Bette Davis Is Probably Lying...

With everyone wrapping up the year with "Best Of" lists, 2015 is going down as the year models fought back against body shaming, Bill Cosby took that Spanish fly routine to a whole new level of batshit, and transgender mania.  But for my readers, 2015 is the year White Girl Walkin saw Star Wars.  And a week ago today I was surrounded by Millennium Falcon t-shirts and the kind of people who actually buy the commemorative popcorn tin.  I am way overdue for my review/synopsis.   Now I know better than to spoil a new Star Wars film, so I'm going vague here.  Just the tip...

This film doesn't stray too far from the originals in style or story.  There were a lot of 40 somethings clapping and whooping and carryin' on--especially the skinny bitch beside me.  I've never seen someone so small use up so much space.  Anyway, I think the fact that things didn't get too crazy flashy modern was appreciated.  Now for the highlights.

There is of course a sexual tension, will they/won't they situation.  Only this time I don't think there is a chance of creepy blood relation getting in the way since one of them is white and British,  and the other one is black and talks American.--Speaking of this, space in 2015 is really diverse.  There are British people and Irish people and brown people and yellow people and lots of angry, pinched little gays.  There's even this sloppy vagina faced guy:

But is it necessary that the black guy still has to be a garbage man? C'mon with this.

Storm Troopers.  They're not going anywhere.  I've heard more than one person say that Storm Troopers are Nazi-ish.  I never quite saw that.  Well it's made pretty clear this time around, and as someone who's seen a real-life Dachau tattoo, I'm gonna need that to be taken down just a smidge.--While we're on Storm Troopers, is it me or do they have like the worst armor in the world?  No Storm Trooper that gets shot ever keeps going or lives.  They are walking around with giant iPhone cases as protective war gear. Luke Skywalker got a brand new hand within 10 minutes in like 1980,  how are these uniforms not better?  Can we get them some Otter Boxes at least?

The bad guys do really, really bad stuff.  Oh, and the new wanna be Darth Vader is like if Vinnie Barbarino was a school shooter.  Only I've seen that guy in an episode of Girls, so I'm not afraid of him.

The good guys do good stuff, some Top Gun stuff happens, and there will clearly be a sequel.

Stay tuned...

Jaws Was Never My Scene and I Don't Like Star Wars...

I have a confession to make.  Along with having never been camping or never ever having had egg nog, I have also never seen Star Wars--nope none of them.  But I was born in the 70s and always knew the characters, so I get the gist.  Anyway,  I bought my nerd wife tickets for the The Force Awakens, and in trying to pretend to be interested, I guess I asked the wrong questions.  Well that was remedied pretty quickly because this weekend I was treated to a marathon so I will know what is happening come December 23 while I keep myself occupied  with a giant cherry coke and red vines.  

So to make life easier for those of you out there like me, the following are the White Girl Walkin Cliff's Notes of the Star Wars saga.  But be warned, if you are planning to watch for yourselves, there are spoilers.  And if you have seen the films and are a fan, well then I guess it's up to you to decide if we should still be friends.

The first film: A New Hope.  This is actually not the first chapter at all, this is part four of the story.  But when I asked why we weren't starting with the actual first one, there was a lot of huffing. Apparently the films telling the first three stories had Natalie Portman, Liam Neeson, and Jar Jar Binks in them which is horribly offensive to Star Wars purists.  So missing like the first six hours of the whole thing, here's where we begin:

Luke Skywalker is an orphan living with a strict uncle on a space farm, but all he wants is to be a pilot.  There's this nelly queen robot walking around with this short funny robot for comic relief. They're sort of like Bert and Ernie.  The Ernie robot accidentally shows a private film to Luke so Luke  wanders off on this mission to find the hot chick in the projection.  Somehow he hurts himself and Obi Wan Kenobi rescues him and tells him all about the force and a little about his (as far as we know) dead father.  Some more stuff happens and Luke's aunt and uncle end up dead so Luke is free to fight the empire.  Then he meets Princess Leia (the hot chick in the projection), and everybody meets Han Solo.  And some Top Gun stuff happens.  Apparently Obi Wan and Darth Vader come face to face and have a light saber fight, but I fell asleep during this part.  I'm told that's where Obi Wan died.  Then there's more Top Gun stuff and the Death Star (bad) gets obliterated by the good guys (Luke, Han, Leia).  Then at the end, Leia gives Luke and Han Olympic medals while Chewbacca stands there awkwardly because he's technically just like a pet and doesn't get a medal. 

The second film: The Empire Strikes Back opens in the North Pole where the Abominable Snowman attacks Luke and eats his ram-dinosaur thing.  Meanwhile, Han is trying to leave the Rebels (all the good guys) to pay off a debt.  But everyone is so worried about Luke that Han can't bring himself to go without finding him.  So he goes off into the blizzard and finds Luke freezing to death.  To save his life, Han cuts open his own ram-dinosaur thing and stuffs Luke inside his guts to warm him up. He lives.  He's in the hospital when Leia lays a big ol' kiss on him just to show off in front of Han--This will be important later.  When Luke gets better there is an attack on the Rebels by these giant metal elephants.  The Rebels win.  Then Luke is trying to go somewhere (?) and crash lands in this swamp where he meets Kermit the Frog's dementia stricken grandfather.  This turns out to be Yoda. For the next few weeks Yoda and Luke do this Karate Kid thing so Luke can learn to be a Jedi.  But he leaves early because he has this acid trip in the marsh.  In the meantime, Princess Leia is running around with all the hairstyles I ever saw my eastern European grandmother wear, and getting sexually harassed by Han and Billy Dee Williams. Billy Dee Williams ends up  betraying everyone and handing Leia, Han, Chewbacca, and Bert and Ernie to Jabba the Hut, who is bad and gross. But Han has to be frozen in carbon first, and the others get the opportunity to escape.  Luke finally meets Darth Vader, and Darth tells Luke that he is his father AND THEN CUTS OFF HIS HAND! But space hospitals can just give you a new one, so it's totally fine.  Now everyone is alive, but  they have to concentrate on getting Han out of the carbon.

The third and final film:  The Return of the Jedi opens with Luke now a Jedi master in a chic black uniform and riding boots.  Princess Leia tries to rescue Han from Jabba, but she gets caught and becomes Jabba's slave.  Famous Princess Leia bikini stuff happens, and Jabba is like a big phlegmy slug-booger-cat.  But then Bert and Ernie and Luke and Billy Dee come to rescue her.  Han is freed, but then the whole crew is taken out to this pirate ship in the desert to be eaten by a venus fly trap. Of course they escape, and Leia strangles Jabba to death with her slave chain. In the meantime,  the bad guys are building a new Death Star.  Luke goes back to Yoda to clear some things up, and then Yoda finally dies because he is like 900.  But this is where Luke discovers Leia is his sister-which is a little questionable because of all the previous sexual tension between them--and that hospital kiss.  While all this is happening everyone else ends up in a forest surrounded by teddy grahams.  Then they get attacked by more giant metal elephants and the teddy grahams help the Rebels destroy them all. Back at the new Death Star, Mr. Burns shows up in a cable knit hooded duster, and we start to see how Darth Vader turned bad. Luke confronts Darth Vader again and there is a lot of fighting, and then Luke CUTS OFF DARTH VADER'S HAND!  But then Luke is like "fuck this" I'm not fighting you, so Mr. Burns gets pissed and tries to electrocute Luke.  But Darth Vader is not havin' it because deep down he really is a good person, so he throws Mr. Burns to his death.  Luke and Darth make up, but Darth dies anyway, and Luke escapes with his body.  Some Top Gun stuff happens and the new Death Star blows up too, and with Darth and Mr. Burns dead, the whole galaxy is free again.  Luke has a private funeral for his dad, and all the teddy grahams celebrate with the good guys.  And all is right with the world.

The end.

Chain Smokin' While The Stereo Plays Noel, Noel...

So this is Christmas.
I'm trying to get into the holiday spirit here, but I had the AC on cooking Thanksgiving dinner and it is now 72 degrees in mid-December while I try to get all of these fucking cookies baked.

Sidebar:  Yes, I cook Thanksgiving dinner and bake cookies and use the word cunt and swallow. Yes, I'm like the all time perfect woman.  But I'm also married, and wake up early on Saturdays, and I will not do your laundry.  So you know, everything's a compromise. 

Anyway,  I was saying:  I'm pretty sure as I'm standing in this hot kitchen knee deep in vegan muffins while all the polar bears in the world burst into flames, that a flying insect of a summertime sort just flew up my nose.  If I wanted to holiday in these conditions, I would still be living on a marsh.  I moved  north so that I could have snow days, and be guaranteed at least four months out of the year when I'm not walking around all shiny and pink.  Like some happy can of Spam in a Hawaiian parade. Whether you call it climate change, the apocalypse, or armageddon, the struggle is real.  And nobody is having a cozy cup of cocoa to celebrate.

BUT, I did sit on Santa's lap today.  And he gave me a present.  OK, it was like a keychain--but who in 2015 does not love attention from a beard?  And a random stranger paid my tab, which is like the third time in as many months that something like that has happened to me.  And I sang Happy Birthday to a lady named Barbara who was shit faced on Italian restaurant table wine at 3 pm.  I don't know Barbara at all, but she may just end up on my cookie list.  And I have a gay Christmas wedding to look forward to. I might pull out my cutest sundress for it.  Cookie anyone?

I Burned a Hole In the Dining Room Table...

For those not in the know, it's the fourth night of Hanukkah. The fourth night focus is on dining--maybe not so much the act of eating, but the whole production of setting a table--making things pretty, sharing food.  I don't profess to be the expert here, but that's the general idea.    
Totally appropriate tonight because the holidays always make me think of people I've lost touch with. And lately I've been thinking of a dinner companion that fell off the face of the earth.
He was always sort of around on the outskirts of my circle of friends.  Everybody knew him, but no one really knew him.  He was serious-faced, an introvert.  My friends and I called him Suicide Watch.  I'd barely even had a conversation with him, and then one night at a Nascar race of all places (don't ask) the guys I was with got too drunk to drive me home.  So Suicide Watch offered, and it was either risk being choke-fucked to death in a semi-stranger's SUV or spend the night in an RV at a Nascar race.  I took the ride.  A few days or so later he asked me to lunch, and over a hummus plate I told him about his official moniker. And from then on that's what we did. We ate together.
Every couple of weeks he would get in touch and we would have dinner.  Every time a new restaurant opened, or some old school cocktail started trending we would be there.  Sometimes he paid, sometimes I did, sometimes we split the check.  And sometimes we drank cheap wine and ate frozen pizza at my place. We never really talked about anything important-no thoughts or feelings. We didn't share things about our past, we didn't talk about the future.  We usually talked about the here and now, what was on the news that very day, what was happening at his office.  We made fun of the people around us.  I'm not even sure what kind of music he liked.  From the outside it would seem like we didn't have much in common.  He was quiet and serious, and I am...not.  He was athletic, a cyclist, a rock climber.  I am...drunk most of the time.
But he was good to me. He accommodated my vegetarianism. He called me to make dinner plans once after I'd only been home a few days after surgery.  I told him I had been sick and wasn't presentable or up for solid food.  Instead of taking a rain check, he came over anyway with soup and watched black and white movies.  He pretended not to notice when, after living out of state for a while, that I'd come home 40 pounds heavier than when I left. We kept eating anyway. In fact the only thing that put a stop to our dinner dates was me telling him I was getting married.  He never got in touch again.
I didn't give much thought to our friendship at the time.  He never tried to make any moves, never even flirted, and I never thought of our meetings as anything other than dinner.  A night when I didn't have to try too hard to entertain anyone or give life-changing advice or worry about if so and so was going to show up at the bar.   But I wonder now what kind of escape those dinners were for him. Was it the food and drink or the no frills company? Or maybe he was stalking someone that whole time and I was his cover.  Or maybe he had an ex and he wanted it to get back to her that he was out with some tattooed brunette.  Whatever it was, I miss it.

#TBT

And given nothing, left with the same
too tired to let my own rage well up inside me
I let it sit and fester at the bottom of my gut
not rage, too exhausted for anger
infection
some virus or bacteria, flesh eating
succumbing to it, sloth-like
wanting just once to be saved
without having to cry out for help
and I wait for it
like Moses on Mt. Sinai
I want to fall to my knees, give my life over to God
but they are too bruised already
and I fear they won’t hold my weight
bitter chalk sits at the back of my throat
comfort in a child proof vial
limbs too heavy to lift up
and wipe the sleep from my eyes
head too heavy to shake away true dreams
that will come later, and with no explanation
show me my one true love
show me this divine plan
but don’t come unannounced
disgusted by the state of it
this valley of the dolls
this bay of pigs
there’s dirt in my bed
and I can’t remember who put it there
clouded
the stench of ammonia and plastic
burn a hole in my brain
self inflicted dementia, genetic delusion
I won’t walk barefoot in this house
I won’t break bread at the table
for fear I‘ll find bits of Dr. Thompson’s brain there
I won’t answer the phone at 3 am
for fear a late night suitor will want in
through the back door, into the junkyard
out through the front, contemplating on the doorstep
with hands in his pockets, unclean and shamed
this will never be written in a notebook
for all prosperity or just a few well meaning offspring
the truth of this having come to me months ago
in a moment of sobriety and feeling
the pressure of it sitting in my chest
afraid to scream out loud
or breathe in too deeply
for fear my lungs will split open
so I live short of breath
turning over in this kennel
in this rabbit hole, this cave
this dirty bed, this leaky toilet, this blown speaker
building up a tolerance
to this loss, to this weight
to this ignorance, to this mountain
to the smell of airplane pussy
to this air I breathe, polluted and heavy
with fumes.

This happens all the time, it's detachable...

I know.  I’m behind on my review of the AMAs.   So I risk looking completely behind the eight ball in this “Next!”  world we live in, or just ignore that it even happened.  But everyone knows I live for an award show.  To be fair, I didn’t watch the whole thing.  I missed the hour between 9 and 10 EST.  Not because of The Walking Dead, but because I’m a grown up now and had to shop for Thanksgiving dinner, lest my guests be treated to an assortment of miss-matched beer,  week old kale, and extra firm tofu...

JLo—I’m disappointed that her first hosting dress of the evening looked like a badminton shuttlecock.  I like my JLo to constantly remind me that she is from the Bronx—which she did—and looking like one long monochromatic highlighter stick.  Like something I’d see in the Naked display at an Urban Decay counter.  Verdict:  I’d still let her do it to me.

5 Seconds of Summer—I admit I don’t know much about these twinks.  I’ve seen them here and there, but I just can’t be bothered to Google them, so if I’m out of line here apologies in advance.  Does Duran Duran know they’ve stolen their music?  I feel like I saw them covering The Kinks or something once too.  Is that their shtick?  Verdict:  None of them could do it to me.  In fact, I’m not sure I’m legally allowed to imply it.

Demi Lovato—I kind of hate girl power, independent woman anthem songs.   They are usually contrived and corny, and so is the smoky eye and red lip combo that usually accompanies them.  But Demi has her thigh and hot pants game together, even if she doesn’t know the words to the hardest Alanis Morrisette song every white girl does devil horn fingers to.   Verdict:  If she’s over 21 and “in a good place”, I’d prolly do it to her.

Meghan Trainor—I was ready for her 15 minutes to be over last year.   Only because her stuff was all novelty, and she always looked so terrified, and because she couldn’t walk in heels.  So good for her and her new block heel platforms and new found confidence.  And for her new boyfriend or whatever.  My question is, why would a woman made famous for trying to bring booty back (P.S. it already was) wear her Spanx backwards on national television?  Verdict:  Good for you for still dressing yourself in this point in your career.  Keep it grounded.

That eunuch from Pentatonix—Disconcerting. AND everything!!!!  Verdict:  I would definitely wear pajama pants and eat cupcakes with him.

Skrillex—Your new record sounds like you pulled a couple of records from Norman Cook’s bins.  No one believes you.  Verdict:  Why?

Justin Bieber—I’m comfortable enough with myself to admit that I don’t roll my eyes at or hate Justin Bieber.  I’d tried to decide a few years ago if he was going to go full douche and fade away when he started growing facial hair, or if he was going to transition into an everyman’s musical hard-on like Justin Timberlake.   Since he still isn’t growing facial hair yet, I’m not convinced.  I’m not really sure the direction he’s going.  What I do know is that he had an entire audience waving giant pink glowing dildos.  Some of them more enthusiastically than others… And until he pulled a Flashdance on one of Rhianna’s old sets, he was actually singing—which is more than we can say for some.  Verdict:  I would not let Justin Bieber do it to me.  But I would probably entertain an awkward conversation where he pursed his lips a lot and tried to sound mature while he stole glances at my boobs.  And I would know he was looking at my butt when I got up to go to the bathroom.  But then I would leave and he wouldn’t even walk me to my car, so I would leave him sitting at the bar while he asked the bartender how much everything cost.

Finally, it’s no wonder I found this little guy at some point during the viewing.  A general penis theme sort of ruled the night.  I think I wrote something a while back about a Dorito dusted dick…And there it is.

You’re welcome.

The Weekly Walk With Me

 Four things that gave me life this week...

4.  I don't care about cars.  What kind you drive, how much it cost, how it corners--I don't even know what that means...  But I do love to drive.  And I will drive a car until the axle just breaks in half and the wheels fall off.  For the first time in 10 years, I've put myself in a new car.  So now where to?  I will entertain all suggestions here, because I'll be driving this car till I'm 50.

3.  The CMAs.  I know, I know.  Everyone shit their pants over Chris Stapleton and Justin Timberlake. I didn't know these two knew each other, which is awkward since they are both my boyfriends, but that was the only surprising thing about their performance for me. What I really lived for was all the preening and block heels and tight pants.  And I'm talking about the men, not Reba McEntire.  The only thing more All- American homoerotic than today's country music industry (and the word industry has never been more appropriate) is professional football.  The only place I've seen better chain wallet and hanky game is twink night at a daddy bar. If Keith Urban weren't already a lesbian track coach, I'd say he'd be a perfect match for Kenny Chesney's power bottom. Go get 'em boys!

2.  Some things happened on Twitter this week that made me feel like it's OK to just lay down and die now.  My love for Anne Murray is no secret.  I carried her around with me in my portable cassette player/turntable every day, every hour, every minute for a good portion of my early childhood.  And this week ANNE MURRAY RETWEETED ME!  This means Anne Murray knows, or knew for at least a second, that I exist.  And Anne, if you're reading this, please know  I only put Barbara Mandrell in that portable turntable a handful of times.  I saw right through all that Aquanet and her skanky sisters.  It's you, Anne.  It's always been you.
AND Siedah Garrett followed me. I mean.  I. can't. even.  My work here is done...

1.  Willie Anne Wright.  Just hours after I made a cognitive decision to go full on into midlife crisis mode before even turning 40, I attended a gallery opening showing Willie Anne Wright's Direct Positive project for the first time. What's amazing about this artist is that she is 90.  This is obviously not her first show, but the first time this particular work has been shown. These photos were taken in the late seventies--when she was in her 50s.  Just a few years prior to this she discovered pinhole photography, and her medium would change forever, or at least for the next 40-ish years. These and her other photographs are some of the most fascinating images I've ever seen.  Her work skews dark, but she is joyful, and chic, and gracious.   And I'm winded and pissed at 38.  I could learn a lot from Willie Anne.

What an Inheritance, The Salt & The Kleenex...

I spent half an hour in the shower this morning like it was Saturday and I had nowhere to be.  I layered my lipstick with a Something Corporate song in my head like I was 23 and it was Friday night, not Friday morning.  I thought about one day last week when I had Boo-berry cereal for breakfast and listened to pre- 20/20 Experience J.T.

I watched the leaves fall to the highway on my morning commute and thought about where I could drive to if I should happen to miss my exit.  I judged a Sara Bareilles song harshly.  And then realized it was written for a Broadway musical, so I took it back.

I thought about the kid in the mailroom who doesn’t call me ma’am and winks at me in the hallway.  And all the people in denial about 40 being the beginning of midlife.  And how both of my grandmothers were dead in their sixties before I’d gotten through high school.  Both grandfathers dead before I was even born.   Given that genetic math, I’m actually running about five years behind.  I am literally in the middle of my life.

I realized I’ve always surrounded myself with older people, and never thought about age—young or old—until it started thinking about me.  I tried to put my finger on the exact moment a girl becomes a woman.  And what makes a woman a lady.  And how I never call men, men.  Always guys.

I thought about how much time I have left.  How Elton John pulled Leon Russell out of nowhere 30 years after becoming an almost.

And then I stepped out of the car with my scarf and my Starbucks.  I walked into the office and winked back.  Shopped for nauseatingly expensive sunglasses.  Made an appointment for bangs.  And decided to pull the trigger on my midlife crisis.

If You Catch Me at the Border I Got Visas In My Name...

There is a reason the traditional first anniversary gift is paper.  Something fragile--easily torn.  Something that cuts.  Something misplaced among the piles.  Something some would argue is becoming obsolete, or only made to look pretty, as a novelty.

Some paper is glossy and shiny-all surface.  You would have to shift it and look at just the right angle to really see it. Shuffle it around to make it look like you’re doing something.

Some is crafted and authentic.  You notice the weight of it.  How easily the ink glides over it.

Some is lined and ruled.

Some is soft enough to cry into.

Some is used as currency.

Some used to be something else entirely.

And some is made from elephant shit.

But some you scrawl your most personal thoughts on.  To lock away in a file cabinet, or stow in a shoe box.  And it knows something about you that is as personal as your handwriting.  To know a person by the curve of their Ys and the strong lines of their Ts.

You learn to fold your 5’8” frame like origami, to accommodate and compromise.  

You learn that it is a common misconception that ink is permanent.  That it is actually graphite that will not fade—though it can be erased.  And smudged into shadow. And written over.  And erased again.

You learn to work page by page, waste sheet after sheet, to rewrite and refold and rebind. And sometimes it gets balled up and thrown into the fire. 

But getting caught it the wind makes it litter, so you keep it stationary.

The Weekly Walk With Me

Four Things I Discovered This Week

1.  Mule Hell Trading Company.  Do yourself a favor and buy at least one thing from this shop.  The olive oil soaps make me happy.  The spearmint with kelp and coffee beans is my new favorite.  I'll be honest, this particular bar is borderline painful but it's awesome for exfoliating areas where you'd want to be extra careful with a spoonful of salt scrub--cuz, you know...


2.  Something new to do with apple cider.  I like cider, it's a fall staple, blah blah.  I use it to cook and drink and such.  But cold or hot,  it can be on the bland side.  I'm sure I'm not the first to add alcohol, but this weekend I added lemon juice for a little bite, and Fireball for a little kick. The next person who takes a seat at my fire pit is getting a mug of this, so prepare yourself.  It was perfect scary movies with the lights out giant mug drinking.

3.  Scary movies I missed the first time around.  First was Dark Places, which wasn't really scary but a dark suspense situation.  And dark it was.  Literally.  They could've spent less money on Charlize Theron and more money on lighting.  I felt like I could've rented this on audio book at a Cracker Barrel and took a road trip.  At midnight.  It would've had the same effect. There was about 15 minutes of the entire movie that I could actually see.  And that's not just because I'm old lady status.
Then there was It Follows.  I'm late on this, it's been around for a while, but I didn't think I'd be interested.  It was creepy and awkward and terrifying, mostly because of the score.  It was timeless in a way that you think you can tell that it's supposed to be set in a certain time, but it's not really set in any particular time. It was the small details that got me.  Kind of brilliant.

4.  I want someone to be happy for once.  And it's Adele.  Everyone lost their minds this week when Adele's new single was released.  I can't place where, but I'm sure I saw her perform "Hello" before her hiatus.  Anyway, I love Adele just as much as anyone.  She can stomp out time in a Chanel heel like nobody's business. I kind of preferred her when she chain smoked in ratty cardigans and self cut bangs, but I'm still paying attention. Anyway, you will rarely hear me say this but I'm kind of over that sad, pining, one that got away schtick.  There are certain artists that should always be miserable. Like I hate that Ray LaMontagne is doing this happy hippy thing now.  He should always be running off to a cabin in the woods, licking divorce wounds.  Trent Reznor should always be just a little twisted pissed.  But Adele should be transitioning to happy by now.  Or at least optimistic about the prospect of getting the one that got away back.  We get it Adele, a past relationship didn't work, and you have the over-singing in fall leaves black and white sads about it.  But you have a new-ish baby, and a partner/boyfriend/husband? thing going on now.  And obviously a gaggle of gays keeping you contoured and strobed within an inch of your life.  Why the long face--still?  So perk up buttercup, you're killin my buzz.

The Weekly Walk With Me

It's been a while since we took this stroll together...

Seven Things I've been Up To.  In No Particular Order.

1. I've met my soul mate.  OK, maybe I shouldn't go that far; but I met a friend who out of the blue one day proclaimed that fajitas are obnoxious.  Which is something I have always said!  No one ever understands when I say this but I hate, hate, hate a fajita.  First of all, they are loud for no reason and cause too much of a scene.  And if one is walked past your table your hair will smell like green pepper smoke for the rest of the day/night.  God forbid you are wearing anything knit when this happens, it will never come out of your clothes and even your boobs will smell like grilled meat and onions--which maybe for some people is kinda hot.  But then after all of this, you still have to put them together.  I don't want to put my own food together in a restaurant.  That's why I'm in a restaurant.

2. I also met a boy with a Rush tattoo.  And for some reason this did not stop me from talking to him.

3. I officially hate X Ambassadors.  Especially that commercial song.

4. We almost lost this face.  Again.

A couple of Saturdays ago I woke up to a pretty gross mess. Seven hours at the emergency vet to be told that it was "most likely cancer".  So the following Monday I learned what a doggy oncologist and ultrasound is all about. Turns out it was just a VERY expensive, messy,  but manageable infection.   I'm pretty sure Bella is actually a cat, because she's on her eighth life.

5. The Knick.  It has everything: rampant cocaine use, prostitutes, corruption, olden times inter-racial relationships, and yummy Clive Owen.  Only he's not really that yummy here because he's an asshole drug addict who never wears socks with boots.  Gross.  Oh, and there's medical stuff that happens too.

6. My current office listening is straight out of  the Rockabye Baby library and I am absolutely not ashamed.  Right now it's The Smiths, but I'm considering having a go at Nine Inch Nails.  It's perfect background noise for times that get serious enough to put glasses on.  I almost bought Jay Z on vinyl at one of my favorite record stores, but I don't think I'd ever listen at home.  Unless a stork left a baby on my doorstep.

7. I found a white eyebrow hair this morning.  What. The. Fuck.  I didn't pluck it out specifically so I could share it with all of you.  But it's not there now, so I guess nature took its course and let the old, dead, blaring hint that I'm not getting any younger just fall out of my face.

#FBF

Let’s flash all the way back last Thursday, when the Governor had declared a state of emergency amid already flooded regions south and west, and ahead of Hurricane Joaquin.  I’m usually not a panicker—I’ve survived a flood myself.  And a three week power outage in August.  Every store within 20 miles sold out of ice.  So I bought beer instead and put it in a bathtub full of cold water.  (Spoiler alert: It turned into a party.) But last Thursday my fridge was already starting to remind me of my college days, so just in case, I made the mistake of making a “quick” trip to the grocery store.  

The show started in the parking lot-nowhere to park-a man with a hood, head down, running for his life with a cart overflowing with cases of soda, lost his footing and had a yard sale all over the pavement.  I feel like I should mention here that it wasn’t even raining yet.  So obviously inside was absolute madness.  It was like witnessing the annual Barney’s sale, guy with less $80 cashmere and more off brand cereal.   There was a feeble old lady muddling through in one of those scooter/cart hybrids.  She was alone, and struggling to get out of it to get her hands on something canned.  I thought hard about it, but my famous instant instinct kicked in and something told me not to help her.  So I turned back the other way, only to make eye contact with a small, smiley Jew (who, going forward will be referred to as the Rabbi) in the same aisle.  I assume he saw the whole thing.  Just as I passed him he turned in the same direction and followed so close behind me I could actually feel him.  What could the universe possibly be trying to tell me with this?  That I should be thinking of how I can be a more effectual human being in this time of crisis?  Probably.  My guilty conscious usually wins.

So about 10 minutes and 3 collisions later I ran into Grandma Moses in the scooter again.  So I thought, oh here’s my shot at redemption.  Mostly I just needed her out of my way.  Just as I started toward her another lady walks up and hands Grandma what she had been trying to reach.  The Good Samaritan gave her a nod, and walked away.  The old woman stared at what she had in her hand and let it sink in.  Then she started screaming.—THIS IS THE WRONG ONE!! YOU GAVE ME THE WRONG THING!!  THIS IS…

My instant instinct usually wins.

 

Finally at the register, I left my case of water in the cart.  Because I’m lazy.  And can’t lift a cotton ball by myself.  And because the counter had a break in it for the cashier to use the scanner gun thing without anyone moving a muscle.  While I was being rung up I listened to the mentally challenged bagboy give an updated weather report to everyone who walked by him.  I watched his googly eyes roll every which way, and independently of each other.   I realized the miniature cashier with horrible glasses and two wrist braces did not see the water, so I told her I had it. Instead of using the resources she had right there in front of her.  She walked all the way around the counter, hoisted the water out of the cart with her 23 pound body, and schlepped  it all the way back around to her side of the register.  And who should walk up behind me while I stood doing nothing?  The. Fucking. Rabbi.  With his smiley face and his environmentally friendly reusable tote.  Ugh!!  It is official.  I will not be resurrected at End of Days.

 

I risked life and limb, and my eternal soul.  And I walked out with a 12 pack of Coke, sesame seed buns (?), 3 frozen pizzas, bananas, 2 cans of Spaghettios, and a can of store brand peanuts.   If I can’t take care of my family during a weather emergency, I don’t know who can… But I did get that case of bottled water.  Which currently sits unopened on the desk in the guest room.

The Falling Leaves Drift By My Window...

Today I have no worry in the world.  My only stresser is this outfit.  I should've gone with the rust brown cardigan instead of the heather grey.  This hasty choice has me looking like I'm transitioning to spring, not fall.  It's a nail biter, I know.  I hope no one notices.  I doubt anyone in my present company will.  I'm surrounded by a lot of ladies who manage to incorporate bejeweled flip flops into their business casual repertoire.  A couple of them wear matching earring and necklace sets-different ones every day.  And this drives me bat shit because 1. I wonder how many of these sets one woman could possibly have, and 2. I wonder if they are stored in the Kohl's boxes they came in, in an underwear drawer, or if they are displayed together on a vanity like from a jewelry tree.  And what would happen if one of them took a chance and wore the faux pearl and rhinestone earrings with the enamel daisy necklace?  Would the pink, beachy themed hand-painted "It's 5 o'clock Somewhere" signs fall from every one of their office walls?!
But I'm not getting sucked into that negative line of thinking.  It's a partly cloudy 75 degrees today which means every white girl's favorite things are about to happen.  Scarves, boots, cuffing season, imaginary romantic walks in apple orchards, pumpkin spice everything.  Actually I want no parts of that last bit--it's become obnoxious and overdone.  Over saturated on a main stream media discovering transgenderism level.  Though I will admit to having a pumpkin spice chai before bed twice this week.  But I'm pretty sure that's redundant. And everyone in India wants to declare war on 'Merica right now--even the tourists.
Anyway, I am the most basic of all basic bitches and I don't even care, because this is my absolute favorite time of year. I'm already nesting.  Things are getting baked and roasted and I'm about to make cream of anything I can get my hands on soup. I'm looking forward to red wine and black honey on my lips. And on my table linen. Body hugging turtlenecks.  Smelling like fire. That there is a change in the wind, a slow purge, and an end.  I'd rather leave the muck of the year behind and watch it die than nurture it into a budding new life six months from now. It's not fresh and new, it's browning and on its last leg.  Just the way I like it.
And so it's that time of year again.  To sink down into the wool and leather, breathe in the smoke and spice, let the pace slow to a crawl, watch the leaves change and die and fall. To look straight through the trees at the blank slate grey of the concrete. And let it go.

#TBT

The waifish young girl with the delicate hands holding that so over it baby is not a waifish young girl at all. That's my Dad.  Which is reason number 9,803 why I will always be a daddy's girl.  That and just this week he brought me candy corn like I was ten.  I am loved.
And yes, as a matter of fact I do still make that face, but I don't have those PJs anymore.  Kinda wish I did.
Happy. Thursday.

Out On the Streets and You Could Hear From Inside...

I've always had a certain sixth sense about things.  Not in every situation, but often enough that I am aware of and trust it. Maybe it's just that I'm a little more observant than most, maybe it's the sloppy mix of Gypsy and Jew in my blood--I am named for a book of mysticism after all. And my dreams tell me truths about the people around me, give me a tiny glimpse of what might be about to happen. Deja vu happens to me all the time. I see places for the first time that I've already seen. I meet people I already know...

On September 11, 2001 I woke up early, I jumped in the shower, I washed my hair.  And the thought hit me out of nowhere--what if someone blew up the White House?  What kind of chaos would ensue? What would we do as a society? Why am I thinking about this in the shower on an early Tuesday morning?  

I had a roommate at the time, and as I stepped out into the kitchen I yelled to him, "I just had the most fucked up thought. I was thinking about someone bombing the White House."  I got no answer, but I could hear the TV from the other room. I walked in to find him pallid and terrified.  We watched without really talking, trying to process what was going on, and then word came that a plane had hit the Pentagon.  Too close to home, and too close to what had happened in my head an hour earlier.  

And then the dreams came. A little girl in a desert, about 4 years old I think, blonde in a pink flowy dress.  There were ruffles.  She stood alone, nothing around her but sand. Everything was sort of orange/yellow.  She looked right at me, and then turned to white dust. Anthrax.

It soon came out that roomie had actually been terrified of me that day.  It changed us.  My next Rolling Stone came with an American flag pin on the cover.  I had friends who got married soon after, claiming 9/11 put things in perspective for them.  Two months later my youngest nephew was born.  And my mother began her long, slow flirtation with death.  Life went on.  It still does.

I've known two survivors of the WTC attacks, and countless friends and connections affected in the city. I've observed moments of silence with the white noise still buzzing in my head. I brag that my Dad volunteered at Ground Zero. And I wait for the next mass hysteria, the next scene of human tragedy that will feed our insatiable appetite for carnage, and our need to feel connected to something.  And life goes on.

#TBT

All along I've told myself the point of this blog and most of my creative endeavors in my current life is to work myself through/hash out the struggles of my maturing, adult self. Well, I found an old post from about seven years ago. And interestingly enough, some things really never do change:


Current Listening: Rufus Wainwright
Hours of Sleep: 3.25

I came home early last night though I was having a lovely time with some of my favorite boys. I decided that Monday night was a good one to put the night life on hold and try to catch up on some sleep. I didn't. And the drugs don't work anymore.
People tell me I should write while in the throes of insomnia. And I do, but I don't think those people understand the complete incoherence that goes along with lack of sleep. Just because I'm awake doesn't mean I'm clear enough to work on a diabolical plan to take over the world like some genius artist cutting off his own ears. Actually, I'm usually not even clear enough to tie my own shoes even when I am sleeping well. So now we're looking at a rough schedule of what goes on in the middle of my nights when I'm not otherwise engaged:

12:15 ish: in fabulous bed that everyone I know is jealous of
12:45 ish: tossing and turning in bed that is becoming less fabulous
1:30 ish: reading in wretched bed
2:30 ish: reading on fabulous sofa
2:45 ish: paint nails, color: Cranberry
3:30 ish: sleep
4:45 ish: eat Froot Loops in embarrassing quantity
5:00 ish: watch The Patty Duke Show
6:00: hand wash dishes with newly painted nails
7:00: pissed at pretentious personality lacking local weatherman, flip channels
8:15 ish: bored to tears by the year that changed Diane Sawyer's life, sleep
10:00: call to schedule manicure for ravaged, suffering, newly painted/dish washing hands

So now with Froot Loop regret and stunning fingertips I am thinking of who I should see tonight and how late I could possibly stay out on a Tuesday. I probably won't make it through dinner... 

If you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain...

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Jesus Take the Wheel...

So this morning I found myself in the middle of a four car pile up on the highway during the a.m. artery clog of gotta get to work traffic.  There I sat on a 70 mile an hour highway minding my own business when here comes one of those standard white work vans (probably had a body in it) veering off to the right--to avoid the traffic sitting at a dead stop, I assumed.  He hit me and sent me into the Lexus I'd been staring at for the last 10 minutes. Turns out a small, elfish 20 year old in a small, elfish Prius started the whole messy chain of events--at least according to Serial Killer Van.  I always thought people who cried whiplash were just being dramatic, but now I'm pretty sure it's a thing. Nobody panic though, I managed to make it through the day.
Then I got home to find something from my doctor's office in the mail, only along with the usual info on the envelope the words "Geriatric Services" had been added. Awesome... It was a bill.  A really big one.  For a routine vagina inspection. This is reason number 6,832 why I recently changed jobs. Shitty insurance and even shittier people available to answer questions about shitty insurance. But I'm a government employee now, so hopefully that means the only tinkering around down there will be done by an elected official from now on.--Actually I did get ogled at Petsmart this evening, maybe I should've asked him if he wanted to take a look at my kitty while I was there. It would have been free and probably just as thorough. But that may have been misuse of a state seal.
Anyway, it's looking like I'll be on the phone with insurance companies for the rest of my life. It goes without saying I will be tucked into bed as soon as I hit "publish" here.
But I do have two things going for me tonight.  It's kid's week on Jeopardy so I'm almost guaranteed to win at something, and I have a little something doing double duty for me in the freezer.

The Weekly Walk With Me

I hit the road again this weekend.  I walked out of the office at 3:30 on Friday and decided to head a little further east.  Where I'm from the "river" is where you go to break beer bottles and let your dog shit on the rocks on any given Tuesday. The "rivah" is where you go to get away and get drunk on expensive wine in places that serve molasses for hoecakes and have bologna burgers on the menu.
The artists aren't starving here, they are the bored wives of successful men.  They are retired District Attorneys who took up watercolor.  It's the kind of place with constant contradictions. A place untouched by time: a Main Street, U.S.A. with flowing American flags just screaming for a story line on Dateline Saturday Night Mysteries.
I slept in this glorious old lady bed in a boutique hotel:

With this giant old lady clock that sat on 4:20:

I walked the town and down to the water with a naked face. I let my feet get dirty and sunburned.  I sat at a local bar and was force fed mojitos through a bendy straw by a complete stranger.  I met a boy who talked about strong beer, his bluegrass band, his friend's pedophile roommate, and his former professor's scandalous affair with a student.
I spent money at places that sold dusty old dead things like this:

In the same room with works by known artists with price tags like this:

I didn't buy it...

I let my phone die on Saturday night.  And woke up on Sunday morning to have breakfast at a biker bar before I took the long way home.

But they never told you the price that you pay...

I've never been so happy to see a Monday.
The first week of August has become a mindfuck roller coaster in recent years.  There are more birthdays and anniversaries than should be crammed into a seven day stretch.  This week has become as reflective as it is celebratory.  Even my dog had a birthday--she's 15 now.  As heartbreaking as it is amazing.  And on August 6, it was one year ago that my wife and I lost a friend to cancer.  Just a month out from our wedding and on my bachelorette party weekend, we sat at the funeral of a 36 year old who only weeks before had been planning his party wardrobe.  But this is still too fresh to eat at me--time has moved so fast it's as if I haven't had the time to process it, like I haven't been able to put our story in the right order. So it's someone else that I haven't been able to stop thinking about lately.
He was boyish and pure and kind.  He laughed easy, he smiled big, and turned a little pink every time he did.  I saw him angry once in almost 10 years. He was actually good.  He rarely drank, so I would make him mocktails with bitters and cucumber slices.  We would talk about life and women and the way the world worked.  One night we went for a long drive after dinner so he could tell me something important, something he hadn't told anyone and had only vaguely hinted at with his family.  He was nervous and couldn't find his words. I just knew he was finally going to come out. Instead he told me he was forgoing a military career after college to become a priest. His family, though Catholic, didn't support it.  So I did.
But it didn't stop me months later--on Halloween--from taking him to a house party and then to a member's only after hours bar.  We drank. We celebrated. We got separated.  The next day we met for lunch to see with our own eyes that the other had made it out alive and in one piece.
"Last night was crazy," I told him, " I took a boy home."
"Me too," he said.
So that was that.  The priesthood was out, but he wasn't just yet.
He enlisted as an officer in the Army.  And did three tours in Iraq.  We emailed through every one of them so I would know he was OK. When I would realize the weeks had passed a little faster than usual and I hadn't heard from him in a reasonable amount of time, I listened for his name on the news, looked for his name in the paper.
But he came home.  Just as I was leaving for another state and he was a about to be stationed in Kansas for a while we met face to face for the first time in years.  He wasn't boyish anymore.  He was a man now--broad, brow furrowed.  His laugh was still easy but there was a weight in his face.  No pink in his cheeks.  We drank a few rounds, he told some stories, talked about how he wasn't sure if he could sleep in a clean bed, and how he wasn't sure what to do without sand in his boots.  And then we went on our way with calls and texts and emails...
In July 2012 I moved back home.  He called me when he heard the news and told me he was heading to Korea the next day. He would be there for six months, and after would be coming home too.  He had requested to be stationed here.  He was ready to be back with his family and friends, someplace he could be himself.
Three weeks after that conversation, he was crossing the street and was hit by a bus.  After surviving three tours in Iraq, he was dragged through a busy city street in Seoul, Korea and died.  The papers said he was with a male friend.
There was no sand in his boots, no fleas in his bed.  No reason why.

Tearing off tights with my teeth...

I lie upside down on the sofa, I change bandages, I analyze my toenail polish. I eat antacids.  I make mix tapes.  I think about how only privileged white men use the term "ass-hat".  I chew my cuticles. I play solitaire. I tweet, I follow.  I let this cat on my lap attempt to hypnotize me with her purring and drowsy green eyes.  I think about what I'd like to write--who I'd like to insult, the fucks I've had, other people's secrets I'd like to spill.  But I remember I'm not so anonymous. And I realize that I am held back.  I make a note to change that. I eat dark chocolate.  I decide that Violator is Depeche Mode's best record.  I stress about starting a new job on Monday.  I debate how conservative my heels should be. I think about Burt and his bees. I watch the clock. I use the dog as an ottoman. I think about the man I saw fishing--with a pole. and a bobber.--in the man made pond at the Mexican restaurant on Friday night.  I itch.  I think about masturbating, but that's such a cliche.  I wonder if I should change my signature scent.  I have to go to the grocery store.   I have to iron shirts. There is yard work to be done.  I wonder if the Elvis on the license plate across the street refers to Presley, or Costello, or some Latino in a denim shirt somewhere. I get sucked in to online slideshows.
But I don't sleep.

Tattoo Removal and Dozens of Pills...

I'm still a baby.  People tell me this all the time. And I am aware I still have a lot of mistakes to make, that I am in the prime of my life.  And I usually behave like a 15 year old boy, so that tends to lend to the illusion that I am a few years younger than I actually am.  Still, none of this changes the fact that I'm now faced with decisions on the inevitability of aging. (Not to mention that nothing makes a woman feel older than a trip to the doctor or the salon. I've made both of those trips this week, and it's only Tuesday.)
I could go on about the perils of being a woman beginning to show signs of time in a youth obsessed society, but I've officially decided that I am not a feminist. --Put your armpit hair and hate mail away, riot grrls. I've been there done that and experienced enough to be OK with being objectified.--
Anyway, so far my approach to aging is the same as my approach to most things, "Well fuck it, I'll do the best I can and see what happens".
It has been in the last year or so that I've noticed changes, not quite like a new puberty, more like what happens between the ages of 16 and 18. Like your still getting zits, but big changes are happening gradually enough to see them coming.
It started with my eyes, not with crows feet like most people, but tiny crevices and small, seemingly permanent pillows underneath-like my father. It's subtle but it's there. All I can do is just sit and wait for the day when the full on bags slide down to what will be full on jowls-thanks Mom.
But for now I hold to a couple of things I've always been known for--boobs and sex hair. Neither of them seem to be going anywhere.  Turns out there is a reason I was dubbed "Perky The Wonder Boob" in my younger days. Although I did start going grey about three months before my wedding (am I the only one?).  It seems to have slowed, but it's definitely not stopping. My crazy mop of thick dark hair will be a crazy old lady at the end of the street wild shock of silver. And I embrace that; I've decided to go Emmy Lou Harris with this one. No covering, no dye, no short cut, curl and set. Although no one would ever accuse me of being that wispy and delicate so it will probably be more like Dorothy Palanza.  Apologies in advance.
There is no "work" to be done here-no going under the knife. I've earned every line and spot and stain and sag.  Though I do plan to continue with some tattoo removal and general maintenance, so those battle scars don't turn into battle blobs.  This is what has happened to my rock and roll lifestyle. Regenerist, removal, and the art of aging dangerously.

The Weekly Walk With Me

8 People I Wanna Hug Just to See What Would Happen

8. Bret Easton Ellis

7. Nick Cave

6. Lauryn Hill

5.  Kanye West

4.  Henry Rollins

3. Lydia Lunch

2. Cornel West

1. Phyllis Schlafly

The Weekly Walk With Me

4 Things That Made Me Question The World I Live In

1. The Espys.  I was completely conned by this award show.  I had no idea who any of these people were, no one was pretty, they all had problems reading teleprompters...  Like are these people actually good at something? Like are they capable of superhuman accomplishments using sheer force of will and Greek God like bodies?  Was it like profiles in courage or something? Trash.

2. Nick Cave and family's horrible tragedy. Nick Cave is an acquired taste-like Tom Waits or Leonard Cohen.  His storytelling is timeless and horrifying at the same time.  He's on my list of people I want to hug just to see what would happen.  (Maybe more on that next week.) My heart is broken for him and his family as news traveled that one of his twin sons died from a fall off a cliff.  I cannot fathom it.  Life has imitated your art and it is devastating. Love to you Nick Cave.

3. WTF, I'm totally into Shawn Mendes right now. His little song Stitches is my newest guilty pleasure. And he's Canadian. I think we all know how I feel about that.  Not long ago he played in my town and I sat stuck in traffic in front of the venue staring at an unending line of gawky, brace-faced, giraffe-legged girls.  And every 10 girls or so there was a woman in Keds and khakis trying desperately to be the cool Mom.  And every 15 girls or so, there was a miserable looking man wishing he could be anywhere but there trying desperately not to look like he didn't want to be there for his baby giraffe's sake. I remember feeling a bond with those men--all of us stuck in the seventh circle of hell, a gridlock of  rush hour traffic and 14 year old girls. I might've even locked eyes with one of them, and the look was probably not unlike something that inspired Apocalypse Now.  And now here I am, betraying our brotherhood. It's a heavy, heavy day.

4. National Ice Cream Day.  So I realize it's Sunday and that technically means it's next week already, but I just can't let this go. Everybody knows that "National Whatever Day" should always fall Monday through Friday.  This is so you can hear about it on the way in to work and stop and get extreme deals/free stuff so you can talk all about it with your co-workers and look like you're totally in the know about shit (which you're not).  Or, if the "National Whatever Day" requires some sort of ribbon for awareness, then you would wear said ribbon to make other people think you care about shit (which you don't). But National Ice Cream Day on a Sunday?  Could we have gotten more advertising on this?  Because I only found out about it a few hours ago on Twitter--already in my pajamas and sitting out a horrible storm that blew half a tree into my yard and knocked the power out in the middle of my brussel sprout roasting.  And really, who is going to see you long enough to be jealous on a Sunday?

But you don't find roses growin' on stalks of clover...

What is it that makes a weed, a weed
and an orchid, an orchid
or a rose, a rose
what is it that makes us plant shrubs for the butterflies
but repel the moths
what is it that makes a beetle a scarab-
to be immortalized in stone
and amber
and skin
what makes us afraid to get wet in the rain
but compels us to swim in the ocean

what human instinct was it

that made us smoke the bud
or eat the berry
but poison the dandelion
is it that we cannot control where or when it grows,
that we do not control where the wind takes its seed?

And what is it that makes always, mean always
and never, mean never
what is it that makes a word true
when dirt turns to mud, we wash it away
when dirt turns to clay, we covet it.

And I'll Find Me a Soapbox Where I Can Shout It...

Today is throwing me all the way back to 1975.  I wasn't here yet, but some of my favorite people happened in 1975.  And today Jack White is 40.

I remember the first time I really paid attention. 2003. There was buzz around this new lo-fi "band". A boy and girl, just a guitar and drums.  A front man from Detroit with a weird ex-wife-sister situation who looked like the not so scary corpse in an R.L. Stine story.  Seven Nation Army was all over the radio.  There was every reason I shouldn't be interested. But a friend gave me a copy of Elephant, and I couldn't bring myself to get out of my Honda Civic until I had heard the very last track.  Including Ball and Biscuit which I re-played probably four times before I could let it go.
Ball and Biscuit, for me anyway, is the single most sexy song recorded in my lifetime.

This man doesn't steal glances, he looks long. He watches, he leers. And he dares you. He flicks his cigarette and lets the curtains catch fire. And then he smolders.  He kisses deep, he holds tight. Not desperate, but sure.  He doesn't give a shit about dinner, or dishes.  He goes down, dives deep, devours. He worships. Dirty and predatory and longing and high. Seven minutes in heaven.

That is a song, Mr. White.  And I thank you.  Happy Birthday.

The Weekly Walk With Me

I feel like I've spent Independence Day weekend freeing myself from the month of June.  It was the longest month ever, and for no reason at all really. Maybe that it began with an executive meeting with a woman who had the nerve to wear shower shoes (Hint: It wasn't me.) and ended with my Dad's birthday blowout (where he wore shower shoes).  You see how this exhausts me...

7 Things in June-In No Particular Order

1. The losses.  Jean Ritchie and Ornette Coleman.  This gave me the sads, but an excuse to revisit their works and celebrate my music nerdist tendencies with edibles and patchouli.  OK, everyone knows I absolutely draw the line at patchouli, but I did let my wife burn incense when I wasn't home once.

2. True Detectives.  I want everyone involved in this project to sit on my face.  Except the children. And Kelly Reilly because I've always sort of hated her.  But she does manage to pull off a heavy bang and a blunt lob at the same time as if she were 25.  I could probably do a whole Walk With Me on this show and I'm only 2 episodes in.   The highlights for me so far:

• Lera Lynn
• Rick Springfield
• "I will come back and butt-fuck your father with your mother's headless corpse"

3. Alabama Shakes live.  This show was hot and sweaty and drunk and absurd.  And that just describes me, and the 75 year old man trying to eat nachos during the show-not the opening act.  If Brittany Howard is not on your radar, you are bad person.  You just are.

4. Following Anne Murray on Twitter.  These days I find myself surrounded by Canadians, which I'm OK with because I've always been infatuated.  When I was a little kid--I'm talking like 6--I was completely obsessed with Anne Murray.  I had a portable turntable/cassette player that closed like a suitcase and I carried it around with me everywhere.  I had a few 45s that changed up every other day or so, a Chipmunks LP, and an Anne Murray greatest hits cassette that I played TO. DEATH.  Most kids had a security blanket, I had all of the above with me at all times.  I'm not sure how a 6 year old found herself entertained by the sweet,sweet sounds of a soft-butch Canadian singing every song written by everyone else but I never claimed normalcy, and I definitely wasn't a My Little Pony kid.

5. The realization that my father, at his aforementioned birthday blowout, is walking around without eyebrows.  Apparently my mother didn't want my Dad's old man eyebrows to get out of control and talked him into giving them a trim.  The problem is, he can't see (or hear) and refuses to admit this. So he doesn't need your help, thank you very much. And now there are no eyebrows. None.  Like Uncle Leo on Seinfeld. Or Divine Miss M without her face on.

6. I wore a bathing suit.

7. This:

I will rarely discuss politics here.  I follow politics and current events closely and have my opinions, and a lot of them might surprise you. But I like to keep this forum as surfacey as possible so no one knows there's a tiny pot of gold in my cold black heart.  I can't help but touch on this, though.  I mean, June is Pride month. And there was kind of a major thing that happened. And I happen to be part of this community.  The gay one, not ISIS.  I just want to know how many Arabic speaking people are aware of this and completely offended that fat stupid Westerners think their language looks like butt plugs and dildos?