The Slut Factory Convenes at UW

From my cluttered mind comes these random thoughts:

I heart this Duffy song and this choreographed dance c/o the Kaiser Chiefs. I've been humming both songs all day, much to the chagrin of the people around me. Namely the Esq, and the women trapped in the same bathroom as me on The Ave. Sorry, but I require entertainment while I'm in the loo.

I'm not a big fan of sororities, and not just because they're founded on antiquated, exclusionary, good ol' boy principles; I also hate the slutty beasts who belong to them. I'm sure there are plenty of nice girls who belong to sororities, but most of them took part in the campus-wide Slut-O-Ween Ball at the University of Washington last night, and those girls did not look nice. They looked like a bunch of underage white girls who had been sold into slavery, forced to put on ill-fitting lingerie, and made to walk the streets of Seattle in their mommy's big-girl heels. It was so. fucking. gross. Honorable mention goes to the drunk girls who ran their Jeep into a row of parked cars on our street. CLASSIC.

I'm excited for the Halloween party we're going to tonight; I'm starting the cupcake-making process in about 15 minutes. They will be made of the awesome. I'm also psyched for the South Park Trivia Night, which is tomorrow night at Neptune Coffee. Five bucks, methinks, and the proceeds go to my favorite place, 826Seattle. I'm taking the munchkin with me--I hope you South Park fans can make it!

It's weird, because I feel like I should be dressed up like Moses in order to convey my Atheism costume, and that's just stupid. But I am going to take my favorite book, Letters from the Earth. You can't embody Atheism without Mark Twain.

Wherefore art thou, camera battery?

I really enjoyed this political post written by Bennanerammadingdong; I wish I could write more like him, actually. I've got the age, but not the wisdom, SIGH SIGH SIGH.

Um, I just got a voicemail from Michelle Obama reminding me to vote. That was nice of her. I haven't actually sent my ballot in yet (although I saw where the nearest drop box was today), because I'm still researching the judges. If you don't think judges matter or affect you, then don't ever get in trouble with the law or worry about the crimes going on around you: judges in your state decide DAILY what happens to the criminals in your area, and what might happen to you if--God forbid--you did something totally stupid (something this writer is all-too familiar with). Also, for you bleeding heart Washington-staters who haven't voted yet: PICK THE REPUBLICAN FOR LIEUTENANT GOVERNOR. She's pro-choice, pro-medical maryjane, pro-'the gays', pro-everything-I'm-pro, and is campaigning on statewide volunteerism; the other guy wants to keep traveling around the schools, with his fake rock band, to sing an anti-drug message that kids could read on the side of a bus in 3.5 seconds. I hated those mandatory shows--the people performing were always out of touch, and would say 'TOTALLY RADICAL DUDE' with a straight face.

Something in my house smells like cheese that is clinging to desperation. Desperation cheese. It's bugging me.

I have the kiddo this weekend, so I will post sporadically. ALSO: a very happy birthday to my King Cousin, Brockoli! Once I get to a working scanner, I'll upload the birthday card I made for him--it's pretty epic. XO!

Stay safe and Happy Halloween!

[RADWORDS]: ROCK BAND, HALLOWEEN, SORORITIES, SLUTTY, ATHEISM.

Three Shows: A Review

OH HENRY!

Richard Misrach and Liz Magor at the Henry Art Gallery:

Richard Misrach's new exhibit, On the Beach, is beautiful, enormous, and blissfully uncomplicated. Imagine something like this and this being six-by-ten feet, or: bigger than my living room. It's worth seeing in person; if you're in the Seattle area, it's at the Henry until January 19, 2009. To stay in the loop about upcoming shows, check out their official Hankblog.

Liz Magor's exhibit, on the other hand, is what I consider to be incredibly pretentious contemporary tripe that's as visually bankrupting as it is artistically useless. I hate contemporary art that has to be explained in terms that explain nothing but what the artist wants you to believe: they're 'pushing the envelope', 'pioneering a movement', or 'exploring the struggles of *enter struggling, non-white group of people here* through a 'new process of artistic observation'. In the case of Liz Magor, she's 'exploring the relationship of the real to the simulated in provocative ways'. And for those of you still awake, 'her collection of humble, yet talismanic, forms creates an elegiac mood that mourns nature and culture alike.' And yet, this is what it looks like.

OH AFRICA!

The Esq's family and I went to what can only be described as a half-hearted African song-and-danceoff at the Northshore Performing Arts Center Foundation. It started off with a bang (strong opening, amazing singer), but then died down to a dull roar of one repeated chord (much like the Peruvian flute band epidemic) and a host of amateur back-up dancers. My favorite instrument was the 21-string lute-harp, which was mind-blowing; I said to the Esq, "Imagine the guy who feels like an asshole because he can only play the 18-string lute harp." I also wondered why it's easy to differentiate between an African and an African-American; even if the African is out of his tribal gear and wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, I can tell the guy's last name is going to start with a vowel and end with 28 consonants; ironically, it's the same with 'white people' and 'white people of the skinhead variety': there's an obvious difference, and it's not about the hair (or lack thereof). You can just tell.

Some observations on African dancing: it helps if you are two people masquerading as one: the upper half of your body should move slower than the lower half. Imagine yourself as a cartoon character who looks human from the waist up and has five legs from the waist down. Your goal as a five-legged human is to get as many flailing moves into one single drumbeat, which could be upwards of 600, while smiling so wide I could stick my foot inside your mouth. That's what African dancing looks like. It's amazing, and--if you're lazy like me--exhausting to watch.

Two more reviews are in progress from the Fujiya & Miyagi show on Monday, and the Lykke Li show last night... it's been a busy week!

[RADWORDS]: AFRICANS, SKINHEADS, CONTEMPORARY ART, ELEGIAC, OH HENRY.

The Killer Carving Party

The folks at 5800 (approx. 15 of us) get down; also on the agenda: getting funky.
















Sarabear's dreamy star pumpkin and Snotty's pumpkin pi.
















Recycling gets dangerous!

Braaaaaaaaains. BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAINS.

More party pics on the Photo Blog.

Social Networking Replaces Actual Socializing

I finally succumbed to Facebook, although I'm not very happy about it. I signed up a long time ago, and half-heartedly checked in every week or so, but never really gave much thought to my page design or photos. Now that it's all legit, though, I've posted real pics and tried to make it look less Facebook-y, IN VAIN. I thought it was going to be just another social networking tool that I could half-ignore, but I spend more time on Facebook than I do on Myspace now. And don't even get me started on Myspace, that disease-riddled whore; I'm thinking of re-naming it MyInterventionSpace. It's definitely the place your parents will head to when they need evidence for your future drug counselors, if you even have a future. God help you if you're a beauty queen with no foresight into your own future: if A, then B. Like, if I win this nationally-televised beauty pageant, then I should consider taking down the pictures of me sitting on that bartender's face while funneling a bottle of Jim Beam into my wide-open, underage mouth. 'Common sense' seems to be the only thing lacking in these pageants lately; well, that and all ladylike conduct befitting of a pageant winner. Didn't seem to hurt Vanessa Williams, though. I'm just saying.

I really wish that all of the people I've ever met could have a social networking symposium and just agree on a gameplan already: risk an outbreak together at Myspace, or get an unidentifiable rash from all those Facebook applications. For those with commitment issues, brand loyalty, or short attention spans, they can follow us on Twitter. None of these options sound healthy or viable to me, and yet I'm spending hours a week ON ALL THREE. I am personally redefining the word 'winner' to mean something closer to ' the thing that fails'.

I don't blame the creators of these websites for the pajamas I've worn for two days in a row, or the way my eyes flinch at the first hint of sunlight through the window. I'm just saying: at some point you will make it easier on me and plant a microchip into the back of my neck, so I can then log in and out internally rather than waste time on my computer. Shoot it directly into my bloodstream; we have the technology.

[RADWORDS]: FACEBOOK, MYSPACE, TWITTER, HERPES, HARMONY.

5800 Friends and Neighbors

Above: Being alone is nice.

I remembered today why I love/hate being friends with people: cliques always shift, and sometimes it's more of a balancing act just to stay friends than clip the string and say PEACE OUT BITCHES. I love everyone in my apartment building, except for Supremo Poopyshit Bitchface, but that comes as no surprise. Everyone else has something to offer by way of connection, entertainment, and fun. Our apartment building was crazy fun this summer, but then, you know--we got to know each other.

Still love everyone, still hang with people when I can. But much like being in a big stinky (or creepy) family, and always wanting solitude, that's how the apartment building is sometimes; or rather, that's how I feel occasionally. And just like siblings, spats are bound to happen, feelings might get hurt, people break away--or, in some cases, you see a person for who they really are and go, weren't you perfectly normal just two weeks ago? Is your cerebral cortex on a fucking VACATION? Sometimes you need a break from the world, even if it's just the immediate one around you.

That being said, there is a pumpkin-carving party at our building tonight, and I will be participating. But I do have reservations, because the connections between everyone are tenuous, at best. We've got a couple of dudes who are way into each other (not gay, just platonic life partners who have the same interests IN EVERYTHING), a quiet gal, a Cancer, the two of us, a cat lady, and two kooky nutjobs who embody the word "interesting". Then there's Bitchface, who is not invited, and some cool people in the building adjacent to ours. It's a very diverse crew, so of course 'universally getting along' is going to be a challenge, but I'm up for it--I just have to figure out everybody's new crew. It's like, #4 used to hang out with #8 but now #8 is better friends with #3 and #5 is ignoring #7 but the couple in #2 are mad at #5 and #1 hates us all. That's not actually representative of our building (except #1), but loyalties ebb and flow; one week you're hanging with Sonya from Apartment #6, the next week she's sleeping with Joe in Apartment #4 and so you move on to Sally in Apartment #9, and hope it works out. Everything is constantly shifting--and during that shift, everyone hangs out together until you figure out which ones are Your Kind Of People. I found some people here in this building, and others out in the world, so I can't be here all the time. But I still love living in a building where I know people; total obscurity does not work for me. I guess I'll count my blessings for now. FOR NOW.

Of course, I've sent a ton of text messages out to people from the building and have gotten NADA back, so who knows what my friend situation is like these days. PS I HATE IT WHEN YOU DON'T TEXT ME BACK. I AM NOT A MIND READER.

[RADWORDS]: FRIENDSHIP, POOP, CAT LADY, CEREBRAL CORTEX, PUMPKINS.

The Science of Sumo Sex

Above: Pre-orgasmic pose.

I think 'searching for jobs' is actually the new 'single and fabulous' a la Sex and the City, minus the fabulous. I never had to work this hard to find a man; the difference between a job and a man, though, is... well, there has to be something. I'll keep thinking.

If I want to be a housekeeper, a vet tech, a legal assistant or a drycleaning monkey, I need to be prepared for The Meaningless Trifecta: extensive background/credit/urine checks. I will also need to jump through those same hoops if I want to work as a customer service rep in a call center, at Group Health in their billing department, or at the motherfucking ZOO. Because when I visit the zoo, it's easier to enjoy the animals knowing the employees have taken care of their credit card debt. Of course, this is designed to keep the riff-raff out, or single out the people who might extort money from you, but the problem is this: THAT PERSON IS ME. When it comes to this shit, I will monumentally FAIL. First off, there's all the heroin in my system from last weekend's Trainspotting-themed party, which lasted three months and ended with dead babies crawling across my ceiling. I blame peer pressure. Second, if my crappy credit had a personality it would be a manic depressive, and sound like Sam Kinison weeping into a bullhorn. But who to blame? And third, I don't know what my background check might reveal, but it can't be good; I've been pretty good lately, but I wonder how far back they check. If they go any further than last week, I'm moving to Mexico.

When did it become so hard to get a job? I know I use to get jobs quickly when the spa industry was an option (and leaving them equally fast--LATELY), but I've never had to pee or pull out my stock portfolio in order to prove my skills. That has a lot to do with the industry, though--you couldn't piss test anyone in a spa, because most massage therapists believe in the crazy power of Cannabis, and a lot of hairstylists like re-living the 80's through stupid vintage drugs, like bennies or blow. If the spa/salon industry relied on sobriety, there would only be 12 people actively working in Washington, and even less in New Jersey.

I applied for five jobs today, each more depressing than the last. I tried to imagine what my bottom line would be--like, what WON'T I do? And the first thing that came to mind was porn, but that doesn't really count; there's not a high demand for Samoan porn. The Samoans I know don't believe in porn (weird), because they're too busy believing in a Mormon God (crazy) to ever have sex for FUN (FOOLS). There's also the "I'd rather shave my eyeballs with a cheese grater than see Polynesian porn" aspect of it. I can only imagine what hideousness occurs when Samoans get it on; they're probably like two lazy sumo wrestlers in muumuus, swatting each other and sweating profusely. AND THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. *thumbs up*

So the real bottom lines are:

Party clown: Not happening. I'd rather be a REAL party clown, i.e.; fabulous drag queen.
Sarah Palin's next baby: I just wouldn't want to be named Oil-Rig Moosemeat Palin, or whatever name is flowing down the Alaskan Pipeline to Nowhere.
Collection agent: The only job where I could make money calling myself, all. day. long.

I'm Looking Into Calf Implants

Above: Now I understand the need for a Brazilian wax, if that's how all Brazilian girls sit.

My Yelp review of our neighborhood Brazilian restaurant is on this page, third review down.

The response I got to this review:

Subject: Contribution of Unhealthy Stereotypes

Hello Marika, I am sorry that you have such a negative opinion of young girls from Brasil. I should say that you must travel around the world a little more because, in the US we have the most unhealthy and FAT culture in the whole world. I have just returned from a trip to Asia and as soon as I got back in US, I was shocked by the large number of FAT people here in US. The FAT people in US, should take more responsability for their own weight and not shift the responsability to the society. Being thin is not a crim or unhealthy but, au contraire.

My response:

Cameron,

I highly doubt you're sorry I have such a negative opinion of young girls from Brazil, especially since I state in my review that I know NOTHING about Brazil, as evidenced by the list of things I DO know. And the one thing I do know about Brazilian women is that they're monumentally beautiful, which the whole world agrees upon. I never said they contribute to the unhealthy stereotypes that young AMERICAN girls can't live up to, just girls EVERYWHERE. What 12-year old girl--skinny or not, American or not--can live up to being a gorgeous Brazilian who has awesome genes and more cosmetic surgery at her disposal than any other girl on Earth? What country makes cosmetic surgery cheap and affordable, so that their women will always remain beautiful? What new procedure is the latest rage down in Brazil? THE CALF IMPLANT--as if they were born without them. So no, this is not about being fat. This is about women who are blessed in the looks department, the girls who look up to them, and my view of both; none of this matters, though, because my review was clearly sardonic. But I see, with great clarity, that you didn't get that part.

I wonder if you read the entire thing, or if you've read any of my other ones: all of my reviews are tongue-in-cheek. I never said being thin was a crime--in fact, I think it would be quite lovely. I've also traveled to many places in the world--an assumption on your part that was incorrect--and there are fat people everywhere. It's an epidemic here, for sure--but the self-righteous American traveling abroad, gaining deeper insights into American culture (insights that I've already seen on Oprah and the Discovery Channel: "OMG we're FAT! America's fat people need to be accountable!"), and coming back home to judge everyone around them is so fucking tired already. Go back to Asia, where the women are small and therefore less offensive to you.

If you think that I'm contributing to unhealthy stereotypes--like the stereotype that Brazilian women are beyond gorgeous and that young girls want to be like them--then so be it; it's not like I'm LYING. It's just an opinion. But I doubt I'm making much of an impact on our society; people aren't flocking to read my sarcastic Yelp reviews for insight into fat American culture, female stereotypes, and who's to blame. So maybe YOU should travel the world more for a broader understanding of the America I live in: people don't care about me or my opinion. Just like I don't care about yours.

Bonne chance.

The last and final word: Well, I cared about that douchebag's opinion enough to send a response, but now I'm all SWEET, I'M CONTRIBUTING TO THE UNHEALTHY STEREOTYPES OF WOMEN! Took me long enough. I couldn't just keep contributing to the unhealthy stereotypes of Jews and Asians; I had to get around to you ladies at some point.

[RADWORDS]: YELP, FAT AMERICANS, RETARDED AMERICANS, TRAVELING AMERICANS, IDIOTS.

UNDECIDED: David Sedaris

In the words of my favorite writer:

I don't know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. "Who are they?" the news anchors ask. "And how might they determine the outcome of this election?"

Then you'll see this man or woman--someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. "Well, Charlie," they say, "I've gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can't seem to make up my mind!" Some insist that there's very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they're with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.

I look at these people and can't quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?

To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. "Can I interest you in the chicken?" she asks. "Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?"

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked. I mean, really, what's to be confused about?

Read the rest of this essay here.

Three Cheers & A WoopWoop

FINALLY this blog gets the recognition it deserves. I love awards!

Must Have All Limbs

Photo: I hope your name doesn't start with this letter.

I'm highlighting my favorite parts of this Craigslist personal ad. Yes, it's 3:43 A.M. and I am HIGHLIGHTING CRAIGSLIST PERSONAL ADS. YOU have to go to work in the morning, but the only thing on my To Do list is 'barely wake up'; 'imitate breathing' should be near the top of that list, too. I guess on the bright side for all you workin' folk is that YOU get a paycheck, and I eat generic Top Ramen every day. Sometimes with water, even, when the power's turned on.

So for late-night entertainment, I turn to the Best Of Craigslist, and not porn like the rest of you men. But with so many GODAWFUL CRAIGSLIST ADS out there, it's hard to choose which one to start bagging on first. Tonight, however, I hit the jackpot. Observe the fabulousness:

I am a single, free-spirted, web-savvy thirtysomething female. Living in the gorgeous Caroll Gardens for the past year, I love life and am only looking for a man who is not an idiotic pig-headed beer-swilling moron (which seems to be hard to find in this city). This is my final plea to the Craigslist community. I own my own internet business which means I don't get to leave the house much, but I do know the internet and its dating potential. So far it has let me down every single time.

I've done MySpace, Facebook, Match.Com, eHarmony, and even Jdate (I'm not Jewish and don't care about Israel). Don't get me started on Jdate. But with so many people out there, at least ONE guy can match this. I know he's out there. My standards are exacting, but they're not too much to ask. Life is too short to compromise yourself! If you're this guy or know this guy, have him contact me right away.

-non smoker

-must love cats and be open to the idea of future adoptions

-must not be more than one to five stops away from Carroll Gardens F train in either direction

-must not be opposed to wicker furniture

-must be 420 friendly

-past bar tending/table-serving experience a plus but not necessary

-must be fluent in 2 languages (English DOES NOT count); I still like to practice my French from study abroad

-toilet paper must go over, NEVER under, when placed in dispenser

-no stockbrokers, unemployed musicians, actors, or baristas

-no ravers, goths, punks, or rude boys

-name must not begin with an R, a J, or a B.

-must like scented candles (not vanilla); no incense

-owning a car is a plus, but it can't be a hatchback (some standards)

-I ski one weekend a year, so you ski. No shredders.

-must love Gary Larson, and hate Dilbert

-passionate about animal rights, but willing to take in the circus when it comes to town

-must have read complete works of Jane Austen

-must know how to turn a Word document into a PDF

-must be on T-Mobile for Fave 5 access

-must agree to watch "The Hills" on MTV on Sundays but hate that bitch Heidi, she is everything wrong with womankind

-must know CPR and have current certification, ++ for SCUBA certification

-must be home from 2-6pm on Saturdays to receive packages; bonus points if you're an Ebay power seller too!

-NO FELONS!!!

-must have all limbs, no quads (not biased, just poor past experience)

-must have Scrabulous installed on Facebook during work hours

-must like North-Eastern microbrews, NO COLORADO, NO EXCEPTIONS

-no corduroy pants, jackets, shirts, socks, caps, etc. And while we're on the subject of hats, no hats at all. Having a hat as part of your job costume is not an excuse.

I know the guy for me is out there. I've come so close to finding him in perfect form so many times. If you see yourself in even a FEW of my specifications, you are invited to apply. Think of it more like a guidebook to my heart.

***************************************************************************

Think of this ad as a guidebook to MY heart. The baedeker to my bosom, the enchiridion to my essence--or the atlas to my aorta! I could go on. But it's crazy early and I must find a warm body to stick my cold feet on before the warm body goes to work.

I doubt this ad is real, but still--I laughed. Hard. Because if it was authentic... that would mean there's a woman in this world who loves Scrabulous, hates Colorado microbrews and corduroy, can't burn vanilla-scented candles, dated a quadriplegic, and possibly had a stroke, right before she wrote this Craigslist ad. I saw a lot of dealbreakers in this, but I'd have to say my Number One No-No has to be the wicker furniture. If I want to feel cradled in the squeaky, hard, uncomfortable embrace of a cheap-ass tree, I'll climb into one--but I will not shell out $200 for the same thing at Pier One that's been painted some white guy's version of an 'ethnic' color, ie; the colors of Africa. WICKER IS WRONG. And I'm saying 'wicker is not okay' in the same tone I might say 'white pants after Labor Day is not okay' or 'killing this prostitute tonight was not okay'. If you support wicker, let me know--we might need to talk about your future.

The Convo blog has been updated!

[RADWORDS]: WICKER, MICROBREWS, JEWS, CORDUROY, PIER ONE.

YOU Do the Math

Above: Pokemon finally gets interesting.

While tutoring at the finest space travel supply company this week, I encountered a willful child; I encountered four thousand of them, actually, or at least that's what it felt like. The tutoring center has been jumping lately--standing room only--and I think they'll have to hire some muscle soon. A space bouncer to keep the unwanted riff-raff out; hopefully they'll let me back in. But being overwhelmed by selfless acts of goodwill is why people volunteer; we want to impress ourselves and others by how potentially GOOD we can be. That's why I volunteer; well, that and meeting hot guys. Because when I think 'soup kitchen', I immediately think of Johnny Depp. This also happens when I use words that are made up of letters, and also when I'm breathing.

I've talked extensively about Cameron before: he was the kid who compared me to a beautiful, scheming Orc Wizard and I was all RECOGNIZE, BIATCH. I felt like Cameron was the only first kid I really helped, and so I will always remember him fondly; I say 'remember him' because he doesn't come in on Tuesdays anymore. I'm pretty sure he bounced when I disappointed the crap out of him. In response to his hilarious AND TOTALLY LEGITIMATE question, "What is math even good for, even?" I gave him a canned answer that Sarah Palin would have been proud of:

"Math is good for EVERYTHING! See, it's like this: math is... gosh, it's--it's just! And WOW! And--grocery shopping is necessary, you'll need money, but that isn't exactly math--also for saving!--it's good, and it's a career. Americans, and everyone needs it, and I have definitely used it. I have used it just like all of us have used it. Math is also good for mathematicians! They couldn't have jobs without it! Also for counting money--that's important there--and architects use it to build houses, YOUR house was probably built with math--anyways, the economy, it's good for, and economics. Uh, it's amazing how many things math is good for!"

To which he should have responded: "Not to belabor the point, but just one specific example?"

For counting money. I said, OUT LOUD, 'counting money.' That's what Snotty thinks math is good for, and she doesn't even have any money to count. I wanted to apologize to his mother when she came to pick him up and be like, 'So when Cameron turns to a life of crime, BLAME ME.' He looked at me like I knew absolutely nothing, which is exactly how much I happen to know; I should have just told him the truth. If I had to do it all over again, I would, but this time my answer would be: "Asian people."

Speaking of which, there is an adorable little Asian girl I've tutored a few times, and I love her because she loves math--she even admits to it. She said to me last week, "There is only one thing I love more than math--wait, TWO things. Do you want to guess what they are?" I smiled at her, thinking, 'Does anyone want to play this game, EVER? DO YOUR HOMEWORK, TINY INFERIOR PERSON.' But what I said was: "SURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Hmmm, let me seeeeeee... POKEMON and WHITE RICE. Am I warm?" Now before you're all SNOTTY IS A RACIST, let me explain: Snotty is a racist. But also: a very good guesser. She squealed like a little person squeals--"e!"--and said, "Oh my God, oh my Goddy-God! I was totally, like, going to say ANIME CHARACTERS and TERIYAKI, oh WOW. You are so smart! You are pretty! I like you!" This is how she talks: like you're the next best thing to Jesus. And because Pokemon is an anime character and teriyaki goes with rice, I'm like some kind of magical mind-reading genius from a shiny, far-off land where people are crowned as royalty based on the lukewarm strengths of their guesswork. Fine by me--I always wanted to use that as an employment application answer, anyway:

What was the reason behind leaving your last job? I was crowned Queen of my own country, and took a year off to travel the world. With Anthony Bourdain. And Bono, the King of Ireland.

This is the same little girl who said to me, "Are you a high school student?" And when I looked at her sternly--you don't make a comment like that to a woman who secretly resents her age and the aging process--I saw she wasn't pulling my leg. Which is right around the time I decided to adopt her. She's also the kid who sang a cheerful "Thank you, Your Highness!" last week, in response to me finding her scissors. Then she curtsied--CURTSIED--and hopped back to her table like a perfect little bunny. I truly believe--and I'm not just saying this! I really do mean it!--that everyone should address me in this way. I'm just saying: it wouldn't kill you.

[RADWORDS]: ASIAN, ANIME, TERIYAKI, MATH, SARAH PALIN.

Love Of Fellow Man

If you want to know what I've really been doing with my time, I've been loving these sites lately:

Natalie Dee's website, which is where the above picture hails from.

HAIRSHIRT. Seriously funny.

Flotsam. Great writing (and I love the website design).

Mornings With NPR. My favorite drawings to look at in the morning.

The Job of Getting a Job

Above: Some people consider this 'potential'.

It's too quiet here. In my office, in my home. It's really insular in my apartment; all I can hear is the sound of my computer humming, which just barely covers the sound of my potential dying. I've never been this silent--or this bored--in my entire life. Yesterday I didn't speak for hours, and I felt like Helen Keller. How did she do it? It's boring because I'm my own company, and as far as that goes, I suck.

I'm sick of looking for jobs I don't want. I'm sick of applying for jobs that I don't want. I'm tired of crafting cover letters for jobs I don't even want to be offered. It's not that I don't want to work, but I'm afflicted with what Manthony calls "being American": I want the perfect job. Not like a DREAM JOB--[internet fame, book deal, Oprah]--but something perfect that pays the bills while I go after said dream (of which there are many, many more).

Let me just describe the perfect job for me, in this very moment: Pays good. Not a TON, but good enough. Health insurance: this is a dealbreaker. No benefits, no thanks. Weekends: I hate working weekends--everyone does. But I've worked weekends for the past ten years, so I think I've earned at least ONE weekend day off. Sundays, then. And, to quote my brother's new girlfriend, "I'm not down with bitchass-ness", so the people I work with should be cool; 'merely cordial' is also fine by me. I'd like to walk to work, or at least have a short commute, since I don't drive/have a car, so all jobs on the Eastside are dead to me. And I'd like to have three days off a week. I would also like a $50,000 pay increase after two months of work and a boob job, but I don't see those things happening, either.

I know, I know, I should focus on being realistic: I don't need a boob job. Maybe I should have said 'boob lift'. You know, like how they emergency-airlift the barely-living to Harborview Medical Center; this is how I imagine the procedure going.

Anyways, the Esq went back to work today and I am doing my darndest to emulate him. But first: Top Ramen, the Breakfast of Champions.

[RADWORDS]: BOOB JOB, DREAM JOB, OPRAH, HELEN KELLER, DYING.

A Pumpkin-Perfect Day

Sarabear and I embarked on a girls-only adventure yesterday that I have fondly come to think of as 'Operation: Cheer the Fuck Up'. I daresay we were successful, so here is the recipe for cheering the fuck up, if you ever feel you need it:

Drink Market Spice Tea to get warm with a good pal. Put on thick fuzzy socks, pack a camera. Get attacked at the front door with puppy kisses from your sweetheart; this is the best way to leave home.

Head somewhere with great vegetarian food; this will make you will feel artificially healthy while you're scarfing down a grilled cheese-and-avocado sandwich the size of your face. Drink something warm. Sit by a cute boy or girl and make eye contact; try convincing your friend to go and talk with them. Make a giggly scene.

Stock up on overpriced, unnecessary supplies at Whole Foods, like chocolate chip cookies. Follow a woman around the store who looks like Princess Leia. Leave. Make sure you have the right attitude.














Drive into the bowels of Hell Redmond listening to these artists: Aretha Franklin, Stevie Wonder, Jill Scott, Hot Chip, Justin Timberlake, Waldeck, Wax Tailor. Don't listen to more than one JT song, but listen to all the Stevie and Aretha you want. Dance in the car. Laugh about girl stuff. Yell and/or plead with other drivers who can't hear you. Make sure you tell them you're in a hurry, because that always helps. Keep checking the time--you might not make it.

Get slightly lost. Call significant other too many times for help. Drive past a business called 'The H Store', and wonder what could possibly be inside; hope for 'hermaphrodite' or 'heresy', because purchasing 'heresy' would be pretty dope.

Arrive at the U-Pick pumpkin patch. Marvel at the pumpkins: orange! red! yellow! pink! blue! Marvel at the children: each one more adorable and whiny than the last. Marvel at the stench: it's like a rotting compost, an elephant pit, and a Honeybucket all rolled into one. Watch your shoes: the ground is like walking on soft stool. No joke. Sometimes leaping is involved.

Take a thousand pictures. Pose in the pumpkin patch. Mention how a pumpkin patch is a lot like a graveyard, a graveyard for pumpkins that are awaiting execution. Take a picture of a family picking out a victim together; they won't get away with this. Wander around aimlessly. Take more pictures. Hear yourself, adults, and children say I WANT A WHITE ONE over and over again, and snicker every time; ask yourself how many times an adoption agency has heard this phrase. Much like an adoption agency, though, the white pumpkins are pricey, and not very pure. Except this one:














Buy small, funky-shaped gourds for your loved ones. Wave at the people on the hay ride. Push annoying children out of your path. Pay for your bounty and walk past the dead green bean maze; wonder aloud why someone would take the trouble to make a green bean maze, much less walk through it after all the plants have died.

Enjoy the setting sun--but feel the autumn chill. Wish for a plate of homemade cookies to be waiting in the car. Walk back to the car and search for cookies in vain. Take a few goofy Myspace-type pictures. Roll out. As you're leaving, make sure two bizarre, goat-related things happen on your way home.

Sara: "Is that a goat up on a pedestal?"
Snotty: "Yep."

Driving behind a car on the freeway:

Sara: "There is a fucking GOAT in the back of that car."
Snotty: "What?"

It's good to have friends and Fall and pumpkins and goats upon pedestals; I couldn't bear a life without them. For more pumpkin pics, check out the Photo Blog.
















[RADWORDS]: PUMPKINS, WHITE BABIES, HERMAPHRODITES, GOATS, PRINCESS LEIA

Braaaaaaaaaains!

Dedicated to my two best gals on October 19th. I finally had a good one; I hope you did, too. XO

Sodomy & Atheism

Halloween approaches, so it's time to get your pumpkin patch on. We went to our first Halloween party last night--the Ookie Spookie Pumpkin-Carving Party at Colleen and Randy's--and it was outstanding; stuff got broken, brains were eaten, a good time was had. We watched Kung Fu Hustle (which is in my Top 10), and Battle Royale, which is probably the best idea for a movie EVER. I need to download it so I can see the whole thing, but as I understand it, there's a bunch of Japanese kids who are kidnapped and put on an island to kill each other, and whoever is left standing at the end wins. What that person wins, I do not know: a trophy? a lifetime of therapy? a cocaine problem? Anyways, that's the premise. What's not to like? Sounds like the average high school experience to me. Sometimes I just need a crazy movie filled with killing and/or dying; I also like Bollywood movies and chick flicks, so if I could find some type of hybrid between these genres, that would be awesome: killing, killing, killing, dying...then a choreographed number with singing Indians and super swami bling...and then Susan Sarandon gets cancer and dies. Can you say, "I'd like to thank the Academy?" Because that movie formula is OSCAR-WINNING GOLD.

Our next Halloween celebration takes place next weekend, and is being hosted by Yours Truly. I say 'hosted' very loosely, though; don't think I'm going to feed you, because if there's one thing this economy has taught me, it's that food is overrated, just like rent and bills and John McCain. We're still deciding between seeing Better Off Dead at The Egyptian (midnight showing) and the Flashlight Corn Maze at the South 47 Farm on the eastside; right now, I'm leaning towards the corn maze, because it might be spooky! It's cheaper and dorkier, too, which I think is more complementary to my cheap and dorky personality. Whoreleen and I are going to check out the place today, so I'll update on that later.

After that, our building is throwing a party in the back alley next week, and like anything that happens in a back alley--abortions, meth deals, sodomy, and death--I am totally there. I only hope the Halloween party can live up to the hype; I don't know where 'pumpkin-carving' and 'neighborly fun' falls on the back alley list. Somewhere between sodomy and death, I guess, although the two seem related in a way.

The Halloween party we're attending on Halloween is a costume party, and I am so excited to dress up! I've never gone as a 'couple' before--like Romeo & Juliet or Tristan & Isolde--and we thought it would be fun. We started out thinking small--The Gatekeeper and The Keymaster from Ghostbusters, Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf--and then started to expand the word 'couple' to include things that weren't exactly in a relationship--Lt. Jim Dangle and Raineesha Williams from Reno 911, the Unibomber and his manifesto (I wanted to be the manifesto). Then my parents broke out this vintage, authentic, Russian military dress uniform--complete with Lenin pins and everything--that fit the Esq perfectly; they gifted it to him, knowing he would uphold the ideals and traditions of Russian Communists everywhere. Most people know he has an interest in the Commies--you only have to look at his well-loved t-shirt featuring the North Vietnam flag; he's even been compared to a Commie during a few of our heated arguments (and also a Republican). So naturally, his costume is: COMMUNISM. And that is how we came to our final costume conclusions: we are all going as -ISMS. Whoreleen is still thinking about hers, but I'm going as Atheism and I think the Esq's sister might be going as Hedonism; she's lucky to be under 25, because she's still young enough to fulfill Halloween's other prophecy: dressing as slutty as possible. I don't know what I'm going to do, probably just have a sign that says "Oh no, He di'int." Hee.

[RADWORDS]: PARIS HILTON, SLUT, COMMUNISM, NORTH VIETNAM, SODOMY

The Girl and the Sea

This is a strangely compelling video that did not want to embed. But it's by Lee Lennox, who has an interesting eye for weirdness, so check it out if you have a minute (or four). It's titled, The Girl and the Sea; song by The Presets. I was kind of creeped out by it, and then completely fascinated; now I'm in the dark and melancholy stage, but that could just be my every day demeanor.

Back to the wonderful world of online job-searching...

The Ladder of Love

I'm trying to think of a word; it's on the tip of my tongue. What's the word for the most pointless way of being? Something other than 'vegan'. (Sorry, vegans, but my loyalty belongs to bacon.) It's right there, lodged in my frontal lobe, just waiting to be revealed.

Why do I care that my boyfriend used to date other people? Why does it feel like he's somehow cheating on me when I hear someone's name brought up? What's the point of being angry at a PHOTO of someone I don't even know? This is the kind of behavior I'm talking about. Somehow we got on the subject of ex-partners, and all of a sudden we were like a knife-throwing circus act: him up against the wall, and me throwing daggers at his face. My outer dialogue (quiet, terse) was nothing compared to my inner dialogue (extreme panic): 'Who the--WHO? WHAT KIND OF WHORE'S NAME IS THAT? IT'S A WHORE'S NAME, THAT'S WHAT. WHAT? HE DID WHAT WITH HER? HOW MANY TIMES? JUST EXACTLY HOW THIN WAS SHE, FOR CHRISSAKE? HOW LONG DID THIS GO ON FOR? TWO WEEKS? TWO. WHOLE. WEEKS? WHY DIDN'T HE JUST FUCKING MARRY HER? WHORE.' And on and on, ad infinitum. About a girl he knew years ago, and just happened to see indirectly on Livejournal. It was a very proud moment for me.

What is it about ex-partners having ex-partners? We don't talk much about the Esq's ex-girlfriends, because he knows what kind of an insecure wildebeest he's living with; even I know better than to bring it up, because who knows what kind of crazy shit will fly from my knife-wielding hands. Why does it affect me so negatively? It's like a knee-jerk reaction. In his mind, I'm the victor: I'm the one he wants, the one he sees a future with. In my mind, those women will somehow see what they're missing out on, and try killing me in my sleep. But not if I get to them first.

This really has nothing to do with the Esq, and everything to do with me being OH THERE'S THE WORD: STUPID.

I know I'm not the only one; I talked to other women about it, and they've had similar experiences. And we all agreed: it's a pointless way of acting, being, thinking, feeling. But we all still do it. Hearing an ex-girlfriend's name--even if it's attached to the phrase 'that stuck-up, anorexic cokehead'--is like creating a human static cling: his ex-girlfriends stick to me and I just can't shake them, and then they ruin my life. Because of course they're naked and of course they're perfect AND OF COURSE THEY'RE CLINGING TO ME; that's how static cling works. It's diabolical.

Esq: Why is this bothering you? I don't care about the people you've dated.
Me: THAT'S BECAUSE THERE'S NEVER BEEN ANYBODY ELSE. HMPH.

Except for my ex-husband, my son's father, and all of the people in-between. So that's the fantasy: the Esq was just waiting for me his entire life, and lived like a monk--and a scholar--until we finally met. His life was all about attaining knowledge, self-reflection, and peace. Until I came along. If I HAVE to acknowledge the other women in his past, then I prefer to think of them as a human ladder that he had to climb in order to find me. Stepping on their pretty little heads, all the way to the top.

Photos and Convos have been updated!

[RADWORDS]: HITLER, KNIVES, CIRCUS, STATIC CLING, MEATLOAF

A Union State of Mind

Our next war might be Civil.

I've tried to stay out of politics for the last week because I was so heavy-handed from the get-go; I also know that everyone else is writing about politics, too. It can be overwhelming, and I didn't want to add more fuel to the fire. Too bad I remembered today that this is my blog and I can do what I want.

You all know I don't support Sarah Palin. It's abundantly clear, and most of you aren't fooled by her, either. But when I think about it, I don't really hate Sarah Palin. I hate everyone who loves her.

I can understand a person growing up in a particular set of circumstances and adhering to their family pasttimes, like slaying giant beasts together and joining a wackjob church; it's backwater ALASKA, and they can't drink ALL the time. It's not for me, but much like my feeling about the U.S. Army, they do it so I don't have to. I can even understand believing in complete and total bollocks, especially if you're the sort of person who was raised to believe that the End Days' are upon us; think about how weird it must be to think that the end of the world is near--and that you have a one-way ticket to Moose Heaven with Big Jeezy in the very near future. There are some people in this world--many, actually--who have never questioned the status quo, and fear the end result of straying off the beaten path: maybe their family will ostracize them, or they won't fit into their community, or Baby Jesus might fall down a well. Whatever the reason, it keeps them stuck in their ancient thinking and fear of the unknown, AND I UNDERSTAND THIS. I get why Sarah Palin is so atrocious, but I don't hate her anymore; I hate the human condition.

I watched the Daily Show last night, and it was very disappointing. Not because Jon Stewart didn't deliver (although his cohorts are impressing me less and less lately), but because he showed THAT VIDEO (the one I'm embedding here, of course--I like to perpetuate cycles that go nowhere).



To see one woman out there--a woman who probably represents thousands, even millions of Americans--that is so grossly misinformed, and stoking that big ol' Fear Fire, is far more depressing than four more years of the same old thing. I know, she was probably raised that way, too, but for some reason, I don't understand her at all; I'm just frightened by her. When John McCain has to stand up for Barack Obama because of the racist vitriol coming out of his supporters' mouths, that says nothing about him and everything about the people (although I'm glad he tried being semi-decent for once). The Straight Talk Express is becoming somewhat of a PR nightmare since the people doing the straight-talking are talking straight out of their asses. It's humbling to witness, and scary, too. I'm pretty sheltered up here in Seattle, where we have more licensed massage therapists than registered conservatives, so I'm astounded by how the rest of the country thinks and lives. Although I don't know how much 'thinking' is really going on. I'm talking to you, Arkansas.

If Obama carries the election, then I will shout a big hurrah--but after seeing some of the McCain supporters and hearing their voices on the internet, we're going to need more than just Obama. This is dividing the country more than I thought it would, but I'm always a wary optimist. I wonder if there is anything that can be done, or if Barack Obama really is the next Lincoln. The South might rise again, you never really know; them's some resilient folks, y'all.

I hope I get some Confederate flag ads from this post, although I gotta say: the Christian Masturbation ad keeps popping up on the sidebar, and it's totally making my day.

[RADWORDS]: CONFEDERATE FLAG, ARKANSAS, DAILY SHOW, ABE LINCOLN, BALLS

Piece of Shit Cake

Photo: I think the title says it all.

First off, this is not my fault. More importantly, this is your fault. I'M TALKING TO YOU, BLOGGER.COM. It's not like my layout or design was anything I wanted--this is something I've been actively trying to change--but thanks for dumping all of my sidebar information and making it impossible to upload an XML template. Also helpful: making my old template obsolete so I couldn't upload the one I'd saved. Even more helpful: the hyper-awake sobriety that accompanies my ADHD at three in the morning.

What have I been doing for the past five hours? Not much--just trying to MASTER THE INTERNET and all of its' languages. PIECE OF CAKE. At first I was confident: "C'mon, HTML, let's grab some text and git 'er done!" Then, in Hour Two, I was like, "Hmmm...XML, WTF, okay, no problem." The frustrated, sleep-deprived weeping started around Hour Four, when the sun began to rise and I was stuck in a Java Script time warp... I don't know Java, and I don't know how it came up, but it is now high on my shit list. Finally, when I realized The Internet had bested me, I wrapped a white flag of surrender around myself and perished. Literally.

I can't figure this out until I get at least an hour of sleep, or until the Esq wakes up in 23856258 hours. Sleeping seems irrelevant when I'm pissed-off and panicking. This is not how I wanted to spend my day sucks.

The 10-Year Old Trojan Horse

Photo: I am in so much trouble.

Two disappointments today: I didn't get the job I wanted, and my son is a 10-year old turd.

Never mind the job thing, because it's a load off my mind--I just wanted to know, either way. The real disappointment is the turdy 10-year old kid; he has reached That Age. You know, THAT AGE, the one that will drive you to drink in the middle of a Thursday afternoon. It doesn't matter if you're a parent or not--I know you've all met a kid who is funny, adorable, and PAINFULLY ANNOYING. I'll bet that kid was 10-years old, and also related to me.

Oren has decided that he is sarcastic. It was driving me up the wall yesterday. If you are practiced in the ways of sarcasm, then you've got, at the very least: tone, timing, delivery, vocal inflection, and a deadpan stare to accompany your sarcastic content or commentary; if you are ten, you have the words 'NO DUH' and 'WHATEVER', plus an endless amount of un-funny fart jokes. This is not sarcasm. I don't know where he got the idea that he could out-do me in this department, but the real issue here is: who is to blame? Having a sarcastic father and a sardonic mother couldn't have helped the matter, but I blame 9/11.

I remember the first time Oren delivered a tiny verbal touchdown, and it was directed at me. He really wanted pizza for dinner, and I said something like, "I'm just not feeling pizza right now." And he replied, "Which is something Hitler might have said." I laughed out loud, mainly from connecting HITLER, PIZZA OVENS, and MY HALF-JEWISH CHILD; then I laughed louder. I remain unconvinced that Hitler had an interest in pizza, unless 'human pizza with a large side of genocide' counts.

I realized that what Ten-Years Old represents right now is the Fall of Mom, which is a lot like the Fall of Troy. Here is the most amazing child you've ever seen: he's beautiful, hilarious, intelligent, kind, creative--and lucky to be alive, since his Mom spent most of the birthing process brokering deals with God around keeping him in utero. Now imagine that child is your personal Trojan Horse, like Oren is mine; he's all of these amazing things on the outside, but everything on the inside is programmed to one day defeat and leave you. It's human nature, and totally heartbreaking. But if our parents had made everything exciting and fun in our teens, we never would have left.

If I was being really honest, I would say that Ten-Years Old was when my parents ceased being cool to me, and that is how Oren sees me now; that is my greatest disappointment. It's my own fault, really, for falling prey to the type of thinking that I thought only "other parents" did: I won't be like other parents, and then I will always be cool to my kid. I seriously believed my own bullshit. I've met some pretty awesome parents: ones with sweet tattoos and piercings, ones that are rock stars, young parents, people who travel the world constantly, or work in the theatuh, or say the word 'douchebag' in just the right context... and I've thought, I wish my parents had been that cool. But their kids never see them that way. That's how parenting works: it's a lose-lose situation, and nobody gets what they want. But hopefully, later on, the relationship between older-parent and adult-child will find new common ground, like bonding over the Next Generation of ungrateful brats--like I did with my mom.

Speaking of my mother, I'm supposed to print a retraction about her age: in the blog post, Letters From Heaven, I said my mother was 62-years old, and she would like everyone to know that she is really 38. *eyeroll* MOMS. (She really is 38, and I'm...mature for nine.)

It was wonderful seeing my kiddo, even if his attitude, actions, and words were less than ideal. "Oh YEAH, well YOU'RE--NYAH. Stupid. Poop. Wah-wah-WAH. Cry me a river. Hrmf. I don't WANNA. I HATE THIS FOOD. YOU'RE A TOWEL." It's as if Oren became quintuplets overnight, the kind that suck the life blood right out of your soul and your marriage (hint: ALL OF THEM DO). There's a saying out there, something about an apple not falling far from a tree, but that's something my grandma would say; I need something with a little more... F-word appeal. This is karma, plain and simple, coming home to roost directly upon my face. My totally old, totally un-cool face. Let the growing old begin.

The Community & The Conversation

Photo: This is what they look like.

A few things I liked about the Bigfoot Blogging Conference I attended yesterday at UW:

FOOD: Free lunch with real brownies. Never underestimate the power of free brownies, even when they're liberally laced with sugar and not marijuana or crack cocaine.

PEOPLE: Diverse 'keynote' speakers, with a thumbs-up to Chris Pirillo, who brought free t-shirts. Again with the free. It's like they know me.

CERTAIN PEOPLE: My girlfriend's ex-husband sitting behind me with his newer pop tart girlfriend. Not awkward at all. But a great future blog story.

Honorable mentions go to Karen Anderson over at Writer Way and Andru Edwards from gearlive.com for not coming off as self-aggrandizing advertisements for themselves during our interactions. A resentful (and respectful) shout-out goes to Monica Guzman, from The Big Blog, for being smart AND pretty (she's one of THOSE); her presentation was very thought-provoking.

That which I did not like:

TWITTER: My phone died, mid-Tweet, so no Twittering for me. While this isn't all that important, it was disappointing; everyone there was lecturing about Twitter, taking notes on Twitter, asking questions about Twitter, praising or slamming each other on Twitter, and physically Twittering throughout every presentation--and there I was being forced to actually listen to the speakers like an asshole.

TECHNOLOGY: I was one of two people who didn't bring a laptop, which Chris so nicely pointed out. He talked about our pens and paper with a laugh, and I could hear the phrase 'physical media is so obsolete' just floating on the wind. Next time, I'm taking my vintage Selectrix typewriter with me so I can do some LIVE LOGGING while people are actually LIVE BLOGGING, and all they will hear is CLICK-CLACK CLACKITYCLACKCLACK CLICK CLACK CLACK CLICKETYCLACKETY CLACK-CLACK-CLACK ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZING!! Then I will roll up my post, tie it with a string, and hand it to the messenger owl I plan on borrowing from Harry Potter; that owl will then deliver my post to The Internet in the time it would take you to purchase a home and pass the bar exam, but no matter--he will be useful in many ways, since I plan on using him for Twitter, too. A living, breathing bird is like the Original Tweet, anyways. Old school: that's how I roll.

BUZZ WORDS: Everyone with a presentation, with the exception of Tracy Record over at West Seattle Blog, talked in social networking buzz words, most notably about The Community and The Conversation. What "conversation", you ask? Why, the one that The Community is engaged in! And what Community are you speaking of? Well, the one that you're a part of, which is also a part of the ongoing Conversation! Okay, so where is this Conversation going? No one knows, except The Community, and they are the ones who are shaping The Conversation! WHAT BLOODY CONVERSATION?! And on and on. I understood what they meant--it was certainly relevant--and I get "The Conversation", I just don't like buzz words. ***Although I did get called out in the comment section about it; hoisted by my own petard, as it were. *LOL* Ironically, I did not feel like I was a part of The Community or The Conversation, but I still heard some great concepts and ideas, and met some interesting people.

Dishonorable mentions go to the time-sucking woman who knew next-to-nothing about her own blog or blogging, and to my neighbor, one of the guys from Metblogs, who was loudly poking fun at her. We were all doing it--listening to her was like slowly sticking a knife in my eye--but we were doing it silently. As if that were any better.

I'm hanging with Smarty McSmarterson (the man) and Potty McPotterson (the monster) in Gig Harbor today; also, there's a few good updates on my Convo Blog, check them out.

Atonement: The Game That Everyone Can Play!

Photo: Grapple-flavored.

















With Yom Kippur happening on Thursday, it's time to figure out our schedule for repentance, people. For all of you non-Jews out there, Yom Kippur is a holy day centered around what I generally think of as 'Catholic-sized guilt'. IRONICALLY. Basically, you repent and atone for the things you have done, which is pretty handy, since it's only one day. I'm not actually Jewish, but one day of atonement seems more reasonable than a lifetime of confession that ultimately goes nowhere. Well, sometimes it leads to the molesting of a child, but whatever--I'm just saying. You don't hear a lot of scandal coming out of the Yom Kippur holiday. People are too busy feeling bad about themselves.

I think it's weird that God's Chosen People, the Jews (Possible Jewish bumpersticker: My best friend is a Jewish carpenter who's on the Honor Roll and has the power to make you burn in Hell) and God's Righteous Army, the Catholics (Possible Catholic bumpersticker: Baby On Board, YES AGAIN) have something they actually agree on, something that levels the playing field a bit: GUILT. I know that Jewish mothers are known the world over for laying guilt upon their children like hens lay eggs, but the Catholic moms are making a comeback. I know some mother-daughter relationships that are founded on the tenets of guilt and expectations; I also know who and what those daughters are doing on the weekends in order to balance out their mothers' expectations: Jose Cuervo shots and the UW football team. Hey, it happens to the best of us.

I don't have guilt--ever. Like, NEVER. You know how some people are all rough and tough and talk a good game, but secretly they hate themselves and feel guilty for a lot of stuff? Yeah, not me; not in the slightest. I know that guilt is a cop-out emotion, as well as being the most pointless thing to ever emerge from religion. I feel no guilt. Anytime someone says to me, "Oh but I feel so guilty about that!" I laugh, because guilt is actually very self-serving; it's a dangerous emotion. Here's how it was explained to me, many years ago: If you need a pen for a meeting, and you run into an office supply store for one--but the lines are super long and you don't have time to wait, so you just steal it--it's okay, because you feel guilty. You aren't the "type of person" who would normally do something like that--as evidenced by how guilty you feel--so therefore you can feel good about yourself again. No harm done. This? Is total bullshit. But take the phrase "stole a pen" and substitute something else--"cheated on a boyfriend", "called in sick to work so I could enjoy the sunshine", "committed country-wide genocide". It's all the same: you feel guilty so that you can actually feel the opposite. This kind of thinking is a colossal waste of time. I don't atone, either, because I don't think much about flaying myself in front of others just to get my so-called reward some eighty years later. But I do think about things like regret sometimes, and regret and guilt seem like friendly bedfellows. So last night I made a list of the things I most regret--the things I feel I might atone for, had I been more religulous. Thank you for being my witnesses to this list, and for not judging me in my time of need.

Snotty atones for...

STEPMOM (1998)

I loved this movie. I LOVED IT. And make no mistake, I cried like I'd been the one diagnosed with cancer, I really and truly did... but there's no way I could have met my maker with the grace that Susan Sarandon did in this movie. I related to Julia Roberts' character, too, because Susan Sarandon's character was a straight-up cancerous bitch sometimes; I hated how they blamed each other for so much, I really did. I felt like I was a part of that family, just torn in two different directions. I even felt Ed Harris' exasperation when he didn't know what to do with all of the crazy women in his life--I wanted to help the family so that together, we could dance around on Christmas Day to cheesy Diana Ross songs, right before Susan Sarandon kicked the bucket. I can't believe I fell for this movie and I can't believe I'm admitting it on the internets. The last time I watched it, I SOBBED MY FACE OFF and ended up resembling a Mr. Potato Head with nothing stuck to his face; I was just a brown, weepy THING with no distinguishable features. I've also seen this movie around five hundred times; each time I hoped it would mean less to me, and each time I was so very, very wrong.

TAKE MY BREATH AWAY (Berlin)

This is a horrible song. Horrible. But every time this song is blasting out of some ugly old guy's bitchin' Camaro, I sing along. I SING. ALONG. I'm not proud of it, but Maverick and Goose made an impression on me at an early age in Top Gun, and if you don't know what Top Gun is, then you have something to atone for, or you're too young to be reading this blog. There are worse things to love, though. Miley Cyrus. The Republican ticket. Hybrid fruits, like grapples. Ex-husbands. The fashion of Mariah Carey. Iran. But still, that song is redonculous.

MCDONALD'S FRENCH FRIES

I know I'm not supposed to love them or dream about them or rub them all over my naked body, I know this. But that doesn't stop me from doing it. I was actually quite angry when they stopped frying them in animal fat--which is just another phrase for 'delicious goodness'--and then started frying them in, uh, animal fat. Andthengotcaught, OOPS! Oh, McDonald's, you stinker, you. Now I don't agree with their business practices, lying to the public, or Grimace--what the hell is that thing, an overweight Fruit of the Looms character? a gay grape? and why would McDonald's name it after something negative your face does involuntarily?--but I understand that I'm completely condoning their behavior since I keep supporting the business financially. I'm okay with that, but I should probably repent, because I am never going without those fries. You can take away my booze and cigarettes and illegal dog-fighting ring, but you cannot take away my Freedom French fries or my right to choose. I am PRO-CHOICE when it comes to my fries.

The King of Brobdingnag

Photo: Do not get stuck behind this man.










The month of October is a good one for music, apparently. Last Saturday, a group of us hit the Mates of State and Santogold show, which was very good. I'm not a big Mates of State fan, but they were interesting--more 'indie' than I'd imagined. Santogold, however, exceeded my expectations; I didn't know if she could represent in real life--she has an edge to her voice that toes the 'whiny' line sometimes (think Gwen Stefani meets M.I.A.), but her show was pretty cool. Her back-up dancers, though, were outstanding; they made me re-think all of my priorities (maybe I could be a back-up dancer, too!), but since I only have the one priority--my daily quest for bacon--I didn't have much to re-think. New priority as of today: find more priorities, ones that don't include a dead animal, and maybe get a job. Plus, the dancers had shiny-gold, billowing M.C. Hammer shirts that took me back, WAY WAY BACK, back to a day when I was too legit to quit.

Last night we took Whoreleen to The Presets/Cut Copy show for her birthday, and a rocking good time was had. I have to say, I'd been waiting for this Cut Copy show forever, but it was the opening band, The Presets, who showed up and delivered the most memorable performance. All of their songs have this driving beat that makes you want to shake some ass and throw out a hip; they're dark, fun, energetic, locomotive. The first song (embedded here) kicked off the dance party vibe, and that feeling never fizzled out. The Presets sound a bit like The Killers, but more gay, if you can imagine anything gayer than The Killers. Sum 41, maybe. Toby Keith, for sure.



Other feelings that stayed with us throughout the night:

BURNING RESENTMENT, mostly at the embarrassingly drunk Russian whore dancing on top of us the entire night. I'm very aware of the Russian Sex Kitten "stereotype", but since I've never met a Russian woman who has ever broken that stereotype, I'm just going to say she was your typical female Russki. Add to that fourteen gallons of alcohol and her faux self-confidence, and you have this: a Marilyn Monroe-wannabe doing upright lap dances on the four men around us, testing out her wobbly burlesque moves in between buckling and falling into us repeatedly. Watching her dance was like being trapped in a Nagel print, or like DYING, OVER AND OVER AGAIN. As much as I enjoy hookers and alcoholics and badly-executed lap dances (OH GOD HOW I LOVE THEM) this mail-order bride was one sexy dance away from getting her teeth knocked out by my incredibly-patient Fist of Rage.

EYE-ROLLING DISBELIEF at the TWELVE-FOOT TALL JACKASS WHO STOOD RIGHT IN FRONT OF US. After securing our spot in the center, about four rows back, and standing there for an hour, along comes Douchey McDoucherton who plants his tree trunk of a body right in front of us, completely blocking the stage from Whoreleen. Normally, I'm okay with looking around the person in question, because everything gets shifted when you're dancing; NOTHING was getting around this dude, not light or sound or hopes or dreams. As Whoreleen said, 'Can't he just take one for the team and always stand in the back at shows?' You can't choose your ancestry or genetics--he can't do much about descending from a line of Jolly Green Giants--but being a total asshole is a CHOICE. And standing directly in front of a short girl when you are Brobdingnagian is a dick move, dude. Too bad about your face and your height and your whore of a Russian girlfriend, but next time, be a gentleman.

UNFUNNY IRONY at running into the people we've been avoiding. Happens every time. It happened to Whoreleen and also to me; the exact second you think, 'I hope ****** isn't here,' they show up with an entourage, looking smug and thin and adorable. I wish there was a better way to deal with this scenario, but I felt our solution--joining the Witness Protection Program and moving to Mexico--was the most mature solution we could come up with at the time. I wonder when my knee-jerk reactions will rise above a junior high level, if ever. Sometimes I'm actually amazed that I'm in my thirties, because usually my attitude is something like Eeyore meets Mr. Grumpy meets Death Row.

The Cut Copy show was awesome, but we were so tired (translation: old, old, and old) that we ended up sitting down for the show; between her cramps and my tired feet and his worn-out back (they are both UNDER 30, by the way), the three of us were quite the ball of youthful energy. Cut Copy started out the show very mellow, but it ended in a gay man's dancing paradise, crazy light show and all; the light shows for both performances were sweet, although I wonder how many Vietnam vets were traumatized by it. I'm excited for the Fujiya & Miyagi show coming up at Neumo's on the 28th--if anyone is interested in tagging along, get a ticket! The more, the better--and hopefully that giant walking telephone pole won't be there.

So a Happy (BELATED) Birthday to Whoreleen, and also to Bennannerammadingdong (that is his actual name in my cell phone--it barely fits), who turned 30-something this week--I'm glad y'all were born to keep me company at great shows filled with awful people. <3>

The Presets: sound only, no vid