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Archive for January, 2007

(alternately titled, The Entry That Jumps About Spastically And With Much Enthusiasm In Its Voice)

I’m not a big fan of licorice-flavored anything, but Jägermeister (especially when absolutely free) by its very nature makes you not care much at all about its taste. What a charmer, that little liquer. There was excellent hunting last night, oh yessir.

There were Other Things consumed, most of which I canna recall the names for. It was pretty much, “WHAT? You BOUGHT ME ANOTHER DRINK?? I will show my gratitude by heaving it back fetchingly!” And also, apparently, by requesting that you stand guard outside the laydeh’s facilities while I go make room for more libations.

There was mirror dancing. Sometimes I am of a mind to dance with a partner. Sometimes I just want to slide into that zone where you are the music and your brain doesn’t so much work in concert with your body as it does sit in the back seat and watch what unfolds. Last night was just such a night.

“That girl!” yelled Brandy over the hard thrum that pushed us all, “She exists in a place all her own!” Tess heartily agreed and professed a love of that particular thing.

We all laughed mightily at P, who stepped waaaaay out of his Republican Comfort Zone in order to accompany us. The just-divorced sadness in his eyes was replaced with an uneasy watchfulness, at least for a time. His worst fears were realized when, five minutes past the front door, he was openly hit on by a middle-aged guy in a bad Hawaiian shirt. It was terrific! After I got a couple drinks poured down his gullet, his back loosened and he was heard laughing and saying ‘WOW’ a lot.

The four of us girls (haha P, haha) stepped out of the car and into the receiving area of the establishment. Tess surveyed three-quarters of us in the mirrored landscape: “How ’bout we are some taaaall bitches strolling up into this joint!” All in heels, we each sailed past six feet with ease. The Army Of Amazon is up in here to take over, y’all.

I was introduced around by the inimitable Payphone Mike (the very man!), and I million-watted in the direction of each of these people because my friend was proud of me, of my being there, and we love one another so fiercely. We hugged and kissed and ooohed over one another and kissed some more; I couldn’t seem to keep from cupping his face in my hands, from looking up at him to beam. It is like this when you have a friend who saved your life and whose laughter you sail on when the tears threaten to pull you into their undertow. It is like this when you saved his life just so you would have opportunity to remind him of things like Greater Purpose and Genuine Connection To The Human Race.

There were Happenings:

+ “The third gay man down the bar is impressed with your piece,” said Brandy, “He wants to come talk to you about it, but he’s shy.” Of course the tattooed arm that she was referring to immediately went into the ‘HAIL, COMPLETE STRANGER! COME JOIN MEEEE!’ gesture. He did, we talked for a good fifteen minutes, this shy, well-manicured man and me. It started with, “I love that tattoo.” and wrapped up with “Let me buy you a drink!” Well, okay, I’m not done with this one yet, but okay-okay. Okay!

+ Normally I am not one to think much of boys with turned-backwards ballcaps. Club staffers, either, but there was this one who was appealing; I was dared to go up and ask him, “Is is against the rules for you to make out while you are on the clock?” I did, much to the hoot-and-hollery delight of my companions and three or four bystanders.

+ I, the smoke-while-drinking type of person, would no more pull out a stick before this one particular girl magically appeared before me with a lighter. This happened no less than five times. She was taller than even the Amazon Wrecking Crew, so I began to imagine her some sort of spiky-haired Dark Angel Of Nicotine Transgressions. Her boots were great, as were her shoulders, but she never overtly hit on me.

+ Dear Glowstick Dancer: THANK YOU.

+ Somebody, while I was distracted (“ooooh, there are liiiiightsessss”) pushed a business card into my hands. On its flipside there was an inscription: ‘I <3 U!’ That made me go a big grinny, because it’s nice to be loved in a non-threatening manner by the random passerby. So delighted was I that I stuck the card just in front of my carefully-contained cleavage and sported it about for the remainder of the night.

+ Chocolate-chip waffles at four ay emm will ward off next-day hangovers. I swear by it. Procure some, even if it means that you will have to put up with Some Biker Guy Who Just Pulled Up Outside The Window By Our Booth making bold eye contact and then even bolder gestures with his tongue not once, but twice. After he came in, Brandy hid her head while I issued the basic “Go fuck yourself, James Dean.” but Tess mouthed ‘ohgodohgod, here we gooooo’ around a spate of giggling. P was just very, very drunk and kept saying, “What just happened?”

+ At some point during Teh Festivitiestm, I made up my mind good and solid to re-moniker Payphone Mike. I announced this to him and began to address him as The Prime Minister, and there is no looking back.

+ ‘We Are Family’ came on the radio during the ride to the club. All kinds of hell broke loose in that car. Curse you, Audblog, and your now-defunct status!

+ There was drunkdialing. Der. Don’t you people know me at all?

I ended up in my driveway (designated drivers are magic, w00t!), bare feet on cold concrete, speaking sweetness with my heart, but remarkably lacking in words. I said goodnight to my travelling companions both near and far and stood for a moment being warmed by what The Prime Minister said as he was putting me in the car lo those few hours prior.

“I nearly started crying when I saw you come through that door. I did. It’s just so fucking incredible to see you, girl.”

more valuable than money

:: love sans strings: ahhhh, great delight! ::

|| January 12, 2007 || 6:45 pm || Comments (5) ||

Shopping for clubwear with Tess:

“I swear, if you show me one more shiny, short-sleeved track jacket, I will wrap my hands around your throat and choke. you. to. death.”

She then held up a t-shirt that said, ‘Party Like A Southern Girl’ on it and raised her eyebrows in a sort of ‘maaaaayyyyybe?’ gesture.

“That seals it: You have lost your fucking mind.”

A few minutes later we settled on a top that made us both squeal. She pushed the hanger toward me, and I noticed something.

“Awwwww, it’s a size too small!”

She thrust it further toward me and set her mouth.

Work it, sister.”

Words are necessary to my survival. Shit, I thought you knew that?

Earlier I sat languidly in the bath, watching the bubbles in a bottle of coconut oil. Hello, oxygen! and before you know it, you are engrossed in something so simple and gorgeous right there in the imprecise center of the ordinary and perhaps mundane. That was a long fucking sentence. Where has all my heartily-abused-but-never just-plain disregarded-like-this punctuation functioning gone?

This coconut concotion is something I started doing about six months ago. More and more I find myself leaning toward the realm of natural and homeopathic where my prettifying crap is concerned. I mix one part coconut oil to one part almond oil and put it in a glass bath bottle I have no idea how I procured. It just sorta showed up one day expecting to be used and so I did; I used it.

Anyway, coconut oil comes solid but is an almost-immediate melt under the warmth of a touch. Float the jar in some hot water and be amazed at the transformation, kids. Almost as good as those little pills that come out of their compact existence when left to soak for a few days: To swell x amount of times in size, to take on extra molecules, to somehow creepily –after the initial spate of delight passes– feel like slippery deadweight.

Pour up equal parts of the oils (and lately I have a secret ingredient, shh) into a pump or squeeze container and start moisturizing with it about three times a week.

I gave Tess this recipe a couple of weeks ago. We do a spa day every so often; she gets a pedi and facial and I get a massage. On our last one, I came in, bundled in floppy clothes. “Here,” I said, and tossed a plastic bottle at her.

“Whaaaat’s theeeees bobby?” she said, intrigued.

“I want you to try it during my massage today. You might want to start using it on all your clients.” She took a long, eyebrows-raised sniff of it and by the end of the session she was praising my name. Liked it so much that she started using it herself.

Today, she was running around the office, proclaiming joy and swearing by the concotion.

“My buhht is! as! smooooth azza baby’s!! Here, wanna feel?” or “Wanna feel my butt? It is smoooooth.” My head got all swelldyish at one point, when I realized that yes indeedy, I do in fact contribute to humanity.

The last time that Tess and I bonded over bath products was also the last instance I can recall having made an impulse purchase solely for self. We rolled up into the Orlando airport loaded for bear. If by bear, we all mean hella sweet bathgoodies.

We landed in a shop that was desolately empty save for the counter girl. Tess and I were cutting up –in a lowkey fashion for us– and the young woman managed to fall in with us. We left with two bags for each of us: One had our purchases, the other was stuffed slap full of every sample I could’ve wanted. Shit, it was great.

So I’ve been thinking about the bond of humor, and how valuable a commodity it is in this bloated, disconnected world of ours. Tess is effortless in her execution of The Funny. Sometimes I feel I’m being pulled along behind and simply endeavor to play the damned finest straight man I can. It works. Everywhere we go, we seem to leave laughter in our wake.

I saw this guy, Baton Bob, the other day and that fucker made me grin for hours: “I don’t care if people are laughing at me or with me. The point is, they’re laughing.” Yes sir, BB, that is indeed the fucking spirit. And you have some entirely fabulous legs.

So that leads us to my overall point: Make the airport clerk bust a wide smile; be a fucking ambassador when you travel, folks. It doesn’t matter if the extent of your travels is to the mailbox. There’s the mailman to consider, there’s the random passerby.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

I started a piece today. It is called ‘transcendence’; I toyed with the idea of spelling that with an ‘a’ (thus supplanting that last ‘e’ there). Then I thought better of it, remembering that silly pretentiousness really shits up my day. The work is still all in my head, but it is unfolding with the most majestic sense of “You’re Gonna Wanna Put Your Hands On ME But Quick” and I can hardly wait to begin it. There are thorns and brambles and wire and twine and gossamer wings and sloppily-painted blooms waiting to be grouped together and then sorted just so.

Who can deny the call of the wild? To date, I’ve never been able to. I’m just glad this wolf-wail produces something more positive than most of the others I’ve been drawn to.

In closing, somebody around here always manages to check the deadbolt. That somebody is not me. Whether this is a sign of lazy or of courage…well, that’s anybody’s guess.

There, my friend, I wrote you a fucking letter.

(woe. is me.)

|| January 11, 2007 || 1:40 pm || Comments (0) ||

She Who Will Not Be Contained

Today I shellacked my hair into my best approximation of an Audrey Hepburn ‘do. Except for the blonde thing I’ve got going on, it’s a pretty precise facsimile. I dusted, then covered, then chalked black powder across my lids and kohled them within an inch of their lives. My lips are draped in the barest of pinks –’Pink Vapor’ to be exact– and shine subtley. My brows are manicured precise and perfect (beauty tip: the eensiest bit of hair gel on your brow brush achieves this, but work quickly and with a deft hand for optimum results).

This is my angry look. I don’t know why, but when my emotional face is askew, my cosmetic one becomes more precise. If my insides chance to be jagged, the exterior becomes more coolly perfected. Hard candy shells are smooth and obscure whatever richness may lie within.

I have been biting back bile all damn day. This used to be my default setting, the way I lived my life on a daily basis. I’ve worked hard, so very hard, in the last two years to rectify this imbalance in my emotional makeup. I can tell you, though (and with no certain hesitation while doing so), that I miss it.

I miss the trucked-up, angry, power-wresting, lion-roaring me. Fuck if I know what to do with that.


When a man has had enough, he’s simply had enough.

Sam, bless him, has shot up to six feet in a matter of months. He was never one to back down from convictions, but his newfound size has emboldened him further.

He doesn’t hold much truck with the disrespecting of women, my Sam. I like that about him — a lot.

Tonight, we had to run to the accursed Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. I was off to one side, peering at tee-shirts pensively. Because, you know, if anything is deserving of a pensive look, it’s those fucking tee-shirts. Piper was about thirty yards away from me in the wide aisle that sits just behind the checkout stands. Sam and Mathias were roughly fifteen feet from her, fiddling. Because that’s what the mixed-chromo folk do: They fiddle.

I missed most of the exchange, but I caught the tail-end of Piper interacting with a cute but scuzzy-greasy sort of d00d maybe two years older than her. He was toting a fistful of carnations wrapped in plastic and an attitude that said ‘I find myself possessed of a rogue-like, rakish charm that all young women must certainly find irresistable.’ Piper looked somewhat like a trapped animal, but a powerless one, because she dropped an answer to every question he peppered her with. Hell, he stopped just shy of asking her social security number, but I’m guessing she would have proffered it up as well. It was like she was stunned, I swear, and it was crazy to watch in both an annoying and frightening way.

Sam was watching as well, and a scowl began knitting itself a mask across his handsome face. Just as he started to move toward his sister and this interloper, the guy headed for the checkouts, blissfully unaware.

“PIPER,” I called loudly, “YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO INTERACT WITH SCUMBAGS,” whereupon she got the ohGodcanIjustdie look that she and Scout must both practice at great lengths in front of their pretty little cheval mirrors.

“Maaaaah-aaaaaaaaahm!” she cried, but Sam was ready with the backup.

“She’s right. That guy was creepy. What in the crap were you doing telling him everything about yourself?” Poor girl, she had been swept at the knees. Apparently Young Scuzzy had some sort of magnetism, some teenage girl mojo that Sam and I saw through cleanly.

We went to eat some pizza and had a fine, fine time. Just as we were getting our check, a tableful of twentysomethings rolled in. They got seated about ten feet away as we gathered our coats and went to pay the check. Piper was first, then Mathias, then me; Sam was bringing up the rear.

About the time I got two feet from their table, one of the guys appraised me then said, “Dammmmn, that makes me want to play some Scrabble.”

Now, I’m a grown-type girl, and I’ve been around long enough to know how to handle myself. I’m not unaccustomed to being hit on and am pretty adept at wielding the various manner of rebuffs required for a myriad of situations. This one, though, threw me for a loop. I mean, Scrabble?? What the hell does that mean? What? What?? I couldn’t wrap my head around it, much less formulate an appropriate response. How does one respond to gibberish, anyway?

Sam, though, that Sam was right on the ball. Without missing a beat, he stopped dead in his tracks, turned toward their table, placed both palms on it and said to Scrabblefan, “Well, let me just give you your first two letters. EFF. YOU.

“That’s my mom, guy. Not cool.

I don’t know if they were rendered speechless from shock or from shame, but Sam hung there over that table for exactly two beats before pushing off and taking me by the elbow in order to lead me away from the pack of mom-lusting ruffians.

Hot damn, what a fabulous kid.

|| January 9, 2007 || 12:01 am || Comments (0) ||


Yesterday, slogging through some mindless errand, I pulled up to a rather ratty store. My aim was to secure a bag of those little diswasher-pouch-detergent-thingys because if anyone around here gets the sniff of being out of something it’s tragic. By tragic, I mean that things get left by the wayside; I did not for one instant relish the notion of a pile of dishes being left in the sink because someone’s logic dictates not having the means to wash the dishes in automatic fashion equals the dishwasher going bare and crying forlornly for dirtied glassware and forks.

Dark had just fallen; it was raining, the cold metronomic sort of rain that reminds lonely people yes, they are indeed lonely. The kind of rain that rain-lovers everywhere get all a-tizzy about. Sometimes those people are one and the same.

On the phone and scattered, I placed my boot squarely in a puddle with a confidence that said, “I planned that. I like boots and I like puddles and I like determined splishing.” I really didn’t plan it. It seems that I don’t plan anything lately. I throw off the mighty illusion of being One Who Plans And Has It Together, but….oh, not so much. I got fucked on that tip somewhere back in the fall and though there are bearings, they are not fixed and limited like all good and well-behaved bearings should be. I think they are in a baggie, clinking together from the confines of a fatigue jacket that feels more like home than any one thing I’ve ever, ever owned.

As I turned to shut the car door and lock up, something in the rattletrap parking lot caught my eye: Stacked up next to a shabby blue dumpster were several boxes, boldly emblazoned with the word ‘SUN’ in bright orange. They were empty and soaked but holding up very nicely; bravery for bravery’s sake and how could I not admire them for it?

“Damn it, damn it,” I spat into the phone, “I never have my camera when I run across the very best stuffs.” and I described the scene into the mouthpiece.

“Heh, somebody used it all up… ‘No more sun for y’all today.’”

“See? What a great photo that would make.

HONey,” red said to me, “what exactly is wrong with you? You sound terribly bored.” This from the man who was in the midst of cooking a meal for a girl he didn’t much want to see anyway.

(“Give ‘er my number and tell her to call me, redclay. I could spin up about ten reasons in two minutes or less why she needs to stay away from you.”

“Hell, I could give her thirty more on top of that, in half that time.” He always tries to one-up me, this foolish man.)

“With this head? I am never bored, sir.”

“You must need a vacation, then.”

“No shit.”

I’ve no idea who I’d be when I got there. I’ve no idea if –were I to listen good and hard to my heart rather than my sense of duty and uprightness– I would come back.

Why do I feel like the I’m the only person on the planet that entertains these things for more than ten minutes at a stretch??

|| January 7, 2007 || 9:04 pm || Comments (0) ||

in particular

I would like your mouth to be adorned in

Broken teeth and uninterrupted facts.