Log in

No account? Create an account

Writer's Block: Check, please!

Who pays on a first date?

Either the person who asked, or you go dutch. Nothing against old-school chivalry, but I'd just as soon not even get on that tip, because I feel like it perpetuates the idea that women are helpless until proven resourceful. If I get to a door before a man does, then by hell, I'm holding it open it for him.

One exception: I briefly, halfheartedly dated a guy when I was twenty-one, and we came to an arrangement where we each paid for whatever the other wanted. Exept he consumed, like, three times more food than I did, so the one time we went to the movies together, he spent something like $20 on me, whereas his ticket/ concession raid topped out at almost twice that. Practicality had to overrule gender-equality on that one.
After being glued to them on TV for years, I finally get to experience life from the perspective of a family in a haunted house documentary--how it feels to sink every dime and hope and effort you have into what you think is going to be your dream residence, except once you move in, you can never get a moment's peace. You're basically trapped, and a situation unfolds wherein you spend every waking moment waiting for, dreading, the next outburst.

The only difference: I'm dealing with sonic terrorists, not visitors from beyond. If it's not the neighbors downstairs cranking their stereo until the same three goddamn songs hemmorhage through the floor, it's the maniacs next door with their TV blasting the paint off the walls. We literally never get a break from it, and it's really compromising the quality of our lives--all we seem talk about anymore (for the past week, anyway) is our noisy fucking inconsiderate douchebag neighbors, and it's causing a lot of tension between us, too. I have logged all of five hours in the name of sleep over the past three nights because the TV next door has become a round-the-clock intruder, I'm constantly being woken up to commiserate/ conspire with Mike when I'm least equipped to do anything, and I'm literally starting to hallucinate because of it. I am not being dramatic. I'll be reading a book, or netsurfing, or drafting brews at work, and suddenly I'll either hear voices in my head make completely outrageous and incoherent claims, or the colors in everything will go all freaky for a few seconds.

We've asked nicely. We've retaliated with our own TV/ music. We've called management. We've called the cops. We have researched ourselves into his-and-hers cases of carpal tunnel, but so far it looks as if it's another one of those instances where the bastards causing trouble have more rights than the ones being troubled. No one gives a fuck; no one is on our side. You'll say at least we still have each other, but that's not saying much when we're both being driven neon batshit--it's been well established that two people drowning can't save each other.

(Maybe this is the hospitable southern belle in me talking, but shouldn't having literally no fucking insulation in the walls--I asked--make you want to scale it back a little, rather than give yourself carte blanche to act like you own your own house on a good twenty acres of wilderness?)

Did you know that noise problems are cited as the number-one cause of rentor's dissatisfaction? Not high costs, not structural quality--NOISE PROBLEMS. Fuck this place, and for the most part, fuck the rest of world, too. I mean it with all my heart. How do you exorcise demons like these? Where's the research/ support group for people being antagonized by electronic media? I'm fed up with feeling like I live either above a Latin supper club or next door to a fucking surround-sound movie theater.

If you have any advice, now's the time to give it, because I honestly don't know how much longer we can go on like this. I'm a zombie, Mike's a train wreck, it's only getting worse, and moving is not an option.

Somebody help me...please...

Hey Dani-Baby, What Have You Done?

Okay, so, the object here is to highlight the things you've done versus the things you haven't done. Provided LJ stops being a dildo long enough to let me post...ya'll either get your shit together or go sleep with Cartman's mom, because I've about had it.

* * * * *

1. Had beer. (While I'm at it, who agrees with me that the best wine is beer?)

2. Smoked an entire cigarette. (I smoked like a Parisienne my first year of college, then one day...I just didn't anymore. I don't know if I switched to lollipops or bubblegum or what, but to this day I can bum a cigarette off someone, smoke it, and forget there are such things as cigarettes for a good six months or more.)

3. Smoked a cigar.

4. Done drugs.

5. Written on a bathroom wall.

6. Read a George Orwell book. (1984 FTW.)

7. Had a physical fight. (And although I like to claim I belong to the school of never-hit-first/ always-hit-worse, that has not been the case across the board.)

8. Used Twitter (I don't consider my daily doings relevant or interesting enough to document on a moment to moment basis; it's more fun being a semi-woman of mystery, full of privileged information.)

9. Listened to Lady Gaga. (Keeping "You and I" in heavy rotation lately.)

10. Been in a car accident (Some of which had more comic value than others.)

11. Gotten suspended.

12. Gotten expelled.

13. Been allergic to something.

14. Got a computer virus.

15. Touched a real gun. (Yes, and I am TERRIFIED of the motherfuckers. I don't even care to be anywhere near a bb gun. Yet I'm totally cool around other forms of weaponry, because it's just not in my nature to make a lick of sense.)

16. Had a dog.

17. Had a cat.

18. Been pregnant. (:knocks wood:)

19.Camped out.

20. Swam in the ocean.

Snip...Collapse )


Q: Why can't the punk/ goth/ alt/ new wave/ non-cookie cutter girl ever be the last chick standing? It's always the most boring bitch in the movie.

A: Because only the generic survive. That's the underlying message of approximately every slasher flick since the mid-70s.

(Going on my fashion sense alone, I'd probably be the first to die in a Friday the 13th-type movie. Oh, well. At least I'd make a fierce-looking corpse.)

Ch-ch-ch, ah-ah-ah...

It Would be the Smart Arm


A shoutout to my hero of a writing partner, twopiearr, who underwent surgery yesterday to set a broken arm. Our universe is holding your place, and so am I.

OMG, Are You Fucking With Me?

Goddamn, goddamn, god DAMN it. Twelve inches of snow in October; and this is supposed to prove WHAT about WHAT? Color me not amused the infinite power.

Fuck it. Guess I'll go curl up with an Empire Strikes Back/ The Thing double feature until the power inevitably fails. Might as well remind myself that it could always be worse, even under these conditions: no AT-ATs, no extraterrestrial copycat microbes...

Lightning, too? Jesus Christ. Now you're just trying to piss me off.

...and it's working.
Don't mind me; I've been too busy phoning in my life for the past few days to generate anything worth reading. I used to love this time of year, but...a snowstorm? REALLY? New England weather is just plain retarded, and our much-lauded fall foliage hasn't been for shit this year. Somebody get me the hell out of here.

Halloween should bring some spice to this bullshit meteorological drama. At least my costume is inspired, because I was thinking, the convention among my gender is to take one of the classics and stripper-fy it: Slutty Pirate Babe, Slutty Chain Gangette, Slutty Red Riding Hood. Well, my take was, instead of that played-out approach, why not do "Homicidal" [fill in the blank]? Homicidal Nurse, Homicidal Waitress...I was initially leaning toward Homicidal Alice in Wonderland (with a meat cleaver and a mannequin head made up as the Mad Hatter for props--any worthwhile Halloween costume has at least one prop--and OFF WITH YOUR HEAD scrawled in blood on the little white pinafore-thing), but that's just boosting the whole American McGee concept. So I went with Homicidal Geisha instead, inspired by Deadly Little Miho from Sin City, select bits from Big Trouble in Little China (yeah, I know, but...details), and, at a friend's suggestion, the Kill Bill saga. Probably it's the easiest costume I've put together in several years, because eighty-five percent of the stuff I needed was already in my possession: the shortie kimono, the black leather leggings, the silver maryjane flats...even a pair of sai. Aw, yeah, tell me those things aren't the sexiest weapon of all time...you're dead wrong if you do, and don't even try to argue with me, because I know exactly what you're going to say, and I pre-emptively call bullshit. Chicks with whips are such a cliche: let's try harder than alluding to the dominatrix thing.

So the plan is to don all this gear, a long ponytail fall, a pair of fancy chopstick hair ornaments and my Big Trouble...-inspired makeup, then Jackson-Pollack fake blood all over the whole shebang. I think it'll work...more importantly, I think it'll even go so far as to creep someone or other out, and is that not truly honoring the holiday as it deserves?

Curiosity is going to be the death of me...what the fuck else would possess me to YouTube Rebecca Black's "Friday"? Because I never learn, underline, full stop. I tried to take the high road in my comment, because I'm not impressed with people who just hate for its own sake, because it's the fashionable thing to do. It went a little something like this...

First of all, it's a goddamn song, not a doomsday device. Nothing this amateurish could actually destroy the world.

But here's a radical idea: instead of taking out our frustration with pop music's diminished integrity on easy targets like these, why not look up some lesser-known acts and see if they're worth their buzz? Help put a kickass artist on the charts instead of bitching about a lame one.

It can't be that much harder to build something up instead of tear it down.

Next thing I know, fuck if I didn't make one of my pet-peeve grammar goofs in writing. "I think Rebecca Black damaged my smart. Okay, forget what I said--she's a dead man."


"Yeah, but the traditional phrase is more fun to say. Besides, we've never looked under her skirt; for all we know..."

On the subject of music, I kind of got a little worried when another friend cited a list of songs as lacking spherical genitalia--I said, "Since when do songs need genitals of ANY kind? There's enough copycatting going on in the music industry; I can barely tell one song from another anymore. Do we really want them reproducing amongst themselves?"


Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now and why...

Because my brain always feels like it's trying to hatch out of my skull and fuck off to more exciting locales. Not that I blame it.

2. http://youtu.be/dMO5GNT47fk
(Unfortunately, I can't find an embeddable version--don't you just hate that?) Reason being, things have gotten so tense around here, I feel like this is what I have to do just to leave my goddamn apartment. I admit it also inspired the scene in Seventh Wave where Simone Phoenix gears up to exterminate her sister--she's spent the past five years making herself over into a model citizen; now she's going back to her vigilante-justice roots, accessorizing with items that belonged to people Shani helped destroy: their father's jacket, Kyle Harrow's headscarf, armed only with one of Ilysa Sting's inventions...

Day Ten: One Confession

1.1. Oh, sweet Jesus. Um...I let the dogs out. Every day at least three cats threaten to kick my ass. No, that's just cheating. Let's see...

1.2. I saw Return of the Jedi in the theater, when I was about five or so, but I didn't see The Empire Strikes Back until I was eight. So I spent roughly three years with a lot of unanswered questions that needed to be cleared up. That's actually true, but it's not good enough. Take three...

1.3. Although I do a lot of sneering and meaning it at the idea of middle-class, white-collar, picket-fence security and me, with a desk job and and a husband and maybe even a kid (!)--that's ONE, tops--there is a part of me wouldn't turn down such a lifestyle if it were thrown my way. Just to see if I have in fact been missing out. There, I said it. Happy now?

Writer's Block: Happily ever after

What is your favorite childhood fairytale?

When I was a kid I had a thing for Cinderella, much as it kills me to admit that now--that instantly-graftifying transformation from the girl who's been used and bullied all her life to the girl everyone either desires or envies. But then, an amazing thing happened: I grew up, saw it for the unadulterated bullshit it was, and realized that Prince Charming is a total douche in the bargain. Come on, he picked his mate based on how she looked in a dress that had passed through a membrane from an alternate reality and the most dangerous, impractical pair of dancing shoes ever. What's gonna happen with that dizzy bitch starts breeding and her figure doesn't immediately snap back into Barbie-doll proportions? Oh, that's right, I forgot, her fairy godmother will take care of it. How retarded of me.

In my current mindset, I'm going to have to go with the classic Bavarian don't-underestimate-your-children treatise: Hansel & Gretel. Simply because in the end, the boy is held captive while the girl saves the day. Now, that's a story the way I'd write it.

4 on the Floor, Power of 3...

Day Seven: Four turn-ons.

1. Nerdiness! Give me that over disaffected "bad-boy" posturing any day. Nothing's sexier than a public display of enthusiasm, especially when it's backed up by near-encyclopedic knowledge of the topic in question. And while we're at it, let's not underrate the simultaneous nerdgasm.

2. Witty banter. The catch is, both parties should be contributing both action and reaction--it shouldn't be just one person supplying the wisecracks, and the other person laughing at them.

3. Gifts that stray outside the standard flowers/ candy/ jewelry box. If, for instance, you give me a book or CD you think I'll like, or bring me a small selection of exotic coffees and teas after going to the trouble to learn that I'm addicted to both, you're showing me that ours is chemistry with substance. Back in college, on my birthday, a friend of mine brought me a slice of pizza with a candle on it, remembering a conversation we'd had on the wonders of pizza, and I remember thinking, "Damn, his girlfriend is one lucky bitch." Now that I'm jackpotting in this department myself, I feel sorry for anyone who isn't; it's a basic human right! (HINT: if you're angling toward giving me one of the big three, then flowers are the way to go. Orchids/ roses over bling? Hell, yeah--any day.)

4. Celebrating your alleged "flaws". That's a very European point of view, I believe, but it's also why I defiantly keep it real by hanging on to my Appalachian drawl. As an accent, it doesn't have the best rap, but it's part of me, and since I'm not a stereotypical Southern Belle in most other ways, it's the perfect weapon against those kind of preconceived notions.

* * * * *

Day Eight: Three people who are significant in your life

Too easy...

1. My love.

2. My best friend.

3. Currently my favorite uncle, Billy Joe, because his team (St. Louis) is in the World Series again and I'm so excited for him. I hope they win; I want him to just puff up with pride. The truth is, I was rooting exclusively for the Phillies even before the playoffs started, the Red Sox pissed me off that much, but hey--at least this way I can have a horse in the race by proxy.

Party of 5 Minus Me...

Before I get on with it, I need to explain why I deleted my answers to day five of this exercise. I should've known better than to touch that segment with a ten-foot pole, because if experience in these matters has taught me anything, it's that the biggest-regrets question is a trap--my answers never fail to hurt someone or piss them off, once they apply the butterfly effect to it, and I'm not doing it anymore. Regrets are not just a waste of time, they allow the past to overshadow your present and future. And I have a such hard time just relaxing and allowing myself to make a few mistakes; the idea of upsetting anyone I care about turns me into your basic basket case, more so when it actually happens. Also, unfortunately, LJ is where my inner bad girl tends to monopolize the floor; she's actually a lot more subdued in my day-to-day existence, taking over only when provoked, provoked, provoked. So from here on I'm going to instigate a ban on any questions about my regrets, and anybody reading this would do well to take that to heart, because I'm not fucking around. First offense is a monosyllable--"Pass"--second offense is an expletive-laden warning, third is a frosty silence, and on the fourth, I kick-smash your head open and spit on your exposed brain. Are you with me? Good. Please drive through.

Day Six: Five turn-offs (None of which the man in my life needs to worry about, just for the record).

1. Stupid, booby trap questions, such as "What are your biggest regrets?"/ "What's something you wish you'd never done?" Either come up with something relevant or fuck off. Kthnx.

2. Hypocrisy. Now, I realize we're all hypocrites to some degree; what I'm talking about is actively making someone's life miserable over something of which you're equally guilty. Or being guilty of a similar offense to the same degree. Or even being guilty of the opposite offense to the same degree. Just watch your ass, is all I'm saying.

3. Mind games. If you think bullshit is the way to this veteran manipulator's heart, you've got another think coming.

4. People who build their entire personalities around shock value, music-based subcultures, or gender pronouns. If you need a cheat sheet to tell you what all your motivations, likes, and dislikes are, don't even bother.

5. Blatant conversion efforts. If you're in on something you honestly think I'll enjoy, then by all means, but the harder you try to force me into something that doesn't interest me, the more resistance I'm going to create, so let's just save ourselves the trouble, shall we?

* * * * *


"What's Up?"/ 4 Non Blondes
It's mainly guilty of oversaturation. Not a terrible song, per se, just kind of...weak. Bland. Didn't support its own hype.

"I'm too Sexy"/ Right Said Fred
Wait, what? Oh, get stuffed. That's, like, one of the best novelty songs ever. If you can't at least appreciate it for its satirical qualities, your sense of humor is broken.

"Who Let the Dogs Out?"/ Baha Men
Oh, come on now--it's the perfect sporting event song. At a ball game or whatever, you want something loud and obnoxious and butt-stupid to get the crowd all pumped up, and in this case, look no further. There's been fainter praise, I assure you.

"My Heart Will Go On"/ Celine Dion
I always said they should've gotten Sarah McLachlan to do this one, because Celine oversings everything--she's like a lynx in a meat grinder--but at least the arrangement is pretty.

"Mmmbop"/ Hanson
Whatever. Y'all are just jealous because these guys were rich, famous, and laid by the time the most noteworthy accomplishment most of us could hope for was passing driver's ed. "Mmmbop" is a classic, and anyone who says they don't like it is a goddamn liar.

"Tubthumper"/ Chumbawamba
I don't get it--for being too catchy?

"Ice, Ice Baby"/ Vanilla Ice
This is kind of our anthem/ mantra at work, so I can't say anything bad about it. Or I could, but I decline on the grounds of looking like a hypocrite. (See turnoffs, above.)

"Achy Breaky Heart"/ Billy Ray Cyrus
Finally, one I can put my money on. The Weird Al parody, however, is genius incarnate. Forget a Grammy; he should've won the Nobel Prize for that one. "Achy Breaky Song"--YouTube it. Now. That's not a suggestion, it's an order.

"Macarena"/ Los Del Rio
Oh, holy shit. The less said about this one, the better. And somehow I don't think I'm alone, here.

"Barbie Girl"/ Aqua
It's Danish dance-pop; what the hell do you expect? My drag queen friend was stereotypically obsessed with it, so there were moments when I wanted to toss his copy of the CD out my car window, but I tortured him right back with Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, so...

(I'm surprised the Spice Girls didn't make it on here some way, somehow, but I LOVED their first three singles--"Wannabe"/ "Say You'll be There"/ "2 Become 1"--so it would just add up to another eat me if you can't take a joke.)

Writer's Block: It’s about to get hairy

Do you like beards, goatees or mustaches? Why or why not?

[from a comment] It's hard for a man to wear a beard or mustache without looking like some sort of caricature--hillbilly, sea captain, 70s porn star, hobo--so as a rule I'm not into them, even when there's a sense of irony behind it. Goatees, I can take or leave. I do like a little two-day scruff on a guy, provided I don't get road rash during any spontaneous gestures of affection.

Matches My T-Shirt (Song OTD)

OMG, this is the coolest, most addictive song ever! OMG, I think I just multi-eargasmed! OMG, I wonder how my neighbors would like a dose of this one! OMG, I still forbid myself to go through another hip-hop phase! OMG!

On a related note, I've gotten at least six people to admit they secretly like Snow's "Informer". Just as I thought. :points to screen: You're next. Muahahahaha...

6 Pack...

Day Five: Six things you wish you'd never done.

1-6: Pass.

7 For all Mankind...

Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind often.

1. Any new developments in whatever writing project has my attention.

2. Assorted people. And how lucky I am to know some of them.

3. The future of human society, and how we can intercept any worst-case scenarios. Though I'm just shy of convinced that we're collectively toast.

4. Where my next meal/ music fix/ orgasm/ piece of decorative feminine paraphernalia is coming from, and what it's going to involve.

5. How many ways I'm going to fuck up before noon.

6. The fact that I'm wedged between two families who've told the whole rest of the complex that I'm basically the Antichrist and seem determined to blast me into outer space with the sheer volume of their televisions and stereos, whereas my BFF is, like, a thousand miles away.

7. If there's any way I can turn what skills I have into steady income.

8, 8, the Burning 8...

Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.

1. First and foremost, bring a functioning brain and heart of your own to the table. They don't always have to be on the same page--mine aren't--but at least put them to constructive use once in a while.

2. Make me a mixtape. That means an actual, old-school cassette, preferably adorned with stickers and nail polish and glitter and other arts-and-crafts debris. Burn a CD like a lazy fuck and it's going out the window.

3. Make an effort to follow my sense of humor, even if you don't always crack up in response.

4. Refrain from indiscriminately being an asswipe.

5. Teach me something.

6. Learn something from me.

7. Kill Fred Phelps.

8. Don't kill Stephen King.

Number 9...Number 9...

Day Two: Nine things about yourself.

1. I'm pretty sure I've had at least two past lives, and that one of them took place during the Prohibition era. There's this recurring dream where I'm riding shotgun in a car so old I've never seen one outside a film or photograph, being driven down a decrepit unpaved road to a huge white house. We have to stop because there's a pile of dirt in the road blocking us off, like the ground's been crimped; I get out of the car, my eyes riveted to the front door, and I feel nothing but stone terror because I know--I just know--that somebody is going to come out on the porch with guns and start shooting. As for the other one, well...every time I see a photo of Bergen, Norway, especially the Bryggen waterfront district, I get the strongest deja vu I've ever had in my life. Instant goosebumps. And I can assure you that I've never set foot in any part of Scandinavia.

2. People never seem to know whether I'm being serious or sarcastic, which continues to wreak havoc on my interpersonal pursuits.

3. When I was a kid, I had a series of black cats named "Todd". I also used to assign genders and personality traits to letters and numbers. This was when I was little. My favorites were V and 7; I guess because they seemed the sexiest and most feminine. I also liked the more androgynous letter Z, because it struck me as the oddball of the bunch, the wild card. My ideals were in the cementing process even then.

4. I talk a lot of shit, and I can be excessively confrontational, but at the same time I often take anywhere from several minutes to several days nerving myself up enough to deliver a good cuss-out. So I'm only a badass in spurts and flashes, not 24/ 7.

5. The sound of bass beats cranked to seismic levels is the creepiest sound in the world. Also, not a whole lot of people in my complex--or in fact this town--speak English, and I've discovered that I do not enjoy being surrounded by people who won't stop running their mouths and I can't understand them...unless, of course, I'm in a foreign country or a big-ticket tourist destination. The good news is, it's not a xenophobic thing; it's a sensory-defensiveness thing. (Sensory defensiveness is when you misinterpret ordinary stimulus as threatening signals, and I am a textbook case, for real.) To me, all that chatter-chatter-chatter in Spanish or Russian is just NOISE, and any ongoing deluge of noise that I did not arrange to hear is eventually going to freak the fuck out of me. This is why I'm never without a portable music device of some sort.

6. I once yelled obscenities at a carload of nuns for taking the parking space I had my eye on--I didn't realize they were nuns until they got out of their car, and I was a little flabbergasted, but not quite sorry enough to take it back. I don't give fuck one what a big hairy deal their husband is; what they did was just plain rude.

7. I dropped out of school after grade ten. It was my parents' idea; I'd gone through a lot of shit that year, more than usual, and by "shit" I mean about a hundred different permutations of bullying, and not just at the hands of fellow students: there were faculty members in on it as well. I think Dad and Mom recognized that I was about to crack up and wanted to remove me from the environment before somebody ended up in the morgue. I took the next year off, bumming around the whole western part of the state and having epiphanies, then got my GED after 1.1 attempts--I had to retake the math portion, and managed with my dad's help to eke out a low C.

8. When I was 18, I accidentally instigated a local cause celebre' when, following the passage of an anti-gay rights ordinance, I wrote a letter to two local papers and effectively ripped the whole county a new one for being a bunch of paranoid, trigger-happy rednecks. There were death threats, but mostly people just wanted to chew Bible verses and spit brimstone in my face.

9. In my perfect world, this song would play every time I walk into a room. Because the title of the show just about sums me up.

And this one would play every time I step outside my door, considering all the obstacles lying in wait: broken glass, strung-out hobos, shitty drivers, douchebag neighbors from beyond...

You Are an Alien

You're so strange, people occasionally wonder if you're from another world.

You don't try to be different, but you see most things from a very unique, very offbeat perspective.

Brilliant to the point of genius, you definitely have some advanced intelligence going on.

No matter what circles you travel in, you always feel like a stranger. And it's a feeling you've learned to like.

Your greatest power: Your superhuman brain

Your greatest weakness: Your lack of empathy - you just don't get humans

You play well with: Zombies

They jest, but this is more or less on the money. Although I don't feel like I'm exceptionally intelligent so much as I have a freakishly-wired sponge of a brain that absorbs the damnedest, most random stuff, and veers straight off into Bizarro World before interpreting any of it.
Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.

1. Where do I begin? Seriously...where? Time and space can't contain how I feel about you; every love song ever recorded falls short--and besides, we both agree that most of them are anemic, halfassed reflections of the real thing, anyway. So I'll just state yet again for the record that I love you so much it drives me crazy, despite what we put each other through, and my heart will forever rotate on an axis of you.

2. Oh, wow. The truth? I can't even think of you without feeling like the woman I always wanted to be, rather than the one I fear I really am. I can't thank you enough just for being in my life, and I swear I'd take a bullet (or a laser blast) for you...although I confess I wouldn't want it to kill me, because you've done so much to convince me that I have a lot to live for.

3. Usually I average about 70-30 when heeding your warnings, but thanks to an alignment of circumstances that don't even justify breaking down, I ended up watching John Carpenter's Village of the Damned remake. And you know what? You're right: it is a slap in the face to our generation. Because, like you said, the last thing our generation wants to see is Superman and Luke Skywalker getting pwned by a bunch of demonic rugrats. Oh, well. At least we can be permanently scarred together. Also, I can't imagine life without you. Yes, that's what I said. I'll always be your pile of PMS if you'll always be my Nazi poster boy. Nothing but love for you.

4. Whether or not I love you is beside the point. I haven't liked you for a long time, and I'm not going to put up with your bullshit forever. You won't see it coming when I finally tell you to go fuck yourself, and if I have my mojo working, you won't make an immediate recovery, either. In the meantime, grow up and cultivate a perspective that doesn't completely alienate everyone within half a mile of you.

5. First of all, you really aren't worth more than half a peace sign. And if you have to ask which half, you're even dumber than I thought, you motormouthed, snaggletoothed crotch. On a related note, I almost always keep a huge glass of ice water within arm's reach. If you and your douchebag boyfriend ever again set foot on my side of the deck and attempt to make another scene like you did on the day of the hurricane, I'm throwing it in your faces, and then I'm calling the cops. PS: Your goddamn dog likes me better than you. Might I suggest you suck that for a while.

6. "If you don't straighten up and fly right and get this shit resolved, I am going to shove your whole company straight up my tampon socket, birth you on the bathroom floor, and name you My Bitch." Quote, unquote.

7. She's in Charge? That's your idea of a catchy sports movie title? :scoffs: Oh, brilliant. What, do you eat your pasta without sauce, too? I believe I'll stick with Balls, thanks. What can I say, I go for the edgy stuff...and can't believe that you, of all people, wouldn't be down with that, you sawed-off pervert at large.

8. I wish we'd gotten along better when I was under your roof, because you are one of the most entertaining and intelligent people I know, and the older I get, the luckier I feel to belong to your gene pool. Our relationship will always be volatile, I suspect, but I'd much rather have reason to get ill with you every once in a while than a capricious disregard of your existence.

9. What the fuck was that all about?



It brings me great pleasure to use my first LJ post from my own personal space, my own machine, my own secured network, to wish the indomitable twopiearr a happy birthday. I was going to splurge on something truly special, but all the local stores were out of Twi'lek slave girls--I couldn't even find one used. So my written props are going to have to suffice. Love you long time.

Feels a little surreal, doing this from home--I'm used to distractions; I'm not used to the four-legged contingient of the household trying to sabotage my signal because they want me to hug them and pet them and squeeze them and rock them and call them George.

Come on, guys...just give me til the novelty wears off, how 'bout it?
It's Stephen King's birthday! Who is your favorite character from one of his books?

Good question--Stephen King is to characters what Michelangelo was to art: a true craftsman. It is my favorite book of his, one of my three favorite books of all time as a matter of fact, but I think my favorite character has to be Dolores Claiborne. By the time I read that in high school, I was so ready for an Ordinary Jill of an anti-heroine who made difficult decisions and stood by them. Talk about a teenage wake-up call.

How to Spot Truly Vicious People in Church

Dani O.'s 34th birthday has been made possible through grants from the following organizations:

The Institute for Yahtzee theory
The Society for the Preservation of Spanish Rice
The Bank for People on Horseback
The Ancient and Honorable Order of Pricks
The International House of Cream & Sugar
The Local 12 of the Ballbuster Union
The Laser Enema Foundation
& The National Society of Total Peckerheads

Interesting how these are the same groups that sponsored one of the all-time classic comedy albums, George Carlin's A Place For My Stuff, which I found at Barnes and Noble yesterday for a mere five bucks. Touch me.

Hook Me Up

Well, it's been confirmed--by this time tomorrow, I will be the owner of a sparkling-new laptop, with internet service soon to follow. Meaning I will once again be an interactive presence around these parts, and not just the chick who shows up, plops down a few lackluster words, and splits without acknowledging anybody else.

Yeah, baby.

Sign. Me. Up.

Knowing the truth--that while female orgasms serve no practical evolutionary purpose, they stimulate all components of the brain and therefore a daily regimen could theoretically usher in a society of intellectually adroit, fearless, and adventurous women--only makes me twice as eager to write about female satisfaction.

:kisses Simone, Xanadu, Gressen, and all my OFCs on the forehead in turn:

Go forth and get off, my lovelies. Make mama proud.

Melange as Distraction

Dunkin Donuts iced coffee with coconut and cinnamon: my new drug of choice. I'd like to pop off the top and just dive in there and swim.

Last night it dawned on me that the only band I like better than Siouxsie and the Banshees is the Cars, and the margin could close at any time. That's a little disconcerting for me to admit, because it seems like I'm always correcting people who write me off as some kind of Goth Chick--I keep telling them, black hair and pasty skin do not a Darkchylde make; I don't identify with any music-based cultural movement, and frankly I'm a little embarrassed for those who parade that bullshit around like self-promotional material. (See, for instance, this pain in the ass aquaintance of mine who suddenly, at twenty-eight, decides he's a Juggalo.) Put a gun to my head and I'll say I'm New Wave, if anything at all, but even then it's a question of percentage majority.

Just for the hell of it, I went on to list my favorite bends in formulaic one-through-five fashion. Only there are six here, because I honestly couldn't decide who should occupy the #5 spot.

1. The Cars
2. Siouxsie and the Banshees
3. The Clash
4. Duran Duran
5. The B-52s/ INXS

And my top five individual/ solo artists would shake out something like this.

1. David Bowie
2. Frank Zappa
3. Peter Gabriel/ Tom Waits
4. Suzanne Vega
5. Bruce Springsteen
My "personal story" can wait. If all Irene broke was my heart, and the bitch was only an accomplice in that, then I got off pretty light.

Michael's uncle in Maryland lost his house, then saw both his daughter and her girlfriend in the hospital right before suffering a heart attack. That's just fucked up.

What I want to know is, when did this part of the country become the place for natural disasters? First the tornado(es), then there was that earthquake last week, and now an almost-hurricane leaves a legacy of record floods.

What's next, I ask you?

A fucking SANDSTORM?

Did I Mention I LOVE Beauty Surveys?


...bold lipstick?

It's kind of like my black sequin pumps. Not something I'm going to break out every day, but when I do, I feel dominant and daring and fierce and exotic and about twenty other vibes one doesn't customarily exude when she's slopping around in sneakers.

big hair?
How big are we talking about? Beehives? Mall bangs? The Farrah? No, no, and I think not. I'm not a big hair-up person, either; I can't commit to more than a ponytail or bun. (If I feel like doing something fancy with my head, I usually just throw on a hat.) Keeping my hair on the simple side gives me a little more creative license with my clothes and makeup, which is what I'm talking about anyway.

...extreme hair dye?
Are you kidding? Lord God, I've dyed my hair every color in the spectrum, from Billy Idol blonde (which looked AWFUL) to searing magenta (which turned out halfway cute). For the longest time my mainstay was red-auburn--proudly, I was the first girl in my high school to dye my hair something besides trailer-trash blonde. Now it's pitch dark, but sometimes I wonder what my natural haircolor, kind of a bronde, would do for me at this juncture of my life. One of the reasons I stick with black is loving the graphic, saturated colors it allows me to wear, all those electric blues and ultraviolets and shamrock greens. I can even do neon coral, man; I'm like, the only white girl I know who doesn't look like she's about to hurl in neon coral.

...smoky eyes?
Love. IF they say Rock Out, not Oscar Night. To pull this off, you have to unlearn the importance of precision. I like when someone's eyeliner looks as if they just threw it on as an afterthought, over faded residue from the day before. But also think a slightly more labor-intensive version that incorporates an offbeat color or two--teal, violet, copper, maybe some glitter thrown in--can be just as cool.

...bronzers and self-tanners?
Bitch, please. The cosmetic axis of evil, pure and simple. Keep them the hell away from me. Just like I'm sick of everybody going blonder and blonder. What? The? Fuck? Quit it already. See, I enjoy dissimilarities in people. I am drawn to dissimilarities in people. Therefore I do not relish a media situation where someone literally has to be Alek Wek before I can imagine their probable ethnicity. (I once mistook Eva Mendes, in a photograph, for Jessica Simpson. I don't like talking about it.)

...nail art?
Cheesorama. I've seen some designs that were technically gorgeous, but they'd look better on an article of clothing or in a frame. I'm kind of conservative when it comes to my nails; right now they're glittery black, except for my left ring finger, which is a hot coral-pink frost, and my toes are bright purple. That's about as radical as I ever get.

...false lashes?
Never taught myself how to apply them correctly, because the look's not my favorite. All you notice are those big black chunks of polyurethane hair (Barry calls them skank-sweepers) poking out of your eyelid, whereas something like a funky-colored mascara looks cooler and chicer and edgier than resorting to mere excess.

...men in makeup (ie. guyliner)?
It's funny more than anything, kind of like a woman shoving a tube sock down the front of her pants. But unless it's worn either for said laughs, a drag show, or with full New Wave regalia in the vein of Duran Duran, it does next to nothing for me. I'm not a fan of either gender being too PRETTY. Once again, blame Star Wars, this time for clearing up my ambivalence toward metrosexuality. The guys of the original trilogy wouldn't be caught dead with plucked brows or painted nails; they're masculine and loving it. Sign me up.

Oh, jeez...seventh grade? Way back when Debbie Gibson was the face of Natural Wonder. And Cover Girl LipSlicks in those rainbow plastic tubes were, like, the shit. I had the whole set: Hint of Pink, Hint of Coral, Hint of Fuchsia...my mom used to bitch that the Hint of Red was out of my age bracket. About two years later we were in a department store and she bought me the most vulgar matte red lipstick you ever saw in your life (I think it was Access by Ultima II), which I wore to school with a little too much pride.

Nah, I'm too much of a perfume slut. I love Chanel and Charlie right around equally, but I'm picky about scents based on celebrities--Gwen Stefani/ Sarah Jessica Parker, win; Paris Hilton/ Britney Spears, fail. What I'm pining for right now is Estee Lauder's Wild Elixir, because it smells like the freshest, most subtle precursor to majorly hot sex, but funds are short. I may actually break down and invest in that perfume Fergie did for Avon, though--it smells like strawberry ice cream and the perfect leather jacket. Heaven!

I had the Chola lips once upon a very long time ago. You know, pale with the obnoxious border of dark liner. That's by no means the only example in my storied history of glitter and gloss, but it's one of the few I truly regret.

About 75% of my stuff is from the drugstore. Because I'm not exactly rolling in it, see? My skin swears by Neutrogena/ Aveeno/ Biore anything, while my hair's having a passionate love affair with the Organix line. I'm actually a huge Maybelline fan right now--lipstick, eye shadow, gloss, mascara, they have outdone themselves on so many fronts--plus L'Oreal's Voluminous Carbon Black mascara can go toe-to-toe with that Diorshow stuff any day of the week. And Physician's Formula? Forget about it. I am a SLAVE to that company. Their Mood Booster blush knocks every other blush on the planet out of the fucking park, even the overrated Orgasm by Nars. Yes, that's what I said: Orgasm is OVERRATED. Maybe it's just me, but I don't get glittery gold flecks on my face when the earth moves. Not without seeking immediate medical attention, anyway.

MAC, Make Up For Ever and Urban Decay are great for niche items, such as glitter and those little go to hell-colored pigment pots. And BeneFit clearly wants to knock me out and take all my money. One day I had on their Georgia (peach) blush with that High Beam highlighter stuff, and a friend asked me if I was pregnant. I shit you not.

Every day. Which I know you're not supposed to--don't start with me--but my boyfriend chain-smokes, and if I don't wash it every day, that stank just sets up in there and grosses me out every time I shake my head. Hello, BAYYYYBEH! I had the same damn problem living at home with my folks.

A comb, a blowdryer, a flatiron...maybe once in a while, if my 80s-obsessed ass wants to seriously represent, a crimper.

Shaving my armpits, but only during the colder months. They see a razor maybe twice from Thanksgiving to Easter. Sometimes I even think it looks sort of cool, in an anti-establishment, down-with-the-patriarchy way that clashes agreeably with the rest of my mid-maintenance self.

My condensed answer is "MTV Scum", but then I always have to double back and place that within the 1981-89 time frame. You know, back when it was clear what the "M" stood for.

Yeah, right. That's an essay waiting to happen right there. The obsession itself goes back to ballerina-cheerleader envy when I was about four, because I just adored their moves in those bouncy little skirts. Music videos and Jem! cartoons were my awakening, but Clarissa Darling of Clarissa Explains it All was a next-level experience, wherein I finally found the guts to try harder than, like, jeans and T-shirts. Probably my WTF-est ever style gurus were the Wahlberg brothers--you know, Donnie and Mark. I have no idea what I was high on, but for a time there I would've killed to perfect that West Side Story badass-meets-hip hop nerdo look, not that I ever did.

SKIN: Aveeno's Ultra-Calming moisturizer, Neutrogena Ultra Sheer Face Block SPF 85, Make Up For Ever HD foundation (spendy as fuck, but it doesn't disappoint), and BeneFit's High Beam highlighter.
EYES: Some random navy pencil (probably Rimmel) with a violet shade from Physician's Formula's Eye Candy palette for green eyes winging it out into low-key felinious territory, and L'Oreal Voluminous Carbon Black mascara (my go-to, I'll just tell you right now).
LIPS: NYC Kiss Gloss in Murray Hill Melon (pink-y, coral-y, watermelon-y hotness--give it up for truth in advertising).
NAILS: Pure Ice in Electric! and Splash on my fingers, Grape Icy by Revlon on my toes (which smells faintly of Dimetapp, and that's kind of raunchy, but it's not as if I'm in the habit of contorting specifically to sniff my feet).
HAIR: Organix Moroccan Argan Oil serum.
FRAGRANCE: Dior's Pure Poison. I dig the name, and it's fun to throw people off by looking like downtown while smelling like uptown. Why stop the concept of high-low mixing at one sense?

None worth passing along. It's bad enough that cautionary advice in magazines just makes me want to show up the beauty editors; I'm also a dirty thief who can't stop raiding department store sample racks. Do you really want an asshole like me telling you how to do your hair and makeup? All I'll say is that Aquaphor is better than God. The Eucerin company should send me a crate of that stuff...make that two crates. THREE.

Writer's Block: Get in my belly

What is your mother’s specialty dish? In other words, what food makes you salivate at the thought of it?

Chicken cacciatore over rice. It's more my dad's specialty dish that my mom adapted into a spicier, all-white meat variation just for me, but who made it doesn't matter. If it's on the table, I am laying waste to that stuff.

Bald Beaver Still at Large

Okay, like, there are more subtle ways of being publicly erotic than announcing your partner's adoration for your "shaved poon" in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

File under TMI Article 2, Section 15: Brunch Etiquette for the Shock Value Mafia. Which states, and I quote: "No one gives a rat's ass, girlie."

Wake Me Up When AUGUST Ends

High summer is the absolute time of year for me. I'm a total crab-ass to everybody, I can't think, I can't write, I don't want to leave the house, I don't want to have sex...all I want is to hole up in an air conditioned room with a stack of books and wait for September.

Humidity can lick my ass. Who the fuck likes to sweat for no good reason?

* * * * *

About Amy Winehouse joining the Musicians Dead at 27 Club: tragic, but not suprising. Come on, raise your hand if you didn't see this chick going six feet under. What a waste of talent, though; that's the sad part. You'd think someone could've convinced her that she was better than what she was doing to herself. So my heart truly goes out to the people in her life who tried.
Dear LJ:

How bad do you suck?

Dani O.

Free TV Everywhere

Interesting. Over the weekend I learned that scorpions have a mating practice that mirrors my own, in that every man I've ever dated has had to start off by convincing me at length that he's not an enemy, then there's always the extended dance sequence where I alternate between tentative, experimental affection and compulsive derision. But enough about me.

Good show, New York. Only, what, twelve years behind Vermont; half a decade behind Massachusetts? To be honest, I'm a little surprised it happened at all--upstate New York does not have a reputation for progressive thinking; in face, a lot of its primordial laws were based on old-school Catholic conventions. Forget equal-opportunity marriage: I once read an article about a woman form Westchester or someplace who was fighting like hell to receive a divorce, but kept getting denied because her husband was unwilling to let her go, and the courts didn't find him guilty of anything worse than upper-class white bread negligence. Therefore, regardless of sexual inclination, if I were living in New York I'd definitely think long and hard before marrying anybody, because sometimes the old ball n' chain is exactly that.

Also, I think we need to accept the fact that a number of states out there just aren't going to go for it...not in our forseeable lifetime, anyway. To name three off the top of my head: Texas, Utah, Mississippi. And Alabama. And South Dakota. Any state where social conservatism and Bible School have amalgamated into a sort of puppet master that acts as if any camp that acknowledges reality by fostering opposing viewpoints flat-out doesn't exist. North Carolina--my homestate--does stand a chance of implementing a few more basic human rights along the lines of gay marriage, but that's if, if, if, if IF the think tankers can overthrow the flaming fundies and the legacy of one Jesse Helms. Fingers crossed.

(Can somebody please tell me why that one passage in Leviticus is taken as the literal truth, but the same people who rally behind it are probably wearing head to toe polyester in the process? My theory: after the AIDS epidemic was pinned on homosexual males, there was a Chinese fire drill centered around finding means to justify all the prejudice and slander that followed.)

Watching A Nightmare on Elm Street 2 and taking a hit of Cherry Dr. Pepper (...) for every instance of gay subtext--a game called PROBE in the CLOSET, somebody getting sliced up like a KIELBASA--can't be the most productive way to spend two hours, but I'm celebrating the demise of our ex-landlord's reign of bullshit (January 28, 2011 July 2, 2011). That meant vegging out in a bubble bath with a great book. That meant arrabiata meatballs for dinner. The Orwellian douchebag went out with a bang, though--he wanted our signatures on everything but his ass. I was going to tell him to dial 1-800-FUCK-OFF, with the blessings of approximately every person I know, but I ultimately decided that ending an era that had gone on way too long was more important than being a hero. To get our swashbuckling fix, we did force him to type up and sign an agreement not to take us to court. Bottom line, he and his babymama are officially out of our lives, and any attempt to re-enter will mean crossing a moat filled with industrial-strength whoopass. Don't even think I'm kidding. After the hell he put us through, it'd be nothing for me to have to land on homeboy like a fucking velociraptor.

:gratefully turns the record over because I'm sick of that side:

Saw some serious cloud action on the way back from the minimart Wednesday night. Perfect delineation between pink-stained, lightning-spitting stormcover and the afternoon's pale heathaze, like a drawing by a child who doesn't yet understand how perspective works. I know, right? Of all the times not to have a camera on me. Then I came home and put on the pilot episode of Falling Skies (OnDemand, FTW). Painfully derivative: War of the Worlds, check; Puppet Masters--check; Independence Day, Battlefield Earth--check, no offense. But good watching, with a couple of fun twists in the bargain. You know there's been an apocalypse when your band of survivors has a thirteen-year-old boy on active military duty.


Maybelline ColorSenational lisptick in Red Revolution + Rimmel Exaggerate lip definer in Red Diva + flawlessly groomed brows = POWER PINUP

Rimmel Lasting Finish Lipstick in In Vogue + Milani 3D Glitzy Gloss in In Vogue + diagonally contoured cheeks = SCI-FI SWEETHEART

Cover Girl Outlast Lip Stain in Wild Berry Wink + NYC Kiss Gloss in B'Way Berry + charcoal inner-rim liner = BAD GIRL NEXT DOOR

Maybelline ColorSensational lipstick in Fuchsia Fever + Revlon Super Lustrous lipstick in Fuchsia Fusion + electric blue mascara = 80s POP STARLET

Revlon Super Lustrous lipstick in Nude Attitude + Revlon Super Lustrous lip gloss in Sunrise Nude (discontd.) = pastel smoky eyes = SUMMER CAMP SKANK

Fair Warning (Songs of the Day)

The rebuttal playlist is still in utero, but I did blast the following two yesterday, just to preview what the jerks downstairs are in for if they don't straighten up and fly right.

Carboard Club Mix

Okay, I have a problem. Not a threat to life or limb or anything except my nerves, so more a peeve than a genuine problem, but so recurrent it verges on creating one of those: I'm turning into a situational racist because of it, and that sucks, even though I believe that situational racism is one of my generation's secret shames. (Frankly, if you're going to take every annoying stereotype about your ethnicity, etc., and get all up in people's faces with it, what the fuck do you expect? Trust me, the same very much applies to my own breed of banjo-voiced, sweet tea-pounding caucasians.)

I just don't see the appeal in owning only one CD of obscure Latino pop music and electing to torture your neighbors with it over and over and overandoverandover, with the bass cranked to Richter-rocking levels, but I have half a mind to put together my own rebuttal mix and see how they like it. Now, the honorable thing to do would be to smurf on down there and ask them to halve the volume with a big cheese-eating, I-come-in-peace smile plastered all over my face, but do you honestly think I haven't already gone that route? I've even gotten the office in on this, but it's like, no matter how you address this with them, they'll cut the crap for for a few days or so, then get right back to it once they presume the coast is clear.

The worst part, for me: after the track list runs its course, those bass beats set in my gray matter for hours, like fruit cocktail in a fucking Jell-O mold. THUD-baboomboom THUD-baboomboom. And I don't mean like a regular earworm, where a catchy song hangs out on a loop in your mental background and you know it's just you; I mean I have to convince myself, with effort, that it's not still happening.

So here's what I'm thinking. Every day, at varying hours, a fixed sonic regimen of...

"Dancing With Myself"/ Billy Idol
"Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)"/ Beyonce Knowles
"Simply Irresistible"/ Robert Palmer
"Bang Bang Bang"/ Mark Ronson, et al
"Guitar Talk Love and Drums"/ Gary Myrick
"I Love Rock N' Roll"/ Joan Jett and the Blackhearts
"All You Need is Now"/ Duran Duran
"Let's Get Retarded"/ Black Eyed Peas
"Sabotage"/ Beastie Boys
"The Magnificent Seven"/ The Clash


All right, Boston.

I'm actually not a Bruins fan--my hockey team is the Penguins, and I confess it's mostly because their announcer rocks, right up there with Cedric Maxwell of the Celtics--but after the Stanley Cup finals, we definitely know which city has more class. Boston sports fans are severely fucked in the head (and I would know, because I'm paid to get them drunk), but in all the horror stories where the Red Sox lose the ALCS to the Yankees, the Lakers hand the Celtics their asses in overtime, and the Patriots' perfect season ends in a Superbowl chokejob, I've never heard of them going so far as to riot in the streets. (Red Sox fans have been known to institute a citywide party state after a dramatic come-from-behind victory, but don't mistake that for the same thing.) Canadians are allegedly some of the most polite, civilized people going, and while that's a stereotype I've largely found to be true--not counting one certain asshole from Ontario who shall remain undisclosed--I feel like I'm going to have to note fans of the Vancouver Cnaucks as an exception in the future. Turning into barbarians, and over what, a SPORTING EVENT? I knew they took their hockey seriously up there, but this...I'm glad the Canucks lost; fans like those don't deserve a victory. They couldn't get it done, and you know what? Suck it up. That's what sports talk radio is for--get on the horn and cuss them out for the whole damn province to hear. Don't fucking eviscerate your city just because your goalie is the best player on the other team.

Aside from that, it's been a fun week in sports; I'm pretty well chuffed on that end of things. Nice to see that old LeBron still can't seem to get out of the way of his own ego--I don't care, I can't stand that loudmouth son of a bitch. Kobe Bryant, for instance...he may be a douche, but he's a douche who fucking BRINGS IT on the court, and if nothing else, I fully respect that. LeBron...I just want to throw him in a cage with Alex Rodriguez and watch them slap-fight each other to death. Which has little to do with A-Rod being a Yankee; he'd make me sick no matter what team he played for. Fact: I like both Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera, though Mark Textiera is another little bite in the ass who needs to be forcibly deposited back in his place.

Sorry to ramble, but I'd much rather talk about Boston sports than my former landlord not only fucking us out of our deposit, but hinting that he has cause to get a small claims court involved and go for more. The power trip who talks on one end and shits out the other. He's also insisting, for some reason, on delivering the damage breakdown in person--just what the h-e-double chopsticks makes him think I ever want to lay eyes on him again? If this is a ruse to get our signature on something, he's in for an earful. If I have to take him at his word that he won't sue us for "damages" our deposit didn't cover, then he should have to do the same when we agree not to challenge his allegations.

I swear to Christ, we should've sued his ass when those bees stung mine.


Wow, thanks for giving a shit. I'm touched.

Blizzards. That's what we're supposed to get in Massachusetts. Blizzards and floods. You know, nor'easters. No one was expecting anything worse than a power outage here and there, followed by a long-awaited break in the humidity.

Neither Michael nor I were doing anything special when it hit. I'd gone into work at three, then had to turn right around and go back home because I'd forgotten we had an appointment to resign a few documents for the complex--I remember being so pissed off about that at the time; now I think of it as the inconvenience that maybe spared my ass a series of lengthy powwows with the insurance company, as optimum luck would have it.

Afterward, I stopped off at the apartment to take care of some miscellaneous business. Lightning was already popping out of the clouds with strobelike frequency. Michael was psyched because his belated birthday presents from me, a Cocteau Twins double-disc compliation and Supergirl on DVD--my boy is insane about the chicks of the DC universe, like Batgirl, Wonder Woman, Zatanna...Supergirl being his hands-down favorite--had arrived. We were talking about watching the movie together and it was storming full force when my boss blew up our phone.


"Yeah, what's up?"

"Whatever you do, don't even think about coming back here, you'll get creamed. This isn't just a storm--there's a fucking tornado, man, started out where you are and it's headed right for us." [background: male voice] "I know, are you hearing this shit? Jesus fuck."

"Tornado as in Kansas-style, on the ground, tearing shit up? What the hell? Can you, like, see it from there?"

"I don't know, but something out there's making a lot of noise, and the power's flickering like a madman." [background: female having hysterics] "Oh, my God. Oh...my...God. Holy shit. Okay, a huge fucking tree just went down up the street. And some fool outside on his phone, shooting for posterity." [my side: Michael talking rapid-fire, confirming tornado report] "We've gotta get downstairs. Dani, I'm fucking serious, just stay away."

"No problem. I don't believe this--hey! Call me back!"

"I'll try. Seeya."

Eventually he did, once he could get a signal. My workplace (in West Springfield) is more or less intact--a branch smashed out one of the front windows, but that's a little boo-boo compared to some of the wreckage that's been all over the news. Primarily Mike and I spent about six hours playing phone tag with five states and glued to the TV out of dread of a situation in Southwick, down near the Connecticut border, where his sons live. No such situation transpired; the second of three storm cells overshot that area altogether. Wynne, rumor has it, slept through most of the action.

I don't know what we did to deserve it, but our part of town seems to have slapped down four aces to nature's four kings. We didn't even lose power.

Let me assure you that nothing's ever been more surreal than getting up at my usual time, making my usual cup of tea, turning on the usual newscast and watching attempts to sort out postapocalyptica just up the road from here.

Next person who dismisses climate change as a hoax in my presence is liable to get their foot snapped off and stuffed in their mouth.


[Test Pattern]

Yeah, yeah, I realize I'm getting scarce again. What can I say? I've had places to go, people to do...

A GLIMPSE OF LAST NIGHT: "Fuck, you're gonna have to drag me to bed, because there's no way in hell I'm getting vertical right now. Seriously, pretend you just killed me and you're trying to hide the body."

Zap Zap Zzzzt

No way, Danielle. Absolutely no faceplants on public computers.

:cranks music and plays a succession of air instruments so as not to keel over comatose:

While I'm at it, I'd like to wish happy belated to all the Taureans on my F-List. Surely you know who you are...see, this is one of the more bogus traits I lean on in the name of convenience: I may blank on someone's actual birthday, but I never forget their astrological sign. So if I have a friend who's, say, an Aquarius, I'll walk up to them sometime in February and say, "Happy birthday--because I know it either just happened or it's right around the corner."

Then I look around for a makeshift shield.

Speaking of the Taureans in my life...

BARRY: "I wonder if any of the believers are thinking, Jesus needs to shit or get off the pot. Because they've been predicting this damn thing since the religion began."

And he's a METHODIST, okay?

Couldn't Resist, Yo


I want a new drug

Latest Month

June 2019


RSS Atom
Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Gilbert Rizo