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A Schadenfreude Cowgirl

Friday, June 10, 2005

4:14PM - Name it your own damn self.

It's been said so many times that it's easiest to hurt the one you love. It's been said and said and embroidered on samplers in colonial farmhouses and stressed by head-wagging psychologists paid in cake recipes by the editors of Woman's Day magazine, and tagged up on bridges in Vancouver by prescient 14 year old graffiti artists. I don't need to go over this with you.

Of course it's easiest to hurt the one you love, because they're usually right there asking for it. Right there next to you, on the couch. And they don't even know the menace that's just waiting there in your chest, just biding its time. It can just hide down in the basement making risky things out of screeching metal and peeing in bottles. Waiting.

It was so easy when he had never even seen me and would just call me on the phone late at night when we were drunk, and I thought I was tricking him into liking me. Like I was someone in disguise convincing him I was also a swashbuckling neat person, and I was never, ever going to rip that disguise off and say 'ah-HA, and now you SEE!", because it wasn't in the plan to have us fall all in love and him come and live here and cut his fingernails at the coffee table and leave all the bits of fingernail on a Kroger circular.

But now he is here, and I still occasionally feel like I'm tricking him. Because I'm not so neat anymore, Me got swallowed by US, US just detatched that old jaw and swallowed Me all down, and now US is taking a little nap in the sunshine until it can move again. I'm not saying anything gets taken away from me, in fact, I have gained immeasurably from having him as my own. It's just sometimes he's so goddamn pretty and good and nice, and everybody wants a little piece of their own to sew into the lining of their clothing, that I think it would be amazingly satisfying to smash my fist into his beautiful, kind face. I could never want to do this if I didn't love him so hideously much.

Tuesday, January 4, 2005

2:40PM - Universally loved by at least six people.

Hello, all our friends around the globe! That's right, it's time for the Whipple family Holiday newsletter, once again! I apologize for the lateness, but I did get one of the NEW lisa frank coloring books for Christmas, and obviously I couldn't devote one jot, one tiddle, of my attention to anything else until I'd completed it. But finally, at about 3:10 this a.m., I colored in the last purple leopard spot, and now it's on to other things!

Christmas this year was spent at my sister's house, with her bitching nonstop because we failed to want to go rent "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" for her on the way over, and so she had to watch it in Espanol! on the spanish channel. "Ay ay ay...Claaaark! Es excremente!" Other than that, she was just boisterous in her usual way, didn't think it was as brilliantly good an idea as I had the night before to put crushed red pepper and italian bread in the stuffing (Well...I did pass on that can of liver and cranberry flavoured Fancy Feast, right?). Anyway, she was just sort of hard to get along with. I thought Christmas was going to be 'no grownups, yeahhhh!! eating egg rolls from the microwave and playing legend of zelda in our underoos!', but it turned out just like Christmas at home, except more booze and my stepfather wasn't there to tie our underwear in knots after we fell asleep. Wah Wah Waaaaaah...

So we came home sort of early and formed ourself into the deceptacon formerly known as 'Train Wreck', meaning we polished off the rest of the seagrams and I think had a little cocaine, too, made sock puppets out of his dirty Christmas day socks, took pictures of each other looking impervious, and played with my Christmas present from him, a little mechanical moth that flips over in the midst of its crazy mechanical path across the kitchen table. Stayed up until 9 in the morning, listening to the police sing 'message in a bottle' on repeat and having anal sex. (the new True Meaning of Christmas.)

We spent this weekend of new years' in Southern Illinois, staying with Chris and Melissa and Jaime, eating off their holiday disposable flatware, and sticking our fingers in their tub of french onion dip when they weren't looking. I have a few people in my life who, when I'm around them, kick me up to a new level of awesome, like they're some nazi-developed drug meant to make me a killing machine, but really just enhance my ability to make Kid'n'Play jokes, or there's some secret 1940's cartoon society, and when we join our rings together, the whole world takes two steps back on the cakewalk and just accepts that that bundt cake is. OURS. Fumiko is like this, baby is like this, and Chris and Melissa are definitely like this. Anyway, the whole weekend was a blur of drinking, drinking, drinking, eating at Denny's, the new years' splendor beginning at a house party where I constructed a small bistro table from a champagne cork, with a chair made from the metal cage which comes around the champagne cork, a small aluminum foil plate on the table and a tiny goblet, also constructed of aluminum foil and filled, drop by drop, from my glass of champagne, and seated at this confabulation, a 'fashion model' created from a soggy cigarette butt wearing a dress of tinfoil, with wire arms, and a matchstick for a head. We stared for a good three minutes at this tableau, then, of course, lit her head on fire and cheered. At this point, we decided to continue the 'fun' at a (I mean THE) gay club in Carbondale. Which was fun, for a while, I mean, a black drag queen did give me a Newport and say "Happy New Year's, baaaaaby..", and the top of my teal-green disco dress with the asymmetrical trim DID keep falling off my arms and exposing my breasts, and the heel did start coming off my navy-blue gogo boot, but fuck it. Things didn't get really creepy until about one o'clock, which is about as much as I can ever take of that place, after that, my coach and footmen just turn back into the used diaphragm and spray-painted cockroaches they were to begin with, and so we left and went to a Really Fun house party, the Xanadu of So Ill house parties, where the dj actually knew some good stuff to play, and baby and I were dancing like we didn't want them to shoot the horses, oh no, and afterwards, after drinking keg beer and some stranger seeing me and baby in a hammock in the laundry room, fondling myself through my flesh-colored fishnets, after the dj thanked us personally for coming here from 'wherever you're from, I can tell you're not from here', we were dancing on the lawn and of course Robert pulls up in his mom's car, to pick up Jamie to go to another party. Because "I never want to speak to you again, ever", usually has a half-life of about six hours, which is why it had apparently dwindled down to nothing, and he did want to talk to me, so I told him I'm really happy, and that I had really loved him, and that I hope he doesn't hate me, and he said he didn't, and then baby got a little nervous because I sat on the trunk of his car and my fishnets were showing, so he came over to fetch me and shook hands with Robert all social-graces and a red vintage ascot, my friend.

I didn't start to think about this until I was back in Southern Illinois, but I don't miss anything about him. I try to think what it was that bound us so tightly together, and I can remember that he was good to me. Lazy, but good. We had fun together, I suppose. I think this thing I have now is so much, that anything that happened before is blurred, seems less, except for this terrible last year, which I do not want to forget, even the feeling of nausea that comes when I think about how far down into the holly hobby backpack I shoved my own personality, no, I do not want to forget it, because it also makes this thing I have now just that much more sweet and pertinent. Robert and I will probably never be friends. But we were never friends to begin with. A little love affair hatched in the Harrisburg Housing projects, raised up on complex carbohydrates, listening to Boston on the juke box in the pizza hut, and it seemed like it was necessary at the time. But things change. The lesson of Robert is that things change. Also, that you shouldn't have to try so hard. It should be unavoidable. I'm glad we talked, and I wish I hadn't been so drunk, but happy fucking new year, anyway. The loose ends were tied up, and now the Golden Girls credits can roll.

Other highlights included Robert meeting my mother, which went pretty well, although I did have my fingers crossed that she wouldn't trot out any of the short stories she's written about her childhood, and that my younger sister wouldn't be to weird and loud and covered in Good Charlotte iron-on patches, and that my brother would be as neat as usual, and all my little prayers whispered into my imitation leather handbag came true, oh, true. In fact, my brother and Jaques seemed to hit it off quite well, and my mother gave him some chocolate, which from a die-hard anorexic really MEANS something. And we went on a little walking tour of Eldorado, Illinois, culminating when I led him into the lobby of the post office. I always had some kind of premonition that I would meet the love of my life in a post office. And I dragged him in there to show him the creepy painting of miners where the joists holding the ceiling up look like women's legs, that menaced my childhood, and made him sniff the air with me, and confirm that it does, indeed smell like the moment in a Nancy Drew novel right before they solve the crime. And when he leaned over and smelled the zip code directory that has been there for a million, million years, and looked up at me, and said 'mmmmmmm!', well, I already didn't have any doubts, but there it was. The love of my life. The post office. All the elements presided over by the creepy painting of miners trying not to nick those ladies' legs with their picks and shovels.

And now back in Chicago, where a little problem called ex-girlfriend seems to want to shroud itself in self-righteousness that is really jealousy, this girl who has already said to me that I am the only girl she would 'let have him', as though he is some torch made out of papier mache and we are both dressed as the statue of liberty for the Mt. Pleasant fourth of july parade, and she is passing him off, with a warning not to chew on it, please. Anyway, I know she was drunk when she said that, and so was I. Which is why I countered with the fact that I am going to make him happier than he's ever been before, yes I am, which for once, I really did not mean cattily, just honestly, but of course, she took it the wrong way. And she was disturbed by his drug use when Fumiko was visiting us, and has decided that in her campaign to not stand anywhere near this situation that is, and rightly so, making her sad, jealous, and in doubt of her power over baby, she's decided that he has 'a drug problem' and that she doesn't want to be around people like him. And that I am mean and competitive, and that he is choosing style over substance. And even though yes, I do wear the pointy-toed shoes and she does have about forty pounds of 'substance' on me (Oh, ghost of farrah fawcett, forgive me.), I don't think that's quite fair. I had my feelings hurt, I really like all his other friends, and went out of my way to seem charming and fun and perfect for baby, and while the other judges held up their score cards with '9!' written in indelible ink on them, she sullenly held up a '2.2'. She held it up sideways. She held it up sideways and stuck her tongue out. Anyway, I know she will miss baby a whole lot more than he will miss her. It's sad for him to lose a friend, but it would be even sadder if it was someone who wasn't so obviously tied down by their own disability to accept that sometimes you don't get to be the center of attention, no matter how much glitter glue you use on your sweat shirt. And p.s. she dances like she's at a prom at a school for the deaf.

I'm glad to be going back to Houston, this town is cold and I really miss Michael and Fumiko (when I see you, I have to teach you a new dance step. It's called 'phantom love' and it was born in Southern Illinois...), and Jon and Dustin, I haven't done any art projects since the postcard night, and I miss my little house. I'll have about seven days of living alone, and then it's me and baby, trying not to spill kerosene on our Franklin Mint collection, ad infinitum.

Monday, December 13, 2004

2:16PM - Blueprint for a better basket full of kittens.

Saturday night, and it's cold, colder than J.R. Ewing's jizz on a Precious Moments ice sculpture, and we borrowed a car and dressed up like Fancybeast #1 and Fancybeast #2, I mean, really, we looked so good, I'm sure people were racking their brains trying to figure out which of us was paying for the other's company. He's all done up like Jesus Christ in the waiting room of the Sears catalogue office, 1978, wanting his big break into modeling sta-prest slacks, and I looked exactly like Jackie O. Barbie. Before you mix the grey powder with lukewarm water and spray it through a straw at her to approximate the brain matter that has ruined many the couture creation on a first wife, of course. And we tied our arms together, and crawled through some ant-farm of a way-out chicago neighborhood, complete with specialty stores that looked like Willie Loman should be staring out through the windows, writing your initials in the fog created by his breathing, just to encourage you to come in and buy a lamp. Buy a lamp, for gods' sake!

All to end up at the level of hell that has a disinterested live band in it. U of Chicago's Radiational Oncology Christmas Party, 2004! Stay cool FOREVER! Mother of the bride dresses everywhere, and not a drop to drink! Actually, too much to drink! Free drinks! They'll put maraschino cherries in anything you ask them to! We got there just in time for the 'dinner' that they expected us to 'eat', all mushy baby carrots that never had a chance to grow up into real carrots, chicken stuffed with whatever it is that chickens ask for as a last meal, 'wild' mushrooms, mushrooms that once snuck out of their parents' split-level ranch home to go see Rod Stewart in concert at the Palladium.

Anyway. So. We're seated at a big circular table, sticking our forks repeatedly into the 'food' in front of us, drinking free drinks, I'm trying to look polite and presentable while surreptitiously attempting to remove a wooden splinter that I'm fairly certain was a piece of the true cross from my cuban heeled stocking, when the number on MY little slip of raffley raffle paper is called, and I shuffled up to the front to collect my gift, a shaving mug and soap set, awww, just what I wanted when I was a middle aged male gardener of below-average intelligence, thanky kindly, world! And then we just degenerated into our usual level of depravity, gin-soaked baby clothes in the backseat of a horse-drawn carriage, again. We wriggled to some very poorly executed songs in the key of life, and whispered a little too loudly that we really, really wished someone would remark that that young white couple sure does dance like a couple of niggers! Yes they do! And then fuck this noise! We need to crash the black wedding downstairs, which we did, dancing to their music, nodding to their guests, then filling my handbag with little bits of cake from their massive selection of little bits of cake. Back upstairs to say goodbye to the 'just spit it out in your napkin and smile' crowd, there was a guy in a track suit passed out in one of the armchairs, so I put a little bit of cake right next to his face and tried to get Jaques to take my picture offering him this confectionary treat. You know, for the posters for my City Comptroller campaign. Our slogan is, after all, "She Gives Niggers Cake!", but the guy selfishly chose that moment to wake up and put my cake in the ashtray next to him. Hmmmph.

And on the way home, we found a street named "Whipple", and had a freezing cold photo shoot underneath it, then went to some hipster dance party where the teen fashion council of Chicago was loudly discussing what made one 'mod' or 'not mod'. People were refusing to dance because the music was 'too mod'. Apparently, I am 'mod'. It's a good thing that being defined by absolute strangers was on my to-do list, because it's so satisfying to make those check marks next to things in purple ink.

A bit worse for wear, and broke as a gary glitter album your dad finds hidden underneath your mattress, we stayed in and drank a lot of gin last night. We made postcards together (he offered up an old physics textbook with solemnity and weight. Here. You can cut this up.) and rolled around on the living room floor. At one point I decided I needed to mark the exact spot of a penny that's been scooting across the bathroom floor since I got here, which I did, with red marker. His roommate caught me marking its new position this morning. (I just looked up at him and said "Whut?") We were awakened at around four this morning by some strange girl puking in the bathroom, and being told we weren't allowed to go in there because apparently this girl needs to sleep in there tonight, yes please, so I had to pee in a vase. The same vase I had earlier in the evening removed the flowers from and washed down my birth control pill with the water from. MMm hmmm. That's right. When they handed out class, I thought they said 'ass', and said, "I'll take the kind niggers have."

Saturday, December 11, 2004

6:05PM - Little bites of bowling ball..

Last night Jaques came home from Houston, and, finding himself locked out, as I was over at my sister's house, watching "slums of beverly hills" and grabbing her crotch with a silver plastic robot arm ("Robots don't live in teepees, stupid! They live in LONGHOUSES! LONGHOUSEEEEEES!"), he fucking kicked in the door. Now, that is a realm of pretty, a realm of hot, that my k-mart moon boots have never skidded across before. I came home, saw the broken bits of wood and screws on the kitchen table, and melted like a kraft single in god's own fondue pot. Then he told me he got the job, and that he's coming to live with me in my tent made of tar paper and copies of the Weekly Reader in the middle of January, which led to me tackling him and fucking him hardcore, his black 'business casual' tie shoved in my mouth, screaming things about an eternal flame (I refuse to insert that Bangles reference you're all just writhing for. Nope, nahganna. Doooit.), biting, biting, pulling hair. Panties still around one foot sex, peripheral panties, like a japanese tourist afraid to get too close to the man-made tar pit because the fiberglass diplodocus might eat his Leica. Damn, baby. Forever's a mighty long time, but just try thinking about it in ten second increments. Now eat a little cookie. Now try thinking about it again. Wipe that grin off your face, this is serious. Forever is very serious. Serious like a tenth grader painstakingly copying page 162 of "Atlas Shrugged" onto the cover of his geometry notebook. In an attic bedroom. In 1978.

Thursday, December 9, 2004

1:43PM - Oh, hot and absolute.

Well, I haven't said anything in a while, and that's because, when everything's happening, it feels like nothing's happening. If it's really good, and you're really enjoying it, life feels just exactly like swimming through a stream of Aunt Jemima's maple syrup, smoky, you can't see straight, you hope someone's timing you to see how long you can stay under, and every once in a while, you have to stick the tip of your tongue out to make sure that yes, yes, this thing is really happening.

J flew to Houston today to go get himself a job, a big job, a job where you never have to make sure that there are enough Lance brand captain's wafers in the vending machine up on Floor C, a job that will let him come home to me with his pockets brimming with all the dime store watches I've ever imagined before falling asleep, and I will lean back on the ottoman (cause I'll be at a point in my life where I'll KNOW what an ottoman is.) and count the stitches in the embroidered name on his lab coat while he puts it in me real deep and sings nigger lullabies right into my ear, interspersed with licky licky promises that we're never going to stop lording it over the neighbors and anyone else who cares to look through the peephole on the front door, which we've thoughtfully inverted, how very much we're made for each other.

In this city, he goes off to work all day, while I lie under the butter yellow K-mart comforter and think of ways to bring the conversation around to necklaces made of string with bloody birds' wings threaded on them, or the sort of sandwiches korean radio djs eat in the four point six minutes allotted to them for their lunch break, or any number of topics I think will surprise and amuse him. I have a rich history of lying in bed and waiting for boys in love with me to get done with their jobs so I can amuse myself by using them as my gymnastic/linguistic/opportunistic balance beam, daddy, daddy, there's not enough RIBBONS on this dress, go put it in the fire down by the oil refinery, then hurry back real fast because I need you to feed me these swan's brains dipped in chocolate and mark with this purple sharpie what the prettiest parts of me THIS week are, but this is something altogether on the other side of the handball court, because when he comes home, I just start rubbing my hands across his face like I'm a little blind child and he's someone who's here to teach me that all department store santas are not created equal, I just rub my hands all over him, then make him dinner and sew up little tiny tears in his Gap sweaters. Really. I do that.

I feel really violent every once in a while and have to punch a wall or lightly kick his shins a little. He's promised me a whole box of lightbulbs that we'll go break in an alley by Roberto Clemente high school together.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

4:09PM - I'm a high school locker and there's a secret buzzing and clicking against my door. Again.

Current Obsession: In the olden days, when people ate things like meat pies without an ounce of guilt, and all lipstick had lead in it like god intended, they thought that dead animals could become new, live animals. It's all part of that alchemical worldview, which i have been strangely nostalgic for all my life. It seems so hopeful, that if you can just arrange the Ehrlenmeier flasks in the correct esoteric formation, you can turn this 1,800 copy-selling Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam album into GOLD, yo. Wheras we all know you'd be better off down at the river wailing over your lost set of cubic zirconia earrings and beating daddy's ruffly tuxedo shirt collection against a washboard, trying to get the KC Masterpiece stains out, or looking into a hand mirror to practice that specific kind of insincerity which has been mastered nowhere and by no-one in the universe except by those actors on late-night commercials hawking 'soulful 70's' compilation discs. ("Didja get yours in the mail yet, Gary? No? Well, I did, and all of a sudden, it just doesn't matter at all that my parents didn't even remove the plastic cover from the couch before they sat me down and told me they didn't love me anymore! No, sirree!")

Anyway, a few years ago, watching the Discovery Channel late at night, as you do when you're living with your mother in Southern Illinois and can't go to the movie theater seven miles away because there are rumors that resting your head on those purple velvet seats can lead directly to your very own pet lice farm, do not pass go, do not collect shiny beads and pretty rocks. And I saw this show featuring a medieval recipe for bee-making. First you have to build a shed, although I'm imagining that in our hi-tech age, you could probably just go get one of those pre-fab aluminum models. Then you kill a bull. Kill it good, yo. You lay the bull in the shed, covered by a web of rushes, or one of those rugs bought by the roadside with a big white tiger on it, wait for spring, and the bull will have become bees.

Sure sure. Just goes to show you, science is a big, big lie. Houghton Mifflin only printed all those science text books because your teacher couldn't think of anything to do with you between spelling tests and her afternoon Virginia Slim.

I have a tattoo. It says "Jaques..." And I refuse to listen to those misguided souls who will tell me that it's bad luck and he won't love me anymore when he finds out about it. Did the Tasmanian devil stop loving me when I had him burnt into my flesh right over my chocha? I. Think. Not.

And I'm lonely, and I'm sad, and the world won't stop throwing half-eaten pork chops in my path. I'm tryin'a WALK here!

Tuesday, November 9, 2004

3:33PM - The Glamour of the Airbrush....!

Current obsession: Baby. Baby is so funny, beautiful, and scarily fun, like setting off fireworks inside a compact car. Although some of you might be surprised by my sudden about-face transformation from hardcore slut to 1987 Firebird to absolutely faithful, really unshakeable, take it, have it, and hide it under my puff paint sweatshirt because there's not enough for the rest of the class-er, hopelessly devoted...thing. It's really quite easily explained. When you're up at midnight discussing the naming of bulls on a new mexico ranch you've never been to (Twilight Stalker. Armchair Dietician. Lollipop Velvet.) and laughing with your legs held straight up in the air at a perfect angle from your body, and having phone sex which results in injuries, that is, bruising and electrocutions, and creating a new kind of santa claus for your sure-to-be exceptional child (60 foot tall robot santa claus piloted by the ghost. Of Freddy Mercury.) everything else just kind of pales like an anemic tenth grader erasing Joe Namath's initials onto her notebook. I've finally realized that no, you can't go home with the stranger, put the promised candy into a wal-mart sack, then Run Away. It just doesn't work like that. There probably isn't any candy there, or it wouldn't be the kind you liked, or you wouldn't be able to enjoy it because you'd be getting raped in a musty garden shed by said stranger. I don't want the candy of strangers. I want the candy of Jaques. I want the musty garden shed of Jaques. I want to hold hands across the table in the breakfast nook with the walls covered in toys from the 99cent stores. Of Jaques. We are two cobras in a copper bottomed washtub full of hot butter, and I can't believe I get to marry someone who can actually work the word 'bildungsroman' into everyday conversation, yo.

Although I promised the masses that if they arrived for my show on time, they'd get to see Crispin Glover handing out cupcakes with the secret of how to get people to fuck you hardcore written on them. In gold. Very few of my actual friends and acquaintances appeared. I guess everybody knew they'd say 'Always Swallow' and decided to stay home with their V.C. Andrews novels. Although the creepy little windows on those things are appealing to the sixth grade masturbator in all of us, come on. I am up here saying funny, funny shit about imagining my friends fucking in hot tubs full of liza minelli's blood, and you're at home playing Boggle..? Oh well. I was actually glad there weren't that many people I knew there, it made me less nervous. I was glad it was over with, I am glad it's over with, and performance art...goes much better if you wear a 1950's secretary dress. The only really shining moment for me, during my performance, came when I said the words "gutenberg bible', not even as a punch line, just sort of mid-joke, and one lone person started cracking up. Gutenberg bible...hahaha!

The universe has sent some awesome stuff my way this week, most of it thrown at me by Michael. He found a money bag from a funeral parlor in an abandoned lot last week, and it's totally my new handbag. He also gave me some really awesome stuff he got at the church yard sale, although he refused to give me the abstract drawing of two people 69'ing on a futon he found inside his ELO boxed set. Entitled "Friday Afternoon Mirror Image"

Having dinner on Thursday night, Michael and I realized at the same moment that we were listening to a meta-reggae song. A reggae song wherein the singer was singing about..how much he'd like to be the singer in a reggae band. This led to discussion of Michael's only favorite reggae song, "Rasta Mon No Go Vietnam". Which led somehow to us discussing our shared junior high fantasy that everyone in the world but us and our crush would die in some horrible plague, and both of us getting very excited about this, and deciding it would be really great for us to do a comic book about this, about my parents dying, my friends dying, and marching over to Graham Trenda's house with a backpack full of Skor bars to find him looking out the window, waiting to love me forever, all coltish extremities and poignancy, that is, the kind of poignancy that is evoked by the david bowie lyrics on the screen before they show The Breakfast Club...Apocalypse Junior High. Soon to be run off on a Xerox machine near you.

So I gave my notice at the paper store this week. I've had enough, and I want to be unemployed for a while. I can always go back to giving handjobs behind the Millipede machine down at the corner store, but for now, I just couldn't take any more of spending beautiful days congratulating myself on making the 'executive decision' to replace the semicolon on the 11 year old's birthday card with a colon. Not when all my friends were outside the store, jumping up and down and making 'come here, come on out, we're going to go watch reruns of 21 jump street and braid each other's hair!!' hand motions at me. Although I will miss Yvette, I must say. Last night we went out back after we closed so she could smoke and ended up talking about dildos for about fifteen minutes. When we came back in we found a hysterical River Oaks lady we'd locked in the store, and after letting her out, Yvette said "Sheez, we were out there all dildo this, dildo that, an that chick was freaking out in here...!" and I said "Word." and then we did a busby berkely number that ended with me smashing a snow globe with a kitten in it that had a word bubble saying 'Loooove!' next to it. And that felt so good, I did another and another.

I will miss some of the perks of the paper store, though. Like the glittery snowflake temporary tattoos I stole from there. Wendy and I put them on our right breasts before the Holly Golightly show Sunday night, and had quite a time pulling down our tops and saying in tandem "Welcome to Winter....We will be your Guides!" That night was a fucking train wreck + 1/2. Although it was fun, although we snarled until the drugs ran out, although I did spend an awesome night putting my finger on top of the girl who has a pet chicken's head and making her spin like a jewelry box ballerina, although I did make up some awesome band names for a band that's almost gauranteed to be not-awesome (Zombie Wedding. G-Spot Finders, Incorporated.), my next door neighbor crush chose the exact moment I got home to come over and tell me how much he likes it that I have those dimples where my back meets my hips, because that's how girls should LOOK. Ah, me. Charlie, Charlie. Although just a couple of months ago I may have uttered the phrase "I'd like to borrow a cup of FUCK offa' HIM!", the most I could offer him was a halfhearted dance party and my absolute assurance that I was not going to make out with him.

I am still the kind of girl who can convince herself it's all right to eat two hot pockets for dinner, as long as you put on a pearl necklace and light a candle. I am still the kind of girl who says "I'll see you in hell, dry clean only tag!", and does it up right with the febreze and the cheap perfume. I am still the kind of girl who thinks sideburns are really fucking hot. I am still the kind of girl who is going to print a bunch of stickers that say "Soon to be made into a major motion picture!" and surreptitiously place them on cookbooks in Barnes and Noble.

But now there's only one boy in the whole entire world who can make me wriggle like a rattlesnake in a pinball machine.
So Charlie needs to come get his birkenstocks from my house, buy American, and try to enjoy the sight of me waving goodbye forever from my kitchen window.


A final thought- Imagine that your raft has capsized in the middle of the ocean. You have insisted on wearing the requisite twelve layers of victorian lady's undergarments, and so have become thoroughly waterlogged. Despite opening your parasol, you are quickly sinking into the murky depths, the cold water cloudy with undersea residue, that last desperate lungful of fresh air fast dissipating, when suddenly from your left, the beautiful face you grew up with looking down at you from the walls of the Presbyterian church on Pine Street, that beautiful caucasian face, is swimming towards you. Blue eyes, glinting golden hair, unspeakably beatific cheekbones. All this is appearing towards you through the cold, underwater layers of near-death experience. And attached to the torso of this Mer-Jesus, beneath the flowing robes, a fish tail, an exquisite six foot long scaled appendage, propelling him through the water. "This is it! I am saved! I'm glad I tithed like a mothafuck!"you exclaim. But this is not to be, for as he nears you, he pulls back his lips to reveal sharp, green, moldy teeth, the better to chew your entrails out with. Mer-Jesus ain't saving nobody from drowning, bitch. He's hungry, you're drowning, and every time he speaks. The words appear in red.

Tuesday, November 2, 2004

4:04PM - The winner of this year's "Cutest Swastika Ever Competition Issss..."

Current Obsession: The dictionary of the occult (Halloween, yo.) Babou- a french type of ogre who eats children in a salad. ONLY in a salad.

Friday night, Fumiko and I went out to a 'Big Lebowski' themed halloween party, and ended up railroading some 20 year old kid to let us take pictures of ourselves with his 6 foot pliable spider, which we dubbed 'Uncle Fun'. Upon closer inspection and, of course, ridicule, we realized that this kid made chain mail for a living. Of coooourse. Anyway, we requisitioned a couple of bikinis made from orange crush cans, and realizing he was sliding deeper into the sea of derision with only a curly straw to drink through, he blurts out that he knows where to buy 10 dollar X. "Oh yes oh yes? Tell us more, do tell..." so we load him and Uncle Fun in the backseat of Fumiko's car and drive around the heights for an hour and a half while he has some kind of lover's tiff with his dealer-guy on his cell phone, and exclaims "marvelous! fantastic! the best metaphor I've heard in years' at everything we say. The high point of this portion of the evening was definitely staring in the window of a 99cent store over on north main and Julian and conjecturing about what we would buy if it were open. And making the kid stay in the car while we did this.

So no drugs, no fun, booted the kid out at some apartment complex that looked like where the cast of green acres goes to die, and headed for home. But when I got there, neighbor wendy informed me that Cannibal Corpse. Napalm Death. and Goatwhore. were on their way to her house. Then she tosses one of those impossible tiny bags that I always make a drug nerd of myself over by squealing 'mine's got penguins printed on it! mine's got devils printed on it! mine's got joan didion printed all over it!'at me. And I call Fumiko to get back over here, already, and partake in the most awesome death-metal glory that will ever be had over on West Main street, yo. I amused myself by yanking the beard of the guy from goatwhore for a bit, and interviewing him on what books he read when he was ten (Dean Koontz. Do we really believe that?), and teasing him that his tattoos of screaming skulls were really screaming because avocado prices are so high, and not because they are filled with evil and misery, as he was wont to believe. Then the Napalm death guy was asking us things like 'So, when was the last time you gerls got fucked?' and "So, ya like a big cock in yer mouth, eh?', 'cept it sounded like 'fooked', cause he's from England. And I sort of jumped up and started saying 'no. no. no. I prefer to tell you about....vampire dinosaurs.'

And then, although it's kind of a bit sad and mal-formed, I had a really cinematic moment out on the hood of my car, after everybody had done a line off of it through a rolled-up Quintron c.d. insert, I flipped myself onto my hands and knees, boots up in the air all Cherie Currie in the Runaways, and lllllllicked the coke residue off the hood. And the fucking death metal guys applauded. Then we went up to my house and they got really into my Supertramp album, and danced a bit to the Carpenters and Michael Jackson, and when Fumiko and I woke up the next day, we found a note they left us saying we were the best party in this fuckin' country. I mean, fookin'.

I spent Saturday trying to recuperate, and willing my atoms to rearrange themselves back into their general shapes of stars of david and the hobo sign for 'hot lady lives here', but to no avail. Then Fumiko came over with her new love interest, who damn it, made me like him by dancing like a fraggle and really digging J's halloween costume idea to be a runaway from the 'runaway train' video, even though I'd dug my heels in and decided to be really mad at everybody who has someone close at hand to fuck and wriggle around with, which seems to be everybody but me, lately, because of course, i'm the only one on the fiesta deck of the love boat with a fucking albatross tied around my neck. But he painted our costumes for us (drunkenly) and we went out and danced like two drunk girls from N.J. dressed up like dice are wont to do, and won fucking first place in the competition, and fumiko said 'you keep it all, so you can go see j..', but I kind of think she just said that because I'd had the cash shoved down my panties, and it definitely smelled like 'shoved down my panties', yo.

Then I came home and put on a 1920's yellow bathing cap and had a solitary fotoshoot for baby in my bedroom, clutching the 'she's so unusual' album in front of my naked bosom.

Our show is on Friday, and I'm alternating between yeah, yeah, i'm fuckin' hilaaaarable! This is going to be aaaaaawesome...and 'fuck. fuck fuck. I don't think this joke about 'hairpin farming' is funny. ... I don't even know who I AM anymore! .." Spending time lying in bed, listening to it rain, and trying really hard to work a jerry lewis reference into a sentence about a dancing ghostbuster figurine that came with the instructions for battery insertion in French only. Somebody. Ram. The pointed end. Of a featherduster. Into my eyesocket, already.

Oh well. There's always hari-kiri with a rolled-up program from a 1970's high school production of brigadoon, yo.

The night before last, I had awesome get-off while baby told me about the flags of the northern states his mother constructed in his youth. Mmmmmmmm, California's state flag has a bear on it.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

3:41PM - A school for the blind made out of he-man sheets and stale triscuits. Of course!

Current obsession: Man, why should I fucking care what sports teams Ben Affleck is rooting for? I don't even REALLY care when that chubby british guy on t.v. tells me I should send my jes'penniesaday off to the little children in Bangladesh who are wearing mustard-stained "Coke Is It!" t-shirts from 1987. There's always a veeeery quiet soundtrack of children crying in the background of those things. And you know that those children barely have enough energy to rub their distended stomachs and crawl to the sewage ditch with their Muppets tumblers (that came wrapped up in the 'coke is it!' t-shirts, straight from Capitalist Christmas Card List Headquarters. Where they sit around all white and able to afford pay-per-view, and squish the butterscotch pudding around in their cheeks and every once in a while sit up straight with their eyes somewhat kinda on fire like a roman nobleman's who's just discovered his kitchen slave can craft dildos out of goatskin, push their fingers up into the air, and shout "Somewhere a little girl is losing faith in the magic of her Barbie Dream Home's eclair scented kitchen! Show me the numbers on this, bring the battle grid in here, and order a shit-ton of double shots from the Starbuck's! No, I don't care which Starbuck's, you mad, seductive fool, whichever one of the fifteen on this street you want to ride your special-order vintage distressed chrome/electric purple Vespa to! We're going to be up all night mainlining melted-down McDonald's Happy Meal toys again, I can already tell." Of course, they save the chokeable-on parts to one side to send in the care packages to Bangladesh.) So I'm thinking they probably bring in suburban children whose mothers think that gluing birthday party snapshots into an album bought at Big Lots is tantamount to a 'portfolio', tell the mothers they're doing a Kids'R'Us circular, give them a copy of Ladies' Home Journal, tell them to diagram every sentence, then hustle those little white kids into the broom closet, stick them with vintage hat pins, and record that shit on a Sanyo tape recorder (that has shiny ice-cream cone stickers on it). Then play it in the background of those commercials. And this isn't EVEN about Ben Affleck anymore, thank god.

So last night Michael and Fumiko came over, as Michael's back from his big trek back into the heart of Mormon country, where everything smells like fan mail to the creator of Beanie Babies, I'm imagining. Kind of like styrofoam and really, really wanting to be a good and attractive person. He brought us awesome presents, like the kind that come out of the big, black bag in the emerald castle. I got a 1970's book about personal style with lots of graphics that look like Peter Max and Aubrey Beardsley had a baby and whipped it good with the Butterick pattern book for Fall, 1976, and Fumiko got a porno book called "Anal Astronaut" with a chick in hot metal shoes and a pink afro wig gettin' it hardcore from a bald guy with a beard, on the surface of the papier-mache moon, while one. lone. brass. rose. sprouts up from the hill in the background.

I drank some gin-and-tonics and watched Fumiko construct our costumes for 'Metaween, '04', but unfortunately we ran out of spray-paint halfway through painting mine. Our costume is 'New Jersey Snake-Eyes", as we're two drunk chicks from New Jersey circa 1987, smeared make-up, cocaine, asking people what they think of the new springsteen, fishnet stockings, buy me a drink, plastic top hats with 'hello my name is debbi 'i' dotted with a heart' stuck on them, cardboard boxes painted like dice on our torsos, New Jersey Fucking Snake-Eyes.

And I had some special time with Fumiko's button maker and a penthouse, which is why I'm wearing pins today of a subservient guy's ass, some text that says 'wanna be my SUGAR DADDY?', and a chick ramming a dildo into herself. Cause she just didn't bring enough for the rest of the class, yo.

I got pretty wrecked like an amtrak train that had to swerve cause the conductor spotted a rare erase erratta single on the tracks, and called baby up and we talked until very late about how scary scary our awesome big love is, like tying your nametag from the mensa seminar onto a pigeon's leg and sending it out into the world, awesome responsibility and great rewards, like owning your own helicopter or memorizing the genetic makeup of fizzy lifting drinks. I'm amazed, every day, I'm so fucking glad and sappy that Olivia Newton John should be SINGING me.

Tonight I'm going to try to write down all the funny, funny jokes I plan to recite like the multiplication tables at the diverseworks show. I've put it off long enough, an I finally need to see if I have enough material to get this bitch off the ground. Light as a feather, stiff as a board, and can we just forget about this parlor trick and get back to the 'eating sour cream and onion potato chips' portion of the slumber party? I think it's important that I suck it up and do this, but I will be so glad when it's over and I can get back to my glue stick where I'm comfortable. And besides, nobody thinks the line "But the surface of the world is not made of live kittens stapled together, and Serge Gainsbourg is NOT my real father..." is funny except J and Fumiko. But they are my target audience, I guess. Them and all the Eleanor Rigbys in the world who can stop ritualistically masturbating over 'Beauty and the Beast" reruns long enough to come see my show.

12:30AM - The important textbooks have mildew on them!!?!

Spent the night creating the awesome meta-meta-meta costume "New Jersey Snake-Eyes" with Fumiko. Two cardboard boxes painted white are on top of my maverick. Because two drunk chicks from New Jersey need to fucking wear some fishnet stockings and runny mascara, and find somebody to discuss the new Springsteen album with after they've bought me the $4 keg cup. Anyway, it's going to be fucking hilarious. Fumiko says Morrissey can have 'the old man panning for gold beard' and still be hot. Fucking A, the chime sounds, now turn the page.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

1:02PM - Sounds. About. Right.

Okay, so. As soon as things are going well, the two little bits of my past I had to plow over to get to this fine level of ecstasy, ecstasy, fantastic late night conversations with the only boy for me, and drug-taking with my best girlfriend that ends in taking pictures of ourselves in a creepy skull mask with 'not for sale' written on the forehead in sharpie, and tons of ideas in every direction, from what color to paint the walls right down to which parts of the children's encyclopedia to screen print on the pencil skirts, just when everything is so hilarious like an armless movie detective, the good hot dog octopus and the bad hot dog octopus decide to descend from my past on little bits of fishing line and take their places on my shoulder.

Fucking Armscars McFadden feels the need to say "Well, we haven't talked in three months, but I have to know...Is it over? It's over. Okay. I'm walking away. Goodbye. I'm saying goodbye. Goodbye for real now. I'm about to start getting smaller on the horizon. Yeah, goodbye. Except I really, really need to tell you about this dream I had where I had to pull this coccoon covered with blood out of my ear. No, Okay, goodbye." I don't deserve this, he screwed me over about eighty-five times, but I feel that if I ignore him, he'll know he still gives me the creeps, which is one little bit of chewing tobacco I don't want hanging over my Vera Wang wedding dress.

And Robert sent me an email today entitled "Congratulations on Your Great New Life." Basically, he thinks my spaghetti sauce is awful, that I ruined his summer (I'll give him that one, actually.), that he hopes my show 'doesn't totally suck', and that I should stay away from Chris and Melissa's house when I come visit after Christmas. Also, that he thinks J. looks 'more cro-mag than he does, but it could just be the pictures.'

I had the naked lady picnic on Sunday, after staying up all night with Fumiko, yanking at our hair and saying 'gooodddd blessss', making coke straws out of Snoopy cartoons (cause we couldn't find the part in 'Light in August" where he eats the toothpaste..), accidentally listening to the entirety of side 1, The Carpenter's greatest hits set on '45.... discussing how awesome it would be if there were animatronic figures of us in a museum somewhere, sandwiched between the skeletons of the tallest man ever and the shortest man ever, and how I should have a wedding cake with a mount rushmore of famous dead fags on it, and then we had to get up at ten to go drag clothes to the park to trade with people. It was sparsely attended, but I did get a lot of good junk.

Then we went to see 'Footloose' at The Great Caruso dinner theater. I could recount the myriad side-ponytail jokes for you, but that would really just be self-indulgent, wouldn't it?

And added to all this, some other boy felt the need to come up to me at Union last night, grab my shoulders, and tell me how I broke his heart. Whatever, baby, you write poetry like it's still fourth period, seventh grade year.

I feel really sad today. Hot dog octopii have capers for eyes, and they make you feel sad when they nestle into your neck and remind you how really, really badly you hurt them. And you can't even bite their faces off, because you're a fucking vegetarian.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

3:22PM - Will Dance For Heads On Plates

The world has pulled its own ribcage apart, nodded encouragingly, and handed me two metal scoops to dig out the jujubes in the chest cavity. Cartoon birds are flying back quickly with the bits of me that they've picked out while I've slept over the last few years, and nudging them back into place, gently. I am honestly having to consider the existence of magic in a way I haven't done since I was about eight and learned to braid hair. I am waiting patiently for the cartoon anvil to drop on my head and allow the studio audience to indulge in some well-deserved schadenfreude. Cause, bitch, I don't deserve for everything in my path to taste this much like turkish delight the white witch has fed me from her own unicorn-skin gloved hands.

The things to remember are:

Getting to the blonde redhead show and, of course, seeing the one person I did not want to see, out front and smoking and fighting the unending, unwinning battle to look like Nick Cave circa 1982. Shaking uncontrollably. Feeling like I was punched in the gut by Nick Cave circa 1982. And honey, the child of a bullrider and a home economics teacher, he puts his arms around me and says "Hey..you're so nervous...I'm going...to interview you!"
"Okay, what's your name?"
"My name is Kurt Lauderdale, I'm from Britain..what's your name?"
"My name is Mermicolion St. Haven...and you don't have a British accent...but I'm still glad your fingers are in my pussy, I guess."
"Oh, no, we did away with that, everyone's American now anyway, right? Anyway, on with the interview...we've heard you're America's foremost expert on vampire dinosaurs, is this true?"
"Yes, although how this would interest the readers of Dog Fancy magazine, I truly fail to see. But keep your fingers in there, please, I just wish you'd removed your signet ring."
"Anyway, have you managed to sight any of these vampire dinosaurs as of yet?"
"No, no, mostly it's just been drawing lots of pictures of them on yellow legal pads, buying chicken at wal-mart to spread around my house at night, you know, waiting...they're all out in a canyon somewhere, in New Mexico, wearing lace ruffs around their necks..."
"Hmmm, hmm, yes...I thought you'd be more bookish, Ms. St. Haven.."
"Oh, well...I do have half a paperback copy of Herman Melville's Moby Dick stapled into my underwear as a sanitary napkin..."

and from here it degenerates into a discussion of choose your own adventure novels, and how to dance when you're pushing a cart full of money around, and we're laughing and making out, and it's like the last year didn't happen, that creep isn't even there anymore, doesn't count on my bad decision abacus anymore, because we're going to do this thing, we're going to untangle the Christmas lights every year together, we're going to walk down the aisle to November Rain, we're going to be edgy and delicious and faintly aroused at all times, we're going to play dress-up, we're going to laugh at the baby in the 99 cent store holding the bone, we're going to dance at light rock express and wave around butcher knives at cocaine parties, we're going to lie in bed and drink Lone Star and twitch and giggle and fucking make it like it's the easiest origami creature ever...it's not drugs, or novelty, or physical beauty, or any of this, it's something intangible in my ribcage, I feel like I'm going to throw up when I think of how rare and fine it is, when we're together, the band stops playing and tells us how amazing we look, strangers come up to us and take our pictures and tell us we're beautiful, and we hold our hands in the air and say 'sorry, sorry, we're busy looking at each other right now. Please bring us some gin.'

Fucking real real real love. It's for better people than me, but don't tell the little baby jesus that. Not yet, anyway.

I'm totally getting married. Meta meta meta married.

Thursday, October 7, 2004

2:53PM - The mystique of household cleaning products.

Current Obsession: Once again, we're on the inherent poorness of the English language. Contest- whoever can think of the best word to describe the feeling that occurs when you realize someone you've made out with is now affecting an english accent even though they're from Ohio, well...you get a poster of Michael Jackson hugging E.T. And maybe a box of raisinettes (has been opened).

Tuesday night, I decided it would be just a grand plan to bake a pecan pie, you know, to prove to J that I am a whore in the kitchen as well as in the bedroom. And this just happens to coincide with Wendy's plan to drink three bottles of wine with me. So I'm making the pie, vacuuming the carpet, snorting at Wendy, then she gets into the story of How I Got Into Booty Bumps. This was a fascinating tale involving an ex-boyfriend of hers fucking Christina Applegate, I'm thinking circa 1994, and how she took him home from a party, put on a negligee, and brought out a fucking mountain of cocaine on a mirror and handed him a little spoon (I'm imagining the collectible kind with different cities engraved on the handle, the kind my best friend in elementary school collected. But whatever, you imagine whatever kind gets you through the night.) Anyway, then, she said..."I want you to SHOVE this up my ASS, then LICK it imMEDIATELY afterwards...", so anyway, it was a great story, the moral of which was 'shove some cocaine up your ass soon, cause it's fucking aaaaawesome.'

So I get so into this story that I forgot the pie, and it started burning because gas ovens are for witches to push self-indulgent german children into, not for actual cooking, right? Right. I got it out in time, but it was still runny in the middle, so I started stabbing it angrily with my knockoff ghinsu knife I got at the 99 cent only store, then for some reason we HAD to go to Wendy's and look at old pictures and drink more wine, and the situation just fucking degenerated into this stomachache wrapped around the chrysalis of a hangover tucked into the pocket of a moldy windbreaker somewhere. Then she went to bed. Then I stumbled over to my neighbor's house who I was discussing having a potluck with, like, two weeks ago, and decided it would be a really good idea to leave a note on his door about how I really, really fucking want to have a fucking potluck, man! And it's two o'clock in the fucking morning, and I'm climbing up the steps to home, and hey! My new neighbor Paul is still up, cause he never sleeps or wears a shirt or closes his front door or lets me get by without a four minute conversation, right, and he's sitting on his couch eating what looks like chex mix doused in barbecue sauce, with a mothafuckin' SPOON, right, and so of course I have to drink some of HIS wine, and we had a little conversation that goes like this. But imagine it performed by shadow puppets, to lend it some kind of air of cultural importance.

"You know...I bought this couch for my parents 25 years ago, and I'm amazed at just how well it goes with this carpet."

"Oh wow. I like, totally baked a pie today because my boyfriend is coming to visit. He is sooo beautiful, you know, paul."

(Paul knows all about beauty. He has a gold stencil of his name glued to the dashboard of his car. It says "Paul" all scripty and stands up next to the bobble-head chihuahua orchestra he's got glued in there. I'm imagining they don't have anything to do with the drinking glass full of used Lady Bics on the floor, though.)

"Oh, that's great. That's great. Well, I'm also producing some religious plays, at the moment, you know. And, I think I'll start a prayer treatment on you" (Michael says 'well, it's about time SOMEONE did.')

"Ohhhh, neat. That's just what I need. Bases covered, yes. You know, my fucking pie is still runny in the middle! Sound and fury, Karo syrup, signifying nothing, Paul!"

"All Ball Paul haha....why not put it in the microwave?"

(At this point, I had fetched the pie to show him, and was drinking the extra syrupy liquid that was threatening to tip out of the pie shell.)

"Oooh, good idea, how long should I put it in for?...can I interview you??"

"Oh, I'd say about six minutes, of course you can!"

(So I go put the pie in the microwave right about here, completely forgetting that it's in an ALUMINUM pie tin. And, I missed the light show because I was next door 'interviewing' Paul. All I have are some notes I can't read most of, but what follows are the bits I can read.)

I was vaccinated with a phonograph needle
I was captain of the ROTC for a while
There was this gal who wore a vest and weighted a ton...
Live now, cause now is where it's AT.
She bought his house...twice!
She was yelling 'God! He died in the living room and we couldn't find GLENN!'
In the 1920's my uncle owned a shop called 'The Toggery'
In the 1930's Rose aborted 2 of their children, she spun the baton in parades.
Viola, the sister of my grandfather, would put on a swedish costume from time to time, courted a longshoreman for 9 years, which I think is an extremely long courtship.

And the pages are all stuck together with pecan pie goo. And now we're fucking friends or something, because he stuck a Wonder Woman sticker that looks like it's spent the last four years fading on some notebook discarded in the Kalahari, and has obviously been torn in two and pieced back together, onto my front door, which he wants to paint pink for me, and he put the hubcaps back on my car for me, and ugh. This new friendship shaped like a polio spine alone is an extremely good reason to stop drinking.

Six hours to J. I couldn't sleep last night, it's like Christmas, except there's going to be hardcore fucking, probably in the front seat of my car.

p.s. The pie looks all right.

Tuesday, October 5, 2004

3:25PM - Space Mystery-In Which Our Heroine Discovers That She Is Where You Go To Die.

Current Obsession- Book lungs. And the biographical notes of the contributers to "Edie". More on this later, oh, much more.

Last week outside Sound Exchange I heard one black homeless man say to another "Man, she'd be on fire in a wheelchair and still wanna fuck." And I thought that was so motherfucking charming that I took them both home for Cream of Wheat, then we had a great time reading 70's romance comics out loud to one another. (only one half of that story is true.)

Thursday, I left school early because it was finally not-hot, and went and got Michael and we drove out to the Value Village in Pasadena, with him pointing out along the way important markers in his past, the sporting goods store he worked in, the library, the mall parking lot where he lost his virginity...then I bought some 70's modular storage for 2.30 and a pair of dead brazilian hooker shoes for 2.00.


Thursday night I dreamed I was on a pontoon boat riding across a gigantic marsh with my younger brother and a lady who very much resembled the wife of t.v.'s 'the crocodile hunter'. We rode through the algae-covered bay with Mrs. crocodile shouting "We must hurry! We must get to them in time!", until we came across an abandoned beauty parlor floating in the center of the marsh. Of course, we had to get out and have a look, my brother and I, and we went inside, and up the spiral staircase, to a closet, where we found a box of antique screw-on earrings that we just had to upend all over the floor, then match with their mates. Meanwhile, Mrs. Crocodile was shouting "There's no time, none at all! We must get to them, now!" but we were occupied with the finery of yesteryear, and simply waved her away. I called him in Illinois to tell him about this dream, and he took a break from practicing with his Led Zeppelin cover band to say "Ahyuhhhh...ca-reeepy."

Friday night, we went to a birthday party at an all-nude, bring-your-own-beer strip club, and I promptly ripped my dangly earring off with the aluminum pull-tab of my Lone Star tallboy, and it of course went straight into the can, where I had to feel around for it with my tongue when i got close to the bottom. It was like Cracker Jacks, except I got fuckin' drunk. And I mean, I got really drunk. I remember relating how I learned about where babies come from by reading my mother's copy of "spiritual midwifery" with the fold-out centerfold of the hippie lady giving birth, everybody all russian-icon halos and bell bottom jeans, when Michael countered that his mom used to sew anatomically correct dolls for use in court rooms 'for extra money'. The idea that they would wear those things out regularly is very upsetting. Or that there's a pattern somewhere for them that you can buy...Anyway, I was rude to my friends, and I threw up, and I have to say that I deserve throwing up for being rude to my friends.

Wendy told me a story Friday night about walking in right in the middle of her neighbors' tragicomic death scene, replete with k-mart dinnerware plates full of cocaine being thrown into the toilet, and 'baby baby please don't die on me * and baby goes gurgle gurgle right here* baby pleeease', and Wendy said 'Well, i wasn't gonna give her mouth-to-mouth...she was wearing these dirty, dirty SWEATPANTS...' So Wendy calls up the ambulance, and then feels that she should let this same couple run an extension cord from her house when their electro gets shut off a week later (cause p.s. baby didn't die gurgle gurgle) (And this is the part of the show at which Fumiko later remarks 'They're like fuckin' Rats of Nimh over there!!') and then they got kicked out. And then I found twenty dollars. Whatever.

Saturday night it seemed like a good idea to get coked up in the bathroom at the bar with two girls in matching outfits and play foosball with strangers, and talk about Queen Elizabeth, and take some boy who wouldn't let me call him Chopsy home with me. But it wasn't. And I know that's too much information to cram into a 'The More You Know' t.v. commercial, so i'm saying it right here. It's not a good idea. I could've been at home chewing all those old copies of 'watchtower' to bits, I mean, I have a whole stack to get through by Christmas. But no, out looking for thrills, or at least something expensive to make me look cool when I'm rubbing it into my gums.

Yesterday I came home for lunch to find a car parked in my space. A car with a drinking glass full of used Lady Bic razors in the front seat, that is. And at the top of the stairs, where he's created a totally un-avant cute environs, complete with a rake and a little plant in a cheerful bucket, and a piece of moldy carpet so disgusting that I can't even begin to choreograph a modern dance cycle about it, is my new neighbor. And he starts chattering when he sees me coming up the stairs and didn't stop, I'm betting, until I was way down deep under my pink satin comforter with the door locked and chained, listening to Ricki Lee Jones and pretending I don't have some magnet in my ass that attracts people like this to me. I swear, it's some kind of uncomfortable Radar Love that doesn't have anything to do with my hands wet on the wheel, no, it has more to do with a wet fucking piece of gross carpet he probably found behind Pak's Stop'n'go that I'm going to have to look at/smell/and let's just say it, fight the urge to get on my hands and knees and taste jest a li'l bit every fucking day. It's like...when elephants know they're going to die, and they perk their heads up and start a solitary trudge towards that one spot that they've known about in their archival subconscious since time immemorial. Except completely devoid of nobility and nature's glory, and with the theme song from 'Born Free' covered by Bon Jovi in the background, and also substitute crazy people who won't fucking stop talking to you about what it was like raising silver foxes for fun and profit on atom bomb test sites in 1957 for the majestic elephant, and substitute me for the elephant graveyard.

I don't know why I feel I'm too good to make conversation with the old hippie in the plaid shirt, really. This is the kind of hubris that leads to me thinking I can put on mascara without turning the bathroom light on, even though the floor is scattered with the skeletons of those who've failed before me. I just don't have time to be nice to people and listen to their stories that will probably never, ever contain directions to a really good 99 cent store.

Two days to J arriving here, and oh. I always feel this way before I see him, that I've just been tricking him into liking me, and that this time he's going to figure it out, take one look and go 'heeeeeyyyy...I sent in all those box tops and this is what I get? This fucking glow-in-the-dark jelly spider won't even walk down the WALLS, man." Then for some reason, he surprises me by still being charmed, or pretending like a mothafuck. I am so into this for once and if justice hasn't been too busy watching The Surreal Life, then this will be the part of the show where I get really hurt. Considering what i did to R. this summer in Illinois, and the things i did to make him order me to drink my big black cow and get out of here, already, it would be completely fair of the universe to reduce me to a little pile of goo with a megadeth pin floating on the top. Cut to me, sitting in the dark and chewing up five hundred baby aspirin, all "I'll never love...again." When it happens, I'll know I deserve it, and I won't make much noise, I promise. But I really want this to be that scratch'n'sniff sticker that never, ever loses its smell.

Thursday, September 30, 2004

2:42PM - A Little Golden Book about the Hansa League.

Current Obsession: The Gunter Grass school of interior design. When I moved last time, I got rid of 3/4 of my books and music. I dragged that shit to the half price and did my little winkwinknudgenudge no waaaaay do these have silverfish in 'em, baby! routine. And now I have only the books and records that I think I'll read again, or give to someone else to read. But lately there's been a disturbing influx into my life of people who come to my house and go straight to the bookshelf, looking for something to ooh over, and end up questioning why I still have my John Bellairs books from the seventh grade. Look, honey, a 145 page book full of supernatural latin incantations, 1940's studebakers, and a heroine in a propeller beanie can dial my number any old time, and I'm not giving that shit up until I die twitching in the Mexican desert on top of a burning pile of 1980's hot rod magazines. So I got rid of all my Gunter Grass novels, except The Tin Drum, and dammit, now nobody knows how smart I am. Sniff. 'Ceptin' my mom and the good people at Popeye's who read/answer/correct the punctuation in all the letters I've been sending demanding them to bring back collard greens. (Not for me, i have a friend who really likes them. Not for me.)

I was demonstrating to Michael the other day my 'it puts the lotion in the basket' voice and he said "uhhhh, stop, it sounds like some old pederast....but he can't get it up so...he uses a chocolate dildo!"

Last night I went to Union and had an interesting discussion with my neighbor about how we'd never fuck a reptile, because you can only look into one of their eyes at once. Then Julian came over to my house all speeded up and we sat on my couch and did a duet to 'Pulling Mussels From The Shell', and I stared at his Greek Statue nose and just wanted to shoot my face off.

Tableaux after tableaux, all piling up in a moldy old basket in the Rite-Built aluminum shed, I did this and I did that, as sufi says, "I appreciate a good kick to the shin by small asian women wearing pleated skirts saying "You're just making up your whole life for attention"" Where's my asian woman? Where's my shin? I am beginning to feel that my body cannot withstand all this scenery I am mashing it onto, a giant waitress on the outskirts of town is jotting down each misadventure, and affixing a price to each, and soon she'll march into the bathroom and haul me from the windowsill just before I jump out and get away without paying the bill. Send me back into the kitchen, washing dishes for a century with both arms tied together with ripcords. Like a soap opera, not one single day goes by without some kind of self-defining moment, or a painfully self-aware joke about cannonball run as intricately layered with irony as an obsessive/compulsive preacher's wife's arduous attempt at three bean casserole, inspired by Stravinsky's Rite Of Spring and air freshener commercials. Or at the very least, oral sex with practical strangers who want to know where the fuck am I hiding all the Gunter Grass novels, yo. Aghhh! I'm sure I can find something here by another author with an umlaut, just wait a second!! No, wait! Show me the fire door OUT of this level of hell where you wake up to Cat Power lyrics written on the chalkboard on your door. Oh, I can't stand it, it's like World War Two all over again, I know how it's going to end up, but I can't tell anyone or it'll change the course of history, so I sit in the corner and roll bandages and bite my knuckles and help johnny afford his penny whistle so I can leap. Oh wait, that's a Quantum Leap episode, I confuse myself with Scott Bakula all the time, anymore. Identity is so liquid in today's culture. And so is eyeliner. Ugh.

Is it sick to paste all the compliments people give you into an old copy of the "Our Bodies, Ourselves Songbook" so nobody else will ever look in there?" Oh, all I ever really wanted was my name spelled out in rhinestones on Merle Oberon's tongue. And a white beret. And everybody to love me best forever, no matter what I did or said. And Prince's "Cream" to play in the background wherever I go. Ooh, and a party with roomfuls of laughter. Ten thousand tons of ice crrrream. That, too.

No. I really don't care if they know how smart I am. Or how pretty I am, or how intricate. This ain't a copy of "Thus Spake Helen Gurly Brown", already. Honestly, the little mouse behind my face is almost always dancing a mazurka with the glee of life being fun, life not being like my parents' life, of there always being space to jump up and down in, of eight dollar tights from Target. I am just tired. Tired and self-indulgent, they're like, these cousins, these cousins who totally, like, kiss, man.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

3:04PM - Whatever, I always wanted to fuck for money.

Reading: Krazy Kat and Ignatz

Current obsession: Today's current obsession has to do with a certain cultural phenomenon I have recently begun to painstakingly document in my Fat Li'l Notebook with the scratch'n'sniff hamburger stickers on it. I am calling it "The Nightfly Moment". English is such a poor language when it comes to intangible interpersonal sensations, really...there must be a word for this anomaly, probably in swiss, as I'd imagine it happens in the Alps with a stunning regularity. Anyway, this is the moment, the feeling, the watching and the seeing, when you're talking to a boy about records, or more specifically, record covers, and you hoist your hand in the air like a hatchet, lean your head in at an angle, and say "Dude, what about the cover of Donald Fagen's 'The Nightfly'?!" And just lean back and watch that little bell begin to ring. Watch that organ transplant take place in the operating theater of his heart. Smell the Shalimar factory where he keeps all his secret wishes for the girl he'd most love to love to love, baby, kick up and start producing smoky green glass bottles full of 1973's signature scent. Because every boy thinks he's the only one who's realized how amazing the cover of The Nightfly is. Anyway, this is a good activity for a rainy day, maybe if you've exhausted making pencil holders out of old "Cheri" mags and coffee cans, I did it three times last weekend, and it is fun. "With jazz and conversation. From the foot of Mount Belzoni."

Sufi says,"If love was a pair of orthopedic shoes this one would have been made with the same side of velcro on both sides so they never worked right."

I called Chris the night before last to tell him how nervous I am about J coming to stay, trying to maintain fun and being in love for four days, of course it will be completely effortless once it gets underway, hahaha, I mean, there are thrift stores and dinner theater to go to, all that mouldering havisham finery to model for one another, all those fish sticks wrapped in cold cuts to push around on a plate while watching Arsenic and Old Lace, god I just want this to go well so I can have a happy happy. Happy ever after. Anyway, Chris listens and says-

"Your nervousness, it's a little cat. A little tiny cat that crawls out of your mouth while you're asleep, heh heh ah,"

"A little cat?"

"A little cat, it crawls out and slits your throat!"

"It puts poison in my ear, all Shakespearean!"

"Yes, yes, haha, yes, it puts poison in your ear and runs around.."

"It goes in the living room and it takes my Heart records out of their sleeves and it scratches them up and places them back in the sleeves?"

"Yes, then it crawls back in your mouth."

Oh, man, and then I was not nervous anymore. I was more worried about this little cat thing going on.


Yesterday at work a mean Mexican police officer threw a Randall's bag full of merchandise they recovered from a shoplifter at me and told me I could put that stuff away now, he's done with it. Some drag queen had come into the store and stole a hundred and thirty seven dollars' worth of trash, including a red leatherette purse, two rhinestone rings, and a cow parade figurine that he broke the horn and the hoof off of, I'm imagining while he was running from Mean Mexican Police Officer in the Randall's. They caught him because he was trying to shoplift meat in the grocery store. But he actually went up to the counter and CHOSE a fucking CUT of meat, had them wrap it up, then put it in his purse. That is fucking ballsy, man. And I think that this guy was probably the Deus ex Machina, or the Cat Burglar Ex Machina that was sent to tell me to lay off the shoplifting, already. But i did sell both the rings by telling some rich River Oaks ladies the story about them, and they were both quite pleased to have the same taste as a thief, I mean drag queen.

Fumiko asked for my bio and description for the Diverseworks twelve minutes max show, and here it is-
Bio- A cannibal beatnik, an alabaster catastrophe, a narrative vampire, a memorizer of steely dan liner notes, a shoplifting solipsist, an opportunist with troubled teeth, a panda coin ring in a rainstorm, a new friend of your-name-here. Thin, from Illinois, has pocket money.

Description- "The Ugliest Shit I Have Ever Seen" is a full-on sensory experience, the hearing/seeing kind, that is, not the smelling/tasting kind. A slideshow presentation like the kind you'd see flickering on the wall of your least favorite great aunt after her tour of North American gift shops circa 1992. But fun, yo.

Last night the guy who works the 'confetti cannons' and strobe lights for Fischerspooner came over to my house and brought me a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin. When I mixed our drinks, I gave him Gilbey's brand, because I need to save the good shit for when my real true boyfriend comes, you know. So anyway, we're drinking the gin and tonics and talking all kinds of trash about confetti cannons and Fischerspooner, and I got really drunk and sent him home because he was nice, but geeky, really really geeky, and this morning I woke up and on my coffee table, I found a list he was helping me write of people I need to send fan letters to. Sean Na Na, Lynda Barry, and Lisa Crystal Carver were the only ones on it.

My Faulkner class is getting to be more and more like watching a Japanese game show. I have not read "Absalom, Absalom!", and so I have no idea what the fuck is going on most of the time, but every now and then, someone will be handed 400 yen for drinking champagne out of a gym shoe, and then I sort of get it for a moment, the bare plot of what's going on, that is. Because the underlying mystery culture, the oily, muscley stuff roiling underneath it and making it GO, is really still beyond me. I have read and understood the family tree in the frontispiece. I am cool with that much, at least.

I also wrote a paper this weekend for my ethnomusicology class. My only goal was to work a Ghostbusters reference into it. And I managed that shit, hardcore.

Sunday, September 26, 2004

5:15PM - Why, how often your circumstances are movie sized!

Reading: Jenny and the Jaws of Life by Jincy Willett
Current Obsession: My favorite moment in media history has to be in the Igia home hair removal system when the lady is in her bathroom perched on some fancy scrollwork metal stool with shaving foam getting everywhere and the scene looks totally gritty, man, like the floor at summer camp, and she's trying to shave her fucking leg and owwch, she jerks in pain because those damn lady bics are fine if you just wanna shave Andrew Rigley's initials into your bush, but if you're talking about real leg care and maintenance, then you need some Igia products. Right. Fucking. Now. I can totally commiserate with this lady, because I'm 24 years old, and I still can't shave my legs without cutting the shit out of my knees. The air of frustration mixed with blood mixed with Sweet Lavendar Moisturizing Shaving foam is palpable in this commercial, and I recognize myself in it, the fingers holding the razor outspread suddenly in painful supplication, oh give me, oh give me, oh just give me, a little pot of wax and someone from an island where they speak all clicky to smear it on me and yank it all off, put it in a metal bin, and make me smoother than Quentin Crisp on darvoset in a piano bar carved of ice. Except when I slice the shit out'n my knees, it's for real, and there's no hot lights overhead, no t.v. camera, and we're not going to swing out of the doors of the t.v. studio laughing in burberry raincoats, out to do tequila shots off other t.v. commercial actors, oh, no, it's just me, trying not to bleed on the yellow bath rug, and digging through outdated lotions bought at Big Lots to find the cheerful cartoon zodiac band-aids I bought at the 99 cents only store. Where are they, where are they, why here they are, and all I need is two easy payments of 19.99 to avoid the whole mess. Luxury, thy name is paraffin.

The Discreet Charm of the Differently Abled says:
IT people....
The Discreet Charm of the Differently Abled says:
does your t-shirt have a nigger joke on it in binary code??
Grisly Atoms says:
hahahahahahaha ! yes.
The Discreet Charm of the Differently Abled says:
aaaaaawesome.
Grisly Atoms says:
i had a stupid fucking dream last night that i was in a deserted part of israel ..in an abandoned parking lot ..and there were 3 hummers with 3 grisly bears each in them, chasing me back to my "rabbit hole"

+++J.A., someone in Texas loves your secret stuff.+++

Any. Way. If Saturday night in Houston Comma Texas is a tea party, with tiny sandwiches cut into the shape of amelia earhart's hands and women in picture hats discussing the latest person to bleed all over their jordache jeans at the last performance of Lohengrin, then Fumiko is Godzilla's left leg. And I am Godzilla's right leg. And come Sunday morning, our scaly toes will have Spode teacups wedged way the fuck up in between them, and we'll be picking our teeth with the bones of whatever tea party lady looked like she had the best cocktail of prescription medication in her.

Although we'd kind of said we would maybe tone it down after last weekend's awesomeness, if anything we exponentially expanded, cubed, reformatted, became much worse people. Much, much worse. The kind of people who go ahead and re-wind the cords on their airline earphones after being specifically asked not to do so because blind people do that for a job, yo. Just to get that sense of satisfaction that comes from rolling the cord juuuust right and perfect around those headphones.

It's the oldest story in the world, it's been told a million times, it starts with us going to a play about internet child molestors and papier mache turtles fucking, and it ends with a boy named Julian going down on me in a Schmancy Fancy Hotel Suite while I eat chocolate covered almonds from the mini-bar. Ha. So we went to the play, Trappakeepa and Girth, at Infernal Bridegroom productions, then we kicked it back to my house so I could change my shoes for dancing, but of course, as these things are wont to happen, my neighbor down the street has one of those inflatable moonwalk things in his front yard, and in true frat boy style, he and his pals are inside drinking Guinness instead of jumping the fuck up and down in that shit. So Fumiko and I knock on the door and ask permission to jump the fuck up and down in that shit. Permission granted, we do it, we take pictures of it, and it is awesome. Then we take off for Dansparc, where I spot the boy I was supposed to meet there, who I met on the Onion personals, but he does not look like Crispin Glover. Oh no. He looks like Crispin Glover and Bat Boy *of Weekly World News fame* have had a baby and dressed it in rave gear they found on fire behind a Piggly Wiggly. Anyways, that wasn't on, but how was I to know, he seemed okay on the phone when he was wowing me with his knowledge of victorian uses of quinine...About this time, some dykey girl saw fit to gift me with a stick-on mustache, which made me feel super-sly while I was stroking it (the mustache, honey.) and dancing to Blur.

Oh anyway. We took off for The Magnolia with Julian, a friend of Charles, who has some kind of charming Polish or Italian or something accent and is amazed by anyone who has heard of the same bands he has, and if they own it on vinyl, well, hoooah, he is wanting to have the baby of them this person, yes. Young, young, beautiful, young, and a red plastic crucifix around the neck to chew on. Oh, this is just like my birthday but without the two dicks in my ass. Oh, right, back to the motif. Okay. So. He is gifting me with his New York Dolls patch, he is taking pictures of us with a stranger's digicam, he is thinking Fumiko is super hot and awesome (no kidding, hello, will someone please just make a sandwich board in this direction and hire some kind of indigent to wear it?), he is wearing a wool suit, he is getting Charles to give us a luxury suite. We are taking a bath together, he is washing my hair. We are drinking tiny bottles of liquor that I thought were specifically meant to offer to squat bronze statues of gods in chinese restaurants, but it turns out no, you can drink them, you can get drunk off of them and take baths with skinny polish boys who want the plastic catholic iconography chewed right off them. He is having perfect collarbones for drinking Bailey's off of. We are in bed, me Julian Fumiko, he is under the covers between my legs, all accent and tongue, Fumiko and I are watching some Carol Lombard movie where everyone has awesome hair that they don't even make the chemicals to create any more, and drapey Edith Head numbers, and every time there's a cultural reference that wakes up the aesthete in his heart, Julian goes a bit off-task and I have to lead him back to the trophy-case in the middle-school between my legs to examine more closely the etching on THAT trophy, right THERE, yes, that one right THERE, and all of a sudden it's feeling verrrrry nice, and Fumiko and I are talking about Dashiell Hammett (again.) and Julian is on task, and the in the Carol Lombard picture, everyone's hoisting their forks up full of the gourmet flavours of 1932, and the maltese falcon, and sam spade, and then I get onto Lillian Hellman and goodness that's feeling good, but at this moment in cinema orgasm history, he raises his head and says in that accent "Ohhh, Youh know Lillian Hellman!?!". And it's over, it's over, screen says 'The End', and it was. Home to cold Pad Thai noodles and my Hitachi, and a bitch faced hangover today that I deserve even more than all my spelling bee plaques put together.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

1:41PM - to santeria, with love

I woke up at five this morning from a dream that was a mutation of the film "To Sir With Love" and some kind of voodoo goings-on. All the inner-city London kids, headed of course by everyone's favorite big-faced singing tart, Lulu, were being led in a ritual by Sidney Poitier in Sta-Prest slacks, weilding a flaming chicken's head held at a rakish angle. Drove to school with a nyquil hangover to pretend I know what's going on in Faulkner's 'Absalom, absalom!".

I had a date on Tuesday night with an insistent gem of an ex(?) new-waver named Roland. Even though I was pleased only because the phlegm in my chest had started breaking up, apparently he mistook this for excitement about his description of the brooch he used to wear every day in high school. Cause he was new wave. All four years, baby. And after dragging me out to some godforsaken SPORTS bar, new wavers against wood paneling, of all things, he stopped by the convenience store for a bottle of wine. And a six pack. And a penthouse forum, because, because, because he thought we could read the letters to one another. Uh. But of course I was nice and polite and took the penthouse forum and the beer and the wine and bid him goodnight, perhaps another time when you can describe another brooch.

And jaques will be here in two weeks. I need to make an advent calendar with a different perversion under each flap.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

12:43PM - double-ended, statuesque.

Thursday night I went over to Christopher's house to watch "Freaks", the 1930 film starring Violet and Daisy Hilton, conjoined hotass twins extraordinaire. We're working on a concept for our five minute puppet show about siamese twin sex, but instead of really paying attention to inter-twin relationship dynamics, I spent the whole time sketching their eyebrows and yelping "I wish I had those eyebrows and she had better ones! I wish I had that midget's wardrobe and she had a better one!" and eating filo dough with spinach and fending off Christopher's feely hands. Keep 'em in the puppets, buddy. It should be quite something if it comes together, I've never made anything before that involved so many aspects of creating. The idea is that we'll have this siamese twin hand puppet, with one of our hands in each so they have distinctly different movements.

So Friday night I went to Cat Power with Michael, and we stood there for about three songs with him spelling out 'boringboring boring' on my back with his finger before we decided to get out of there. I couldn't stand there and watch old Chan chew on every word that spilled out of her mouf, especially when every song sounded the same. So somehow we accidentally got on 59, and ended up at Spotlight Karaoke, where it was David W.'s birthday, and his girlfriend eagerly dragged us into their private room with shrieks and insistencies I was all too happy to oblige. Ever since I moved to Houston, people have been coming up to me and saying 'oh, there's this girl who looks JUST LIKE YOU, which was flattering at first, because she's super-cute and all, but damn, I'll bet no one ever tells HER that she looks like ME. And michael said "Oh, well, that's because not enough people KNOW you", then flits up to the stage to do "Into the Groove". I did end up having a silo full of fun, though, as I got to sing "Angie Baby", which no one knew, but it is in the universal language of creepy badass, and so the message leaked through. I stopped in the middle to shriek "Is this not the best song ever written about a girl sucking her rapist into a radio?!I think it is!", and then lalala, we went home, where I had a bootie call waiting with his bike in my living room, and fucking biting my lip and making fun of my THX-1100 belt I paid three dollars for out on Gessner. At least this time he waited until after MY orgasm to go into his wailing guilty jew routine. "Oh god oh god, I'm such a shit, I wasn't going to DO this again, but I had all those drinks, and. and. and I love your slutty pussy." Ugh uhg uuuhhh...Get out of my bed, Philip Roth. And the answer to "I just think I need to ride my bike around for a while, do you mind if I don't sleep here??" is always, always gonna be...nope. It's funny, when he's not jewing out, just standing still and not shrieking about what a tuuurrible tuurrrrible person he is, he really reminds me of my childhood friend Emily Graves. She had a glass eye and we used to amuse ourselves for hours letting her pet canary out of the cage, then staging yelpy awful 'oh god oh god, how will we get tweeeeety back???!' searches throughout the house, although we knew good and well Tweety was up on top of the refrigerator, perched on top of her parents' stash box. Anyway, he sort of reminds me of her, except he's a better fuck. By a small margin. ha, ha.

And in case anyone out there is wondering what the right breakfast is to have after a night of champagne and ecstasy, the answer, and I've done CAREFUL research, is two cups of tapioca pudding and a peppermint/chocolate bubble tea. And can I just say, Last. Night. Was. So great. Fucking drugs. When Fumiko got to my house, I really thought I'd been gypped, that these were probably just baby aspirin somebody had painted with their Prang watercolors and passed off to the white girl who buys her drugs at a Mexican restaurant. At a Mexican CHAIN restaurant, at that. Then we took 'em, and in about half an hour Fumiko is rubbing her hands through her hair and going oh, don'tcha tingle? Don'tcha feel neat? and I'm all 'um no, no, no..wait, I think I feel something, no...' But it must be said that Fumiko is about fifteen minutes ahead of me in all things, but when I caught up, oh, honey. Somehow we spent three hours in my house listening to Heart and Dexy's Midnight Runners and ELO and I'm going a mile a minute telling her about the Cartoon Theory of Girlhood, and what I'm going to do with myself, and being a narrative vampire, and blah blah, and we're jumping up and down and going 'I feel good, i feel gooood!' at each other. Finally, we get it together to go out, and we headed down to Union for The Fabulous Party, which I'd gotten a flier for earlier in the day. The picture was some kind of model who looked like she spent her down-time sucking lint off peppermints she foraged from the bottom of the Kate Spade handbags of more fortunate models, I wish someone had told her that the flier for The Fabulous Party was not going to get her anywhere, if the attendance of The FAbulous Party was any indication. Because that place was packed with drunk asian kids and one creepy shark of a 1973 Sears model, all slicked-back hair and cravat and tight polyester shirt, but tucked in. Tucked in to jeans. Tucked into...JNCO carpenter pants. "OH, YES! The 'no one is going to look below my waist' theory of getting dressed. Right right right." I just wanted to go because the flier said that the person they 'deam'(haha) to be the most fabulous was going to be awarded a bottle of champagne, and I had total Cars album cover shoes on, and some dangly earrings I 'borrowed' from work, so I was just there looking for someone to ask where I could pick up my bottle of champagne, yo, but I never got a chance, because apparently Fumiko and I needed to make an appearance at a fucking LAS SKARNALES show. We sincerely thought it was Danseparc. We really did. When you prepare your face for a crowd of white belts, busy trading appraising glances and rare erase errata singles, and instead you're confronted with a crowd of Mexican teenagers in plaid, fucking SKANKING around half-heartedly to the dulcet sounds of las skarnales, the only thing to do is run away. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. So we ended up downtown at the Magnolia, where Chas works the desk, and he let us into the pool on the 23rd floor and gave us a bottle of champagne (for not being asian sears models in JNCO pants), and we drank that shit and dumped the bottle in the hot tub and watched it swoosh around and talked about la-uvv, then I went and got it done to me hardcore in a handicapped stall in the lah-di-dah bathroom, looking out on the glorious houston skyline and trying to keep my dangly stolen earrings out'a my mouf. Hotels-fun. Fumiko-fun. Kylie Minogue-fun, but in a kitten-with-three-legs kind of way. Champagne-fun. Cars album cover shoes-fun. Ska-not fun. Fabulous Parties-not fun. Teenagers-not fun. Drugs-fun.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

1:44PM - Just don't let the world end while I'm pooping.

Reading: Lynda Barry's "One Hundred Demons"

I'm really worried about this new hair color. I was working for a kind of Jodi Foster in Taxi Driver, but half Korean and without the floppy hat kind of look, but I ended up with more of an 'awww, they let that retarded girl take classes at Lasandra's Beauty College at last! I'm GLAD we signed that petition, aren't you, Earl?' kind of aesthetic.

Last night I did laundry with my rockabilly neighbor, Wendy. I met her at Poison Girl last week when she shrieked "YOUUUU just moved INNNN next to MEEEE!" and was two minutes later starting to get the lowdown on her luuuv life, all 'oh yes, oh yes? tell me more!' when Jon drug me out of the bar. So yesterday we drank some malibu like real true fancy types who can't afford cocaine for the tips of their lee press-on nails just right this minute, thank you, and got the lowdown on Traci Gold's unfortunate drunk driving accident off'a the 'Entertainment Tonight" web site. How meta-meta-lifetime-meta fiction would it be if Traci Gold played Traci Gold in a lifetime movie about Traci Gold's drunk driving accident? Or, even better, if Traci Gold played Traci Gold and Traci Gold's husband and three children? With Judith Light making a seminal appearance as Traci Gold's SUV? And Kirk Cameron as a bottle of Raspberry-Kiwi Boone's Farm? Get me the head of Lifetime movie network on the phone, I think we have another winner!! Or at least something that will get us a back table at the emmys this year, something with a nice, long tablecloth for the escorts to suck us off under...

Then I went home to make postcards of my naked lady flier to send to people too busy with their children and school work to come visit me, the selfish bastards. I put on my black box recorder albums and took off my clothes to clean the house and fold the laundry. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting in my kitchen window in my skivs, eating yoghurt, when the couple who lives across from me came out to their car. The girl caught sight of me up in the window and did a 'hey you're practically naked' double take, to which I replied with a 'so what the fuck'a you lookin' at, hey?' professional whitegirl head twitch and arm gesture combo the likes'a which you never did see on the Lawrence Welk show, and she looked away instantly. I felt really crushingly bad almost immediately. Ever since then, they both pretend to be on their dime-sized cell phones every time we're all in the parking lot together, while I dance around their periphery nodding my head in an encouraging manner, 'look at me, look at meee...so i can wave hello....friend, FRIEND...!"

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who think it's completely normal to shave the hair off their arms, and those who think those people are fucking wah-eird!! I am of the latter. Arm hair a very important evolutionary attribute! It is there to stand up when you are in danger, and so other people know you are not anorexic, because you have normal arm hair and not downy skinny creep arm hair, yo. So, don't shave off your arm hair if you were thinking of doing so. Unless you are a hardcore bike rider, and then do so by all means because it will be one more way for me to spot people I don't want to talk to.

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