Saturday, April 25, 2009


You come to me at midnight and say, 'It's dark in here.'
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

All I Wanted Was A Pepsi

Above: Me (left) and my BEST Bestie at a wedding last week on St. Pete Beach.

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 breatheAir 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!

Currently listening:
Pablo Honey
By Radiohead


Its only words, and words are all I haveWords - The Bee Gees

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”.

Currently listening:
Best of Bee Gees
By The Bee Gees

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

I Bought a Harp

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).