Boys who are a little TOO good looking, if you catch my drift
I'd forgotten to mention another newish gay friend of mine, a dapper little chap named RC:
RC is Tardist's cat. I'm pretty sure if my cats saw him, there'd be much whispering behind paws, with faint mutterings of "Dude! Wobbles got a nose job!"
RC was so shy when I first saw him that he would go insane trying to escape if Tardist held him and brought him over to me. Just the other day, I didn't see him, so I called his name at the top of the basement stairs, not especially hopeful. A few seconds later, his whiskered face appeared, peeping around a corner, and then he bounded up the steps toward me, expecting me to pet him while he had some lunch. Nice to know I haven't lost my touch with the gay feline population.
And while I'm at it, I can't leave out my resident gay boy either:
Friday is available for all social functions, including the Annual Monkey Rug-a-Thon.
This afternoon, I transported several thousand dollars' worth of artwork to a gallery. See, that sounds more Important than "I dropped off a couple of paintings downtown for my brother today." This also means I get to attend the opening reception this weekend, where I will drink wine (and will do my best to refrain from filling my pockets with cheese) and mingle with people who know a whole lot more about art than I do. Hopefully, I'll get to talk to Tardist's and my art teacher, some thirty years later; I will still call him "Mr. Michmerhuizen" unless he strongly insists otherwise (I'm just weird that way with teachers - even after becoming an instructor at the same institution, it always felt disrespectful to me to call my former profs by their first names).
It had somehow escaped my attention that this week is Coast Guard Festival, which is the closest to full-town hysterics that Grand Haven comes every year. The fireworks on the Fourth of July are a token display here; they save the best of the Boom Booms for this first week in August. Coast Guard Festival is whatcha call a Big Hairy Deal around here, always has been, and downtown GH was bustling with revelers, celebrating all that watery and boatish stuff. My parents always hated Coast Guard Festival, because of all the traffic clusterfuck, but for the kids, it was the week we waited for all summer. Several blocks on the waterfront were always shut down so that a carnival could be erected there, and its call to the children of Grand Haven would drown out that pussified Pied Piper any day of the week. I lived for that midway, and would visit as many days out of the week as I possibly could, even on days when I didn't have any money to spend; there was just something about the cheesy rides and the crappy games, the sights and sounds and smells of the carnival, that was intoxicating to me. In fact, it still is, and I try not to let a summer go by without at least one nighttime stroll through a fully lit midway.
With that in mind, I left the art gallery and headed down toward the waterfront, the better to get my first glimpse of Grand Haven's annual carnival in over twenty years. It was only a few blocks to Harbor Drive, and I found myself eager to get there and have a look at the stage dressing for so many pleasant dramas of my youth. So why wasn't I smelling cotton candy and popcorn yet?
A parking lot. My carnival had been condensed, like milk in a fucking can, and deposited in a parking lot. Harbor Drive was fully open to traffic, and there were four or five rides, no games, no awful food, just the rides crammed together in the parking lot next to Porto Bello. My disappointment hit the perfectly manicured sidewalk and sounded just like a thousand Tupperware lids snapping shut on a thousand childhood memories.
I might still make a half-hearted foray into town at night for some pictures of all those rides lit up; my ulterior motives might include dinner at one of the restaurants downtown where I can get something other than fish and chips (that was for dinner today, and my tummy is not well pleased with me). My carnival may have shrunk to pocket size, but my appetite has not.
When I die, I'm convinced there will be a mile-long nighttime midway waiting to greet me. Until then, I guess I'll settle for Carnival Lite.
I got fucked in the ass yesterday, and all you got was this lousy post.
Sorry to those of you who are now actively engaged in a mental play-by-play of the rectal rumba, but I'm bein' figurative-like. Metaphorical, if you will. No anuses were harmed in the course of my day.
My car's been making a rattling noise that just didn't feel like it could be a good thing, so I took it to the auto shop Monday. Lucky me, they found all kinds of reasons for the rattling, none of them in my favor. So I took it back in Tuesday morning and they commenced to perform open-hood surgery. Extensive, expensive surgery, surgery which included the application of suction to my wallet. I'm pretty certain my car knows it was paid off within the last six months.
Did I also mention that I haven't slept properly for a couple of days? See, I don't normally drink caffeine, so when I do have some, a little goes a long way. Monday night, I was out driving and decided to grab something to drink. One of those Monster energy drinks caught my eye, and I thought I would have that for a change, and maybe stay up and paint for a little while.
I didn't get to sleep until after 5 a.m., and then I had to get up at 8 so I'd be ready to take the car to the shop. Also, I can tell you from personal experience that jittery hands are not your best friend when holding a paintbrush and attempting to lay out some righteous detail work. Luckily, I was able to go to Squirl's and sleep for a couple more hours while my car was under the wrench. But now it's 4:30 a.m. and I haven't been able to get to sleep, well, unless you count that 15 minutes where I drifted off and then lurched immediately back into consciousness when Friday attacked my foot.
If you'd like to know what the inside of my head feels like right now, I can only explain it in video form:
Friday night's Zappa Plays Zappa concert in Chicago was proof positive that the apple fell right smack under the tree.
Dweezil Zappa has put together a magnificent band for his tribute to the breathtaking array of compositions that are the legacy of his late father, Frank. I had no idea ZPZ even existed on their last tour until it was too late; when I heard about this year's tour, I snapped up tickets for Tardist and me to attend the Chicago show.
You have to understand that I started hearing heavy doses of Frank Zappa's music when I was in early grade school, due to my older siblings' intense love of his albums (especially Tardist, who was helpfully out of the house enough for me to sneak into his room and listen to FZ for hours on his kick-ass stereo system). Tardist saw FZ live six times, three times for me. I gave the man my lightly worn underpants, fer chrissake. Frank Zappa is a bit of an idol for Tardist and me.
After seeing Dweezil's wildly talented group of musicians, joined by illustrious FZ alum Ray White, Tardist and I agreed that this was easily as good as any band we'd ever seen assembled by FZ. Special mention must be made of Sheila Gonzales, who just killed on keyboards, vocals (she sang lead on Dirty Love and she ruled!), sax, and flute; during her solo in Dupree's Paradise (all the band members were showcased during this), she played two saxophones at once, which brought the house down. And a nice house it was - the Civic Opera House is gorgeous and the acoustics are perfect.
There was a large screen hanging over the stage, and for a handful of songs, video of Frank performing songs was projected while the band accompanied him. You have to understand, the elder Zappa recorded everything, and did it well enough that video like this could be used with only selective musical tracks coming through. At first I thought they had just isolated Frank's vocals and lead guitar, and then I realized that it was actually Dweezil playing his dad's solos, so perfectly that I really thought it was from the video. When they did their first video "duet" (Black Napkins), I have to admit that a few tears spilled out of me, completely without my authorization; it was just that touching, and just that good.
The band played for THREE HOURS. The only break was for less than five minutes before they came out for an encore. And Ray White, who must be in his 60s, was at the top of his game vocally (he was in FZ's band all three times I saw them), and looks great! Of course, with Ray there, and being in Chicago, you know they had to do Illinois Enema Bandit, and they most certainly did! After the show, we saw Ray out in front of the venue signing autographs. I had just flipped open my phone to snap a picture when he said he had to go back inside, so I got neither a picture nor an autograph. But it was still cool enough to tell you about it. :)
I'm posting a setlist that I copied from the message board at zappa.com, but have added my own corrections. All I can say is, if you are a Frank Zappa fan, grab a ticket to see Dweezil and friends before this tour is all done.
7.30 pm) Echidna's Arf My Guitar Wants to Kill Your Mama Dirty Love Black Napkins* Son of Suzy Creamcheese> Brown Shoes> America Drinks and Goes Home City of Tiny Lights> (Ray White joined the stage at City, and played on most of the following songs) Pygmy Twilight> Montana*> Cheepnis Advance Romance> Carolina Hardcore Ecstasy> Dumb All Over*> What's New In Baltimore Dupree's Paradise> (snippets during the individual solos included: Heavy Duty Judy, Ride My Face To Chicago (Ray's lyric solo, done in a gorgeous gospel style), and Packard Goose) Uncle Remus> Willie the Pimp Joe's Garage> Wind Up Workin' at a Gas Station> San Ber'dino Illinois Enema Bandit Wild Love> Yo Mama (10.08 pm)
Encore: Cosmic Debris*> Muffin Man*> G Spot Tornado (10.28 pm)
In about seven hours, I'll be on a Chicago-bound Amtrak, barreling toward my fourth concert in as many weeks. Tardist is accompanying/putting up with me, that we may see Zappa Plays Zappa, Dweezil Zappa's tribute to his daddy, Frank. Since I won't be back with updates until at least Saturday night, I thought the least I could do would be to share some videos that will make you wish you'd just gone ahead and jabbed your eyes out with that little silver crab fork at Red Lobster last week.
Carmen Miranda...bizarre as always.
Electric Six "Gay Bar"...will you ever look at a five-dollar bill the same way again?
Bobby and Cissy on Lawrence Welk...hard to say which triggers the acid flashback first, the dance itself or the outfits.
In my last post, I wrote about accidentally embarrassing myself; this post is all about purposely embarrassing myself.
While looking for something else (I'm a little vague on the details, but I think it takes 4 "D" batteries and shoots canned milk), I ran across my yearbooks from junior high school. I never got any high school yearbooks, so my snapshots of classmates long forgotten stop at 1980. These books are treasure troves of every wrong fashion choice that could possibly be made, and that's just my pictures!
Here's my 7th grade picture, from the 1977-78 school year. I remember it well because I'd forgotten that it was picture day. When my friend came over to ride to school with me, she reminded me, in front of my mom, that it was picture day, and why didn't I change out of that ratty striped t-shirt that made me look like a convict?
Rebel without a wardrobe.
The bitch of it is, of all three pictures, that one is my favorite. What, you figured they would get better each year, as I came closer to womanhood? Sure, sure...about as close to womanhood as Dennis Rodman.
Want more proof? Here's 8th grade, from 1978-79:
Who could resist? Sign here.
But Katy, I can almost hear you say, surely by 9th grade, you had a better handle on what would make you more attractive, right?
Not that I enjoy contradicting you, lovely Internet as a Whole, but...WRONG!
Exhibit C: 9th grade, 1979-80:
What, I repeat what the fuck was that hair supposed to be doing? Not quite a mullet, not quite a Muppet. How in the name of sweet Jesus swandiving Christ did I ever lose my virginity with that hairdo and those glasses?
Looks just like the type to grow up to be one of those skeevy bloggers, huh?
Although I have no clear idea what I've done to create this impression, I get the notion that some people think I'm...special. Not Hallmark special, but helmet-and-drool-cup special. Point, stare, and whisper special.
The people who live right behind me are on that list now, I'm pretty sure.
When I paint, I plug my iPod into that little jukebox dealio with the disco lights on it and let my paintbrush shake its groove thang to the impressively loud music that comes out of those tiny speakers. It's kind of a trancelike state for me, when the painting and the music are working together just right, but instead of speaking in tongues, I often realize after the fact that I've been singing along with the music at the top of my lungs. Because I can probably find plenty of other ways to antagonize my neighbors, I make sure that my windows are shut when I'm in painting, or I at least close my paint studio/bedroom door. My bedroom is in the back of the house, with only the master bath behind it.
Saturday, it was a little chilly, so I had the windows closed for a change. I went about my painting as usual, with a new playlist going, and actually started consciously singing along. There were about four songs in a row that are more or less in my range, and I was having at it with great gusto. I even tried out a relatively new song for me, one that requires a bit of stretching, a little jumping through hoops vocally on my part. I'm gettin' there, but it's not quite perfect. But since I was closed in the house all by myself, I figured that was exactly the time to belt it out, kinks or no.
Then I realized why it was still so chilly.
Around the end of the newish song's last chorus, it dawned on me that I'd left the window open in the bathroom, right behind me. Granted, it's a teeny, itty bitty window, maybe big enough to facilitate the escape of your illicit lover, if he or she is a toy poodle, but still - it's big enough for my bellowing to carry quite clearly. The neighbor's house is not all that far past that window.
Maybe I'll leave a package of earplugs on their porch.
You know, normally I would be all over Friday the 13th like an Irishman on a potato spiked with whiskey. And I am going to take this opportunity to publish cat pictures. So there, haters!
Friday is stunning in red, even if he is colorblind.
Thirteen in his natural habitat - chaos.
Also, I saw another excellent concert Wednesday night in Grand Rapids. When I heard that G Love and Special Sauce would be at the Intersection, there was no hesitation on my part that I would be going; I've wanted to see G Love perform for years and have always missed my chance for one reason or another.
The show did not disappoint in the least. G Love (I don't know what to call him - G? Mr. Love?) is an engaging entertainer and, I must say, HOT in his black pinstriped suit, in every sense of the word. Even hotter in person than in his pictures.
It's hard to know how serious a venue's "no cameras" policy is, so since it was my first time at the Intersection, I left my Kodak at home and just stuck to the cameraphone. Turns out I needn't have worried; there were plenty of point-and-shoot cameras being held aloft with no repercussions. Oh, well. At least I know for next time.
I happened to wander over to a small group by his tour bus after the show about a minute before he came strolling around the corner of the bus and began to sign autographs. I hadn't thought to bring anything of worth along to have signed, because I am retarded, but I'd grabbed one of the small show flyers from the lobby on my way out, so I had him sign it and he was super sweet. It's a black on mostly black autograph, but fuck it - it's still cool.
However, all of these things are overshadowed for me at the moment by the fact that a close friend is going through something really awful right now. I feel terrible for my friend, terrible that I can't be there to offer comfort and strength in person, and terrible for what's going on because it's to do with something very close to my heart also. I'm sorry I can't be more specific about it, but it's not really my business to do that. So, if you have any very non-specific prayers for my friend, I think we'd all appreciate it!
UPDATE: She's posted about what's happening, so if you would like to know more than my vagueness, and want to offer your support directly, you can read the story here.
Sorry, I missed my Monday post. Because I know all of you were just clamoring for it. Truthfully, I couldn't put two coherent thoughts together with nails and Krazy Glue right now, so how 'bout some brain ping pong?
Do you know how hard it is to find a good, satisfying vomit video on YouTube? It's amazing how many clips out there have the keyword "vomit" attached, yet feature absolutely no barfing (Tardist can back me up on this one). In my day, we called that "false advertising."
My upper back feels like somebody buried a hatchet diagonally between my shoulder blades. I don't think there's a hatchet in there, but you know how hard it is to see your own back in the mirror. So, if you happen to be missing a hatchet, please come see me.
Or maybe it's a sign: I'm to be the next lead singer of Molly Hatchet! I have flirted with enough disaster in my life to qualify.
How young must you be not to recognize this TV commercial reference? "Pretty sneaky, sis." (I'm guessing this was probably just an American thing.)
People are trying to give me cats and I'm not doing a good job resisting. Somebody needs to slap the livin' shit outta me.
I now have in my possession a...a...a...PEE WEE HERMAN POSEABLE ACTION FIGURE! Oh, and much, much more. There will be a pictorial, a glorious and explicit one, in the very near future. This, my friends, is exactly why I bought a macro lens. *sigh*
Okay, it's three in the morning, and even though I have not been drinking, not a drop, I'm still pretty punchy.
Having a great time this week, not getting myself lost in Grand Rapids or anything, which is a minor miracle for me. Recall that I can get (and have gotten) lost in Linden, Michigan, which is slightly larger in area than a yoga mat. So I'm fairly proud of myself at this point (and tomorrow will be the day I make the wrong turn and end up in Kalamazoo or something).
Went to see Tool tonight...well, technically, last night. Before midnight and all. The band put on a killer, killer show! They were super tight, the sound mix was perfect and crisp, and the visual spectacle was really top drawer. They had film and images being projected onstage behind the band through the whole show, and lead singer Maynard Keenan contorting himself in silhouette against the brightly colored, pulsating backdrop was absolutely glorious. Dude's got hisself a heap o' stage presence.
Cameraphone shot - they were pretty strict about the "no cameras" thing.
We're having a great visit (there's been delicious sushi, sinful ice cream, and a fantastic concert; not too shabby so far). If we catch a break and there's a day that's not too oppressively hot, we might take a stroll through the zoo; otherwise, we'll just hang out in air conditioned places and hatch evil plots.
I am now dragging my punchy ass off to bed. Everybody have a groovy weekend!
It used to be that people found my site with nice, ordinary searches like "labia" and "photoshop jizz" and the ever-popular "kielbasa queen" variations. My little world was in just the position I preferred, prone and unsuspecting, and my keel was as even as a keel gets on somebody like me.
But lately, I've been increasingly alarmed to see just how many surfers and seekers are showing up at the Cotillion in the midst of their quest for the Bay City Rollers. I see lots and lots and lots of this, every day, people from all over the globe coming to see me while looking for pictures of the spiky-haired Scottish lads who named their peppy band after a city in Michigan. It's not like I've ever even owned any of the Rollers' albums, or was ever particularly a fan. Their search results stem from an off-hand comment I made about singer Jamie Cullum in this post.
I kinda feel bad for these folks who click on my link, expecting to see something about their favorite 1970s guilty pleasure, and instead finding the virtual crib of a semi-literate and barely sentient font of vulgarity. It's almost tempting to change my masthead to something featuring the boys in the Rollers, just to give these folks hope for another second before they plunge into the taste-forsaken abyss of my words and images.
Oh, and for everyone else: labia, labia, labia, deepthroat kielbasa queen, painting with jizz, toothbrush enema, guinea pig in the vagina, fisting mimes, jaws of life on my nipples, poop.