Soft Pretzel Love

Mooooooving Along!!

2008-11-29T22:05:00.002-05:00

Okay peeps...

I've moved the blog. I think I've mentioned it before, but this time it's for real.

Several months ago I migrated all SoftPretzelLove postings to Word Press. I continued to post to both sites (which, sadly, was only like two or three times!!).

Well, now I'm not going to post here anymore, and will do everything at Word Press.

So, be sure to move your links to, and sign-up for e-mail notifications at:

http://softpretzellove.wordpress.com/

See you on the Word Press side!!! :-)

Deck the Halls, and Anyone Else Who Gets in Your Way

2008-11-29T19:05:00.000-05:00

Like tsunamis and pyrotechnics-related club fires, being trampled to death is generally not a fate you consider while lying awake at 4 a.m., your brain buzzing with all the horrors you manage to push back during the day with coffee, the computer, work, family and all the other things that make you forget that, like everyone else swarming across the globe, life can be gone in an instant.

But seriously, who on Long Island would ever consider being trampled to death a viable ending, especially when the great American pastime, shopping, is involved?

WalMart security guard Jdimytai Damour probably didn't. But I bet he's watching his family put him to rest up in heaven, or whatever afterlife he personally believed in. And I bet he's pissed.

I would be. After all, he was a lowly, underpaid temp, punching in for pennies an hour once the government's take is accounted for. He didn't even have the misfortune of being an actual WalMart employee. They probably hired him as a way to avoid paying benefits, or having yet another name on the HR roster who could sue.

And so, in the wee hours of Black Friday 2008, a crowd of more than 2,000 of his fellow Long Islanders wanted so badly to be able to buy cheap Chinese-made crap, they actually tore the doors off their hinges and killed him under their feet. The Seattle Times reports:

"Tension grew as the 5 a.m. opening neared. By 4:55, with no police officers in sight, the crowd of more than 2,000 had become a rabble, and could be held back no longer. Fists banged and shoulders pressed on the sliding-glass double doors, which bowed in with the weight of the assault."

Witnesses and the police said the doors shattered, and the shrieking mob surged through in a rush for holiday bargains. One worker, Jdimytai Damour, 34, of Queens, was thrown back onto the black linoleum tiles and trampled in the stampede that streamed over and around him."

Sadly, it makes sense. If you've spent any time around your fellow Americans, it's possible to understand how they could kill.

Scarier still is the fact that people feel little, if any, remorse at others' misfortune or pain.

According to the same Seattle Times piece:

Some shoppers who had seen the stampede said they were shocked. One, Kimberly Cribbs of Queens, said the crowd had acted like "savages." Shoppers' behavior was bad even as the store was being cleared, she recalled.

"When they were saying they had to leave, that an employee got killed, people were yelling, 'I've been on line since yesterday morning,' " Cribbs said. "They kept shopping."

Outbreaks weren't restricted to New York. At a Wal-Mart in Columbus, Ohio, Nikki Nicely, 19, jumped onto a man's back and pounded his shoulders when he tried to take a 40-inch Samsung flat-screen TV to which she had laid claim. "That's my TV!" Nicely, 19, shouted. "That's my TV!"

A police officer and security guard intervened, but not before Nicely took an elbow in the face. In the end, she was the one with the $798 television, marked down from $1,000. "That's right," she cried as her adversary walked away. "This here is my TV!"

Charisma Booker, also on the hunt for a TV, said she had been shopping at Wal-Mart every Black Friday for nearly a decade. "There are fewer people here this year, but they're more aggressive," she said. "I've never seen anybody fight like this. This is crazy."

At a Wal-Mart in Niles, Ill., a mother fought back tears when she discovered someone had taken her cart filled with toys.

It's everywhere. Turn your attention away for just a moment in the checkout line and someone is guaranteed to hop in front of you. Say something and you'll either get ignored or, more likely, cursed at, especially if there's a small child in the transgressor's cart seat, which really blows my mind.

Even worse is behavior behind the wheel. I have both been witness to, and a victim of, some of the most dangerous, poorly thought out and downright asinine vehicular activities in recent months.

Just last week H. merged into the left lane on the Blue Route, only to find a white coupe that was at least two car lengths behind – Pa. license plate No. DYJ 9585, for anyone interested – that apparently took offense at the fact that he had the gall to pull in front of them.

The car actually passed us on the left shoulder, pulled in front of us, slammed on the brakes, and began to swerve and slam on the brakes intermittently, until we finally exited the highway. It was a terrifying display of complete stupidity, especially considering the fact that we were travelling at least 60mph and traffic was heavy all around.

Not to mention there were several lives at stake – I could see the outline of at least three heads in the offending vehicle alone – and least of all my little puppy's, who was too small to be safely harnessed in the seat.

Even if H. had pulled out directly in front of them, there is absolutely no excuse short of complete mental retardation – and even that is putting the disabled down – for that sort of driving.

I nearly threw up from the experience, and H. almost had a coronary because, after three years with me, he knows he's not allowed to do what he would, under normal circumstances for him, do: follow the car until it stopped and then confront the driver, moron-to-man – the driver being the moron, of course – to deduce the reason for such foolish behavior, and why H. shouldn't put him in shock trauma because of it.*

So I'm not at all surprised that this particular group of Black Friday shoppers was so impatient to get in to snap up all the big discounts they resorted to murder.

We've been sold the idea of the American dream for so long it's morphed into something narcissistic and dangerous. The adage, "You can do anything" has been repeated so often it has been turned into a sadistic version of telephone, where the message has become distorted not into silly but sadistic, literally: you can do anything: cut people off, curse like a sailor, eat bulk food from the bins, steal a kid's bike off a porch, lie to your employer, commit insurance fraud, bilk the American people out of $300 billion, kill in the name of justice, do whatever it takes to get to the top of the list, head of the line, front of the pack or corner office.

Just look at the financial mess we're in, the perfect example of greed and entitlement run amok.

I'll be the first to tell you that not everyone can own a house. I'd love more than anything to own one, but I'm not willing to risk financial ruin by biting off more than I can chew. Nor should anyone think it's okay to lie, ever, for any reason, in order to sell one.

The poor security guard was probably trying to make as much money as he could, working whatever gig he could get, in order to make ends meet. Just like all of us in the recession Bush was certain he could ward off if he just denied it long enough.

Well, it didn't work, and lo-and-behold we're all up shit's creek without a paddle.

The irony is, as the pundits turn blue bemoaning the end of the fiscal world, and newscasters spew harrowing tales of honest folk going belly-up with the same intonations as the ghost stories we used to tell during sleepovers – the only thing missing is a flashlight under their chins – my life's just about the same.

Maybe even a little bit better, thanks to a summer spend toiling over thousands of pages of copy in a local company's annual clothing catalog. It's the same gig that allowed me to bail on the corporate hell I was dying in. And, thanks to their continued use of my skills, they've enabled me to avoid returning to that world again.

And so the crumbling global economy is little more than a blip on my radar. I was poor to begin with, and will probably continue to be as the recession marches on.

Despite my higher education, I've never managed to cash in on the earning potential that allegedly comes with multiple degrees hanging on the wall. I guess that's because said degrees were earned out of a genuine desire to learn, not earn. (Oh, insipid! Barf!)

Two of them are art degrees, the third is journalism. Not exactly booming businesses. But, I'm happy. And while I'll continue to clip coupons and live on things like (whole grain) bread and (organic) canned soup, I can't really share in the depression being felt by those who, until recently, pretty much had it all.

And since I'm, as usual, too poor to shop this time of year, I'll stay safe at home while I put my degrees to work and make all my presents.

Unless, that is, things really hit the fan and I've got no choice but to whore myself out to the temp agencies. In which case, I'll do my best to avoid the maniacal, retail-obsessed mobs who are so desperate to consume they'll willingly crush another human being beneath their feet in order to buy like they have every other year.

I suppose they figure if there's a mountain of gifts under the tree, they can pretend, at least for now, that it's still possible to buy their way to happiness.

They deserve everything they get, after all. Right?

*I neither condone violence, nor do I apologize for assuming the driver is a man. Auto insurance rates for young men are sky high for a reason, and while H. knows I'm not a fan of beating up other people, sometimes I think the world would be at least a more civil place if people were allowed to confront others rude behavior without the threat of jail or a lawsuit every time someone says boo.

Where is the Love?

2008-02-25T15:38:00.002-05:00

Fear not, friends. The pretzel may be twisted, but it has not folded.

Join us here for more silly Soft Pretzel-ness...

Slackadelphia

2007-08-15T12:33:00.001-04:00

Is it the warm, summer air... Oh, who am I kidding?

Is it the hot, humid, sticky air that makes your lungs feel like
they're filled with honey and skin slicker than the ocean surrounding
the Exxon Valez that is making me lazy?

Or could it be something else? A lack of willpower, lack of drive,
get-up-and-go winner takes all sort of deficit that's causing me to
stare, blindly, at my monitor while scanning craigslist for a coffee
shop job?

A-ha! Coffee shop job? Wait just a minute...

Methinks there is something larger at work, something intent upon
keeping me down in the dumps -- literally and figuratively, if you've
seen my house of late -- and sucking the energy from me like a
failure-minded vampire.

I have to wonder: has my self-esteem taken such a beating over the
last few years I'm happy to wile the hours away schlepping espressos
and counting the nickels plunking to the bottom of the tip jar?

Now, it's not that I won't necessarily go for the joe job. It would be
nice to have human interaction, and some extra cash in the pocket is
always a boon.

Plus, money has been more than tight these days, what with me being
the sole breadwinner in the fam and Mr. Spipster seemingly doing nada
to lighten the skint girl load. It's just that part of me thinks it's
unfair that I even have to.

Allow me to vent. Of late, things have been pretty dismal on the
interpersonal relations end when it comes to the two of us. It
basically consists of me screaming and him screaming back, assorted
household items going crashing into stationery objects, and increased
anger and hostility building on both sides.

Not exactly the most fun, my friends, and lately I've been unsure what
the best course of action may be.

In full disclosure of the stress-fraught circumstances, I was
(somewhat) okay with his unemployed status when he moved in. It was
the end of the season, and there's not much work for a construction
worker in the middle of a snowstorm.

But things have not gotten better, in fact they've only gotten worse,
while the Mr. insists that things are indeed on the up-and-up and I'm
just a pessimist for giving up when the going is just about to be
getting good.

Harumph.

How can I be sure that's not the truth? How could I possibly even
consider turning someone out who has devoted his time and energy to
taking care of myself and my (our) household. He cleans like a demon,
does laundry on a daily basis, and all the other manly tasks that my
less-burly girl muscles can't quite do.

Car stuff? He's on it. Heavy lifting? He's the man. But I can't help
but think that there's got to be more, especially when dragging myself
out of bed at 6 a.m. so I can hit the (temp) workplace and schlep home
the soy bacon is akin to walking across a football field of hot coals.

To be fair, the boy's got some serious health issues, from rheumatoid
arthritis stemming from too many hours of laying concrete in the hot
afternoon sun to other assorted ailments as a result of too-late
diagnosed Lyme disease. He is not well. He needs help. He has a hard
time getting around. He is in pain. I understand that, and it really
sucks.

Yet I look at those traveling on SEPTA to their workplaces with me in
the morning, and can't help but notice plenty who, with their own far
share of painful ailments and disabilities, make their way to to the
grind right next to me.

Is it too much to ask a person to do their very best to find a way to
contribute to the mounting bills so I don't have to spend every waking
hour slaving to make ends meet?

Obviously, the answer is no. But the boy has a way of making me feel
like the taskmaster and the world's biggest, meanest hardass all
wrapped up in one. I honestly don't know what to do at this point: the
ties are legally binding, so no matter what I choose we'll have to
figure it out together at some point.

But in the interim, I really just wish this would all go away. I've
got too much to worry about -- I've made the jump to being my own
boss, and unless I am determined to fail I've got to make it work.

But to make it work I've got to get to work, and when your brain is
sweating out your ears and your heart is torn in a thousand
directions, it's tough to get the gumption up to go ask a perfect
stranger for a shot at a gig. Especially if that intereferes with your
shift at the coffee shop....

Sigh.

How do I get myself into these situations?

Next time, I'll just bring home a kitten....

[editor's note: The Spipster is considering continuing this draft in
serial mode, via an extremely cheap subscription (pennies, my friends,
pennies!) in order to defray costs and possibly give her inspiration
in the form of income. Your thoughts?

Many of you have expressed a desire to see more of many of her sordid
tales. Would you be willing to pay for the opportunity to delve into
the world of someone so hopeless she's willing to turn to strangers to
help fuel her impassioned rantings? (Literally, people -- PECO ain't
cheap!)]

Lazy Days of Summer? Oh Shit!

2007-08-09T22:38:00.001-04:00

I don't actually know what happened to her.

I'd like to say I knew, that I saw her one day on the street, passed out with a brown bagged bottle at her fingertips. But alas, I do not know.

The way this life works she may be found somewhere else in the blogosphere, terrorizing another poor, delicate soul with her angry shriekings and bipolar demands for the unreasonable. But alas, I do not know what has happened to the Shrill.

But I do know that she is gone, no longer darkening CorpraCo's hallways. Whether it was her own doing, really, is unsure, but I can certainly speculate.

Shortly following my departure things, I'm guessing, went to hell. It's no secret, at least not to me, that I had a significant impact on everything that happened in, and was produced by, my former PR department. Once I was gone, I can imagine the slide was rapid and ugly.

Very, very ugly.

Moles have told me that after a few days the excuse, "but the Spipster used to do that" was forcibly verboten by order of the Shrill. Apparently she got sick and tired of learning that every single step in the process was overseen, like an evil grammarian overlord, by moi.

Muwahaahahahaha!

But I digress. I know she got sick and tired of hearing my name, and eventually I'm assuming the rest of the evil overlords did as well, and a little more than two weeks after I claimed my freedom she turned in her notice and claimed hers…

Just a little sooner than she expected, and a few short hours – rather than weeks – after giving her notice she Shrill was on her way out the door, doing her best to keep from getting knocked over as it hit her in the ass.

Sometimes there's nothing better than the pure, warm feeling of vindication, no matter how indirect it may be.

Unfortunately, I can only revel in the bliss of being right for so long, as the bills are still unpaid, and the moneyhags are clamoring for more.

What to do?

Oh wait, that's right. The plan is to be an uber go-getter and get my go out there to work the suits and wow them into giving me their business.

Except I haven't done that. Not even a little bit…

Shit.

But that's okay, right? Yeah, yeah that's okay. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's not like I'm not working,and not working freelance, either, because I am.

As a matter of fact I'm working almost 40 hours a week for some big clothing company putting together their annual ginormous catalog. It's mindless work no one expects anything from me but type-type-type, but it's liberating. At least for now.

For the budget albatross is clinging staunchly to my bent back, clawing at my hair and pooping on my shoulder. It ain't pretty.

Somehow I have to find it within myself to get my arse out into the world, in between the daily – albeit freelance –grind. I just seem to be having a hard time.

And having a crisis of confidence to boot.

I'm not normally like this. Friends will (probably) tell you that I'm an insanely motivated, downright driven, don't sleep inject the coffee chewing on sugar cubes kind of girl.

I was president of my freakin' graduate class, people!

Unfortunately, that inhuman drive seems to have escaped me lately.

Mr. Spipster told me the other night he doesn't think I have the drive to go out and get the proverbial brass ring. Okay, maybe not in those exact words. He's not really the lyrical type.

But it concerned me nonetheless because it's that's not me.

At least, it wasn't me. Isn't me. Never used to be me.

Is it me?

Oh gawd, is it???

Even if it turns out that in my old age I've turned into a soft, couch-sitting slacker, that option isn't currently open to me. Not really.

Not unless I want to crawl back to another CorpraCo to spend the rest of my life a la zombie, watching the clock until they put me in the cold, hard ground.

Or send me packing to the local homeless shelter because I'm madame breadwinner.

Christ… someone get me another glass of wine!

It's A Big World Out There

2007-07-29T00:52:00.001-04:00

Sometimes I really have to wonder what the fuck is wrong with me. Blame it on the A.D.H.D ., but I possess the maddening ability to make on-the-fly decisions without actually stopping to consider the real-world, long-term ramifications of the latest idea of my affection.

Granted, it's not like I'm careening, wild-eyed and hopped up on half a dozen lattes, into disastrous oblivion for inane plans like a Tasmanian Devil ass tattoo, or opening the door when the Mormons come to call.

But unfortunately, my penchant for throwing caution to the wind and myself out of the proverbial frying pan, slathered in butter, and into the fire, has landed me dead center into the kinds of situations that would make even the boldest of risk takers think they woulda' thought twice.

Because, alas, it is not that I possess the sort of devil-may-care j'oie de vivre that accompanies most life on the edge types as they venture boldly into odds-defying, oblivious Homer-like success.

I do not.

I simply do things cuz I want to.

And inevitably, time for the most part has proven that many of my ill- and mostly un-advised headlong moves into the unbeknownst have merely served to make what is, at times, a miserable slow slog of an existence that much harder.

And yet… on occasion… while the gapers gawk and wait with bated breath for me to crash and burn, I make a move that may actually turn out for the best.

Take my latest life-altering adventure.

For those of you following my mind numbing, so-called-career crash and burn in cubic'hell, you are well aware of the manic, torturous moods of Madame Shrill, my most recent keeper.

I will admit that the not-so business casual life I've been leading for the last two years is not what I imagined I'd be doing when I finally grew up. And while it was exciting to travel to many of the places in the world I never thought I'd get to, at least not on my starving-artist-in-waiting sub-poverty wages, I hated having to play the game.

Get up early, drag myself to the same grey, soulless hole of an office, toil the hours of my life away at slave wages so some fat cat who drives a luxury sedan can make himself look important in front of his fellow fat cats, while I waste my life away selling my creative soul so the corporation can further fill its coffers.

Y'know, the same old same old.

Add in the abuse at the hands of some power hungry, maniacal she beast who seems to take almost sick pleasure in berating those below her, and it suddenly seems like too much.

Much too much, in fact. And so I split.

Bailed. Walked. Grabbed my bag, and my stockpile of crackers and canned soups, and ventured out to earn my own goddamn fortune.

Oh, of course I know that the kind of cash that will make wiping my ass with dollar bills — and not having to immediately scrub them clean so I can put enough together to make bus fare — will take years to achieve. But deep down I've known for quite some time that if I were to use my superpowers for good instead of greedy evil, I could make enough to live on and have enough time and money left over to actually live, instead of simply managing to get through another day.

And so, three weeks into freelance freedom the worry wart that I am still has not managed to make even a peep in the name of uncertainty. Of course, I've traded the steady paycheck and security that's part and parcel of working for the man for a potential total loss, and the bills are, so far, struggling to get paid. But, for the first time in many years, my life is my own.

As far as the Shrill, I have to report that I am unsure where she's finding her security these days, for it seems that a few short weeks after I took my leave of her closed door torture chamber, she found herself walking through the same door, under slightly different circumstances…

To be continued…

help me! help me! the end is very effing nigh!

2007-06-03T23:39:00.000-04:00

So I bet you’ve wondering what happened.

Oh, it gets worse. It gets so much worse…

Since that fateful afternoon, when I narrowly escaped the slobbering jaws of managerial rage, I’ve had time to reflect upon the errors of my ways, thanks to three weeks’ reprieve from cubicle hell.

How did I come by my much needed break from the never ending grind of the corporate machine? By landing my sorry ass in E.R. at midnight later on that dreadful day.

For those of you not in the know, about four months ago I went under the surgeon’s knife in the hopes of obliterating daily pain caused by a chronic disease. I’d already damaged my liver thanks to daily cocktail of Aleve, Advil and chocolate, chased each night with Ativan to ensure I didn’t awake in a fit of anxiety brought on by the growing severity of my work/life situation.

But, my illness thrives in a chicken/egg type environment, and a hostile work environment brought back the symptoms, increasing my stress, and the pain, until I was pretty much back at square one.

Meditation helps, as does proper diet, exercise and a positive attitude. Unfortunately, the obsessive-compulsive mountains out of molehills worry wart I am has never been much of a match for the kill-or-be-killed mentality of the corporate world.

So after the Shrill sank her teeth into my battered and bruised psyche, I limped back to my DMV-issue cube to lick my wounds.

the end - is it near?
I’d known it was bad from the start. The chemistry was wrong; aggression crackled from her like lightning. And, as my roller derby habit can attest, I’m not one to back down when another woman tries to push me out of the way.

Unfortunately, this makes me a moron.

She’s the boss. I’m the bee. And at the end of the day, I’m still the only one responsible for paying my bills.

She’d laid it bare: she had nothing invested in me. I may have been working my ass off to fatten CorpraCo’s coffers for two years, but she had, in less than two weeks, determined I was a nothing more than a pimple on the surface of her fledgling empire. She was going to squeeze me out, no matter what.

And what she’d seen so far from me, in her opinion, was total shit. I was lacking in every area of my responsibilities, I’d shirked my duties, bowed out of what I was expected to deliver and spent my time doing absolutely nothing productive. In fact, she did not even know what I did on a daily basis.

My own boss did not even know what her sole employee did for her.

Great.

It was then and there that I knew I was on a collision course with certain doom. So I dove in, thinking that if I told her what I do it might dawn on her that, for the past six months, I was the department.

At work, I dealt with everyone. I fielded the calls, took on all tasks, took personal responsibility for everything that came across my desk. I was the go-to person, the one who could be counted on to make sure whatever needed to be done was done. It was killing me, but I took pride in knowing that all knew that any project that absolutely had to be taken care of, no matter what else might be on my plate, would somehow get done.

I rarely took lunch. I took work home with me. I checked my e-mail at all hours of the day, even when my body was still covered with stitches and I couldn’t get out of bed. I was always on.

And when my only coworker went out on medical leave and never came back, I took on her work as well, diving headlong into an area I was neither paid nor qualified to do, on paper, and gave it 110 percent.

I had no personal life.
My marriage was crashing violently on the rocks. I was tired, I was cranky, my skin was sallow, and I had great, ugly bags under my eyes. I was growing bitter about the fact that I was doing more than I was paid, after taxes, and paid less than $30,000 annually than that former coworker was to do.

In short, I was bending over and letting CorpraCo give it to me, and good. I’d made no bones about the fact that I needed support staff, more money, and a job title that reflected my actual workload. I was dying out there on my own, and in my good-girl fairy tale world I expected them to put their arms around my shoulders, give me a big hug and tell me everything would be all right.

Yeah right.

Oh sure, they’d thrown me a few bones: I’d received a “staff star” for performance above and beyond, which netted me… a picture frame. And there was a performance-based bonus … which after taxes paid for groceries and one dinner out for Mr. Spipster and myself.

Unfortunately, according to the Shrew, those accolades were isolated incidents, and did not actually reflect what she saw as the big picture, which was my total lack of integrity and refusal to do what I was hired to do.

So I caved, I gave in, I stressed and worried and wound up in pain, in tears, at midnight in the emergency room.

When I saw my surgeon the next day she reminded me the surgery might not work, and the stress and anxiety I’d allowed to invade every cell in my body brought me right back to our original meeting place.

So she gave me three weeks’ short term medical leave and instructed me to get a new job.

And so, one month later I landed, further down the spiral than I’ve ever been, gasping like a fish on land, wondering what the hell I am going to do.

Unable to get myself out of bed and into the job hunt I returned to CorpraCo last week, hoping for the best and vowing to push through until I could find a new gig.

“I’m a professional,” I told myself one week ago, “I am strong and capable and a hard worker and I always find a way to get through. I am no quitter. I am an adult and I can make this work.”

Unfortunately, the Shrill and Co. had other plans.

Shortly after the incident in the E.R...
I received an e-mail from HR informing me that the Shrill was given access to my e-mail account, to ensure no messages “fell through the cracks” in my absence. Last Wednesday an ally whispered that I’d better watch what I wrote, as the Shrill was still in it and looking for dirt.

Two weeks ago I received my professional association’s job listings, and was mildly shocked to find a position similar to my own posted at CorpraCo. When I checked with HR they denied everything, stating that hiring my gig out from under me would of course be wrong, and I shouldn’t worry, it was for something else. Yet I found myself having a hard time suspending the belief that a department comprised of three positions could support a secondary slot almost identical to my own.

And then, two days ago, I was called into the Shrill’s office: it was time for my quarterly review. In January, my annual review, I’d received stellar marks, with only a few places for improvement and acknowledgement that my work was always well done.

This time around all the news was bad, and the Shrill continued her barrage, slinging insult upon injury at me. In shock, I sat as I was cited for misconduct, poor performance and accused of outright workplace disruption during incidents I have zero recollection of.

And suddenly, I knew I was done for.
They had no reason to outright fire me, so this was the first step in ensuring that when they finally swung the hatchet they’d legally covered their backs.

So yeah, I’m low. I’m deeper down in black, ugly depression than I ever imagined I’d find myself. It’s all going to hell, my friends, and for once I am unsure of how I will claw my way back.

My car’s transmission is shot. I have no money. I am barely hanging on to a nightmare of a job. And unless I prostitute myself a.s.a.p. I am dangerously close to living life on the streets.

I’ve just been laying in bed, berating and hating myself for getting myself into this mess, and wondering how bad it’s gonna’ get before I find my way out.

Yesterday I decided I needed to get off my ass, because I haven’t even got the cash to get to work on the bus. Poring through my wardrobe I pulled out everything I thought might net me a few bucks in the secondhand shops. Then I rifled under the couch cushions, checked every pouch and pocket, culled together years worth of foreign cash and made my way downtown.

The end result? Adding insult to injury over the fact that making ends meet has meant giving up the little things, like the ability to own clothes that are not half a decade out of style, I managed to unload one skirt, for a grand net of $3.32.

At Commerce Bank I dumped every penny into the change counting machine, which printed me out a receipt for $4.02 with the message that I’d won a prize.

A prize! Was my luck finally going to turn?

The teller handed me my four dollars, then smiled as she handed me my prize: a bank. A fucking bank! Slipping it into my bag I bowed my head and tried not to cry.

And learning that nowhere in Philadelphia can I exchange pounds and euros in coins, I headed home to feel sorry for myself.

I poured a glass of wine, and couldn’t help but obsess over my sorry ass.
My short term disability check was lost somewhere in transit, and my rent check is now three days late. I’ve never been late on the rent, and am sure this will be grounds for eviction.

I imagine several large men named Vinnie and Vito banging down my door and carrying me and all my second-hand possessions down the stairs and dumping me, unceremoniously, on the sidewalk.

And the check I’m waiting on for a freelance job has also not materialized, and I have heard nada from the client. He’s missing, as is my money, and I have had zero luck getting hold of him.

I envision him sitting on some beach checking the e-mail generated from his kick ass website, sipping a frosty drink and laughing that he got top-notch web content for free.

My car is currently sitting in front of the house, dead. The transmission is shot, but even if I could get the thing into gear the battery is dead and the front tire is flat. The nosy neighbor next door who sits on his porch all day, being nosy, threatened to have it towed the other day, but before he can get to it the bank may, as the insurance is due as well.

I imagine running the neighbor over with the car, but cannot come up with a plan to get him to lay down behind it while I force it into neutral, as he is rather large, in addition to being a bit of a jerk.

Mr. Spipster is doing the best he can, but he suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, and without his medication can barely move some days. He too is looking for a job, but they are few and far between.

I find myself getting depressed over the fact that not only can we not afford a wedding ring, we couldn’t even spring for a real wedding. Instead, we stood, alone, in front of a plastic backdrop flanked by plastic flowers in the basement of some crumbling apartment building in Upper Darby.

My dream of running off to Vegas to get hitched by some second-rate actor dressed up like Elvis was never realized, and instead I wound up getting hitched like some knocked-up 16-year-old in a bad after school special. I didn’t even have anyone to throw my $6 grocery store bouquet to, and the waitress at the diner where we went to celebrate afterward didn’t even seem to appreciate them as her tip.

There is little food in the house, and even though I make all the bread and pasta from scratch that we eat, visions of myself wasting away from starvation start to… wait. No. That vision is actually kinda’ nice.

But eventually I will waste away to nothing, homeless, not even able to live in my car, as any day now I will have no job. Yet while I do, the thought of the abuse I must endure consumes me.

I begin to fantasize about telling the Shrill to go fuck herself.
I dream of walking out the door and never returning. Of having a “take this job and shove it” moment, something I have never done in all my years as a good, compliant worker bee. I think of what I would do, should it come to that.

I picture myself walking out the door, getting on that bus with change I’ve borrowed from my coworker, and never, ever coming back. The thought is liberating, it makes me smile. And not the frozen-on Ativan-induced tranquilized grimace I plaster on every day, but an actual smile.

I’ve spent far too much of my time in this dead-end situation. This is no way to live; this is just a slow, painful soul-sucking death. How many of us are just going through the motions without actually thinking about what we’re doing, until one day we wind up completely broke, moping around in bed all day wishing we were someone, somewhere or something else?

I’ve been miserable, and I’ve made everyone around me miserable. The Shrill might be the best thing that’s happened to me in ages.

But in the meantime, I’m having a hard time believing the universe is going to leave me be. I need salvation, I need some help, yet everywhere I look I see nothing.

I need to pay the rent. I need to buy a bus pass. I need some goddamned food!

And, in the long term, I need to build my business and never, ever find myself the helpless victim of another Shrill.

I need clients for what will someday be one of the best writing and editing companies on the face of the earth: me. Oh sure it seems pretentious, but I’m really that good.

And I need cash. Cold, hard cash.
And an interim gig, freelance or contract, at a company that won’t try to suck me dry.

I’ve read reports that the blogosphere is the next financial frontier. No one’s making money at it yet, but that’s not where I’m looking to get paid.

However, I’m in dire need, and won’t get to tell the tale of how the horrible Shrill was actually the best thing that ever happened in my professional life if I don’t get through these next few weeks.

Brother can you spare a dime? Or a dollar or two? I want so badly to keep the faith, that if I keep going I’ll come out better on the other end. But it’s tough to do when you can’t even buy a carton of milk.

So please donate to the OverEducatedBeggar, or contact me at overeducatedbeggar@yahoo.com to comment, call me names, give me encouragement or hire me for my word nerd ways.

Please.

Having no milk sucks…

Adventures in Managerial Animosity, Part I

2007-05-16T11:14:00.000-04:00

It probably sounds weird. In fact, it’s pretty much straight up sexism I’m talking 'bout here. Because either way, no matter which way you shake it, 99.9 percent of the time, I just can’t stand working for a female boss.

I know, I know! I can hear my fellow feminists, gasping in shock and shrieking that I am a traitor to my kind; Benedict Arnold to the estrogen army’s equality-focused grrl power cause.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not some uterus hating suit chaser, nor do I believe a woman’s “place” is anywhere – house, office, the freakin’ fields of Iraq, I don’t care. I only know what’s right for my life.

But what I do believe, without a doubt, is that from the time we’re old enough to tie our pink-trimmed, cartoon character bearing, sparkly, light up shoes, we’re well on the way to growing into fingernail-wielding, back stabbing, catty-with-a-capital-C bitches.

Granted, not everyone turns out that way. There are plenty of women out there who make the 9-5 grind the challenging-in-a-good-way, collaborative, worthwhile experience it should be.

But some chickies take the mean girl trajectory all. the. way.

Move that behavior from the playground to the boardroom and the opportunity is ripe for the cruelest of all to claw their way into the corner cubicle…

Now, the Tsumommy’s overbearning uber-matriarch may be a bit hard to handle without automatically reverting to door-slamming “I hate you” behavior. But this nurture-monger just wants to be loved. If you can somehow turn the tantrums to your favor, life in the cubicle jungle can get just a bit more bearable. Provided, of course, she remembers to take her estrogen.

Yet the Tsumommy’s menace is nothing compared to the unbridled spite of the Corporate Shrill. Thanks to CorporaCo’s latest bout of schizophrenic hiring, I have become the latest victim of one particularly pre-menopausal bitch.

And oh, this one follows the pattern. They always do.

The Shrill is usually late-30s through mid-40s, married at least once, if at all, has a child and has come to realize, bitterly, that this is it. And it sucks.

Maybe she’s divorced, or her husband is cheating, or she wishes he was just so he’d get his fat, lazy ass of the couch every once in a while. Her child is nothing spectacular, and is as popular as she was in school, which means not at all. So, living vicariously through her offspring, or even boasting about any achievements or awards, is not an option. She’s trapped in a long, gray stretch of existence that shows no glimpse of light at any end.

The solution to help ease the pain of her mindless, soulless, hollow existence? Take it out on those below her.

Mind you, it’s not like I’m some innocent Bambi, frolicking through the cube farm with nary an unhappy thought or cruel word. My time in CorporaCo. hell needed to be over a long time ago, and it’s my own damn fault I let it come to this.

I should have started looking for a new gig months ago, long before they unceremoniously fired my boss and sent my daily existence into a fucked up bitch smack of a tailspin. But no, lack of confidence combined with laziness and a scheduled surgery meant I hung around way past my expiration date, only to wind up an angry, unhealthy apprentice on the Shrill-ville downward spiral.

Thus, my existential angst and overblown sense of entitlement against the Shrill’s unbridled temper could only result in war. Unfortunately for me, the Shrill holds the cards and one overburdened worker bee is easily replaced with another, especially when the scab will be a newbie who has no choice but to follow the leader off the cliff.

And so, a week or so ago, I sat in the Shrill’s undecorated office, with the single-minded intention of trying to make nice with someone who has yet to fully comprehend CorporaCo’s apocalyptic state of affairs. I struggled to get across that I have done my best to hold the jumbled bits of the department together, even as my own life has slowly crumbled apart. If the two of us got on the same page we could probably, maybe even move things along.

It wasn’t easy. I didn’t think she had any inkling that at least a few times a day a missive is dropped into my lap from some source or other asking for yet another splinter of my time and feeble brain power to figure out … something. Without a master for so long I’d become a slave to all, and the schizophrenic nature of the gig was really getting to me. I needed a single source to assign me, a sole voice to shut out the chattering masses. I needed a fucking boss.

Instead I got the Terminator, guns blazing, nostrils flaring wider than her 1980s palazzo pants. She came out firing and I sat, stunned.

Not that the cubicle ranch wasn’t a stressful place to be, for all of us. And I probably deserved a talkin’ to for something. If I screw up I’ll take the fall. But this was something else.

This was animosity in overdrive.

And so I sat, face burning, as the laundry list of my alleged transgressions was hurled at me:

I’d been a horrible person from the moment she’d met me, and had gone out of my way to put down each and every fellow worker unlucky enough to sit within the vicinity of my cubicle of doom. The way she put it, like a serial killer I’d methodically made my way from victim to victim, and had apparently wrought such strife as to bring entire departments to tears and cause ailments ranging from spontaneous abortion to leprosy.

As for my work, every assignment I’d completed in her short tenure was deficient, mediocre, and simply not acceptable. She had zero confidence in my ability to do anything, ever. Period. In fact, I was blatantly lazy and had intentionally not completed an assignment for the CEO due to said purported laziness and my need to actually leave on time. Thanks to a shot transmission, yours truly (and Mr. Spipster as well, poor lad) is forced to rely on the fickle nature of the local public transit monopoly, which only deems travel to CorporaCo’s business “campus” necessary once or twice a day. Miss that bus and you’re schlepping your tired ass along the side of the road, dodging speeding SUVs and BMWs as they race to escape the rat race and make tee time.

I dared retort: the project was worked on until it was done, and the part not completed was a matter of pure miscommunication. She and the Tsumommy had attacked me via speakerphone and I’d misunderstood the missive.

I apologized…

She pounced.

“You are lying!” she shrieked, eyes bulging out of her head. I surreptitiously snuck a look behind me, making sure I knew exactly where the door handle was in the event I needed to make a hasty escape.

[...to be continued...]

Monday Morning

2006-11-27T18:44:00.000-05:00

Today we had the unique pleasure of participating in an all-day meeting. None of us knew why we were there, not even the Tsumommy. Never mind that she’d called the meeting.

I took half a Xanax. I’d learned from hard experience – accompanied by the occasional errant mid-meeting yoyo of drool – that a slow, steady buzz is preferable to losing control of one’s facilities in front of the coworkers.

I can’t say I’ve ever loved my job – a failing economy coupled with my wanderlust means I have no choice but to be okay with any gig that’s even mildly creative, pays the bills and doesn’t give me a bleeding ulcer.

And things were cool until the bloated bigwigs who’d hired the Tsumommy got so many complaints about her they were forced to notice. In classic bait-and-switch intimidation style they fired up the smoke machines and stepped away from admiring themselves in the mirrors of their Lexus and BMWs long enough to take out one of their own.

Unfortunately, the fall guy was my boss, and now the Tsumommy is my keeper.

Scorched Cubicle Campaign

2006-11-21T18:39:00.000-05:00

It is a scorched cubicle campaign. Herman Miller ergonomic chairs scattered across the great gray expanse, smoke wafting up from the stain proof fabric.

I’ve been working as a corporate shill for nearly two years and have witnessed the kind of business decisions that even The Office would take offense at. But “CorporaCo’s” latest antics have brought the paper-pushing circus to a new low.

I have no one to blame it on but the Tsumommy. She waddled into our sorry lives, and the department’s top job, a few months ago, knit discount rack suit clinging to every lump of sedentary flesh. So far she has left confusion and destruction in her wake.

She has little more than the perfunctory bachelor’s-level education, but somehow she’s been granted the decision-making key to the highest level in our cube-rat lives. And like the kind of meddling mother who will read her child’s diary with the justification that she’s the boss and therefore can do whatever she wants, she does just that. Anything and everything on or near any desk is hers to rifle through as she feels fit. Not even the Blackberry is sacred: dare use it in her presence and she’ll grab it out of your hands. God forbid you’re writing about her…

I thought I was selling my soul by taking the corporate job… I was wrong. It was merely marinating.

Back in the Blogger Saddle

2006-11-10T22:38:00.000-05:00

So I’ve done the unthinkable in this intravenous Internet force-fed world: I’ve quit MySpace.

It’s true. Deleted my profile, clicked the button and just walked away. And, surprise, it was easier than I thought.

Until the night sweats…

I’ll gladly admit that the main reason I bailed on the behemoth breast-fed on Murdoch’s corporate teat was twofold, and neither is terribly flattering.

First off, it was really taking over my life, pushing me to the point of constant obsessive paranoia, where the slightest decrease in friends sent me scurrying to my friends list to try and determine who the defector might be, wringing my hands wondering what I might have done to offend them.

The other, more insidious reason was the creeps.

Before I became a roller derby darling my profile suffered a steady onslaught of balding, middle-aged divorced men in acid washed jeans wanting to “talk”. Invariably they had a child, or six, and nearly all included photos that featured them proudly preening before a truck, motorcycle, or some variation of a gas-guzzling recreational vehicle.

With derby, however, the voyeurs became more interesting, and while it was flattering to find myself the object of desire of many a derby-loving dude, it quickly spiraled out of control, and I found myself perpetually on the receiving end of nonstop missives from lecherous paramours-in-waiting who seemed oblivious, or unconcerned, with the fact that I’m in a deeply committed relationship.

So, I simply walked away and headed back here, where I should have stayed from the get-go.

Granted, I’ll post a new profile on the WalMart of the Internet eventually, only this time I won’t be quite as forthcoming. That’s what I’m here for… be sure to check back. I’ll be here…

Friday Existential Angst

2006-09-01T22:33:00.000-04:00

So a nice, relaxing night at home just turned into absolute chaos, complete with nearly a dozen axe-wielding firefighters, poised, ready to hack into anything that could potentially face a hazard … any hazard at all.

It was a bit disturbing, to be honest.

But soothing, considering the fact that there were eardrum piercing alarms wailing throughout the entire building along with smoke billowing from downstairs.

And, half an hour later the culprit – an overfilled dryer hose – was disabled and all was well…

Except for my clothes.

Thankfully, mine were not the scorched ones laying smoldering in the dryer, but the ones spinning around in the washer, waiting to get warm.

And alas, the inside of my apartment is about to resemble the ghetto, complete with underwear hanging from every surface.

At least this time there was something to report. I passed the time outside with my neighbors on both sides of my brick and mortar slice of toast regaling them with tales of my last Philly 9-1-1 call, complete with hulking police goon promising to return to the scene of the alleged crime for "a poke."

Yeah, hard to forget the time Rachel and I convinced ourselves a scary criminal had infiltrated the (locked windows of) the Netherhouse. But, in West Philly, anything can happen, and as we stood, panicked, outside the door waiting for the cavalry, that reality literally hit close to home.

Or so we thought. As the nine officers combed every nook, cranny, closet and drawer of our massive 7-bedroom abode, the fact that I'd chosen a poker and Rachel, I think, a stick, to protect ourselves with dawned on us: were it the real deal, oh yeah, we'd be so dead.

And that's when big, bad Officer Creepy uttered his poker-derived innuendo. Nowhere was safe…

And so I moved, but the guilt still manages to dog me, makes me wonder if maybe I've gone old, or weak, or soft. I've lived in cities around the globe and here I am running away from a neighborhood where houses regularly run in the $300,000s because of a big lug and a scary noise.

Yet somehow things still don't feel quite "right", crispy undies notwithstanding. It's not the house, or the 'hood, or the whole kit and caboodle. Or is it? I am uncertain, unsure, unable to decide what's best.

So, for a autumn Friday I find myself asking: what next?

Newhouse: As Out of Touch as Ever

2006-08-28T15:27:00.000-04:00

I'm unsure how to feel about Syracuse University's S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications (full disclosure: my grad school alma mater) recent foray into the realm of media awards.

According to Dean David Rubin on MediaBistro.com, the school's newly created Mirror Awards will "highlight the best media coverage of media … The idea is to hold up a mirror to the media and honor it that way."

Hey, that's great. Coming from someone who is not, and financially cannot, make a living doing the very thing she begged, borrowed and practically stole to be able to do — journalism — thanks to the bullshit surrounding the biz, I'm all for it.

From media consolidation to rampant ethical violations run amok, there needs to be a mirror.

I'm just not sure Newhouse is the place to be handing out the accolades.

Or perhaps not Rubin, the man who gave the least compelling commencement speech I unfortunately was forced to witness.

Imagine if you will:

Students from one of the country's preeminent journalism schools were thrust, trial by fire'like, into the fray in the months following Sept. 11.

The reality of the job, and its inherent risks and responsibilities, became crystal clear that day, and every day for the rest of the semester. The reality of what happened, and the enormous task for those charged with putting it down for everyone to understand, sank in the second we watched the first tower go. None of us would ever be the same.

There was no escaping it, no getting back to life — we were in j-school, where current events are life. We saw the world, and the field we had yet to break into, change before our eyes. The future was tumultuous and uncertain, but we were there, learning to be a part of it.

With this as our educational backdrop, we sat in mid-2002 in the Carrier Dome clad in those ridiculous square hats, ready to take on the world.

So what words of infinite wisdom did Rubin choose to impart to us on that beautiful spring day?

None. His words were not for us but our parents, asking them not to be too upset about the thousands of dollars they'd shelled out for their progeny's education, because it's a good school with a good name and it will all work out in the end.

Really. No seriously. I'm not kidding…

Thousands of dollars, countless hours of lost sleep, two bouts of bronchitis, weeks of lectures, Kaplan's sadistic law class and Ward's meandering ethics class, several thousand cups of coffee and just as many AP Style Book quizzes later I found myself sitting, dumbstruck, wondering what fucking relevance this had to me. And then I realized: none.

With his eye on the checkbook and completely out of touch with the lives lived just under his carpeted office day in and day out, he — like media companies of today — pandered to the bottom line.

And Rube's at it again, proving just how outrageously out of touch he is with the very industry he gets paid to, purportedly, understand:

mediabistro.com : What types of media do you consume daily?

Rubin : The New York Times, in print, The Wall Street Journal, in print and online, Syracuse Post Standard, NPR's Morning Edition and All Things Considered. If I get home in time I'll watch the CBS evening news — I'm warming up for Katie. Then later I watch MSNBC's Keith Olbermann — he's the best writer in broadcasting, very, very entertaining.

mediabistro.com : What about blogs?

Rubin : No. People will send me things and point me to them, but I just don't have enough time.

mediabistro.com : So no RSS feeds for you?

Rubin : No.

Well goody then. At least I don't have to worry about sending the dean's office into a tizzy. And, uh, Katie fucking Couric? I can't wait to see her take on the hard news of the day. "Massacre in Darfur, he he, Israel and Hezbollah still killling, tee he!"

Unfortunately, his reading list sums it up: old dinosaur media equivalent of a bran muffin and black coffee.

Yes, it's important to keep up on what these pubs are doing and saying, but if you're not looking beyond the Gray Lady and NPRs of the world at this point in the game, even just a little, you've already been left behind.

So, I'd nominate myself for a Mirror Award if it included criticism of the media peon making machine.

Alas, I can only look in from the outside as I slave on the dark side to make ends meet and pay the student loans Rubin was trying so hard to convince the parents were so important, and playing under the old guard's nose via RSS feed.

How I'm Weird

2006-08-25T16:55:00.000-04:00

Okay, I've been tagged by Mags at You Forgot Poland!, so I'd better get on with it … I've been slacking enough already!

So, I'm supposed to, in five answers, list how I'm weird. Lordy, where do I begin?!

I know all the words to the Eagles song (fly, eagles, fly, on the road to victoreeeeeeeeee!!!... you get the idea…), but know next to nothing about football, despite the fact that I was a cheerleader for over a decade and the captain in high school, no less!
Even though I was a cheerleader in high school, I wear black every day. Not because I'm depressed, but because I'm messy, and drop things on myself – from coffee to candy – on a regular basis. Plus, I went to Catholic school, and have no fashion sense.
I must buy magazines from the back of the rack, and only if I'm convinced the pages haven't been ruffled by browsers.
I sleep with a pink stuffed pig named Gordy. I even take him camping. And on business trips. It's pathetic, I know…
I can cook elaborate cakes and pies and pastries, along with just about any dish I put my mind to, but I cannot boil an egg without blowing it up.

Near Death By Derby

2006-07-31T22:16:00.000-04:00

Death By Derby

I almost made it, folks, I almost got to hit the rink, hit my friends
and say yes, indeed, I am a roller derby queen. Unfortunately, the
fates have other plans for me and more than likely you'll find me
manning the ticket booth.

It's true.

Last Thursday, on what has become a routine flogging, trouncing and
ass-flashing head first dive to the floor, I managed to split my elbow
open to the bone.

Ew. I know.

Only I didn't know it when I did it, but an hour later, as I pulled my
elbow pad off and flashed my funny bone to the team, no one was
laughing. Immediate gasps, shrieks and calls of, "Oh mah gawd get some
stitches, girl!" filled the room.

Unfortunately, medical care more advanced than a splash of Betadine is
foreign to me, and as I crawled into bed a few hours later I had no
idea what kind of festering adventure would be awaiting me on the
other side of dawn.

By the time I'd finished throwing up the next morning as I stared,
bleary eyed, at the pink tinged surface of my elbow bone, I wasn't
sure what to do next.

Thanks to my mother's occupation as a nurse, I know how to clean and
bandage the mess with near-bizarre precision. Unfortunately, I've
always suspected my mother's career was a hindrance later in life as
it removed any sense of concern or urgency in relation to pain. Many
of my closest friends have found this out the hard way:

Moving into a stereotypically hilly apartment in San Francisco a few
years back, my friend Kelly smashed her hand while leaping,
maniacally, into my precariously balanced U-Haul van. Rushing out of
the apartment, mindful of the 3-hour window the rental place had given
us to move all my crap across town (SF may not be wide, but it makes
it up in hills), I stopped, looked at her limp, pale limb and asked,
as the tears of pain rolled down her face, "Can you move it?"

"Yes."

"You're fine. Let's go!"

If it can be moved it cannot be that bad, and therefore it's good
enough to go back outside and play, damnit, and leave me alone….

And with the move test as my litmus I slunk into the doctor's office
the next afternoon, where it became obvious that freedom of motion is
not the only way to gauge the severity of a wound.

Potential for amputation is.

And as I sat, shaking, wondering how on earth I'd ever floss my teeth
again with only one arm, I started to think of all the other things
going on in my life I'd been missing since roller derby took over my
life.

And I decided that the injury, while probably not fatal and likely
(hopefully – I have to go back tomorrow at 7:30 a.m.) not to result in
anything more than a nasty scar, was a sort of wake-up call to
remember that I've got a lot of great things in my life in addition to
my beloved fellow derby girls.

Like writing, drawing, and general art-making.

And my friends, and my family, and someone who falls somewhere, I'm
not sure where, in between.

Not to mention the job, no matter how square, and apartment, and, one
day maybe, a dog.

And, well, hey, most of all, let's all give a big round of applause
for: my arm.

As the drummer from Def Leppard can attest, two is better than one…

Somewhat Back From the Dead

2006-07-25T23:02:00.000-04:00

I’m going to have to start explaining away these long electronic absences, aren’t I? What’s believable? But then again, does anybody care?

I mean, I could have been whisked away to an exotic isle by some dashing prince or sultan or something, to lounge about on pillows while sipping mimosas fresh squeezed by virgin albinos.

Or injured in a horrible car crash that left me unable to remember anything but all my old phone numbers, and I’ve been spending the last month dialing them in the vain hope that someone will answer and have an inkling of who the hell I am…

But then again, I barely know who I am sometimes, so to expect a perfect stranger with themisfortune to have been passed down my old digits to clue me in to the answer to the existential crisis I suffer on a daily basis would be futile at best, a really shitty story at worst.

The truth, of course, is never as exciting as fiction, and with that I must admit that, in addition to being absurdly busy, I’ve been globe hopping and recuperating from the effects of living in one of the worst air quality regions around.

Thanks coal… you killed my grandpa, great-grandpa, and all their friends, and now you’re going after me…

I’ve got asthma, folks, it’s true – hence the forced rejection of the rock’n’roll lifestyle in favor of albuterol inhalers and moments of looking like a purple Chihuahua, all bug eyed and suffocate’y – and that ailment tends to result in at minimum two bronchial infections a year.

I got this most recent the week before I was supposed to go to Canada for work. By the time I got back, old men carting oxygen tanks for their emphysema were offering me hits.

Although, I did resist the urge to attempt to joke with customs.

“Are you carrying any plants, produce or live animals into the United States?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure I’m an incubator for the Hanta Virus…. Kill me, please!”

Thing is, as much as we joke about it, Canadians ARE really super nice. It creeped me out. I was afraid to turn around because I was sure they’d be making faces at me…

But, I survived long enough to make it back on American soil and into my snuggly, Venus sleep trap bed.

Also went to the acupuncturist, which is always fun but even more so when you’re sick: walked out with my usual dazed and confused look, along with a back covered in perfectly symmetrical purple bruises and a chest littered with small metal dots.

Apparently the former is an ancient Asian tool used to draw toxins and bad stuff out of your body and into these glass suction cups. Thus, it’s called cupping. All I brought out was some suntan lotion from the 1970s and a few gnats I’d swallowed while running along Forbidden Drive a few weeks ago.

The latter are press balls, which I usually have scattered along my ears. They’re little metal balls placed strategically along pressure points, covered by a small square of Band Aid material. You’re supposed to press on them at regular intervals. They’re certainly a conversation starter.

“What the?”

“Oh these. Yeah, you haven’t heard?”

“No, what?”

“I’m beta testing a new government program to imbed personal data, ranging from blood type to credit rating, directly into the body. Less need for paperwork, saving trees, blah blah… Granted, the Wallet Makers Union Local 666 has been protesting since its launch, but I think the MIBs have pretty much disappeared most of them by now. Wanna’ press on them? Ooh, that feels gooood!”

Nooooo! Moe's!!!!!!!!!!

2006-06-30T00:08:00.000-04:00

Those of you who know me know of my deep-rooted, near daily obsession with burritos – specifically, Moe’s Southwest Grill. At least twice a week since a franchise opened near my work I’ve been hitting the flour-shelled salsa/bean/guacamole trinity of the food of the East Coast non-Mexican gods.

They know my name.

They know my burrito (tofu, black beans, no sour cream, fresh cilantro and chopped jalapenos).

And yes, I’d recently boycotted them for what seemed like an eternity after some numbskull left me standing there, burrito growing cold, while he failed to grasp the concept of how to multi-task through cheese and lettuce.

I swear I had nothing to do with it, but he got fired, and I’d recently returned to my Mexic-ish obsession.

Until today.

Venturing out at noon in nearly religious preparation for an evening of wiping the rink floor with my limbs, I made my way to … what was once … Moe’s.

“Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!” I wailed, throwing myself upon the locked doors.

No explanation was given for the sudden departure of my best fast food friend. It wasn’t lack of business – there was always a line. And I personally kept them in tortilla chips, I’ll bet.

Was it something worse? Something, dare I say, illegal? Illicit? Downright gross?!!?

Whatever the cause, this is a tragedy, people, a tragedy!

What do I do now? Do I stock my pantry with food and, shudder to think, cook? Do I overextend my already paltry budget and buy food out? And if I did, what could possibly compare?

But then, maybe it’s time that something gives.

Much as I love the stuff the fact of the matter is it’s bastardized East Coast faux fast food. And while the original, and best, burrito love of my life lives in the City by the Bay, I can’t help but find myself thinking that, even if the original, authentic article were offered to me it might be time for this old girl to take a chance on something entirely new.

I just have to hope I can somehow incorporate guacamole!

Q: Why Derby?

2006-06-21T16:26:00.000-04:00

A: Since I could walk, I've been hell on, and off, wheels.

At age 2 my mom enrolled me in tiny tots tumbling class. I promptly tumbled, all right: off the trampoline, beyond the reach of the safety barrier, and ass first onto the hard concrete floor. As the adults gasped, I immediately proceeded to get up and demand to do it again.

About that time I also got my first hand-me-down big wheels. The toy's low profile made it perfect for rolling under tables or taking some hapless adult out at the shins.

From there I graduated to full-fledged big kid bikes: banana seats, streamers, cards in the spokes. Growing up with a large extended family meant I always had some bike or other to scar myself with.

At age 4 I started ballet; at age 6 was cheerleading, and onward until I turned 18 and the gates of heaven opened up for me in the form of the dark cave in downtown Providence where bands played and I discovered: the mosh pit.

Bruises, contusions, concussions, boots marks, bite marks, and the occasional grope. I surfed the crowd at Pearl Jam, got sweated on by the Rollins Band, punched a skinhead at the Pumpkins – and immediately denied it – got into a fistfight at Fuel, and suffered many a tongue lashing from the enduringly uptight Ian MacKaye.

It makes sense, then, that my acrobatic and aggressive natures would collide.

For those of you not versed in the thoroughly modern game of roller derby, it’s a knock-down, drag out game that requires a lot of skill. You have to remain upright, on skates (a skill I have yet to perfect, or even comprehend) …

while keeping those around you from knocking you down;

while simultaneously trying to knock them down;

while looking behind you for your jammer and opposing jammer, who YOU are trying to help through the pack and knock the hell out of, respectively.

Confused yet?

In a nutshell, 10 women take the track — eight are blockers. They comprise the pack.

The two front skaters are called pivots — they control the speed and call the shots.

The last two skaters are jammers — they take off a few seconds after the pack starts to roll, and their job is to get through the pack.

Not so easy, and it’s not that simple.

They must avoid getting knocked down by each other as they zoom toward the pack; they must avoid getting knocked down by the rear blocker, whose whole job is to stop them from getting into the pack; they must avoid getting the crap beat out of them once they get in the pack.

And once they’re in the pack, they’re not allowed to hit back.

Yeah.

Their job is to score points — one point for each opposing team member passed, but, they don’t actually start to accrue points until they make their way through the pack… the second time.

That’s right: Get through the pack. Skate like hell. Go through again… Maybe.

Thing is, a lot of attention has been, and is being paid, to the fact that derby women have lots of tattoos and piercings and wear punk rock clothes and fishnets. But, that’s not the whole story, and that’s not the big story.

The truth is you’ve got women from 18 to I’m-not-telling who have jobs, husbands — or wives — kids, pets and outside lives. And we are all invested in one thing: beating the shit out of each other, and having a lot of fun while doing it.

Roller derby is no longer the post-'80s purple spandex Mad Max meets Madonna big-haired spectacle — the game is now all-girl and played — like skateboarding before the Boom Boom Huck Jam whore-down or skiing before the media tore Bode a new one — Just. For. Fun.

And I mean really, where else can someone my age get knocked down without suing someone, or worrying about breaking a hip?

Ethics? We don't need no stinkin' ethics!

2006-05-26T15:20:00.000-04:00

Well well well … shocking to think that a scandal of failed ethics could possibly rear its head on Capitol Hill, but alas, it seems another one of BushCo’s minions … er… appointees, is responsible for a little bit of backhanded fact-morphing.

I know… I know… bending the facts to suit the Bush administration’s version of the truth is par for the course, and the furor behind Karl Zinsmeister, who Bush just appointed domestic policy advisor, is pretty much in line with all the other slimy lying cheating scheming bullshit surrounding the administration.

In short, he didn’t like a story that was written about him two years ago, so he put it on his own website, but first changed a bunch of the quotes.

Thing is, this time it’s up close and personal, as the article Zinsmeister raped was written by dear ol’ Justin Park when he and I toiled at the Syracuse New Times. (He’s still toiling in the ‘cuse, I’m just toiling!)

So, now my drinking and bruise-making buddy is the talk of the journo town, and potentially on the verge of crucifixion.

Fortunately, if anyone can take it it’s Park. He had to put up with me for two years!

Read the original piece, and the mutant.

2006-05-25T17:02:00.000-04:00

Well, I fell on my technologically-challenged ass last weekend in Vegas.

Not only do I not possess a shiny, happy orgasmic iPod of all that is audibly holy, I could not find my digital camera when, ten minutes before I was supposed to leave, I decided to pack my bags.

So, I did what any aging art star who fondly remembers fondling Leicas and drooling over Hasselblads in the olden days would do: I dragged the crate labeled “cameras” from the closet — filled with such fun re-discoveries as an electrical-taped Holga, Polaroid Captiva, several Minolta 35mm’s and Keropi point-and-shoot — and loaded up an real, actual camera … with film, no less!

Granted, buying the film was probably as time-consuming and frustrating as finding the digital would have been — a few lonely rolls hung along the wall of the local CVS, nestled, dusty, between memory cards and reading glasses.

The good news is that there’s no effing shutter lag when doing photos the old school way. The bad news is that I’m still waiting to get them back ...

In the interim, I’ve composed an image that, I think, accurately reflects the photos you will, someday, see ...

For anyone who doubts roller girls can take a hit

2006-05-18T15:12:00.000-04:00

And this is after acupuncture, no less...

It came from the 'yunk

2006-05-10T10:24:00.000-04:00

Okay okay okay, I swear to god I have not been abducted by aliens or become a nun or fallen off a really big cliff, although all of those things are certainly possible at any point in my life…

I know. I know…

So, the big news is the She-Devils’ upcoming bout, next Sunday, May 21. Buy tickets now or I will personally hunt you down on my rollerskates (and fishnets) and hurl insults at you until you click on the goddamned paypal button to appease me.

At which point I will then rifle through your music collection (or simply steal your iPod), eat whatever junk food is in your fridge, steal your liquor and leave you alone, with your paypal confirmation number, shivering in the corner, feeling violated.

And you know you’ll enjoy it.

And really, either way, you’re gonna’ get beat up, so you might as well check out some serious roller derby (no pillow fights here, we use our fists).

‘course, I won’t be at this bout, I’ll be laying alongside a clear, blue body of water in the middle of the Nevada desert, with a drink in my hand, many more in my body, feeding the caution-to-the-wind desire for the sin of all Norse-girl sins: a suntan!

That’s right, Vegas. If you see a lobster hobbling through PHL sometime after next weekend, you’ll know it’s me. Kindly avoid touching me, and keep in mind I’ll probably be emanating heat from the burns, so if it’s warm outside, you have been warned….

As far as my extended electronic absence is concerned, I’ve got a few excuses, none of them all that good, but remember, people, I’m old and probably don’t care. The good news is the serial singleton one-bedroom is coming together nicely: I managed to move all 3,000 pounds of chick lit books, plastic plates, coffee mugs from around the world and random pieces of paper, art supplies, clothes and shoes I never wear, several bikes and way too many useless, outdated computers across town and up three flights of stairs.

I’m never moving again. They’ll have to hurl my cold, lifeless corpse down one of those mega-trash shoots they attach to buildings that lands in those mobile truck-sized dumpsters before I’ll lug this crap around again.

I remember the first time I set off on my own and packed my life into the back of my beat up… er… okay, shiny red fast turbocharged German sportscar… when I was 20 and drove until I hit the shiny blue ocean. Well, okay, it was Massachusetts — does that count?

Back then, if it didn’t fit into my car, it no longer belonged to me, or, actually, lay forgotten in the dark corners of my parents’ basement until last year, when they decided to sell their house. (Which, coincidentally, was called off shortly after I went through all my crap and managed to move most of it out… I still imagine the champagne toast after they pulled out the “for sale” sign and wondered what to do with all the newfound junk-storing space.)

Of course, we all have to move on, collect more things, more baggage in oh so many forms, and before you know if you’re still hauling your shit around in the back of a shiny red German car, only this time it’s done in a dozen loads because you’re too poor to afford movers, and too much of a useless hermit to make it to bars and get hit on by men with big arms and small brains who you can convince to move you that weekend thinking you’ll agree to have sex.

Either way, you’re bound to wind up sweaty and tired and vowing to never, ever do anything that horrible again…

Two weeks, people, two weeks...

2006-05-07T22:25:00.000-04:00

SADISTIC SWEETHEARTS TAKE ON FALLEN ANGELS
IN ROLLER DERBY GRUDGE MATCH
Girl-On-Girl Roller Derby Action Hits the Garden State
on Sunday, May 21!

There will be blood, bruises and Sweet Revenge at 7 p.m. on Sunday, May 21, when the Penn Jersey She-Devils’ Sadistic Sweethearts take on fellow PJSD team the Fallen Angels in a knock down, drag out—and guaranteed to be sold out—grudge match at Holiday Skating Center in Delanco, N.J.

The two teams went head-to-head in the league’s premiere bout on Sunday, March 26, at Holiday Skating Center, where they wowed a sold-out audience and raised money for the Rape Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN). Three hundred more tickets have been added for this bout, and are also guaranteed to sell out. Tickets are $12 in advance, $15 at the door and $20 VIP.

To help the She-Devils become the most badass athletes Penn-Jersey has seen in over 30 years, 2004 Roller Derby Hall of Fame inductee Judy “the Polish Ace” Sowinski, and Arnold "Skip" Schoen signed on as coaches last year, setting PJSD apart as the only league coached by bona fide banked track roller derby stars. In addition to whipping the She-Devils into shape on wheels, both Judy and Skip skated for the Philadelphia Warriors in the 1970s, where they kicked quad-skate ass for a living.

Roller derby is a real, unscripted sport, and the She-Devils hone their skills twice a week at Cornwell’s Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. A third team will be formed this spring; unlike roller derby leagues of the past, modern roller derby leagues are comprised of at least two teams that skate against each other in addition to other area leagues. Skaters also take unique names, which are registered in a national database.

Additional bouts for the 2006 season are currently in the planning stages for rinks throughout New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, including a bout in Hershey, Pa., in June. In the meantime, each She-Devil is busy perfecting her game, with rookies joining on a regular basis as the sport becomes increasingly popular. There are nearly 80 flat track roller derby teams across the U.S., and counting!

About the She-Devils: The Penn Jersey She-Devils is the original Philadelphia region all-girl roller derby league. Founded in 2005 by Ken Sikes and Greg Spencer, PJSD is a skater-owned and -operated league, with over 40 skaters from both Pennsylvania and New Jersey, ranging in age from 20 to 45, who strap on quad roller skates and hit the rink every Monday and Thursday at Cornwell's Skating Center in Bensalem, Pa. She-Devils’ occupations vary widely—the league includes body piercers, chefs, chemists, clowns, massage therapists retail owners, tattoo artists and teachers—but all She Devils are in it for one thing: to skate like hell.

My Own Little Corner of Manayunk

2006-04-23T22:32:00.000-04:00

I've finally stopped sleeping with ear plugs. Not initially. For the first few days it seemed almost foreign to sleep with the ability to hear anything and everything going on around me.

But now that it's been a full week of freedom I'd have to say it's pretty goddamn cool.

Oh, I had my doubts, the lingering fears and uncertainty: if a scary monster were going to attack me, is it better to remain oblivious until the very end, or hear every scale, scraping toenail and breath of fire as it moves ever closer?

Granted, the real reason I'd taken to earplugs wasn't so much scary monsters as annoying surroundings. And I have to say, since vacating my West Philly abode I do not miss the boomin' system. Not one bit. Not one beat. Nada…

And yes, it's true, I've moved into my own digs in the land Justin euphemistically refers to as Many Hunks, otherwise known as the land of bicycles and spandex. (Although, technically, I'm in a place called Wissahickon. Whatever… I see bicycles…)

To celebrate, I took mah baybee out for a spin last week to see what it's like to hit the open road straight from home, and not have to make my way through the 'hood first. An hour later, sucking air and bright lobster red, I realized I've got a lot of work to do—apparently skating's not all that in the land of fitness!

But it sure is fun to do and watch, and in the spirit of roller derby unity a few of us She-Devils made our way to Long Island last night for their opening bout, which was definitely much fun. Ranking high on the un-fun o'meter, however, would be Google directions and the asshole programmer who decided the easiest way from Philly to Long Island is through Man-effing-hattan!

Anyone who happened to be on 34^th yesterday as a little red VW crawled along, its driver heaping curses upon Google while shaking the steering wheel … well, I apologize. Hopefully there won't be any lasting scars…

2006-04-21T21:18:00.000-04:00

i have seriously just had the worst week ever....

2006-04-12T20:11:00.000-04:00

Wednesday: Dork, dork, dork... I'm a dork. Or just regressive... repressive? Aggressive? (Well, ask my fellow roller girls about that ... they'll be glad to tell you I throw a mean block ... right before I fall on my ass!)

Sitting here stretching after running, getting ready to go out, listening to same dj I've been smitten with since time began, thinking about how I used to go out running before going out countless years ago, and would stretch listening to smit'y dj.....

Either I need to exorcise the '90s or embrace them. Whatever I choose, however, I've got the wardrobe!

2006-04-11T22:13:00.000-04:00

Tuesday: I'm so damned tired. And completely off my rocker, it seems, considering the fact that somehow I managed to take myself outside the house this a.m. with two completely different earrings on.

Now, granted, that's not a huge deal — happens all the time, I'm sure, with earrings, socks, shoes, anything that comes in twos — but the part that has me most worried is the fact that no one said a word to me.

So what does that say about me?!?!?

I think I've just got so much going on right now I can't keep the brain, or its accessories, on straight!

First off, there's the skating around in circles while simultaneously trying to push other skaters around — while remaining upright, a talent I've yet to master, or even get the basics of — not to mention the writing and the visiting and the eating, drinking and be merry'ing, along with the fact that any day now I am moving from the dark hole I've been residing in for far longer than originally intended to a brightly lit cocoon of my very own.

That shit takes time and energy.

And then there's all the other stuff that floats around my peripheral vision like the ghost that walks between the walls of this scary, old house. Or maybe it's just my paranoid schizophrenic-esque roommate. Who knows. Either way, I'm outta' here to chase ghosts of my own.

In the meantime, things continue to get away from me.

Like the fact that for the first time since switching phone service providers a year ago I looked at my phone bill, and the number rundown, only to discover a number from an area code I lived in once upon a time…

Only, I never remembered getting a single call from this number, because if I had I would have picked it up immediately. For, you know, curiosity's sake.

Not because, you know, there might be someone at the other end I'm desperate to, you know, talk to…

So now I sit and stare at the number. Whoever it was gave up trying weeks ago, which I can't say I blame them, and never left a message, which I also cannot blame them for….

So what do I do?

If I call, what do I say? I can't find the number on google. There's no other choice. I call, or I don't. Two horrible decisions for an anti-social butterly!

If only life were as easy as strapping on a pair of skates and pushing people around…

God I need help… or balls!

2006-04-09T23:00:00.000-04:00

New tattoo today. Before and after coming soon.

Forgot how much those things hurt....

2006-04-03T19:14:00.000-04:00

Saturday/Sunday/Monday:

Had the overwhelming desire to pen ode to my bike yesterday after seeing all the healthy folk riding out in the sun-drenched Philly world. Unfortunately, realized I’m no Shakespeare and the result resembled more of “there once was a bike from Nantucket” than a sappy love sonnet.

Was coming home from work when, at a stop sign, extremely hot LeMond rider with tasty tattoos crossed my path. Same yum-yum I’d chased last year on my complimentary-hued blue Zurich. Turned. Followed him. Followed him. Chickened out as visions of restraining orders flashed in my head.

*sigh*

Gotta’ get me some balls!

It’s hopeless, really. I’ll disregard perfectly good single male specimens upon discovery that they don’t find being clipped into a sleek piece of plastic and metal, flying like a bat out of hell with nothing more than a sliver of spandex between them and the asphalt, foreplay, and yet I’m too chicken to make eye contact with a perfect fantasy match! Pathetic…

I bounce well...

2006-03-30T23:49:00.000-05:00

Thursday:
Ouch. Human floor mop tonight — spent more time on ass, getting up from falling on ass or rolling about from limbs to ass, than on skates.

But, discovered I’m pretty good at blocking, which makes sense as it’s in many ways just a mosh pit on wheels.

Praise the lord and advil … or maybe just the lord of advil!

GRUP?

2006-03-29T21:55:00.000-05:00

It would appear I am somewhat of a GRUP...

Ronnie James Dio Was the First

2006-03-29T21:25:00.000-05:00

Wednesday:
Ahhh. Acupuncture high…. Mmmmm…..

Suffering lately from insomnia — not the falling asleep end, but the staying asleep. The brain, she is addled methinks… I like sleep. Sleep is good. I went many years without it, all hopped up on the graveyard shift at Sparky’s, the studio, at shows or just plain having fun.

Sleep = good; insomnia = gr.

Many years ago I was an extra in a movie called Dream for an Insomniac, which involved hanging around all night in an evening dress waiting to sit in the background and, in the end product, turning out to be just a human-esque blur of speck over someone’s shoulder.

The chick who used to date Anthony Keidis was the star, and I remember watching her, thinking she was dumb, but feeling jealous none-the-less: he was but one of the objects of my grunge-years hair farmer fantasies.

A few years later I was sitting on the ground at school, tired, much like right now, drinking wine pilfered from an opening and smoking Marlboros on break from the printing studio. The opening was for a magazine called Juxtapoz, and as I sat, oblivious to the all the lowbrow testosterone gods, I couldn’t help but stare at the dude standing right next to me who looked like a cross between a drag queen, Cher and a monkey. He wasn’t cute, but the 14-year-old girl in miniskirt and fake boobs seemed to think otherwise.

It was Anthony Kiedis.

My rock star fantasy was dashed to bits, snuffed like the films my roommate liked to watch on the living room wide-screen TV at all hours of the day.

Until a few days, weeks, months — who knows — later when, at another opening downtown, Dave Navarro brushed past me.

The rock god, I realized, is alive and well, as I stood panting. Unfortunately, some, like Anthony (and itty-bitty Eddie Vedder is a super nice guy so I just can’t dis him) look better on TV.

Which is exactly where I’m headed. I’m tired. Too tired. I need an influx of Sex … and the City!

Dear Diary...

2006-03-28T14:58:00.000-05:00

In spirit of desire to write more than takeout food order on a daily basis, have decided to institute diary-esque entries into this here space. Seems like a good idea as I've been a total slacker lately, and find myself wondering a.) why I take a writing workshop when all I do is read other peoples' stuff and b.) why my muse hates me ...

With that in mind, shall make at least one entry per day, staring this week. So, without further adieu:

Monday:

... wait. Oh shit. Bloody hell! Gr.... heh...

Tuesday:

Technically started Tuesday at the tail end of Monday near the bottom of a bottle of merlot, in conjunction with mindless Irish cheese and French bread snacking. Must stop all of the above ... now ... I swear...

Second start to the day wasn't much better as it involved me riding a trolley/train combo to the 'burbs to spring my car from the repair shop. After approximately six months of driving on an expired New York inspection I decided it was high time I give in to the fact that I live in Pa. and my East Village sex/drugs/rock'n'roll lifestyle fantasy has been replaced by WaWa soft pretzels and tourists blocking my path near the Liberty Bell, for at least the near future.

And so, after attempting to trade my first born for the keys to the newly fixed shiny happy legal nearly new-ish VW, (They explained they don't accept first borns as payment as they are generally more trouble than they are worth, what with not being able to feed themselves nor change a transmission. I concurred and remarked it's probably a good thing i've never actually spawned one.) I hit the road.

Approximately five miles later the check engine light came back on.

Have thus decided that rather than living on Top Ramen and cheap coffee I will simply buy a roll of black electrical tape. Like wailing, grinding and clanking noises indicating car needs fixed, which I generally rectify by turning stereo up, annoying long-term check engine light isn't on if I can't see it...

And again, even though I lost two hours of my life a few weeks ago getting pressured to buy a new one, vowed to never, ever ever ever ever buy a Volkswagen again. (Although, am inclined to write letter to VW of America commending them for recent ad campaign featuring truth in advertising: they may call it a Fast, but it's still a gremlin, and yep, all new VW's come with them... you have been warned...)

Following Schuykill adventure got to work, drowned in e-mails, responded to HR that yes, I would be very interested in Weight Watchers At Work (after reading previous message about leftover cookies in cafeteria, getting daily cardio in by rushing across building and knocking down CEO [which also doubled as rollergirl practice, right?] and snatching four cookies, two brownies and a bunch of grapes, which I used to disable sugar-crazed co-workers in pursuit).

Drowned in more e-mails, surfed eBay for going-away present for dept. manager, ate lunch and brushed teeth. (The latter turning into own personal celebration after using toothbrush from makeup bag. It seems the glitter from Sunday night's bout opened up, and only just now, upon return trip to loo, did I understand coworkers' comments regarding my "exceptionally bright smile.")

Vowed to come back in next life as a hermit ...

Or a Fast...

Shameless Self Promotion!

2006-03-26T12:30:00.000-05:00

Tonight's the night: Heaven and Hell on Earth in the good' ol Garden State . Woo hoo!

It's about noon now and I'm just schlepping down the last dregs of my gallon of coffee before dragging myself out the door. There are errands to be run, things to be purchased and weekly un-fun chores to be completed before tonight.

But that's not stopping me from heading out to Holiday Skating Center tonight and having some goddamn good ol' fashioned fishnet and mini-skirted fun …

And that shouldn't stop anyone else, either.

So, the doors open a 6 p.m. , bout starts at 7 p.m., and the place is super easy to get to:

From Philly just head across the Betsy Ross Bridge , get onto Route 130 (Burlington Pike), and, in New Jersey left turn form, there will be a Creek Road exit to the right. It's over a river, and there's a green highway sign as well for Creek Road. (If you look it up on Google it's Riverside, NJ, on Mapquest I think it's Delanco. Total bullshit — just hit Route 130, there's some big resort-y looking place also called Holiday — it's easy to find, just go. I got there with zero sense of direction — anyone can!)

There will also be loverly hand-painted signs reading "Roller Derby" with arrows pointing the way at the corner in all directions as well, courtesy moi. (Yo, can't let that art degree go to waste, eh?!!?!?)

Cross Route 130, at the light right past the WaWa on the corner turn left, and be amazed at the amount of cars and people swarming into the skating rink parking lot, a very short bit down the road on your right.

I expect everyone to be there, damnit!

In the meantime, I guess I'm going to leave the house or something … a croissant is calling my name ...

The Dryer Hates Bunny Soft

2006-03-19T18:38:00.000-05:00

I wish someone had told me that the socks I keep buying at Target that are the tactile equivalent of millions of soft kittens snuggling and purring all around your feet cannot be put in the dryer. Sadly, the soft sock bunnies have now been replaced by evil scratching foot killers...

*sigh*

Please, let this be a lesson to y'all; don't suffer the same horrible fate as my hurty feet!

Girl-On-Girl in the Garden State!!!

2006-03-17T07:45:00.000-05:00

The time has finally come for some hardcore, hard rocking, hot girl-on-girl action, and you know you want to be there!

So, get your ass out the door and across the Betsy Ross for the premiere bout of the Penn Jersey She-Devils all-girl rollerderby, Heaven & Hell on Earth, next Sunday, March 26, at Holiday Skating Center in Delran, N.J. Doors open at 6 p.m.; ass-kicking will commence promptly at 7 p.m.!

Though I’m still a newbie, rockin’, rollin’ and occasionally rolling around on the floor (just call me Grace!), I’ll be there in full flame-skate, fishnet regalia. The real action, however, is going down on the rink: the Fallen Angels vs. the Sadistic Sweethearts. Trust me, I’ve watched these chickies in action, and there’s gonna’ be blood!

We’ve got tickets on sale right now, so get your hands out of your pants, grab your wallet instead, and click here to find out where to buy them, or order them online. You can also get them at the door, but you’ll cough up $3 extra, and why the hell would you want to throw away the cost of a perfectly good Special? (For all you non-Philly dive bar aficionados, that’s a shot of Jim Beam and can of Pabst. Mmm-mmm-good!)

For those of you who want to get as close to the action as possible without being an actual rollergirl, VIP seating is $25. Plus, there will be an open skate following the bout, for those of you who want to court death just a wee bit more — we promise not to hurt … much.

We’re also looking for sponsors; as a team-owned operation we’re always looking to partner with the same people and products we live, work and play with here in the Philly region, and beyond. E-mail me for information on our sponsorship packages and get your name on one of the fastest-growing (and hottest — admit it, we’re cute!) sports around.

Plus, we don’t skate in Camden, so you won’t get shot…

Once you’ve had a chance to check out our skating chops, check out some awesome underground music on Friday, March 31, at URBAN DK, God’s Basement, 5151 Warren St., Philly. It’s hosted by TruSkool Productions, one of our best sponsors. $10 gets you out of the house, into a super cool event, and another chance to hang with chicks on skates. We rock, and so will you.

Until then, happy St. Patty’s Day, drink some green beer, and get your tickets now, damnit! (And don’t forget to come find me at the bout so I can actually meet the people who read my stuff!)

She-Devils Rollerderby Opening Bout!

2006-03-15T21:14:00.000-05:00

Having a tough time typing these days — spilled a glass of wine on my keyboard, which is making the keys sticky, not to mention it smells like a bar. Plus, I’m sitting here with a heating pad on my shoulder because I suffered my first quad wheel injury in years! Had a good time doing it, though, but in the falling department, I can definitely use some practice, which I’m sure I’ll get!

And, speaking of quad speed demons, I expect everyone reading this to come to the Penn Jersey She-Devils’ first bout of the season! Or else….

Nodding off in NOLA

2006-03-04T15:53:00.000-05:00

So I'm sitting in a conference room in the middle of New Orleans talking disaster management.

What I really want to do is go to Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo. I think I need some new mojo. Or just something fun to do.

This is such a cool city, and it's too bad I'm not here for fun. I did hit the French Quarter yesterday, and drank chicory coffee and ate fried balls of powdered sugar-laden dough.

Wandering back, I hit some tourist dives and sex shops, and literally walked into a parade of drunken Irishmen. By the time I made it back to my hotel I was nearly falling over from the strings of green beads around my neck.

I think this could be my new favorite city.

If only I could get out of this laptop, air-conditioned, sunless, bland coffee hell!

At the altar of the Rollergirl gods

2006-02-28T16:40:00.000-05:00

Okay, so, rundown of last night’s Philly Rollergirls fresh meat tryouts:

We got there, realized we were a handful of people who didn’t already own skates, filled out a bunch of paperwork, which included the requisite “tell us about yourself” and “why do you want to be a rollergirl?” (I included ‘I’ve been hit nine times by cars, getting hit by girls doesn’t scare me. In fact, I look forward to it.’) and then went out and rolled around.

They had us skate five times around the track, looking for speed and style (I sucked ass, and was probably slow as all get out), skate between cones, slalom-style (I actually said, ‘Whee!” while doing it, which could either work in my favor or put me out of the running entirely), running start on the toe stops (essentially balancing on this little nubs of worn rubber at the end of your toes, defying gravity and the gods and making you look like a cross between a chicken and an epileptic sneaking around), and an in-person interview.

That part was particularly grueling as it was about this point the caffeine and wine combo I’d employed at home to simultaneously mellow me out and get me moving fast kicked in, causing me to talk far too fast, sweat profusely, act like I was still in third grade and twitch, although the latter bit I think I disguised by spinning around in circles until I almost threw up.

When we were done doing all those things they sent us away, with nothing more than the promise that the few selected (10 tops, and there were probably 50 people trying out) would be contacted at the end of the week.

For the rest of us, there’s the sorrow of knowing that we weren’t good enough. Yet.

I’m driving to Delaware as soon as I can find the time to buy my own pair of skates. And yes, I’m gonna put pom-poms on them, just like when I was 12!

Tales of a Badass Rollergirl Wanna Be, Vol. 2

2006-02-26T22:03:00.000-05:00

Okay, I’m just going to spit it out: tomorrow’s rollergirl tryouts.

Augh!

It’s okay … it’s okay.

Cat and I have been skating like quad-crazed fiends, and I’ve got a blister the size of Texas on my right heel, and a sore ass from landing a few too many times after getting a bit too cocky re: my abilities. But, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and whatever’s in between, well, there’s ice and Advil.

Wish us luck…

Never mind the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame...

2006-02-26T21:54:00.000-05:00

Time to use our remaining choices: at the bank and voting booth

2006-02-24T22:34:00.000-05:00

I don’t even know what to say. What is there to say in response to the ban on abortion signed into law today in South Dakota?

Words have made little difference to those who do not even consider the procedure an option for women who have been raped, or are carrying a relative’s child.

Nice.

There’s something more powerful than words here in ’Murka, and although I too tend to picture a shotgun as I write that, I’m speaking of the single most powerful thing to the genteel citizenry and powerful white men controlling this country: Money.

I’m putting it where my mouth is, and I’d like to urge everyone else to do the same, because, let’s face it, abortion sucks, it’s the last thing anyone wants to happen. But it does. Period. No hearts and flowers, wishing it away or forcing it away.

Start with Planned Parenthood. They’ve been there for my uninsured ass in the past, and it’s always been comforting to know that no matter what I might need in relation to my sexual self — pain relief, condoms, birth control, STD tests, prenatal care or abortion — I can count on them.

I want to make sure the next generation can as well, for whatever care they need.

Anyone delusional enough to think abortion will end if it’s illegal needs a kick in the teeth. It never has, never will, and these dumbasses really need a clue. Each one signs the legislation in the blood of some poor, desperate women as she bleeds to death from a botched back alley abortion. Remember those? Don’t worry, you won’t have to: they’re coming back in fashion.

It's time to talk through the pure force of funds.

These bastards are hijacking every scrap of free will, free speech and self-determination the citizens of what was, way back in the day, the best country in the world, are barely clinging to.

I’ve had enough, and I’m sick and tired of sitting around talking about things. It doesn’t work on these thugs. Time to get serious and Just. Say. No.

Because, you and I both know that if the daughter of any of those South Dakotan bastards came home knocked up she’d be secretly whisked into the operating room of some MD for an abortion faster than you can say “amen.”

More Fun with Cheney!

2006-02-12T18:45:00.000-05:00

To be perfectly honest, I cannot even begin to discern which element of the news that VP Darth Cheney shot a fellow hunter is more disturbing:

µ The vice president's office did not disclose the accident until the day after it happened.

µ [Property owner Katharine] Armstrong said she was watching from a car while Cheney, Whittington and another hunter got out of the vehicle to shoot at a covey of quail.

µ [The victim, Harry] Whittington "came up from behind the vice president and the other hunter and didn't signal them or indicate to them or announce himself," Armstrong said.

µ "The vice president didn't see him," she continued. "The covey flushed and the vice president picked out a bird and was following it and shot. And by god, Harry was in the line of fire and got peppered pretty good."

µ "Fortunately, the vice president has got a lot of medical people around him and so they were right there and probably more cautious than we would have been," [Armstrong] said. "The vice president has got an ambulance on call, so the ambulance came."

So, essentially, what we're to believe is that Cheney drives around looking for things to kill. When he finds something, he has his driver stop the car, which, I'm assuming, causes the assorted other vehicles that travel with him to stop as well. These vehicles include at least one ambulance. He then gets out, finds what he wants to kill, locks his prey in a visual death grip (much like a predator missile, I'll betcha') and does not register a human being in his gun's path.

Tell me, which part is more frightening? I cannot decide…

H Stands for Has-Been

2006-02-11T21:20:00.000-05:00

Christ all fucking mighty, Henry, can you give it a rest already?

Yes, I know, we all understand you need to pay the rent, and the residuals from those Apple commercials and Nissan voice-overs don’t last forever.

But really, honestly, I say this with as much love as I can muster: no one cares.

The last time I saw you, with dear ol’ Mags, I had such bronchitis I couldn’t speak, which was your lucky day, because, really, if I’d intended to pay good money to sit around listening to some undersexed big-necked middle-aged white man talk about how women, once they get into a relationship, suck their partners’ souls dry and just want to go shop for curtains, I could listen to Fox News.

And that’s free.

I know, Henry, I understand this must be tough. I’ve followed you, Henry, was part of the audience, mosh pit, fan base for years. I played the Rollins Band on my radio show, listened to Black Flag, fantasized about bearing your love child.

But those days are gone, Henry, gone the way of the telegraph, trust in government, budget surplus and your virility.

So please, Henry, please understand: we who followed you, who understood you, believed in what was once your brilliance, cannot stand you.

And if I happen to see you wandering around my dear ol’ city of brotherly love next week, don’t worry, I won’t talk to you. You don’t like interviews, or conversation, you need to keep your concentration, keep focused on the task at hand. I know. I remember.

It must be so hardcore being you…

A love letter of unbridled desire

2006-02-11T20:36:00.000-05:00

I can no longer deny it, and must shout it out to the world. I wish to sing a love song, jump on a couch like Tom Cruise; I cannot be silent any more.

You are my love. My desire. My passion.

I walk through driving snow, sit in rush hour traffic, go out of my way to embrace your tender sweetness. You are my everything.

But, like all good things, you are fleeting, coming into my life on winter’s darkest days, brightening my spirits and sweetening my tongue.

And alas, my love, I crave you! Crave like no other. Yet when you go, I forget about my love, the way I feel when you’re around, until you return, bringing with you a stronger ocean of longing each time.

And alas, my love, you, like so many others, are so bad for me. The way you make me feel, the person you turn me into, I scarcely recognize. And, like so many others, I must let you go.

But, for now, I cannot.

Because I know that soon, my love, soon you will, again, be gone…

A beginning ?

2006-02-05T23:46:00.000-05:00

Do pain, death, desperation, sorry carry from generation to generation, ancestor to ancestor? Is it possible to feel the pain of one's forebears without having any physical connection to them? Can something that happened thousands of miles away, years ago resonate with the same pain as a tragedy that happens today? I'm willing to swear on it.

"I just feel so depressed," my mother lamented from the other end of the phone, 300 miles away on this cold, wintry Sunday. The weather matched my mood—cold winds blowing with an angry ferocity, with dark clouds threatening to drop anything from fluffy snowflakes to torrential rain.

Mother's solemn mood, however, diffused my own angry edge, bringing us both to tears with each click.

AUSCHWITZ - THE CONCENTRATION CAMP

Auschwitz functioned throughout its existence as a concentration camp, and over time became the largest such Nazi camp. In the first period of the existence of the camp, it was primarily Poles who were sent here by the German occupation authorities. These were people regarded as particularly dangerous: the elite of the Polish people, their political, civic, and spiritual leaders, members of the intelligentsia, cultural and scientific figures, and also members of the resistance movement, officers, and so on. Over time, the Nazis also began to send groups of prisoners from other occupied countries to Auschwitz. Beginning in 1942, Jews whom the SS physicians classified as fit for labor were also registered in the camp.

Stanislaw Wiecek was a teacher.

A member of the intelligentsia?

Particularly dangerous?

"Never mind—he's one of ours," I thought, the first confirmation, thanks to Auschwitz-Birkenau's new website, of what we always figured, but never had concrete proof, that we'd lost. A Polish teacher. Possibly a member of the resistance movement.

Never mind. He's one of ours.

You hear for years about something horrible, but what is it about the human mind that cannot fully, or truly, understand or care about something until something accomplishes the proverbial brining it home?

Oh sure, there's the moral outrage, the sadness at an event that never should have happened, perpetuated at the hands of a madman, but even it its horror and unbelievability, nothing had ever really brought it into my life.

Wiecek, Stanislaw
Cieklin
b.1908-01-05 (Cieklin), died 1942-04-16, denomination:katholisch

From among all the people deported to Auschwitz, approximately 400,000 people were registered and placed in the camp and its sub-camps (200,000 Jews, more than 140,000 Poles, approximately 20,000 Gypsies from various countries, more than 10,000 Soviet prisoners of war, and more than 10,000 prisoners of other nationalities).

140,000 Poles; 20,000 Gypsies. My family. Dead.

I suppose I should be glad for Stanislaw and his ilk: they died for what they believed in. The Jews died for what they were born into. They had no choice, they were murdered simply for being born.

Tales of a badass Rollergirl Wanna-be, Vol. 1

2006-02-04T23:31:00.000-05:00

Goddamn am I tired! Holy shit this Rollergirl thing is going to kick my ass, though that's not necessarily a bad thing…

Today was Day 1 of "let's see if I can still skate." With Christine and my cousin Dana, the first step was getting to the rink. A mere minutes away—and the rink the Philly Rollergirls use—is Millennium Skate World in Camden, N.J.

That's right, Camden. Most dangerous city in the country Camden…

Needless to say, there was a certain measure of fear as we made our way across the bridge and through a red light (my bad!), making a turn at the chop-shop and down the road, past the projects, to the rink. Upon entering we were treated to the mother of a young child who'd just had a birthday party at the rink threatening to, I'm not sure, it was hard to hear, but I think possibly dismember, sit on, shoot and/or not pay the manager on duty.

Forty-five minutes later, after waiting in a long, snaking line because, well, there's nothing else to do in Camden but wait in line or get shot, right?, we were in, and following an in-depth consultation with the magic tan rollerskate master regarding shoe size, we three laced up, stood up, and … proceeded to fall.

Okay, okay, it wasn't really that dramatic, we actually ventured out onto the rink before planting ass, but we certainly did our share of giving in to mighty gravity. Well, except for Dana, but she's not trying to be a rollergirl, she just wanted to get around the rink a few times!

I am happy to report, however, that Ms. Christine and I, by the end of the evening, were pushing into each other, skating backwards (wobbly and slow, but not too shabby nonetheless), crossing over on the turns and basically vowing to practice a lot more before going up before the judges Feb. 27. . .

Two of whom I met after returning to the (relative) safety of the City of Brotherly Love. They were manning (no pun intended) the Rollergirls booth at the Philadelphia Tattoo Convention ( i.e. Land of inked gods. Holy motherfuck!). As I walked away, the one girl's parting words—"I look forward to pushing you around"—just made me want to skate more!

Which I will be doing… as soon as this Advil kicks in. Ow!!!

My life, part I

2006-02-03T22:00:00.000-05:00

Holy shit. Okay, somebody smack me with a bottle of champagne, it’s a celebration!

It’s 9:30 Friday night, I’m sitting in my flannel kitty PJs with a glass of wine, listening to the Killers. I’ve been to McMenamin’s, blown off Christine (sorry chickie!), blown off an hour of work on terrible web copy, and finished the final edit on the first real, honest to goodness, complete chapter of my b.o.o.k.!!!

How do I know it’s the first chapter? It just is. It’s done.

And now the hard part.

I was telling my roommate the other night I’m at the point where the writing gets really raw, really real. And I can’t seem to hit the keys. But I’m getting there.

It’s an interesting process, something I’ve never attempted before. But even if the fucking thing sits trapped for all electronic eternity on my hard drive, untouchable by publishers and readers alike, so be it. It’s managed to get my brain moving in a direction it never could before.

I kid you not, it’s like goddamned therapy!

Although, there are times when I wonder if perhaps it’s making me a wee bit too eager to blindly forge ahead.

Let me explain:

Last night I had a vision of myself standing on the corner of 48th and Baltimore, hand jammed as far as it could go into one of those big, blue government-issue mailboxes, alternating between whimpers for help and a blind determination to retrieve the piece of mail I’d just tossed, almost nonchalantly, into its big, steel belly.

Why this vision?

Because I was standing at the corner of 48th and Baltimore weighing the pros and cons of shoving my hand as far as it could go into the big, blue government-issue mailbox standing in front of me, taunting in its blueness. I’d just tossed a piece of mail, nonchalantly, into its big, steel belly.

And part of me wanted it back.

And part of me wanted it to go to its destination, come what may.

See, its intended recipient just happens to be an extremely integral part of Chapter One, and by writing I’ve managed to get to the point where I miss said character more than I miss the comfort in the ignorance of how much this said soul could, potentially, want me dead.

And so yesterday I sent something I’ve wanted to send for years. Hell, yesterday I reached out to the other half of my soul, and no matter what, damnit, it’s done.

As is the chapter.

Let’s fucking rejoice!

Because now, it’s on to Chapter Two…

Can't see the forest for the Frey?

2006-01-28T20:11:00.000-05:00

So call me crazy, but I have to wonder, really, why the world seems to be folding in on itself over the fact that some writer, in a drive to get published—we’re all familiar with that—is the media and greater community’s punching bag, just because he fabricated a memoir.

Okay, okay, I know I’m gonna get the electronic shit kicked out of me for this, but considering the fact that there are so many people out there in the public eye who fabricate on a daily basis, with consequences far more dire than giving Queen Oprah a black eye for not seeing this one coming, my question is:

Who fucking cares?!!?

Can somebody help me out here? Because my current (and first, let’s be honest here) book is a bit memoir mixed with some fabrication, fudging of the truth, whole truth and nothing but the truth, and some existential drama tossed in for emphasis. Basically, my life sorta’ but not really.

If I get the fucker published, and it comes out as a memoir, am I going to have to give back all the body-waxed male hookers, blow and really goddamn good wine I know I’m going to buy from the first wave of riches? I’d like to know now, not because I’m going to not do all the aforementioned things, I’ll just be sure to a.) make sure I have a really motherfucking good time doing it and b.) avoid Oprah. (Which saddens me as, I’ve posted before, her couch is a bit like pop-literary Mecca for me…)

tick-tock...

2006-01-24T22:36:00.000-05:00

I had an epiphany this morning. I've been sleeping a lot lately—too much, really—and so I got to bed at a respectable but not too early 12:30 a.m. last night, waking just before my alarm went off at 6:42 a.m. (Don't ask, I like to fool my brain and so I set the väckarklocka for an odd time … I know… I know…)

Funny thing about early a.m. is that it really takes the brain on odd journeys down paths—many treacherous and painful, others amusing and inspiring—that don't usually get visited during the busy-brain work-monkey daylight hours.

So, I'm laying there it occurred to me I've been going about this growing-aged-hand-me-the-cane-and-coffin-it-might-was-well-be-over time in my life all wrong, and instead of looking at what I, or in most instances, society, tells me I'm missing I should look at what I actually want.

I know, it gets tough, especially when you're not doing the usual thing, and you do things like look around a room and realize you're the only person without a wedding or engagement ring.

And so, as I was laying snuggled in my L.L . Bean-ly flannel warmies, Gordy the stuffed pig at my side, I decided I've had enough, I'm not waiting around for someone, anyone, the one, the hearts and flowers incarnation of Godot because, and this is the important part: I don't want to. I am still struggling with the raging uncertainty regarding my one—discovered at age 18 and always on the brain and gnawing at the heart—who I summarily kicked to the curb a few years ago, and whether or not I seriously fucked up.

Not that I'm giving up, or plan to head to the Humane Society anytime soon to look at cats, but the pressure has been building at such an impossible clip to get hitched. I'm about ready to hire someone just to get everyone to shut the fuck up because I am tired, and too deep in things I enjoy to stop and find some dude to buy me a bunch of smelling-the-roses-roses.

So I'm ignoring the peanut gallery, dedicating my life, and heart, to having a good time… and in the meantime, I've got work to do: Philly Rollergirl tryouts are February 27!!!

Coachella sucks!

2006-01-20T15:43:00.000-05:00

Um, yeah, so this has got to be a joke, right? I mean, wasn’t last year’s fest significantly better?

And, ah, sure, like I’m gonna’ pay to see all this collective crap in one place. I’d be afraid I’d go into a lactose-intolerant coma thanks to all the fetid cheese on stage over two days.

Although, oh gosh oh gee, the entire cast of Rent? Ooh, now that’s a teaser….

I always was a tomboy

2006-01-13T21:16:00.000-05:00

You Are Boyish Sexy

You're the kind of girl who gets along with all the boys
Whether it's holding your own in a game of touch football...
Or kicking some major butt while playing Xbox.
You hang with the guys easily, while still keeping your girly sexiness.

What Kind of Sexy Are You?

It's My Birthday! Gimme' Stuff!

2006-01-08T21:22:00.000-05:00

Is listening to Coldplay an indicator of aging? If so, the birthday that looms before me, growing closer with each annoying buzz of the a.m. alarm clock, must be for real: I’m veering away from the fun 20s living with the roommates emulating the coffee shop — albeit welfare-state — set vaguely reminiscent of fake TV fare such as Friends and barreling full speed ahead into, well, okay: kinda’ old.

Holy shit, if we’re talking scary ’90s TV, I’m Thirtysomething, only this time’s for real. Argh!

But alas, it’s true, I’m no longer on the young side of my third decade. In fact, in a matter of days I shall be smack dab in the center of my 30s, with youthful escapes — out until all hours partying with friends, flirting with people I don’t know, paying rent instead of a mortgage, caring for nothing more attention-intensive than a house plant (and even those have died … sorry Basil…) — being replaced by…

by…

Oh wait, erm. Okay, well, ah… not being replaced so much as, er, happening with less frequency. Heh.

I have to admit that for me, my birthday seems more like New Year’s than the night last week I’m still trying to fully piece together via eyewitness accounts, various news reports, receipts, flashbacks and strangers coming up to me like they know me…

So, as I do every year, with varying levels of scrutiny, I find myself taking stock and looking to where I’d like to be this time next year, (somehow “Take over the world” is always No. 1, yet annoyingly enough, I’m still not. quite. there.) and where I’ve been.

2006 started out with a backwards glance to a decade earlier, in full-on rose colored glasses mode, with a shot of absence (as in “makes the heart…”) for flavor:

West Coast, 1996, sex, drugs, rock and roll…and mice. Lots of them, rivers of them taking over the Oak Street flat; stepping over the crackheads lounging on the front steps as we’d make our nightly Noc-Noc jaunt; Café Abir, Muddy Waters, The Grind, Jeremiah stamping my card on Tuesday nights for lots of free joe when he wasn’t working at Royal Grounds; graveyard shift at Sparky’s with Phil, Jason (yes, that Jason), Kelly…

I vaguely remember marking the occasion of my 25th by getting my nipples pierced, dancing all night, and inhaling enough methamphetamines to keep me wired long enough to piece together a massive quarter-century manifesto, scrawled throughout the night of the 15th and, I thought, a masterpiece until, in the cruel, cold, sleep-deprived daylight it was revealed to have devolved into repetitive scrawling “fuck you fucking fuck motherfuckers fuck,” eventually deconstructing until it was something akin to, but not nearly as noteworthy as, “All fun and no play makes….”

These days are the same in many ways — my character stays pretty much the same no matter what the year, locale or hair color — but I also feel a bit like I’m standing on a precipice.

Which could be kinda’ cool, if I were a windsurfer or something, but as it stands right now I’m pretty sure I’ll feel better once this coming weekend is over… after the hangover subsides, that is!

In the meantime, in the spirit of the glass being half full and all that gobshite, I offer up the following up-to-date inventory of why, old as I may be, I rock and shall continue, until further notice, to get out of bed on a daily basis (excluding hangovers and avian flu):

Gray hair: none (that I know of). And neither I, nor anyone else, will ever know for sure. In fact, my to-do list includes making a living will so as not to become a tool for the religious right should the next car that runs me down hit a bit harder and I end up in Shiavo-esque drooling state on national TV. Included in said document will be a provision for someone to come to my bedside every six weeks to cover any roots and/or gray, pluck eyebrows, give age-renewing glycolic peel and full makeup should I have smudged it while attempting to revegetate brain in order to beat down Frist-like jackass purporting to diagnose me via video feed.

Wrinkles: none, save for the big, ugly one that appeared across the entire expanse of my forehead in high school. In order to make myself feel better managed to do at-home brainwash that I’d actually been abducted by aliens, and that’s where they put my bigger, far superior brain. Unfortunately, I must have gotten alien intern as superpowers seem to consist of sniffing out closest Starbucks and being wildly attracted to mentally unstable, substance abusing, impoverished, jerk-like men.

Mice: There seems to be — knock on wood — only one at my current residence, and he’s teeny-tiny. At least, he was …

Job: Holy shit, I’m employed! Not only that but I actually like where I work, and the people I work with while, at the same time, am paid enough to live on. And, it doesn’t involve schlepping food, drinks, packages or my soul.

Philly: Not my favorite city, but residing in the City of Brotherly Love has it’s own perks (cheesesteaks notwithstanding…). Oh sure, I work in the ’burbs, which comes with its own irony, but this is home. In fact, in those very ‘burbs the original life plan was hatched with compatriot-in-crime Kristin as we made mud pies by the creek and plotted our next escape. (You’d think being brought home in the back seat of a patrol car after running away again would have made a lasting impression…)

Sadly, we never made it to NYC together, never made our love nest with Baryshnikov (making the final season of Sex and the City that much more painful), never got to live the life we envisioned for ourselves from kindergarten.

At least, not totally, not for me: the old toe shoes from over a decade of ballet hang in my parents’ house, I’m halfway to NYC with the amount of time I spend there, and I’m still holding out for the Baryshnikov to my idealistic, hard-headed Gypsy runaway.

In fact, it’s the last part that makes the cliff I may or may not be standing on seem not so bad: there’s hope.

2005 nearly kicked it and everything else out of me, but somehow it’s still there, and that’s the reason, I think, I’m still doing what I’m doing, living my life, not changing a thing for anyone. (Which, I should add, is vastly different from learning what might be best to stop doing, such as the realization while I may get as wild, crazy and out of control as a rock star when I’ve had a bit too much to drink, I do not, repeat, do not have the fame and fortune to back it up…)

There’s just one thing that worries me: Will it literally come crashing down when I slow down?

Granted, I’ve already established the anti-gravity fund in the form of an old glass milk jug full of change (by the time I need it, it should be full, right?), but, I can’t help but wonder if eventually the real world’s going to catch up to me, and just when I think I’ve beat the odds I’ll wake up to find my ass is at my knees, my boobs and belly have melded into one shapeless mass and my chin is where my alleged cleavage used to be!

As it stands, I can practically feel my eyelids begin to droop and the corners of my mouth purse and stay that way when screaming children are around …

Is it only a matter of time?!!?

To be on the safe side, I’ve stocked my Amazon.com Wish List with plenty of age-defying products and goodies, should anyone feel the need to mark the upcoming anniversary of my birth with material goods.

Yes, it’s a whorish plug for stuff, but damnit, why the hell not? he he!

Don't Make Me Hurt You...

2006-01-02T20:13:00.000-05:00

If you’re alive and have had any exposure to mass media this weekend, you know that tonight is the big, bad premiere of Rollergirls on A&E.

Essentially, it’s a reality show about tattooed and pierced chicks who skate around a rink and beat the living shit out of each other.

Fucking awesome!

So awesome, in fact, I will not be glazed eyed in front of my usual weekly television viewing pastime, Medium (god I fucking hate TV), but rather will be interested to watch the carnage.

And it’s not just for voyeuristic purposes, I should add, as I out one of my secret aspirations: for a few months I’ve been hearing about the Philly Rollergirls, a group of waaaay more tattooed, pierced and badass chicks than the glossy Texas women from tonight’s show.

I soooo want to be a Philly Rollergirl … so, I e-mailed and asked them to let me know when the next tryout date is.

Now, it really does make sense in light of the chronology of my life:

Ages 2—16: ballet
Ages 4—16: gymnastics
Ages 5—teen: rolling around my concrete and asphalt New Jersey ’hood on rollerskates… that’s right, four wheels for all you younguns out there
Ages 7—18: cheerleading (Captain in high school, no less. That’s right fucker, c’mon, give me a smartass response and I’ll pop you one… er… I mean, go team!)
Ages 18—30-something: chronic mosh pit participant
Ages mid- to late-20s: bike messenger (SF. Fueled by nicotine and caffeine.)

And now, seeing as I’m fucking old, why not continue the body-carnage? I mean, getting smashed up thanks to a little endo this fall was par for the course.

I really just want to hurt people, and unfortunately, when I’m trying to navigate the ridiculously hard to maneuver aisles of Trader Joe’s, driving surrounded by oblivious suburban fucks whenever I travel beyond Center City or my West Philly 'hood, or just attempting to deal with assholes like Aetna health insurance (the single worst company in the history of the entire universe, which should be burned to the ground by angry peasants such as myself for being such motherfucking money grubbing fuckheads who cannot do a single thing right, let alone actually provide any services related to health care, aside from sending out erroneous bills in the hopes that, I’m guessing here, people like me will get so frustrated at their outright lies and utter ineptitude we’ll simply pay up in order to never, ever have to deal with their imbecilic bullshit again. They’re tied for worst “customer service” in the entire universe with Hitler-sled manufacturers Volkswagen as far as I’m concerned. I hate them both. I’d like to get some of the lying assholes they employ in a dark alley some night …. But alas, I digress….)

… anyway, it seems like a good idea….

Of course, if it’s hoity-toity NY Times-level entertainment you’re looking for, you might want to check the listings for Masterpiece Theatre, considering the tone of today’s review by apparent tightwad Alessandra Stanley. In fact, my guess is she’ll be spending this evening attempting to remove the stick that’s jammed so far up her Ivy League ass it probably hurts to sit.

I’m not too upset by the piece, though, considering the fact that she appears to be a moron who makes countless fact errors for a living. (Which, in j-school, gets you an instant F, and in the real world will usually get you fired if you rack up enough, which you'd think she has.)

Of course, considering the fact that we’re pretty much surrounded by idiots at every level of government, I guess stupidity and lazy work is par for the course…

NYE

2006-01-01T19:47:00.000-05:00

me, drunk, midnight, the blonde center of a snog sandwich....

not too shabby.

WELCOME 2006!

Please god let it be less horrible than 2005, and for chrissakes, would somebody in D.C. clean some fundamentalist dumbass Texas born again coke addict dry drunk house already?!!?!!?

Sheesh!

New Year's Eve?

2005-12-28T16:56:00.000-05:00

So, I'm wondering: What's everyone doing for New Year's Eve here in this fair city of brotherly love, soft pretzels and $2 lager?

I'm thinking cheap drinks in even cheaper settings until my head explodes and/or I ring in the satanic baby new year, whichever comes first, but this city is so full of white trash potential, I'd hate to miss out on another year of double-fisted Yeungling sing-along with Bon Jovi....

Thoughts please...

Attack of the sugar plum faeries....

2005-12-27T22:29:00.000-05:00

Oh ho ho ho! Believe me, sugar is so a drug!!!

Oh, the sugar pushers don’t want you to know, don’t want you to realize that the copious amounts of candy canes, chocolate bits of sticky goo and crunchy sweet cookies are slowly sucking the very life from your veins and replacing it with a sickly sweet substance that is forever in need of replenishment…

Don’t believe me? Hit the post-holiday sales, snatch up a bagful of red, green and satanically bad for you tooth decay in a box, and eat just one serving of it…

I dare you.

Before long you’ll find yourself dreaming of it, drooling in your sleep as Johnny Depp takes you on Chocolate Factory-worthy adventures (as opposed to the usual nocturnal adventures starring a certain Mr. Depp, which generally tend to focus on a candy of a, ah, different sort…). It will consume you as you slurp down your staid, healthy breakfast, endure a bland, lowfat lunch of blah, sit in front of the TV downing yet another plateful of ick.

I fucking dare you.

And then you’ll be just like me, twitching like a fleshy tweeker, digging through the artic depths of the fridge hoping for just one bit of freezer-burned sugary badness that got away.

Pacing your room when you should be asleep, mind racing, feverish, arguing with yourself that you just need one more — one more kiss, one more cookie, one goddamn more cane — and you’ll be fine. You can control yourself. You’re fine. You’re good. You just, you know, need a little bump…

Believe me, I know….

I blame Brooklyn.

I used to be able to control my impulses, destroy the box of Pop Tarts and move on, eat some fruit the next day. But the Firklover bar changed all that the day my cousin and I hit one of few remaining vestiges of the once mighty Viking stronghold in Bay Ridge: Nordic Delicacies.

On a holiday mission to acquire one almond-centric traditional ring cake for my old Norse father, we bought chocolate bars the size of our heads, and nearly as heavy, ripping into the first as we descended into the subway, cake in hand.

A week and a half later the full ramifications of my sugar-fueled rampage are on full public view: my vision is blurry from too many sleepless nights fueled by ADHD-aiding sugar and a cocoa high so powerful my heart beats at odd intervals, my fingers are stained from constant, compulsive contact with red and green dye, and my tongue is a permanent shade of maroon from the mixing of the sweets.

I’m a monster!!!

Someone, please save me….

Save me from myself…

SEND FRUIT!!!

Step away from the Matt Taibbi!

2005-12-11T21:39:00.000-05:00

It could be the NyQuil talking, but I'm thinking it's high time me and Irish Kelley put our deviant, devious plan into action, and soon, as the one we've been known to lovingly (drunkenly?) call "our baby" has made it to the pages of a major national paper of record — as a subject, not a byline.

That's right folks, Matt Taibbi, oftentimes referred to as heir to the new journalism throne left vacant with a bullet by Hunter S. Thompson, has been featured in the Washington Post for being, well, what we here at the Netherhouse have always known (okay, in full disclaimer mode what Madame Kelley has always known, and was more than kind enough to pass onto yours truly): the man with the brains and, oh yeah, the physique to cause multiple car pileups through sex-appeal alone, and the ability to turn it into a not only entertaining but enlightening 3,000 word expose into some earth-shattering truth, for which hordes of smart and sexually-charged women will pay the cover price — not even subscription rate — for the latest issue of Rolling Stone.

You never know what corner of the earth he's traversed or what dark, demonic closet lurking deep in the bowels of this country's government machine he's uncovered and explained for we mere mortals to take in, understand and get righteously pissed off about.

In short, he must be stopped, and we aim to do it, through the use of sheer force, roofies and duct tape, if necessary.

Oh, not forever, mind you. "The End of the World Part IV" must be printed, fear not. In the meantime, we're mostly just looking for a few days … oh, okay, weeks… It's just that a good looking man who's also smart as fuck cannot, and should not, be overlooked, especially considering the mindless fuckwit losers who can't string a sentence that doesn't include the words titties and beer to save their lives mindnumbingly uninteresting overblown males out there for we lasses to endure.

It's sort of like Misery, minus the breaking bones. Not that there isn't a chance there will be bruising, but that sort of thing is just, well, part of a good night…

And, again, in full disclaimer mode, I must add the following info, straight from editrix Kelley's fingers to the electronic masses, regarding the man we, collectively, would most love to reserve our ovaries for (formerly held by Mark Morford, who's just a bit too oversexed in print and far too forthcoming about his love for his SO and Audi to be anything less than annoying, truth be told):

"Be sure to mention he originally wrote for The Moscow Times before joining Moscow's expat alt-weekly, The Exile. In fact, if you Google "The Exile" there's a bunch more stories he wrote — without the burden of answering to an American publisher?

You want raunchy and ascerbic? You got it, baby. There's also the wonderful saga of How the Horse-Sperm-filled Pie Ended Up in the Times' Bureau Chief's Face. Hee-larious, my dear.

For further fodder, check out The Buffalo Beast . He started it, though he's just a contributor now.

Also — one of my faves — google: The Job Offer ."

Away in a manger... er... bed.....

2005-12-11T14:20:00.000-05:00

It has come to my attention recently that I have neglected my blogging duties during my long and dawn out hibernation-beyond-the-ether.

It’s true, and really, I can explain. See, I’ve not been able to tear myself away from my bed, have spent countless hours there, sheets and blankets wrapped hither and yon, breathing heavily, getting hot then cold, then snuggling for a few hours before starting again….

Sadly, this has all happened solo, and under the heavy influence of OTC and prescription meds.

*sigh*

Seems my near-annual asthma-induced bronchitis hit warp speed, and before I even had time to line up the Robi-shots, I was knocked on my ass and out of civilization as we know it, coughing and wheezing with only my trusty pink stuffed pig Gordy for company and strength.

‘Course, that doesn’t mean the world as we know it has stopped turning, and shit continues to hit the proverbial fan across this fair nation and beyond even as I sleep. And, even more important, Christmas (or whatever you’d prefer to call the holiday – makes no diff to me as long as I get a few days off and can eat cookies with gleeful abandon) has continued its consumer-driven charge across the globe, shoving aside any item not emblazoned with the Visa, Mastercard and/or Amex logo.

I, however, have opted to step off that green treadmill, and have dedicated my sick time to creating holiday cards festooned with bits of fluff, from my creative genious to you and yours, or something like that. Although … they’re not actually done yet. Hey, I’ve been sick! Give me a break!

If you have not already provided me with a snail mail addy and would like a 100% GiRL World Domination Enterprises Inc. signed original delivered to your door sometime between now and next Thanksgiving, e-mail me here!

Until then, I bid y’all adieu, I’m hitting the NyQuil (“Big N, little Y, big fucking Q!”).

No friggin' subject, okay?! Sheesh...

2005-12-06T22:03:00.000-05:00

I know… I know…. I've been MIA for weeks now.

I hear y'all!

Right now I'll be honest: I'm snuggled up in a pink fuzzy blanket, fleece PJs and hoodie. I'm sick — bird flu, the plague, SARS, whatever — and I'm hardly in writing form.

Somebody bring me some veggie soup for chrissakes!

Kidding… kidding. I can take care of myself. But, in the meantime, I'll leave you with some excellent porn, er, video from the subject a forthcoming post...

More weird dreams...

2005-11-20T22:44:00.000-05:00

So last night I dreamt I'd moved back to San Francisco , and was commenting that the reason I'd never bothered to get a Pennsylvania drivers' license was because I hated it, and never intended to stay long.

Hmmm.

First off, that's total bollocks as I've already been toiling in the city of brotherly love for over a year now, second, I just agreed to stick on at my paid gig for the long haul as a permanent employee. (Though I am staunchly attached to my NY documentation.)

Yep, it's true: I'm now very gainfully employed on a permanent basis. Not like I want to spread it around too much, or people will start hitting me up for loans, or spitting on me for selling out for some decent health insurance and a window, but I've done it. Damnit.

That, of course, doesn't mean I don't sometimes really miss the city by the bay, but more than the city I miss the life I had there, which is the polar opposite of the quasi-respectable one I currently inhabit.

I miss acting completely irresponsibly, sex drugs and rock and roll, tattoos and piercings, late nights in the studio, awesome burritos, getting wrecked in mosh pits, bad boys (and girls), and the stupidity of unbridled youth.

What I do not miss is being too poor to eat, mice everywhere, od'ing on sex, drugs and rock and roll, feeling like there was no future, not being able to go to the doctor when I was sick or injured, and the stupidity of unbridled youth.

Are there people out there like me? I can't help but wonder. So far I've met very bad, nice and rather dull, or just so different neither of us can comprehend.

I've an idea I should listen to Mags and Mike, and just get myself out there more than I already have.

Oh, just not to the Green Line Café, at least not the original one on Baltimore: dragged myself and stuff there yesterday a.m., only to be met by hordes of yuppie parents toting children. Christ all fucking mighty – do they not have places to go? Like, Chuck E. Cheese or Disney?!!? We non-breeders would like to drink our coffee and read the sex ads in the back of the City Paper in peace, thank you very much.

The Green Line should just fill its fenced in front yard area with brightly colored plastic balls and be done with it…

Allegedly if they're yours (the kids, not the balls) you don't mind them nearly as much. That's good to know, in case I someday decide to spawn, I won't be sitting there going, "Christ, would you shut the fuck up? Where are your parents? Oh, wait, shit, that's me…"

Some divine intervention wouldn't be so bad...

2005-11-18T23:11:00.000-05:00

I have bizarre dreams. Sometimes I wake up and wonder whose brain I’ve been inhabiting, or, more likely, what pop-culture obsessed alien has entered my gray matter during the night simply to torture me.

But, then again, I am erratica, right?

Sometimes, though, the little grey (guessing here) fuckers are just plain cruel. Not like scary and bad and monstrous in the traditional satanic boogeyman sense, but more like the nonsensical sort that make me wake up and vow never to mix Benadryl and beer again...

The other night, I swear to you, I dreamt I was in love with Nicholas Cage. And not the Raising Arizona version, but the annoying nasally Scientology one. Eep. I am doomed.

Or perhaps it is simply another manifestation of my inability to commit. Although, could anyone really blame me in that particular situation?!!?

Thinking back at my tortured, er, storied romantic history, however, I’ve realized that while not every freak I’ve let into my life has been totally bad, for the most part they have been downright wrong — for me. And so I’m dreaming of the polar opposite type I’d ever consider getting nekkid with has me thinking — is that a sign I need to look beyond the usual broken boys?

Oh, but aren’t they fun?

Got sucked into the evil electric cable beast again this evening, and, left to my own devices (as all my roommates have lives…) wound up watching some random show on graffiti artists, which sorta’, in my kinetic brain, ties in with the conversation in my head, which goes something like:

“Was it necessarily a wise idea to invite a crew of taggers over to the SF Folsom Street flat many moons ago to help ‘paint’ the livingroom? Probably not, especially as I think the resulting flack induced a nervous twitch and ulcer in the landlord, who threatened to toss us onto the street if we didn’t paint over it.

"But damn it looked good and someday when I actually own something I’m going to bring my friends in to paint as many satanic cherubs, fuzzy pink bunnies, candy canes and assorted other images as I want.”

(And it’s the thought that some dot.com yuppies paying many thousands more than we were in 1998 occasionally get the fright of their lives as they lounge on their Ethan Allen furniture when the light is right and the spray paint pokes through the paint that makes me smile. And someday I’ll find the photos I took.)

Yet back then I was willing and able to spend inordinate amounts of time and energy dwelling on dudes who didn’t give a shit about me, or anything else except the spray paint, bike, paintbrush or drugs in hand. And I wonder if it ruined me.

Am I simply too old, tired and/or jaded to make an effort? Or will it all work out in the end? When even my mother turns to divine intervention to get me off the shelf I’m more than happy to lounge on I have to wonder if I’m doing it right.

Until recently I figured that fate, karma and the universe would happily align once I’d spent my merry time wandering and wondering and figuring out stupid shit like which country I want to live in and what I’m willing to do to pay the rent, and when I’d worked through the bulk of the bullshit would deliver my own personal Mr. Darcy to my doorstep, and I’d live happily ever after, or at least no longer be forced to be miserable alone.

Unfortunately MoDo’s tossed that theory to the wolves with her latest tome, Are Men Necessary?

For those not familiar with Madame Dowd, she writes what she thinks, thinks a lot, has opinions, knows what’s going on in the world, and she’s hot. In short, she and I are practically twins. (Ooookay, I embellish. It’s my blog, I can do what I want.) According to CNN:

"There's a body of evidence now that the Y chromosome is rotting at such a fast rate that it will go out of business in about 100,000 years," she said on "American Morning."

"So now that women don't need men to reproduce and refinance, the question is, will we keep you around? And the answer is," she added puckishly, "you know we need you in the way we need ice cream, you'll be more ornamental." (A Times book reviewer has noted that other research indicates the Y chromosome has stabilized.)

She’s biting, looking for trouble, exceptionally well paid, attractive, high-positioned as one of a dearth of female news columnists, and, here’s the problem: single. And it’s a chronic condition for her.

Katie Roiphe writes in Slate:

In the most inflammatory and intriguing passages, she claims that men are put off by women in power, that they prefer the women who serve them—maids, masseuses, and secretaries—to their equals.

She attributes the fact that she is unmarried to her powerful position as an op-ed columnist at the New York Times. Then she notes her own family history of domestic service and concludes that "being a maid would have enhanced my chances with men."

Oh shit. I’m fucked.

Or am I? Is my doom my own doing? Or undoing?

Because, as badass as I can be, I’m also ridiculously backward in my silly Cinderella visions of the storybook ending. And yet I’ve read The Cinderella Complex, I know better.

Nonetheless, I’m the one sitting here waiting for fate: I don’t need to put myself out there, I don’t need to maybe get up in someone’s face I’m attracted to and force them to notice I exist, the right person will magically float, as if on fairy dust laden air, to my side, and Tinkerbelle will fly by and the heavens will open and drop candy-covered thousand dollar bills and marzipan pigs.

Right…

So I’m torn: Do I chase after those I’m interested in, or do I continue to trust that the universe and fate really are in cahoots, and someone great will just pop onto my radar? I really don’t know.

And it’s not like I’m miserable, or desperate. It’s just, well, the part that worries me is this: Did MoDo, and the women like her who’ve hit the trenches ahead of us, assume fate would take care of it all too?

erratica

2005-11-16T22:23:00.000-05:00

i think i'm going to change my name to erratica ... seems to fit better with my random though-ridden mind!

somewhere in manhattan there is a livewrong bracelet that spontaneously leapt from my wrist when i wasn't paying attention. i think it's a sign.

anyone know how to cook a tofurkey? and yes, stick it inside a turkey has already been suggested!

The good, bad and very fat and ugly

2005-11-11T22:36:00.000-05:00

Seems like I’ve been out of virtual touch for ages. I’m happy to report, however, that my aged body seems to be healing, albeit slowly. I told my male coworkers I’d take them out today if they kept pestering me, and I wasn’t talking about a lunch date, so I suppose I’m getting back to my own personal version of normal.

Out there in that big bad ol’ world, thought… sheesh! WTF? Where to begin?

It’s like an early Christmas with an orgasm on top, followed by the news that your dog has just been run over and you’ve got to pay to repair the bumper that off’ed him…

Although it was good to see Emperor Miers scurry back to the Death Star a few weeks back, seems Alito is far worse. When NPR makes mention that his nicknames include Scalito and Machine Gun Sammy, you know every last one of our civil liberties is at stake.

Course, Dumbass Dubya is still out there, whining like the dry drunk ill-mannered smirking spoiled baby he is:

"While it's perfectly legitimate to criticise my decision or the conduct of the war, it is deeply irresponsible to rewrite the history of how that war began," President Bush told a largely military audience in Pennsylvania, in a speech to mark Veterans' Day.

Interesting, considering the fact that his very administration seems hell bent on doing just that every chance they get, no matter how absurd and downright stupid it may be. Seems ol’ Scott-tissue McClellan got himself into a heap of trouble for responding, “That’s accurate” to a reporter who stated, “…We know that Karl Rove, based on what he and his lawyer have said, did have a conversation about somebody who Patrick Fitzgerald said was a covert officer of the Central Intelligence Agency. We know that Scooter Libby also had conversations.”

The White House propagandists, however, have directed two external transcription agencies, Congressional Quarterly and Federal News Service, to change the quote to, “No, that’s not accurate.”

Watch the video (the fun starts at about 5:30); he’d have to be a fucking ventriloquist to have spat that line out in the timeframe he’s seen speaking in.

I can imagine the conversation behind the regime’s curtain of secrecy post-mortem:

“Scott, you idiot! You told the truth! What were you thinking! You know the punishment.”

“No! Oh no! You don’t mean hauling away the dead carcasses of the everyday citizens Cheney’s sucked the life out of in his eternal, endless and, ultimately fruitless search for a soul?!!?”

“That’s right Scottie boy, but stop being such an optimist. He sold his soul long ago —it’s listed on the stock market just under KBR. It’s their life force. When the pacemakers stopped working, we had to find another way to keep Leader alive. Thanks to secret technology developed in an secure, undisclosed location years ago in Germany, we were able to fuse soft, innocent bunnies, poor minority fetuses, solid gold bars from his Haliburton payout and a few grams of coke from W’s stash and reanimate him. Unfortunately, he requires a constant source of humanity to keep his flesh from falling off and exposing him for the demonic zombie he is.”

“But, maybe we can tell them they just heard it wrong! We’ve spoon fed them for years, why wouldn’t they believe us now?”

“What a good idea! They haven’t tossed more than a few cotton balls at us in the past four-plus years. They’re like a press corps of Mikeys: they’ll believe anything!”

Unfortunately, as our man’s man and sexpert extraordinaire Steve Savage points out in this week’s Savage Love, this sort of behavior is hardly below Republicans. Thanks to modern medicine there is a readily-available vaccine that will prevent cervical cancer. As you may or may not know, it’s a sexually transmitted disease, and the more partners a woman has, the higher the chances she’ll get it. Pretty standard STD stuff, but there’s also the fact that, like many diseases, there’s no clear reason why one woman will get it, and another won’t. Either way, no one should have to die for having sex. Period.

But, that’s not the way the abstinence-only right sees it. According to Savage:

So what the right is saying is this: We're willing to kill American women in order to avoid "sabotaging" our ineffectual abstinence-only message. Nice.

Unfortunately, it’s not just a bunch of experimental teens who are getting fucked in relation to this issue, as the Washington Post reports:

The jockeying reflects the growing influence that social conservatives, who had long felt overlooked by Washington, have gained on a broad spectrum of policy issues under the Bush administration. In this case, a former member of the conservative group Focus on the Family serves on the federal panel that is playing a pivotal role in deciding how the vaccine is used.

"What the Bush administration has done has taken this coterie of people and put them into very influential positions in Washington," said James A. Morone Jr., a professor of political science at Brown University. "And it's having an effect in debates like this."

Demonic first-lady possesion?

2005-11-10T14:59:00.000-05:00

"Pardon me, Laura, are those lightning bolts shooting out of your eyeballs, or are you just happy to see me?"

Either that or Chuckles has some, ahem, hidden agenda...

proof

2005-11-09T22:30:00.000-05:00

it's true, i played Frogger and lost... and i'm sick enough to take pics of the damage! ha ha! please forgive the scariness of the leg. i swear i'm not one of those scary fat ladies who have to ride a motorized cart in WalMart!

Pre-Halloween hit and run, chapter two…

2005-11-03T18:25:00.000-05:00

Or, the case of the post-halloween bike girl (black and) blues.

In my situation, it involves a Volkswagen, a bike, a girl and a lot of bruises.

One week to the day after my run in with the satanic sedan, I was minding my own business, in the bike lane, rolling along to run errands downtown, when a Golf (helloooo, isn’t there a special Golf-owners’ respect or something out there?!!?) pulls out in front of me, causing me to swerve, brake a gaaaaaah! Go flying over the handlebars.

So, somebody please explain to me how, in over 30 years of riding a bike, I can have two face-plants in one week…

It’s embarrassing.

It’s mortifying.

And, this week, it’s painful as hell. It’s a mess. It’s a swollen, non-bendy where legs should bend, ripped up flesh torn up muscles and ligaments mess.

Although, I can say that, after I got done yelling at him, not only could I guarantee the Golf driver would never pull out anywhere without looking in his mirror first, I could also pretty certainly assume he made a beeline home for a new clean pair of underwear tout de suite.

So, my conclusion is thus regarding the trinity of bike ickness (if you count the stick that stuck a few weeks back): I blame it all on Jason.

He was the last one to work on my bikes, and he sucks. So, from now on, no matter how implausible it may seem, anything bad that happens regarding bikes is Jason’s fault.

Kinda’ like many moons back, back, back in the day when a certain other tall, skinny boy found himself on the other end of my like list after taking up with some scary chick who later turned out to be psycho, thus making me feel better and spawning the phrase “bad idea Jen” to explain away a truly dumb move that probably should never have been made in the first place, I hereby coin, “Bad idea Jason” to describe things I never should have tried.

I meme, therefore I am?

2005-11-03T18:12:00.000-05:00

Okey dokey Mags, here we go:

"But his legs, which had been pummeled by guards for several days, could no longer bend."

1. Go into your archives.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Post the fifth sentence (or closest to it).
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.
5. Tag five other people to do the same thing.

Hardly the most entertaining post I could have selected, but, alas, No. 23 as instructed by the Meme gods.....

And, sadly, seeing as i have no blog-friends other than those Mags has already tagged, I shall leave it at that.

pre-Halloween hit and run

2005-10-29T22:17:00.000-04:00

I am the biggest loser ever. Okay, maybe not the biggest, but I am a total effing loser, loser, looooooooooooser!

Why?!?!!?!?!

“Why,” you ask?

It’s Saturday night, the Saturday before Halloween, and what have I done today??? Yeah, rode to the bank. Did some homework for the writing class I’m taking. And…. Oh god, this is horrible! And, I baked super dorky Halloween cupcakes. *sigh*

I know…

I know.

Of course, M Diddy would be uber impressed with the fact that I made the fuckers from scratch — none of that boxed bullshit for me: tastes like plastic ass. (Not that I was sober the last time I partook of plastic ass … er… I mean…. heh.)

And, well, I did get hit by a car Thursday night, so I am, quite honestly, sore as hell.

Now, people around me are shocked … shocked! … when I relate to them I got run down by a sedan on my way to class, especially when I add this is hit No. 7 or 8 — I can’t remember. I’ve lost track. You would too.

All in all, it would have been understandable — if the driver was blind.

It was dark, it’s late fall, the sun tends to go down earlier and earlier, but I had one of the schmancy blinky light doodads on the seat post, and my bag has a reflective strip on it. But alas, that did not seem to matter to Dickhead Driver, who, like Jaws, snuck up behind me and basically side-swiped me.

Only I’m not a several-thousand-pound piece of metal (though there are days… ) and flesh and blood balanced on two wheels against the Four Door of Death … well… I never stood, or rolled, a chance and down I went, face first, hands and shins sliding along the pavement, my bike clattering behind me.

Now, here’s where the story would have been different: instinct No. 1 — get the plate, which I did. Instinct No. 2 — get up, back on the bike, and chase the motherfucker, smash my lock through the window and get face to face with someone who, obviously, has no problem running down hapless cyclists and going on his or her merry way, because I was lucky — next poor sap could wind up six feet below.

Probably also very lucky for me, however, was the fact that the chain had spontaneously leapt from its home amongst the cogs and was useless, so I went back to plan 1, called 9-1-1, and, after laughing with the dispatcher, who immediately asked, “Are you conscious?” (I’ve wondered that before about myself, but never had a stranger wonder the same!), I immediately gave her the plate, explained I was fine just scraped, bruised and shaken, and told her I simply wanted to report the incident.

Now, being the professional, she immediately wanted to err on the side of caution, I can’t blame her, and send a medic my way. To make her feel better I said okay, send a medic, I could use some Advil and probably a few Band Aids …

And as I sat on the curb, explaining to my roommate I might be a little late to class and assuring her I would somehow survive, a wailing siren got louder and louder, closer and closer … my medic, I assumed, feeling a bit foolish.

But that feeling was replaced by absolute mortification as a full-sized ladder fire truck came roaring to a stop at the corner, lights flashing, a handful of firemen holding axes at the ready, I imagined. It sat there. It didn’t leave. I kept wishing it would leave. It didn’t.

Finally, I stood up, limped up next to it, gave a little wave and, when one of the firemen rolled down the window, asked, “Are you here for me?”

“We got a report of an accident.”

“Um, yeah, that’s me. But, ah, I’m not on fire … “

Note to self: next time you get run down by a car, and a fire truck full of firemen pulls up next to you, and, when you explain you’ve been run down, practice fainting. Especially when the medics immediately spring out of the secret back compartment and start feeling you over to make sure you’re not bleeding, broken or actually dead. “Oh, I don’t know what came over me! But you caught me, you big strong fireman you!” (This said with dramatic hand held over forehead, of course.)

Now, not that I’m that sort of person, but, in retrospect, considering the fact that it’s the Saturday before Halloween and I’m sitting in my kitchen making homemade cupcakes from scratch for who, I don’t know, certainly no offspring of mine, when I could be on a booze cruise with my friends, maybe I need to be more of that sort of person.

And, there’s still hope. Tomorrow morning’s the 5K run, and I’ve still got the option of falling over and rolling about on the side of the road in faux (hopefully! knocking on wood!) agony. And, there are bound to be medics there, right?

Someday my prints will come ... off this dish...

2005-10-25T22:28:00.000-04:00

Phew! Okay, so, getting sick this early in the seasonal coldness sucks. Hopefully this is not a harbinger of weeks and months to come, but I’m staying away from birds and small children with runny noses just in case!

Of course, sickness has never stopped me from a damn good reason to go out — I went to see Allen Ginsberg while attempting to douse a flaming temperature and full-blown bronchitis with ginger ale and diner food when I was 19 (remember Noddy?), and haven’t stopped since.

So, when VIP tix to the Beaux Arts Ball magically appeared, courtesy of Christine, who rawks, I downed the Sudafed, Advil, Tylenol, Robitussin, Vitamin C and Vicks like a trooper, because there’s nothing more fun than dancing around to bad ‘80s music and playing dress-up.

Makes no difference if the actual event is lame.

And, it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad, and the food was awesome, especially the multi-tiered chocolate fountain, and it took every ounce of willpower in my soul to keep from sticking my head under it and drowning in its sweet, chocolaty goodness.

Some day I will get one of my very own, which will sit right next to the Easy Bake Oven (sometimes you just gotta’ have cake!), uber cappuccino machine and Hello Kitty toaster.

Of course, life continues on post-ball, no glass slippers, prince charmings or even charming pauper, for chrissakes. But, I’d probably just laugh ol’ princy off to some grouchy stepsister anyway, considering the fact that one snippet of conversation between me and one of the rapidly multiplying short (sorry, short=death in dateland for me), obnoxious, trying way to fucking hard to impress men at this gig included, “So, just how small is your penis?”

See, I’m doomed. Singleton. Feral cats. Locked in an attic. Social pariah…

But, the thing is, I don’t care what you do, how much money you have or what purchases you’ve just made, if you’re treating the catering staff like shit and snapping your fingers at them, I hate you, because when I’m broke I work for a caterer, or a restaurant, or any other gig that’s not glamorous and involves serving dickheads who think an Armani suit immediately entitles them to belittle those they perceive to be below them.

But I digress, as I want to mention something very exciting, and while I can usually be found beating the crap out of him, calling him bitch and forcing him to feed me his home made, organic vegan delicacies or face certain death, Justin today surpassed us all and has made the lefty pinko communist big time! Bravo!!!

Park, my friend, when I visit next we shall celebrate: What’re you making?!!?!!?

I've been passed by speed walkers, you know...

2005-10-19T22:23:00.000-04:00

Rode out to Manyhunks for weekly din-din with the bro and sis-in-law, who reminded me that I signed up to run a 5K next week. Ooops… forgot about that…

And here I sit, running shoes next to me. They stare at me, taunting me, daring me to put them on and attempt to do the one thing my body is less than prepared to do:

Run.

Very fast.

Oh, it's not like I don't exercise on a regular basis. Although I've recently embraced the so-called French diet (a bit too enthusiastically, I fear — it's unlikely I'd find any French person who'd recommend chocolate croissant, cappuccino and yummy Trader Joe's Dublin cheese for breakfast. I should probably get the book and find out what the deal is really about… ) the one element of the plan I definitely do not adhere to is the alleged French aversion to exercise.

I love my bike more than any man I've ever dated. I belong to a gym, and I actually go there (and not just to pick up the current schedule and bolt). Due to a summer filled with jaunts on two wheels and the poverty created by the endless thirst of an alcoholic hanger-on, I put my membership on hold for two months, but I headed back as soon as the cash was debited from the account, thus reminding myself that spinning is really dull on Mondays. To compensate, I imagined my dream sitch: Imax'ed Alpe d'Huez video spinning class. (Think about it, no matter how slow you're really pedaling, it'd be like riding next to Lance (or Ivan or Jan, depending on your preference…))

But this 5K is another beast entirely: I haven't been running in nearly a month, and back in the day I'd wake up hung-over, toss on the sneaks and plod my way to a 30-ish minute end. These days, waking up and not falling over as I attempt to put on my bunny slippers while simultaneously shielding my eyes from whatever light manages to make its way through my heavily fortified blinds and feeling my way down the stairs to the coffee is a major accomplishment.

Oh well, it's for a good cause, and it's only 3-point-something miles. Worse comes to worse I fake a cramp, fall over, melodramatically roll about, and then get up and limp to the finish, thus making myself look like a real champ for overcoming the odds of spasmic-muscles "for the cause"! Muwahaahaahah!!!!!

Brains!!! I need brains!!!!

2005-10-14T21:18:00.000-04:00

Okay, yeah, I really do need brains, but not for the reason you might think: being the friendless hermit I am, I had no idea a truly fantastic day of zombie fun was taking place tomorrow in this here mini-opolis, but when I passed the e-mail along my ol’ friend Mo sent me, I discovered I am, alas, the last to know…

And, according to one of my roomies, there’s a zombie bike parade happening at some point in the undead festivities.

With that in mind, I decided I should probably check out the damage to the baby, which occurred on one of my journeys home from Manyhunks: turning to look behind me as an ambulance nearly made me its next passenger, my front wheel was attacked by a particularly ornery piece of tree…

It was an angry piece of bark, more bark than bite, thankfully, but surly and sticklike and thus it stuck itself in between my wheel and brake, taunting me to try to ride now, sucka’! (Tree parts must get v. angry this time of year, all the wind and such making them ground up ground covering.)

Alas, the damage is minimal: a professional will be needed for a bit of a true, but for the most part, it’s just a wee bit wobbly … much like its owner.

What I did discover, however, is, while attempting to return the wheel to its fork, a crunchy dirt-like sound, which turned out to be … dirt. And lots of it.

Much like my many-thousand-dollar four-wheeled cup-holder’ed bike carrier, my modes of transport get fantastically filthy. I can remember nights, after hours spend riding in the grip of El Nino, my ex would come home, dry off, and immediately begin cleaning off his bike in preparation for another 10 hours, 100+ miles of the next days’ soggy messenger hell.

And look! On the couch! Who’s that?

Well, that’s me, also having ridden 10 hours sopping wet, flopped on the couch watching the Simpsons. Of course, I also had a fantastic bike mechanic at the time who was more than patient when my shit would get all fucked up due to my utter lack of care for the intricate mechanics that made the gears shift when I told them to, wheels turn and brakes stop.

Alas, he ceased to exist ages ago, and my two-wheeled debacles continue, unabated.

And it’s not like I haven’t tried to make new bike boy friends: I chased the hottie on the LeMond for blocks, but, more than likely the grit populating every turning part slowed me down enough for him to escape…

From now on I resort to second grade tactics, and instead of trying to impress them with my outrageously muscled calves and cycling skills, I’m just going to knock them down and kiss them…

Hey, it worked back then!

How the worm turns...

2005-10-14T12:36:00.000-04:00

If you can get beyond the first few words of this piece from the NY Times (what kind of fat fuck dickhead works for the U.S. government and drives a Jaguar? Scum... lying, federal jail bait scum, that's who...) it's worth it:

WASHINGTON, Oct. 13 - Karl Rove nosed his Jaguar out of the garage at his home in Northwest Washington in the predawn gloom, starting another day in which he would be dealing with a troubled Supreme Court nomination, posthurricane reconstruction and all the other issues that come across the desk of President Bush's most influential aide.

But Mr. Rove's first challenge on Wednesday morning came before he cleared his driveway: how to get past the five television crews and the three photographers waiting for him. He flashed his blinding high beams into the camera lenses and sped by.

Methinks the doughboy better get fitted for some stripes... and hey, they're slimming!

I write, therefore I am (unsure...)

2005-10-09T18:19:00.000-04:00

I signed up for a fiction writing class this semester. It’s actually more like a writing workshop, where students bring in a piece of short fiction for everyone else to take home, read and make comments on, then bring back to the next week’s class for a group critique.

What’s most interesting about the process is that, after a few opening comments, the writer is summarily done away with, “killed” as it were, in order to get the most out of the critique process.

I enjoy this: after about a bajillion years in art school, suffering through crits where the artist would either become sulky, belligerent or just wouldn’t shut the fuck up, this is a great way to get the most out of the process, for everyone involved.

Of course, I have no idea when I’ll be able to bring something of mine in. It’s not that I’m afraid I’ll get all sulky, belligerent or won’t stop thinking about things I’d like to say, albeit in a corpse-like way. It’s more that I’m worried that, once I put something down on paper, I’ll discover I’m actually terrible, complete and utter shit, not even fit for Harlequin prefab plotline bodice ripper WalMart tosh, and all the fantasies I’ve perpetuated in my addled mind of being the next literary icon will go down the drain.

No books on the shelves bearing my name. No book tour entertaining the three people who have read my book. (After all of you, of course: as my friends you’re required to at least skim the first chapter and read the end so you can pretend when I crash on your couch at my literary stop in your town you’ve devoured every word, in addition to searching for the parts that are actually written about you, albeit with different names and such.)

And no time on Oprah’s couch, the saddest part of all! Think about it, sitting across from the richest woman in the solar system, pouring out my heart and maybe even misting up a few times, milking the “I am woman watch me bear my soul for ratings! Yeah!” quotient with the skill of a dairy queen:

“The details and situations in your book are so compelling, and really, none of us could really imagine living such an existence. Tell me, how did you create these characters?”

“Well, Oprah, every one of my characters embodies a little piece of me, and honestly, I’ve lived through most of what I’ve written, the good, the bad and, worst of all, the ugly,” I’ll reply as the soothing light softly illuminates my face (thanks to the fifteen inches of foundation they’ve caked on me so I look less like the ghostly pale phantom I really am) as a small tear begins to trickle down my cheek. I’ll look embarrassed to be so open with so many millions of people, and the camera will hold long enough for me to look down and dab my eyes with a tissue. Books will begin to fly off the shelf and into peoples’ hot little hands of their own volition…

“I can’t believe it! It’s pure brilliance, and that you were willing to share that with the reader. It’s truly some of the best writing I’ve encountered. Truly cuts to the heart of pain and joy as few have seen it on the page…” Amazon.com will sell out in minutes…

“It’s all my life; my past…”

“Really? The emotionally crippled alcoholic who broke her heart? The bi-polar poet who kept promising to kill himself if she left him? The head quarterback???”

“All true… er… well, okay, not the last one…”

“Truly amazing! We can only thank you for sharing your tumultuous journey with us!” The Pulitzer people will call….

“And I thank you, Oprah, for making me filthy rich!”

Seriously, though, it’s not like I haven’t got plenty of source material to draw from. After all, I’m rapidly sliding closer and closer to the grave (yeah, I’m still stressing over turning 35 — shaddup!), I’ve had an interesting life, I think…

Not everyone can say they literally grew up in an airplane, with a hangar out their kitchen window, getting woken up in the middle of the night to fly some part or other to Pennsylvania, Ohio, wherever, while my mother worked the midnight shift at the hospital.

My brother and I would trudge across the runway, climb up the steps into the prop-jet, blankets, books, toys and teddy bears in hand, and settle down to sleep, read or just stare out the windows, bracing ourselves and our belongings during takeoff so we wouldn’t slide off the leather chairs. (When your dad’s the pilot, you don’t have to fasten your seat belts.)

Many people have never been out of the country; I can call two countries my own. I haven’t traveled anywhere near as much as I’d like to, but some days when I wake up I can’t remember — smelling the damp cold — if I’m in London, San Francisco or the Adirondacks. (Which isn’t nearly as bad as the days I can’t remember, when crossing the street, which direction the traffic’s supposed to be coming from!)

But, at the same time, while it all seems like it might be entertaining, does anyone really care?

I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s simply a matter of putting it down, allowing my peers to ceremoniously kill me for half an hour, and going home to do it again. Because, it ain’t about the money … if I were interested in that I would never have gone to art school!!!

Biblical Pimpin'

2005-10-07T22:39:00.000-04:00

“So Saint Joseph is your pimp?”

My roommate; I love her. Like me, she’s totally upfront, pointing out the obvious, and at this moment the obvious seemed to be that my mother was pimping me out to some dead carpenter. Great.

“Well…. noooo… I mean….. ahhhhhh. uh….. yeah. I guess he is,” was all I could muster in response, because the fact of the matter is, somehow my “recovering Catholic” mother has lapsed into pop-Catholicism and, in a drive to get her daughter off the goddamn shelf, tasked ol’ dead Joe with getting me hitched.

Rockin’….

Allow me to explain this here biblical turnaround: It has to do with the house.

My parents live in a simple, yet beautiful A-frame, hardwood-floored, cathedral-ceilinged house at the end of a dirt road in the middle of the woods in upstate New York. It’s surrounded by trees and has big deck and lots of scary wild animals and, as my father is mere months from retirement, they are trying to unload the thing because, quite frankly, it’s too goddamned much work.

In an attempt to sell the thing in an area where the average selling price is many thousands below what they’re asking for (although most structures in that area also tend to also come with, ah, wheels…) my mother took herself off to the Catholic tchotchke store because someone told her St. Joseph is the seller of houses.

And wouldn’t you know it, at the churchy tchotchke store, when my mom inquired about the statue the woman responded, “Oh, you’re trying to sell your house,” thus sending my mother into near-biblical (en)light(enment).

But there’s a hitch: you gotta’ stick Joey upside down in the ground near the road facing out. Simple enough. A little work with a garden tool and voila, he’s ready to do his thing.

Except, for the failed Catholic who only goes to church when someone dies or is born, some things don’t always go as planned.

Upon walking one of the dogs the next morning my mother was horrified to discover that Joe had managed to spontaneously unearth himself and was laying, rather accusatorily, by the side of the drive.

And that, my friends, is the kiss of death, because there is nothing more deep seated and ingrained in any Catholic, practicing or hiding in the coffee shop on Sunday mornings behind the heretical New York Times, than guilt. Without the guilt half the shit that goes on behind the gilt doors and holy water would never fly, and it is the guilt that will inevitably see us on our deathbeds calling for the last rites “just in case.”

I told her to get over it, stick him back in there, only this time put a big rock on top of him until he’s done his job. (Can you guess who never paid attention in Catholic school and therefore is doomed to hell?) She, however, was naturally spooked, and took him inside, cleaned him off and placed him on the windowsill.

And that’s when the pimping began. Seems they’ve developed a real relationship, my mother and St. Pimpalot, chatting as she washes dishes, cooks some food or just hangs around.

Because, you see, in addition to being a divine real estate agent, Joe’s also the protector of families, and who needs better protecting than the stray 34-year-old wild child who really just needs to settle down so she and my father can die peacefully knowing that I will not wind up on the streets surrounded by trash and feral cats, begging for change so I can get my caffeine fix. (See? The guilt…)

So now, what do I do? If I date someone, not only will that further convince her that Divine Master Pimp is working, it might just send my post-hippie no nonsense pro-drugs (but only things like pot and cigarettes), -choice and -premarital sex mother back to the pews.

And, even worse, this could potentially lock me into a relationship with the first sucker I’m silly enough to admit to seeing, thus forcing my (non-existent) love life underground. Or, even worse, could keep me from ever dating again because, well, who can go on with that sort of pressure and besides, I’d be afraid he’d be, you know, watching all the time….

Technically speaking...

2005-10-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

I have one goal this week: to learn to make songs from my computer go in my iRiver.

I've had the thing for months, and still have no idea how to do it, exactly. I did manage to get a Duran Duran CD on there, which, as your only listening choice, will make you want to kill yourself by the second round!.

Help???

New spot for baby fat?

2005-10-04T16:31:00.000-04:00

Not to be too catty, but I'm struck by Britney Spears' big, fat wrestler neck. I've noticed it before, but it's like someone stuck Barbie's head on Henry Rollins…

She's got those trailer trash lines where fat rolls will soon sag out, too, if you look close… so eventually she's going to look like trashy Barbie on Henry Rollins' neck covered by a big, soft fleshy sock…

He he!

That's what I get for checking into Google news all day — you never know what's going to catch your attention. Could be a literal train derailment across the world, or a virtual one across the country!

I need these things to keep me entertained and informed. Sad but true. But hey, I'm journalist through and through, no matter what industry I may currently be whoring myself out for.

Which is why it shouldn't come as a shock, thought it does at least to me, that I'll be checking out Columbia School of Journalism's PhD program next month. Granted, the odds of me getting in are about the same as the odds of me marrying the prince of Denmark, (once he ditches that awful Australian, that is!) but hey, stranger things have happened.

And, I've got to be building up good karma by getting on the train by 6–bloody–a.m. on a Saturday to get to Man–effing–hattan on time, right?!?!?

Plus, if I don't like what I see, I can always move to Denmark…

Oh for fuck's sake

2005-10-04T11:26:00.000-04:00

Oscar-winning actor Nicolas Cage's wife of 14 months gave birth on Monday to the couple's first child together, a son they named Kal-el — a moniker recognised by comic book fans as the birth name of Superman.

Latest Supreme Court nominee

2005-10-04T10:50:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry, but Harriet Miers, BushCo.'s latest Supreme Court puppet, er, nominee, looks like the kind of person who would stuff small children in a large oven, cook them and eat them with a nice chianti...

Or the right-hand (wo)man to the conservative agenda. Not to mention the fact that she doesn't even have experience on the bench.

Be afraid ... be very very afraid...

These Boots were made for shopping

2005-10-03T11:33:00.000-04:00

Oh, heavenly toiletry gods, you have heard me and answered my prayers!

Boots, my most favoritest store ever ever ever—think CVS only super way cooler, and British—is merging with Alliance UniChem to create an uber-mega purveyor of most fantastic British bath and beauty stuffs!!!

Boots, the British drug store chain, plans to merge with Alliance UniChem, the European drug retailer and wholesaler, in the first step of a global expansion plan that will include Asia and the United States, two executives briefed on the talks said Sunday.

I am in heaven. I am practically rolling around on the floor in ecstasy. (Sad that it takes so little to make my day…)

Truth is, I love Boots. Love. It. And have even planned trips to the U.K. as such: "Okay, all I need is to visit so-and-so, drink some Guinness, and make sure I leave enough money and time and, of course, an empty suitcase for my purchases at Boots."

Anyone who has been with me in the U.K. knows of my obsession. When I was travelling back from Scotland with my writing and photo peers, they thought I was insane for bringing a bag filled with half a dozen pots of lotion they lovingly referred to as "goop" into Wagamama. It was a since-discontinued (everyone hang their heads in sadness now) Boots-brand scent called Daisy. I have about 1/16 of a jar left. I am so sad… Send more, oh gods... send more!!!

In Ireland my friends stood, annoyed I'm sure, as I wandered the aisles smelling every lotion, shampoo and assorted colourful jar and tube of gunk, goo and gloop.

Not to mention the fact that when I worked in London, Boots provided lunch (triangle sandwich, crisps and a drink), entertainment, manicures, remedies (Tylenol, a.k.a. panadol, with codeine, OTC, baybee!) and hell, even BOTOX for those well-to-do wrinkly Brits (Camilla aside, of course).

Therefore, it is magically good news that Boots plans to finally, FINALLY make its way to the U.S., and not a moment too soon for a product whore like me.

I may have to move to a flat with a larger bathroom….

Return of Couscous

2005-09-26T23:14:00.000-04:00

Awoke yesterday to the sound of a plastic bag rustling. As the fan was pointed in the opposite direction, my groggy brain began to send warning signals to my hung over body.

Crawling out of bed — many hours spent playing a drinking game revolving around being the first one to know the name and/or title of the random 90s songs that kept coming on at the bar made me realize the years of mosh pits and free DJ passes to the Rocket, Babyhead, Rathskellar, countless clubs named Trocadero and many more I can barely remember, may have finally taken their toll — I stared at the Whole Foods bag that held the remains of a massive vegan chocolate chip cookie eaten over several e-mail sessions.

Slightly to the left of said bag I realized, even in my half-blind non-contact-lensed state, something was staring back at me, and that’s when I realized that yep, it really is fall, and Couscous — or his bastard offspring; he was mighty small — had already taken up residence in my humble abode.

A little back story: I don’t mind most animals or spiders; most other bugs heeb me out. Unless, that is, I’m laying in the middle of the woods surrounded by a canvas tent or some other form of camping acoutrement, in which case I am inhabiting some other creatures’ home — thus, I can cope. But, in my own home, I prefer to live in solitude. Plus, I’m afraid they’re going to crawl in my mouth while I sleep and take itty bitty digital pictures to send to all their furry friends… (“Woo hoo! Lookie me! ha ha! I got my whole HEAD in that snoring human’s mouth! Betcha’ she’d freak out if she knew! Squeak!”)

So, it was a bit disturbing when, last winter, I realized I have a roommate of the small, furry variety. Calling him one day, in vain, he was anointed with his nom de squeak: CousCous. (Imagine this, people: a few glasses of red wine and I’m wandering about, flashlight in hand, sing-songing, “moose-moose! C’mere moose-moose!” Thus, Couscous stuck…)

So, Couscous, or, perhaps, Spawn of Couscous, has returned, and with him, crisp, cool weather. That I do not mind, though that means driving in snow isn’t much behind, but that as well I am a bit of an expert at, so it’s all good. (Riding in snow: different story. I’m a wimp. It’s true. Walked out of Whole Foods today (yes, it’s an affliction: I am yuppie, hear me roar as I carry organic non-BSE laden cheese products to my mouse-ful lair… *sigh*) into the pouring rain.

Skidding on painted stripes, nearly getting taken out by buses and getting drenched in the process as I slowly turned the pedals toward home, I had a massive flashback to El Nino, and my long-lost messenger 50-degree always wet sniffles EmergenC in the water bottle getting hit on Polk Street unable to stop and get out of the way of the nearsighted station wagon driver nerve damage makes the left hand go numb after too much time on the drops and the messenger bag digging into the shoulder doesn’t help much days. Sometimes the worker bee cubicle don’t seem so goddamned bad…

And, as my roommate came dragging in as wet and dirty as me thanks to her similar two-wheeled trip up Walnut, and we sat in front of the idiot box watching some new sitcom er other, I found myself wondering if a single mouse is really that bad. Because, as Thendara can attest, once upon a time in the SF we were overrun…

Although, and laugh at me all you want if it doesn’t work: my mom told me she uses dryer sheets to keep them out of her camper.

My entire room now smells like a Bounce factory exploded…

To-do list, No. 6,089

2005-09-23T15:24:00.000-04:00

Saw the funniest thing last night riding home from ManyHunks:

An entire busload of tourists piling out of their coach and up the Art Museum steps a la Rocky.

Guess you had to be there...

Buddha I am SO not

2005-09-22T14:45:00.000-04:00

Tossed on the running shoes last night and people never cease to amaze me: now that school's in, all the UPenn students are swarming around the 'hood like sorostitutes to a frat kegger. I swear I saw a handful of people attempting, very poorly, to parallel park, on my relatively short run.

And yes, they were all women.

Someone tell me what that's all about.

I mean, I can parallel park a Suburban for chrissakes — Hondas and the other assorted parent-purchased sedans practically park themselves!

Maybe it's an age thing. Or a car thing. I was shite at parking until I got the VW — it's pretty much like piloting a big red sneaker…

Or a neighbourhood thing: what with megamalls and massive parking lots populating most of the U.S.

Or perhaps it's just that some people have absolutely no driving abilities whatsoever… which is why I'm glad we don't yet have flying cars…

Although, that would just mean more girls dressed like Paris Hilton sobbing into their Motorola Razor phones to their boyfriends about how they accidentally drove the saucer up a tree…

*sigh*

The Devil Wears Hatred

2005-09-19T15:24:00.000-04:00

So it seems there a big flap over Vogue Editor-at-Large Andre Leon Talley telling Oprah that Vogue Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour has an aversion to fat people.

"Most of the Vogue girls are so thin, tremendously thin, because Miss Anna don't like fat people," he said. And Oprah should know: according to the story in the Daily News, she was forced to lose 30 lbs. by Wintour before she'd let her face stare out from the cover of the vapid mag (even though I do buy it occasionally—I'm human, people!).

Apparently, this set off a firestorm over at the National Association to Advance Fat Acceptance.

"That you can make that statement and not realize it's hateful, in this day in age, is shocking. Either he thinks the world hates fat people and that's an okay thing, or he's so self-hating that he didn't see how hurtful this statement is," said NAAFA spokesperson (not sure if it's male or female!) Sandy Schaffer.

Forgive me for pointing out the blatantly obvious, but duh! OF COURSE Wintour hates fat people—her entire existence revolves around anorexic coat hangers and the fabric hanging off their skeletal frames.

Good lord, how much of a complete gobshite do you have to be to not realize that Talley's remarks are about as shocking as Dick Cheney eating puppies for lunch or photos showing supermodel Kate Moss doing lines of coke?

I think Schaffer needs to rename the organization National Association of Clueless People Just Looking for a Reason to Whine.

And, seriously, if NAAFA thinks that some dude spewing that Wintour, who makes $2 million a year and can afford to be thin and toned, dislikes cellulite is hurtful and hateful, they need to get their heads out of the sand and look around at what's really wrong with this world.

Maybe they should take some cues from PETA.

Fruitless fantasies of the closet gadget girl

2005-09-18T18:17:00.000-04:00

This weekend makes me angry. Angry I tell you!

Why? Oh why oh why oh why … did I just get sucked into the void created by the combination of couch and television turned, ever so tantalizingly, to the Food Network?!!?

Now, usually, being the masochistic freakshow I am, I’ll watch the Food Network while I’m at the gym, panting like a dying field mouse after cat’s had her way with it, watching all the waaay too good foodstuffs they concoct on any of the bajillion shows. I love it all; I even love the stuff I don’t eat. I just like to watch. (Ooh, I mean, the food … the food!)

However, this afternoon was far more insidious: remember the cartoons they’d sometimes show on Tom & Jerry, where the housewife (always pert and you just know loaded to the curlers with Valium!) would marvel at the kitchen of the future?

Well, FN just did the same thing, only it was immediately followed by kitchen gadgets. I found myself salivating, and it certainly had nothing to do with the leftover pasta and soy sausage I rummaged from the fridge after bicycling myself silly up, down, over and around Manayunk for several hours.

Of course, everyone who knows me also knows I do not cook. Hell, half nights microwaving is too much of a chore and I can, invariably, be found sitting on the porch in front of half a glass of merlot and plate of cheese and crackers. But, I have to wonder: if I had really cool shit, would I use it?

I mean, I cook at my parents’ house. They have cool shit. But then again, so do I: mutha’ Kitchen Aid, orange microwave, blenders in every combination, and a food processor (though currently broken thanks to Cuisinart’s shitty plastic construction. Gr.). Not to mention the European-style electric water kettle (and the British tea to go with it, straight from the Thames … er … market).

But I want more. MORE!

Or maybe just some counter space … ah, it’s the little things.

Which, unfortunately, this weekend have been ignored. You know, little things like balancing checkbook, going grocery shopping, cleaning … oh, wait. No, that I did in spades. Cleaned like I’d been possessed by Mr. Clean, actually, thankfully, though, without the baldness and silly outfit (although Halloween is coming up …)

Cleaned the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, wandered to the store that makes the Dollar Store look expensive next to the Fu Wah for new shower curtains, re-taped my handlebars, did the laundry, and, of course, the dishes … and felt like the biggest dork known to man!

(Dutifully lowered my head in shame when Justin called Friday night and I was … I was … reading!!!! I figure it’s either that or take one friend’s advice and troll for a rebound fuck, though considering the fact that holding the book up to my face is taxing, I’d best wait ‘til I’m feeling a bit more rambunctious—and obviously insane—for that business.)

Maybe what I really need is a break. I’ve been trapped in this mini-opolis (not to be confused with Minneapolis) and maybe what I need to go is get in the car and head north, visit the fam, run around with the dogs (or after them as they’re very misbehaved), and go get some badass canned goods and homemade wine from Justin, and hang upstate staring at the leaves as they change as fast and furiously as my recently volatile life ... only they look prettier in the process!

Meanderings of an addled mind

2005-09-14T15:26:00.000-04:00

It was bound to happen: Google now has a blogsearch function.

Of course, seeing as many, if not most bloggers tend to be rather anonymous, it's not that easy to find people. In fact, the only person I was able to find was myself, but then again, if you know me it's not too difficult to figure out. Either way, for me it was a letdown: I know where my blog is.

The most interesting part, however, was how many previous SPL posts it located have been deleted.

Many of you know I have somewhat recently performed a virtual purge on these here pages, and my life, of someone I shall hitherto refer to as the Deleted One, a.k.a. Dead-To-Me-Go-Rot-In-Hell. (Unfortunately, deleting people from your brain takes a bit longer, but I'm working on it by maniacally watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind .)

In the meantime, I have wasted half a day looking.

Of course, it's easy to get sucked into the Web—so far today between looking for blogs, bikes and room and board (my bro's on a mission to move me to Manayunk, or ManyHunks as that bald anorexic beyond-vegan raw food junkie Justin calls it, so curiosity's got me thinking a move to Philly's bicycle-mecca might be in order post-snow days) I've done nada.

Except for a quick trip to that great green Satan: Starbucks.

Failed vegan I may be these days, what with my recent Swiss-on-crackers addiction, but with the exception of those minor cow milk fat magnet transgressions, I love my soy and soy products. Is that so wrong? (Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I did take the Farm Sanctuary "Go Vegan!" sticker off my car so as not to appear the hypocrite as I carted the cow-stuff outta' Trader Joe's!)

And goddamn did it taste good, like a little liquid slice of chocolate heaven as I drove back to the dark, dismal Bat Cave* marveling at how fast the weather's changing to fall (or autumn for you humorless hardasses).

As if the Halloween candy and decorations at the drug store didn't give it away, the swirly wind sending leaves in circles under my tires as I rode home from ManyHunks last night sealed the deal. The paved path along the Schuykill is dumb pedestrian hell in daylight, but as soon as it's dark and the yuppies retreat to their TVs the river looks like a dark, placid lake and all you can hear is turning of your wheels … and the occasional boomin' system going by.

Even though, it's awesome.

Fall is my favorite season, and this one's gearing up to be one of the best yet. After the suicidal tendency-inducing summer complete with lying losers, broken cars, shitty jobs and house-disrupting construction I've suffered through, I certainly deserve it.

Bring on the pumpkins!!!

Fwd: Only in North Dakota...

2005-09-14T12:41:00.000-04:00

My friend Charles sent this to me today. It totally cheered a grey, rainy day up for me:

This was in the local newspaper today...LOL

The West Fargo Chamber Of Commerce requested restricted parking signsaround their building. They requested 10 or 15 minute parking onlysigns, giving the city the choice of making them 10 or 15 minutes. The city gave them this.... How diplomatic can you be?

Norwegians vote to keep the welfare state

2005-09-13T11:29:00.000-04:00

Norwegian Prime Minister Kjell Magne Bondevik, a Christian Democrat, announced today he will step down after his party lost majority rule in the country's national assembly in yesterday's election.

Jens Stoltenberg (above, thinking, "Why is there a weird flower swirly over my head? Oh, what, that's our logo? Crap! Damn lefty hippies!"), a left-wing Labor leader who ran under the three-party Red-Green alliance, which includes the Labor, Socialist Left and Center parties, will take over on Oct. 14 provided his party has formed a government by that date (hey, progress takes time!).

What's interesting is that Bondevik's platform called for tax cuts, owing to the country's vast reservoir of wealth thanks to high oil prices ( Norway is the world's third largest oil exporter, after Saudi Arabia and Russia). Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

Norwegians had a different idea: Stoltenberg's platform calls for using the country's riches to increase funding for the socialist country's welfare state, including increasing spending for education, health care and the elderly, according to the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

The Times reported that, "The most important thing the Americans will notice is that the main lines of Norwegian foreign policy will remain fixed," Mr. Stoltenberg, 46, said in a pre-election television appearance. "But they will also notice that we pull back our soldiers from Iraq."

Norway has a token 10 officers in Iraq, helping with reconstruction.

Stoltenberg will now be able to expand Norway's focus on environmental and social protections, and repeal some of the previous tax cuts. The Times explains it well:

Under Mr. Bondevik's fragile coalition of Christian Democrats, Conservatives and Liberals, Norway experienced a surge in prosperity, with the stock market tripling since early 2003 on the strength of oil exports. Interest rates fell sharply, personal incomes rose and the United Nations Development Program designated Norway the best country in the world in which to live.

But letting the good times roll is not really the Scandinavian way. Even at the cost of moderately higher taxes, most Norwegians on Monday seemed intent on protecting or expanding generous sick-leave, pregnancy-leave and job-security policies along with subsidized day care and free college tuition.

What a concept: Looking to the future, anticipating the needs of the entire population, not simply the proverbial haves, to hell with the have-nots (as the glaring example now plays out in New Orleans) and social benefits such as health care, education and a work environment that actually allows for time off—whether it be for sickness, childbirth or, gasp!, vacation.

And this is why, if I am ever forced to choose between my two passports, I will choose Norway. And, considering the scary trajectory this U.S. empire seems to be following, I may have no choice!

I'm thinking of holding a lottery for some poor sap to marry me and get the citizenship, too!

On second thought, scratch that—I'd rather just do it the old-fashioned way and get knocked up … bwahaahaah! Oh, I kill me … I can't even keep a plant alive...

Fortunately for me, and the potential demon spawn, being a Scandinavian I'm too responsible for anything like that to happen, and, being me, too enamored with being irresponsible to want to be tied for the rest of my life to anyone or anything.

Well, except for maybe a puppy … and, you don't go to jail if you leave them at home in cages while you go to the pub …

Buh-bye Brownie

2005-09-12T16:26:00.000-04:00

Federal Emergency Management Agency Director Michael Brown, under fire and recalled to Washington in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, resigned on Monday, senior administration officials said on Monday.

Next...

A different sort of Orangemen

2005-09-12T10:58:00.000-04:00

Just when you think things are getting better, the news comes 'round and slaps you square in the face, making you realize yeah, the countries, parties and deities may change but it's always the same ol' same ol':

BELFAST, Northern Ireland (AP) — Protestant extremists attacked Northern Ireland police and British troops into a third day Monday, littering streets with rubble and burned-out vehicles in violence sparked by anger over a restricted parade. Crowds of masked men and youths confronted police backed by British troops in dozens of hard-line Protestant districts in Belfast and several other towns.

Two Protestant paramilitary groups, the Ulster Defense Association (UDA) and Ulster Volunteer Force (UVF), launched into violence against police—including homemade grenades—on Saturday when police prevented the Orange Order, a legal Protestant brotherhood, from parading near a hard-line Catholic neighborhood. (It's always funny to think of the Orangemen as anything but Syracuse University players, being an alum and all, something Gerry Adams pointed out when he came to 'Cuse for the St. Pat's parade a few years ago.)

From the Guardian: But while the IRA has built a major base of support through its Sinn Fein party and has grown central to ongoing negotiations on Northern Ireland's future, the Protestant paramilitary groups have dismally failed to win electoral support and barely register in political talks. Instead, they wield power through criminal graft backed by occasional intimidating shows of force.

Time flies when you're slagging away at it...

2005-09-11T21:40:00.000-04:00

So I have been in Philadelphia a year. Amazing how fast 12 months can go. (Hell, amazing how fast four years can go …)

I have to be totally honest and say that this has probably been one of the toughest years of my life—tossing myself into a random place, with no real plan and no real idea of who or what I'd be when the first annual where-am-I checkup came.

In many ways, I'm a million times better than I was in September 2004. And in a few ways worse off than I'd ever hoped to be. But goddamn if this 1/4 Polish peasant isn't doing all she can to pull herself up by those proverbial boot straps the old codgers are always so fond of referring to.

A few weeks ago someone told me I was living in a fantasy world: that I'd fashioned a reality in my head that somehow didn't coincide with the actual flesh and blood existence going on around me. God, if only. I'd always wanted to be one of those children with an invisible friend, going off to the playground alone with my pretend friend by my side, dawdling away the hours with a big, dumb smile on my face.

Unfortunately, for me and the fool who had the gall to suggest I was somehow in a different, and allegedly, better place: I don't have enough imagination when it comes to what I see around me. I exist emmeshed in the day-to-day drudgery and mind-numbing minutiae that surrounds me. Give me your tired, your poor, your shitty grammar and misplaced commas, and by golly I'll set it right.

In fact, the more I think about it the more I realize I could probably do with a little dose of fantasy, a bit of fancy and silliness and wild-eyed star gazing naïve hope: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight …"

So here is my goal as I trudge into my second year of not knowing what the fuck I'm doing but still plugging away because it's not over 'til you're six feet below:

I will charter regular flights of fancy, and allow myself the luxury of imaging what, in my mind, would truly be fantasy-land. What? You say you want houses made of Cadburys and an Audi TT? It's your fantasy, take 'er for a test drive!

Living like an undergraduate getting you down? Well, imagine a life not stacked and propped in plastic cubes! Daring! Shocking!!! You're old enough to move out of the eternal dorm now dear...

Sometimes I forget I'm a boringly over-educated scholarship-toting geek-girl with schmancy degrees from even schmancier schools who has managed to wind up a mildly talented, entertaining, borderline intelligent world traveler with an occasional free spirit driven not by drugs or alcohol but pure, maniacal why-the-hell-not-ness. I do what I want—not everyone can say the same.

And, for the poor sap who misdiagnosed my malaise as some disenchanted Cinderella mind funk, I can honestly say that in my newfound Tinkerbell cotton candy sparkle-land, my true evil twin would most definitely be able to meet me halfway—intellectually, morally, financially, spiritually—and for chrissakes, if I'm in fantasyland even a churlish Capricorn like me would leave the ex-wife, child and bleak, uneducated future out.

That's called real life.

Well, someone's—definitely, thankfully not mine.

mein detention camp?

2005-09-09T16:15:00.000-04:00

Holy shit : A federal appeals court ruled today that the president can indefinitely detain a U.S. citizen captured on U.S. soil in the absence of criminal charges, holding that such authority is vital during wartime to protect the nation from terrorist attacks.

What's the next step? I'm afraid to ask…

Brownie's lack of horse sense

2005-09-09T14:21:00.000-04:00

Shocking… Shocking! It seems, now hold your hats here, that Michael Brown, current BushCo ass licking head honcho at FEMA, lied on his resume about his disaster management experience:

Time magazine on Friday reported that Brown's official biography overstated his emergency-management experience.

You're fucking kidding me!

I never, ever would have seen that coming, I mean, especially considering the fact that ol' "Brownie" was, prior to receiving his BushCo blowjob for bending over during Campaign 2000, head pony boy at the International Arabian Horse Association.

I am truly, deeply shocked and saddened to be faced with the news, in all the major outlets, originally reported by Time, that those in the current administration are in positions of power, making life and death decisions on a daily basis, because they got to play cowboys and injuns in the last two presidential campaigns, proudly displaying their Ranger or Pioneer metal badges while sipping champagne and masturbating to the thought of perks like a massive tax cut for the top 2 percent of American earners, a repeal of the estate tax, and phat bonuses for businesses that screw workers on a daily basis— Pension schmension! Unions? Hell no! Increased productivity with fewer workers? You betcha! Who needs a vacation anyway? (I mean, except for Bush…)

And Brownie's not alone:

Five of eight top Federal Emergency Management Agency officials came to their posts with virtually no experience in handling disasters and now lead an agency whose ranks of seasoned crisis managers have thinned dramatically since the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks.

Well, it certainly makes me feel safe to know that a man who likes pretty horseys, and former lobbyist, TV talking head and PR flack (Brooks Altshuler, who's not even on FEMA's Web site) are also on FEMA's payroll, which may begin to explain why the U.S. looked like some teenage boy caught jacking off in the bathroom by his mother last week… wide eyed, holding a small, limp dick.