Le maudit Mo D.

beyond the borders VI

It is time once again for the Beyond the Borders Improv Rodeo and Croquet Bonspiel! We are up to our collective armpits in Festival. Oh, what a day:

1) Had a prospective research client call me and made it immediately clear that she was unhappy that a) I charge $20/hr for my services (which is sort of on the low end of reasonable, in my opinion) and b) that I wasn't available to start until next week, because I'm spending the next five days busting ass for this fest, so I don't have time to go look at Alf and Blanche's crap down at Harry's, you know? So she didn't hire me. Which is fine. I am hitting my old place of employment for a three month temp tour of duty (finishing up the sexiest archival project in ATX) at the end of September.

2) Spent the afternoon with my favorite lesbo, Rasa. This is the first Beyond the Borders that Rasa isn't doing her balls-out fucking brilliant, dirty sketch comedy and for that I am sad. We got mad Mr. Natty for lunch and followed it up with dessert crepes.

3) Jose from Phoenix introduced me to some interesting bands! Even one oompah-ish one from San Diego.

4) Watched some 'prov. Learned that a certain MILF wants to do violent things to a certain sweaty young man's private parts.

5) Now I'm tired.

BtB takes a lot out of a bitch, so I won't be updating so much until next week.

level of discourse

Today I started, in earnest, to study for the GRE. I plan to take it in one month. I have decided to embrace my destiny, which is to be the type of person who cannot function outside of academia. I will retreat to a small New England campus, where no one looks at you funny if you wear three cardigans on top of each other or have a variety of scabs and dead skin on your face. I will read books and write books and feel alternately smug and self-effacing. Bells will chime, a cold wind will blow, I will drive an old Subaru with a bumper dotted with remnants of old Gore Lieberman campaign stickers. ore Li rma 2000!

Actually, I'm applying to a creative writing program here in Texas. Maybe I'll hit Iowa again just to see if they like me now, but I can't see actually going to Iowa were I to get in. Maybe I should leave that stone unturned.

Little Bro started fancypants Toilet Paper High School today. I must laugh when I see kids tooling about the 'Mar in their TP jackets. The cheerleaders are particularly amusing. TP! No more tales of former perv drama teacher. It's all elitism and privilege from here on out.

one fork only

In a bulging border town of pink and brown and brown, a man in his sixties removes his kitchen from his house.
Where once lived eight forks and eight spoons
Eight plates and eight cups
Seven of each were taken to the curb
Not to Goodwill (this man hates the idea of giving his things away)
But for the trash men to haul to the dump.

Now he only has one of each!
One plate
One bowl
One knife
One spoon
One fork
One cup
One can opener.

Even the friendly, squat microwave was taken from the house.
Sat on the curb, taken away.

No one will ever come over! No one can eat! No one can make a mess!
He also canceled cable and proudly bragged about this to his teenage son,
Who was confused.
If his teenage son were to come over and want to drink some water
Would he be told no?
Teenage son is afraid to test this out.

The man's wife had left him
Moved to a pretty house near the sea
He wanted to go with her, but she just laughed in his face.
So he called his first wife
Who also left him to live in a prettier house
(this man is blind to all beauty, lives like a wood tick, only to eat and die)
She doesn't know about the kitchen
No bowl or spoon for her
Only him
One world
Cold and empty just for him
Just how he likes it

articulate and sedate

I think I need to get out of town. Occasionally, I get a bug up my keister to run away. I don't know if this is healthy or not, but a good, short jaunt into the unknown would do me a little good, especially in the writing zone. I wear a very safe, well-traveled path and I don't get out of it much. My life is like red carpet turned pink from the friction of shoes. Mo! Get out of town!

I engaged in some retail therapy at the local feminist bookstore today. If I'm going to blow a wad, it should be on books at a struggling independent bookstore. It's like therapy for two. I purchased a novel recommended to me by the bookstore owner (The Secret History by D. Tartt), in addition to a novel that got a foaming-at-the-mouth review in Bitch (J. Egan's The Keep). On the literary front, I completed Middlesex by Jeff Eug. (Oprah pick!) in five days and it was majestic. I highly recommend it, and not only because he mentions Armenians.

Last night on the public access show (which was tremendous fun), I cringed every time we got a caller. The majority who called were inarticulate thrill-seekers with nothing better to do than call and demand that Kacey flash her boobs. I hated the idea that we were nothing but drivel to some broke-ass loser alternating bong hits and Cool Ranch Doritos. Of course, that's who watches public access, but we bitches class a place up. Don't they get that they're behavior is base and crude and that they are in the tele-presence of ladies?

church of the inherent awesome

My head is swirling. I am tired. I should go to sleep but I'm scared. I am scared that I will be punished for speaking incorrectly, for not being Queen Supreme of Personal Organization, for trying to make other people happy, for supporting a ridiculously busted idea of fair, for wanting to be liked, for trying to make a system work. For being dependable and on-the-spot. I am always scared of being punished because I used to get in much trouble for speaking the truth. Like, seriously. It wasn't like I would get hit or grounded or anything but my mom would just go crazy ballistic and act like by not lying correctly, I was hurting her. Irreparably. She'd drive me over to the Old Folks Home with a tear-stained tomato face and push me out of the car and I'd spend the rest of the day with my father who just wanted to talk about politics. I was probably in the 7-9 age range.

My head is spinning and I usually hate people who bring up their pasts, use them as excuses for all sorts of shit. Yeah, my dad died and my grandparents were god-awful people and my mother is a little bit stockholm and a lot of ptsd, and I've made mistakes and I've never been popular except with teachers and school administrators. They LOVED me. I'm tall and awkward and have a big nose and a denty chest, but that doesn't forgive anything in the here and now. I believe that. But I also believe that Paragraph One is why I am feeling the way I am feeling right now and I am very hurt and confused that I am supposed to hold the world together with scotch tape and silly putty.
Nobody has the right to ask me to do that.

Volunteer for OoB

This year, our faithful band of improvisers and improv-groupies is being awfully resistant to volunteering for our huge annual festival. That shit is the BOMB, yet somehow people do not want to spend an hour or two selling tickets, taking tickets at the door, or stuff the schwag bags. I am getting a little angry about this. I know we are all busy, but those tickets aren't going to sell themselves.

I want to post things on the boards like:

SIGN UP TO VOLUNTEER OR I WILL SHIT IN YOUR MOUTH

or

SIGN UP TO VOLUNTEER OR I WILL SMEAR GOAT EXCREMENT INTO YOUR EYE SOCKETS

or

SIGN UP TO VOLUNTEER OR I WILL MAKE A BASEBALL BAT OUT OF YOUR FEMUR AND TIBIA AND THEN BEAT YOUR HEAD IN WITH IT

AND THEN I WILL GET A GOAT TO EAT YOUR BRAINS AND THEN SHIT 'EM OUT AND I'LL GET TO SMEARING AGAIN.

But instead I will be passive-aggressive and post them here.

Written Harold #1

New blog challenge: Written Harolds

1a) I have the password to my mother's e-mail account. She can't get with the whole "check e-mail everyday" thing and she often gets time-sensitive things, so I make a point to peek in everyday for her. I usually don't read anything from her friends, but lately I've been noticing some charming subject lines coming from her former spirit guide and Shamanic mentor (back in the '90s my mother trained in the Shaman's Way), like TAKE BACK AMERICA FROM THE EVILS OF ILLEGAL IMMIGRATION, RACE WARS IMMINENT, and BLACKS ARE RACIST TOO.

2a) Today I did something I swore I'd never do, something I find indulgent and retarded, but the truth is, it's my own fault. Since leaving the workaday world, I have been criminally sloppy in maintaining my nice work clothes. Due to the distinct lack of closet space our house has, there is crap piled waist-high in my closet, bulging out, and as such, things don't get hung up all nice right away. I should colonize some of Bob's closet space is what I should do. I have a job interview tomorrow, and all of my nice skirts have DRY CLEAN ONLY tags on them. Knowing that I wouldn't get 24-hour turn-around if I took them to the cleaners, I went to the mall to buy a nice outfit because all my other nice outfits were DIRTY. I hate this, but I did it anyway.

3a) I ate some shitty vegan soft serve in my car today. It tasted like fermented gravel and left an unpleasant medicinal aftertaste. Also, Bob and I also wrote a really bitchin' sketch this morning about the Civil War.

1b) Correct me if I'm wrong, lady, but aren't you supposed to be a spiritual woman? Who spends months with tribespeople in Peru and Nicaragua to study how to communicate with wolves and serve as a conduit between the spirit and natural worlds? Isn't your purpose to help people, to be loving and kind and accepting? What's with all this crazy reactionary conspiracy-theory white power bullcrap? You are a woman who insinuates herself into indigenous traditions for money! And here you are sending my mother instructions on how to clear illegal Mexicans out of emergency rooms by posing as La Migra all so you can get quicker service?!?!?

2b) So I went to the Hi-land Mall. La Geegsters have a shopping date here on Saturday and my ladies can rest assured that there is plenty of pink-and-black skankwear available. That place has got to be the Butt Cleavage Capital of Austin. The place was lousy with young women in too-tight jeans that were squishing their butt cheeks together and up, over the waistband. Also, it seems that a lot of parents think that a mall is a worthy arena for unsupervised babysitting. I saw several hoards of little kids running and jumping about, with no adults in sight. I forgot that HL Mall doesn't have an Ann Taylor, so I went into the Nanner. Of course, when I shop I do it old-money style, looking like complete broke-ass shit, when in fact I'm not. All I need to complete the look is an '82 Mercedes with Connecticut plates and some ugly glasses.

3b) I brought home the remains of the soft serve and had Bob try it. He agreed, it was totally nasty. I ate more than I wanted because I paid $2 for it, but it was cold ass on a spoon. I threw it out.

1c) At the mall, my brain was going into overdrive, disgusted at the germ clouds and the gaggles of poorly-parented kids. ELITIST WHITE GIRL BUYS PANTS AT THE GAP! HELLO! The kids and the exposed butt cleavage came in shades of brown, of course, but here I was, FORMER TRUST FUND KID SHOPPING ON A TUESDAY AFTERNOON wanting to abandon that dump like Detroit in the '60s...oh, shit, did I just...?

2c) I ask my mother why she doesn't give G.W. Bush's shaman the heave-ho, or at least tell her to quit e-mailing her those icky racist missives with links to websites that claim that unless we act now, the USA will be overtaken by Islamic militants, complete with a picture of a pair of frightened blue eyes peeking out of a burka. Mom is almost 60, and women that age are always polite and never tell anyone where to stick it, so of course she's not going to. I want to tell this woman that her service to humanity as a so-called healer is vastly negated by her frequent transmission of hater e-mails, but my mom would get pissed if I did that.

3c) Whatever made me think that vegan soft-serve would taste good?

Hot Fucking Tuna

August 19 is a very popular day to be born. There are people I know personally with this birthday (Shando, Mikey D.), and a truckload of famous persons (Pres. Bill C., Coco Chanel). But to me, the most important famous person born on August 19 is a sexy, gifted, and complex actor of film and television, who has been dampening my panties since PBS aired Surviving Desire in 1992, but even more so after T-square brought home Trust and Amateur for public viewing on the Big B TV. And that actor is MARTIN DONOVAN.

This hotness turned the big 5-0 today!

I'm not really much of a celebrity crusher or drooler. I love Douglas Coupland, but it's always been a very intellectual attraction to him. When I was thirteen, I plastered pictures of Morrissey and David Byrne all over my bedroom wall. My only adult celeb crush is the hottie above who shares the same initials as me. He is HOT and BRILLIANT in all the Hartley movies he was in and pretty sweet in that plumber movie that I saw years ago at the Seattle Film Festival.

Happy birthday, Martin!
XOXO,
Your drooly fan girl,
Mo

NOTE TO MR. NATURAL: Though I have loved Martin Donovan longer than I have loved you, I have never experienced the crunchiness of Martin's cool, delicious cucumber salad. Nor has he perfected dairy-free baking quite like you. You are both brilliant at the things you do, and don't forget that! Kisses!

NOTE TO BOB: Please don't feel threatened by Mr. Natural or Mr. Donovan. Kisses!

too pure

So confident I am in my fiction writing talents, I have decided to put balls to the wall and apply for a few artists residencies. Popular thought and opinion holds that when an artist removes his or herself from the sturm und drang of daily life, with its clutter, its attention-seeking dishes and countertops, its cash money transactions, Creativity and Productivity emerge from the depths and guide your hand, heart, and mind. I believe this. I was off the proverbial hook when I was out in Alpine. Just not being around Regular Mo and Regular Life made me feel mentally free in a very good way. It was there that I came up with the "paragraph with a hook" which is now 7000 words into the life of sixteen-year-old Carol Sewicki, who is crushing hard on her dead friend's dad.

One of the residencies I am applying for is all-female, which is both a blessing and a boon. If anyone is familiar with all-female spaces, it's me, and you know why, which is why I am scared to tell the truth in my "why you should pick me" essay. The Ladycollege hurt my brain in many ways, and one of them is that I am wont to believe that this is the type of project proposal they are looking for:

My work gives a voice to the thousands of indigenous women who are silenced and suffering in Chiapas, Mexico...

Between working two minimum-wage jobs and being a single mother to four kids, it was difficult to find the time to write a short story collection...

I am a biracial transgendered sexual abuse survivor and person of faith who was attacked by a mountain lion...

Being a member of Club Oppression got you a lot of mileage at the Ladycollege, and while growing up in the suburbs, cutting your hair short, and kissing a few girls (and then marrying some dude from Wesleyan five years after graduation) doesn't, in my mind, qualify you to wave any big banners, I am still polluted by the idea that somehow my ideas and visions don't count just because I never had anything to say at Speak-Outs.

So here we have the honest version of my "how my writing will affect the reader/why I'm so qualified" statement:

I love writing, feel that I am good at it but still have a lot to learn, and am so very proud of myself for completing my first novel. I want to use a residency to finish my novel about Carol Sewicki, be in a pretty place for a little while, feel validated by passing an admission process, and meet a few other talented writers in the process. Whether or not I am awarded a residency, I plan to complete my second novel and start a third, because I LOVE WRITING.

And we have the Ladycollege-ized "spun" version, all still true but not really how I choose to represent myself:

I wrote my first novel to validate my mother's experiences as a survivor of child abuse. While it has been painful and difficult to be raised by such a profoundly traumatized person, I hope that my novel will bring her some comfort in knowing that even though I can't change history, I can write it down.

So yes, my mom's creepy experiences with the Subcunt were definitely the starting point of the novel; however, I feel DAMN SICK about playing the "traumatized woman" card just to curry pity or feed into the notion that only women who've had a difficult time of things are worthy of a little help in the art world.

I am opting for the clean, honest statement, because I aim to be a clean, honest gal.

NOTE TO MR. NATURAL: You rocked my tastebuds tonight, and Bob's too. He totally dug his tamales and that snow ball was AMAZING! (thanks, emaymcnicks, for the snow ball heads up!) So soft and sticky and sweet. Bob really liked the snow ball, too. Mr Natural, you are yummy.

meat is neat

Tonight at the sketch show (yes, I'm in a sketch show and I memorized ALL MY LINES!!!) there was a guy in the audience that had "EATING MEAT MAKES YOU AN EVIL JACKASS" or something along those lines tattooed on his arm. This reminded me of those Smiffies who got themselves inked up with labrys (the double-sided ax of lesbosity) or entwined female symbol tats b.i.t.d. What a commitment! That was basically saying to the world, "I know at the age of nineteen or whatever, that I am such a hardcore dyke and that I'm going to be one for life and I am so confident that I will never ever meet a man that I might want to fuck or have a relationship with, so I got this tattoo and now I'm committed!" There was a dykier-than-thou woman with a giant lesbish tattoo on her arm who was in my class who, in my four years as class notes columnist, has submitted for all alumnae to see, news of her CHURCH WEDDING to a MAN, her TAKING OF HIS LAST NAME, and the births of her TWO BABIES. One must wonder if she got a hell of a lot of laser tattoo removal or if her husband gets a kinky thrill being married to an ex-BDOC from the rug-munchiest college in the US.

Anyway, I saw this dude's anti-meat tattoo and was like, "Whoa. Dude's either got a pair made of lead to get a tattoo that would certainly get his scrawny ass pounded into sirloin should he run across the wrong cattle rancher with a history of violence-by-tire-iron. Or he's the absolute worst of the self-righteous identity politics assholes who gets a big surge of power having a negative, judgmental statement seared into his arm." I mean, I'm glad the guy likes comedy, but that tattoo is definitely going to keep him out of a lot of careers, especially the grocery and foodservice industries. Have you thought about that, guy?

I made private plans to honor this dude's message by coming home and pan-frying one or two of those thick juicy pork chops Bob insisted we buy at Costco last night. I am usually opposed to purchasing meat at Costco because it is only available in large quantities. As down as I am with meat, I still only eat it maybe two or three times a week, and in small quantities. The rest of the time, I am playing double agent with the soy proteins and the legumes. I know it's hypocritical, but I don't care. I'm an omnivore, damnit. Bob made cow (!) eyes at me and I relented and so we came home with eight or ten pork chops, most of which are probably going to go the way of our wedding cake top, but I do what I can to make my man happy. And that, my friends, is consuming meat.

As I was exiting the theater after the show, what should I spy but an audience member about to tear into a big bag of beef jerky! It was like a sign from G-d. Meat is neat, G-d was saying, and that good sketch comedy should be rewarded with an opportunity to gnaw on some dehydrated animal tissue in spitting distance of Mr. Hate Message. I asked the nice carnivore if I could have some of his b.j. and he obliged. Because I'm not an asshole, I didn't go up to the dude's face and start shoveling the jerky into my mouth trying to pick a fight. But as I was chewing hard on the jerky, the tattooed guy came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder and said "great show!" I had meat in my mouth at the time.

NOTE TO MR. NATURAL: Baby, you know my meat-eating is natural in it's own kinky way. Bob likes it when I eat meat, and damnit, I really like ground beef tacos. You know I love you, though, in all your soyrific beauty. Kisses!

open love letter

Dear Mr. Natural,

I love you. I ate lunch with you for the first time today and it was instant, strong, passionate love. I've lived in Austin for seven years and have driven past your S. Lamar location at least a hundred times, but today was the first time I ever patronized you, and it was only because I was in the neighborhood for my quarterly eyebrow torture at the Waxing Studio. I used to think your name was silly. It made me think of R. Crumb's barefoot hippie character, but you are truly a gentleman.

It was as if you knew that my favorite restaurants are Mexican, healthy and cafeteria-style, and you are all three. I had tofu tamales, refried beans, cucumber salad, and green beans and each item on my plate was delicious. Not salty or greasy or heavy, but just perfect. I also loved that you had at least ten different agua fresca flavors to choose from. I had watermelon and it was refreshing! I ate and drank every last droplet of food and drink and I did not feel too full when I got up to leave. You also have a maddening array of refrigerated bottled drinks. I did not sample your dairy- and sugar-free desserts, because truthfully, I usually dislike those, but next time (and THERE WILL BE A NEXT TIME!) I will.

I am hoping to convince the man I love, Bob, to visit you and taste your soy guisada and your fried eggplant and your tamales. He is very resistant to foods that don't contain animals, but I know that he will read this letter and realize that knowing you is a wonderful thing and that he could benefit from your healthy vegetable side dishes and your multiple variations on tamarindo. You are more delicious and a better dollar value than Casa de Luz, and I just might like you more than I like La Reyna, and that's saying a lot.

Mr. Natural, thank you for just being. I wish you were closer to my house. I would eat at you all the time.

Here's to many more meals together,
Mo

blorpe lervs mho

I know Bob loves me. He tells me every day. He hugs me and rubs my back. He sticks his nose into the fleshy parts of my upper arms. We have miniature squalls over unimportant things (last night he announced that he hates romance languages...???). And Bob has taken to reading web comic Questionable Content because he loves me. Because that comic features a character that is me ten years ago, to the point of it being frightening.

For those not in the know about QC, it takes place in Northampton, and the main character works at the library at "Smif College." The main female character is a glasses-wearing brunette indie rock chick who talks about i-pop bands within the walls of a coffeehouse that is constantly remodeling, comme le Haymarche. Though I am certain that Bob and I would have not found each other attractive ten years ago, I am pleased that he is taking an interest in me-ish things.

Also, I tossed out our wedding cake top today. It was crusty and reeked of freezer burn. I guess whatever tradition surrounding holding onto a rotten baked good for a whole calendar year has been held up and it's smooth sailing for us from here on out.

VOMIT ALERT: some U.S. TV turds have "adapted" The Vicar of Dibley into an American sitcom starring human barf bag Kirstie Alley. What a diarrhea casting choice and a completely shit idea. She needs to admit defeat and go get a job standing in front of a Xerox machine, not in front of a camera. All these failed attempts at reviving her career are pointless, and I'm sick of Americans take UK TV shows and turn them into shit-eating zombie versions of the originals. Especially when there are actual people deciding that some washed-up '80s douchestress is the comedic equivalent of the talented and truly hilarious Ms. Dawn French. REVOLTING!

misty morning

Right now we've got about four burly electricians marauding about our home, redoing the toasted fifty-year-old wiring in our house. They came a-knockin' at 8am. I don't really like being around the house when there are workmen here. They are using saws to cut holes into our drywall and leaving muddy tracks on our floors (guess who'll be the one to clean THAT up?) and making dust and yuck everywhere. So I took my funky self out to breakfast at the nearby hipster breakfast-atorium (as seen in Grindhouse) and had me a tasty bowl of oatmeal. Then I went to the nearly-empty coffeehouse to do some morning writing. Wow! So fertile and healthy is my imagination at 9am! I must rise at 8:00 every morning and immediately begin my writing day! I was seriously kicking some ass there!

Of course, Bob had to go to work, so I had to quit rocking the writing and come home. Now I'm babysitting the workers while they tear apart our walls.

It's dark and rainy here in A-town. There is water on my wooden floors. I think the dudes have left for lunch. It's quiet here. Weird.

more quatrains

Ethiopian restaurant
Finally in the ATX
Big plate of spiced meats
And an informational card on teff

Healthy African grain!
High in dietary fiber
Grown in the fertile Idaho soil
Idaho? Oh.

Ethiopian hot tea
Union of lovely spices
Steam hits nose
Ow! Delicious!

Late night Thunderbird
Barista drops Perrier cap into my Italian soda
I volunteer to fish it out
Wasting Perrier is stupid

Different ideas about
Home improvement
Didn't grow up the same
Too much crap in the house

Adorable wedding
Covered in Publishers Weekly
Not only the province of Town & Country?
Doug would be proud

Peace on Earth
Not a bad novel
Dahlia is a horrible person
Sometimes revenge is being sweet

Ladycollege reunion
We finally have a web volunteer
Internet sexiness ahoy!
And a Boston/NYC ride board

homejobber jacket copy fun

Olivia McLeland and her brother Orson are fairly certain they've left their horrible childhoods behind. As the unacknowledged grandchildren of Robert Vahan, the richest Armenian family in Fresno, California, they have carved Bohemian adult lives for themselves in Boston, far from their traumatized mother and the ghosts of the fathers they never knew. When their spoiled rich kid cousin JR-2 arrives one evening to announce the death of their grandfather and the promise of a piece of his enormous estate, Olivia and Orson return to Fresno to get the money they hope will be retribution for the suffering of their mother at the hands of her evil stepmother, Dahlia, as well as get a little taste of the life that Dahlia has made sure that Olivia's side of the family would never have. When they arrive, Olivia meets Zaven Melkonian, a local businessman and associate of JR-2s, whose fraternal organization, The Brothers of Sassoun, has a stake in Vahan's estate, too. When the full scope of Dahlia's evil is revealed, Olivia and Orson must decide whether or not to hurt the person who has hurt them the most, especially in a family where kindness has never been rewarded.

WOULD YOU READ THIS BOOK?!?!?!?

Marfamarfamarfa!

This is the only photograph I took in Marfa during the twenty or so minutes I wandered about there three weeks ago. There are many buildings on their main-ish street there that are painted white and emblazoned with a red JUDD, for artist/nomad/holy man Donald Judd.

I now find myself strangely drawn into this photo, like some kind of sorcery happens in this building. I was rather un-taken by Marfa. I suppose I went on the wrong day. I wish I had seen what the big deal was. Maybe some other time?

rambleversary

For those keeping track at home, today is Bob's and my First Wedding Anniversary! A year ago I was wearing a white pillbox hat and freaking my shit out! Yay! We celebrated by ordering ahead at Freebirds online. F-birds gets seriously packed at lunchtime, so imagine the rockstar thrill one gets when one walks past the bevy of burrito-waiters and goes straight to the cash register and picks up their already-made burrito. YEAH! We got a few dirty looks and it was fucking awesome.

This past weekend was jam-packed with visitors. Coup-kids Annie and Jaime were tons of awesome fun. To add to that, a member of my Big B Ladycollege crew, C-lee, was in her home state for a wedding so we hung out. I hadn't seen C-lee since, like, '02, so it was awesome to catch up with her. Bob was particularly taken by her older sister, who called someone a "sumbitch," much to Bob's amusement.

One year of married!

emo kids

I hated my year in NYC. Hated it. I am not made to transport myself through tunnels underground with a stranger's armpit pressed to my nose. I am not made to live on a street littered with chicken bones. It was an experience, one I certainly do not regret, but truthfully, I could not wait to get out of there. Moving to Austin has shown itself time and time again to be one of the best decisions I've ever made.

However, among the many good things that happened to me there was meeting Miss Annie, warden of the Coupland Campers, and all around lovely lady. I was reunited with her today after seven years and that lady is an angel. She is an ordained minister and delivered quite possibly the loveliest wedding service I've ever seen in my life. You should have seen her floating about in her white vestments. Angel! I'm not just writing this because I gave her the URL to this here blog. She is also...wait for it...A SISTER OF THE DENT! I had no idea. We are EVERYWHERE. Us bowlies are gonna take over.

(The Japanese!--thank you A. & thank you D. I am going to remember that.)

I'm just going to say it: I thought tonight's final B.o.S. show was DONK. I even made up an unpleasant-sounding adjective to describe it. I attribute its donkness to the totally donk suggestion of GARDEN OF EDEN, which, in my mind was either a vegan restaurant or a sex toy shop, not where Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit. The problem when people suggest to us locations that already have canonical stories attached to them is that we are not in agreeance as to whether or not we play the well-known story or toss it completely and made something up. So the first scene was the real Garden of Eden, the second scene, initiated by moi, was at a sex toy store, the third was among angels. There was a struggle between good and evil and I failed to do Smith College proud by half-assing a kiss on the lips with Shana. We had a very lovely lesbian relationship in which she played a sexually-curious nun and I got to show her what was what.

I also came home insecure as hell about my novel over a rather benign comment made by J-Rat, who has read parts of it. I said it was done and he said, "oh?" and then I somehow stopped believing it was done. So I can safely say that I experienced quite a range of emotions today. Yes I can.

on the bus

I rode the venerable #5 bus downtown this evening to meet up with my beloved. I like to ride the bus, mostly. There is one particular bus driver, an older, portly Hispanic gentleman, who really likes it when I ride the bus. Every time I board and he is the driver, he greets me as if we are old Army buddies who haven't seen each other since our night of drinking and whoring in Okinawa thirty years ago. I return his enthusiastic welcome and almost regret that I don't have a bottle of wine to give him.

Tonight, at my old 38th Street stop, a young couple clad in shiny and revealing clubwear boarded the bus. They were taking a long time up at the front. The bony-backed woman, dressed like the fourth member of the P***l B*******k held out a handful of change and the guy was talking a lot about numbers. It seemed that this couple was attempting to negotiate the price of bus fare. Every Capmetro bus comes equipped with a small but legible sign explaining that adults pay fifty cents to ride the bus. Failure to notice and comprehend municipal signage should not qualify a person to ride at the reduced handicapped fare.

Tonight's ride also featured an eyecatching public display of (enthusastic) affection between a long-haired, goateed caucasian hippie dude and his African-American non-hippie-ish dwarf girlfriend.

I like the bus.

RIP Tony Wilson. FAC ??

normalcy

The cuddly wuddly meat man and I are reunited and you can tell it feels so nice. Soft cotton sheets, body hair, a little TMBG on the computer speakers. Life rocks! The two of us slept like retarded twins in the womb late into the morning and then rose, enjoyed army-style hose-downs, and then headed out into the construction dust because Bob had not been with a burrito in quite some time. His gaping burrito-shaped hole needed filling, so we got into the peak lunch queue at Birdmeato and waited nine LONG minutes to reach the part of the line where the teenager behind the counter tells you they'll be with you in a minute. With beans, meat, and tortillas beginning the long journey to the toilet, we were prepared to face our respective days and for that I am grateful.

I went to the Caffeine Dealer and immediately bumped into Kristin and Asaf. Close readers will note that Kristin is not in Canada and that Asaf obviously isn't, either. Asaf was off to put out some improv fire or other, so he gave me a bristly peck on the cheek and headed out. I shared a table with Kristin for three hours and we spoke fewer than twenty words, as per my promise that I would not bother her while she drank in the scintillating training module she had to complete for her work. I regretted putting down so much burrito that I couldn't handle a tasty cucumber salad.

Yoga was calling my name so I attended a 4:30 hatha class and was duly informed by the instructor that my mat was too slippery. Indeed, as she told me this, I had just been thinking to myself, "It's time to replace my yoga mat." How's that for mind-body connection?

I've written 4300 words of my Catholic school dad-marrying novel and so far, it's been okay. The reader knows what's about to happen so it's all just build up until it happens. How does a high school girl marry her dead friend's dad? Well, I'm GETTING THERE, okay!?!?!

More pasta for dinner. Must go grocery shopping. Target. Aug 11 is the busiest day of my year for some reason. Our first anniversary is Monday, so you have exactly three days to get that wedding present in on time. :)

SATURDAY!
FINAL BOYS OF SUMMER
featuring recent iO grad and wiry keyboard hero
JUAN RATLIFF
8pm
Hideout
WILL! SELL! OUT!

pillows

In an hour, my soft 'n cuddly sexalicious meat man is returning from his five-day jaunt to a much-berated mid-Atlantic state that smells like nail polish remover. Bob told me that he saw at least five dudes lingering about his hotel who "looked and acted like Carl from Aqua Teen Hunger Force." He was away at a computer convention somewhere in the wasteland of South Nueva Her-say. He never even left his hotel, not even to walk to the Wawa for a cup of Freshly Brewed Wawa Coffee, so I can imagine he'll be happy to get home and into bed with his tall crazy writer wife. I can't wait to get my cuddle on with my dude. Seriously. I am cuddle-deficient. That man has soft parts. He's made of cotton and Fiberfill. He is a motile stuffed animal with chest hair who talks nerdy! Yam-shaped men are hot!

I was reading the violent climax part of my novel out loud on the phone last night and realized that it totally blew goats, so I ungoated it this afternoon and hope that it is more gripping, realistic, and non-diarrhea-inducing. I like reading on the can as much as anyone, but I don't want editors to have to poop from my novel. That is fiber's job, not mine.

were you gay in the '80s?

Every now and again I read the F-town Bee. It's a crap small-town paper, but once in a while they run very scintillating articles about the legal dealings of my mother's family, which I enjoy reading. They go to court as often as they go to the can, and everyone loves reading about a mother who sues her children. Anyway, in the interest of not running afoul of lawyerly advice, I'll stop there.

Today I read about one of my uncle's new tenants, a guy who captured my attention when I was twelve. He was a friend of my mom's best friend Gloria, a flamboyant and fun-filled Tower District type who threw elaborate parties, had a loud but warm laugh, and even had a way of charming an austere young girl who spent her days reading above her grade level and worrying that her daddy was about to die. I adored this man and wanted to follow him to the ends of the earth. Men like this were a rarity in F-town, but here was one who chose not to flee to the Bay Area and was sticking around his podunk hometown for some unknown reason. Fortunately he was my mother's age and single and I desperately wanted her to date him. I think this happened right before my mother met the legendary Sweenie, who deserves a blog entry all his own. Sweenie (not his real name) had a cheesy mustache, lived with his mother past the age of 35 (and still does now, in his fifties) and had trouble keeping his manhood under control. This guy, Gary (oh, Gary!) had spark, personality, and social skills. He wore suits and made us laugh.

I told my mother that she needed to start dating him stat, because I knew that she would never get back together with my dad and if I had to have a stepdad, I most certainly deserved an AMAZING stepdad, one who knew how to light up a whole room (y'all know this did NOT happen) with a joke and a bottle of bubbly. She gave me that look, which would be my very first introduction to the Smart Single Girl's Lament, the most prevalent provider of low-grade disappointment that the type of woman I would grow up to be confronts. Gary was the first of numerous men who have soft-shoed through my life and filled it with promise until that single pink lightbulb inevitably appeared over our heads. "I'm pretty sure he's gay, sweetie."

I was only twelve and had limited exposure to gay men, but it made sense. My mother had heard that he threw wonderful parties, but that he only invited men. My mother wasn't even cool enough to be the single lucky hag who got to sing show tunes around the piano with Gary and his well-dressed male friends. A couple of years passed and the miasma of my teen years set in: profoundly lame stepdad, C-Juana, baby, dead father, etc.

Today I cheerfully Googled old Gary to find his company's website. I found another article in the F-town paper about him. About his house. Of course he lives in a professionally-decorated, magazine-spread-worthy house! He's gay and successful! He has lavish parties in his lavish house hosted by himself and his successful wife!"

WHAT?!?!?

See, sometimes I really hate the Internet. I think I was better off believing for twenty years that this man, this monumental man who would have made a top-notch stepdad, was a big homo. But now he's married to a woman?!? Is this a new thing? Was he gay in the '80s but had some sort of conversion years later? Is she a beard? A cousin? Someone in need of a green card? Or for all these years, back then as now, did he actually like women?

It would be honest of me to admit that he probably wouldn't have wanted to marry my mother anyway, but Mom pre-stepdad was a drastically different person than the lump of sad oatmeal I have to deal with now. Whatever spark or vivacity she had was quickly Hoovered away. I know she let it happen and that it's not my problem, but my god! What a different person I would be today had I gotten a stepfather that was worth a damn! I think that's what made me cry, not that a man I barely remember turned out to be straight.

sitemeter

Sitemeter has turned me into the poor man's Harriet M. Welsch. I am curious as to who these Canadians are. Mads, have your relocated to Vancouver or is Doug C. finally reading my blog? And S. Bodo Can o' Corn, are you reppin' 'cuz there's some frequent visitor from cuny. Or is that Lex? Speak up, my Smithly bitches!

Man, I've become one hell of a bitch to volunteer coordination. It's a thankless job, like cat wrangling. No one but this crazy bitch Mo will wrangle cats. I lack the charisma, the fame, and the giant rack that would coerce my fellow improvisers/bitches of the ladycollege to do work for free, so how I keep landing these jobs is beyond me. This would be a good position for a stripper. Strippers can get people to do anything.

Today I learned that Carson McCullers had jack o' lantern teeth on the bottom, but straight teeth on top. I spent my afternoon looking at her photo archive at Harry's. I was somewhat envious of her fashion sense, or lack thereof. I briefly considered starting to dress like her, in that grubby yet classy midcentury bulldagger look, with the wide-legged slacks and the white men's shirts. Carson also wore socks. Being tall and stately, I could pull it off, but I'd have to wear a truckload of jewelry and I'm not really up for that. Plus, it's hot here.

I am between novels. Like being between boyfriends, this involves not being able to let go of the past novel (relationship) and avoiding commitment to the next boyfriend (novel). I would like some reassurance that the PoE 2.0 is good enough to send out into the big bad world (read: NYC) and onto Borders Emerging Voices bookshelf next to all those clean-cut MFA kids.

HELLO CAP METRO BUS DRIVER. You were really f-ing up today. You overshot my stop and you almost plowed into a City of Austin Water truck near my house. And you screwed up the construction detour on Speedway. I am not mad at you but I wish you could better serve your community as a guardian of public safety. I know your job is difficult and that people probably get on your nerves and even vomit or urinate on your bus or threaten you with home-forged weaponry. I respect you, but please try not to crash the bus.

SINGER-SONGWRITER AT POTBELLY. You are talented. I hope you get a better gig soon. Playing for lunchy people eating sandwiches on the Drag seems to be thankless, but I'm glad they have you playing music instead of Sirius Satellite Radio set to the booty-shaking channel.

Newfie, please identify yourself

I've received several hits from Torbay, NF, Canada. Kristin, is that you? Are you in Canada right now?

If not, who are you?

It's a shame about Ray

Man, why do one's thirties have to be this era of total fucking retrospective clarity? Why does it take an entire decade to see all those dumb choices you made when you were oh-so-young? The kicker in my case was that the choices I made when I was young were usually not dumb. I was the most intelligent and pragmatic fucking seventeen year old you'd ever hope to meet, which makes me the worst kind of idiot: the really smart idiot, the one who made the adult choice at the expense of youthful joie de vivre. I was a moron in high school and only occurred to me a few weeks ago, driving my car around town, doing my shit, which is writing and being married to Borpe and serving the Geegsters total love slave. I realized that though at times I might have bitched about not having a boyfriend in high school, in fact I did. We hung out all the time and laughed and went to the same movie over and over and ate disgusting things and made fun of the Cinco de Mayo Mexican tittie dancers in the sharpest way possible. We just never smooched or did the nasty. I regret this. I totally should have nailed Ray in high school. I didn't. For no other reason, we sure as hell weren't hitting other people. It was kind of hard to find anyone who was funny or spoke English at C-Juana High who was also SINGLE and in classic overly pragmatic teenage style, I failed to see what was right in front of my face. I had read some shit in Sassy or something and held fast to the notion that I should not make physical advances on my man Big Ray because I might "ruin the friendship." And I didn't ruin the friendship. Ray and I were in sporadic but consistent contact for twelve solid years after high school.

Senior year was a big year for me and Ray. We both held supervisory positions on the school paper and were totally kicking shit up a notch with our incredibly provocative pieces on the death of Andrew Ridgeley's career and which movie-promotional cereals actually tasted good. After reading about a penis enlargement clinic in the SD Reader, I commanded Ray to make an appointment for an article. We didn't have an angle. I just wanted to get a pass to leave school early to drive to La Jolla and watch Ray turn a million shades of red after whipping out his dingle for some two-bit doctor. He refused to do it, of course. Ultimately that evil cunt Elvia got the better of us and Ray and I were demoted to lowly staff writers. Ray and I went to prom together, then I went to Smith and he went to UCI and then law school. He occasionally called to ask if a back scratcher would be an appropriate gift for the girl he was too scared to break up with.

There was this moment at Denny's after prom, when we were eating cheese sticks and drinking coffee and I had partially dismantled my prom frock (which was described by aforementioned homophobic homosexual FDT as "chic with a chapeau") that Ray gave me the look. The kiss me look. He was scared, I was scared, we were tired after eating a gallon of marischino cherries from the prom sundae bar and not dancing once DJ started exclusively catering to the Mexicans. I saw it and could identify it, but I passed. It is only now, at the age of 31, that I realize that some relationships are meant to be punted. Abused. Crapped on. It's how you learn about yourself and other people. So what if it fucked shit up? I was three months away from Camp Lesbo in Massachusetts.

I haven't spoken to Big Ray in over a year. Rather than write him an e-mail to see how the man is doing, I'm instead writing this blog post. Why, I can't say. I don't really want to be 17 again so I can make retrospective right choices. No point in rehashing one's youthful indiscretions. Sometimes I wish that I had been the kind of teenager who drank and fucked and did stupid shit. I was so painfully good. I did everything right, so much that now, I know it was wrong. And now it's too late for that. I'm not young anymore. I never made the mistakes I should have and I regret it.

So, Big Ray, if you're reading this, I'm sorry we never made out in your teenage bedroom while your mother and grandmother called me a whore in Tagalog outside the door. It would have been a totally good time.

Thank you!

I love Bob a whole lot and for many reasons. He is strong and dependable, smart and witty, a shoulder to cry on, and someone who props me up when I'm down. It is for many reasons that my love for him is abundant, but truly, the greatest gift he has given me is the perpetual presence of sauerkraut in our familial refrigerator. Sauerkraut is a fine addition to a grilled avocado and swiss sandwich. Without Bob, I wouldn't have any idea that I would love sauerkraut as much as I do.

Thank you, Bob. I love you!

Stand up and fight!

I got into an argument with my mother via telephone today. She casually mentioned that one of her neighbors in the 'Mar owns a 240 pound bull mastiff who is prone to getting aggro with you if you don't pet him and give him a shitload of attention. One of my mom's friends was visiting and both dog and owner were encountered during a standard walk around the block, during which time they stopped to chat, and the dog started head-butting mom's friend Marie-France in the waist area, nearly knocking her over. The dog owner did nothing to restrain her beast and of course, mom and Marie-France just smiled and waited until the lady turned the corner before complaining about how rude and unaware she had been.

"I don't understand why you and M-F didn't say something. If that were me, I'd tell that lady to control her animal! I don't appreciate being bullied by a dog that outweighs me by 80 pounds."

My mother went BALLISTIC at me for threatening to assert my right to not get mauled by a dog. "That lady gave me a ride to the mechanic and if I ever need anything again, I don't want you interfering with that!"

So better your only daughter get pummeled by a GIANT FREAK-ASS DOG just so you don't have to pay for a taxi the next time one of your multiple automobiles needs to go to the shop? Apparently so!

My mother is the most passive mushpot fucking woman on the planet. Being like that was has gotten her nothing but trouble and heartache, yet she staunchly believes that letting others take a dump on you is the ticket to being liked. It took me until I was damn near thirty to realize that being assertive and standing up for one's self is a healthy and admirable pursuit and goddamn it if I'm going to suffer some incompetent dog owner just so this neighbor lady will continue to proffer the occasional favor. Apparently I'm suppose to smile and get head-butted by a dog who could totally take me out just so my mother can get a ride or a cup of sugar once in a while. I don't fucking think so.

What makes me sick is that to her, PROTECTING MYSELF EQUALS HURTING HER. I am not playing Stockholm Syndrome with her. She can take that shit and cram it.

She was HYSTERICAL! Over a hypothetical situation in which I failed to behave like a dishrag fucktard just to make her comfortable. Like she was going to bust a nut all because, God forbid, I should do what I need to do to protect myself and feel SAFE. Nope, can't have that.

Bitch better keep her dog away from me next time I'm in the 'Mar. I will not hold back.

American Studies Nerd Dream Vacation

I nearly pissed my knickers today when I read this article in the Times:http://travel.nytimes.com/2007/08/03/travel/escapes/03Oneida.html

I had no idea that you could stay at the Oneida colony as a tourist!

For those of you who don't know, I LOVE the Oneidas. The 1870s were something of an age of enlightenment in the US. Post-Civil War radical ideas about sex, gender, race, and education allowed a few wonderfully bizarre institutions to exist and endure. In western Massachusetts, a deaf lady with a lot of money was banging her minister and thus was born Smith College. Outside of Syracuse, NY, a charismatic named John Noyes attracted hundreds to his community of religious and sexual deviation that sustained itself financially on the dish and silver business that still exists to this day. Everyone had sex wtih everyone else (except for Charles Guiteau, who went on to assassinate President Garfield--no one wanted any action with him, according to S. Vowell's book Assassination Vacation) out of this idea of "complex marriage." To eliminate feelings of jealousy and possessiveness, everyone was married to everyone else and was encouraged to have sex with many partners in order to feel closer to God. Their community rejected traditional gender roles, children were raised communally, a high value was placed on education, and the family itself was redefined.

Visiting the Oneida Colony has been on my list of things to do for years now. It's not too far off from the Robert Ingersoll house, which is regrettably only open in the summer, so no combo leafing/Ingersoll appreciating/heavily discounted tableware for me.

Oh man...I'm going to get my 1870s on in a HUGE WAY sometime soon. I won't practice complex marriage with the descendants that still live there but damn! I LOVE THE ONEIDAS!

lofty conversations

I don't have anyone to have pretentious conversations about art and literature with. I miss that. I miss the east coast.

I am about to become a totally pretentious conversational artfagstress/slut. It's all fake but oh my god do I miss it so!

what if?

What if you had the chance to hurt the one person who hurt you and your family most?
What if someone gave you the chance to hurt that person? Would you see that as an act of love?
Would you trust the one person you never thought you could?
Would you trust yourself?

Does this make you want to read my novel? This is all query letter stuff.

UPDATE ON STEPSON SITCH: No dice. He canceled and apparently he must read this blog because Mom reports that the jets are sounding pretty cool. Oh well.

SFU UPDATE: Season 4 is depressing as hell. I'm starting to hate it. Everything's so negative!

this ain't medieval europe!

My mother got home from her court bullshit today to discover that my older half-brother, her former stepson who is actually four years her senior, had left her a message. It seems that Older Bro's favorite steakhouse is but a mile from my mother's new home in the 'Mar and that he'd love to take my mom there for dinner next week, if she's available.

A few things about Older Bro. I never mention him because he's not worth mentioning. He made it abundantly clear that he didn't care for the fact that I was born and has spent the last thirty-one years ignoring me. He's rather pleasant to me now as an adult, but when I was a kid, forget it. I have heard from my paternal cousins that he refers to me as "The Daughter." The last time we spoke, he referred to Bob as "the gentleman I hang out with." So I guess in his mind, I am not worthy of a name or a husband. Thanks, dude.

Now that my mom's free of the loser stepdad, Older Bro's interest has piqued and he appears to be coming a-courtin'. This is the third or fourth call that Older Bro has made to my mom since the step-dumping and my mother and I are both curious as hell to see where he's going with all this. Is he trying to get in my mom's pants? Because if he is, indeed, trying to get with the woman who was married to his father for twelve years and bore his child, that's a little oogy. I don't care if they are the same age and Dad's dead: yuck! She's assured me she is not interested and questions his ability to utilize his equipment due to age and medical reasons.

Of course, he's the same age now as my father was when I came along, so perhaps she's wrong about that diagnosis. Still, dating your ex-stepmom poses moral quandaries that we'd rather not ponder. My mother is not above a free steak and an evening of Hollywood gossip, though, so she's taking him up on the dinner offer!

More as this develops!