Le maudit Mo D.

the day molly died

I was driving my Corolla between Half Price and Bookpeople contemplating my future as a writer. For most of my life, I have gotten away with being deliciously selfish, and tonight was no exception. Not finding the secret code for literary success in any fiction Bob owns (which is all nihilism and sci-fi--no thanks), I had blown off two opportunities for improv goodness to indulge my muse, feeling like an asshole and a spoiled baby, when a voice on the radio announced that Molly Ivins had died. I started crying. I usually don't cry when celebrities die, but tonight, feeling pre-menstrual and childish, I made an exception. I knew she had cancer; the circumstances weren't shocking. But as I felt the weight of this loss, the tears followed. Gravity prevailed.

I started crying harder when I remembered that Molly, like Gloria and Betty and this Thelma Golden Golden Girl I keep reading about, was one of the numerous Grand Ladies of the College whose successes were paraded around to us back in the 'Hamp who, for better or worse, inspired me to set impossibly lofty goals for myself and then run screaming from all of them. But unlike Gloria and Betty and Golden Golden, she was a true Texan and therefore real, down-to-earth and even more of an inspiration. In my youth I wanted nothing more than bricks and ivy, silver spoons cupping delicious desserts, snow and privilege and clangy radiators to keep me warm and awake at night. But I left all that for reasons I can only assume were subconscious, to move to Texas in 2000. Though I've never felt like a true Texan (I've described my regional lineage as "Calitexan Yankee"), I've always felt at home here. That said, I've often felt like I've been wasting something by being here.

I always felt cheated that Molly never spoke at Smith when I was a student there. She, if anyone, could have knocked some damn sense into us fool girls.

A few months ago I was on the phone with my mother when she let this zinger go.

"I've never told you this, but when you were younger I had your I.Q. tested, and your score was really high?"

Dare I ask, how high?

"180. But I never wanted you to know."

"Then why are you telling me now?"

I arrive at Bookpeople, mop up my tears with the sleeve of my coat, and head inside. I am intending to purchase "The Anti-9 to 5 Handbook," a recent Seal Press release, but they don't have it. Either it hasn't been released yet, or some other greedy bitches came in before me and scooped up all available copies. Whenever I am at the Peeps, I always walk through the fiction aisle trying to divine the answers to why these fucknuts got published. They are all fucknuts to me, as I am feeling particularly misanthropic tonight, and am astonished at the unfairness of everything. As I am combing through the stacks, I recall another conversation I had with my mother once, where she revealed to me that she has trouble respecting women who aren't mothers. She made an allowance for women who wanted children, but due to medical constraints, couldn't have them. I felt she was accusing me of being selfish for not wanting children, even though I know in my heart of hearts I'd be an ass mother. When I see other women oogle and coo at other people's babies, I am dumbfounded. I don't wish to do that. I thought about my medical constraint and how, should my PE surgery be successful, in two or three years I am free and clear to populate the world with my mother's grandchildren, but I won't because I mostly dislike children, though I love exceptional children. Average children irritate me. I told my mother this, and she accused me of being an elitist, which I am.

Therein my alibi: 180 IQ.

I really want this book that will help me with my career choices. I already got the marriage thing down, and might I say, SCORE, but I'm not done being mean to myself. I went to Smith, my goals are in line with their teachings, which, it is not okay to be average.

Molly was only 62, I think. That's not old. Not much older than my mom.

I wished, for a second, Molly could have been my mom. I would be better off with a feisty mom. I did not get a feisty mom. I got the opposite. Would my life be different if I had been raised to have a voice? If my mother hadn't kept my IQ test scores to herself all these years? If I had a voice like Molly's, would I have what I so desperately want in my life?

You punished me for speaking the truth. For speaking up. I was thirty years old when I finally realized this.

When I get home, my inbox is flooded with the news from the Austin Smith Club. My e-mails been acting wonky. There is also an e-mail from Val, with her notes for my novel.

I decide to cry again, and write this. Because it's all I really wanted to do tonight. And I usually get to do whatever I want.

malpractice

After at least ten weeks of nagging and begging, I got Bob to go to his GP to get a physical. The big 40 check under the hood. While I'm happy to report that Bob enjoyed his "finger up the ass" prostate check and the "grab nuts and cough" hernia exam, his doctor filled his head with utter lies and misinformation regarding one's healthful daily consumption of h2o. Bob likes to believe that 16 ounces of Mountain Dew a day is enough to keep him well-hydrated, whereas I believe that soda doesn't count towards hydration, only water and other non-sweetened beverages, and that he is doing cellular damage. Bob came out of the doctor's office like a cat with a mouthful of feathers, telling me this bullhonk that his doctor fed him. I don't care who went to med school--LIES! I don't appreciate Dr. Ridiculous telling my husband to continue his dangerous lack of water consumption.

DANGEROUS!

I revisited my norvel today. I tweaked a bit before being yelled at by the kaffeehaus management to move my orange extention cord because it's a fire hazard.

Palahniuk

I keep reminding myself, "would they have chosen a short story about a man masturbating at the bottom of a pool whose intestines get stuck to the pool pump who has to decide between dying of autoerotic asphyxiation or chewing through his rectum? Because that story got published."

It's called "Guts" and it's by Chuck Palahniuk, the man who brought us the first and second rules of Fight Club.

Dirty Dirty Mall

Sung to the tune of "Vincent (Starry Starry Night)"

Dirty Dirty Mall
Felling like I'm ten feet tall
Wishing I could kill you all
You unclean uncouth underlings who shop!

Dirty dirty mall
I love my friends, I had a ball
But never another bathroom stall
Decorated with the menses of someone else.

Okay, the mall wasn't THAT dirty. I was just shocked at how someone left a PIZZA CRUST in a dressing room, and an empty drink cup on the floor of the Dillard's shoe department. Malls have traditionally made me feel horrible about my body and have attracted people who, in my snap estimation, are not intellectual heavyweights. And I am not down with getting your newborns ears pierces at Claire's, because that shit is unsanitary. I'm sure we are all familiar with the stories of people shitting in dressing rooms. I did not encounter any fecal matter.

I acquired the best shiny satin shorts ($10 at Express), some other shiny pants, a pink shirt to wear for Geegster shows, and after all the ladies departed, I snuck into Nordstroms and bought an adorable pair of shoes. I just sat on the Nordy's sofa like a queen while a man in a suit brought me boxes and boxes. I like Nordstrom's shoe dept. Now I don't have to shop again for a long time.

Like this

This is the kind of writing I hate.

For masturbation, I prefer a sturdy and sensible Hitachi Magic Wand, not this art-school jackoff drivel. Her grandiose description of "The rain fell..." is what I expect that from a goth-leaning high school sophomore, not an author who gets reviewed in the Times. These types of standards are what has kept me out of MFA programs.

And the author photo clearly shows a woman distraught over traumatic intercourse, shunned by her lover, bloated with tears, and feigning shock that a photographer has apppeared, so she pretends to look "deep," as if she experiences life with an intensity that I cannot fathom.

Perhaps I should aim to be the Playa Hater of the literary world, although the Times reviewer gently skewered this author with great aplomb.

Fiction

I noticed today that the one of the judges of the short-story contest that I submitted to is noneother than Abe, an acquaintance of mine from the ladycollege. I like her. She is extremely talented and while she is a successful writer, I can't be jealous of her because she's a poet and I'm not, and I'm a comedian and she's not. So she ain't competition. She also works with children and the poor, and I say mean shit and work with paper. So clearly she's a better person than me.

However, with her as a judge, I don't think that my story would really appeal to her. Maybe it would. Can't speak for her. But she and her contemporaries seem to be more into the "flowy" writing that I can't get with. I feel like a failure unless I'm being funny/cheeky/witty/bitchy, but her writing (very good, btw) is very flowy, earnest, descriptive, and what you would find in those literary mags that reject my work.

Speaking of, I usually don't like other people's short stories. When I read the winners of this contest from past years, I am not all that impressed. A lot of writers just like to shoot up their work with STYLE! and not really tell a story. I think my story tells a story: an infertile couple become the parents of a laboratory-made baby who is defective and they have to decide whether or not to return her for a replacement model. Hey! I have a log line. In the end, the mother wants to keep the defective baby, the father does not, so the mother drives off into the sunset with her defective baby. Why? Because that's her kid and she loves it. We can all believe that ending even if we can't believe the story.

I have a borderline narcissistic attitude towards my writing, but I guess that's how I cope with the fear of sucking. I've really invested a lot of time and energy and EGO into the novel, so if it is a resounding failure, then I will hate myself. It's a gamble, but one I can't imagine not taking.

MEMEMEMEMEMEMEME.

Goodnight, Bowl

So, I've pretty much decided to have surgery on my pectus excavatum, aka my "bowl." For those of you who don't know what it is, or have never seen my bowl, PE is a chest wall deformity in which one's sternum bows inward. So I have a bowl in my chest. The bad thing about it is it crowds all of your vital thoracic organs (heart + lungs) to one side or the other. In my case, my heart is way to the left, where my armpit is. If I pay attention, I can feel and see it beating. Over the last two years, I've grown more symptomatic, and the thing just hurts all the time. I get phantom chest pains, I get sick a lot, and my breathing tests indicate that I breathe at 62% lung volume of a person my height/weight. I have dead cells in my left lung, my heart is enlarged, and I am tired all the time.

My whole life, this thing has restricted me. I couldn't run laps in elementary school. I was told I can't have babies. I can't find clothing that looks good on me, and I certainly can't wear cute low-cut tops.

Though I wish I had done this ten years ago, when it would have been less painful, it is not too late, and since I'm conveniently unemployed and insured, the time is nigh to get this painful shit over with. It will be painful. I am told by people who have had the surgery that "you do not know what pain is until you feel this." But, on the bright side:

cute tops!
running/jogging/exercise/sports!
better, stronger singing!
cute tops!
cleavage! (i have no cleavage to speak of)
breathing!
cute tops!
i will lose 20 or so pounds from not eating (a perk!)
cute tops!
did i mention, cute tops?

So after 3-6 months of pain, boredom, depression, and crackly bones, I will be rewarded with plungy-ass tank tops, tits that touch, a flat tummy (PE gives you a potbelly), and more stamina! I'm getting a bikini!

I suppose that's worth it, but I am still scared shitless by the surgery.

Celebrity Skin

Well, being the total bomb-ass shit is hard work, folks. Not only did the Geegsters get to perform last on a Friday night at the big ol' F-Fest, we got voted Best of the Week, so we get to perform again tomorrow night. So we have two shows back to back tomorrow night. This is the way professionals do it! SWEET.

Jules has planned out the remainder of our year. This is excellent, but it also makes me sad, since I am going to plan my surgery for late May/early June, I will be bomb-ass OUT OF COMMISH for at least three months, and that means I will be missing the all-important and very fun BOYS OF SUMMER series, though I still plan to weigh in on which Boys get to be Boys of Summer.

I think that in 2008, the Geegsters should move to Branson and get a standing gig at the Andy Williams Dinner Theater or something. We are EN FUEGO!

I think I have a serious Vitamin Water problem. I was sitting at the microfilm machine today, doing my freelance research work, and I was hit with a serious VW jones. I have never been an addictive personality. I smoked a wee bit in college and never got hooked, but damnit if my thirst demanded to be quenched only with Vitamin Water. The microfilm machine broke on the second to last reel (the reel itself is okay, but the machine has a boo-boo), so I got out a half-hour early, and my ass booked it to the campus convenience store where they have an entire fridge of Vitamin Water and I noticed a flavor I have not yet tried...DEFENSE (Raspberry-Apple C + Zinc). And wasn't DEFENSE the best thing I put in my body all day!

Curiously, since my Vitamin Water addiction started, I have not gotten sick. Bob had a cold last week which, curiously, I did not catch. My upper respiratory system LOVES an infection, so I was shocked that I didn't pick up Bob's yuck. Hmmm...could it be the prodigious amounts of VW I've been imbibing?

I bet somewhere, someone is drinking a Vitamin Water + vodka cocktail.

Answer the phone!

I'm in the midst of a one-sided war with the owner of an online custom brassiere maker who has failed to issue a $170 refund to me since last June. I've tried to be nice about it, but after seven months, all I want is for this bitch to give me my money. My inner Smiffie tells me to be kindly and handle the situation with kid gloves, since I do not want to behave in an unsupportive manner to a woman/minority owned business, but FUCK THIS THIEVING CUNT! Give me my money! I don't care how many $200 corsets you have to make for the hefty bitches of the world! This deformed customer is ANGRY! And everytime I call you, you don't answer your goddamn phone. You don't return my messages. You don't respond to my e-mails. I sent this woman a snailmail letter AND reported her ass to the Better Business Bureau, and not a peep.

I also sent my films off to the #2 pectus fixer dude a month ago. I called his office yesterday to see if he had indeed received the video tour of my thorax and letter, and his secretary said she'd follow up and get back to me today and she didn't call, and then I called her and she didn't answer the phone, so I left a message, and you know the rest. MY BOWL HURTS! What if I was post-surgical and my chest was locked up and I couldn't breathe--then what? The other doctor, who I don't think I am going to go with, as he is on the verge of retirement, was very prompt in his response. Hmmm.

Really, my bowl does hurt. It just kind of gets sore off and on.

CHZZA CHAD S? Do you read this? Chad, one of the best minds of my generation, is one of my favorite bloggers ever, and he hasn't updated the blog that I am aware of in seven months, so I am wondering if he is still sharing his loveliness over the interweb or if he's gone underground or what. Maybe he friendslocks all of his entries, and I am not a friend. I thought we were friends, or at least acquaintances. Chad was a very clean and useful houseguest of mine back in '03. If anyone knows where he is, let me know.

first draft finished

I think I finished my first draft today. For five months, that ain't bad. It's a little shorter than I want it to be. 55,000 words. I think it should be longer. That way, more can be cut. The end part was so difficult to write, I think I breezed through a lot of it, but I'll let it sit for a week and then revisit it. It definitely needs more work. Perfectly timed, I've gotten another freelance research job next week, so I can focus on that and make a little $ and let the manuscript simmer a bit.

WRITERMINS!

non-reproducing female worker bee

Coldtowne, January 20, 2007

this week in the NYTimes

"Reclaimed or antique, a stump can be used as an end table."

Yes, the Old Gray Lady is encouraging its readership to use a tree stump as chic home furnishings. You can expect to pay up to $5000 for a chic stump! Why bother going to the woods and finding a naturally-occuring stump when tony Soho boutiques are available to hook you right up. With a stump.

Fuck stumps. (I am not referring to amputee pornography, either.)

For Bob

I know we stood in front of a bunch of people at Merc Hall back in August and said things to each other, and then ate not enough barbecue and then your uncle almost killed me with his lethal polka moves, but I just want to add to my vows:

1) That in the event that our profound and amazing love and mutual respect should come to an end, I will not use the internet as a tool of revenge, for what happens in our relationship is between us and not for the consumption of schadenfreude-craving sadsack internet gawkers desperate to get off on negative shit. Though we run the risk of growing apart, I hope that we can remain friends and if we are not meant to be together forever, I am prepared to try to cope and move on in a mature way.

1a) That said, please do not leave me for another woman. That would hurt.

2) I love nothing more than looking at the back of your head in bed when I wake up in the morning. You have the sexiest back-of-head of any man I've ever met.

3) You can put your butt on me anytime.

4) You are the happiest thing in my life, and I do not doubt for one second that your love for me is anything but sincere.

I love you, Bob!

light command

I'm at Quacks. In The Aeroplane is playing on the stereo. I am trying to write a very painful portion of my novel, the long part towards the end where Olivia confronts her grandmother. I decide to take a break and read some blogs of some improv friends, and I read the one of a twenty-year-old friend who seems to be on the verge of making the mistake I made when I was her age, which was not believe what you know to be right about yourself and set goals accordingly. I truly believed at that age that it was not okay to fail, and that it was better that I pursue mediocrity. The years progressed. I was miserable. And now I'm writing a novel, basically on my mother's dime. If it weren't for her infinite generosity and love (and the California courts!), I wouldn't be able to do this. I wish I could have figured this shit out years ago. But I'm still basically young, so here I am.

Did I mention that In The Aeroplane is playing? Carrot flowers. I am very sensitive to carrot flowers.

And so, I'm going to cry.

Funny Funny Bitch

Yesterday I took my first sketch comedy class at the CTT. I liked it. I enjoyed dissecting the shit out of Arrested Development. But alas, I was the only one at the table with a cooter. Following the class, I performed my bee monologue twice. The first time was, in my bumble opinion (!), a better performance, since I remembered to work in that part about smelling like bee butt. I was the only female monologuist. That's fine. I'm not the only female comedian in the community. I just noticed that it had been awhile since I had done anything where I was the only girl.

While I was listening to Arthur talk about comedy and fixating on that swirl of chest hair he has just south of his Adam's apple, I was thinking, "gosh...no one at the ladycollege was publicly funny. Few people even tried to be funny in a public way." I thought that Mara and I were funny as shit, but I'm sure most of our peers thought we were grandstanding egomaniac assholes. Which, to the average, untrained Smithie, surely we seemed that way.

Then I remembered: there were no student comedy shows. There were the Suckos--the lackluster improv troupe that wouldn't have me for lack of Sapphic yearnings, and those lame newsletters that landed on the dining room tables, and that was it. No one was trying stand-up and there were very few female comedians appearing in Northampton. There was a humor magazine that existed my first year (attempts to join thwarted by lack of wanting to eat pussy, again) that fizzled out and died by my sophomore year. But there was plenty of whiny shit poetry, read aloud with a faux-Nuyorican vocal intonation, where every third word is said louder than the previous two. And there were sexual abuse survivor speak-outs, where one could sit soberly in a campus classroom and hear about the childhood incidents that led to a good number of these ladies being insufferably rude, unfriendly, and irritating. I know there will be a bunch of people that will leap to these women's defense, but when I actually heard one of them say, out loud, in my presence, "I just can't be friends with women who aren't survivors," that's when my supposed obligation to shut up about how obnoxiously entitled these twats behaved ended. Fucking A.

So we have whiny shit poetry, creepy public proclamations of abuse, and no comedy. Great. What a school. I can't believe sometimes that I LIKED this place. But I did, because I was being funny in my house with my friends and I guess at the time, that was all I needed. Which is not the case anymore.

"I could change that!" I thought, trying to figure out how to strong-arm the theater department at Smith into letting me teach a comedy writing class. I don't have a theater degree, but I do have hours and hours of unaccredited training and stage-time. In the eyes of the academy, that probably doesn't mean shit, but it's worth a try. I've learned recently that persistence is the key to everything.

Of course, I'd be up against all the self-declared protected-class twats--"you can't write comedy about gays, or brown people, or people with cervical cancer! Because I'm 19 and I know everything and I won't allow it and will gladly have your ass handed to you by the administration if you dare defy me!" NO PROTECTED CLASSES IN COMEDY. That's why it's so refreshing. Everyone, including myself, is free to be ribbed and needled.

I really don't mind that comedy is such a boy's club. I think in my own Smithly way, I am unintimidated by that. It's all about getting up there, being brave, and doing whatever the fuck your best is. I think that some women think they have to out-funny the boys, and so they don't even try. F that.

my husband is the funny

Bob's response to the rear bumper of a car decorated with the Longhorn symbol and a Jesus fish:

"All he needs is a chicken and a pig on there and he'll have all the meats."

Speak! tonight
Mo's monologue about bees
8pm and 10pm
Coldtowne Theater
4803 Airport next to I Heart Video

is there a rainbow in Toronto?

700th entry spectacular!

Bob called today whilst I was enjoying my steamy plate of stirfry at Mam's across from the always-lovely Julie Gilulie to tell me that he was offered a job in the big T.O. File this one under "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it." As most of you know, for years I was completely hot-in-the-twat to move to Canada. I waved the maple leaf flag high, learning all the words to the most popular arrangement of O Canada, took the immigration test and scored high on it, and reupped my knowledge of the French language. During the darkest days of the Bush regime, before I forced myself to go cold-turkey on the lefty blogs (which, I admit, is like sticking your fingers in your ears and going LA LA LA, but I am so much happier now than I was then!), I felt that a move to Canada, esp. a move to the remote corners of Canada, would be a wise move in the preservation of our liberties and our lives. We would have free health care, safe streets, and all the gay marriage and Nanaimo bars we could possibly want.

Oddly enough, after our two week Canadian honeymoon last August, my ardor for Canada has cooled. Though I am still all abouts the Canada, I am no longer ready to pack up my house and make a run for the border. During our six days in Toronto, I found myself liking the city. It's a fun, cool place, sort of New Yorkish without the overcrowding and public wizzing that ultimately drove me from the city. There are cool ethnic neighborhoods--I was particularly taken with Kensington Market,--a subway system (we could probably get by on one car), restaurants (where meals are double-taxed, so eating out isn't always the cheapest thing), real sugar in soda. There is a lively comedy scene there, a ready-made improv community for us to (hopefully) jump on into. Oddly enough, Bob's announcement comes on the heels of my casually mentioning to him that I'd love to do the Humber College comedy program (it's the only school in North America that offers a degree in comedy writing and performance).

Other factors:
*We'd have to live in an apartment, with less space and common walls. Bob hates common walls.

*The physical act of moving. I think that you have to pay an entry tax on moving all your shit into the country. It's not like we could just zip a U-Haul across the border. I also think we'd have to sell our car and get a new one up there, or pay a hefty vehicle importation tax where just buying a new one makes more financial sense. Stressful!

*Toronto has a pectus doctor. I might have to wait a year to see him, but hey, he's there.

*Corey's reasoning for leaving Austin and going to NYC. He wasn't necessarily unhappy in Austin, he just knew that he'd reached the pinnacle of where he'd be career/improv/social/etc-wise and decided being comfortable wasn't the best thing for him in the long run, so he took the risk of moving and was happy to do it. Do I have this sense of adventure? I just see myself landing in Toronto with no Geegsters and no friends to have lunch with and over-leaning on Bob and feeling I-S-O-L-A-T-E-D.

*As I recall, Toronto was pretty expensive. And what am I supposed to do with milk in a plastic bag? (I know, stick it in a pitcher, but fuck that!)

*Do I really want to live in the hellbitch SNOW again?

On the plus side, Bob would probably dig his job, I'd get to go to Canadian grad school, and it would probably iron itself out after several months.

I think there comes a point in any Austinite's life where they have to ask themselves, "why am I still here?" I've got a very comfortable and fun life here, get to be a wacky creative, but in terms of career, I don't really see myself working any job other than some library gig that I'm lukewarm on. Hopefully the novel-writing career I've craved my whole life with pan out? There is the seduction of reinvention. There is that CBC internship I'd like to take.

Something to think about, I guess.

negativity on earth

Hmm. I worry about my novel like a mother worries about her child going off to chainsaw camp.

1) I worry that none of my characters are likeable, that they are all such raving jackasses that no one cares about the journey. A reader has to care about the characters, even the bad ones, to keep reading the book. I'm almost done with the A. Burroughs book that I can't say I like because none of the characters, in my opinion, are likeable, but they are quirky and everyone loves to hear about teenagers giving blowjobs, hence the book was a bestseller.

2) I've started the whole crime element and it just feels forced and stupid. Like a bad improv scene, bridging "where's my brother! aaaaah!"

3) I think my mom thinks this book is something its not and will be disappointed in what it really is. Not that I care, but I'm sure she's thinking I'm writing a novel that venerates her as a victim instead of what it is, which is the protagonist being frustrated with her for acting like a victim. The character is based on her at her absolute worst. She's really more evenhanded and strong and fierce than Roberta Vahan, who is a giant mushpot if there ever was one. It's an interesting conundrum, I think. But I guess I'll find out when she reads it. I tend to misread her these days.

4) Unbelievable points? Perhaps?

Anyway, I am trying to be a good novel-mother, and understand that, like a child, this book will at times fill me with worry and at others fill me with wonder.

Have fun at chainsaw camp, novel.

4)

fireplace flavor!

Now that we have been released from house arrest and the tree branch has been freed of its icy weight and has lifted itself off our essential power line, we are free to move about the cabin. We dined at one of the "for realz" taquerias in our neighborhood. For realz, meaning that they are operated and patronized by actual Mexicans and have at least one organ meat available as a taco filling. I wasn't terribly happy with our food tonight, but whatever. The chips tasted like someone's gas fireplace. I ate several, as did Bob. We might have ingested a good number of carcinogens. I have no idea where those chips were being stored, but again, whatev. I'm sure we've eaten worse.

This place was also showing the 1990s Tom Hanks career vehicle "You've Got Mail" on a pull-down screen. Film night at a taqueria? I'm a huge fan of Mexican TV and if I'm going out for organ meat tacos, I better see some titties and some Don Francisco, or some weepy overly-made-up lady on a telenovela. Crap American film fare will not stand. I observed that in the 1990s, it was okay to make an entire film about e-mail that was essentially a huge ad for AOL.

I went to the stripper supply store to purchase yellow-and-black striped tights for my upcoming monologue performance and they didn't have any, so I walked out with some Velvet Goldmine-looking gold lamé stockings instead. There were some actual strippers ahead of me in the cashier line, and they took advantage of the 15% discount extended to "entertainers." I'm an entertainer, but I'm pretty sure that means "adult entertainer" and not "improv comedy entertainer who keeps her boobs in her shirt," so I didn't ask for it. I don't work as hard as those ladies.

Everytime I go in there, I am invited to join the Thong Club. And everytime, I decline.

and if the snow buries my neighborhood...

I've finally broken down and put on the Arcade Fire album. I've never had a chance to listen to it in the cold like this. No tunnels needed.

Bob went to de-ice the cars and when he went to do mine he managed to jimmy off a huge chuck of ice where the name plate is and so we have a hunk of ice outside that has COROLLA CE indented in it. Funny. There is at least an inch of ice on Bob's side mirrors.

The tree branch is making me nervous.

We went to the local bar for a burger and a beer. I wasn't very hungry but I ate the whole damn burger, because food seems scarce right now. Which it's not. We have seven cans of refried beans, so no one is going to be protein-deficient in this house. I drank a Newcastle, too.

Road conditions are pretty okay in the 'hood. Busses are running, and only a few prime-real-estate jackasses are speeding and kicking slush onto other cars.

I'm sure I'd be enjoying this a lot more if I were still employed. UT employees are having a five-day weekend. Yay them.

Magic Hat Brewery makes #9 soap, if anyone wants to get me a birthday present...

Neighborhood #3 (Power Out)

There is an ice-coated tree branch leaning against our power line. If there is any more icy rain today, the possibility of our power going out is high. FUCK!

It's supposed to get up to the 40s tomorrow and melt this shit away. This is ridiculous.

At least in Massachusetts, there would be fluffy snow mixed with sand and that salty synthetic ice-melter stuff, and we had plows, and SNOW MANAGEMENT, so your life would not cease due to icy conditions. And snow in Mass. was PRETTY.

Bleh.

Also, this blog will go away if the power goes out, so if you try to look at this thing and it's not here, that's why.

Sniff. I lerv my blorg.

Notes from the Great Austin Ice-In of 2007

1) Day starts around 1:00PMCST. Bob and I are a couple of worthless loaves in the heaty comfort of our bed, poking at each other. The morning is not complete without at least two improvised songs based on the suggestion "I love you." The impulse to release urine eventually can be ignored no longer. One of us skulks to the commode while the other fights the allure of continued contact with warm flannel and loses.

2) There is a lot of internet in this house. A few hours pass with eyes trained on their respective computer screens. I am all caught up on e-mail and even tossed a few opinions out on the improv forums.

3) Book reading. Am currently in the middle of "Running With Scissors." You know you've hit it big when your book is for sale for $7 on the bestseller table at Costco and is positioned between Lisey's Story and the latest told-you-so from that dickshaft Dr. Phil. I acquired RWS in that manner. I am enjoying it in that it takes place in Northampton, but damnit if I cannot say that the yuck factor of the book gets tiresome after awhile. If you walk in on your mom getting eaten out by the reverend's wife and somehow managed to avoid school after the age of 13, I guess publishers are ready to snap up whatever you have, esp. if you change your name from Christopher to the effete Augusten.

Book reading takes place on the couch while drinking either tap water laced with cranberry-flavored Emergen-C or Vitamin Water (power-C dragonfruit). I will not contract scurvy while shipwrecked in my own house!

4) Attempting to memorize Apiary Scum, my monologue for this Saturday night. How did I memorize parts in plays when I was in high school? I haven't been totally "off book" in over a decade. Fuck!

5) Went for a crunchy walk outside. Photographed naturally occuring stalagtites of ice firmly attached to our home and motor vehicles. Ran into my neighbor and former aerobics insturctor Pam and her husband out and about. It was beyond refreshing to talk to someone face-to-face who is not Bob. Not that I don't love Bob. If I have to be iced in with anyone, it better be Bob. But wow! Other people!

6) More internet.

7) More Running With Scissors.

8) Bob began the pizza making process. Our kitchen styles clashed and words were had. We love each other profoundly but cannot cook side by side like those chummy couples in the Kitchen Aid ads. Why can't we harmoniously chop vegetables and smile and indulge in our spendy appliances like normal couples? I retreated to my computer while Bob fought the good fight with the Cuisinart. I was called in to add toppings to the pizzas and see them through the baking and oven removal process. Bob's a brilliant doughmaster. Very firm, flavorful and chewy.

9) Called mom. Called friend.

10) Took long hot shower. Being home day after day means wearing gamey-smelling pajamas. Time to scrape off the oily crud accumulation. Now that all my wintery jammies are gamey, they must be laundered. Wash gamey jammies.

11) Cleaned up pizza mess. Wondered aloud, "Is Bob's work closed tomorrow?" His work is the lone institute of higher ed in this city that hasn't announced closure for tomorrow. FIVE DAY WEEKEND AUSTIN!!

12) Thought about, but did not actually work on, my novel.

if you can't improvise, memorize

This Saturday night, I am performing in the "Speak" portion of the See+Hear+Speak festival at the Coldtowne Theater. It's a very cool concept: "See" is short films, "Hear" is comedic music, and "Speak" is monologues. My monologue is about this dude:

And now I have to memorize it. Memorization makes me nervous. I fear I will leave out some totally bitchin' chunk and then panic and look Not Cool. And the whole point of doing a monologue is to look Very Cool, yes? That's why Spalding Gray did it, right?

It SNOWED today in Austin. Bullshit western crumbly snow that is more freezing rain, but snow nonetheless. There are icicles on our house and cars. The U of T is shut down and it seems that everyone is huddled in their houses. Like us.

random pizza geography

Being housebound by inclement weather, my web surfing took me to the website of my favorite pizza place in the F-Town, Me 'n Ed's. My old daddy used to take me there when I was very young and he was very old and we would eat pizza on wooden picnic tables in their dim, reddish lit restaurant, usu. with "Rock You Like a Hurricane"-type butt rock playing on the jukebox next to the Pac-Man machine. I've been kicking myself for forgetting to eat there during last month's rare excursion to the city of my birth, in which I managed to eat at F-town's brand-new Cheesecake Factory twice, but no Me + Ed's.

So I look at their website and learn that they have about fifty locations in Central California, and four locations in...VANCOUVER, BC!

What?

Me + Ed's is famous for using a large quantity of cornmeal on the bottoms of the pie pans so that the crust grows bloated with dough bubbles.

bitching from the other side of the thermometer

At least twice during the summer months, I use this here blorg to express my disdain for the hot hot heat of Texas. As the thermometer passes the 100 degree mark and my flimsy cotton shirt becomes drenched with both my sweat and the sweat of others, I say things like "I want to move back to Massachusetts" and "Fuck I hate the heat." Well, I'm sitting in my house right now freezing my arse off. COLD! It's 27 degrees and my car is cloaked in ice. I'm not going to attempt to drive it, as some fucknut would plow into me and I'd have to take a trip the Ye Olde Hospital with a broken sternum or whatnot, but the last time Austin got a serious ice storm (Feb '02), I recall being iced out of my car. The doors were frozen shut, and I could not get to my booper job at CM. So icy were the sidewalks that I had to run back into my apartment in my socks, as my shoes were not providing enough traction to make it up the stairs.

This house is not exactly well-insulated. Well, it is and it isn't. We got all new plumbing the summer before last, during the bathroom remodel, so we don't have to drip the faucets. And Bob had the attic insulated, more for preservation of air conditioning than heat. But we have problems with our front and back doors being drafty sieves instead of well-sealing, functional doors.

The front door has been a matter of contention for awhile. I went to price out doors at Ye Olde Home Dee-Po and Loez, came home with a write-up for a reasonable door at a reasonable price AND a full-color brochure from my pals at Anderson, and Bob got all whiney and snively because HD and Loez traffic in metal doors and he absolutely must have a wood door or else his jumbies will fall off. Now, wooden doors are dandy, but the quality ones are expensive, and while my main contention with a door is that it keep extreme temperatures and intruders out of the house, Bob's main requirement is that some poor oak had to die for it. Plenty of new homes have attractive and economical metal doors. So instead we have been living with the cracked and drafty door for a long time, even though it bugs me and is proving to contribute to my colditude on this, Austin's three-day foray into the wonderful world of winter.

BRRRR! I have the hood up on my hoodie.

I guess we are stuck in the house all day. Booya!

down with O.P.N.

A friend of mine generously offered to read the first, completed half of my novel, so I sent it to her and am awaiting her reply while I slog away on the second half, the part where the already-swift pace picks up even more and there is an attempted murder that I haven't decided if it will be a completed murder. First I have to raise the stakes with Oli's relationship with Zaven, make returning to Boston seem less like a good idea (Eric Leaf's wife confronting her), have Dahlia threaten to put the make on Oli's newly-widowed bio-dad (who she hasn't spoken to but rarely and was looking forward to having that bitch out of the way to have a relationship with him), Orson's bizarre disappearance after breaking the heart of his dad's ex-girlfriend, who is having a midlife crisis that involves attempting to bed Orson (which Orson, always used to getting something for free from a woman, ends up regretting), all of which ends up at the beach house in Capitola where the BOV's are having their fundraiser (i.e. murdering Dahlia and riling up Olivia so she'll operate the weapon), Oli not sure she wants to risk all of this for, what, money? Are you kidding?

So I'm at that point where I am sure that the first 119 pages are utter drivel and lacking that which makes a novel great. I'm currently on the Infine Jest Toilet Program, where I have vowed to read three pages of Infinite Jest everytime I sit down to use the toilet, and I'm finding that a lot of the reason that book is so long is because DFW describes everything and everyone in such microscopic detail that entire paragraphs go by in which nothing has happened. Doing improv comedy every weekend of my life for the past four years has given me this idea that you get into a scene, you get out the important shit, and then you get out. Perhaps this isn't the correct way of novelizing. Maybe I need to stroke the shaft a little longer...

(sorry, I cannot discuss Other People's Novels without tired comparisons to masturbation. I am low.)

And by O.P.N. I mean the shaft-stroking prose of some wanky piece of shit about missing children, endless scenic vistas in exotic locales like coastal Ireland, any novel in which a dead person is the narrator, or any sack of crap about a "sexual awakening." Anything florid, flowery, dewdroppy, or poetry-esque, I hate. But this shit gets published every damn day. I prefer down-and-dirty writing about saggy tits, humiliation, an assessment of a room that does not refer to any surface as "rich" or "sumptuous," and snarky observations about the failings of humanity. THAT'S writing.

Argh.

full circle

Following in the footsteps of his big sis, my bro today announced that he was taking a drama class at his high school down in the C-Juana. He doesn't attend the same high school I did, due to some unfounded rumor that all the cholos at C-Juana High would undoubtedly get loco on his ass and shoot it, so he goes to the whiter, newer school across town in the midst of all those titty-pink track homes that go for loco amounts of money. However, most of the theatrical staff I remember from the 'Juana have moved to this particular school, my former drama teacher included.

Former Drama Teacher (FDT) appeared at the CJ some fifteen years ago to replace the drama teacher who had died the previous summer. Previous Drama Teacher had died on the exact same day as my dad, so I have no recollection of mourning her or giving a shit about her passing. But oh, did FDT! Everything he said or did he claimed was in her beatific honor. I'm not saying "don't honor the dead," but he was a little over the top.

Now, before I attended the ladycollege, I did not have such a finely tuned sense of gaydar. I couldn't exactly smell dick on his lips at that tender juncture in my development, but something about this dude just screamed Gay. Gay drama teacher? You don't say? It wasn't just that he bore more than a passing resemblence to our beloved and recently-deceased gay hair dresser Jeff, he simply exuded homo ions that even the untrained could spot. Most importantly, rather than just go about his business and do the job he was hired for, he decided that to deflect these warranted speculations on his sexuality by being the most vocal gay basher on my high school's staff. "I'm Catholic," he'd begin, practically swishing his hands about from their limp wrists, "And homosexuality is just wrong! The though of two guys together just makes me sick! SICK, I tell you!" Uh-huh. His homilies on the topic of gay sex, especially gay male sex, appeared weekly and unprompted, often in the presence of students who were clearly gay and trying their darndest to keep that info on the d.l.

I don't know about you, but I've found that the people who like to say that the thought of gay sex makes them sick usually spend more than a healthy amount of time thinking about it. FDT was, of course, single, and was always making a big show about wanting to date women. Wanting, but not actually dating women. He just went about the straight beard thing all wrong. It was sad. Especially my mother playing along with him when he went to her for psychic counsel, telling him that someday, that special lady would appear and not notice all those drawings of shirtless teenage boys lying around the house.

While trying and failing to wear the beard, he really pushed the envelope, regularly spent time with certain deliciously handsome and conveniently legally-aged guys in our class off-campus, in his home, and on unchaperoned excursions to New York City. While I can only speculate that FDT acted outside the realm of professionalism and propriety, you'd think that a teacher in his position would cover his own ass and be more discreet. Not this cowboy! He invited one of the more beautiful 18-year-old guys to his house for a shirtless art modeling session and then brought his drawing to school and displayed them like they were high art and not something that could potentially get his ass fired.

Now, apparently since he has been with the school district for fifteen years and still has a job, I assume that he has not committed any actions that, say, would have landed his limp ass in the clink. However, I do not remember him being able to keep his mouth shut about his opinions of other students, feeling free to say in front of me and my mother that a certain one of our female classmates was "a stupid bitch," or changing the surname of one young lady to "Dumbass" or that one of the flouncier guys from M. A. was "a faggot who was going to get AIDS." So confident that everyone had his back and was prepared to conceal his girlish gossip, he just let it fly to whomever. Assuming that in taking the dead drama teacher's job he had also inherited all the love and respect she had earned, he felt free to be a raving closet-case jackass who enjoyed slandering his students.

So I find it hard to believe that in all this time he hasn't gotten at least one reprimand from the brass. My brother, being of the faggy, jaw-flapping variety himself, went and told this teacher who he was and who his older sister was, even after I asked him not to. When I found out that this teacher was now at my bro's school, I told Bro that he was a skeev and to tell me immediately if he starts talking trash about the students and especially if he's still gay-bashing. While I didn't have the strength to rat out teachers when I was a kid, I sure as hell have it now and would be very pleased to recon all of this guys bullshit right now. Especially if he gets some funny idea about inviting my bro to his house for a little sketching session.

Maybe he's a good Catholic who wasn't going outside of the bounds of propriety with the nakey sketches and the weekends in NYC, but he's such a nauseating example of the fag I do NOT want my brother to grow up to be, that I can't help but feel a little over protective of the kid. I want him to LIKE drama, not equate it with some stank basher with low self-esteem.

not coming off like a genius of crack

This week is special INDIE ROCK MASTURABATION BLOGGING WEEK in Mo-land. This is because 2007 marks the ten year anniversary of the apex of my i.r. snobbery, including, but not limited to, appearing at the doorstep of an indie rock legend's home unannounced and getting a ride home after a show from a bigger name entertainer, one who competes with Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck in terms of emotional delivery and career longevity. And because I've been listening to E. Smith without pause for the last three days. Oh, Elliott!

There is a passage in my novel in which protagonist Olivia, a post-college Boston hipster chick who lives in a skanky Somerville shithole apartment and works for a fictional nonprofit that buys art supplies for poor children, is visited unexpectedly by her cousin JR-2, a boozy rich-kid shitheel who is basically the Fresno Armenian version of Clay from Less Than Zero, with less drugs and more luxury spending. JR-2 (John-Robert the Second, if you must know) barges into her bedroom and starts picking through her CD collection in the judgemental manner that all of us must sooner or later admit to doing to others. He picks an Unrest CD off the shelf and says, "Hey, you like Unrest?" like he's a big fan or something, and there is no way that Olivia believes that JR-2 knows, much less is a fan of, Unrest. This story is called back when Zaven, the crazy Armo-militant that Olivia meets after she and Orson go to Fresno to collect the family loot, plays Unrest in the car, and it drives Olivia crazy because she thinks he's fucking with her.

So maybe this is a lame-ass little tribute to indie rock. I cannot help but fear that the aging indie rockers of yesteryear are going to read this little passage and then pillory me for my lack of writing talent and blatant and untoward hipsterism. Indeed, many years ago a dude named Jeff Gomez penned not one but two indie-themed novels that were then expertly skewered by the very people (Franklin Bruno, most notably) I assume he was trying to impress. Poor writing and an undeserved S&S two-book contract aside, I couldn't help but feel bad for the guy. Unlike my Caucasian peers who try to be all down with hip-hop and shit, indie kids are in it for the inclusiveness. Indie kids are generally not interested in a status battle, so for the nice and admirable musicians that one so adores and finds so accessible to just up and diss this guy's book in such a brilliant, sharp, and painful manner gives me pause that Aunt Jenny is going to hurl my novel across her atelier and have me denounced as the pathetic poseur that photographed her eating a hamburger ten years ago.

I certainly hope that the quality of writing in my novel far surpasses that of J. Gomez's twin disasters. For to write two poorly-received novels that spawned a genius tear-down rebuttal is worse than just writing one crappy book.

My book is about wealth and power, not indie rock.

maudit indie

I was an insufferable indie snob bitd, and currently assess myself at about 35% indie snob, 50% dork, and 15% pretentious parentally-funded "novelist" who gets to sit in the coffee shop all afternoon swilling Ghiradelli ho-chos while real people go to their real jobs.

I've always been a two-art girl, and while one art has always been writing, the other was the three-chord whinings of white kids from Washington up until about five years ago, then it turned into improv comedy, the one art-form that I unabashedly excel at. And I know my improv pals read this and perhaps might not agree with that statement, but if I'm going to spend every goddamn weekend of my life making up songs in front of paying audiences, then shouldn't I believe that I'm good at at it?

In 1998, my senior year at the ladycollege, Elliott Smith, late chanteur of wistful heartwrenchers, was nominated for an Oscar for his work in Good Will Hunting (I've been meaning to ask T-square lately if she finally, after nine freaking years of nay-saying, got around to watching GWH, a movie she refused to view back in the day, citing a previous commitment to staying home and scowling while everyone else kicked it to the Hampshire Mall to see this tour-de-force mo-fo classic). This historic event PISSED 22-yr-old me like hell. How dare our darling sad guitar boy be co-opted by the mainstream! And seeing as I would rather autopsy a corpse or repair a busted stapler than sit through a cheesed-up self-congratulatory fuckfest like the Academy Awards, I subbed for no less than six continuous hours of OZQ programming that nobody but me and my pals at the Hampshire County Jail were listening to. Therefore, I missed Elliott's white-suited national performance and his subsequent controversial hugging of Celine Dion, who walked away with the award our boy had been nominated for.

So while I was engaged in my bi-weekly on-air jerk-off fest with Teenbeat's back catalog, every ho at Smith was parked in front of the tube getting a heaping helping of Elliott. It was actually quite easy to get me to sub a radio show back in those days. One of the reasons I had about ten friends the whole four years is that my favorite thing to do was to spin records in a room by myself, which is not an activity that fosters togetherness.

I guess my point here is that, because I was such a severe indie snob, I missed a great moment in indie history in the act of indie snobbery.

I guess.

I have no point. I'm just jerking off to my own back catalog.

mail-order baked goods

Everyone at some point or another is asked the question, "what would you do with a million dollars?" Well, I'm currently doing the only thing I want to do with a million dollars, which is turning out to cost much less than a million dollars, and that is take a year off to write a novel. But if I had a million dollars, and someday I will (once the evil old hag fucking dies and makes the world a better place), I think what I would do, after taking a bunch of Southwest Airlines package vacations to nonexotic cities of great historic repute like St. Louis, Milwaukee, and Pittsburgh (I'm the cheapest date every), is purchase ridiculously overpriced mail-order baked goods.

After reading about povitica in the back of the Southwest Airlines in-flight magazine (I should also say that I plan to buy Southwest stock with my mil once the subcunt kicks, although I'm sure she'll have it set up so that the lawyers get most of my share and I'll only be left with enough money for a burrito and a drink, if I'm lucky), I really wanted to try it. There is something wonderfully appealing about eastern European pastries, and these rolled-up doughy loaves looked really appealing in the picture. However, it sets one back $22 for one povitica, which is the size of a common loaf of bread. The giant sheet cake at Central Market costs about $22, and in the event it sucks, I won't be too happy at this juncture losing $22 on an exotic eastern European pastry that I really didn't need.

Clearly, I don't have to wait until my inheritence goes through probate to order povitica, but at this point, I might as well. And I'm sure the povitica people will be delighted to hear that an interested potential customer is waiting for someone to die until they purchase their product.

WEIRD WORLD I live in. Dusty one, too. This room needs a dustin'.

I am writing:
1) A monologue
2) A cover letter for a library job that, though is not a prof.lib. position, consists solely of things I like about librarianship and none of the things I don't.
3) A synopsis of my novel, which is harder than writing the novel itself.
4) A novel.

My flickr site has some very funny photos of my husband with a sword, a rifle, and a nunchuk. Go look.

La maudite

I've been meaning to say this: I know the title of this here blog should be "La maudite Mo D." but then I lose the "mo-DEE Mo D." rhyme scheme. So I use the masculine. I am not moDEET. Tant pis.

Little toilet friend

Yesterday Bob and I had a standard-issue marital misunderstanding which left both of us feeling like poo. Over the course of his day spent without his lovely wife, he found himself at the local Japanese bubble tea and Sanrio emporium, where he found me the perfect make-up gift: a small plush toilet with a face.

The face on the toilet looks suspiciously like a friend of ours from the improv world, but we dare not name who it is because who wants friends who say that they have an odd little toilet doll that looks just like them? With friends like that, who needs friends?

Blog Champion!

Okay, I have a lot to blog about.

A's got me thinking about stepparenting, and boy, what a fucking fallacy that is. I always said I would never get involved with a man who had children--like, not even a date. Not even fucking coffee. No way would I ever go anywhere near a man with kids. And I most certainly would never be a step-anything. Living a life where the very fact of your everyday existence is, "Gee, I really wish my husband had more time for me and spent less time with the children he had with another woman. I find everything they do to be utterly revolting and I wish they would just go away, but I can't come out and say that, so instead I will turn into a passive-aggressive bitch-on-wheels and hope that the kids get into good, far-away colleges."

And having been a stepchild, I can also speak to that experience: "Gee, there's this collosal asshole here now calling the shots, and I hate him so much but due to the fact that I am a child I can't say or do much about it but smoke pot and get bad grades and be as big a shithead as possible. And he's insisting that I bend to his retarded rules and seems to really get off on punishing me for things that weren't a problem before he showed up. And I can't even talk to my mother about it because she's torn between her loyalties to me and her loyalties to this asshole."

Sorry, life's too short to get yourself stuck in an untenable situation such as stepparenting. And you're an asshole if you think you can make it work. The only people I know of who like their stepparents are the ones whose stepparents took better care of them than their real parents did. Which is a rare occurrence. I keep hearing horror stories. I have my own horror stories.

Yes, I am saying, if you have kids your dating life should be fucking limited to bowling and the $29.99/night deal at the HoJo and not include plans of marriage until they're out of high school. Had my mother had a rule like that, we'd both be a hell of a lot happier.

A, I feel you pain on this one.

Suck-O-Vision(TM)

I am in a foul mood, owing to some standard-issue marital miscommunications that left my gun-toting husband driving off to have lunch without me, and the fact that my never-to-be-used reproductive system is getting surly on my ass. Or near my ass.

Yesterday I took an improv class that should have been billed as this:

SUCK-O-VISION(TM)! with Famous Improviser Guy!
You suck! Come get a detailed report on just how you suck based on a minimal demonstration of your skills. You'll get a lengthy lecture consisting of improv maxims you've heard numerous times before combined with a laundry list of Better Choices You Should Have Made, but didn't because you suck. This class will be free of exercises or simple opportunities to right your wrongs, because you suck. You will leave the class either never wanting to do improv again or wanting to beat the shit out of something.

I was permitted 1.5 scenes that left me feeling like the suckiest player this side of Derek and Willy, and I was so roiled that everyone else except for me and two other women (did somebody just trip my Sexist-O-Meter? It's sensitive!) got to do 4+ scenes and we were given 10 minutes to do 1.5 scenes and then stopped for an all-important pee break that I spent the second half of the class in a quiet, personal rage. I felt thrown back to that moment a decade earlier where I had to explain to a room full of radio station hipsters why I didn't think Miranda July's incomprehensible performance art twaddle was the come-in-your-pants lifetime event that everyone was making it out to be, knowing that I would be putting my political ass on the line if I were to actually say something to this guy along the lines of "you did nothing today except take my money and destroy my confidence."

Okay, he took Bob's money, but Bob owed me for a Costco booze run, so it all evened out.

The Geegsters did a show that was pretty good considering we never rehearsed the format beforehand and put J-Rat into his first speaking role. It had some technical hinkiness, but I just love playing with my ladies (and honorary ladies) so much that we could have gone up there and farted and it would have been a good time.

Why Smith Needs a Mascot

Because mascots bring tons of publicity and thus cred to the athletic programs of lesser schools.

Who gives a rat's ass about Western Kentucky U? Plenty of people, and why?

They have a cuddly, lovable giant pimple for a mascot! Hell, I'd root for their team if I saw this happy pimple about to squirt some puss-y school pride all over the field!

Smith: you need Sophie the Squirrel.
Let's talk.

lambo field

Last night, my homies Peter, Marc M., Bob and I were kickin' it on 5th St, eating slices of pizza, when we spied coming down the street this big-assed custom pick up truck with custom wing doors and a giant woofer laying down bass and letting everyone know whose ride was the pimpinest. I told my man Bob that he had exactly ninety days to replace his Acura with something as flashy, loud, and ostentatious as that truck, or else I was gonna be somebody else's baby.

Dude was driving this truck with the doors up. Wing doors, also called lambo doors, cost between $2-4000 to have installed on your car. And oh, honey, is that money well-spent or what? Also, the interior of his truck had custom dreamy purple lighting in it, and of course his woofers were woofing some bass that said to everyone trying to get into that club on the corner, "I'm the fly daddy here, bitches."

As for the pizza-eating improv nerds, well, if we try to play cool and make like we weren't impressed, don't believe it.

Won't you be my mentor tonight?

I've been thinking a lot about Smith lately, and I got to tell you, I missed out on a LOT of opportunities while there. Not only did I fail to do the right thing and major in theater like I intended (although I would suggest a serious student of theater go elsewhere), but I also failed to make any lasting impression on the place, save for all the junk I stuck in the archives without going through the accessioning process.

I was reading Bob's On Wisconsin magazine, which has a lot more folksy and middle-America articles of general interest, unlike my sugar-mama the SAQ, which never fails to alienate the lesbians and any alums whose net worth is less than that of Jeb Bush (whose net worth is pretty low, considering), and there was an article about how UW's Bucky Badger was recently welcomed into the Mascot Hall of Fame or some other great honor that only collegiate mascots can enjoy. Smith, being NCAA Div III everything, doesn't have a real mascot like Bucky. There this vague notion that we were "The Pioneers," referring to the Pioneer Valley and women being pioneers in their fields, bla bla, but not a real, furry mascot that your kids can run out to on the field during half-time and hug and get a photo taken with. Which is why I want to give to the Smith community Sophie the Squirrel.

First, take a look around mascot land. They are all male. Even if Bucky doesn't have a big badgery penis hanging down below his red W sweater, it doesn't mean he's not a boy. Sophie the Squirrel is female, but not in a "male character wearing a bow or a pink dress" way. She's female because her name is Sophie. And because I said so.

Second, most collegiate mascots are animals that are relatively indigenous to the school's local fauna. Wisconsin has badgers, Florida's got gators, Washington has huskies. What does Smith have? SQUIRRELS. They run the place. Plus, squirrels are very industrious creatures, just like Smithies. And the males look like the females, except for their very obvious squirrel testicles.

There has to be some rich alum somewhere (that's another thing the SAQ won't ever put in print: RICH ALUM. They'll show a picture of some old lady with 500K worth of diamonds around her neck with three last names talking about how Smith is in her will, but they'll never say she's rich in print, because that's 'in poor taste' or some such bullshit) who would fund the creation of Sophie the Squirrel and offer an honorarium to a very deserving student who would love nothing more than donning a furry squirrel suit and doing a little dance on the rugby field while the scrum overturns the water cooler on those dykes from Mount Holyoke.

I want a cut of the merchandising.

NEWSFLASH:
Image from: "Magnetic resonance imaging of male and female genitals during coitus and female sexual arousal"

Hey! Who got to fuck in the MRI can? And how'd they get two people to do that? I thought you had to hold still.

Also on the same topic, this is a friend of mine's dream girl:

Some of you might remember her with her giant '70s glasses trying to teach you something.

pasta w/lotion

WEIRD DREAM ALERT!

I dreamed I was riding around El Paso on a scooter, looking for Bob. I couldn't just call him, because I was in possession of his cell phone. I was riding up El Paso's main street (for the record, I've never been to El Paso, though yesterday I was looking at UTEP's MFA website, which I quickly crossed off the list because it reminded me too much of Chula Vista High and why I didn't have a boyfriend in high school, so big no to that) on a scooter (don't have a scooter, either, must have come from talking to Ms. Firth about scooters and biking accidents) and its hot and dusty and on the other side of the street is this awful, ghetto parade with every float in some state of disrepair, and scary cowboys on motorcycles were giving me the creeps.

In my dream, my friend Katherine, a Lady Formerly of the College, had moved from her native Iowa to El Paso, so I went to her house, which was actually a room in a fancy health spa, where she handed me a menu and insisted I have lunch with her, and then ordered for me a pasta dish made with lotion. I haven't eaten anywhere fancy in awhile, but I certainly don't think lotion has become part of New Cuisine or anything.

I woke up and told Bob about "pasta with lotion." We find humor in that.

Bob did a show last night which I did not see because I chose instead to work on my novel at that time. I found him at the post-show diner with a gaggle of improv folks, during which time I pulled out my laptop to find a picture of
Jaye P. Morgan (not the 19th c. financier, the Gong Show lady) on l'Internet, only to have Marc direct me to a website featuring photos of elderly men engaged in a three-way, which I most certainly did not need to see.

All in all a good time, except for the elderly men.

mi vida loca

Through the gossip mill this evening, I learned that one of the Geegsters did something that, by fucking Echo Park standards, would get a bitch killed but since we are all college-educated white girls from nice, nonviolent families, we will overlook it and life will go on. So I started thinking about how maybe the Geegsters need to roll more like an East LA girl gang, with tattoos and signs and jumpings in and shit, and then I wrote this to the troupe:

I heard one of you pendejas was getting loca and dropping the flag trying to pull a 211 on GGG, telling some bangers that they should rumble at the Hideout on Saturday instead of coming down and respecting your mijas at Coldtowne. I don't think las mijas verdad should be rolling like that, do you? Just because some pimp daddy is gonna be messing with hos and shit at the Hideout doesn't mean you gotta talk trash about the Girls. Bitches get killed for that shit, don't be loca. Why you not putting up for nuestra familia?

(we just turned into an east LA girl gang, by the way)

I'm quite proud of my semi-mastery of gang argot, even if some loca would beat the shit out of me for writing that.

Bob just informed me that "the melt" of an animal is its spleen. Now you've learned something today besides me being a fake-ass gang banger.

2006 Books Read

From memory, again, because I can't get with the whole "write it down" concept

Little Chapel on the River, G. Bounds
jPod, D. Coupland
My Latest Grievance, E. Lipman
My Life in France, J. Child
That novel I read in secret, shhhh
The Psycho Ex Game, Markoe/Prieboy
Sacre Blues, T. Grescoe
On Writing, S. King
How I Write, J. Evanovich
(reread Lolita, V. Nabokov)
(reread In My Father's Name, M. Arax)
Fun Home, A. Bechdel
In Her Shoes, J. Weiner
Sweet and Low, R. Cohen
started The Fortress of Solitude, J. Lethem, abandoned

“That’s mighty levelheaded of you, being a naked guy with an erection and all.”

Is the best line in my novel, hands down.

Maybe it's a good thing?

I started the new year with a rejection letter from an anthology I had sent an essay to. Maybe this is a good thing--I haven't gotten a rejection in a few years, but that's because I wasn't writing and sending. You have to write and send to get rejected. All part of the game.

We went to my favorite Mexican restaurant and had the Divorced Eggs for lunch. Huevos Divorciados. I've described them before. Delicious. Then we went over to Chez Lucas and had some greens and black eyed peas (southern New Years food) and had some fun times with the fun people.

2006: The year I got married and listened to the New Pornographers way too much.