I'm punchy, I'm tired, I'm in my bathrobe...that's always a dangerous combination. Work is ramping up for perhaps our most hectic (scheduled) time of the year for my division. Christmas is usually an incidental blur for us. This picture is a fair representation of how my nerves feel right now:
Click on pic and view large in Flickr to truly appreciate the brain damage.
I anticipate a lot of very long shifts in the next month, which can mean one of two things for the Cotillion: it will either inspire me to the most brilliant writing of my life, or you will scratch your heads for several weeks at my incoherent postings. Either way, I shall endeavor to torment you with the same regularity to which you have become accustomed. Just promise me that if I surface with a desparate plea for crab legs, someone will find a way to smuggle them to me. Same goes for margaritas, tranquilizer darts, and Massengill.
Now, on to tonight's business: It has come to my attention that people are finding their way to my humbly odiferous Cotillion tonight looking for a "deranged person" and/or "fucking nut job" because somebody identified me as such with links. But now that you've found your way here, I hate to dash your expectations like retarded seagulls against the rocks. So here you go:
It's one of those days where inspiration is harder to grasp than a greasy weasel. The best thing for those situations is to randomly grab one of my old notebooks, and marvel at how very disturbed I was, even in my early 20s.
An excerpt dated 9-19-87:
There's a spirit standing around the corner (I like to call him "Ghost") and he's always pointing his finger at me (he wears white gloves).
The silent diatribe that Roscoe delivered with one single glancing blow from his half-lidded eyes was all but ignored by the hovering handi-nurse in her irritatingly efficient white smock, with her lips puckered in readiness to kiss any bruises that might require such attention.
Wow. Whatever the fuck that meant. Back away slowly and smile, I'm usually harmless.
Even more than my, ah, interesting prose, this particular notebook, dated 9-12-87 through 6-1-88, is a veritable goldmine of tasteless drawings. This will require multiple posts, because there are just too many to dump on you all at once. There's even one I've found that's so bad I won't show it here; let's just say that one of the talk bubbles reads: Oh Cornelius...it must be love! You make my stumps bleed!
Here are some details from a page dated 9-12-87:
Kinda looks like that 10 gauge needle that went through my nipple.
Slap this man at your own risk.
I may have mentioned here at some time or another that I tend to draw huge schlongs when I'm cartooning. Freud wouldn't have to dig too deep on this stuff, know what I'm sayin'? Still, this one, undated but likely from late September, 1987, makes me wonder what the hell I was sniffin' when I took up the pen that day:
You think it can't get any more disgusting and bizarre than that? Ahem! Dost thou remember wherefore art thou? And this is only today's installment.
For my favorite of the day, even though the name on the whale's tattoo is spelled incorrectly, I give you this full-page entry from 9-18-87 (if you want to see it larger, click to see it in Flickr):
Again, and that means not for the first time, I have to ask myself why my parents didn't hold me in the baptismal font a little longer...
Oh, but wait. There will be more. I will not be stopped. Well, not without a court order.
It's rainy and gloomy and chilly here, and all I want is some chicken rice soup and somebody to wash my hair in really, really hot water for me. Is that too big a dream? I guess I'd even settle for the hair dryer down my pants for a while.
I did indeed see RENT this weekend, and I really liked it, and I'm sure I will see it a few more times while it's on the big screen. That said, though, I found myself missing things from the stage show (I've seen it live three times), like the "No room at the Holiday Inn, oh no/And it's beginning to snow" type stuff, and songs like Happy New Year. I understand that stage and screen are two completely different ways of tellin' the same story, and I also understand that the damn movie was already long enough at 135 minutes. And if you wanna put a not-so-fine point on it, there are things in the plot that can really be picked apart. But what the fuck - it's a musical, and I love the songs in it, and the moviemakers will get more of my money before all's said and done (and danced and sung). And I will definitely instigate mooing in the theatre next time. It needs to be done. My favorite part of the movie: the tango fantasy that accompanies The Tango Maureen.
I'm currently reading To Kill a Mockingbird, which I'm loving, and really diggin' Harper Lee's writing style. I can't believe I never had to read this in school at any point. If you haven't read it, I recommend it. Hey, isn't my word as good as Oprah's?
It's sad to say, but I do have favorite TV commercials. My current favorite is one for Comcast high-speed internet, where a long-haired guy is webcamming himself air drumming and lipsyncing to some song that sounds like an '80s hair band, and then he just has a delightfully ridiculous total body spaz on the final drum flourish. The tagline is, "Ruin your reputation four times faster with Comcast high-speed internet!" I always have to stop whatever I'm doin' and watch this guy.
There oughta be a law against holiday weekends ending. I don't think I need to elaborate to win wide public approval for that notion.
Songs I can't stop playin' right now: Get Your Way by Jamie Cullum, Everybody Scream by Rob Zombie, Goody Two Shoes by Adam Ant, Music is the Victim by Scissor Sisters, and Today 4 U from Rent.
I may go a-tradin' Homies at the laundromat tomorrow night. Wish me luck.
This post could only be dorkier if I brought Captain and Tennille or They Might Be Giants into the conversation. Happy to oblige. Certain individuals who comment here launched a thinly veiled attack on the Captain and Tennille and I'm just here to say: I see you. Bucky is watching. So knock it off or I'll send Neil Sedaka to your house.
This is the sound of me spinning my wheels in inspirational quicksand. Good night.
After your response to my last two posts, I think I can safely say that you guys think boobs are mighty funny, or at least interesting enough to talk about. So I wondered...could I milk boobs for a third post? Could I do so without running the risk of virtually thrown tomatoes and a digital crook pulling me backstage?
Well, I'm willing to try my luck. Here's my first teddy bear...the way he, I mean she, always felt on the inside. A teddy bear's dreams actualized. What could be wrong about that?
This ain't no teddy bears' picnic
Join me next time when we shall examine the psychology of fart jokes. I understand that I must keep things highly intellectual here, lest I disappoint those of you who come here for the cerebral stimulation. Strictly highbrow here, folks.
Since some of you *coughGreatwhitebear and Spikey1cough* needed visuals to fully understand the complexities of my attempted and failed nipple piercings, I have graciously provided illustrations of the salient points here. Note: these graphics are not suitable for anyone past the mental age of 12 years old.
Here's me with my pre-pierced, unadorned, virginal breasts. Okay, so I might have taken a little artistic license with the size of my boobs. Well, too fuckin' bad. That's why this is the Bucky Four-Eyes Cotillion, and not the Court of Public Opinion About My Exaggerated Tits Cotillion.
The first piece of jewelry? The one that was obviously too small for my mighty nipple? Here's a couple of mugshots (jugshots?) to show you how it fit me. It's just like a nipple in bondage, boy...
Here's about how the 10-gauge needle looked as he steered it toward my nipple (which may or may not have been silently screaming): It really did feel like a nip-kebob.
Sure, the "little people" have to wait until December 25 to get their stockings filled, but not this nearly blind bat, nosireebub. Christmas can bite me, I got myself a shitload of presents in the last week.
I know what you're sayin' before you even say it: "Bucky, shame on you! It's not nice to dis Christmas, and if you buy it for yourself, you really haven't experienced the joy of giving, have you?"
Yeah, but I sure as hell experienced the bliss of receiving. I received, from myself, a few CDs this week. Just small tokens of my gratitude, for all the understanding I give myself, not to mention all the sexual favors. I never tell me "no", never claim to myself that I have a headache, and never bitch and say "You only love me for the nookie!" when I give myself Victoria's Secret lingerie as gifts.
So, as my reward for bein' such a good sport (note: I don't mean this about myself, but when a guy says a girl is a "good sport" it generally means that she gives head without any required kissing beforehand, and will swallow without much prompting), I purchased a number of CDs that I had either wanted for a while, or which just caught my eye while shopping. Now in my possession, and being added to the neverending collection, are:
RENT movie soundtrack. Because it's different from the original Broadway cast recording. And because I am obsessed with RENT.
Kate Bush - Aerial. This is Kate's first new CD in 13 years, and is a two-disk set. The first disk is poppier tunes, and the second disk is more classical/concept. I haven't heard it enough to give an opinion on it, but it didn't jump out and make me love it on the first couple of listens. We shall see...and hear.
White Stripes - Get Behind Me Satan. I've had possession of a few songs from this CD, and I liked 'em so much it seemed criminal not to have the rest of the album. Plus, the cover art kicks ass.
Susan Tedeschi - Hope and Desire. Susan has put down her guitar and her songwriter's mantle to make an album of covers which makes her voice the center of focus. As always, I love her vocals. Truthfully, though, I miss the rockin' blues that she strutted out on Just Won't Burn and then withdrew just as quickly with her next album. Rock out, Susan, puh-leeeeeze!
Jamie Cullum - Catching Tales. I've raved about Jamie Cullum since I happened up his previous CD, Twentysomething. I haven't heard this album enough to be absolutely in love with it yet, but I know it's a good sign that I can't stop repeating the opening track, Get Your Way. "What game shall we play today?/How about the one where you don't get your way." Jazzy/Funky/Cheeky, thy name is Cullum.
Ah, but those aren't the CDs I wanna talk about here. There's one more in this new stack that, frankly, gave me more than I paid for. While perusing the miles of aisles in the Circuit City CD department, I happened upon a disk with a purple checked cover and the irresistible moniker Monster '80s.
I had no idea that just lookin' at the back of this CD would trigger the small wave of nostalgia I felt as I looked at the cracked case (it was the only one, and I bought the damaged goods with great cheerfulness) and saw the song lineup:
Hazy Shade of Winter - Bangles
Dancing With Myself - Billy Idol
Take On Me - a-ha
Hungry Like the Wolf - Duran Duran
Do You Really Want to Hurt Me - Culture Club
Who Can It Be Now? - Men at Work
Stray Cat Strut - Stray Cats
Sunglasses at Night - Corey Hart
Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield
Goody Two Shoes - Adam Ant
If This Is It - Huey Lewis and the News
Der Kommissar - After the Fire
Broken Wings - Mr. Mister
She Blinded Me With Science - Thomas Dolby
Too Shy - Kajagoogoo
Mickey - Toni Basil
True - Spandau Ballet
My hair started to crimp itself as I looked at the back of the CD. Of course, I bought it. Not every song means something to me, but the ones that do jab me in my waxy yellow nostaligia buildup made a huge impression on me.
I was never a huge Rick Springfield fan, but hearing Jessie's Girl makes me think of the night I went to prom with Rico, and they had all kinds of activities lined up for us all night, including a screening of Rick Springfield's movie Hard to Hold. Of course, we skipped the movie and the putt putt golf in favor of "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but I'm enthusiastic" teenage sex.
Sunglasses at Night. Little did I know that this song would be prophetic for me. Oh, how I remember Corey Hart's MTV-edited angst. *sigh* I never knew this song would be the anthem for my migraines.
Then there was Culture Club and Do You Really Want to Hurt Me. This was back in the days when we used to have (serious!) conversations like, "Do you think Boy George is gay?" "No, he's not gay, no way." "Well, he sure acts gay." "Oh, sure, and next you'll tell me George Michael is gay. "
Bring on the Stray Cats! Brian Setzer only gets cooler with age, and his tattoos actually get more awesome as they fade. It's a phenomenon peculiar to Mr. Setzer. I used to get really, really mad when people would hear my song Groovy Guys and say, "Hey, that sounds like Stray Cat Strut!" But you know what? It kind of does, at least the intro.
One of my high school friends, Delayne, was very into new music, and would constantly run around quoting the B-52s and the Talking Heads. She was also a huge fan of Adam Ant, and she would tease me constantly with Goody Two Shoes' refrain of "Don't drink, don't smoke - what do you do?" All of this was completely absurd, of course, as I definitely did drink and did smoke. It was more a question of what I didn't do. You may not believe this, but once upon a time, I had an innocent face.
If you happened to be one of my bar buddies when I worked at 7-Eleven, then you know that I had a ritual. After we left (were kicked out of) the bar at closing time, we'd have breakfast at the Capitol coney island, which, bless them, stays open 24 hours a day. At the time, they had the little doohickies (the scientific name) at the table where you could trigger the jukebox without leaving your pancakes. I would always get to the table doohickie first, and it would have been a major incident if I hadn't been able to play Der Kommissar every single time. It was my birthright. And now whenever I hear that song, I immediately feel drunk and crave french toast.
And finally, She Blinded Me With Science. Has there ever been a better song? I shall answer that before you have a chance - NO! SBMWS is THE best song, ever. Ever. See? More danceable music for the girl who can't dance. But I can yell out "SCIENCE!" with the best of 'em. I also like to sub "hatpins" for "science" and sing, "She blinded ME, with HATPINS!" Oh, you'd best believe I can entertain myself for hours with that shit. "Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto - you're BEAUtiful!"
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to make my bangs higher, higher, higher!
Imagine my delight to receive a mailbox full of homemade banana bread from Torrie yesterday! I have not yet shared with anyone, and can be found crammin' my face full and chanting what might or might not be: "Mine! Mine! Alllll mine! I'm a HAPpy miser!" Thanks, Torrie!
Clearly, the banana bread has rendered me even more deranged than I already was.
It almost makes up for the bit of injury I did to myself yesterday morning. Upon awakening, my first action was to swing my legs out of bed and smash my right foot against the closet door frame at top speed, resulting in a blizzard of shooting stars that were born in my toes. As far as I can remember, the first words out of my mouth were "Fuuuuuuuuuck, fuck fuck fuck owowowowowowowwwwwwwww fuuuuuuuuuck!" as I hobbled to the bathroom in an attempt to prevent adding insult to injury.
In the interest of full disclosure, I bring you another in my ongoing series of self-injury photographs. Let's call this one "Exhibit A":
Look at that...the bruise on my toe is in the shape of the Dumbass Nebula.
I'm starting to think that covering my body in bubble wrap might not be such a bad idea after all.
So...Kristine said we couldn't use our kids for this one, which is good, because I wouldn't even know where to start lookin' for the little fuckers, and she said we couldn't use our pets, because obviously Kristine hates animals.
I had to use the thing that was next in line for nearest and dearest to my heart: TOYS!
This is a teddy bear which I believe I received for my first Christmas (that's 1965, for you historians). He has no eyes anymore, and I'm pretty sure he had a music box surgically removed from his tummy at one time, but this stitched-up little fella goes where I go.
Of course, I knew Kristine wouldn't be satisfied until I whipped out my TCHOTCHKES. I think it's no secret 'round these parts that I like to spend more time than is healthy posing and photographing my Homies, Gumby, etc. Dammit, I'm not hurting anybody! Stop lookin' at me like that...
I will need more than one toy in the future.
Like a virgin...touched for the very first...BWAHAHAHAHAHA, oh, I can't even type that with a straight face.
Who knows? I may need to learn DVDA in the future. This beats the hell out of having one's ducks in a row, don'tcha think?
I took this picture last June in Grand Rapids, and I have to say, I find it every bit as disturbing now as I found it then.
I call it Creepy Hugging Babies. Sorry, but if I put art in my house, it won't be something that looks like a bare-assed mutant baby with its head on backward.
Tonight I was pretty whipped after work - oh, not like that. Do you think I'd be complaining? No, I was simply exhausted, and at my age, there is no shame in admitting surrender to a nap. It was 5:30 when I got horizontal, and I set myself a 7:30 alarm.
At 6:20 my eyes popped open, I looked at the clock, and I freaked the fuck out. Of course, I thought it was 6:20 a.m., and since my work day begins at 7 a.m., I was just a little panicked. And panic combined with sudden awakening from a deep sleep is a sure-fire recipe for that confused, gelatinous, struggling-out-of-the-quicksand feeling, where reality is elastic and just out of reach. My sequence of thoughts went something like:
Oh fuck, I'm late, I need to get up, shut off the alarm, hey, why is the PM dot showing? Did I set it wrong? Was my alarm set for AM? No, it's set for PM too. I'm still so late! Fuck fuck fuck...
I was takin' a nap, huh?
That was bad enough, and it took me a few minutes to get back to sleep after the adrenaline had started to flow. Can you imagine if I'd looked up in my panic and seen that freaky baby statue?
It often amuses me that I'm such a fan of danceable music, especially funk, yet I couldn't dance my way out of a wet paper bag with a map and foot diagrams. When I tell people this, they invariably say, "Oh, of course you can dance; everybody can dance. You just have to relax and throw yourself into it."
Sure, that would be nice. I've always been envious of people who can dance, even the people who don't do it well. It looks like a lot of fun. It's not that I've never tried - fuck, I even earned myself a nickname for my beer-fueled dancefloor antics.
But for those of you who don't believe me, I offer shocking photographic evidence of my complete lack of the dance gene. I'm told these shots are a thumb-jerk away from being Elaine on Seinfeld. This ain't gonna be pretty.
Mrtl's Motif Monday this week was about Your First Kiss. I lamented elsewhere that my first kiss wasn't memorable enough to warrant prose or poetry, and Susie suggested that perhaps I should instead write about the last kiss I had. This devolved into an email discussion wherein she suggested that I start a post in the format of the venerable Penthouse Forum, and let you, the sick fuckers who read this stuff every day, help me to finish the story.
What? I can have you guys do my work for me? And you'll totally giggle and keep coming back?
I like it.
So, here's how it's gonna be: I start the story. You guys comment to tell me what else you think happened. It need not be linear, in case you're posting on top of each other (kin-kay!), so let the imagination go and the juices flow. Polish the candlestick and wax that monkey, we're goin' deep now...
Throbbing Train and the Crystal Cave
My heart had pounded in my chest like a drunk pounds with both fists on the locked doors of the beer cooler at 4 a.m. in Michigan, beat hard and fast inside my heaving bosom as I once again read the letter from Fernando:
My dearest Rosetta,
Take these train tickets, and run to me, as fast as your size 9 feet in strappy pumps will take you down the aisles of the train. If you stand closer to the front of the train, you will be here sooner, before the fire in my loins turns to embers and then to smokey grey soot.
Get over here, bitch.
With deepest respect and a boner that will put your eye out,
Well, what girl wouldn't be thrilled to receive a missive like that? Also in the envelope was a train ticket, and a pair of stained boxers that had been folded 16 times; Fernando knew that made me weak in the knees.
He was to be my first, Fernando. Well, except for Roberto and Julio, then there was Rodolfo, and that little - and I do mean "little" - incident with Renaldo. But with Fernando, it was real.
Wait! This sounds more like a bodice-exploding romance novel than Penthouse Forum, doesn't it? Time to turn it up a notch.
My fire-engine red push-up bra was a sharp breath from spillin' the precious cargo as I boarded the train in a wafer-thin peignoir and black fuck-me pumps. I got the lay of the land...no, I was the lay of the land.
No, no, that's too hard-boiled detective novel. One more chance to channel Guccione's contributors:
The only seat that was left empty on the train just happened to be in a car filled with gymnasts and acrobats, all dressed in royal blue spandex, their shimmering nutsacks and cameltoes making the train take on a festive air. I felt an involuntary jolt as the little man in the canoe began weeping and wailing for an oar.
Ahahahahaha, god, I can't do it! There's a reason I never wrote erotica for a living, because I laugh too much to finish it right. I didn't hold up my side of the assignment very well, did I?
Still...please leave me your comments in the format of Penthouse Forum letters*...better than mine, please. I mean, how hard can that be?
* and don't tell me you've never read Penthouse Forum unless you want me to think you're a liar, a pussy, or someone in need of corruption, stat!
Spill the beer, and dig for Earl...Tardist reacts with lightning speed.
Spent the weekend in Grand Haven, visiting my peeps. I don't really have anything exciting to report, and I don't even think I met my goal for number of times teasing Mom about her bouffant. But we did have some fun with her socks...
We also failed to watch the DVD we had of Orgazmo, though I'm sure Mom helped herself to it as soon as we were out of sight. If I hear her say anything like "I don't think I'm gonna do Hamster Style anymore" then I'll know it's true.
We did, however, manage to watch an episode of Family Guy and most of The Wizard of Oz. We always have the same conversation when we watch that movie: "Oh, I always loved that part!" "Oh, that part always scared the shit out of me!" "I always thought that shot looked so cool..."
Then on Saturday I found out what else was in the apartment: tchotchkes. Specifically, Beavis and Butthead tchotchkes. With no twinge of shame or remorse, I forcefully removed them from Tardist's grasp and ran to the dining room, my official tchotchke staging area. Breathlessly, I arranged them on a beach blanket, and hoped that love would blossom on its own from there.
I was not disappointed.
"What the fuck?" I hear you say. "Only a year into this thing and that's all she can think to write about? We demand a refund of our ticket price."
I'm sorry, but I cannot give you back the last two minutes of your life. It could always be worse, though. I could be naked and lindy hoppin'.
A year ago today, I felt the overwhelming need to tell the world that using a noun as a verb will only lead to anal sex. And for some reason, people came back.
I'm as shocked as you are that I'm still here, one year later. Last year at this time, I was still new to this whole " blogging" concept, and I was still totally floored by the idea that I could write about anything, and publish it for the world to see. Of course, I didn't expect so many earthlings to take me up on the invitation - I was so embarassed to find I didn't have enough cookies and tea for everyone. Luckily, I was able to bridge the gap with stale pizza and near beer.
I know a lot of you from the golden days of Dooce comments, but there are many more of you that have wandered over here from other places, or just at random. I'm grateful for the fact that you read my ramblings, you leave me mostly kind comments, and you continue to come back here even after I publish for days on end about urine and Homies. There are some of you I consider real friends, too, and you've shown me extraordinary kindness, understanding, and a million private jokes. I'll bet I've laughed more in the last year than I have since I was a child discovering nitrous oxide.
"Sincere" is not usually my strong suit, but I would like to thank y'all for makin' this site more than an exercise in literary masturbation. I'd still do it, probably, but it wouldn't be nearly as fun without you guys here.
CONTEST ANNOUNCEMENT: Ghost of Goldwater was the first to correctly guess that the title of my last post is, indeed, Joe Pantoliano's line from the Wachowski brothers' movie, Bound. Ghost receives 500 Bonus Bucky Points, which are good for nothing but braggin' rights in the schoolyard.
See, that's what I love about you - you're so fuckin' sensitive
Lucky. That's what you should call me. I had the opportunity to visit the laundromat two times this week. Two times! Two different laundromats!
I was actually at my regular 'mat last night, and that one happens to butt up against the back of the airport property, so there's a nice vista there for sunset viewing. I always curse myself for lack of camera, but not last night. Nope. I glanced out the window, saw the sunset, and literally RAN to my car to dig out the camera and capture some shots before it faded.
I never know exactly what the shots will look like when finished, as my shades tend to give the whole thing a fiery glow that it doesn't really possess. But I can't say I was unhappy at all when I uploaded the pictures and saw this:
That is not retouched or fiddled with in any manner. That's just the way it went down.
I was inspired to scribble down some totally heartfelt poetry to go with the smashing sunset:
When I got up off my booty I got all up in Nature's beauty Spread like melty buttah on the sky; I felt the tears roll out of me And then I realized, that's pee! Can someone bridge the river on my thigh?
Yes, I know, that's way more mush than you usually get from me. But I was inspired, man. Inspired like a hippie with a gro-light.
And just when I thought it couldn't be any more beautiful and wondrous than that, I strode into the laundromat, turned the corner, and beheld an even more primitive but splendid vision:
And the angels sang in perfect falsetto harmony...
I had nearly decimated the contents of the machine when it held Homies Series #7. My level of delight shot off the chart when I saw the new, hand-lettered sign and the full belly of the coin-operated beast. Perhaps it's best that I don't divulge just how many quarters I poured into its gullet last night. I'll save that for the photo session.
As soon as work is done today, I head over to Grand Haven to visit my family. My #1 priority? Scour the laundromats and grocery stores of Coast Guard City, in search of new and exciting Homies. Other, secondary activities planned for the weekend:
Tease Mom about her bouffant. Repeat 1567 times.
Watch General Hospital on SoapNet, every chance possible. Come on, two trains crashed in a tunnel that is now collapsing on top of every amnesiac, pregnant, gun-toting adulterer in Port Charles - how can I not repeat that drama over and over and over and over?
Insist on discussing General Hospital in depth whenever Tardist enters the room, causing him to rightly believe that all the women in his family are mentally impaired,
Sneak photographs of Squirl when she isn't looking; threaten to publish them later, thus ensuring I receive rumcake for my continued hiding of said photos.
Refer to rumcake as "cumcake" all weekend because of its magical, orgasmic properties.
Act like a total boneless idiot while walking the streets of Grand Haven, since I don't live there anymore and don't really give a rat's ass what the uptight residents might think of my shenanigans, and really, I hope it pisses 'em off, or at least confuses 'em.
Eat Mexican food at the Tip-a-Few. Feel pangs of gas and regret almost immediately.
Battle with Tardist and Squirl all weekend for the one Internet-connected computer in Mom's apartment. Plot to set them up with wireless, immediately. I will not be denied my blogging, dammit!
Celebrate my one-year blogiversary on Saturday. The blog may be hung over on Sunday.
Bonus Bucky Points if you can tell me where I got the quote that is the title of this post.
It's not too often you'll see me jump up and down with glee, like a schoolgirl with her drawers full of ball bearings, over an upcoming movie, but I'm doin' the ball-bearing dance even as I type. There are actually two flicks that have my attention, one with a definite release date, one in a distribution limbo that leaves my mouth dry and my limbs twitchy.
The cinematic experience with a mark on my calendar is the much-anticipated movie version of the musical RENT. If you don't know the music, do yourself a favor and visit the movie site, where they have a good sampling from the soundtrack available. It rocks. I would not lie to you about things that rock. It comes out November 23, and I am all over it Thanksgiving weekend.
I've always had a thing for musicals (I was obsessed with Man of La Mancha and Fiddler on the Roof when I was in grade school...shut up!), but RENT is the first musical I've seen as an adult that has had such an impact on me, emotionally and artistically. I've seen the show live three times, and I've listened to the Broadway soundtrack enough times to convince the neighbors that I'm really a percussionist drag queen. Come on, how could I not love it? It's got a guitar player, a computer geek/philosopher, an S&M stripper, bickering lesbians, the cutest li'l transvestite east of Saugatuck...what's not to dig?
They managed to get all of the original principles from the Broadway show, except for Mimi (Rosaria Dawson replaced Daphne Rubin-Vega, who was pregnant at the time the film was shot) and Joanne (Tracey Thoms replaced...um, what was her name? Okay, the CD says Fredi Walker...does anyone care?). A quick look across the hall into Arjay's office, though, reveals that I am not the only one around here who's excited about this cinematic premiere:
RENTdesktop wallpaper! Dual screens! Geek-o-rama!
Another movie that makes me pee bullets in anticipation is one that does not currently have a distributor lined up, and that is the long-awaited-and-creamed-over Strangers With Candy movie. It was a huge success when it had its premiere at Cannes, but so far, there hasn't been a domestic distributor with the balls to release it (I've heard that many cuts were required to drop this to an R rating). I hope it at least comes out on DVD, because as wrong as the TV show was, I'm sure the movie will make me cringe and dry heave in delight. For anyone unlucky enough to've missed the SWC phenomenon, I'll try to nutshell that puppy for you: SWC was a short-lived series on Comedy Central that was billed as an After-Hours After-School Special. Its heroine was Jerri Blank, a 50-something high-school dropout who's been a junkie, a hooker, and a convict, and now she wants to pick up where she left off in high school. Think extremely sick and wrong, then multiply it by 250, and you're probably still not even close to the depths to which this show would sink for my laughter. Anyone who thinks Amy Sedaris is not a comedic genius, well, I've got a grabby little pucker for your tongue.
Best exchange, ever, from the show:
Tammi Littlenut: "You're crazy." Jerri Blank: "Pee on me!"
I found some Jerri Blank wallpaper at one of the SWC tribute sites, and could not resist puttin' it on my desktop. But then I right clicked on the window that popped up when I chose "Warhol Jerri."
This speaks to me.
I've got my buttered popcorn, my trenchcoat, and a laminated banana. Who's comin' with me?
As I began to write this tale, it occurred to me that a large portion of my stories begin, "I was at the laundromat..." and this one is no different. Either all the interesting things in life happen at the laundromat, or else I spend so much time at the 'mat that I've lost perspective on what's interesting and what's just conversational smegma.
Perhaps I should preface this tale by divulging that my neighborhood suffered a power outage this afternoon. I should really be makin' better use of my time right now, cursin' the heavens in a raw, overemotional voice, since my VHS taping of General Hospital was fucked right in its convoluted ass. Yes, I said "VHS taping" - I have not yet entered the new millenium and purchased a digital video recorder yet. If you don't like it, you can bite my vericose veins.
Soap opera emergency aside, there was also the practical matter that the laundry had to be done. The laundromat that I generally use was without power, so I had to drive down the road a bit and use Pro-Clean. It had been a while since I'd been to this 'mat, I realized, and as I walked through the door I saw that they had a new vending machine, one full of Homies!
Homies, in case anyone' s memory needed refreshing.
Well, I've nearly depleted the Homies machine at my usual laundromat, and this one was nearly full. Just imagine my delight! I loaded up the washing machines, then made my way right back to the Homies, that I might add to my collection. New one! New one! Not new, but cool, and I only have one. New one! It was a Homies bonanza. In the midst of my Homies reverie, I heard someone approach me.
I glanced over to see a full-grown, adult man approach me. Of course, I froze a little, as my recent encounter with laundromat evangelists has made me wary of conversations with strangers. But when he opened his mouth to speak, it wasn't to tell me about God, and it wasn't to ask if he could fold my panties. He wanted to talk business.
"I've got my Homies here," he informed me, "so let me know if you wanna trade."
I looked where he was pointing, and sure enough, he had about 20 Homies arranged on top of a triple-load washing machine. That would be one of those moments where I wish with all my heart that I hadn't been so completely ignorant as to've left my camera at home. My eyes got all misty as I realized that, no, I am not the only adult who obsesses over these stupid plastic toys that come from laundromat vending machines. He had some Homies that were new to me, but I hadn't gotten any from the machine I wanted to trade with him. I might just have to go through the duplicates in my office and go lookin' for Mr. Homies trader next week, though.
Then I came home and found the Official Homies Website. No one can help me now. Before long, there will not be a square inch of my home or office that is not covered in these marvelously cheesy little pachucos.
Hello, my name is Katy and I'm addicted to Homies. Trade you two Mr. Frosties for a Lady Joker.
I'm contemplating gathering all my toys and figurines into one location for a huge photo session. My working title for this is "Tchotchkestock." I'll keep you up to date.
I am currently wearing a sock on my left arm.
Bet you're probably wondering about the sock.
It's covering my tattoo so's I can wear this black lacey top at work.
I think it's cutting off my circulation.
Someday, I want to have a summer home called "Thistle Dew."
If you don't get that, say it fast a few times.
My favorite exchange from Animal House: Katy: "I think I'm in love with a retard." Boon: "Is he bigger than me?"
If you could see me naked - which you can't - you'd understand that I could really, really use a boob lift. They don't need to be bigger, but they could be gathered better. But then I found out that, even with just a lift, they have to take the nipples off and re-attach them. Ummmmmm...that's kind of a deal breaker for me, the whole removal of the nipples plan. I'll stick to assistance from Vickie's.
Song I cannot stop playing today: My Sharona by The Knack. I dare you not to spaz, even just a little, when it's on at high volume. Sure, those guys were premium perverts, but hey - it was the '80s. We all were.
Artist I wish would grow his testicles back: Bob Seger. I'm sorry, Susie. I love Seger something fierce, but when I listen to anything from his last 5 albums as compared to gems from, say Mongrel or Ramblin' Gamblin' Man or Seven, I just can't see how it's the same guy. Just say "Fuck, no!" to Old Time Rock and Roll. Let me hear you belt out some Lucifer, or Heavy Music (part 1), or Schoolteacher. Let me know you still got 'em, and they're still swingin' like they used to, Bob.
Something one should never, ever say to a woman after sex: "So long, and thanks for all the fish."
I got nothin' else. After bein' sick all weekend, then workin' some fucked-up hours yesterday/last night, I'm so confused it's a wonder I remembered to put my pants on when I left the house.
Oh, wait, I didn't remember. Um...gotta go get some pants. Bye.
Hello there. We, your slow-dancing Ambassadors from space, are here to inform you that Katy cannot attend her blog tonight, as she still feels slightly on the crap heap, and she has to go into work tonight as well.
If you'd like, you may leave her a rude message pertaining to what exactly she can do with her lazy, non-blogging ass. When we have finished our romantic dance, we might even read a few and have a chuckle at the bitch's expense.
Bonus question: What song are we dancing to, and why?
Yes, indeed, I seem to've caught some charming bug or another this weekend. I felt a little crappy on Friday, then I was really out of commission hardcore yesterday, when I may have broken even my own record for number of consecutive hours spent clad in my frumpy yet irresistible bathrobe (pictured above). I hope it's not tempting fate too much to whisper that I think I feel slightly better today.
Who wants to bring me soup and heat wraps? Gummi Bears and a fresh enema kit? Fruity Pebbles and crack? I'm open to suggestion here...
Just in case you hadn't figured it out by now, I give you photographic proof that I will never get a date to the prom.
I've actually had these Babylon 5 figurines for a couple of years, but finally couldn't resist takin' 'em out of their packages. Yes, I hear you collector types howlin' in protest, but dammit, I don't wanna sell these! I don't care if they lose their sales value. If I buy toys, I should be able to play with the fuckers. Besides, these are just the little ones. I've thus far resisted the temptation to unbox the 9" action figures I also have (well, except for that one Emporer Mollari that I have out in my office, but there's a duplicate in its box still). I'm really torn on the bigger ones, but I think the little ones will keep me distracted for now.
Centauri Ambassador Londo Mollari: "What do you want, you moon-faced assassin of joy?"
Minbari Ambassador Delenn: Every man's dream - she comes with a bone in her head.
The Minbari Flying Vagina
Captain John Sheridan: "Pull my finger."
Narn Ambassador G'kar just wants to dance. Is that so wrong?
I need help. Help collecting the rest of the figurines this size. Somebody come pull me off of ebay when my eyes glaze over.
"Minding my own business" might be cliche, but it's the only possible description for what I was doin' that afternoon. My laundry was in the soak cycle, and I'd parked myself on a chair outside the laundromat to get some writing done. I keep to myself in situations like this. I really don't like it when strangers feel the need to chat me up, especially the grimy, sleazy men I see so often when I'm laundering. Yes, yes, I find you irresistable, now that you've pulled your month's worth of dirty clothes from the cab of your truck and are wearin' your least-dirty flannel shirt, and your ball cap with the sillhouette of the naked ladies on it, and your dirty fingernails that give you character. Take me now, before I melt into a large puddle of desire and somebody throws sawdust on me to absorb the moisture.
Alright, maybe I'm a little defensive about that, but one can only be gap-tooth propositioned so many times before the walls go up. Take the hint, guys: though you may find it hard to believe, I did not come to the laundromat for romance, or even to give you a blowjob in your truck. Call me old fashioned, but I really do just wanna wash my clothes and get the fuck out.
So there I was, with my clothes a-washin', my notebook in my hand, and what I like to think of as the "Don't even THINK it" expression planted on my face. There were three guys outside with me, but at first, they kept to themselves, and all was well. They were a little bit older, and two of them stood while their companion was wheelchair bound. I must have relaxed the hard-ass bitch look on my face, because after a few minutes, I noticed that the guy on wheels was inching closer to me. As he got nearer to me, I was able to size him up out the corner of my eye: the dude was pretty large, and something was definitely wrong with him, as his eyes were huge, bulging, and lookin' in two totally different directions. He had his wallet and a bottle of Sierra Mist tucked into the front of his pants, and all I could think was that I was glad I had no reason to receive any cash from him, because, well, ew.
Finally, he was close enough to talk, and I cringed inwardly as I imagined how the conversation would go. What came out of his mouth next wasn't quite what I expected, though.
"Hello, young lady," he began - the "young lady" part was not a bad start, if he'd just left it at that - "my friends and I are from _____ Baptist church in Statesboro, Georgia. We're here on a mission to help addicts." Did he think I was an addict? How could he have known? He then said, "Can I ask you a question?"
I kind of grunted, not a distinct "yes" or "no" grunt, but just an acknowedgement that he'd spoken.
"If you died today," he continued, "do you know where you would go?"
Awwwwwwww, fuck. Why didn't I see that comin'? Now, folks, don't get me wrong - I know lots and lots of very nice, rockin' people who are religious; they don't try to pull me into church, and I don't try to pull them out of church. We understand and respect one another. But nothin' will raise my hackles faster than some jackass who feels the need to chase me with a long-handled spoon and try to shove his or her deity of choice down my throat. When that person is a stranger, I find it even more offensive, presumptuous, and just plain rude. In my mind, to walk up to a stranger and ask "If you died today, do you know where you would go?" is just as uncalled for as approaching someone on the street and asking, "Do you prefer your anal sex lubricated or unlubricated?" It's not my business, and it's beyond the limits of good taste, even to somebody like me.
So, there were a lot of really cruel responses to that on the tip of my tongue, but the little shred of decency that's lodged itself in my brain where I can't quite get at it kept stoppin' me and sayin' "Hey, that guy's all fucked up and in a wheelchair. You really gonna tell him to bite your alleged scrotum?"
I answered as nicely as I could, "When I die? There will be a seafood buffet."
If it's possible, that response made his eyes bug out even a little more. I'm pretty sure that was not the answer he expected, not in the least. He sort of fumbled for words, and then all he could say was, "A seafood buffet?" His buddies had caught the conversation and were also starin' at me like I was some exotic and slightly repulsive creature that had just climbed in the back seat of their new car and taken a dump.
"Sure," I replied. "I'm confident that Jesus is savin' me some crab legs."
The three would-be convertors exchanged a look that said, "Oh, a difficult heathen."
My new friend on wheels decided to try a different direction, with no questions for my impertinent answers. He explained to me that Jesus had died on the cross for my sins (I wanted to raise my hand and explain that I had really not begun to sin quite yet when Jesus died, but he continued too quickly for me to interject), and that I needed to realize I was a sinner and give my life to Jesus, and there were only two choices for me: heaven or hell.
Finally able to get a word in edgewise, I countered, "What about purgatory?"
He looked like I'd slapped him across the face with my tits. "There's no purgatory. There's heaven everlasting, and there's hell forever."
"Well, I'm Catholic," I explained sweetly, which is true only insofar as I was raised Catholic, "and we have purgatory."
Now, in my experience, the word "Catholic" to people like this has the same effect as a holy water shower would have on a vampire. The wheelchair backed away from me almost imperceptibly, and I half expected him to make a cross with his fingers and hold it up between us for the protection of his own soul. "There's no purgatory," he repeated, clearly even more worried about the salvation of my soul than he'd been even a moment before.
At about this point, the owner of the laundromat came to my rescue and pretty much stepped in and changed the subject. That seemed like as good a time as any for me to make my escape, so I moved to my car and sat with the windows shut.
Though I'd poked a little fun at him during his spiritual shakedown, I couldn't be overtly mean to the man in the wheelchair. What I really wanted to do was to stand up and say, to all three of them, "Why does God have to be harsh and vengeful? Why couldn't Jesus have a sense of humor? I thought God loved us all. You think God can only deal in black and white, and isn't complex enough to tread grey areas, too? I think you disrespect God when you promote such a negative image. You'll be hearing from His lawyers."
But I'm perfectly content for these fellows to continue believing the way they believe; I just wish they had the same courtesy for me, or any other laundromat heathens they happen to encounter.
I recently wrote that I'd been traumatized by the movie Flashdance (and if you know what's good for you, you'll be traumatized by it, too - with plenty of alcohol involved). Nilbo commented:
"I will not abide you criticizing the off-the-shoulder sweatshirt from Flashdance. Show me you can remove your bra for me without exposing a single square inch of the good stuff, and I'll buy your argument. Till then, Flashdance will remain in my Classic Archives."
Oh, Nilbo, you don't take your own bra off very often, do you? The off-the-shoulder sweatshirt is not necessary for this operation. Watch as I release the hounds without removal of my Grand Funk t-shirt - which, for the record, is not an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt.