed on the spot that I would take the lucky little kitten.


She arrived from Florida by plane, and the first obvious thing about her was that she had fleas. Apparently she had parasites and ringworm too. After I was assured by a vet that I could only catch it if I were on chemo or had 'advanced HIV' I came down with my first ringworm lesion. My first 'ringworm' Barbie was something I always used to dream of.


I went through all manners of bullshit with vets and having to get my own skin cultures etc., and then a couple of Friday nights ago my other cat was acting very ill. She was wheezing, and rattling. She refused food and seemed to have trouble breathing.


Thousands of dollars later, it seems there's not really much of anything wrong with her. She was upset about her companion dying and the ringworm kitten and apparently started a hunger strike. She does have irritable bowel disase and developed pancreatitis and hepatitis from it being exacerbated by not eating. Sigh.


Just today I started to cry. I love animals. This has been a bad year for me with mine.. I got rid of my three condos because they had ringworm spores on them. That seemed to make it hard to get rid of the fungus.


I just bought this online:
I think it's cute, and it makes me happy to think of the cats scampering onto it. So yeah, I need happy healthy cats as soon as can be. I guess I would like a happy healthy me as well, but that might be flat out pushing things. That made me laugh.

Blogger Is Killing Me Softly

I'm done with loading up pictures with blogger. I'll have to use my own website server or stick to fucking Flickr. This is bullshit. Every time I log on here only half the pics come up.

Now, perhaps it's because my PC at home is techically retarded and needs double the memory; it chugs away like the "little computer that could", nearly smoking in its frustration and effort to even make it online. What a fucking horror show. Nice equipment I have to work with.

Yes, I have the new laptop, but I'm still missing half the software on it that I need. And today, for some reason I couldn't get online. Again, what a horror show.

I'm also getting this really weird feeling in my stomach...I think I have an ulcer. What does an ulcer feel like? I dunno, but I feel like I have a hole in my stomach, and that sounds like ulcer-ish activity possibilities...

On the bright side, I have a couple of logos for our site here...here's one with me and Rosie as models of Orneriness...lol



and here's another:

Song of the Day: L7 - Shitlist

L7 - Shitlist
One album it's on is Bricks Are Heavy

Kinda perfect for this site, and the way I'm feeling today. I had to run a theatre company meeting by the skin of my teeth yesterday, and I'm really feeling the Sam Adams I drank last night afterwards.

A Little Freaked Out On the Internet

I was excited because I was getting some traffic over at Voodoo Jive, and was checking out the little log at the bottom that shows what sites people have just come from before they came to mine. There were a few new ones. Yay! People are reading my stuff!

So, being the nosey and thorough blogger I am, I clicked on. I have found a few pearls that way, and am always eager to read other bloggers work.

What I found wasn't so pretty.

http://my-pedo-attraction.blogspot.com/ is one link that came up, and I'm half asleep I didn't really make the connection as to what the name referred to, because in the log it just showed up as "My Pedo."

This dude has a pedophile site. He has suggestive photos of young girls and a few boys, all posing and wearing bathing suits and outfits that expose way too much - at least, in this context. What was even more disturbing (yes, it gets more disturbing) is that he says boldly - "I am a pedophile. I am not attracted to adult men and women, only children."

And it even gets worse. (Yes, it's worse)

I clicked on the comments section of one of his posts and there were others like him: fellow "child-lovers" giving him a high five, saying that people didn't understand them for loving children, and there should be more people being open about their...uh...pedophileness.

I thought I had walked into a scene from Southpark, when Cartman joins NAMBLA. Jesus Christ. I'm not highlighting the link because I don't want that freak linked back to my page. In fact, I'm trying to not use the "P" word too much in this post. I don't need a bunch of perverts who wank off to kids my nephew's age clicking into my site thinking they hit the Google tag jackpot.

Look. I read Lolita when I was 12. I had crushes on men in their 40s from that age onward. I know kids in school who were banging when they were 12. Some pre-teens are very very old for their age. I know I was...There are some kids out there that know more about sex at that age then I do at 34 - and I'm not some lily-white petunia. I still think that's totally pushing it, though, and any guy who has to go to anyone below the age of 16 for sex and "understanding" when they are older than 18 themselves is obviously really insecure that they need to have somone look up to them - somehow.

But when someone looks at a 9 year old and says "Oh yeah." like they're getting ready to slip a ten-spot into a strippers g-string? That's where I gotta draw the fucking line.

YOU'RE A FUCKING PERVERT. BOTTOM LINE.

And don't give me this "it's not perversion...it's 'child-love'" crap. What a bunch of horseshit.

I flagged it as an offensive site. I love the freedom of the internet, but it comes at a price.

Your job may suck, but it's better than the alternative.

To anyone who's compelled from this day forward to complain to me about the absolute suck that is their job, I say this - CAN IT. And why do I say that, you ask? It's simple - at least you have something to do.

I have just spent a little under a month doing....well....practically nothing. No work, no cleaning, no dishes, no laundry, and almost no cooking. I've slept in a lot and taken a lot of hour-long baths, but yeah, that's about it. Well, that and a whole hell of a lot of doctor visits, that is.

At the beginning of May, I had what may be my very last cancer surgery in almost exactly four years, and I'm spending the rest of the summer 'recovering' and being filled with all manner of (brain) cell-destroying drugs to make sure that this IS in fact the last I ever have to see of the Big 'C'. As someone who's been walking the earth for four decades and spent three of those working (full-time even through school), I initially welcomed this bit of respite from the rat race. However, at this point, boredom and loneliness have taken over, along with the inevitable depression resulting from being left alone with my illness for this length of time (emphasis on 'ALONE'....you'll notice that it's pretty difficult to find people to hang out with in the daytime on a workday, and at night....well, YOU try and see who's jumping to spend time with a career patient), and I'm going positively batshit.

At the close of this summer, I am headed back to school to complete my third graduate degree (someone's a bit indecisive, huh?) As a kid, the very thought of going back to school at the end of a summer was enough bring up tears, not to mention my lunch, but these days I'm approaching it a little differently. Not only is school looking very, very appealing, but the only thing about to make me cry/puke right now is the prospect of trying to make it through the rest of the summer.

I swear to god, the minute this chemo's over, I'm applying for a job at McDonald's.

Okay, well maybe I'm not that desperate yet. But only in a month's time will we know for certain....

Song of the Day

Voodoo Cadillac by Southern Culture on the Skids

From the album Dirt Track Date


This is something that I used to do (and would still do if I had the time) at MySpace - list a Song of the Day, with either a link or a little player. I used to be a DJ for four years in St. Louis, MO, in college. My show was reasonably good, and they asked me to stay on after I graduated. The show was called Voodoo Jive: Music to Funk To (hence, the name of my other blog) and it was a mixture of my favorite music - blues, jazz, soul, funk.
I honestly love all kinds of music, and would often pick tunes that one person might say, "Well wait a minute, Cowgirl, that's really classic rock - not one of those other genres," whereupon I would reply "Hold on there, fartknocker - if that guitar rift in Zeppelin's You Shook Me isn't bluesy, I don't know what is." Hell, rock was influenced and based on Blues. Especially cats like Zeppelin and the Stones. Not that one would know that listening to 70% of the music out there today - but that is for another rant, one when I like listening to myself sound like a patronizing bastard.

Anyhow, if I find the time, I will try to post a Song of the Day, on here and on Voodoo Jive, and switch them up.

I decided to go with a link instead of a little player; that way the page doesn't take forever to load. Enjoy! If there are some bands or tunes you'd like to hear, let me know. Otherwise I will simply play DJ and you are at my mercy...but I have to admit, folks seem to dig my taste.

Let me know what you think.