Le maudit Mo D.

Baby, you're beautiful

At least once a day I read the Salsa Bowl Excavatum forums. This has become a heady substitute for my usual doomsday intake of the lefty blogs, which I like to call The Bad News. Addictive, isn't it, to watch the land of the free turn to shit? Bad times! So instead of reading about the decay of the USA, I instead read other people's post-salsa bowl surgery horror stories. Sure, there's pain, more pain, excruciating pain, pain while laughing, pain while coughing, the pain that is vomiting and the pain that is vomit landing in your incision, but even more painful to me are these people, most often than not boys/males, who are borderline suicidal and utterly destroyed over having a little freakin' dent in their chest!

Hey! Look at me! I've got a damn SWIMMING POOL between my tits and you don't see me threatening to jump in front of a bus! Of course, I am not culturally required to go shirtless. But even in situations of a gropy nature that demanded the removal of my shirt, I was never embarrassed to have my pawprint paramours see the damn thing. I gave fair warning: I have a freaky congenital chest wall deformity, but please, help yourself to my breasts!

I'm shaped like the letter S. I have a large, pointy nose. A pot belly. Hyperextendable joints (good times!). And still, I say, I am beautiful! Or at least presentable. The ladies on the salsa bowl forum are the brave ones. The boys are the snivelly, self-conscious ones. Men are so weak.

I have a new friend who is basically a teenage girl trapped in a 40-something year old man's body. He's the new Geegster musician. I am fascinated by his unabashed use of emotional language. He loves us! No really! He hearts and flowers loves the Geegsters, but not in a creepy I want-to-get-with-you-way, no really! And he's straight. He sent us a love note, impossibly mushy, but constructive about performing with us at the same time, but still, could have very easily been written on notebook paper and pushed through the slots of a locker door. I don't think I've ever met a man like this before, and I am willing to bet that while he probably does not have curlicue girl handwriting, deep in his soul are puffy markers dying to make their mark in our collective Geegster yearbook.

There needs to be more mushy men, I say! That, in my opinion, is not weak.

I am currently cramping and listening to fey love music by S. Merritt. I am channelling my younger, better self, and my G-d, she's beautiful.

Here is me, portraying a toilet

Yes, I am a toilet. A toilet that is a pipeline to hell.

Anyone here lose their shit right before getting married?

I've been in a spell like FUCK the last few weeks. Like, all my shit just decided to ascend to the top and is fighting for space at the top of the cup. Fighting brutally. I am accustomed to having my shit collected, like in neat plastic bags, with ties. This is not the current state of things.

Most of this is therapy fodder, which shall not be discussed herein. But I am feeling very broken right now, and it is causing me to not like things, people, and places. I am thinking of ditching my job early and spending a few days up in Noho to clear my head. Maybe I need to visit my past before I can face my future. I feel like I left something there and maybe I need it back. Like my old drawings, which just might still be in the carport at my old FloHo apartment.

Perhaps I shall take alcohol.

Underworld

Geegsters Boys of Summer #4 (the last one): UNDERWORLD: The Musical
SHIRLEY (Arthur) and MO'S CHARACTER (a surly old man) shovel apples in Hell. They also dig holes. SHIRLEY particularly loves holes. We sing a song about why we're in hell and how we died.

SUSANNA (Shana) and MARGARET (Andrea) plan a getaway in Vermont and stay at Angela's B&B. What they don't know is that ANGELA (Kacey) works for the devil and that the TOILET (Me, yes I played the toilet) is a portal to the underworld. SUSANNA sits down to pee and gets sucked down to Hell!

But HELL is not a horrible place. In fact, SUSANNA is greeted with a song and dance number called WELCOME TO HELL! SUSANNA wants to get back to Vermont, where MARGARET, who is now scared of the toilet, is looking for her.

SUSANNA sings a song about having to go to the bathroom that went something like GOTTAGOTALEETAGOTTAGO. It was yodelly and got a big ol' applause.

Eventually, SUSANNA crawls back out the toilet, and she and MARGARET take over the B&B and make it less scary!

YAY! We got a f-ing STANDING OVATION! That is the first time we've ever gotten one, and the first time I've ever seen that at an improv show at the Hideout.

Whee!@

He's So Gay

My baby bro is here for his birthday, which was yesterday. He is currently occupying our single bathroom. He does this: he takes a long time in the bathroom. Though I love the bathroom with all my heart, I tend not to occupy it for longer than it takes for me to, say, brush my teeth, shower, take a dump, etc. But not the 15-year-old diva dressed by Hot Topic that is currently styling his carefully straightened locks.

We had party last night in honor of his birthday, and in honor of our new 100% cedar deck, which is a dead sexy piece of wood, and numerous people (esp. the present Smithies) came up to me and said, "OMG, Mo, you're brother is SO GAY." His response to a dead cockroach in the kitchen, its lifeless body lying flipped over in front of the sink, resulted in a broken pint glass when, in an attempt to not get anywhere near the roach corpse, he THREW THE GLASS into the sink. In a fashion more girly than me. I mean, I had a suspicion the kid was queer, but come on.

GAY. I have put a time limit on his amount of bathroom time. We only have one mirror in the house. We discourage over-attentiveness to appearance here.

And the amount of styling product he brought. And he also brought a sweater to Austin. What the hell?

The party was a lot of fun, though everyone stood in the backyard huddled around the the bug zapper. As it got later into the night, buffalo-sized insects met their makers with a thunderous ZAPPING noise. Following their demise, liquid would dribble down and in one case, actual smoke billowed from the bug's zorched exoskeleton. Sam's new best friend is Jacqui S. '05, and I am happy about that.

DID YOU KNOW THAT THE US DEPT OF AGRICULTURE MAINTAINS A GRADUATE SCHOOL? I didn't. I am thinking of taking their "Basic Indexing" correspondence course, which will entitle me to work as a freelance book indexer. Though I am not so hot on archiving, I do love hierarchies and subject headings, and this will allow me to carry the freak flag of libraries while working independently and with literature. And make some money. Perhaps on the side. Career opportunities ahoy.

Li'l Lizard

We have a little green lizard running about our house. I am not opposed to this; I just don't want to find a little green lizard corpse adjacent to my foodstuffs down the line. I tried to catch him in order to put him outside. Those buggers are fast though, and so shocked and creeped I was when I finally did manage to grab hold of his determined, wriggling little body that I dropped him, and off underneath the appliances he went. I will admit, I do have an unfair size advantage over him, but really, all the good eating and other lizard friends are outside! Being cold blooded means that outside temperatures are meaningless!

I got a phone message from Dr. F, foremost pectus surgeon in our fair country. I sent him tapes of my CT scan, a screenshot of which can be seen on my Flickr page. This is a man who's been studying pecti for 35 years and has done over 1000 surgeries, and guess who is among his top 1% of severe salsa bowl champs? MOI! I'm the best! I have the deepest, scariest bowl known to American modern medicine! He's surprised I'm as healthy as I am. He said I must be in excellent shape. Uh, not really, but I do breathe every day. I should be getting a detailed report on my pectus from him tomorrow. Dude. I'm so deep.

What Was I Thinking, pt. I

And now I reconsider things I liked/hated in the past.

Case study #1: The Afghan Whigs

I distinctly remember the first issue of Bitch magazine I ever picked up. It was 1998. There was an article on how sexist the Afghan Whigs were. Dulli's enormous metaphorical and actual cock being served up on a paper plate to hungry she-dogs set to a rippin' indie rock beat was actually among my favorite music during my hyperfeminist dykorific days at the Smiff College. I'd get home from a Women's Studies class and pop this in the CD player:

Ladies, let me tell you about myself
I got a dick for a brain
And my brain is gonna sell my ass to you
Now I'm OK, but in time I'll find I'm stuck
'Cause she wants love, and I still want to fuck

And I thought nothing of it! NOTHING! Now, of course, I'm older, I'm more aware of the sinister nuances, of the harsh impulses of unbridled sexuality (uh...), of men who hate women and want to fuck them until it comes out the backside. But back then, it was purely entertainment.

I was so out of touch with my sexuality then it wasn't funny. Strangely, I was in touch with everyone else's sexuality. It was being pummeled in my face, privileged, preferred, catered to, a topic of academic and intimate discussion. How my wilted flower got lost in the hothouse is beyond me. I prefer not to think about it. Too painful. During college, sex was for other people, a fact that was confirmed every day by the queer community who used college money and meeting space to expound upon this, and the icky pearls-and-tea crowd who smugly blew Dartmouth guys in their parlors. If you were neither, you were nothing.

For us in-between girls, the only outlet, besides the gentle hum of dashing Spaniard El Vibrador (vee-bra-DOR), was music and film. Safely inside the ivy covered walls we could obsess over cute indie boys, listening to indie pop and thinking about (or actually) kissing Calvin J. I watched every Hal Hartley movie with the quirky/sexy actor Martin Donovan in it a million times. Especially Surviving Desire. Martin driving around Poughkeepsie with his head hanging out the car window like a dog. Hot fucking Tuna.

I admit, I still like the Afghan Whigs. I giggle when Dulli lets one of those dicky lines rip like he's some tacky latter-day Neil Diamond. The beats are raw. But damnit, he's no sexual substitute, even for girls who haven't yet learned that nobody's sex is as important as your own.

Much Fun Yes

Papa Bear's porridge is getting cold. I made a lovely dinner of chicken and pasta, with homemade sauce, and Papa Bear is still wrasslin' at the kampground with Baroness von Computerina at his work. I am fixin' to go eat by myself for the second time today. Sad! At least I got to eat with people yesterday and the day before.

In the 1960s, Naugahyde Co. gave away a wacky monster doll called a Nauga with every sofa purchase. The Nauga comes with a story: the little monsters Nauga shed their skins (humanely and peacefully) in order to be turned into comfy, soil-resistant furniture. Isn't that an adorable tale for the kiddies? Original Naugas go for around $200 on eBay, but the Naugahyde USA company still sells them for the remarkably low price of just $30. Here's a link! They are cute. And monstery. And because of Sesame Street, I find monsters very comforting.

Due to extensive flooding in Houston, I did not return the controversial brassieres today.

The smear, she was hilarious

Geegsters Round Three, Boys of Summer: "Outer Space: The Musical!" Starring Craigy!

The Croatian space program, an utter failure, sends a final astronaut into space. Zafar? I can't remember this name, played by KACEY. Zafar meets purple alien Annaleia, played by SHANA. I don't remember so much about this story line.

Gloria (me) and Jack (Craig) are on their honeymoon to the real moon. Jack is angry about this expensive, uncomfortable undertaking. Jack reconsiders his commitment to Gloria.

Or Orvil (Andrea) is the head of the Croatian space program. There is no water in outer space! Everyone is dry and thirsty! We do two songs about water! The best song about water is the second one, after Craig has become soaked with sweat and every motion and word out of his mouth comes with a Gallagher-like spray, singing about how he's got spigots on his hips. He leaves a giant visible sweat smear on the back wall of the stage during the height of the song.

The three story lines collide, water is found my me (Ozarka delivers to outer space). Gloria and Jack find happiness and satisfaction in marriage. We reprise a song. Yippee.

I painted my toenails pink and, my G-d, I have the most gorgeous feet ever. I am enjoying my footly narcissism.

Boobs Not Dead

In early May, I ordered some bras from an online custom brassiere maker. For years, I had hoped and dreamed that I would some day find a custom bramaker to make me some bras that fit. Well, six weeks after I carefully measured my boobs over the phone with a sales associate, I got two bras in the mail, neither of which fits me in any way. They are ridiculous! My boobs don't even go into the cups, which are retardedly small, the circumference is too small. I told them I wanted a daily wear bra and they sent me this ridiculous push-up number that might have fit me when I was thirteen but sure as fuck doesn't now!

I'm ANGRY!

I'm also DISAPPOINTED!

My FEELINGS HURT.

OW!

Maybe Bob and I will go out for an ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT SHRIMP BUFFET. Did you know there is only one SIZZLER(TM) RESTAURANT in all of Texas? And it is not in Austin.

Bob and I recently had a laugh about SIZZLER. Sizzler=comedy gold, but probably only if you're from California, where the surf-and-turf chain reigns supreme over Fresno local HAPPY STEAK. HAPPY STEAK had a perky yellow sign.

Tomorrow night is the third installment of the BOYZ OF SUMMER series presented by your friendly hometown Geegsters. Visit our site to find out more.

So nice to see you!

I saw Doug.

I asked a question, which he called "a great question."

He shook my hand.

He said my name.

We talked about the Souvenir of Canada movie (not still playing in TO in August) and about his stuff being archived (UBC approached him, he said). And he laughed when I told him archiving seemed like an anti-Doug thing to do, since why should he care what people in the future care for him when he's a thing of the past.

And he shook my hand again. And said my name again.

And that was that.

:)

Line My Eyes and Call Me Pretty

Geegster report: Boys of Summer, Episode Dos

"Good Feelings! King Putt: The Musical"

TED was our guest boy. He played generic everyman UNCLE MAX, who my character, GENERIC SINGLE MOM, had a brief fling with, until it got cancelled by TED. Kacey played my daughter, STACY, who was hell-bent to give everyone in her path a fashion makeover. Over yonder on an organic farm, DARRELL (Andrea) and SAMANTHA (Shana) were trying to live off the grid but forgot to pack food and apparently it takes a long time before crops actually grow, so SAMANTHA was very hungry and crawled all the way to King Putt, a mini-golf course, where she also got a makeover.

UNCLE MAX, GENERIC MOM and STACY got into a fight about the Max/Mom relationship, and MOM retaliated through conservative dress, a motif which climaxed at a shop called TODAY'S CHRISTIAN WOMAN, where were performed a scary Christian fashion show. To music. In the end DARRELL and SAMANTHA give it another go on the organic farm. Reprise of "Good Feelings!" Whee!

Currently listening to college-era sex anthem "Laid" by James, ergo the title of this entry.

Two days until DOUG!

I'm a striver and a believer

My one goal for the summer (other than avoiding heat stroke and having a minimum of inconveniences on the flight to Halifax) is to avoid, at all costs, sandal strap tanning on my feet. The distinctive pattern of Piper Sandals was burned into my feet well into the autumn (or the local ersatz facsimile). Nothing wrong with that, but this year, I want to maintain beautiful pure alabaster feet. I have lovely feet. I invite all nonpervs to enjoy their beauty. They are dainty and functional, though growing veinier. I am getting veiny in my old age, which is thirty.

I just downloaded a different version of Decomp. Trees by G500, different from the On Fire album cut. A little less anthemy and steamy. Okay, the outtro is taking me home here. Okay. Keep it up, Dean... Yeah.

Woman on Man Improv Violence!

My very first magazine cover photo and article can be viewed here:
www.dtweekend.com
For the next week.

Damn, it's awesome.

Zesty Chesty

For all you salsa bowl fans out there, I have published my staggeringly severe-looking CT scans of el bowlo on my Flickr site.http://www.flickr.com/photos/mocakesandfrosting/162156392/
is your passport to X-TREME PECTUS PICS! They are really X-TREME.

Currently listening to "Scarlet Pussy" by Prince (it's his birthday!).

Bob and I christened the deck (non-sexually) this evening. I, of course, got pooped on by a bird. On my right foot. Bird poop is hot when it touches your skin. And it had a twig in it.

We lounged in the presence of nature, atop the lovely and expertly-stained cedar deck. I managed to get black pen ink on my shirt, because I am dorkus majorkus salsa bowl champion.

All this thought of pectus makes me sad. Hopefully, my X-TREME MEGA IMPROV WEEKEND will make me happier.

America After Masturbation

Americablorg is running a campaign to question the personal morals of the members of Congress who support a constitutional amendment to define marriage as one man/one woman. Aravosis believes that the gay marriage ban is just the beginning of the government's interference into the sex lives of American adults, and that Scalia has stated that he believes that such acts as masturbation should be made illegal. Which brings the question obvious to wankers and diddlers everywhere: how are you going to regulate masturbation? You can't enforce that type of law without a rather twisted enforcement infrastructure:

1) Raiding and shutting down venerable wanker-supply businesses such as Toys in Babeland, Forbidden Fruit, and Good Vibrations; seizure of records of who ordered what and when (oops! I'm on that list!) and with what credit card and to what address.

2) Internet providers hand over info to the Feds detailing who has been downloading too many Lindsey Lohan movie stills.

3) Acrimonious college roommates turning each other in to the authorities based on bogus eyewitness accounts.

4) Labels on porno films: WARNING! DO NOT HANDLE GENITALIA WHILE WATCHING THIS FILM.

5) Specially trained canines sniffing out trash bins for soiled tissues.

6) Personal lubricants only sold to married people at special government-run lube shops. Halliburton named the only legal supplier of petroleum-based, condom eroding industrial lubricants. People forced to score Astroglide on the black market.

7) Spike in homicides, other violent crimes, and arranged marriages.

8) Moralistic anti-masturbation crusaders promoting expensive and cleverly-edited "Hands Off The Merchandise!" PSAs, special chemicals snuck into lotions designed to stain hands if they come in contact with semen.

9) Horny Americans crossing the border to partake in prostitutes and semi-private service station washrooms.

10) Nighttime raids on teenage boys bedrooms.

11) A gaggle of ironic SNL sketches about what happens after you get caught masturbating by the police.

D. Rumsfeld's Queer Prison Gang

The Geegsters sang a song in rehearsal tonight with the above title, which was then reprised later as "D. Rumsfeld's Super Awesome Gang." The Boys of Summer thing is turning out to be a crapload of fun. We were also lead in a gospel song by guest boy Ted, which was HILARIOUS.

Sadly, we bid farewell and so long to our gal Geester Caitlin. She's off to NYC to do great things for urban youths.

Last night's show was COURTYARD: The Musical, which ended up taking place in Rome. I played the young bride VERONICA, who is seeking her sperm-donor father before she gets married. Zinger line of the night: "I don't like sex. It's too bumpy." Jeremy played three or four male parts, including my muscle-obsessed husband-to-be AND sperm donor dad/philosopher VINCINI.

Bob is all decked out, still.

Visceral Sexual Religious Reverent

Two events in my life that I cannot describe adequately without using terminology that is generally considered to be related to sex and religion:

1) The Geegsters had one of the most fun and productive rehearsals in recent memory and I am attributing it to the presence of a new trial musician guy who played peppy, upbeat songs, and basically just got it, the whole musical improviser thing, in a way that made me feel like the GGG's previous musician was THAT RELATIONSHIP with THAT GUY that you didn't realize was a sucky lay until you did it with someone else and saw G-d. This could probably be interpreted as "mean," but I haven't felt freshly fucked metaphorically like that in a long time. Maybe not since I was actually post-coital. Not that the rehearsal was, by any means, sexual or sexy. I'm just feeling really clean and new and free and excited about the Geegsters in a way that I haven't in a long time. Whee!

2) I hope not to offend Bob with this, but the upcoming visit to our dear burg by my earthbound savior Douglas C. means something religious to me, and I demand that it get the reverence I require, and that means not being around when I get my book signed so I get 100% control of my 38 second conversation with the man. Yeah, it's fun and funny when I'm being the Fake Canadian, but it's horrifying and cringeworthy to mention that whole thing in front of the Uber Real Canadian. This is holy and private, and I know in a way it's retarded because it's just a booksigning, but any deviation from my version of reverence on this matter is going to fucking send me sky high in anger and resentment, so it is best not to test those waters, eh?

SEX AND RELIGION! I've been thinking a lot about DC lately and about how I probably feel about him the way the evangelical girls feel about Jesus, only without that saving thing. I don't expected to be saved by anyone but myself and maybe the Coast Guard in my life. The onus is all on me, and being nice to kittens and badmouthing others isn't going to buy me squat in the cosmos, but as far as the Dougman is concerned, I think about specific lines he has written and how I have incorporated them into my daily life. I don't think I noticed how ass American chocolate is (like Hershey's--bleeech!) until I read his line about how American chocolate bars are like "[a] log in the toilet." Canadian chocolate, without the creepy presence of HFCS, is richer, milkier, and far more delicious than it's American log counterpart.

Yeah, he's just a guy, but hey, SO WAS JESUS. So there. I think it's okay to look to books for guidance and answers. And it's even better if the authors of said books are still living.

Bob's heels hurt like hell, he says.

I was just gunning for Bob's post-work attention, but right now he just wants to be with the deck. I feel like a toddler sometimes. I am young and I like attention. I experienced some seriously lean years in the attention department, so I wag my tail like a puppy when Bob comes home from work, hoping he'll scratch my ears.

THIS ENTRY CONFIRMS that I am currently full of conflicting joy and sadness.

We're seeing "An Inconvenient Truth" tonight, like all good lefties should.