Sunday, November 29, 2009
"A thousand butterflies from your lips to mine"
Kiss of Life - Friendly Fires
Three weeks ago I was out with a friend discussing bands we wish we could see live. I was vehement that Friendly Fires should tour with The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and come to Florida.
Three days later I got an invite to a VIP party for designer Fred Perry at which Friendly Fires were doing a private show in NYC.
I had a week to get a flight and get there. No one else could drop everything to
go with me, even though I had comped plane tickets as well. I have friends and family
in NYC, I used to live there, but no one could go! Solo SHE.
The first person I saw upon entering was the actor Judah Friedlander. That and the open bar indicated to me that this would be at the very least, interesting.
I met loads of cool people including this awesome chick who is a mortician by day and a burlesque dancer by night. Oh yeah, she'll have a book out at some point. I had front and center for a f'excellent performance and got to meet the FF singer after. His face redefines male beauty and he was super nice, yet I wasn't attracted to him (as if he gives a fuck). Weird.
(click to enlarge)
Me w FF in the background. That dude with the camo undies behind me had BAD B.O.! Cab driver worthy.
I had a blast but couldn't get too trashed as that was the early part of the evening. I had to head to Soho for drinks with someone else after, and then I met these gorgeous girls that were DJ's from South America so I took them to a club where a friend of mine spins - more free drinks, yeesh. I became a vodka filter.
Next night I hung out with rock legend Lenny Kaye (google him you clueless fucks) and my friend Tom who is a legend himself. Somewhere there is footage of me playing bass with those two and Jeff Buckley at a Thanksgiving party in Brooklyn when I was just a young SHE. I'm not allowed to have it for reasons unknown =(
Lenny and I.
Oh yeah, I nearly forgot...I saw the space shuttle launch from my plane:
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
“Blurred vision and dirty thoughts
Feel (out of place), very distraught
Feel something coming on”
Somebody Put Something In My Drink – The Ramones
The Tuesday before Halloween, my favorite holiday, I attended a masquerade martini party that was “invite only”, but there were people I didn’t know there; people with masks on.
I made my mask (above) deciding to go with a sort of white peacock with pronounced cleavage look (or mispronounced if that’s not your thing – you’d be surprised eh em).
My bestie and I stuck together on the two for one martinis, splitting as we went. Even though she can outdrink me 4 to 1, she was trying to slow her roll a bit. We both are conscious about not becoming “unconscious” drinkers.
Bestie placed a Black Dahlia in front of my feathered face and said we were sharing this LAST one, then we engaged in conversations with others.
Very soon after, I felt odd. I remember chatting with this one girl about bad kissers (see previous post) and then this guy kept kissing up on me that I didn’t know. I pushed him away and he said something to the effect of “Oh, you’re not ready yet”.
At the time, nothing made sense. I recall my friend who likes to fight getting into that guy’s face, telling him to back off of me. He plays for one of these Tampa sports franchises, so his intimidating build coupled with about 7 martinis and flaring, overconfident nostrils frightened the smoochy guy into exiting.
Everyone thought Bestie and I were just really wasted, and I was so out of it, I didn’t know what to think. That’s when the “barfs” hit. Bestie and I were in parallel stalls ralphing in tandem. Harmonized puking - the stomach song that has no words, just notes that distort your mouth and expel forcefully into the plumbing (with proper aim).
We never get sick from drink. I drank twice the amount at the same party the month before and was fine. Bestie is a pro, this upchucking was not her M.O. EVER, and I haven’t yakked from a drink since the last century.
We had been drugged. Luckily, it was the drink we shared so we had split the “Mickey”, if you will, and weren’t as bad off as we could’ve been, though we didn’t piece it together till the next day.
I’ve heard the horror stories from girls (and some guys too), but I had thought I was in a safe place. In many respects I was, as nothing happened, or did it?
Who knows what that shit did to my liver or something squishy and vital to my existence? I can still remember the Pythagorean Theorem today, but what if I can’t tomorrow? (As if knowing it at all changes anything.)
Scary when you think about what COULD happen. Makes me want to have a drink, but not a martini fo sho.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Did the night just take up your time, cause it means more to me
Sometimes I forget what I'm doing, I don't forget what I want,what I want
Regret what I've done, regret you? I couldn't go on” Kiss On My List – Hall & Oates
This year I met someone cool. I could be myself completely with him and he entertained ME just as much as I captivated him. He was so awesome that when I was with him, it made me forget. Yep, forget. I forgot about the mean people, the collateral damage done to me, the romantic injuries culminated over the last few years.
All was peachy until he kissed me. It was almost like he had a vendetta against this sensual act. It was soul-less and harsh; something akin to a disdainful, drive-by, flesh stab. I’ve had more passion from the gay dudes I’ve made out with. This guy wasn’t gay, at least his hands were proclaiming the opposite as they invaded me with vigor, but he wasn’t a kisser.
I asked what the deal was and he just looked puzzled. He had never thought about it, but upon reflection, he didn’t like to kiss anyone at all. It just wasn’t his thing.
I became uncomfortably numb. Here was a discovery I never expected to make. I can’t fathom anything sexual without kissing. It’s the gateway, the decision maker if you will, for most women as to whether NAKED happens later or not.
Not. Probably a good thing too as this would’ve had to be a long distance thing, and had he been 100% awesome, I’d be pining away until the next time we saw each other. I’m a kisser. Nothing provides more delight to me than a sweet, smooth, lip massage. =(
I met someone else that was ok - very cute, but too young. I wish I could be crazy about the ones that are crazy about me, dang. Against my better judgment, we hung out for a while, but he made me remember.
Yep, all the shit came flooding back to make rounds in my brain. The longings for what I can’t have (and shouldn’t want anyways), that trapped feeling of someone who likes you too much too fast, and the familiar need to bolt before I hurt them. I love the affection, and it’s been since like February that I’ve had it so genuine but it’s not right, or right enough it seems.
He can’t make me forget, and that’s what I want.
Monday, August 31, 2009
“I can already hear your tune
Calling me across the room
When the world and his wife
Are on my back again
Not enough pleasure
Too much pain” Swamp Thing – The Chameleons UK
If you have a peek at my Blogger profile it has a teeny, tiny listy of bands that I mentally ingest. The above mentioned band is VERY there, so it was with great honor to accept an invite to play a set of Chameleon’s tunes last Wednesday, with the founder/singer/bass player of the band, Mark Burgess.
I had my friend capture some of the event on video, but the sound on those are total shit so I’ve only included a small clip of “Swamp Thing” until I receive a copy of the “professional” dvd. It also sucks in that he only taped the half of the stage that I’m on, um duh! Of course I want to be somewhat visible, but I want everyone in it! I'm in the dark far right in the clip under that EXIT sign - Yeesh.
We had two rehearsals and only one with Mark. I’m not a keyboardist in general (played on six songs though yeay), so we basically pulled this out of our asses, but it went ok. I wasn’t in charge of the gig itself so I won’t comment on booking etc (grrrrr), but it was awesome not only to play those songs with the writer, but also the other dudes that performed as well.
The bass player, Brent, I had never met (he was on SubPop – Nirvana’s first label - with Beachwood Sparks) but we played a festival together with Sebadoh ages ago. He freaked me out a little because he looks and talks so much like Stalker Hater, it’s Discovery Channel worthy; my friends couldn’t stop laughing at the freaky similarity.
Above: Brent, Me, and Paul.
Musicians from Boston, D.C., Miami, and Tallahassee flew and drove to Tampa to play with Mark. Those that know the Chameleons LOVE them. They are obscure and basically an 80’s band, but they left heavy prints on any ear they landed on. Bands today that attribute their sound to Mark’s work are The Killers, Interpol, The Editors, and White Lies. In Tampa, the press could care less, but in L.A. (a real place) the show had all kinds of tongues wagging last night (http://blogs.laweekly.com/westcoastsound/synthful/mark-burgess-live/). There is rumor of me playing in a NYC show; if that happens, I'll mention beforehand =)
I yakked so much that I lost my voice, plus I got a cold. Most of the conversations were shop talk like “Hey you remember that narcoleptic guy that used to manage so & so before they hit it?” or “You know them too? I toured with them in blah blah”. Stuff civilians can’t relate to or you sound like a big old name dropper. Most of us in round about ways know the same people but at different times in our lives, it was interesting to say the least.
Doubly bizarre is now being friends with this man who was a mentor to me. It’s rare you get to meet someone from a different time that changed your life, let alone bond with them. I learned to sing and play bass at the same time because of Mark, and he also got me through one of the darkest hours of my teen years without knowing it.
I brought my 1966 Hofner Bass to rehearsal and he picked it up and played “P.S. Goodbye” on it:
I can’t tell you what that song means to me without tears forming a protest line down my cheeks, so I’ll skip it.
We started our set with “Nostalgia” at my behest, as it’s the only song I’ve ever heard that sounds sort of like my real name, and Mark said “Nuh Stah See Ya’s song”. We closed with a Door’s like version of “Second Skin” where he dedicated “this melody” to the backing members, which was cool.
Above: Mark, Omar, and me with creepy green earplugs that kept falling out.
When I dropped off Mark and his awesome girlfriend Lydia, after a wild Thursday evening of drinking and debauchery, he told me that not only was I the first female Chameleon, I was the ONLY one he ever shared the stage with.
(Sound of a feather being gently placed in my cap.)
Above: Mark, me and my cleavage yikes!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
"You say goodbye and I say hello
I don't know why you say goodbye
I say hello" Hello Goodbye - The Beatles
I was on the dance floor when some belligerent troll was being escorted out of the club in a headlock, arms flailing about. A gentle hand guided me out of the path, and this sweet guy put himself between me and the mess that was provided by Jagermeister as it gyrated by.
"I like the whole gentleman thing you just did there," I said.
"I like your face,"he replied.
(Ding Ding Ding) My brain sorted through the rolodex of compliments, and that is one I actually have not received. Eyes, smile, lips, eyebrows even, but never had anyone said they liked my face. At least not in a while.
We yakked for two hours as we danced. He's fun, interesting, a photographer, 25 (the teetering shoe is about to drop), and from Denver.
"I'm only here for a week." (Buzzer sound)
Thanks for playing, we have some nice parting gifts for you - please exit to your left.
I told a drunken group of besties that I had read a blog by this Irish chick about ingrown boob hairs (One of Those Bad Boys), and most of them were amazed that hairs even grew in these remote areas.
I declared that if I can hatch some, I'm growing a Hitler type moustache under each nipple. Then I wondered aloud if the "soul patch" was actually just a relocated Hitler moustache? Like it fell below the lip and got a new name.
At that point, I was informed about this web site that only features cats that resemble Hitler - "Kitlers". http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/cgi-bin/seigmiaow.pl
Saturday, August 29, 2009
I was honored to play keyboards on six songs with some of the coolest people on the planet Wednesday evening. When I have more time, I'll tell you who, and you'll probably have to Google em heheh, but it meant a lot to me.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Disappointed people clinging on to bottles
And when it comes it's so so disappointing
Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground” Let Down – Radiohead
Wouldn’t it be awesome if people came with microchips that we could scan and were loaded with a sort of Wikipedia rundown of the person, or even like Amazon customer reviews?
“**---This girl has obvious daddy issues, but she is always well prepared and rocks in bed. She’s fun but doesn’t bathe nearly enough. She also lets her dog stick his tongue in her mouth. I gave her two stars because she is reliable, prompt, and has nice nostrils.”
Forewarned is forearmed right? It would be so nice to opt out of so much time and experiences with someone to find out the ugly side. Howz abouts some hints up front? Yes please!
I’m the type that when I say I’m going to do something, I DO IT. If for some reason I absolutely cannot, I profusely apologize and tongue kiss you until forgiven (unless we’re related).
“MAYBE” is such a fantastic word, I wish people would use it more. “Maybe I’ll show up to practice”, “Maybe if we still know each other we’ll be doing Halloween together”, or “Maybe when I come visit, I’ll take you to that restaurant.” I HATE people that say they’re going to do something and then don’t and aren’t even remotely in touch with an apology or accountability. “MAYBE” could’ve prevented a lot of ills for me.
Can anyone be counted on anymore? Culpability must be the uncoolest thing there is because humans would rather drown in oblivion than peer in the direction of this type of honesty.
In relationships, if the female early on says anything future related, dudes flip out and bail, even if the girl is just talking about next week. Girls, however, tend to think a guy really digs them if they talk in future tense, depending on what and when. I had only known one guy a few hours and he was like “I can see us living together.” I saw myself dedicating my life to Yugoslavian worm research before I could process his vision, so yeah, yikes times ten.
I had one guy actively pursue me, and when he spoke in future terms, I stupidly bought into it and oh how I hateth myself for that (not as much as I hate him though). When someone talks that way, it tricks you into thinking they’re someone you can count on – they'll be there for you, even in the future. Because of that experience, my trust levels are shakier than Michael J. Fox after a Starbucks run. Now if someone even hints “us” beyond a week, I tell them to cease, desist, and to please incorporate “MAYBES” until we are a thing, if it’s going that way.
Guys don’t talk future until you’ve been naked with a girl at least five times, please. You can get laid without such maneuvers and if you no likey afterwards, you can’t be hated for misleading the witness. Capiche?
Everyone else, if you commit to anything and can’t back it up, fucking apologize already. It’s the very least you can do. Acknowledgment of the other person’s feelings IS a big deal.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
How can I make my body shed for you
How can I? How can I?
How can I make my body shed around your metal scars?
Loretta's scars, Loretta's scars, Loretta's scars”
Loretta’s Scars – Pavement
I was hanging out with some teenage boys a couple of weeks ago, and they were good guys, but I felt bad for them because they have an abusive, religious dad and a wicked step-Cunt that take the act of deception to the sickest of levels.
Their background story is so sad that even the folks at Lifetime would be like “Please stop, really even we can’t…just stop!”
The one is going to be 16 soon and this week he found that horrific place that we all do with someone at some point. That place where things between you and some Fuckface are beyond repair. He had tried to talk to his dad about easing up and was shut down for the last time. Now he’s sentenced to a life of listening to Staind and an unforgettable feeling of not being heard when it’s needed most (which is nearly as excruciating as being subjected to Staind).
Emotional scarring, in my opinion, happens when a Fuckface reaches in and breaks off a part of you that they don’t caress, value, or nurture. No they look at you, smile, and then shatter that part into 472,000 pieces. Poof, it’s dead. Maybe it’s your spirit that’s sapped or your humor (mine has been decimated in the last two years), but you can never go back to how it was before (if you can, then by all means please tell me how). Beyond repair.
There’s a void when parts die and we humans try our damnedest to shove squares where only circles belong. Fame, alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, food, sex, and what have you will never feel as good as the missing part did (imitation crab ya dig?). I wonder if the parts are originally stolen because the Fuckface in question had so many of their own missing that maybe they thought a part of another could make them whole again. Is it an unconscious act, or are they just plain evil?
Maybe we can pretend we’re starfish and grow our parts back?
Friday, August 14, 2009
He's not coming back
Look into my eyes
It's the only way you'll know I'm telling the truth
So knives out” Knives Out – Radiohead
The truth is like a crime scene; no entry without latex gloves or they aren’t allowed anywhere near it’s fragile state. It’s messy and few have the stomach for it. Many have to make rank and show brevity to handle truth, but even then you can only take so much, I suppose.
Everybody says they want the truth, but only in theory. When confronted with it, most often stagger and stammer as if they were just told that the word “the” was removed from all of language.
“Honest to a fault”. In some ways that’s me. I know how to compartmentalize truth, as in not revealing everything just because it’s true, but I also can’t pretend shit didn’t happen when it did.
I was willing to have a go at it, but I foresaw an outcome that didn’t benefit anyone, especially me. I let some truth slip out that I swore would never be revealed, but it was in anger and I partly regret it. I didn’t need to explain myself to the ears that heard it, but somehow there was relief in finally putting it out into the ether.
It’s been a tough year for me, I’ve not written about all my truths. Some were life changing. One felt like it was life stopping. Well, life as I knew it stopped, but when I accepted it, it resolved itself. The exit of this issue was just as harsh as the entrance, and though I’m relieved on a thousand levels, I find myself in days of grief concerning it too. I know the pain of swallowing truth before it’s properly chewed, but I feast on it anyways.
The misery of lying is something I consistently write about. Maybe I’m a little hardass when it comes to this human oddity (my cat never lies to me – the one, the other not only lies, she also specializes in extortion), but I think it’s because I know too much. I did some pre-law in college where you basically learn to lie or catch someone in one. I read scads of books on the “tells” and body language. I love shows like “Law & Order CI” where Donofrio’s character is the consummate behaviorist or “Lie To Me”, which is all about the facial expressions in liars.
I wonder if I’ll always be alone because of this as it’s fascinating till you realize how much people lie, then it jades you.
I confronted one of the worst liars ever a few hours ago. He embraced every pitfall like he was trying out for the lying Olympics. Never before have I wanted to believe someone so badly but knew it was futile. The “tells” told on him.
The truth shall set you free. You’ll be hated, but free.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm
You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
for a little peace of mind” I’m So Tired - The Beatles
I know I should be asleep and I am tired, but when I know I have to get up, THAT’S when I definitely cannot sleep. The clock just stabbed my eyes with it’s 4 hour countdown warning.
I can’t sleep when I’m excited and I’m in anticipation mode where my brain can’t shut the fuck up. It’s odd the things that bounce through Thoughtland when one gets like this.
Tonight my thinkies are about how much I hate musicals and theatrical productions. I used to live by Times Square in NYC near the Theatre District, but would’ve considered an evening of waterboarding accompanied by some staple gun art to the tops of my feet over sitting through a Broadway production.
I would much prefer to watch someone break into my house with ill intent than witness some overly happy gaggle of dancing idiots break into song on a stage. I really just can’t fathom how people find this entertaining at all.
I don’t hate all plays, but I’m not a huge fan of those either. I love movies, so long as they aren’t musicals. Grease being the only exception, as for some reason 30 something year olds passing themselves off as high school students is way too funny to be irritating.
Performers that have back up dancers cut it too close to musicals. I wonder what it is about choreographed dancers and singers that bugs the shit out of me?
The only thing worse than sitting through one of these events is an awards show celebrating such things. I have never watched the “Tony” awards show, and I hope I never meet anyone that has.
Ouch, three and half hours and counting.
Monday, July 27, 2009
“My neck, my back
Lick my ... just like that” My Neck, My Back - Khia
Isn’t it strange how much certain body parts have standards of beauty, yet others go on ignored? Long legs, broad shoulders, muscles, breasts, butts, feet, but you never hear of anyone having an elbow or eyelid fetish. Well, you may have, but not I.
I wouldn’t say I have a “fetish” per se, but I have things that inspire an appearance of the old horns, I must say. I loves me some shaggy hair, piercing eyes, super skinny body, but more than anything I like a long, almost birdlike neck. Maybe I was a horny ostrich in a former life, but I so dig that Ichabod Crane looking neck with a prominent Adam’s Apple. Fat or super muscular dudes don’t have these (unless they’re hiding under years of steroidal use or Chocodiles) but they creep me out anyways.
Elongated necks to an extreme are revered in some African and Asian cultures where heavy steel rings actually weigh down the collarbone and ribs till the wearer looks like E.T. . That is not something I would ever subscribe to or recommend, unless you have virtually NO neck, which I do find sort of creepy too.
The culture I grew up in isn’t into that Ubangi look, but we do like a nice long neck on our dancers, models, etc. Short-necked women are obsolete in ballet, but are prevalent in the sports world as are a plethora of short, thick necked men, and oddly enough film portrays most monsters and creepy villains with those same type of guys.
My favorite film neck belongs to the sexiest man on the planet, Cillian Murphy.
The hottest looking neck in the music world definitely sits below the head of Johnny Greenwood of Radiohead (best everything else belongs to Damian Kulash of OK Go, mmmmm).
I like all things neck related, not just kissy stuff, I love neck massages, singing, I occasionally make my own chokers with buffalo bone beads, and when I was younger I was really into vampire movies, books, and whatnot. I think necks are beautiful and it’s a damn shame that they’re the one thing you can’t surgically repair when age kicks in. You can Botox and stretch your eyebrows back to your ass, but the neck is yet to be savable.
The "waddle" is inevitable, unless you die young.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
I just wanna be your lover
No matter how it ends
No matter how it starts” House of Cards - Radiohead
I’ve never cheated on anyone I was seeing, but I have kissed some dudes that were in relationships with others, and I think the last guy I was with had a girlfriend. I can’t be sure but I do know when I was taking a grand tour of him with my tongue he said something to the effect of “I’m not used to being with someone that’s not my girlfriend”. This could’ve been taken a few different ways but I’m sensitive and completely shut down when there is even the slightest mention of another girl if I’m next to you naked.
My ego bruises easily and I refuse to hide that fact, but I think I do stupid things because I don’t know how to be when it does happen. I would’ve also have preferred to know beforehand that the cheater was cheating with me. Not even for the guilt factor, but self preservation. Knife wielding girlfriends are not worth a little slip n’ slide with just anyone, and I also don’t want to get too cozy with someone I can’t be with again. That’s just how I’m built.
Guilt can factor in depending on the specs of the situation. For one, if both members of the couple in question are under 25 and the guy is just someone I’m physically into but not boyfriend material, I’m ok as long as I’m well schooled on the truth up front. 90% of all couples getting together before the age of 25 break up when the guy hits that mark or 29. If either of them are over 25 or I know the other party, I’m not willing to consider any sort of arrangement.
I don’t know if I would actually do it, but because I’m so geographically challenged and don’t really meet guys I dig mentally, I can’t say I wouldn’t. I hate going months or years (yes have done that) without affection. It’s horrible, but I also own that it’s my fault that I’m picky and don’t know how to deal with what this area has to offer. Anything penis related that my eyes can be talked into has a built in lying mechanism that doesn’t have an “off” switch. Not the typical lying shit (women, drugs, etc.), they lie about everything. It’s near to the point of comical, but loses it’s novelty when you realize it’s a local phenomenon. I’ve only lived in Michigan, DC, and NYC besides here, but never have I witnessed the scale of lies that epically emerge from this locale.
The inherent dishonest factor seems like it would prevent the cheater from giving me the proper low down so it’s almost crazy for me to think this would ever occur. The honest cheat? Can you imagine an admitted liar? I think I would sort of like someone that told me they honestly lie all the time, well at least for ten minutes.
I don’t cheat, but I lie when I’ve been served one first. I never miss when I hit one back either.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
But I'd do it again, do it again if I could”
No One Sleeps When I’m Awake - The Sounds
Remember the movie “Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind” where they could effectively remove someone from your memory? Wouldn’t that be awesome? I’d do it, given the opportunity, but wonder if Pheromones would screw it up? I mean, if you’re physically enslaved to someone by these types of hormones, wouldn’t it bi-pass memory? I think there should be a mechanism installed into our brains that prevents us from being attracted to people that won’t be attracted to us. That would be truly entertaining, if for nothing else, at least to see what Hugh Hefner and other creepy, rich, old dudes can really scare up.
I was contacted over the holiday weekend by someone in love with the guy I was seeing six months ago, who unfortunately, still has it bad for me and keeps sending this fucking drama my way. I’ve expressed my lack of interest in being friends with the X and he’s even seen me with someone else, but he still can‘t let go. It’s not logical at all, but it makes sense if it’s hormonal. I sort of empathize as I know I’m vulnerable to a person that I cannot explain why, but would sleep with even though he’s a dirt bag and hates me. I want to hate him, and I’m sure I do somewhere (in my elbows for sure I hate him), but I also know if he came on to me, I wouldn’t be able to resist. It’s the Pheromones; has to be because I don’t look at this person any way but sexually. I don’t think I could ever be friends with him, but then I think it’s hard for people to go back to that once they see each other a certain way maybe?
I know that women can only be friends with their male X’s if it’s THEIR decision to break it off. If the guy is the one who no longer desires her, it’s too painful to the ego to be friends. If you want to break up with a chick and want to keep it peaceful, it has to be her decision to part ways. If we have sex with you, until we decide we’re done, we aren’t done. Them’s the rules unless otherwise discussed pre-erection. We’re sexualized in a way that men can’t be (nor ever understand) so if we can’t be the “deciders”, we want you dead. That’s our nature. Best to find a subtle way to turn us off or suffer the consequences, trust me. If a woman says they aren’t like this, you’re either paying them, or they’re lying.
The following are what scares me off quicker than telling me you’re a Republican or you “just found Jesus Christ as your personal lord and savior”: talk of marriage, talk of kids, calling me constantly, calling me constantly with nothing to say, non stop yapping about yourself, chewing loudly with your mouth open, super jealousy, being hypercritical, getting lazy in bed (unless your hands have been blown off in active duty or some other heroic measure, they had better be all over me NOT behind your head), talking about other chicks THAT way (in bed is an automatic death sentence), drug use, mother haters, animal haters (if you‘ve ever killed any mammal on purpose without the reason of self defense, EW and please stay away from me), racism, sexism, your profound love of Country Music, wearing tighty whiteys, bad manners, bad spellers, and severe, constant mispronunciation.
Some of that stuff would make me hate, so if the aim was to end things as friends, subtlety is the way to go.
The smothering is the hardest thing for me to take. Women like to feel desired, and once I’ve gotten intimate with someone, I like to have that continue but without the smother. "Smothering" and "positively attentive" can be just a difference in wording. For example, a great text to get the day after a GREAT night would be “Oy girl, I can’t walk. AWESOME! When you going to break me again?” not “I miss you” followed by three phone calls to see “what‘s up?” You can’t be all sappy like that until it’s a LOVE thing (even then, one phone call is enough). No one waits till they're in love to have sex (that I’m aware of), but no one wants to hear NOTHING after they’ve parked naked on you for any given amount of time either. It’s not smothering to contact someone; it’s HOW you do it and HOW OFTEN. I like to feel sought after but not depended on. If someone doesn’t contact me the next day, I feel bad, every girl does. They've just risked pregnancy or death with you, how else are they going to feel? Again, if a female says she isn’t like this, you’re either paying her, or she’s lying.
Pheromones. Fair? Not even slightly. Moans? If you’re lucky. Lobotomy? Soon!
Saturday, July 4, 2009
“Kiss me, flick your cigarette and then kiss me
Kiss me where your eye won't meet me
Meet me where your mind won't kiss me”
No You Girls Never Know - Franz Ferdinand
One of my guy friends asked me if women really consider the first kiss with a dude the deciding factor on whether we do the bedroom boogie with them or not. Sometimes it is, I mean, if it’s really horrible. If not, well one never knows.
When I was younger I had higher expectations of oral chemistry and if you had to show anyone anything, well it just didn’t feel right. Now that I’m a thousand years old I’m more patient and try to find the better in people if I do like them and work with them.
I was making out with this guy that was just awful, but he was really hot, smart, fun, and he knew who Peter Hook was. I tried to guide him and he lamely excused that he had a small tongue and was hopelessly resigned to that fact. It’s one thing to not know what to do, but to be unwilling to learn how to please your partner or to better yourself is just unacceptable. When it comes to tongues, uh size doesn’t matter unless it’s the equivalent of some creepy snake tongue - yeesh.
Now you’re thinking “Who the fuck are you and what makes you the kissing expert?” Well I can honestly say it’s one thing I’m good at - the rest not so much, but I’ve only heard the highest of compliments on my lip wielding capabilities. Yeah I’m tooting my own horn here, but my talent runs thin with everything else so I’m going to run with it.
If I could shove my tongue in between someone else’s dental work everyday, I’d be overjoyed. I really love kissing. I love it when it’s cold out and the small warmth of a kiss has ten times the fire. I also like to slip an ice cube from my lips through someone else’s. I like to gently but quickly suck their tongue all the way into my mouth in a sort of surprise maneuver, letting the other party know this is going further…soon.
I like kissing bejeweled lips. Piercings are lovely. The German had lip and tongue piercings going for him, but also that "take charge" desire sans any games made that experience the best in ages.
I like being kissed everywhere (well not the eyeball - yep in high school this guy licked my right eye, almost pulled my contact out) but especially the neck - that is definitely my “on” button.
I don’t recall the last time anyone else’s kiss made me shudder in my shoes, but I have the shoes picked out, so I’m ready.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
You gotta do it well, you gotta give the other fellow Hell”
Live and Let Die - Paul McCartney
“Farinelli” is a film based on the life of a castrated singer from the 1700’s. I saw this film right around the second round of child molestation accusations that Michael Jackson received back some years and it prompted me to write my first short story (have no clue where it is though).
I don’t own anything by MJ, I wouldn’t say I’m a fan (my older sister was when he was still kind of black), but I do have some fond memories that bear his influence and I guess I’m the type of person that really stretches to believe that someone isn’t guilty without a ton of proof. I know what it’s like to be lied about by thin lipped leeches that are nothing but the essence they drain of others, so I tend to look at every story from several angles before I sum up guilt or innocence.
My short story proposed a character similar to Jackson that gets castrated to keep his signature high voice. With modern technology, they saved some of his young jizz were he to feel the need to procreate. His older brothers donated as well for back up - just in case. One could easily picture the greedy, micromanaging Joe Jackson character sitting his son down and asking him if he truly never wanted to grow up, and then vaguely explaining how they could make that happen. Providing a scary whore (or Diana Ross after a few drinks) to him for his one and only sexual encounter before the castration, would most certainly attach the element of disgust to such acts and therefore ply him to go along with the plan of avoiding such messy encounters forever.
The boy never mentally grows as much as his bank accounts and can only almost overly relate to children. He never finds romantic love, just merely poses under the guise of it on the occasions when lawsuits arise or recording sales dwindle. He never felt good enough (some dad’s are great for building such dark and limiting foundations aren’t they?) so he changes his face and eventually his skin tone.
In my story, his façade caved when charged with molestation and the truth had to come out in order to prove he was the actual victim of more greedies. Castration is illegal, so his dad and everyone involved goes to prison while my Jackson character ends up having a psychotic break from the public humiliation and never recovers. His father, from a jail cell, organizes a truthfully detailed documentary about his crimes and makes millions that he won’t ever see or spend.
It never happened, but had it done, it would explain that annoyingly, whiny, kiddy voice he had that his brothers do not (Janet does), and give further insight as to why he was such a whack job.
I was OK with black MJ, but as soon as he started to become white, he totally backstabbed Paul McCartney (GASP). Sir Paul gave a young MJ some pointers about buying rights to songs because he and the other Beatles lost out on rights that seedy businessmen had them naively sign away early in their career. When the rights to those Beatles’ songs came up for auction, Jackson sunk six floors below LOW and outbid McCartney. I find such treacherous acts beyond my scope of forgiveness, especially since he allowed some of their songs for use in commercials. The music of the Beatles is too (insert highest compliment available in every language) to be used in the background of a shoe commercial. (My music, however, is not above such things and I’d happily provide any sequence of notes to get a buck - just sayin’.)
As a dancer, I moonwalked as a kid (you KNOW you did too) and still like to get down to some of his tunes. As a musician, I can appreciate the genius of his time, but am disgusted by his business tactics. As an animal advocate, I am repulsed by how he jacked poor Bubbles the chimp and all of his other exotic pets.
The real Farinelli (stage name) lived 77 whole years, sex free.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
“Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again
Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision that was planted in my brain, still remains
Within the sound of silence” Sounds of Silence - Simon and Garfunkel
One of my jobs back in NYC was at an advertising/PR firm that had the privilege of doing some work with Dr. Oliver Sacks. I was lucky enough to get to chit chat with him when he was on hold for my boss on a few occasions. The first time he called I was blown away as I had read his infamous book “The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat”, and had seen the movie “Awakenings” which is based on another one of his works and of course, his life.
I’m not sure if he’s considered a Neuro-Psychiatrist or a Neurologist and Psychiatrist separately, but I am sure he is an author and he does awesome documentaries. Super grooooovy dude and this week starting tonight on PBS, he’s on a Nova special called “My Musical Brain”. It’s “an investigative look into the extraordinary impact that music can have on the human brain”.
PBS is different everywhere, but if you are a Tampa person it’s on ours July 1 @ 2am, July 2nd at 5am, and July 5 @ 7pm. Set your DVRS! He’s always interesting.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
“Hey you, still silence in the eyes of the idols
Did we believe that you could know?
Hey you, doing everything you can just to blend in
But what was there to show? ” Can’t Believe a Single Word - VHS or Beta
My last post was about the fakers, whom I’m much better at spotting each year I take on. I try not to be fake, but I believe once someone tosses some phony my way, I’m contractually obligated to return the serve. I do dabble in “fake” out of boredom though.
When living in NYC, most of the parties I showed up at were attended by artsies only. EVERYONE was a musician, writer, actor, director, photog, painter, etc. so when asked what I did, I started making up shit. My favorite occupation to feign was Herpetologist. That always turned a few heads and garnered some “wows“. Usually someone would be like “A Herpetologist? I would never have guessed, wait, what IS a Herpetologist?” Not one person EVER knew what it was, yet they were always shocked that I could be one.
At the time I was temping at The Discovery Channel, so it was really easy to go on about working there doing research for shows like “The Crocodile Hunter”, and I would BS about grants I had obtained to start giving the Florida Alligator back its rightful land from humans. I said some far fetched shit until someone I really knew joined the chat and I would then have to fess up that I was just fucking with everyone. I always revealed the truth before parting ways; nobody took it personally and I bet to this day, not one of them has ever met a real Herpetologist. Neither have I.
Other than that kind of fakery, I’m pretty easy going, but you never want to fall asleep around me first. I always take compromising photos. ALWAYS. If you’ve been around me in the last ten years and snoozed, it’s a definite I have time and date stamped pics of you in a way you’d rather not be seen.
My two year phone contract was up a few months ago and I debated on switching carriers but have so many roll over minutes, the idea didn’t seem that attractive. The stalker doesn’t call anymore so I don’t need to go through the hassle of changing my number. I definitely needed a new phone but couldn’t find something I liked that my carrier would upgrade me to, and then they want you another two years along with your left cornea if they do give you a new phone.
I decided both of my corneas deserve to stay where they live and that I wanted an HTC Tilt, which on eBay is fetching anywhere from $150 (straight from the Shelter for Battered Phones) to $300 (new from the back of Ray Ray’s truck in Queens). Craigslist had one for $125 that I inquired about, and as luck would have it, the dude had a few others. One of which was $20 and worked fine outside of the broken screen and it didn’t come with ANYTHING. I snagged it and ordered a replacement screen off of eBay for $29 and a battery and chargers for $10. I did some research and did the screen myself and it’s awesome.
The screen is nearly Iphone size and all the blackmail photos I took uploaded so nicely to it. It’s like a portable relationship killer because if someone pisses me off, I might show their friends (or worse) them naked or with someone they weren’t supposed to be with. It’s against the law to email such things, but I can have whatever I want on my phone for some “show and tell” when I’m out. Great time biter when in line for the ladies room.
Best to stay on my good side as we all have to sleep sometime =)
Thursday, June 11, 2009
“Look out! Cause I'm just too fake for the world
I know it's just a game to me, I'm just too fake you see
I wish i didn't have to be but watch out
I got too much soul for the world
I got too much soul for you
I got Facebook and last went on it in December I think, so twice I‘ve used it. I don’t care for it at all but see the constant array of friend requests coming into my Gmail, most of which have names that sound like they belong on the ever so popular “US No Fly” list. However, I will have to break with tradition and go on this week at some point as an old band mate’s name has recently parked in my inbox.
He was a great drummer and in our late teens he brought this guy in to play guitar for us that I wasn’t too keen on as he had a drug history. I was assured he was “clean”, but I was young and naive. It’s one thing when it’s pot or LSD experimentation, but when someone regularly uses heroin at any point in their lives, you should NEVER EVER (Simon Cowell ego size EVER) trust them.
I’ll never forget our last practice in a storage unit place all the bands rehearsed in off of Skipper Road in Tampa. We were mostly surrounded by death metal bands, but the dude next door to us was a lone drummer that busted skins 8 hours a day whilst secretly tending to the most well cared for hydroponic pot plants behind a fake wall he built into his space. Robby. If he’s not in jail, I bet he’s still there banging out a Rush song (ick). If not, I bet you can still smell that Christmas tree WEED smell when you walk by, heh.
Jon (no “H” which is ironic to say the least) was the guitarist’s name and he was talented but bossy. Most drug freaks are controlling and he was no exception. We packed up early as we had to be at a photo shoot for the band at 8 AM. The photographer was hard to come by and he wanted “natural” light, but it was also hotter than Satan’s balls during our normal wake stays so we had to comply with this early appointment. Had I known it was going to be the last time I’d see our PA system, I would’ve bid it farewell, but alas there were no final exchanges between us.
Jon basically left in our succession of cars and then doubled back and took all that he could sell, right down to foot pedals and even piddly drum sticks. We had no idea till his fake ass didn’t show up at yikes o’clock the next morning for pics. It was bad enough to be left and robbed, but embarrassed in front of the hot photographer dude just enhanced the event to a level that I’ll vividly remember when I’m beating people senseless with a cane in my silver years (I don‘t do gold, that‘s just tacky).
You’d think that would’ve been enough, but I got conned again by a heroin addict the next year. My best friend had just passed away from Leukemia and I received a handwritten letter from a former roommate that I had in DC saying she too, had gotten cancer and had no money for meds. She moved to San Francisco and pleaded with me to wire her some cash. Drowning in grief, I couldn’t bear the thought of another friend dying and quickly wired her a hundred bucks only to receive a call the next day from her sister telling me she got fleeced for 3 grand and to “Watch out for Karen, she’s on the horse”.
That bitch’s birthday is this week now that I think of it. I hope she’s dead.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Wasted drama with the nightlife.
And I will shake it up tonight just to make it right.
She says always all the time" She Says - VHS Or Beta
Every once in a while I run across a band name worth noting, and at this moment that would be Portland, Oregon’s “Hotter Than A Crotch”. Their Myspace (http://www.myspace.com/hotterthanacrotch) says “Campy Soul-Singer Punk for Awkward Horny People”, which sounds about right. They aren’t great or grating, but I give ‘em props for the moniker.
I caught Friendly Fires on Carson Daly’s show doing “Skeleton Boy” live. WAY better than I expected them to be on stage. You know I LOVE this song (Sketelon Oy!) but now even more so that I’ve heard it emanate from the sweaty, rasping version of FF. The singer sounds great on recordings, but a tinge of Colin Blunstone (one of my favorite singers EVER - The Zombies you tard!) seeps through in his breathier live performance. Fucking golden.
May 25th should be marked on your calendar for the new release by Phoenix, “Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix”. A French Indie band that sings in English (yeay) so well, that I had no idea they weren’t when I played “Long Distance Call” to death on my IPOD a few years ago.
While I was typing this, I could hear the neighborhood ice cream truck doing its rounds. It was playing “La Cucaracha” (Mexican Cockroach song). I fail to see how this would entice a person to want to place anything in their mouths that resides in that vehicle.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Others do it without thrilling me
Giving me that same old feeling inside that I
know I must be right
It's the singer not the song” The Singer Not the Song - The Rolling Stones
Last December, I was having one of those meaty conversations with one of my friends that such things can occur. He’s a fellow musician and was going on about a Morrissey song that he loved so much that he questioned his sexual preference when listening to it. I probed a bit and it was a love thing, not an erection that the song was providing, AND it was the song NOT the singer (Mick had it all wrong).
“Don’t you wish you could find someone that you could love as much as a song?” I asked.
His face drained of all meaning and he replied “Wow, I never thought of it that way. I think you’ve just ruined my life. Thanks, now I’m always going to hold that as a standard.”
Oops. Yeah it’s horrifically “holy grail” of me to compare humans to their art because they will never be as awesome. I’ve met lots of singers that are shitty people but have brilliant songs, and I’ve also met loads of super nice musicians with less than stomachable songs. Our great arts are the higher parts of ourselves, the ULTRA, if you will.
No one has ever made me feel as good as a song of my choosing does.
I was thinking about ultrasounds/sonograms the other day. It’s sound seeking something. Sound forming a visual image, usually a fetus, but they use it for a ton of things these days. If you’ve ever heard a pulse or heartbeat through a sonogram really loud, it kind of sounds like death metal, which to me sounds like sharks belch talking, but it too, is sound seeking something (probably an alibi).
Ironically, as I’m writing this UnderOath’s latest video is on my TV. I thought these guys were supposed to be death metal? Oh excuse me, Christian death metal (we all know how I feel about that kind of thing: Guess Who Digs Me?). If it wasn’t for the religious connotations, the song isn’t half bad. I really dig the clapping skeletons, heh.
Sound seeks connection. The “icks” I feel from religion prevent my connecting to UnderOath in this case, but I really believe the intent of all sound is to connect and form an image - bad or good, like an ultrasound.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
“But it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright
I got my nuts from a hippy in a camper van on Saturday night”
About a year ago was the first time I encountered the infamous “Truck Nutz” (if you‘re lucky enough to NOT know what these are http://www.bullsballs.com/balls/photos.html will photo you up to speed), but ironically, they were on a car. One of those jacked up, spinny rimmed, wigger-mobiles. I was behind it on one of those circular off ramps and I couldn’t help but notice the bronze sacs that gravity was coaxing to one side as the car hugged around the curve.
Being in Florida, I was surprised at such a sight because you can’t spit without hitting a church here, and they don’t usually go for the public display of genitalia. At the same time, I wasn’t shocked at all - it was just the next step in men’s obsession with their balls.
Whether it’s ICP or AC/DC (statistics show that initial bands dig their balls more than one word titled bands), balls are ever present in lyrics when a dude is on the mic. You’d be hard pressed to find a female songwriter or otherwise, as excited about the scrotes as their possessors. We just aren’t as enamored of them as the men folk are. I’ve asked my non-nutted friends about their views on the danglies and most of them find them gross (especially if the owners aren‘t familiar with the concept of MANSCAPING), or tolerable at best.
Personally, I’m a practical female. What I refer to as the “Sperm Purses” don’t really do anything for me and that seems to be the consensus amongst my girly social circle. Not one of us in our friskiest of states was ever thinking “Hmmm yeah, I gots to gets me some of them balls.” The only time we value the balls are when we want to procreate or severely put a hurt on an offending or attacking male (either situation usually brings a man to his knees, heh).
When we size a man up, we do think about certain physical attributes and you’ll hear us go on about a guy’s ass, chest, neck, hair, or “front porch”, but you will never hear “His balls are to die for” make way through any female’s vocabulary that I run with.
It’s ironic that when we can’t stand someone, they are often referred to as a “dick” but if they have done something brave or outstanding, we credit the size of their balls. In the female world, we only have equally demeaning terms, but nothing that is parallel with “having a giant pair”, not even with breasts. If a girl took out a terrorist on the subway, no one would go “Dude, that took a huge rack on her part.”
Our relationship with our chesticles is far different than men with their jigglies. I mean, really, can you imagine a guy trying on clothes and thinking “Do my balls look big/small enough in these?” Me either (Miami queens being the only exception).
Since my sighting a year ago, Florida law now prohibits the display of “Truck Nutz” with fines of $60.00 per offense. Our state Senator Jim King (Republican-Jacksonville) admitted to having a pair on his truck, but in compliance with his wife’s dim view of the truckly accessory, King has caved and removed them, thus revoking his “pimp” status (“pimps” are Republicans?).
If they hadn’t been banned, I was half tempted to make a pair with one of them having torn up flesh and spikes in it, dripping blood droplets forever in my trunks shadow. The other one I would have painted an acid yellow smiley face on. =)
Monday, May 4, 2009
If you could make a figure eight.
That's a circle that turns 'round upon itself.” Figure Eight - Schoolhouse Rock
My bestie and I went roller skating yesterday.
The last time I saw the inside of a roller rink, my shoe and bra size were a LOT smaller, I think I was 12. Even then, at 12 I didn’t actually go into the rink. I’d have my parents drop off my friends and I, go behind the rink to put my skates safely up in a tree, and then meet up with BOYS from other schools that got their hands on a car or alcohol. We usually went to a “forbidden by the parents” teen dance club, or to some place called “The Pit” in the woods where kids basically went to drink, get high, and/or make out. (Remember those days when guys actually tried to go to second base and you didn’t even have a target for them to land on? Now I have excess and they completely skip over my “lady lumps” [thank you Black Eyed Peas] as if they weren’t even there. Here I went to all that trouble to grow them and they get less action now than when it was illegal to think about them - unless you count chicks, they grope me all the time. Life is a humorous bitch isn‘t it?)
The rink seemed huge back then, but now my eyes and their encasement have a completely different perspective. It’s still the same in regards to skating in a circle for ages to the latest dance tunes (yep same as the dance club), but with the added bonus of screaming children going in the wrong direction and body slamming into anyone in their wake.
I felt like I had entered a video game with Wal-Mart-esque lighting (not at all flattering for any look), and before I suited up, the dude at the desk made me sign a waver in case of injury. There is also a huge sign highly recommending you don’t skate unless you have health insurance. Shit has REALLY changed.
I had not previously been in a rink in Florida, but it’s only been a year and a half since I had wheels under my toes. I used to rollerblade around my “hood” all the time but the heat, snakes, bad drivers, and endless supply of bugs that decide to off themselves in my left eye have dissuaded me from such escapades as of late. When I did go, it was only for like 20 minutes, but yesterday was a full 2 hours of Roller Boogie meets the modern version of the game “Frogger”.
The a/c and no rocks getting caught in your wheels are awesome, but the brats would prove to be another story. I nearly picked the one up by his fauxhawk to turn his ass around but he slammed into a wall instead, so I was good with that sort of instant karma. It’s not even so much the little ones falling in front of you as it is the freaked out people trying NOT to run them over and THEY don’t look where they’re going, nearly taking you down.
It was fun. I like to dance/skate, and we had a good laugh, but I think I’ll hold out for Adult night next time as I’ve heard that’s something to witness; like Soul Train on wheels with a touch of Kanye and sans the midgets.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
"Sometimes I fantasize
when the streets are cold and lonely
and the cars they burn below me,
don't these times fill your eyes?" Made of Stone - The Stone Roses
Jackson Pollock and The Stone Roses; can't think of one without the other.
I'm a diehard Roses enthusiast. That first album was true love for me.
I was just standing there on the corner of 3rd and Broadway in NYC, clutching a bag containing the toilet paper I had purchased (I just ooze glamour don't I?), when the infamous Monkey Man jumped out of a cab and straight to me.
He smiled and said "Hullo".
I nearly dropped dead. I suppose if I would've actually done so, and my head splattered in a nice Pollock pattern, maybe he'd have taken it as a sign to reunite with the other talents that made my coming up years that much more meaningful.
How do you come together for such a masterpiece and then let it all go to shit? How do you touch upon something that brings so many to awe and then just smack it away like a loathsome mosquito?
I could ask Pollock the same, I suppose, were he here.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
You know you robbed me of my sight, and light is what I fear
I tell you that I can not see but you persist in showing me
those bangles that I paid for long ago
And though my face is smiling I'm really feeling low
and though you say you're with me I know that it's not so”
Salad Days - Procol Harum
Compression, depression, repression, -essions suck, man.
In order for others to hear the music I write on my MAC, it gets compressed into an mp3. For some reason when I do that, it seems what I wrote is slowing up in tempo. The compression is not translating properly, so now I have to bear that in mind and re-record the entirety of what took days to get into place at a faster tempo. Compression is a drag, but a necessary one.
Repression of how you really feel makes you smaller and slower too. It leads to depression, or maybe that’s what’s left after you exploded what you repressed, I don’t know anymore.
* * * * * *
I had a strange dream last night where I was arguing in support of Paul McCartney being just as meaningful as John Lennon in the songwriting department. I don’t know who I was arguing with, but their claim was that Paul was all fluff and John was about real meaning. How fucking retarded. I believe I've heard such ridiculousness in my waking life (Waking Life - great film), and probably got sucked into it with whomever started up such stupidity, but how odd to dream of such subject matter.
“Let It Be” was not fluff and it ripped off a song that wasn’t either - Procol Harum’s “Salad Days” which is awesome (yeah they had more than “Whiter Shade of Pale”, I can prove it), and Paul clearly agreed. At least one would think since he pinched the keyboard transitions.
“Hey Jude” was no puff piece either, and really, doesn’t it all depend on your definition of what is “meaningful”? Is it so only if you spark a revolution of sorts or can it be one love song that defined the shape of your favorite memory? Depends where ya are in life. On your deathbed you won’t give a fuck about gurus and governments, but the face that once looked at you with the utmost of affection will be the place your mind will want to take its last vacation. The silly love song is the fastest route to these memories, not some thematic, junkie rantings with kickass guitar solos. Those have their places, yeah, but again, it depends where ya are in life (smokey bars after you've just been dumped notwithstanding).
Feeling terrible about something doesn’t make it any more full of meaning than feeling good about it does. Emos everywhere will disagree, but why trouble them with such thoughts when they probably have some rather important self-cutting to do?
* * * * * *
Sunday, April 19, 2009
“She's my best friend, certainly not the average girl
She's my best friend, understands me when I'm fallin down, down, down
Oh it hurts to be that way, down, down, down
Oh it hurts to know that that kind of fellah is a newspaper Joe
Dropped his teeth on the floor, caught his hand in the door
Guess that's the way that things go
If you want to see me, sorry but I'm not around
If you want to be me, turn around I'm by the window where the light is”
She’s My Best Friend - The Velvet Underground
Damn I love the Velvet Underground! I so love my Bestie too.
We were texting most of Friday, as we do (you can hear her texting me on my “harp” video heh), and I pressed the button to open my cd/dvd thingy on my IMAC. I had forgotten that I turned it a bit earlier, and the tray jutted out and pushed a glass of Pepsi into my lap and onto some music equipment that was at my feet.
I texted her what had happened and she got right back with “Suicidal Tendencies”.
THAT is why I love her!
(For those of you that I don’t love, there is a song called “Institutionalized” by Suicidal Tendencies where this guy is screaming “All I wanted was a Pepsi, and she wouldn’t give it to me!” It’s a staple MUST KNOW if you’ve ever brushed up against the notion of “punk rock” or even slightly considered jumping into a mosh pit. I still fantasize that PepsiCo gets a sense of humor and uses it in an ad one day.)
If I could find the male version of my bestie, I might reconsider my stance on marriage (if they made it contractual and renewable or non so that you have a yearly “out” clause). Seriously though, she digs a dude that is so much like me, it’s almost creepy (even his astrology is the same as mine, but we don‘t look alike other than the fact that we’re both shorties), so it made me start thinking I need to find one like her.
We met because she approached me, which is odd because she is epically shy, but I must say I prefer to be approached and pursued by the penile members of society instead of the other way around. Looks wise, well, people practically will break their own necks to look at her, but I could handle a guy of slightly lesser quality with exceptions, of course. They have to be thin, take care of themselves, and fashionable (but not label conscious) like her though, heheh.
Other things about her that I’d love to find under a male head of hair is her sense of humor - she so knows how to play off of mine, and even though she’s rather quiet, once in a while she has some zingers. She’s not jealous, she’s super affectionate, and she likes to DANCE. Dancing is a deal breaker FO SHO. People that don’t dance but still have fully functioning limbs creep me out and will never be allowed to see me naked (this goes for Republicans as well, shivers).
She is bi-petual and by that I mean that she likes and has both dogs and cats. I think it’s odd to only dig one or the other - why can’t you like both the Beatles and The Stones (Stan and Mickey are not allowed to answer that question!)?
She’s good at what she does professionally. She does hair and I’m serious when I tell you my one friend was starting to look like a sweaty child molester until she changed his look. Now the chicks are a-flockin’.
I was private about my music till months after we were hanging out, and when she heard my stuff, she became my biggest fan and supporter. She’s genuine and earthy, but also shows no shame in having a belching session with me (her rum and cokes give her an advantage, but if I have some pop, I can take burping to a face changing level).
I think I am about ready to find someone and stick with them for a long while. It helps to have the qualities you want clear though doesn’t it? I mean, there are other things I want that I don’t know if my bestie has, like they have to rock in bed, a place where selfishness is not allowed. I have to be able to fall asleep with them too. That’s one of my weirdest flaws is that I can’t sleep with someone else in my bed. Scarily enough, the only guy I’ve ever ACTUALLY fell asleep with was the stalker (yes I need professional help).
My bestie doesn’t rely on me for her happiness, she doesn’t judge me, and she’s honest. I’m so lucky to even have a friend like her that it almost seems greedy to expect to find the guy model.
She does have a brother, though that somehow feels a little too much like incest.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Above: Lady GaGa show in Tampa, Florida - taken with my camera by a tall person.
“They won't see us waving from such great
Heights, 'come down now,' they'll say
But everything looks perfect from far away,
'come down now,' but we'll stay…” Such Great Heights - Postal Service
As a rule, I won’t pay to go to concerts where the performer finds back up dancers to be a necessity. I still haven’t violated that rule, but I did attend Lady GaGa’s gig last night. Yes, she had her “crew”, but I didn’t pay, so all is still right in my world of music snobbery.
HAD I paid, I would’ve been soooooooooo pissed because I couldn’t see a damn thing. Were I wheelchair bound, I would be accommodated in places that there was a view, but since I’m just a bit shy of 5’3, my eye line was armpits and elbows (poke her face?). Especially at a GaGa show where the fans emulate her wears in the giant tranny shoe department.
After ½ hour of tippytoe trying, my brain bore the whim to start the “S.H.A.W.T.A.Y. Coalition”.
At “general admission” seating, I think the floor should be divided into halves; the left side sectioned by heights and the right can be how things are now - anything goes, first come, first serve.
Section one on the left will be for 5’4 and under, Section 2 for 5’8 and under, and backed by Section 3 for 5’11 and under. 5’4 and unders will be permitted in all sections since they don’t obstruct the view, and Section 2’s can go in 3, but not 1. Yeah security will have its hands full, but fuck it! My shorty cash is just as good as height blessed money; I should be allowed at least a glance of what I pay for no?
I think the reason why there were so many tall humans at the show is because Shawtays have just given up altogether and quit buying tickets. The general admission concert has evolved into a heightist event that even the promoters couldn’t witness (their short asses were behind me).
When my tall bestie tried to lift me for a peek, security was on us like I had just tried to behead someone. Of course, they were nowhere to be seen when a gigantic, fucking beast unnecessarily crashed into me, bending back my pinky fingernail, which exploded my drink upon my velvet and the pissy queen next to me.
Oh yeah, I lost my shit on him, but he just stood there, blank. He was bartending later at the after party, but I still had fun in between moments of fantasizing about his grizzly death, and giving him the stink eye. I don’t love easily, but hate and I get pretty cozy at the smallest of prompting.
I hope fire ants colonize his penis with a fervor never before seen by human eyes.
I hope his bones turn against him and jump out through his skin only to beat his remaining flesh into an unrecognizable goo.
I really should’ve just sold my ticket for $200 and attended the after festivities - it was an option. At any rate, if you are 6 ft and over, GaGa puts on a good show - I’ve heard.
Friday, April 3, 2009
“Sometimes all I need is the air that I breathe” Air That I Breathe - The Hollies
Yikes, last night was weird.
I met up with my friends for drinks and to shake our bones to some tunes, but all day I had this feeling of dread. Just like something wasn’t right or like how you feel if you’re in trouble, or someone is being insincere… something, though I couldn’t put my finger (or thumb) on it. Not that applying an appendage onto an issue ever remedied it or made it any less real - I digress.
Someone my crew all thought was gay lunged at me while I was talking about sewing my outfit. I wasn’t scantily clad (see above) or flirtatious in any way, I mean, he’s cute and stuff, but EW. That’s so not cool to begin with, but as he attempted to smash his face into mine, his breath nearly brought me to suicide. NASTY like what I imagine an anchovy’s ass to reek like.
Diverting his attention elsewhere (by screaming “NO get off me!”), I wriggled away and ran to the nearest car wash and then had a chemical peel, followed by seven hundred courses of Tic Tacs.
After making an appointment to get a face transplant, I became engaged in a low key discussion about Russian literature with someone else who also had death breath.
Both of these guys were drinking beer, a beverage I’ve never been really fond of as it makes men eventually get breasty and pregnant looking (it is highly estrogenic btw), but lately I’ve been noticing it really kills your exhale in an almost ambitious manner.
Maybe it’s time to double up that swill with flavors like how they’ve gone and perverted vodka. Cinnabeer? Winterbeer? Spearabeer? Strawbeery? Citrabeer? Beernilla? Beerchouli?
Something must be done, and soon! Pew!
I don’t have an addiction, but maybe a predilection to games. I love word games of any kind (I’m ¼ geek on my mom’s side), and I have to make sure that with all that’s available to me online, to curb myself a bit.
Boggle is the one I mostly have a penchant for. I know, lame right? Just the same, each place I’ve found online has a different allowance of words that I’ve found quite entertaining.
The one I play on the most does not count “Zen” as a word, but it readily accepts “clit”, “cum”, and “cunt”.
Best of Bee Gees
By The Bee Gees
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I bought a HARP! No not that kind of harp, a Jaw Harp, or what’s more commonly known as a “Jew’s Harp”.
According to Jewish Law, I’ve been told I’m a Jew (my mom‘s mom‘s mom was Jewish and converted to hide her identity - the rest of her family stood their ground and got shot to death so I‘d be inclined to go all Jesus freak if my options were that lame) but I was raised Baptist and once I hit the teens, I put in my application for Agnosticism and was immediately welcomed into the freethinking fold. Luckily, you can play the Jew’s Harp regardless of your belief system, or lack thereof (thank gawd right?).
You probably associate the sound of this harp with frogs hopping on cartoons. I tried playing it on some of the stuff I‘m working on, but it doesn’t quite mesh. I had a good laugh all the same.
Oh yeah and I just found out I’m pregnant.
Happy first day of the fourth month of the year (April Fools - I’m so not carrying a demon in my pouch).
Monday, March 30, 2009
They call me Stacey
They call me Her
They call me Jane, that’s not my name” That’s Not My Name - The Ting Tings
My real names (first and last) have been massacred beyond recognition, so I have my own meanings hinged on “That’s Not My Name”. Yeesh, I sure do miss dating Euro trash, as you only have to tell them your name once. They take pronunciation as seriously as Americans take their junk food (we have coalitions even just for Miracle Whip). Here in the US I’ve given up on my names. When introduced, I tell people what I’m called, because before when I would give the real moniker, they just stared blankly waiting for other options anyways. They simply don’t even try anymore.
My real name is Nastaosyhjhneioahiahygyijikejlm, so I don’t see what the big deal is, but whatev, dolphins can say it and that’s all that really matters.
Ting One and Ting Two, aka Jules and Katie, are The Ting Tings. They hail from northern England, where everyone is over them, but we here in Florida still like to shake our things to the Tings.
Jules has a condition where he gets epileptic types of seizures, so the band requests small venues where they can somewhat control the gigs. In preventing the attacks there is no smoking, flash photography, strobe lights, or ugly people permitted so I and my ten friends basically had the place to ourselves. Ooooh I kid about the ugly people. They were in full force as usual and I love them for it.
The crowd was in full on dance mode from the second the Tings and their devices were audible until they eventually evaporated into the Florida humidity. The sound was perfect and the band did not disappoint.
I didn’t have high expectations since they only have one album out, and they are a mere two piece, but I really enjoyed the show.
My only gripe was ticket prices being a tad steep for such a short set. Cover songs are not the evil they’re made out to be when in need of a time stretch and I would’ve loved to have seen what they would’ve selected to interpret for us. Other than that, they rocked and so did the after party (maybe a little too hard heh).
The video I took has shit sound quality, but it’s got O’Brian (my friend in the red tee) rockin’ out, heheheh, so that makes up for it.
(I suggest you press "play" and then "pause" quickly so that the video loads all the way. Then press "play" and you might avoid the skips or whatever happens once it's youtubed.)