Ayn Rand: looking for love in all the wrong places.
While I compile my blog post of Obligatory Thanks for this week of glorious food gluttony--and head down South to get the monster--devour these links (and a possible rant), for which I am truly thankful:
America has finally to come to its' legal senses. We can protect ourselves and still be a dick without the torture or totalitarianism, no?
K-Lo has given me newer, fresher insights into why I fucking hate her. Besides the underhanded misquoting and evangelical retardation, I'm sure she's a perfectly nice, normal, religious, fearmongering twat who bemuses herself by pushing palatable lies onto the base of our lesser-known countrymen. I'm sure you know what it means when people describe "the base" in our country, right? "The base" are often the toofless, uneducated Okies who believed in Sarah Palin, and hope to solve all of our world problems by 'shooting the shit out of everyone.' Granted, the giant wooden cross they're carrying can't help mobility, but I assure you--they've been carrying that bullshit around for years. It's easy for them to hide behind something that big, ESPECIALLY with Jesus strapped to it; he had to have weighed at least a buck-fifty.
I'm so frustrated lately, with people being so awful to one another, and saying things like "gays are the oppressors!", and, "next time the violent backlash may be in response to a brave Catholic bishop teaching responsibility at the voting booth". I'm sorry, where does it say that a priest can influence my vote--like VOTING IN A STATE FOR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS--in any professional way, shape or form? A CHURCH, I might add, that pays no taxes because it stays out of politics.Well ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, HA. I think churches should cease being tax-exempt the minute they break that law, which many 'brave Catholic bishops' did, and millions of other 'brave Mormon nobodies' supported when they publicly took a side in their churches and temples--a side that wrote discrimination INTO their Constitution... usually we try and take discrimination OUT. It's also disheartening that I'm related to a bunch of Mormons who voted for this measure, but I know it's because they follow whatever the church says without garnering an opinion of their own; they're like the perfect Mormons, with the lobotomies and the deaf/dumb/blind faith and the breeding. They don't have opinions; having an opinion of your own, in a religion like that, is pretty dangerous; once the people start thinking, they might start questioning, and who knows where that might lead. To more hate mail for me, I imagine.
By all means, STOP thinking about how your church is molding you into hateful-grateful warriors for JC, and START thinking about how much you hate ME. Your hate mail fuels some of my best writing, if you want to know the truth. *GRIN* And for that I am thankful.
Not thankful that bigotry > change or progress, but I still have hope. It can't last forever, something I imagine black people or Jews or interracial couples or Catholics or Protestants or women saying in the past 50 years; as history has shown us, this too shall pass.
Bush falls off the wagon. But then the article says "he's been drinking non-alcoholic beer for years", and everyone in recovery knows that all non-alcoholic beers have .5% alcohol in it; that's why they tell you in rehab it's a no-no. I know .5% isn't a lot, but it's also not completely 'non-alcoholic'.
Mark Steyn had an interesting take on Mumbai. I'm not a big fan of his (like, AT ALL), but I've been suckered into reading him lately, solely based on these three quotes:
Mark Steyn on Mark Steyn: "...a one-man global content provider."
James Wolcott of Vanity Fair says he asks himself, "how can one man be so wrong" when he reads "the latest dimestore prophesy from neocon jester Mark Steyn, whose occult powers of clairvoyance never fail to fail him."
Johann Hariwrote inThe New Statesman: "Steyn's prose has a jangling musicality; like Ann Coulter, he writes in a demonic demotic that makes you chuckle even as you retch."
I can only hope that someone might describe me in that way someday, someone besides the Esq or a family member. "Demonic demotic", indeed.
mattqatsi, East Dundee, Illinois If I Could "Do Lunch" With Anyone: Ronald Reagan and Newt Gingrich... do I really have to explain?
Lewis, London, UK I loveintelligent, sassy girls, particularly those working in consulting or investment banking (but other fields are great too). Really, nothing is hotter than an accomplished girl in a suit, as long as she is willing to settle down and have my children. I want a girl who will support my ambitions against the naysayers in society.
Rob, Stanford, California I never “hook-up” randomly, I never kiss a girl that doesn’t deserve mine. I have yet to find a girl deserving of my falling in love with her. But “other people” are secondary values no matter what, so finding someone is not a priority for me.
HOT. If I hadn't met the Esq, this would be the platform--nay, the vehicle--in which I would find my heart's true desire. As long as my heart's desires include giving birth, investment banking, Newt Gingrich, Ronald Reagan, and deserving the love of a yammering self-interested neophyte who probably sucks in bed.Now there's a future I can believe in.
[RADWORDS]: AYN RAND, ANDREW SULLIVAN, MARK STEYN, RONALD REAGAN, JESUS.
I kind of love and hate the word 'skullfucker'; it's the word 'motherfucker' dressed up Goth for Halloween, a typical shock-jock phrase--a word so unsanitary, Howard Stern would make slow, sweet love to it. I imagine Quentin Tarantino lisping it out in yet another terrible attempt at 'acting', spitting his way through the first S, and steamrolling his way on down to the over-pronounced -er. But it's also a powerful word: a brilliant marriage of the creepy, the inappropriate, and the very specific. It's in that category of words you will never say in front of your parents, no matter how cool they are--and would you really want to have a conversation with your folks where that word even needed to appear? Even so, I've never used it in conversation or in my writing--my balls aren't that big, and I've never really needed it. Until today. Because that is what Chef Emily did to me: she totally skull-fucked me with her food. SHE SKULL-FUCKED US ALL.
Chef Em works for one of my favorite local food monopolies, Chow Foods, as Head Bizzle at their popular Capitol Hill location, Coastal Kitchen. The Griz and I went there last week for brunch, and their new seasonal menu features delectable foodstuffs from Brittany, France--MEANING CHEESE, PEOPLE. I am often confounded by the friends that walk around the planet like semi-normal people, but who actually possess superhuman abilities which rock my entire life. Emily is one of those people, with her talented chef-ing skills; they are good friends to have, in lieu of having good abilities. Sunken apple/rum/cinnamon/sugar cupcakes were my tiny contribution, and I heard they were good; Martha Stewart's robotic tears were violently obtained for the recipe, so I should certainly hope so.
Back to my fucking skull. Whoreleen and Chef Em, who have been trouble friends for years, decided to throw a Thanksgiving party for their food-loving peeps. I imagine they approached the whole evening like this: "Hey Em, we should throw a party where you MIND-HUMP EVERYONE and give them FOOD ORGASMS and make them DIE FROM HAPPINESS!" Emily's cheerful response would have been: "AND BACON!"
Look, there's no way in Hell I can ever explain this dinner to you. I can tell you there was a rich and creamy butternut squash soup that was so heavy, I had to raise an army from the dead to assist my spoon in besting its' surface--and the spoon prevailed, but just barely. Into that buttery goodness went the home-toasted pine nuts tossed in unknown spices and herbs, as well as crispy, salted sage leaves that melted in my mouth. I can also paint a picture of the roasted Brussels sprouts, loaded with onions and spicy hot bacon and the purest crack cocaine; Chef Em always uses the organic crack, the happy, grass-fed kind that thrives on free-range freebasing farms in the country. There was also roasted chicken, and bread made out of Jesus Christ himself (chewy!), and scalloped potatoes made with Manchego, an amazing Spanish cheese; also inhaled was my all-time favorite European butter, which comes in a tiny wooden basket--the kind of butter you find at Whole Foods in the I OWN A YACHT section (it's right next to the '100% Organic, 39% of the Time' product line). See, these words look good on paper, and the dinner sounds nice, but there's no way they can ever live up to the actual food. If you haven't done any drugs in your entire life--and for what reason, I could never imagine, perhaps you are trapped in a nunnery with no windows or people or any way out--then go out and do some celebrity-endorsed heroin NOW. You want quality celebs, though: River Phoenix=good, Ryan Seacrest=gay. That experience barely compares to the food Chef Em created. IT WAS BETTER THAN YOUR FIRST TIME WITH HEROIN. (I'm embroidering that on a pillow right now.) Our food was wrapped with invisible strands ofHEAVEN, and then baked in a sauce called RIGHTEOUSNESS--and just as I'd imagined in my loveliest dreams: Heaven tasted like bacon.
I once heard the phrase 'horses eating horses', and never thought I'd find a mightier phrase to rival it, but 'Emily skull-fucked me with her food' has a certain appeal, a je ne sais quois that's quite unexplainable. As a word, it's at once intimate, fun, fucked-up, and weird--just like any typical holiday with the fam. I'm thankful to be a part of the Blue House Family, the nicest group of misfits I know.
If any of you Seattlites want to get brain-laid by the little lady, check out the Coastal Kitchen on Capitol Hill. Chef Em's the name and bacon's her game. She and Whoreleen are the the nitwits to my shiz.
One of my best friends sent me the link a while back with a warning; I don't remember her exact words, but I interpreted the warning as: YOU HAVE TO READ THIS SHIT, I'VE BEEN BAWLING FOR HOURS, YOU'LL LOVE IT. It's the same kind of unspoken warning I give the Esq when I taste a new dish, make that my-mouth-tastes-like-butthole expression, and then hold it out for him to try. A little corroboration never hurt anyone, although I like to call it 'equality'. I ended up reading the About section and one post, and decided I wasn't ready for it. But today I was--and yeah, I cried. I really envy the author's turn of phrase, and marvel at the way she makes her grief look worn--beautiful--handmade--and timeless. It's an interesting process, what she's going through, although it's something I hope to never face: losing a wee one. But you can tell it's good for her, and as a blog, it's really wonderful; the writing is weighty, while also being weightless. It's heartbreaking, in just the right way.
WHAT THE EFF. This was innocently hung on the wall behind me at O'Houlie's, which was a fun/frightening karaoke bar we went to last Friday night. One of the local yokels stared me down while I was taking the photo, as though I was offending her bad taste in white trash hybrid cocktails; she looked like a 'Chelada' fan, basically. She was probably drinking it while giving me the evil eye, although she didn't keel over from the taste, so maybe not.
If you're looking for 'classy', look no further, my friends; your dream drink just arrived. Because when I think of making a nice, mixed beverage--an alcoholic one, mind you--I immediately think of CLAMATO JUICE. The intoxicating rush of clams and tomatoes in a can, together at last. But wait! Don't forget to add the refreshing taste of BUD LIGHT: aromatic, low-caloried, and loaded with frothy, pee-tasting goodness--the perfect accoutrement to any can of clam juice. Put them together, give 'em a sassy name that reminds you of a Gloria Estefan song, and they will be unstoppable.
In the past America's image has been one of influence and power, but now I'm hearing how wasteful we are, how obese everyone is, and how our lives are ruled by excess. My wasteful, overweight self would loudly disagree if we weren't two stretchpant sizes away from Thanksgiving Day, the most excessively excessive holiday of the year. Case in point: we will be attending six--count 'em, SIX--Thanksgiving feasts this year. Wasteful? Sort of. Excessive? Maybe. But I couldn't be fatter happier. Thanksgiving used to be about family, food, and football--I've never been a big fan of the official National Thanksgiving Proclamation (with its conveniently blurry lines between religion and government), or that "first" Thanksgiving, which I imagine as more of an uncomfortable separate-but-equal foodfest--but now it's all about consumption. A warm hello to my family and a fuck-you to football; what's most important is donning your best eating outfit and making a personal commitment to the turkey--which was, incidentally, the approach I took to my failed marriage. If you don't, no one will take you seriously, especially the fowl you're consuming. I love Thanksgiving Dinner, LOVE. IT. And this year I'll be loving it six times (that's what she said). That's how you win.
Dinner #1: was lovely last week when Bryn, partner of Manthony, outdid himself with a turkey soaked in brine for two whole days. He was doing a dress rehearsal for The Big Day, because serious chefs do that, apparently. His acorn-shaped cornbread muffins are going to be adorable; I have that weird gene that afflicts a lot of women: I'm into "something-shaped things", like lamp-shaped cookie cutters or flaccid penis-shaped cupcakes. What, don't you make those for the holidays?
Dinner #2: commences this evening in our apartment building; this, too, is a dress rehearsal. Hellboy and Indiana are roasting chickens that have been soaking in brine--I guess it's a cook-off. Dueling cocks and whatnot. We are bringing the Stove Top stuffing (a necessity), some asparagus, and dessert if I have time. I'm very excited for Thanksgiving V.2!
Dinner #3: is tomorrow evening with Whoreleen's gang of saucy misfits. Chef Em will most likely be cheffin' it up, but we are bringing sexy back in the form of dessert. I'm a baking mofo!
Dinner #4: is For Real Thanksgiving on Actual Thanksgiving Day. We're heading down to Portland with the Esq's family to hang out with his aunt and uncle; I'm looking forward to seeing their house, because the last time I saw it was in a magazine. A nice one. Also somewhat jumpy and impatient for the food his aunt will be serving up, which they all claim will kill me with joy. If I have to die, may the coroner's report reflect I died happily from 'food joy'. I could handle that.
Dinner #5: takes place up North on Saturday, where our friends are having a Thanksgiving Leftovers party--I'm a sucker for leftovers, too, because there's never a good time to stop eating and start exercising. Also excited to see Erin, who I haven't seen in forevah; talking shit catching up should be fun.
Dinner #6: is kind of cheating, but Thanksgiving-ish brunch will be had with my family on Sunday at the B&O Espresso. My mom is running the half-marathon that day, and her birthday is this week, so celebrations abound! I doubt I'll have turkey there, though--I'm really more fond of their white chocolate cake. And their chocolate pots. And the Valencia. I can't believe I have to wait a whole week until we go there. Life is hard.
EXCESS. Surely part of that definition has to include making Thanksgiving dinner two or three times before the actual event, in the pursuit of turkey perfection. But I'm not complaining! On the contrary. I think everyone should do a dress rehearsal--KILL MORE TURKEYS, that's my motto. Well, me and Sarah Palin--it's really our motto.
[RADWORDS]: TURKEY, STUFFING, WHITE CHOCOLATE, SARAH PALIN, DUELING COCKS.
A moose and a narwhal humping a crown, an igloo, and the newest part of Canada: Nunavut. This is their official Coat of Arms.
As requested by the Esq's auntie, the 'narwhals' blog will start in 3...2...1....
Most people think that narwhals are imaginary, but I'm here to tell you they are very weird and very real. The Esq has some type of freaky kinship with these monster cetaceans, which is highly annoying to this narwhal-fearing blogger. I'm very conservative when it comes to my sea creatures; the only ones I approve of come from Greek mythology (Argus is my favorite), the bare-breasted Starbucks mermaid, and the Kraken. The Kraken totally rocks.
When I was but a wee lass, we used to spend summers at our beach cabin on the Oregon Coast; it's still there, actually, although I don't get down there as often. I loved the kite-flying competitions, our bonfires on the beach, clam chowder outings, trips to the salt water taffy store, sleeping in sandy bunkbeds with my buddies, and whale-watching. What I liked was how carefree everything felt, and how limitless our daily fun could be; what I liked about whale-watching was the terror.
Whales are FRIGHTENING. They're like 900 feet long, weigh a billion pounds, and sing whale songs that please both Native Americans and affluent white hippies alike. From far away, whales are a graceful silhouette against the setting sun, a magical spray of water in the moonlight. Up close, though, the size of a whale is intimidating, especially when it's breaching twenty feet away from the unstable dinghy you paid real money to be a hostage in. People forget that whales are BAD ASS--do you know how much power it must take for a whale to breach? It takes me actual effort to go from sitting to standing, so I can only imagine the energy involved in getting a 150-ton mammal to leap out of the ocean, without pushing off of something (like another whale: whale leapfrog). Whales are also pretty hardcore, hosting thousands of barnacle colonies for life, and swimming so fast that biologists must use aircrafts to track them, because they're too fast for boats. Any time I've been whale-watching, it's cold and drizzly and anxious and thrilling; being just feet from an enormous breaching beast can really take your breath away.
Now imagine a whale like this meeting a third-world country unicorn in a seedy underwater bar; they do one too many whiskey shots and Baby Makes Three. That unwanted baby is a narwhal.
A narwhal looks like a Beluga whale with an unbelievably long unicorn horn. Narwhals are generally 13ft-16ft long, and the 'corn horn can get up to 10 feet in length; the coolest part about the horn is that it's a helix. And I guess to be fair, it's not really a horn, but a long incisor--it's a ruddy-looking toof! a jacked-up grill!--and as the Esq pointed out, the narwhal is like the Lil' Jon of the sea. He loves the narwhal because it's majestic and weird and unicorn-ish and ugly, which are the exact reasons I oppose its' existence. For those in the back who couldn't hear, the word 'majestic' should only be used for these three things: royalty, purple mountains, and the Disney film, Fantasia. Narwhals are an awkward underwater abomination, although I'm warming up to their weirdness--kind of like I have with David Lynch movies and people who wear really white shoes. They certainly are original, and give me hope for having children of my own someday--ones that have big unicorn horns sticking out of their foreheads. I was disappointed my own son didn't think to grow one in utero, but what can you do? Kids never listen.
Out of the seven people I talked with about this topic, six of them thought the narwhal was a mythical creature. Out of those six, four of them still thought I was pulling their leg even after I directed them to the Narwhal Wikipedia page. Out of those four, two of them still think I'm a big fat liar; out of those two, only one of them reads my blog. So to that one person out there: NEENER FUCKING NEENER. Just like David Blaine, the narwhal's magic is real and I believe in it. For more proof, check here.
[RADWORDS]: NARWHALS, WHALES, KIDS, UNICORNS, DAVID BLAINE.
Dickipedia: an encyclopedia of people in the world who suck. One of my favorites: Elizabitch Hasselbeck, the cheerfully ignorant, Republican host from that brainless, cacophonous squawkfest called The View. The only thing worse than a total douchebag is a dim-witted, conservative douchebag on an international platform, in which they have opinions AND SPEAK OUT LOUD.
To see which dicks made the list, check out Dickepedia.org's main page; if you're anything like me, you'll be horrified and delighted. Enjoy!
The Esq's birthday bash was GREAT SUCCESS, as Borat might say.
The New Depression: A Birthday Party was 1930's-themed and straight-up awesome. We fit forty costumed people into our 1-bedroom apartment, moving and breathing be damned. This after walking what felt like 4,000 miles against Proposition 8, which was a total blast. "What do we want?!" EQUAL RIGHTS! "When do want 'em?!" NOW! Or, yesterday would have been fine, and tomorrow works well for me, too. Marching in protest and throwing a party on the same day is challenging, but only if you're NOT ME. I haven't slept very well in a week, I'm irritable, and I'm about to knife the Esq in his face--but I'm trying to focus on the positive: the next party we're having isn't for another six months. That should be plenty of time for us to recover from this one.
Hosting a party is like being a bride at your wedding reception, minus the drunken uncles and lifelong commitment: no time to eat, drink, talk to people, or enjoy yourself--but looking back, you realize it was a really wonderful evening. I'm a Bridezilla Host when I start getting overwhelmed, which always happens; I'm either a Procrastinator, or nursing an unhealthy addiction to Laziness, which is really just Procrastination's overweight stepsister. Thanks to the Esq's sister, who is neither a step-sibling or overweight, for her indispensable help before the party (and taking one for the team, ahem).
I was so impressed by the costumes people wore to our party; out of the 40 people who attended, 32 dressed to impress. We employed the ol' record player, given to me many moons ago by this dude, and played a medley of jazz, classical, electronic, and Justin Timberlake (as requested by Monica over at the Big Blog). I'm sure JT would have been very popular back in the day, although it's probably the only time that he would have ever claimed being Caucasian. Thank you to everyone who came to the soiree--it was super fun! Photos can be seen on the Photo Blog.
I interviewed for a job last night, and have come to this conclusion: if future employment is based solely on my skills as an interviewee, I will be doing this shit for the next 20 years. The moment has come where I need to switch gears and get serious about the process: it's time to start buying Lottery tickets in bulk.
I attended the ballet last Thursday (YES I'M STILL BREATHING) and it was phenomenal. I don't use that word lightly--phenomenal things in my life include 'the strange concept of Heaven', 'bacon-wrapped shrimp', and 'the ever-elusive G-spot'--so believe me when I say, the ballet was phenomenally bad.
Just one part, though--the rest of it was pretty interesting... but since the word 'interesting' is like a shot of seriously-underwhelming espresso (*waves at Starbucks*), we're going to focus on the bad parts. The PHENOMENALLY BAD parts. Observe 22 seconds of One Flat Thing, reproduced:
After that intro, this is what followed:
Screaming monkeys entered the stage, beneath catapulting cats and airborne ballerinas; slap-happy pre-teens got hormonal, screeching and flailing with unused energy and angst, while the underage Russian contortionists silently contorted upon white plastic tables. Cheerleaders hopped up on mescaline cheered with frenetic confusion, while the drag queens dragged and got dramatic; zombies lay underneath the tables, and the over-sized gorillas made an arm-swinging scene. B-Boys hip-hopped on sharp desk corners, while meandering hippies wandered in and out of consciousness. People disappeared, re-appeared, jumped on tables, and flung each other into the heavens--it was like an unrehearsed, questionably- choreographed junior high school classroom: total chaos. Luckily, it was set to "music" that can only be described as The Soundtrack Of The Universe: it was like constant white noise on the Starship Enterprise. Every screechy, feedback-loving 'note' made me consider, in all seriousness, investing in a can of gasoline and one small match with a very big purpose. I imagine the choreographer being a bit like Helen Keller, which makes the whole thing unfortunate.
Basically, it was twenty minutes of performance art gone retarded; how is it considered 'the ballet' if there are no toe shoes, no fancy costuming, and no accompanying symphony? Watching classically-trained ballerinas, in hoodies and cargo pants, slapping desks and acting like one-legged pre-teen primates--complete with a 'RECESS!' shout-out in the middle--is not my idea of a fine art performance. It sounds more like being stuck in a daycare without air or windows, which is not an appropriate feeling when your tickets are over a hundred bucks each. To me, the ballet needs to be slightly boring in order to fulfill its destiny; if it was a hootenanny hoedown, every man, woman and child would head to the ballet, and that simply cannot happen.
'One Flat Thing, reproduced' was certainly compelling, though, and the Pacific Northwest Ballet made a gutsy move by unveiling it again. When people walked out of this performance in March--like, IN THE MIDDLE OF IT--the PNB had two choices: 1) scratch it for a better piece of work, or 2) claim insanity, and perform it again. They went with insanity and decided to reproduce, which--for a lot of crazy people--is never a good idea. Especially if you're the Helen Keller of the modern dance world.
All of my blogs have been updated.
[RADWORDS]: HELEN KELLER, BALLET, STARBUCKS, HOOTENANNY, CATAPULTING CATS.
I have much to say--about everything, really--but have no motivation to write after going to the Grey Gallery for a blogger meet-n-greet/fundraiser (called Blogsgiving!), and then The Elysian for a late-night dinner. For someone who has no money, no motivation, and very little will to live, I sure am living it up.
The ballet blog and the Esq's birthday blog are on their way... I just need a full 6-8 hours of sleep (for once in my life) before attempting to finish them. They are my DOOM. Until then, feast your eyes upon my new favorite (horrific! hideous! entertaining! educational!) blog, written by devout Mormon women for other devout Mormon women; the link here will take you to the girl-to-girl honeymoon advice page. No, I'm not kidding. I've spent hours on this site, thanks to Bangs McGee, and feel like I may never need to read another blog, ever again. I may even quit blogging completely, because their blog is like--it's like--it's like meeting Jesus and he offers you a large bag of money, some non-addictive heroin, and an all-strings-attached relationship with Johnny freaking Depp: IT'S THE PERFECT SCENARIO. It's a lot like my other favorite blog, MOM FWDS, which is a site featuring the useless, inappropriate forwards that your mom sends out. The two sites aren't really alike, but they give me the same illusion of joy/'fuck-I-wish-I'd-thought-of-that-first' feeling. You go now. See you bright and noon-ish.
We were so proud to march with our friends! Thanks to the 6000+ people who showed up to support our fellow humans! More photos from the march on the Photo Blog.
The Lykke Li show at Neumo's was fascinating. Lykke Li herself was a dancing enigma; she busted a move like I've never seen. Within the space of twenty seconds, she: Sang. Marched. Jazzercised. Spirit-fingered. Raved. Spun. Mick Jaggered. Tina Turnered. Celine Dioned. Playboy Bunnied. Bette Midlered. Catwalked. Woodstocked. Marvin Gayed. Booty-danced. Stripped. Hair-whipped. Hopped. Lambasted the cymbals. Pretend-fainted. Played the kazoo with actual feeling. Harmonized. Shook her tambourine. Kept her hips in perpetual grinding motion. Screamed into the heavens. And I'm not kidding when I say: this is just the stuff I remember. She was a small Swedish blond with a big personality, to say the very least. Watch her make the kazoo look almost SEXY, here:
Fujiya & Miyagi are a band that came out of nowhere, which isn't actually true because I think they came from England. However, they were relatively new to me, and I was really blown away by their live performance. The stuff we downloaded from them was lacking in luster, but their show was full and energetic; it's hard to tell what an 'electronic British indie band' is going to sound like live. The only thing I didn't vibe with was the crowd of drunken hipsters; man, I hate people at shows, although that might be directly related to how I hate people in general. Fortunately, the show was worth it.
The ballet I attended last night needs a post of its own; if I start writing it now, I might be done by Christmas. I have A LOT to say about the ballet. A. LOT.
I got an email from an anonymous shithead reader that said, 'God still loves you, even though you support killing innocent babies and gays getting unlawfully married.' FUCK, DUDE. Are you and Him, like, BFFs? Did you guys have a rad sleepover where you stayed up past midnight in your jammies? And you were all EWW SN0TTY EWW and He was like I KNOW RIGHT and then He braided your hair and washed your feet and wept? And then you guys built a structurally-unsound blanket fort and told each other secrets inside of it? And God happened to casually mention that He really does love me, despite the fact that I'm pro-choice and a staunch supporter of equal rights. He actually told you that, to your face. Like I said before: FUCK, DUDE.
And guess what? It's not unlawful for gays to get married, not in every state. Two down, 48 to go.
Great comment posted on the L.A. Times blog: "Congrats to CT! Fortunately there is no initiative process there and apparently no appetite for amending the constitution either. It is rather ironic that the Knights of Columbus are based in New Haven; they pumped tons of money into the Yes On 8 side and now they have same-sex marriage in their backyard! How fitting!"
New favorite blog: RAD DUDES, and their URL is as funny as the blog itself: www.radduderadkidradlady.blogspot.com. A hysterical good time; thanks to Bangs McGee's betrothed (Mr. McGee!) for Tweeting it. Apparently the folks over at punditkitchen.com were, and I quote, "roflcopter"-ing about it. Another great website, by the way--definitely check it out.
I have more hate mail to sift through, and then I'm heading to the ballet. Maybe I'll do a three-way review (THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID) with the Lykke Li show, the Fujiya & Miyagi show, and the freaking ballet. I'm down with classical stuff--symphony, opera, Honey Bear bong technology--and I appreciate the ballet; but the ballet seems to be a place for small, quiet people, which isn't exactly optimal for this loudmouth heffer. And 'twas ever thus.
Above: Homosexuals are possessed by these three demons: justice, equality, and Celine Dion.
Because of my anti-religion/pro-reality point of view, I get a lot of hate mail; 'a lot' can be defined as 2-10 unpublished comments per day that are immediately deleted, and around 2-10 emails per week that are put into a folder labeled 'Bible-Humping Asshats'. The phrase hate mail should be taken with a silo of salt, though; most of it isn't directed at me. It's directed at ALL the Godless people of this nation who are the downfall of our society. Which usually means the gays.
Do you know what gay people have done? They've ruined marriage for eternity. We can no longer exclusively think that marriage is something special between a Christian man and a Christian woman, and it's all thanks to the gays. It's THE GAYS who have ruined our society, wanting the same rights as everyone else, hoping to be recognized as equals on the normally Judeo-Christian marriage stage; it's THE GAYS who have lived like a second-rate group of people, hoping to legalize their gay emotions and consolidate their gay taxes, just like everybody else; and it's THE GAYS who are giving ' traditional marriage' a bad name--no no, it's not the thousands of straight people getting divorced every year in the United States, but the gays. See how they're tearing at the fabric of our righteously-moral society? See how they want more than they deserve? Watch them behave like actual humans!--how silly they want to be treated as such. Feast your eyes upon God's abominations, because they. are. everywhere: within this country, outside of this country, and in your own backyard. It reminds me of another set of people who were unfairly treated in this country--quite recently, in fact. You know who you are, savagesblack people. And look what happened to them: now they're running the country. Moral of the story: give gays the rights they deserve, or they'll be your next President.
A giant, middle finger-waving shout-out goes to all the black people who voted FOR Proposition 8; thanks for becoming the new 'Man'. The rest of its' supporters were just your normal, run-of-the-mill religious zealots who live in fear of change--but I say change is coming whether they like it or not. I don't care what your churches say and I could care less about what God wants for my perfectly nice gay neighbor, or even what He wants for the ones I can't stand (the severe ones who live only for the gym and an orange tan, and the ones who believe in vagina dentata). God didn't call you personally on the phone and preach, "Vote Yes on Proposition 8"; your priests and ministers did that, creating a separation of church and state clusterfuck. Oh, don't you remember? Those two things used to be separate, and should always stay separate, even if you don't like the thought of Billy and Bobby wearing white on their wedding day.
Although 'God' is an undefined, abstract idea in my mostly-atheistic world, I'd like to think He wouldn't care if two dudes wanted to turn that ball-and-chain gag into an Official Ball-and-Chain gag. I had hoped it was God's job to explain how 'separate but equal' actually means NOT VERY EQUAL AT ALL, but it's my job now. If I had to wager a guess, I'm betting the H8-supporters might throw their giant, unread Bibles my way and say SEEEEEE, IT SAYS SO RIGHT HERE. I'm sorry, what does it say? How many different translations of "love your neighbor" can there be? Because my Bible says it wasn't written by God at all (not even sanctioned by Him), just a bunch of his overtly-male minions who were made conveniently richer and more powerful through their harrowing tales of fucked-up zombie folklore, and who kept the villagers in line with a religion based in fear. Kind of like the churches of today. Sound familiar? I'm talking to you, Kansas.
Not very long ago, people of different religions weren't 'allowed' to date--and black people weren't allowed to marry, because slaves didn't have the right--and interracial relationships were considered taboo. We got over those things in time, at least in certain parts of this country; so why is this any different?
Religion, that's why. That's the only reason I can think of that a person of color--like the large percentage of African/Latino/Asian-Americans who voted to support Proposition 8--would blindly vote for something that turns them into the hater, instead of the hatee. I used to think that churches were there for the needy, the sick, and the truly downtrodden--and they generally are--but they've taken off their masks of spirituality to reveal their true faces: self-interested businesses with conservative agendas who do good for some people, and unnecessarily hurt those who aren't molded into the same Christian stereotype. What kind of God is so petty that He separates Americans from Americans, and what type of personworships that kind of God? America has been homogenized for long enough, people--I'm tired of living in a Pringles can where everyone is the same. The best part about America is the part where we are free--so how can we advertise 'freedom' when only some of us qualify for it?
I don't care if Sally and Susan get married, buy a Prius, purchase a high-performance Asian baby, and name the damn thing Sarah Palin, BECAUSE IT'S NONE OF MY FUCKING BUSINESS. I'm not God (which is more of an unconfirmed rumor, really), and neither are the people/giant tax-free churches who supported Proposition 8, in the pulpit and in the polls. It's insulting to say, "I certainly believe that gays have a right to health insurance and hospital visitation rights", because everyone deserves the right to health insurance and to visit their loved ones. What you're really saying is: they get rights, just not equal human rights; what you're really doing is being willfully negligent of your fellow Americans; what you're supporting is severe prejudice, which is encouraged by your barely-tolerant, highly-judgmental houses of worship. Yeah, religion sounds SWEET and INCLUSIVE. If you supported this legislation in any way, you have personally moved this country backwards, at a time when our future is most important. Who your doctor or barista is married to has nothing to do with you, me, or the American Way. That is why we're marching this Saturday, and why I hope you will, too.
Comment of the Day: "As usual, Bryn has the smarter and more rational solution. The government needs to stop issuing marriage licenses altogether since "marriage" is more of a religious-based institution. Instead, EVERYONE should just get civil unions with the same rights and people who want to be "married" do that within the constraints of their faith/beliefs." -Manthony
While volunteering at my favorite space travel supply company this evening, I met a Mr. Christopher Frizzelle, who you probably won't recognize from Seattle Notables. For those of you new to the scene, Seattle Notables 'celebrates notability in Seattle', which to some (like this writer) looks like not-ability. I think we can all agree that Mr. Frizzelle's not-abilities far outweigh his actual abilities, as evidenced by his editorial job over at Thank God It's Not the Weekly, or in other words, The Stranger. I joke, of course. Meeting him tonight was a small, cheap thrill--a real Seattle Notable! (again, joking)--in part because of his undeniable frickability (my girlfriends would say "yummy!", while I would go NOM NOM), and also because he reminded me of two important things:
1. I like unicorns and snacks, and someday hope to make those two magical things one tasty reality. He was magical, in a way, and tasty in others. If Christopher Frizzelle was a snack, he'd be a really white, really nice, intellectual treat. I, however, would be a messy, chocolate, misshapen thing that melts right away and wastes your money, which is really more an accurate description of my current personality.
2. I've re-committed myself to a possible future threesome with Lindy West and Sarah Vowell. No, I don't know these women. But now that I'm completely without goals and lacking direction, a threesome with these two writing heroes/total strangers/probable heterosexuals has taken full priority. YES WE CAN. (Well, not in California.)
(Sidenote: he was also quite nice, for an editor.)
I hope you'll join us this weekend in what seems like a pointless, downhill march against inequality in another state that I don't even like, but is actually a march for the equality of people everywhere. I say, allow the gays every right to feel as miserable as I did after my divorce--it's only fair. Gay people are the new blacks! Emancipate, bitches!
[RADWORDS]: CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE, LINDY WEST, SARAH VOWELL, THE STRANGER, 826SEATTLE
I'm getting really sick of these huge businesses asking for handouts when they don't really deserve one; I fail to see why General Motors deserves to be bailed out of a financial crisis that was completely foreseeable. Sorry you idiots thought SUV's were the wave of the future! Sorry you felt that focusing on blind-spot side-mirror technology was more important than researching environmentally-friendly solutions to our nation's rising gas prices! Sorry you had the chance to buy into those solutions in 1996 and killed the electric car instead! All this proves is that they were willfully ignorant of what the consumer really needed, even when the writing was on the wall--but it also proves they knew this day might come. GM and Ford have been protecting themselves under our current administration, since the current administration prefers hydrogen and petrol in lieu of more efficient solutions, like hybrid electric technology. I hardly think they should be rewarded for their narrow-minded thinking, or get bailed out because no one wants an overpriced, gas-guzzling SUV anymore, unless they've given birth to more than four children.
For the car companies to say "It's not fair" is the most unfair thing of all; that's how Capitalism works, assholes, or if you want to call it something else: NATURAL SELECTION. If you can't keep up with technology today, if you don't have the foresight to hire people who will plan for the future, if you think you deserve a handout after failing miserably, then you are smoking crack. Why should the government bail out huge businesses that FAILED? They're a big part of our economic problems right now--they don't need handouts, they need a giant dose of reality. Bailing them out doesn't sound like democracy, it sounds like a high school teacher playing favorites to a 6th-year senior who has no interest in graduating. I understand that people work for these companies, and it's not their fault they picked a lemon; but even if GM gets the bailout they think they deserve, it's only putting off the inevitable: those workers are going to have to pay for that bailout in their taxes, and in their future layoffs. They can start taking advantage of the worker re-training programs now or later--it's easier said than done, but if the future is changing, we must change with it. Either that or get left behind holding onto an ideal that cannot be sustained, ie; Socialism.
"We can't let American capitalism, the engine of our growth and the growth of economies around the world, be corrupted into a hybrid form of socialism. We can't allow companies to reap all the benefits of profit without taking the lumps that come with failure--capitalism for the gains, but socialism for the losses. Sometimes businesses, even really big ones, need to go out of business to allow for renewable and sustainable business growth."
This week I said, for the first time in my life, "I am proud to be an American." That doesn't mean I haven't been an American, or don't appreciate our great nation, only that I didn't connect with this country in any visceral way. It was just the country we happened to live in, a collection of states I'd never been to, a political system that seemed severely flawed. I'd never been politically-minded, because it seemed like politics was for Other People: the rich, the religious, the academic and the truly insane. I am none of those things, and so I never sought to include myself. I never saw myself as someone the government would help or hinder; I felt okay with being a non-entity, a person who would make their way through the world no matter who was in office. I voted little, and when I did, made uninformed choices; I had very little faith in how much much my voice would be heard. I had very little faith in the process, and in the leadership of this country.
In the beginning of the Barack Obama campaign, 'HOPE' was a dirty word; it was a word you only threw around when there was nothing left to cling to. But I gave up hope for America, and the things that I wanted for her, a long time ago, so that word was completely accurate. I thought, 'maybe we can teach English in another country for a year when the GOP wins again--maybe we can check out Mexico, because I've never been--maybe Canada or Timbuktu holds a brighter future for us, because I cannot go through this again'. Thanks to the last eight years with this administration, I thought that to be an American meant to silently struggle, and to never have a say in the outcome. I talked with friends--'rich and poor, young and old, Republican, Democrat, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled'--and most of them were as disinterested in the process as myself. But we weren't disinterested, only disappointed with the direction our country was going in. A lot of people, two of them my downstairs neighbors, implied they weren't interested in voting, and I actually felt the same.
As the campaign went forward, I began to get interested. I didn't understand what 'change' Obama was talking about when it seemed like EVERYTHING IN OUR NATION needed a change. Like everyone else, I questioned his experience, background, and near-celebrity status--but I was still interested. Pretty soon, I had bookmarked The Huffington Post, Politico, NPR, The National Review, The Atlantic, CNN, Newser, Bill O'Reilly, and many others, so I could do political research online. I wanted the left and right opinions, so that I could form an opinion of my own down the middle. I got more involved. Once Obama won the ticket, I wrote in favor of his campaign on my blog; I had never taken a political side before. I got a lot of heat from scared people--each one more religious than the last, which was interesting, and seems par for the course when it comes to uninformed fearmongering--who screamed TERRORIST! MUSLIM! ARAB! SOCIALIST! COMMUNIST! KENYA! BLACK! LIBERAL! INEXPERIENCED! CELEBRITY! But to me, the only negative thing on that list was 'terrorist', which he clearly wasn't, and maybe 'Communist', but that just made me laugh. People really thought that he could be elected and then ALL OF A SUDDEN turn this country into a Communist one? Serious LOL. Obama's so-called inexperience was unimportant to me once Sarah Palin was on the GOP ticket; I listened to a wide-range of hypocrisy over it, but used it to do more research into 'my candidate'. I was patient with the screaming anti-Obama folks, because I know that fear can completely rule your life without even being aware of it; I saw that 'hope' was a luxury those people could not afford, and that it was easier to stay mired in the COUNTRY FIRST mindset. But when I saw the COUNTRY FIRST banners, the message I got was: PEOPLE LAST. I tried convincing my neighbors, my online friends, and my extended family to vote, with very little success--but I was still involved. I was trying to be a part of the process, for the first time ever.
I wore a pin supporting Obama, which was unusual for me, but I wanted to be a part of the larger discussion; people for and against Obama struck up conversations with me, and I had a chance to get many different viewpoints. I met like-minded people, and we did what we could for the campaign: researching the truth, joining MoveOn.org, getting people registered in their counties, trying to convince our hopeless friends to vote. I felt like I was included, finally, in this thing called America; I had a voice. Not that America had been specifically excluding me, but I finally understood what it meant to stand behind a candidate. We were fighting the fabled 'good fight'.
On Election Day, I stayed away from the internet, and we don't have a working TV, so I didn't have to turn that on, either. I didn't talk to very many people, and I couldn't sit still long enough to blog. I knew my life was going to be changed, for better or worse, and I just wanted to be quiet. Self-reflection is one of the cornerstones of moving forward, and I knew, whether Obama won or not, I wanted to move forward in my life. The 'hope' this campaign has given me lies more in how I feel personally, and less how I feel politically: I just want to be a better person. And thanks to this campaign--one that I felt was run with integrity--I feel that working to better our country did and will enable me to better myself. I don't just mean professionally or financially, but in my family, relationships, and community--everywhere. What better way to lead by example to my 10-year old son than by getting involved and making a difference? I know that's such a canned answer, but Miss America would be proud.
Like many people, I have wept all week long, unable to believe that Barack Obama is our new President-elect; I'm doing it right now, in fact. I cried because 'hope' and 'change' weren't just annoying buzzwords; because his speech moved me in ways I've never been moved before; because people around the world are going to like us again; because I'm finally a part of the majority. I cried from relief that we're doing something new and different in this country; for my child's future, and for my own; and knowing my two neighbors went out this year and actually voted. I was so proud of them, and proud of us as a nation. I feel that more than just one narrow group of people are finally being represented, and that the things I want for America are more a possibility today than they were one week ago. I was reminded why it's so great to be a human with choices, and why this country is filled with potential; my cynicism, long since cultivated and stoked and cherished, fell away like a mask I'd been wearing for years. When I re-read Obama's speech today, I cried the way I did when my son was born--which makes perfect sense, because I think our country has a chance at a new beginning. Snotty McSnotterson is proud to be an asshole, but Marika Malaea Burkhart is proud to be an American.
It's funny how old friends, former lovers, and past hurts can rise up from the dead and attack you--and by 'funny', I really mean RED ALERT RED ALERT ABORT MISSION IMMEDIATELY. Congratulations, Facebook, for amassing the largest collection of people I've been avoiding in the history of the online world, but who have apparently been looking for me. Everyone from my small town high school? CHECK. Every person I regret having slept with? CHECK. Unrequited love? Every one of 'em. The one that got away? Oh. *sigh*Him.
"He" is a Facebook friend who's incredibly nice, blissfully married, and far, far away. I never check his profile, rarely ever talk about him, and have only messaged him once: to welcome him to Facebook, like a self-promoting social networking tour guide. He didn't respond; I wasn't surprised.
I hate this man, and I love this man. I love him because he only ever showed me true friendship and kindness; I hate this man because my heart was like a pencil and he was like a sharpener, grinding down my heart until it was the size of a cheap-ass church pencil. And you know what those are like: useful only for tallying Yahtzee scores, or maybe stabbing a preemie.
Against my own good judgment, and flanked by the phrases "I'm bored" and "What's the worst that could happen?" I moseyed on over to his Facebook page. Historically, when someone asks, "What's the worst that could happen?", the answer is usually violence, cancer, or rodeo clowns. What I found on his page was closer to 'violent, cancerous rodeo clowns' taking over the world, and forcing us to work in Kathy Lee's sweatshops making blingtastic jeans: he's doing awesome, he seems happy, he's still adorable. Can you believe the goddamn nerve of the guy? What an asshole.
I can't believe it's been over ten years and I still get a twinge of regret when I think of him. I can't believe I went to his stupid Facebook profile, and got nervous just poking around. I can't believe, after all this time, I'm still mooning about like he left two days ago. I'm so happy with the Esq, and love our life together, so I marvel at the power of a past relationship that ultimately went nowhere. When I saw a real photo of him, of how he's barely aged in 12 years, and his smile!--hardly a better one out there besides my sweetie and the monster--I felt twenty years old again: youthful, brazen, electric, alive. I remembered the 20-year old certainty that this man was MINE; I all but peed directly on him when we met, although later on I just peed around him in tight, exclusionary circles. Needless to say, our friendship was an intense, beautiful, heartbreaking experience, and I re-lived every moment tonight thanks to my folly and my Facebook.
How can old wounds feel so fresh? I'm humbled and annoyed by them. Fortunately, I remember why it never would have worked out, the manner of his leaving, and the way I held on to a possible future with him. I stayed in fantasy about this man for a long time because in reality, my life was a piece of shit--sometimes I had only that hope to hold onto. To imagine a future with him was a luxury because I was imagining myself even having a future, something I was unsure of at times. So my connection to him, far after he'd gone, propelled me through the mire of my unhealthy relationships (or as I like to call it, "my twenties"), and for that I am grateful. Luckily, I found a man who is good for me in many ways, and not just an unfinished dream; a man who is good for my 32-year old self and has nothing to do with the past. But with something like Facebook, the past is two clicks away from the present when I log in each day, reminding me of its presence every now and then. Which is why, if 'the past' were in beast or human form, I would take a loaded shotgun with me to Facebook, shoot to kill, carve it up, and serve it for our Thanksgiving dinner. I would include a large portion of get-over-it-already, a huge helping of 'it wasn't meant to be', and a big glass of my current happiness, to remind me of what is most important: staying in the present, remaining grateful, and being thin. I added that last one because, now that Obama is the President-elect, anything is possible.
Since Katerino sent in the first suggestion--albeit an unorthodox one--I will start with her request: her 'virginity, hymens, Brazilian wax designs, and the best penis size for the first time'. Before I begin, though, I'm going to need a Costco-sized bottle of Oxycontin and a priest standing by to perform my last rites. Virginity is tricky. It's like a gift you give to someone you hopefully know, and they in turn suckerpunch that gift over and over until you're finally a woman. As my girlfriend Kim said, "Virginity is uncomfortable and boring." Hear, hear. For some, it sucks being a virgin (say hello, boys); for others, it sucks to give it away (sorry, girls). I have only met one girl in my lifetime who had a great first time, and I'm pretty sure that bitch was lying. My first experience was normal: quick, painful, messy, and confusing. Whilst in the throes of faking an orgasm, I thought, I am going to regret losing my virginity on Star Wars-themed bedsheets; I am never going to live this down.
Hymens: chances are, if you're a virgin, you've got one of these. But personally, I think it's better to break them while horseback riding or a swift kick to the groin--I swear to you that it will probably feel better than the inevitable.
Brazilian waxing is a personal choice that I have optioned out of--if I'm going to walk around with a twelve-year old's hoohah, then I'd prefer to look twelve-years old all over. I understand grooming, trimming, a lightning bolt on his birthday and the occasional bleached A-hole, but 'no grass on the field' means she's going to have balloon animals and a clown at her next birthday party. No thank you.
Best size for first-timers depends on the size of your...uh, birth canal. I know we can push a ten-pound human out of that vast chasm, but men don't appreciate the wonders of science when trying to hack the password to your vagine. 'Hey, guess how many jelly beans I can fit in here? THREE THOUSAND!' just isn't what they want to hear. So for you, Katerino, I would say this: go with the shorter end of the stick for now, at least like the guy (although it's better when you're in love--I sound like my mom, but it's true), and BE SAFE. Believe me when I say, starting out with Andre the Giant isn't going to help matters, hating them makes it even worse, and receiving the Gift of Life (Un-Planned Parenthood) thanks to a three-minute, painful waste of time isn't worth it. BELIEVE ME.
This is in response to an email I received that implied I was a threat to this company.
You know who you are, and I know why you're here; unfortunately, there's nothing I can actually do for you. I stand by most of what I write--sometimes editing is needed after the fact, so I'll dial it back a bit, if need be--but for the most part, I'm telling my truths. And the truth is, I have a real problem with keeping people in legally-vulnerable gray areas, empty promises, blatant dishonesty, treating employees like non-entities, and hiring management with very little interest in self-reflection or self-assessment but a whole lot of interest in placing the blame. I tend to frown upon unethical business practices, expansion in spite of economic realities, inexperienced leadership, and going back on your word to take care of people with integrity; so that's why I have a problem with your business. If you want to understand why people have given up on you, don't look at us: look in a mirror. Who or what is the common denominator here? And who will be there for you if it all falls apart? Not Starbucks.
I'm not sorry for anything I've written, because [enter canned answer here]. I'm just not, and that's the truth. I'm only sorry for allowing myself to be silenced back in February, because I was really trying to say something, and was scared for our future: whatever we were doing, it wasn't working. I saw the writing on the wall: you didn't get it. And then we were surrounded, like hog-tied hostages, by a whole TEAM of people who didn't get it, and who flaunted that ignorance. Which is why we had to go, and why more and more people will have to go: self-preservation. Also, some people--even people without college degrees--have higher professional standards.
Working for this business was, in the beginning, like campaigning night and day for Barack Obama: hard work, tiring, rewarding, and fun. But in the end, it was more like hanging with Sarah Palin, a cutesy, two-faced politician who couldn't understand what the people really needed because she was too blinded by her own corporate ideals and ever-changing personal mission statement to actually walk her own talk. I couldn't wait around for the 'good intentions' I kept hearing about to appear. It really is possible to lose faith in people, and to finally run out of excuses. I'm glad I lost it early.
Honestly, I would like to let go of this year, and this is as good a catalyst as any for an attitude change. But as I said on Facebook, it's hard to let go of resentment towards a former employer when all of their current employees keep calling to complain. It used to be you could go talk to a lead, a manager, an owner--what ever happened to an open door, a willing ear? But now, in order to be a part of the process, your people have to call former employees in order to unload their fears and hard truths, just so they can be heard by someone who cares. If only you owned a business where the truth was valued.
None of this matters, because it isn't my business; you can fuck it up 'til the chickens come home to roost, and they probably will. But the point is: just like it's your business, this is my blog. And I can write what I want, when I want, about whoever I want, in whatever manner I want, while jumping up and down, screaming 'RAPE' or 'HEAD CHEESE', if I want. My lawyer said so, as did my back-up lawyer; it's like a cheap lawyer sandwich, and I'm the meat.
I just want the best for your employees, who are being seriously EFFED in the A. Good luck to them all; I hope they find a place that seeks to understand them, listen to them, and compensate them in a way they deserve. If you really want to see a positive change in your business, it has to start with you. Oprah and Tony Robbins agree.
To the people who work there that consider my blog a threat or 'something of interest', which implies wrongdoing of some sort: I don't appreciate you as readers, or as friends. Please don't come back, because you're not welcome here. In a show of good faith, I'll put my business blogging away for now. Thank you.
If only I could have summed this whole thing up in a brilliant, dismissive haiku.
I immediately thought of three people who read this blog when I got this from Sangster. And I knew all three would be angered/annoyed/bothered by it. And so of course I had to post it right away. You're welcome! Now quit your bitching and go fucking VOTE.
Last night was the most surreal evening I've had in a while. At one point I looked over the small room and realized I was standing next to these people: Boots Riley of The Coup,Mike McCready, lead guitarist for Pearl Jam, and Tom fucking Morello of Rage Against the Machine fame (also: Audioslave and The Nightwatchman). You might remember Tom most recently from Guitar Hero, where I totally kicked his ass after attempting to do so many times and only crying once. But as he reminded us last night on-stage: "It's just a fucking video game", which I took to mean as 'I acknowledge your God-like plastic guitar skills, Snotty, but I can play the REAL guitar.' And my only response to that is this: YOUR MOM'S A REAL GUITAR. Hey, it took me like 36 hours to beat Tom Morello, and then once I did, the overwhelming feeling of accomplishment was replaced with horror when I realized I had to beat Slash, too--are you fucking kidding me? I'd rather eat my left arm--AND THEN SATAN, or whoever that creepy dude is at the end. Thanks for making each of my fingers feel like separate, miniature failures! If little 9-year old kids can beat it, why can't I? Besides having no talent and being somewhat uninterested, I'm practically a shoo-in for success. Guitar Hero success.
Sometimes I read over my blog posts and think, based on what I've just written, no wonder I'm unemployed. Thanks to Whoreleen's 'celebrity massage therapist to the stars' status, Tom got Chef Em and I on the fabled 'list' and we rocked out with our invisible cocks out. Em took off early, and we booked it backstage to drink in the giant vats of whiskey backstagey-ness of it all. Ended up downtown at Whym's Diner (formerly Minnie's, bleh) with Tom & Co. At one point, I realized the girl we'd been hanging with, Liz, was an old client of mine at Julep Nail Factory; my world keeps getting smaller, while growing large enough to include people like Mike McCready, I guess. I just need him to scoot over a bit to make room for Johnny Depp and Barack Obama, in that order. Last night, the bands had a political message that I'm going to pass on to you: VOTE, and then, ah, some other stuff. But to me, the real message was loud and clear: if you want to hang with celebrities, you just have to believe. YES WE CAN!
I also met some nice local guys, but Ari Joshua was the coolest, really down to Earth and fun to talk to. Apparently he's a music teacher for all kinds of instruments, except for the rape whistle (my personal favorite). I want him to teach me how to play the banjo! Snotty secretly hearts the banjo like a stinky redneck mofo. It's the Deep South coming out of me when it should be South Pacific. Favorite chorus last night: "ALL I WANNA DO IS JUST SHAKE MY SHIT, JUST SHAKE MY SHIT TONIGHT." Favorite gratuitous rock star pose: Mike McCready playing the guitar behind his back for what felt like five days. Amazing. Favorite moment of the evening: pooping my pants from sheer delight, over and over again. (Priceless.) Best text message: "Did last night even happen, or am I smoking crack?" Needless to say, it was the best night ever: good music, good friends, and an adorable lawyer to drive me home.
More posts later...I slept like shit last night. The price of partying with rock stars, I guess. Neener!
[RADWORDS]: TOM MORELLO, BOOTS RILEY, MIKE MCCREADY, RAGE, SATAN.
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