Recent Search Words That Led People to This Site and Why I'm Laughing My Ass Off

"how does a male person felt when he was force to be change into a circus ladies and he had to wear all circus ladies clothes and then the circus ladies director would except him to perform in her circus and then he would be able to stay with the circus lady"

Um, WTF?

That, dear readers, was one of the latest searches done in Google that led someone to this site. I'm not so much tickled because it brought them here - because I'm sure that they didn't find what they were looking for (which was?) - but more because someone was searching for that rambling mess.

I have a tracker that tracks urls & isps to this site, and oh, golly - do I have fun seeing what people are searching for...

Other popular searches:

Dry humping pillows (wtf?)

Sexual quigong vivid photo (I think Full Frontal Honesty would laugh)

Dry hump (what's with all the dry-humping?)

Sexual women

Nathan Lane (thanks, OldFart54)

Natalie Portman & Hayden Christenson (Despite best intentions, Sportive Tricks brought all the fucking Star Wars nuts to our website, lol - that's ok, I'm one of them)

Women fucking (considering how many times AG and I use the word "fuck," I'm not surprised - really)

Battle of Wits With An Unarmed Man (thank you, AspieGoddess)

sex woman women pictures

...and a myriad of sexual, bizarre, and downright illegal searches that make me wonder why they hell they came to THIS site - other than the fact that perhaps we're a bunch of chicks and they are hoping that the whole "Ornery Woman" thing is a front for some serious chick-on-chick action.

The mere fact that I wrote that last sentence above will no doubt send a whole army of self-stroking, porn-surfing, "interesting" individuals to this site, where they can puruse through our blog from the privacy of their parent's basement.

You know what tripped me out? The majority of the really FILTHY searches were done from overseas - in Middle-East and Far-East countries, where I'm assuming access to pornography or even anything remotely like it is verbotten or seriously frowned on...but that almost sounds like OUR country nowadays, so I'm confused...

;)

Rush Limbaugh Has Hit A New Level of Depravity Attacking Michael J. Fox

Hi, my name is Rush Limbaugh, and I'm a sorry sack of shit that likes to make fun of the handicapped in an attempt to push forth my political agenda."

If they could fit that much on a button in big enough letters so that someone could read it, I would get it printed up for him to wear.

What a fucking asshole.
This is low - even for him; to make fun of Michael J. Fox and say that he was "faking". I hate to even put a link to that fat bastard's site, but it needs to be seen to be believed, for all of the folks who still think he's an okay guy (okay, you can sit down now).

Personally, I am very much an independent; I think both radical ends of the political spectrum are pathetically rabid individuals, who, if not just blinded by knee-jerk reactions or hopes of solving issues that really cannot be solved, are using politics as an excuse to freely express borderline tendencies.

But I digress.

In this situation, this...pathetic excuse for a human being is doing exactly what he insists the democrats are doing (which they are as guilty of as any other politician; politics is more about flinging shit than helping the people and it always will be, regardless of whether you're right or left) but he's gone even further: he is making fun of a handicapped person. A handicapped person, I might add, who is not only a great actor but a great person who I have a lot of respect for, and who has made the most out of his disease by trying to help millions who suffer from the Parkinson's - an illness that killed one of my aunts.



Michael J. Fox produces turds that are cleaner and purer than Limbaugh could ever hope to be. Limbaugh is a completely unnecessary, impotent (in every sense of the word), and worthless individual whose latest efforts in trying to prove something have only proved that he does nothing but take up air space.

I was shocked - no, make that horrified when I came home today, and saw on one of those entertainment shows, I think Entertainment tonight, actual video of Limbaugh imitating and mocking the involuntary body movements of Fox, shown in ads he shot for the Missouri Democrat Claire McCaskill's campaign apparently because she is for stem cell research - which appear to be Democrats, mostly, if not all (I am not knowledgeable about the campaign trail, and I will admit that, so I am just going on what is straight up knowledge). Limbaugh, in regular flying fat man fashion (he reminds me of the Baron in Dune), contorted and shook his body mockingly, his man-breasts heaving, as he said "He's moving all around and shaking, and it's purely an act...This is really shameless of Michael J. Fox...his is an actor, after all."

No, this is really shameless and appalling of YOU, Limbaugh, to say such a thing. Hey, Rush - why don't you go eat a few Cialis and pay someone to call you Daddy, and quit trying to play political commentator, you pathetic, hillbilly-heroin-eating prick.

Break Me A Fucking Give

As some of you may know, I hate Star Wars. A bloated, humorless franchise that insists the future of humanity will be sanitzed, witless, and emotionally retarded. Thanks, George. Recently, a co-worker and I rediscovered this lost classic: Anthony Lane's positively brilliant trashing of Star Wars: Episode III, Revenge of the Sith. Even if you love Star Wars, or don't care one way or the other, you won't be able to help chuckle at Lane's vernaculur pokes, stabs, and impalements. It's hilarious.

Space Case
By Anthony Lane

Sith. What kind of a word is that? Sith. It sounds to me like the noise that emerges when you block one nostril and blow through the other, but to George Lucas it is a name that trumpets evil. What is proved beyond question by “Star Wars: Episode III—Revenge of the Sith,” the latest—and, you will be shattered to hear, the last—installment of his sci-fi bonanza, is that Lucas, though his eye may be greedy for sensation, has an ear of purest cloth. All those who concoct imagined worlds must populate and name them, and the resonance of those names is a fairly accurate guide to the mettle of the imagination in question. Tolkien, earthed in Old English, had a head start that led him straight to the flinty perfection of Mordor and Orc. Here, by contrast, are some Lucas inventions: Palpatine. Sidious. Mace Windu. (Isn’t that something you spray on colicky babies?) Bail Organa. And Sith.

Lucas was not always a rootless soul. He made “American Graffiti,” which yielded with affection to the gravitational pull of the small town. Since then, he has swung out of orbit, into deep nonsense, and the new film is the apotheosis of that drift. One stab of humor and the whole conceit would pop, but I have a grim feeling that Lucas wishes us to honor the remorseless non-comedy of his galactic conflict, so here goes. Obi-Wan Kenobi (Ewan McGregor) and his star pupil, Anakin Skywalker (Hayden Christensen), are, with the other Jedi knights, defending the Republic against the encroachments of the Sith and their allies—millions of dumb droids, led by Count Dooku (Christopher Lee) and his henchman, General Grievous, who is best described as a slaying mantis. Meanwhile, the Chancellor of the Republic, Palpatine (Ian McDiarmid), is engaged in a sly bout of Realpolitik, suspected by nobody except Anakin, Obi-Wan, and every single person watching the movie. Anakin, too, is a divided figure, wrenched between his Jedi devotion to selfless duty and a lurking hunch that, if he bides his time and trashes his best friends, he may eventually get to wear a funky black mask and start breathing like a horse.

This film is the tale of his temptation. We already know the outcome—Anakin will indeed drop the killer-monk Jedi look and become Darth Vader, the hockey goalkeeper from hell—because it forms the substance of the original “Star Wars.” One of the things that make Episode III so dismal is the time and effort expended on Anakin’s conversion. Early in the story, he enjoys a sprightly light-sabre duel with Count Dooku, which ends with the removal of the Count’s hands. (The stumps glow, like logs on a fire; there is nothing here that reeks of human blood.) Anakin prepares to scissor off the head, while the mutilated Dooku kneels for mercy. A nice setup, with Palpatine egging our hero on from the background. The trouble is that Anakin’s choice of action now will be decisive, and the remaining two hours of the film—scene after scene in which Hayden Christensen has to glower and glare, blazing his conundrum to the skies—will add nothing to the result. “Something’s happening. I’m not the Jedi I should be,” he says. This is especially worrying for his wife, Padmé (Natalie Portman), who is great with child. Correction: with children.

What can you say about a civilization where people zip from one solar system to the next as if they were changing their socks but where a woman fails to register for an ultrasound, and thus to realize that she is carrying twins until she is about to give birth? Mind you, how Padmé got pregnant is anybody’s guess, although I’m prepared to wager that it involved Anakin nipping into a broom closet with a warm glass jar and a copy of Ewok Babes. After all, the Lucasian universe is drained of all reference to bodily functions. Nobody ingests or excretes. Language remains unblue. Smoking and cursing are out of bounds, as is drunkenness, although personally I wouldn’t go near the place without a hip flask. Did Lucas learn nothing from “Alien” and “Blade Runner”—from the suggestion that other times and places might be no less rusted and septic than ours, and that the creation of a disinfected galaxy, where even the storm troopers wear bright-white outfits, looks not so much fantastical as dated? What Lucas has devised, over six movies, is a terrible puritan dream: a morality tale in which both sides are bent on moral cleansing, and where their differences can be assuaged only by a triumphant circus of violence. Judging from the whoops and crowings that greeted the opening credits, this is the only dream we are good for. We get the films we deserve.

The general opinion of “Revenge of the Sith” seems to be that it marks a distinct improvement on the last two episodes, “The Phantom Menace” and “Attack of the Clones.” True, but only in the same way that dying from natural causes is preferable to crucifixion. So much here is guaranteed to cause either offense or pain, starting with the nineteen-twenties leather football helmet that Natalie Portman suddenly dons for no reason, and rising to the continual horror of Ewan McGregor’s accent. “Another happy landing”—or, to be precise, “anothah heppy lending”—he remarks, as Anakin parks the front half of a burning starcruiser on a convenient airstrip. The young Obi-Wan Kenobi is not, I hasten to add, the most nauseating figure onscreen; nor is R2-D2 or even C-3PO, although I still fail to understand why I should have been expected to waste twenty-five years of my life following the progress of a beeping trash can and a gay, gold-plated Jeeves.

No, the one who gets me is Yoda. May I take the opportunity to enter a brief plea in favor of his extermination? Any educated moviegoer would know what to do, having watched that helpful sequence in “Gremlins” when a small, sage-colored beastie is fed into an electric blender. A fittingly frantic end, I feel, for the faux-pensive stillness on which the Yoda legend has hung. At one point in the new film, he assumes the role of cosmic shrink—squatting opposite Anakin in a noirish room, where the light bleeds sideways through slatted blinds. Anakin keeps having problems with his dark side, in the way that you or I might suffer from tennis elbow, but Yoda, whose reptilian smugness we have been encouraged to mistake for wisdom, has the answer. “Train yourself to let go of everything you fear to lose,” he says. Hold on, Kermit, run that past me one more time. If you ever got laid (admittedly a long shot, unless we can dig you up some undiscerning alien hottie with a name like Jar Jar Gabor), and spawned a brood of Yodettes, are you saying that you’d leave them behind at the first sniff of danger? Also, while we’re here, what’s with the screwy syntax? Deepest mind in the galaxy, apparently, and you still express yourself like a day-tripper with a dog-eared phrase book. “I hope right you are.” Break me a fucking give.

The prize for the least speakable burst of dialogue has, over half a dozen helpings of “Star Wars,” grown into a fiercely contested tradition, but for once the winning entry is clear, shared between Anakin and Padmé for their exchange of endearments at home:

“You’re so beautiful.”
“That’s only because I’m so in love.”
“No, it’s because I’m so in love with you.”


For a moment, it looks as if they might bat this one back and forth forever, like a baseline rally on a clay court. And if you think the script is on the tacky side, get an eyeful of the décor. All of the interiors in Lucasworld are anthems to clean living, with molded furniture, the tranquillity of a morgue, and none of the clutter and quirkiness that signify the process known as existence. Illumination is provided not by daylight but by a dispiriting plastic sheen, as if Lucas were coating all private affairs—those tricky little threats to his near-fascistic rage for order—in a protective glaze. Only outside does he relax, and what he relaxes into is apocalypse. “Revenge of the Sith” is a zoo of rampant storyboards. Why show a pond when C.G.I. can deliver a lake that gleams to the far horizon? Why set a paltry house on fire when you can stage your final showdown on an entire planet that streams with ruddy, gulping lava? Whether the director is aware of John Martin, the Victorian painter who specialized in the cataclysmic, I cannot say, but he has certainly inherited that grand perversity, mobilized it in every frame of the film, and thus produced what I take to be unique: an art of flawless and irredeemable vulgarity. All movies bear a tint of it, in varying degrees, but it takes a vulgarian genius such as Lucas to create a landscape in which actions can carry vast importance but no discernible meaning, in which style is strangled at birth by design, and in which the intimate and the ironic, not the Sith, are the principal foes to be suppressed. It is a vision at once gargantuan and murderously limited, and the profits that await it are unfit for contemplation. I keep thinking of the rueful Obi-Wan Kenobi, as he surveys the holographic evidence of Anakin’s betrayal. “I can’t watch anymore,” he says. Wise words, Obi-Wan, and I shall carry them in my heart.

I wrote this in 2003. It still rings true.

Looks fucking matter.

There. I said it. Not like that fact should really shock anyone, but I have a sneaking suspicion that my saying it outright like that probably will.

And you know what? I don't give a fuck.

See, apparently it isn't acceptable or even normal for a woman of my age, education, and (supposed) intelligence to want to be pretty. It isn't right or good for a mother of girls to openly care so much about her appearance....it's a bad influence on the kids. Indeed, my values are completely fucked up. And I'm beyond caring.

I want to be pretty. I don't remember a time when I didn't, and honestly, besides a stable home and financial security, there is nothing I have ever wanted more. You may notice something about the things I want....I never actually had any of them, and when I was young, I never got to hear the end of it. My family was irreparably fucked-up, we were poor, and I was ugly, and there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about any of it. I vowed a long time ago that once I did have the power to change what I hated about my life, I would. A day would come when no one would ever laugh at me again....because there would be nothing to laugh at.

I was never really criticised for my work ethic or drive to make money, at least not by anyone outside my family. Lucky for me, society deems the desire for wealth a good thing. Even though I heard my share of, 'She's such a smart girl, it's a shame she'll never amount to anything coming from that family' growing up, it wasn't beyond any of these idiots' realm of comprehension that I might be able to earn degrees and get financially....ahem....comfortable. But appearance? Well, that I just wasn't supposed to care about.

Some well-meaning person once told me (I was about 8 or so at the time)- 'You're not a pretty girl. You never will be. But you're uncommonly bright, and that is more important.'
I honestly don't remember who said it (it was either a teacher from school or some relation), but I remember being told it as if it were yesterday, because the first response that popped into my head, even if I didn't say it, was, 'No! It's not! I want to be pretty!' But I already knew at this point I was big and dowdy and frumpy looking, so I didn't even bother to argue. I had been sent to a psychologist in Killarney to be IQ tested for the first time about a year previous, and I officially had the highest score my rinky-dink little school had seen. I'd never admit how little that fact thrilled me, but I figured if maybe I concentrated a bit harder on revelling in my smart-ness, my unfounded shallowness would disappear. Unfortunately, that didn't work. I might've put it on the back burner for a few decades and worked triple-time on the intellectual (all the while looking like the poster-child for Grunge-era bum-ness), but the shallowness still remained. My application to Mensa was actually nothing more than a last futile attempt to convince myself brains were enough....I mightn't be cute and trendy enough to get past the velvet ropes at clubs or to elicit a second look from non-inebriated men, but I've got smarts enough for 7 people and I'm a member of an intellectual elitist society that says so. Right. If anything, my acceptance to Mensa proved nothing but how desperately I needed to stop being so one-sided. I don't think it was that that caused me to snap and go vanity-mad, but it happened shortly thereafter.

I am not going to try to justify having eating disorders, and I sure as hell am not going to claim that it makes any sense whatsoever that a woman who's supposedly so fucking brilliant has actually attempted to starve herself to death and needs to watch herself like a hawk to make sure that doesn't happen again. I know I'm not all there, but what I'm trying to say is that it isn't the vanity that defines my instability. I'm bipolar, for fucksake. I've got chemical imbalances galore, and they all run in my family. These people have been unstable for centuries, why the hell should I be any exception? My vain side, though, I've come to realise, is probably the most normal thing about me. Women's lib bullshit aside, you must admit (though you needn't admit it aloud) that females are still primarily judged on their looks. A smart female in many cases has to overcome her intelligence like a disability, as men (and other women) are intimidated by a girl whose brains pose a threat to them and their positions. I tried to deny all this in my many attempts to become un-vain, but all my suspicions were confirmed and then some once I began actually taking an active interest in my appearance. And it affected far more than my professional life. As a size 20 who wore a plain ponytail, men's jeans, and no makeup, I was ignored by sales help in stores and (ironically) waitstaff in restaurants, rarely had doors held for me, and generally felt invisible. After a loss of a mere 30 or so pounds, a haircut, a makeover, and new glasses frames, however, I was suddenly transformed into an actual entity, something other than negative space. A loss of a few more pounds and some trendier clothes, and the situation improved yet again. I could not help but notice a pattern. My appearance affected the way people treated me.

No, I look nothing like I did back in 1990 (perish the thought!)....in fact, I dare say I look better now than I did when I first tested my theory. But even still, I can't help but notice I'm slipping. Okay, so maybe I never will be pretty, but notice the icon? Fake it till it's real? Nice clothes + nice figure + nice hair + a good confident facade = everyone thinking you're more attractive than you really are. Yet another tried and true theory of mine. The problem is, though, I find it really hard even to fake confidence when I feel like a beached goddamn whale.

The last time I was a size 4/6, I was at the lowest weight I'd ever been in my adult life. The last time before that I could fit into a size that small I was probably about 8 years old (no kidding....I was 4'10/115 at 8) I was happy and comfortable because I'd achieved something I didn't think was even possible. But now? Now I know I'm not just a 'big girl'. I'm a tall girl with a tiny frame. I start getting wide, it's not nature, it's fat. Pear-shaped hips and thunder thighs are not my unavoidable fate. They're self-inflicted. I am no longer comfortable with so much as 5 pounds of jiggly flab on my frame, nor am I comfortable writing it off as 'genes' or 'the natural result of having children'. I am not claiming I will honestly be any less painfully average looking if when I get back into a 0/2, but it will give me back the confidence I need to feign attractiveness.

Get it?

Ha. I figured you wouldn't.

But that's my argument. That's my justification for being so fixated on myself and my weight and my looks, for still not giving up hope with this (infernal) diet (despite the fact I fucked up again) and for contemplating....and planning to go through with....liposuction on a few areas I'm just totally fucking fed up looking at. I may be a bit pissed off still that people have forced me to justify my thoughts and actions not only to them, but to myself....but I've done it.

And I have to say, reading this over, disjointed and off-the-top-of-my-head as it is, it finally makes sense to me...which I guess is all that really matters.

Misconceptions about women with children....

....oh, and there are many. We're sexually frustrated. We wear flannel nighties. We drive minivans. We know every word to single Sesame Street song ever written, by heart (okay.....so that last one might be true....) However, there is one falsehood widely believed about mothers that is more false than all the rest combined. That is...that we like children.

You better believe me when I tell you this could not be further from the truth. We do not fucking like children. We like our children. Yours make us sick.

Now, I'll readily admit that I used to be an exception to this rule. Even after growing up in a house with a younger sibling population in the double fucking digits, I actually, voluntarily entered into a profession where I dealt with practically no one but freaking rugrats. Even after I had my own, I continued for years to actually enjoy the company of children. But then one day I snapped. There are a lot of theories as to why I walked out on the little fuckers one day never to return, but the one I'm sticking with is that I simply wised up. Children are creepy, little, underdeveloped humans....literally an army of quasimodos....half-bloody-formed. The only under-12-year-old human that's worth the air she breathes and the space she takes up is my own damn kid, and that's because she's special.

So please, in the name of all that is holy....stop expecting me to fawn all over your disgusting spawn. Don't hold your breath waiting for me to see things 'your way'. If your kids have nothing to do with mine, keep them the fuck away from me. And if they do have anything to do with mine, keep this in mind : my child is smarter than yours. She is funnier than yours, prettier than yours, more athletic and way better behaved than yours. I don't give a flying Philadelphia fuck if your kid has retractable wings and a glow-in-the-dark goddamn halo, and mine's been consistently poking her in the arse with her pitchfork all day, every day since the school year started. My child is perfect, and if yours has a problem with her, then yours is obviously a bloody troublemaker. Because my kid is good, and yours is evil.

Get it? Got it? Good. Now fuck the hell off outta here with the little beasts before I'm forced to get the tranquilizer gun.

Whack Your Boss: The Game That Keeps On Giving

I sit here, at my desk in my posh Soho art job and all I can do is think: my boss is an evil, sadistic shrew; the bride of the Anti-Christ.

She is.

My second thought is: the only reason why this is better than working at McDonald's is the money, free coffee, and free lunch on Fridays.

It is.

If they didn't give us those perks, those bartering gifts, I or one of my co-workers would be in jail by now for going postal.

I hate people who act like they are your friend, but always, always always make sure to screw you over before the day is done.

So, as I surf the internet, I remember a cool game someone sent me the link to, of a flash cartoon game where the boss comes in the guy's cubicle and starts harrasing him in a purely evil way, and your job throughout this monologue is to find 7 items with which to kill him. Yay.

I did a search and found it: Whack Your Boss. That's one link for it, but it comes up on several links with a good hearty google search.

Make sure you do all seven - it's a matter of finding things in the cubicle with which to take down this upper-level-management demon. It's bloody and satisfying.

Not as nice as just giving Shrew a good punch in the face, but this will do. For now.

Actors

This is not a blog about theatre, god knows, but I think several of you are involved in the business. One of the reasons I'm in it is because I love actors. I absolutely adore them. I believe actors are just about the only people who know anything about truth. Sitting down with a bunch of minstels and chewing the fat about all the sublties and nuances of the human nature - well, there just about nothing better. It's like group therapy, I tell you. Only its better than group therapy because nobody is talking about themselves, at least nominally. Acting is like anonymous blogging in action: taking on another face and telling your secrets.

That said, actors can also be the most damaged, emotionally unstrung, and challenging people to work with. My theory is that this is largely due to certain kinds of training, like Method or Meisner. Actors are very sensitive by nature, and as a result insecure, self-absorbed, and constantly on the defense. Bad training, in my opinion, is training that forces an actor to forget the audience and focus solely on their internal relationship with the character. This can be dangerous, giving the actor license to blame external elements or other actors for their lack of concentration. When everything becomes about acting as a "craft," the real world around the actor serves as a constant, interruptive force, when it should be incorporated into their study.

The actor's relationship with the audience is a subject little touched by acting teachers and directors, yet it is one of phenomenal importance. Acting is a craft, but it is also a servitude. Whenever I need an actor to behave a certain way so that the audience will know how he/she came from point A to point B, I have to pad the note in a lot of words about motivation and desire, when what I really want to say is "Do it because the people in the back row have no idea what the fuck it is you are doing!"

It would save me oodles of money on reheasal space, thats for sure.

The very best actors I've worked with are the ones who do the job without taking it too seriously. They see their characters as puppets and themselves the puppeteer, they co-exist casually with the real world going on around them: the audience, the lights, the sounds, the street noises, all tangible things that surround the little playset they've built in the front of the room. They are friends with their co-stars, not competitors, they help out when help is needed and don't say "It's not my job," or pretend they have a bus to catch.

If I have one truth to tell my actors, it's this: talent is only 50% of it. I have worked with extremely talented actors I will never work with again because they spent too much time blaming me, my cast, my crew, the wind, the birds, the trees, and the nose on their face for their own damn internal struggles that would be there in the first place if they would just lighten the fuck up. Theatre is community, if you want to practice your craft uninterrupted, take up painting.

So It Takes A Baseball Player, Not a President, to Make NYC A Little Safer...

Ungodly Sex Appeal wrote a post over at his blog on MySpace that I thought I'd bring to your attention that really states very well how fucking ironic it is that an airplane was even allowed to fly so close to the ground in NYC in a world since 9-11.

His points about the simple facts, like that it was so close to the United Nations, Empire State Building - hell, 20 flights up for a building in NYC is not all that tall - I was in an elevator on the 24th floor when I heard that it happened and almost shit myself.

The saddest part is of course the loss of human life. I am very sorry for the family of the two men that lost their lives...but the second saddest thing is that it took a celebrity baseball pitcher, not members of our government or our President, to change the asinine laws that allow a plane to fly so low to the ground...

And that you can be sure that if it was a plane full of nobody famous and they'd flown into the Bronx somewhere and not a highrise with apartment that go for nothing less than a million a piece...that there would not be this much of a radical change, so soon.

But maybe me and the excellent blogger mentioned above are just crazy.

This Bitch Is Learning How to Stitch

I'm learning how to knit! And I only slightly suck!

if anyone has basic patterns, please share - I'm such a newbie I almost impaled myself on my needles and I have hand cramps. It's been helping me deal with my vertigo stuff, though - if the room starts spinning, I focus on the knitting.

I want to make a hat but don't want to have to knit in the round because I don't know how yet...so if anyone has a pattern for that, let me know?
I am making scarves...if you are a friend who gets presents from me, then you will probably get a scarf this year...be warned...

Feel free to throw it away when I'm not looking.

Mission Impossible: Being a Normal Parent

This just arrived in my mailbox from POPBITCH, one of my favorite sources for bitchy, nasty commentary on those little snippets you may or may not find in the news about celebrities and current events:

Tom Cruise was recently watching his son Connor play football at his school. Tom spent much of the first period of play engrossed in his Blackberry, but looked agitated when he realised Connor's team was losing. At the interval, Tom walked on to the pitch, brushed past the coach and gave the team talk himself.

Why do I not find this surprising?

I feel so, so sorry for his son. That must have been so embarassing...imagine the scenario - and what it was like when we were kids. If my parents would have done something like that, I would have been mortified.

But if my dad was a walking joke like Tom Cruise? Regardless of the money and fame...

I'd be interested to poll the kids in that unfortunate team - how many of them were thinking which of the following things:

1. Isn't that the guy who was in the closet on South Park?
   
2. Wow! Cool! Someone freakier than Divine is trying to coach us - but he's feeding us a bunch of shit instead of eating it!
   
3. I wish this guy would shut up and let our coach back in the game.
   
4. I'm SO going to kill Conner when his dad isn't looking
   
5. If we win, maybe Tom Cruise will give us all money like he did all those rabid fans at the MI 3 screening
   
6. Is he looking at my ass?
   

I mean, does Tom Cruise have any fans left in the United States? Probably, but I bet even they make fun of him.

It's just too bad he couldn't leave his ego at home, even for his kid's football game. I think he's really lost it - gone over the edge...
Eh, who hasn't.

Confessions of an Ailing Marxist

Last night my husband and I went to see one of his former saxophone teachers perform with a group called "Ballin' the Jack". They're a jazz group and they do a tribute to the Marx Brothers that's just fantastic! Crammed into the back room of a small club in Brooklyn on a Sunday night, it feels very NYC to witness such creative and professional musicians in action. You find yourself saying "Only in New York" a few times.

And I find such Marx-related things very grounding. My brothers and I used to watch Comedy Classics every Sunday morning and it was always a treat when that day's selection was a Marx Brothers movie. I have vivid recollections of my younger brother, Merlin, and I laughing hysterically at the football game scene in Horse Feathers. Ah yes... the days when slipping on a banana peel was the ultimate in humor. And who knows, maybe that's why I'm so dedicated to Sundays and Bears games to this very day.

But my Marx Brothers fascination didn't end with those Sunday morning gigglefests. When I was in Junior High I read "Harpo Speaks" for a book report and it touched me deeply. I've read it several times over the course of my life and each time find as much inspiration as some might find in the I Ching. He lived a joyful life despite the obstacles of poverty... a life full of humor and grace. A life that I admire and seek to emulate, though tend to fall short. So it is events like last night that serve as a reminder and bring me back to that tenet of Marxist belief: "Don't take life too seriously."

I needed that reminder because over the past few days I've been struggling with some significant pain. More than I've ever had from my little daily problems that arise from the plethora of illnesses this old bod harbors. I also realized some major mistakes that I've made at work and how I will compensate for them is worrying me. I'm even more worried about the fact that I may have made these errors for MS-related reasons.

Over the past couple years, I simply feel my health slipping away in small increments. So small that they are barely noticable on a daily basis, yet become apparent over the long term or when I make a cognitive slip that wreaks havoc on the job. I guess I just have to let go and not worry. Fix the mistake and move on. Somehow it's not that easy for me... such are the perils of a perfectionist facing the imperfections that disease can bring.

Why September Was a Write-Off

Where do I begin?
1) My relationship with my boyfriend fell apart...yes, a blessing in disguise, but disheartening, nevertheless
2) My cat almost died
3) I've been sick for over a fucking month with an illness that makes even waking up a coin toss as to whether or not I'll be able to function normally, and now I'm getting horrible headaches
4) My acting teacher has decided to stop teaching for the next three months
5) My 2nd job has gone down in flames because I haven't been able to work enough to make any money from it...back to the being sick part
6) My hope of teaching acting is kind of against a brick wall right now because I'm in that Catch-22 of not having enough experience or credentials to teach in a more advanced setting - yet I need to teach to get that
7) My current job is about as enjoyable as fellating leprosy patients while performing hara-kiri - and it's getting even worse. I feel like Edward Norton in Fight Club.
8) Because I've been so depressed from being sick (that cycle that feeds on itself), I've been eating a lot more...and you know what that means...


Now that I've sat here and waxed pathetic on how much my life has sucked for the past month, I suppose I should mention the following good things:

1) Nina LIVED. She is scampering, slowly, around the house and feeling better every day, despite the fact that I did hurt both her and myself with her diabetic insulin needles a couple of times.
2) See above.
3) My health could be worse. Much, much worse, so thank God it's not.
4) I haven't been fired (yet)
5) I'm at least still getting laid by a dear friend.
6) I can still fit into certain size 6's. Other ones don't get past my ankles.

Anyway, this is why I haven't been posting as much - sorry, I'm going to try to remedy that.

Oh, and what the hell is going on with all the Ecoli in everything now? Spinach...lettuce...carrot juice...beef?

It's all going to hell in a handbasket.

i can so like people part 3

Well, yesterday I wanted hair clips at the 99 cent store. The clips were too high for me to reach, I stretched as far as I could and they glistened and shone just out of my grasp.
I pushed my body against some metal hooks that had products hanging from them, and imagined one piercing my sternum and my sudden ridiculous death taking place because I a) had to have those hair clips and b) didn't want to ask for help because I am not all that short, right?
A man came over who didn't work there and just lifted his arm easily and plucked the clips and dropped them into my hands. I was ever so grateful, and I bought them.
Of course, when I get home and go to use one I realize the hair clips are broken and useless. This was not the happy ending to my damsel in distress story. Not at all.
Oh drama! Well, ok maybe that's not much of a story of love and loss.
So I give you this:
I saw a guy on MySpace and recognized him as my very first crush from the first grade. I wrote him saying I think I know him if he happened to be.. 'insert name'. He responded,"You remember little old me?" and then went away for a month leaving me wondering.
Then he sent me a friend request today and wrote me and after I left him comments on his cute cat's pictures, he wrote me explaining he had a crush on me when we were teenagers.
Apparently he was at my friend Danny's house (a wonderful friend I never liked 'that' way) and Danny left with me to go to a pool club to swim, and he had to go home he was so jealous.
This is coming from my first crush! I would have never known. It made me giddy for just about 48 seconds.
To update my last post, only a week later this lobster is ready to be back in the tank, but I only have a boiling pot of water awaiting.
I told him I haven't liked a guy in years, but I'm hoping to reconnect with my 'first crush'.
Yeah, that guy was so cute when he was six it makes me feel like a pedophile to even recall it.

i don't like people part 2

Just under 5 months but enough days to make a dime, I started to see a younger man. He was completely adorable, and very fun and even rather intelligent.
Normally I wouldn't have gotten involved with a guy that was 13 years mt junior, not to say I'm not some kind of 'Cher' wannabe, but I usually draw my line at an even ten years.
As though that makes some kind of difference. Instead of being in a diaper when I was in 5th grade they were in a diaper when I was fielding the horrors of junior high school. When I was making out with guys just about the age they are now...13.
Well, mentally pretty close.
So this guy seemed to be somewhat worth an effort. I would be giddy in his presence laughing and he deemed himself my 'pet lobster' property of me.
Well, my property behaves better. Are my cats my property? No, they are my friends. They can be pretty naughty but they have never outright told me I am the boss of them. Cats would never.
My sweet little lobster and I have had our issues over 5 months. They are as follows,"Why am I out of your top 8?" (myspace) "Why did you move me from 1 to 7?"(myspace) "Why are you deleting my comments?" (myspace) "I want to be your number one friend!" (myspace) No need to identify who said these things, sadly it went both ways. Last time I saw the Lobster he went into my myspace and says,"I'm not in your top 8? Where am I?" and quickly finds himself and throws the little square photo that is him into number one position. It's short lived as later that night I delete him as a friend.
I am in my thirties damn it. This is so stupid I have to write it just to bathe in this idiocy that I have engaged in. A cold moron juice bath might bring me to my senses. Instead of to my space.
However it's off myspace that my crustacean brought me back to reality, with a swift smack of his meaty claw. Not a literal smack, which is a good departure considering the lunatics I normally swim with.
We are lying in bed, post shellfish lovin'. He is holding me close, I can barely breathe but I'm fine with that in the moment.
"We need to nip this thing we have in the bud," he says. "I don't like you in THAT way, so we need to end this before it starts. I would like to be with someone that I care about and love, and then what would I do about you?"
This is the real life version of being moved from number one on myspace, being deleted and blocked and being replaced with your best friend. No it's not. MySpace isn't real life, this is. I don't get it, and I don't want to.
Five months into it, the longest I've seen anyone in years to be honest, we are 'nipping this in the bud'. He will probably say he didn't mean it next week, but unlike on MySpace, he can't delete his comment.

Edit: A few days later he showed up and told me he loves me. I believe it. Will that make things work? Can't say, but he has explained a lot and at heart he's a sweet crustacean.

i don't like people part 1

i had to write a check at my pathetic library. my madonna books were overdue. oddly they were due 9/11, the day the show started production... i should've renewed them and saved the $15 but i digress...

my pen ran out of ink writing a seperate check to replace my lost card. so i felt sad, my pen died. not that sad, but a twinge of dead pen sadness.

i go to citibank next to deposit checks. both pens were inkless. a guy came in and then was gone shortly, i didn't want to request a pen.

then a woman came in, and she tried the pen and asked me if the other one worked. i said no, and she asked if i had a pen. i said no, mine ran out of ink... she said she might have an eyeliner or lipliner, and started to rummage in her bag. she pulled out a shiny pen and said,'cool! look!' and she started to write.

then she turned and walked to the machine and i said,'can i borrow that pen?'

and she said,'i don't lend things to people.' WHAT THE FUCK?

so i sat there for fifteen minutes coaxing enough ink out of my pen to fill out the deposit slip, trying not to be furious about the pen bitch. lol.... she borrows but doesn't lend. oh well.

then later im on the corner somewhere and realize i'm behind jacobsen my downstairs neighbor. (that joe thought im friends with! he's a penis face) we make eye contact for a second and then i shut my eye and started to rub it, pretending i didn't see him. he ran away.

i think he was out jogging though. i just look like i fried my hair in boiling peanut oil, and stood under a hot air popcorn popper's ass.

i'm not stopping to chat with anyone. so i got 'anxiety for dummies'. my library is very aesthetically pleasing, but as for actual contents?

i found myself in the true crime section ready to grab some anne rule case files. then i realized that this is stupid. i used to read about murderers to hopefully avoid one if i met one. clearly, it didn't help me.

i mean i didn't get murdered, but i would say thisclose. also reading that isn't postive, not so much. i found 'the power of now' which i have wanted for a long time... i found it accidentally.

so i feel it was serendipty because i had flat out forgotten about that book- and i very much want to read it.

It's "A guide to spiritual enlightenment " perhaps easier on my brain than serial killers and pedophile rapists.

It's October, and you know what that means....

Breast Cancer Awareness Month, a/k/a The Month Roisin Spends Hounding Us All For Money.

And if you thought it was bad before, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

As some of you already know, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer the middle of April this year. She had her mastectomy on exactly the same day in May that I had my last surgery. Luckily, she was only a stage I and thanks to her decision to have a total mastectomy did not even require chemotherapy. But the emphasis there is on LUCK. She was caught and treated early. Not every woman is as lucky as my mother, and she and I are both painfully aware of that fact.

In November of 2004, a very close friend of mine passed away at the age of 34 from metastatic breast cancer that she had been fighting on and off since she was 23. Helen was supposed to participate in this with myself and friends the month before she died, but was far too ill to even leave her house. We walked in her honour that morning, I continue to.

So yet again this year, on October 15th to be precise, I'm going to be participating in the American Cancer Society's Making Strides Against Breast Cancer. There's still time to sign up if you'd like to get involved as well, but if you can't (or even if you can for that matter).....yes, this is where I hound you for money....you can always make a pledge....it doesn't have to be much, it's really the thought that counts. But while we're speaking of thought, try thinking about this - ONE IN EVERY 4 WOMEN WILL BE DIAGNOSED WITH BREAST CANCER IN HER LIFETIME. That might mean you, your mother, your wife, your sister, your daughter....and the list goes on. You mightn't have been touched by breast cancer yet, but there's a good chance you will be. So why not start doing something about it now?

Okay, the tinker's done begging for the moment....now back to your regularly scheduled programming....