Feelin' Like a Freight Train...

I hope everyone enjoyed their Memorial Day weekend!  Because now it's time to memorialize my dignity.
I think I know now why old people are so quick to share their gross ailments with anyone within earshot.  I don't really think it's the only thing they have to talk about, or that they've lost a sense of shame or pride.  I think it's because they've probably been dealing with some seriously disgusting bullshit and they just want someone to cut them a fucking. break.  It's like, "Are you fucking kidding me with this whining about your parking space?!  I've been scraping my pennies together for fucking bologna for two thirds of my life and now I have the muthafuckin gout!!!"  Yeah, I think it's like that.

Due to the current state of my internal organs (not gout), one week from today I get to have this happen to me:

Which wouldn't be so bad--I mean I guess compared to other stuff that could happen.  But.  Just a few days ago I went in for another round of tattoo removal, which is self-inflicted and not at all medically necessary-I know.  And usually only moderately uncomfortable and road rashy for about a week, and then insanely itchy (like the kind that makes your eyes water) for another two weeks after that.  One guess though as to where this tattoo is gettin' gamma rayed. Yep.

So over Memorial Day weekend I decided to let off some steam.  Only I had to do so stone-cold sober because, "elevated liver enzymes".  There I was practically in the wilderness watching alleged domesticated dogs murder perfectly good baby bunnies with a virgin margarita and plate full of black bean hummus--desperately inhaling second hand smoke and ballcap sweat at a cornhole board on purpose, just to feel alive.  And this happened. All over.

Sexy right?  I'm pretty sure there's Zika in at least half of them.

And then on Sunday someone fed the gremlins that live in my ovaries after midnight.  And complete. fucking. chaos. ensued.

copyright Noodle Arm Harm

I let my mother know all this yesterday morning when she asked why I didn't sound up to chatting. Then in her usual way she told me not to "let myself go"--there's no reason I shouldn't still look nice through all this.  And then she nonchalantly mentioned that she now has cataracts.

40 Acts I'm Supposed to Love but Hate

And I Don't Give a Fuck What The Cool Kids (or you) Have To Say About It.
In no particular order...

1. Pink Floyd

2. Van Morrison

3. Led Zeppelin

4. The Eagles

5. Dave Matthews Band-though Dave is lyrically pretty amazing

6. Nirvana

7. Tori Amos

8. The Indigo Girls

9. The Grateful Dead

10. DIIV

11. The Red Hot Chili Peppers

12. Bruce Springsteen-but I won't knock the influence

13. Van Halen-Hagar and Roth

14. Lady Gaga

15. Beyonce

16. Margo Price

17. Steely Dan

18. Steve Miller

19. Sheryl Crow

20. The Doors

21. My Morning Jacket

22. Aaron Neville

23. Wilco

24. Mary J. Blige-hate is a strong word here, I just don't shit my pants like everyone else does

25. Ani Defranco

26. Gwen Stefani-speaking musically. But the image is perfection

27. Talking Heads-yep, I'm coming out of the closet with this one

28. Janelle Monae

29. AC/DC

30. James Taylor

31. Jefferson Starship-post 1978 (like pretty much everyone else)

32. Neil Young

33. Kristin Kontrol-please bring Dee Dee back

34. Tom Petty

35. Macklemore

36. Sting-he's just so...Sting

37. Band of Horses

38. Biggie-come at me.  I dare you.

39. Sublime

40. Jenny Lewis

I Sold My Soul to Make a Record, Dipshit...

The Billboard Music Awards. Everyone knows this is a shit show. I mean there is no academy here; these are straight up Billboard chart toppers-so everyone already knows how it ends.  Still, I can’t help but get sucked in.  I love every shitty minute of it.  But it was quite the snooze fest this year, and with half a Percocet slowly dissolving in my system I found myself too exhausted to whole-heartedly insult anyone.  So here are my milk toast observations on a milk toast show.

 

Why is there so much hair?  It just doesn’t make sense that Miss America would have the least amount of hair of all the women on the stage.  Raquel Welch’s wig stock just hit the fucking roof.  Side note: Miss America is allegedly 21 years old. *side eye* But I do love that her name is Betty.

Mark Cuban—thanks for dressing up.

Oh Pink.  I love you.  And I will not stop until you are my next ex-wife.  However, Just Like Fire gets a solid no from me.  I feel like I should cut you some slack because this is for a movie, and that can get tricky. But. You could’ve stayed with L.A. Reid for that shit.

Tove Love—For some reason I really want to like her, but I just can’t.  She looks like a walking blow job in the stockroom of a Payless shoe store.

Blake and Gwen.  Am I the only one who finds this embarrassing?  I mean don’t get me wrong-I’m really into that whole unexpected coupling of cowboy meets rock star, but for the love of G-d have some respect for yourselves.  Your public eye-fucking is out of hand. 

Seal, please tell me what it is you have to do with anything.  Especially Celine Dion.

Speaking of… Celine, thank you for being fully dressed.  And looking least like a drag queen or dirty toilet brush.  And actually singing.

Ariana Grande.  Could someone tell me what is so dangerous about this baby giraffe?  And, P.S. I can see your eyelash glue.

It makes me sad that Belinda Carlisle looks like a lady who lunches now. And that’s all I can say about that.

If you can’t say anything nice…

• Troye Sivan
• Madonna’s whole whatever that was.
• Meghan Trainor—ok, I will say something here.  Her name is…NO.

But on a positive note:

• I loved Rihanna, but I’m not sure how I feel about her looking showered.
• I loved Adele’s new video.  It’s different for her and I’m into it.
• I loved that “Post to Be” won absolutely nothing.

 

40 Things That Make Me Happy

In no particular order...

1. cheese.  The only exception: brie.

2. a well made shoe.

3. going to the dentist.

4. after dinner coffee.

5. Dr. Pepper Lip Smacker.

6. open mouth, no tongue kissing.

7. vinyl.

8. getting mail.

9. a clean house.

10. showering until there's no hot water.

11. Jelly Belly jelly beans.

12. cocktails & cake night.

13. mix tapes.

14. fresh sheets.

15. new socks.

16. cooking.

17. cunnilingus.

18. Tom Ford Black Orchid

19. staying in pajamas on rainy weekends.

20. road trips.

21. laughing babies.

22. books.

23. this box:

24. hoop earrings.

25. furry creatures, great and small.

26. Sharpies.

27. First Aid Beauty products.

28. lilies.

29. documentaries.

30. quiet time.

31. singing at the top of my lungs. (alone-obviously.)

32. the smell of gasoline.

33. people with brains.

34. award shows.

35. garlic.

36. a good night's sleep.

37. real art.

38. knowing there is love.

39. Bag Balm.

40. being heard.

How long to sing this song...

As of today, there are exactly 40 weeks until my 40th birthday.  I've thought of all the ways I could start an official countdown, all the angles, all the ways this number wreaks havoc.  There are 40 thieves, 40 year old virgins, 40 ways to leave your lover (or is it 50?), 40 days of Lent, a weekly top 40.  But barring some good playlists I could throw together,  I don't think I have a full 40 of anything.
When I was a kid I never really gave myself anything to strive for by the time I was a certain age. For most people that certain age is 30 or 40 or 50.-- No one ever uses anything past 50, because that's just sad.-- But I never gave myself such deadlines, I just sort of--lived.  I never really thought about where I'd be, what kind of life I'd have.  I did (and still do) have my neuroses about certain things though.  I thought sure that someday I'd wake up with a mullet and white high tops in my 40s because that's what all the old lady lovers I saw looked like.  (Full disclosure:  I am currently growing out an accidental mullet. Juliette Lewis has always been my hair muse, and this time my musings went a little too far.  I feel pretty confident that it'll be grown out by the big bday though. I mean that's like 10 months. Fingers crossed.) I also once had this fantasy that I'd be explaining why no one ever married me to a Rolling Stone reporter over black coffee in a hotel lobby.  On the flip side of that I also thought I'd probably be a 40 year old divorcee with red nails smoking cigarettes in a dark bar with a lot of wood. There's still time for that one.
So what kind of trouble can I make in the next 40 weeks?  What do I need to get done, what do I need to undo--what do you wanna know?  We've got 40 weeks to count this down, and I don't know what happens when we get there...

And we can be the pavement...

We used to sit in dirty diners smoking cigarettes as if our stain-master twenty something skin would never be marred by the tar and nicotine. We always had one too many drinks—one of us hoping the night could just end, the other wishing it never would.  We kissed one too many times to be friends.  We didn’t make enough promises to be anything more.

So we grew up. We moved on. We made choices and changes and babies and bargains.

But we drive.

And drink beer for breakfast.  And get lost in the rain. And laugh and curse and rationalize and regret. And quietly want.  And catch stolen glances.

So come pick me up.  Drive me around in a Buick.  Show me things I’ve already seen. Listen to things you’ve already heard.  Kiss me quick-like letting it linger would break you. And I’ll make my way back home.  Not quite intact but untouched.

Wondering when.

The Weekly Walk With Me

5 Current Obsessions

1.  Craigslist Missed Connections.  Years ago a friend of mine and I would get shit-faced and peruse   Craigslist for escort ads and missed connections.  We also used to search our home and work zip codes to see if we knew anyone on the  the sex-offender registry, but that's a whole other story.  I never knew that many people followed missed connections, but recently a local magazine started publishing the "best of" and my love of this filth fest was rekindled.  People blow each other in Wal-Mart parking lots, they lust after 5K runners in Starbucks, they piss in each other's mouths.  It. is. everything.

2.  e.l.f. eyeliner in Midnight.  It's hard to stay trendy without looking desperate when you're pushing 40. So when I started reading that blue eye makeup would be all the rage this Spring, I wondered how I'd pull that off without bringing back my youthful yearnings of being cast in an Adam Ant video. I'm also not into spending  $20 on a pencil I might use twice, so I did some drugstore research.  This

eyeliner 1) is the perfect color--nothing like the teal one my trashy aunt used to wear.  2) is only $3.00, and 3) probably full of horrible science since it is only $3.00, and it very well may put my eyes out with no warning because it is a rare drugstore brand that happens to be cruelty free.  So no monkeys went blind (this time) helping me stay relevant.

3.  Mobb Deep.  Are they in the news or something? I feel like maybe I've read about them lately and something subliminal happened. I woke up one day last week with Eye for an Eye in my head, and I've  been listening to The Infamous non-stop ever since.  It makes for interesting errand running.       

4.  Professional Realtor Pics. I'm getting the itch again. I'm looking to hitch up my wagon again and go.  And I can't get enough of the realtor pics on the usual real estate sites. These are some of the most ridiculous people I've ever seen.  I can't decide which is my favorite type--the party girl who is   really using a selfie to put her best professional foot forward, or the twofer-that couple with the Olan   Mills style photo.  The lady is wearing red because it's "dynamic" and the man's eyeglasses are 20 years old. 

5.  My Dealer.  In the last few weeks I've increased my record collection by about a foot. I found this guy in the most unexpected of places. He has all the good shit. His prices are ridiculously reasonable. And because he's always impressed by my choices (and I'm pretty) I usually get a fat discount. I love this guy so much I want to tell the whole world.  But then everybody would know where to go for good, cheap vinyl.  And then he'd catch on.  And it wouldn't be cheap anymore. Why yes, that is the Gang of Four "Yellow Album"--original pressing, promotional copy actually.  Oh, you didn't know Kenny Rogers was cool once?  Please, be my guest.  Let me just get this out of the cellophane.  Yeah, that Smith's one.  It's the real deal.  What's that? You have trouble finding The Smiths on vinyl because everyone who ever owned a record never let it go?  Louder Than Bombs is only one of mine. No big deal...