So I went back to school this semester and it was gross. Taking one class - one class! - and I was a disastrous, stressful mess. Had headaches for two months. Ridiculous.
Prior to this, and after visiting Dad in August, I decided to date again. So I joined one of the famous dating websites. This very website was a success for me when I lived in another large East Coast city years ago. However, I must say that I know there was a larger pool of gay men there. Or I think there was. Back then, I remember serial dating: meet a guy for lunch, scamper off to hang with friends, then go meet a fella for dinner. It was great. I was becoming a dating expert! At one point, I think I went on 13 dates in 2 weeks. Eventually, I actually met a boyfriend via that website.
So with five-year-old memories of success, I returned to that website.
Like most people, I do not like setting up the profile, but I try to be honest without being a complete asshole. In addition, I choose photographs that are fairly flattering, but that do not make me look unrealistically handsome so as to disappoint when one meets me in person, or that hot fucking picture of me when I was 24-years-old and 30 pounds lighter (someone I met actually had a years-old photo of himself before his stomach looked pregnant).
There seems to be a paradox existing here with me. As I get older, I filter my mouth less. Or maybe it's that I filter my personality less, because I certainly don't go into tales of snorting heroin at work during the first few conversations. Yet, my impish impulses imp out and I sometimes go on a stream of consciousness jag. For example, here is, verbatim, an e-mail I sent a guy after about three exchanges with him. I don't know what possessed me to send it:
mr. s_______,
i want to see more photos of you because i just do. i like photos. i like visuals. i like scents and fragrances too. freesia is my favorite flower because it is simultaneously sweet and peppery to me. the soap i use is dr. bronner's lavender. sometimes i think my arms smell like a field of fresh air at the end of a day.
my favorite feature on me is my right eyebrow.
since i hit 30, i started growing some hairs on my upper back. i don't like them and groom them every few months.
worked a lot this weekend - back in school taking classes for educational administration - received my master's in 1999 - never thought i'd return to school - and am tired a lot.
tell me about you, s______.
- anonymister
I never heard from the guy again.
Then there was the guy who told me, after one e-mail, that I seemed like a terrific guy. I am dubious about motherfuckers like that because I sense a neediness and a desire to please - something I have done too much in the past. So Mr. Liar-Pants-on-Fire told me that he had two cats that were black. Teasingly, I informed him that this was the mark of the devil. He argued that, no, his cats were angels from God.
Oh, brother.
So I asked him if the quality of life had changed for his cats since President Obama had been elected into office.
Never heard from him again either.
Then there was a guy who was from a town called "Beverly." I told him, because this is true, that the word "Beverly" reminds me of the word "vagina," as if a woman would say that she had a yeast infection in her beverly. He replied, "I suppose I should tell you that my mother's name is Beverly."
I responded that my mother's name is Cunt and that it was quite embarrassing for me while growing up.
He answered to that, "It's a nice Irish name."
That made me like him a little.
And eventually I went on a date with him. To his credit, he was a very kind man, and quite accepting of me and my lunacy. To his detriment, when I kissed him, he had slight halitosis. This made me long for the needy fellows with excellent hygiene who I had rejected earlier this year.
The lesson from all of this is that I don't think I want what I really think I want. I think I want to date or be with someone romantically, but the choices I make are ones that indicate the contrary. Truly, it takes a strong and special guy to handle me. Or maybe I'm just a snob and a dickhead. I don't care right now.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
People Change
I am furious at Google regarding these blog changes. I am no longer able to change the fonts on the page when I am composing a blog. And then I went and changed the template, thinking that it would fix everything and return to me the choice of various fonts. Wrong. Fucking oogly Googly.
Yesterday I returned from visiting my father on the West Coast. Prior to my stay, I was a fucking wreck for days. Actually, I had been worrying about it for weeks, but something set me off last week and I became an anxious mess, pacing the apartment smoking cigarettes, chest tightened, electric currents of fear coursing through my exceptionally desirable body. What can I say? I love my father, I always wanted a daddy, but he sucked. Alcoholism ravaged through his life and his family's. Add to the equation his cunt of a wife - fundamentalist Christian know-it-all (see Dunning-Kruger effect - dumb people know everything) - and life was a nightmare for me when I spent time with dear old Dad growing up. When I was forced to go there on the weekends, he was usually out drinking, and the edgiest and most fun thing to do was watch "The Donny and Marie Show." When we were together, we generally went to bars while I waited and waited and waited during which he became drunker and drunker and drunker. Usually I was hungry and angry. At least I became good at bar shuffleboard.
So last week I felt like I was being carted off to prison once again and my dear old Dad was the cheery warden calling and saying, "Looking forward to seeing you!" I felt trapped and the shitty thing was that I was choosing to be trapped in making this trip.
Now the question arises: Why the fuck would one subject himself to such a thing? Why not continue living life on the East Coast without a break in routine? Why be around West Coasteners and their stupid laid back grossness? What the fuck are those cunts smiling about?
Several answers arise: Dad almost died of cancer a few years back; how many opportunities will I really have to see him? He has stopped drinking since the felony charges were brought against him for pulling a gun on the repo man (the whole family carries guns; Dad has an NRA cap; "Vote John McCain" stickers are on the back of their vehicles; they believe in Satan). And maybe I can work out some issues I have with men, both gay and straight.
The story of my father and me is long and complicated and more interesting to me than anyone. Not appropriate for a blog. I also know that I'm not alone in having a difficult history with a parent.
It is with great pleasure to announce that the trip was a success. (<--- taking a bow, waving to the audience, blowing kisses to a few people)
My father is ridiculously funny.
He put a dollar on a picnic table in the backyard to encourage my 5-year-old niece and 7-year-old nephew to kiss a fat slug.
I have a 15-year-old sister (the difference in age between her and me is larger than the difference between my father and me) who is a carbon copy of stepmother (too bad!). It is amazing to me that a 15-year-old can look matronly in 2010. She vacillates between bossy and bratty. About to ride in the car one day, she was stewing in the back seat; he inquired, "Aren't you going to hold the door open for your brother?" When I asked her one night if she wanted to use the bathroom before me, my father said, "Oh, you're brother and sister - you can shower together!" I love the fact that he says these things to a girl whose ambition is to be a Christian missionary. One day I used the word "motherfucker" in the kitchen. He cut me off and said, "Watch it! Your sister might hear you using those words!" After a pause, he continued, "I don't want the cunt hearing that kind of language."
We took his dog to a park where the canines could frolic and smell each others' assholes freely. Dad grabbed a turd bag for show with no intention of cleaning the dog's shit. "Man, I hope the dog shits down the hill." He stopped to say to an especially hairy, kinky and frizzy dog, "Oh, d'ya just take the curlers out of your hair?"
Driving in the car, passing by women, he would say, "God, I get so tired of these ladies just looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. Just beef, that's all I am to them. No way am I fucking any of them, especially because I can tell she hasn't douched in six months."
This was constant. He was King of the one-liners.
I like my father much better since he has stopped drinking.
The trip was a success because of several reasons. Most importantly, I had fun. Fun. And something I realized inside of my heart is that my father - as fucked up as he has been all these years, and though he neglected the shit out of me and the other siblings - loves me. I am loved.
So the issues I have with men etc.: they are mine to work through. My father has had a difficult and hard life and is simply a funny and intelligent man trying not to regret his past. My shit is mine.
Yesterday I returned from visiting my father on the West Coast. Prior to my stay, I was a fucking wreck for days. Actually, I had been worrying about it for weeks, but something set me off last week and I became an anxious mess, pacing the apartment smoking cigarettes, chest tightened, electric currents of fear coursing through my exceptionally desirable body. What can I say? I love my father, I always wanted a daddy, but he sucked. Alcoholism ravaged through his life and his family's. Add to the equation his cunt of a wife - fundamentalist Christian know-it-all (see Dunning-Kruger effect - dumb people know everything) - and life was a nightmare for me when I spent time with dear old Dad growing up. When I was forced to go there on the weekends, he was usually out drinking, and the edgiest and most fun thing to do was watch "The Donny and Marie Show." When we were together, we generally went to bars while I waited and waited and waited during which he became drunker and drunker and drunker. Usually I was hungry and angry. At least I became good at bar shuffleboard.
So last week I felt like I was being carted off to prison once again and my dear old Dad was the cheery warden calling and saying, "Looking forward to seeing you!" I felt trapped and the shitty thing was that I was choosing to be trapped in making this trip.
Now the question arises: Why the fuck would one subject himself to such a thing? Why not continue living life on the East Coast without a break in routine? Why be around West Coasteners and their stupid laid back grossness? What the fuck are those cunts smiling about?
Several answers arise: Dad almost died of cancer a few years back; how many opportunities will I really have to see him? He has stopped drinking since the felony charges were brought against him for pulling a gun on the repo man (the whole family carries guns; Dad has an NRA cap; "Vote John McCain" stickers are on the back of their vehicles; they believe in Satan). And maybe I can work out some issues I have with men, both gay and straight.
The story of my father and me is long and complicated and more interesting to me than anyone. Not appropriate for a blog. I also know that I'm not alone in having a difficult history with a parent.
It is with great pleasure to announce that the trip was a success. (<--- taking a bow, waving to the audience, blowing kisses to a few people)
My father is ridiculously funny.
He put a dollar on a picnic table in the backyard to encourage my 5-year-old niece and 7-year-old nephew to kiss a fat slug.
I have a 15-year-old sister (the difference in age between her and me is larger than the difference between my father and me) who is a carbon copy of stepmother (too bad!). It is amazing to me that a 15-year-old can look matronly in 2010. She vacillates between bossy and bratty. About to ride in the car one day, she was stewing in the back seat; he inquired, "Aren't you going to hold the door open for your brother?" When I asked her one night if she wanted to use the bathroom before me, my father said, "Oh, you're brother and sister - you can shower together!" I love the fact that he says these things to a girl whose ambition is to be a Christian missionary. One day I used the word "motherfucker" in the kitchen. He cut me off and said, "Watch it! Your sister might hear you using those words!" After a pause, he continued, "I don't want the cunt hearing that kind of language."
We took his dog to a park where the canines could frolic and smell each others' assholes freely. Dad grabbed a turd bag for show with no intention of cleaning the dog's shit. "Man, I hope the dog shits down the hill." He stopped to say to an especially hairy, kinky and frizzy dog, "Oh, d'ya just take the curlers out of your hair?"
Driving in the car, passing by women, he would say, "God, I get so tired of these ladies just looking at me like I'm a piece of meat. Just beef, that's all I am to them. No way am I fucking any of them, especially because I can tell she hasn't douched in six months."
This was constant. He was King of the one-liners.
I like my father much better since he has stopped drinking.
The trip was a success because of several reasons. Most importantly, I had fun. Fun. And something I realized inside of my heart is that my father - as fucked up as he has been all these years, and though he neglected the shit out of me and the other siblings - loves me. I am loved.
So the issues I have with men etc.: they are mine to work through. My father has had a difficult and hard life and is simply a funny and intelligent man trying not to regret his past. My shit is mine.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
TOP 10 LISTS
Hmm. Stupid Google has changed the format on these blogs and I can't adjust my font. They must want, insist, that I "upgrade" to what they deem cool and necessary.
Who's in charge here?!
So I like lists. Top 10 lists. There is something satisfying and clean and neat about those lists. Obviously I am not the only one since people and organizations create lists of favorites and non-favorites all the time.
I remember watching Casey Kasem's ("SCOOB!") America's Top 10 on Sunday nights during the early 1980s. There was something reassuring about his voice announcing who was maintaining their place on Billboard's Top 10, in addition to something maddeningly frustrating when my favorite artists didn't attain the chart position that I thought they deserved (How dare Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts" stall at #2?!). And what a treat when we got to see the full music video for the song!
Since then - about 30 years now - I have classified and ranked various songs, books, and movies in my mind into Anonymister's personal Top 10. Never has it been shared with anyone, including myself. This is because I never complete the list. I just think, "That's definitely in my Top 10."
I know these songs have to be in my Top 10 because of how much I love them now or the sheer number of times I have listened to them in my life. However, they are not ranked in preferential order, other than "Breeze.":
- Breeze, by Lush
- Take That Holiday, by Stacey Q
- Happy, by N*E*R*D
- Tar Baby, by Sade
- Hold On, by Dwele
- Suckling the Mender, by Cocteau Twins
- It Makes Me Wonder, by Suzanne Vega
- Incomplete Without You, by Swing Out Sister
- Prototype, by Outkast
- Eyes Without a Face, by Billy Idol
These may change in an hour.
It is also important to note that there are artists who I love much more than others on this list but whose individual songs simply did not make the cut. Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Massive Attack. They have a catalog of songs that made my skin tingle and my heart sing, but not a song that I have listened to 400,000 times.
Now I was talking to a friend of mine earlier this week and he said that the day prior, the garbage men had collected the trash on his block. He also mentioned that after they left, it seemed that all of them had taken a shit in front of his and his neighbors' houses. The smell that lingered after the collection was simply heinous; perhaps that had wrung out garbage broth from the trash bags.
It aroused olfactory memories of the WORST smell I had ever smelled, which was a large East Coast City's garbage truck in the summer. In a car with other people, we were stuck behind it at a red light. This fucking truck smelled worst than shit. It smelled worst than the lady's breath I smelled in the department store on December 26th when I was hungover at 14-years-old after having drunk egg nog at my family's Christmas get-together (and my mother thought she was so generous that year, but I just wanted Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men cologne). It smelled worse than the hot decomposing carcasses that I saw in the city morgue during my summer job at 16-years-old. This fucking garbage truck was like the underworld, but worse. There were four of us in the car, and the three passengers screamed at the driver to turn left! turn left! When the traffic light changed and we were able to turn, we all breathed, and silence settled on the car as we realized that we had all survived a near catastrophe.
So my friend's experience got me thinking about other Top 10 lists that I never see - why aren't there lists entitled TOP 10 WORSE SMELLS? Or TOP 10 BEST ORGASMS? (I certainly can remember a few...) Or TOP 10 TIMES I WAS SO HIGH AND DROVE THAT IT WAS A MIRACLE I DIDN'T KILL OTHER PEOPLE, MYSELF, OR DRIVE OFF A BRIDGE (like that first time I snorted Oxycontin and then smoked some hybrid of pot called "Purple Koosh" or "God" and my eyes were crossed and I literally - literally - saw three of everything for 2 hours). How about TOP TEN PEOPLE WHOSE TEETH I'D LIKE TO PUNCH DOWN THEIR THROATS (David Spade. Sarah Palin. Several ex-bosses.) Maybe TOP LONGEST TURDS EVER THAT ASTOUNDINGLY CURLED AROUND THE TOILET BOWL AND DID NOT BREAK INTO PIECES. Or TOP 10 MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS EVER (I read something about someone fucking the hole in their picnic table and getting arrested - that's pretty embarrassing).
Man, there is a farrago of lists that I am missing, I am sure.
Who's in charge here?!
So I like lists. Top 10 lists. There is something satisfying and clean and neat about those lists. Obviously I am not the only one since people and organizations create lists of favorites and non-favorites all the time.
I remember watching Casey Kasem's ("SCOOB!") America's Top 10 on Sunday nights during the early 1980s. There was something reassuring about his voice announcing who was maintaining their place on Billboard's Top 10, in addition to something maddeningly frustrating when my favorite artists didn't attain the chart position that I thought they deserved (How dare Juice Newton's "Queen of Hearts" stall at #2?!). And what a treat when we got to see the full music video for the song!
Since then - about 30 years now - I have classified and ranked various songs, books, and movies in my mind into Anonymister's personal Top 10. Never has it been shared with anyone, including myself. This is because I never complete the list. I just think, "That's definitely in my Top 10."
I know these songs have to be in my Top 10 because of how much I love them now or the sheer number of times I have listened to them in my life. However, they are not ranked in preferential order, other than "Breeze.":
- Breeze, by Lush
- Take That Holiday, by Stacey Q
- Happy, by N*E*R*D
- Tar Baby, by Sade
- Hold On, by Dwele
- Suckling the Mender, by Cocteau Twins
- It Makes Me Wonder, by Suzanne Vega
- Incomplete Without You, by Swing Out Sister
- Prototype, by Outkast
- Eyes Without a Face, by Billy Idol
These may change in an hour.
It is also important to note that there are artists who I love much more than others on this list but whose individual songs simply did not make the cut. Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Massive Attack. They have a catalog of songs that made my skin tingle and my heart sing, but not a song that I have listened to 400,000 times.
Now I was talking to a friend of mine earlier this week and he said that the day prior, the garbage men had collected the trash on his block. He also mentioned that after they left, it seemed that all of them had taken a shit in front of his and his neighbors' houses. The smell that lingered after the collection was simply heinous; perhaps that had wrung out garbage broth from the trash bags.
It aroused olfactory memories of the WORST smell I had ever smelled, which was a large East Coast City's garbage truck in the summer. In a car with other people, we were stuck behind it at a red light. This fucking truck smelled worst than shit. It smelled worst than the lady's breath I smelled in the department store on December 26th when I was hungover at 14-years-old after having drunk egg nog at my family's Christmas get-together (and my mother thought she was so generous that year, but I just wanted Calvin Klein's Obsession for Men cologne). It smelled worse than the hot decomposing carcasses that I saw in the city morgue during my summer job at 16-years-old. This fucking garbage truck was like the underworld, but worse. There were four of us in the car, and the three passengers screamed at the driver to turn left! turn left! When the traffic light changed and we were able to turn, we all breathed, and silence settled on the car as we realized that we had all survived a near catastrophe.
So my friend's experience got me thinking about other Top 10 lists that I never see - why aren't there lists entitled TOP 10 WORSE SMELLS? Or TOP 10 BEST ORGASMS? (I certainly can remember a few...) Or TOP 10 TIMES I WAS SO HIGH AND DROVE THAT IT WAS A MIRACLE I DIDN'T KILL OTHER PEOPLE, MYSELF, OR DRIVE OFF A BRIDGE (like that first time I snorted Oxycontin and then smoked some hybrid of pot called "Purple Koosh" or "God" and my eyes were crossed and I literally - literally - saw three of everything for 2 hours). How about TOP TEN PEOPLE WHOSE TEETH I'D LIKE TO PUNCH DOWN THEIR THROATS (David Spade. Sarah Palin. Several ex-bosses.) Maybe TOP LONGEST TURDS EVER THAT ASTOUNDINGLY CURLED AROUND THE TOILET BOWL AND DID NOT BREAK INTO PIECES. Or TOP 10 MOST EMBARRASSING THINGS EVER (I read something about someone fucking the hole in their picnic table and getting arrested - that's pretty embarrassing).
Man, there is a farrago of lists that I am missing, I am sure.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Hey Mickey!
God, I hate these dumb ass motherfuckers in cyberspace. Are they for real or are they fucking with me too?
Last night, after a week's bout with anxiety (okay, it's been more like 30-something years), I'm looking at videos on YouTube. After watching the 5th season opener for THE FACTS OF LIFE, I posted something like this:
My favorite episode that season was when Blair fingered Tootie's ass.
Something short and sweet.
Then I'm led on a leash somehow into watching about fifty more videos. One of them was "Mickey," the hit song by Toni Basil from 1982. Total bubblegum fun. The video is energetic as the singer dances, bounces, kicks, splits, builds pyramids with cheerleaders and all kind of wheeeeeeeeeee!
So I posted something like, "She was 70-years-old when she made this video. She was in great shape!"
I actually received a response to that comment in my e-mail. Verbatim, it says:
actually about 39 - she was born in 1943
Jesus Christ. I cannot stand when people take pop culture so seriously!
Last night, after a week's bout with anxiety (okay, it's been more like 30-something years), I'm looking at videos on YouTube. After watching the 5th season opener for THE FACTS OF LIFE, I posted something like this:
My favorite episode that season was when Blair fingered Tootie's ass.
Something short and sweet.
Then I'm led on a leash somehow into watching about fifty more videos. One of them was "Mickey," the hit song by Toni Basil from 1982. Total bubblegum fun. The video is energetic as the singer dances, bounces, kicks, splits, builds pyramids with cheerleaders and all kind of wheeeeeeeeeee!
So I posted something like, "She was 70-years-old when she made this video. She was in great shape!"
I actually received a response to that comment in my e-mail. Verbatim, it says:
actually about 39 - she was born in 1943
Jesus Christ. I cannot stand when people take pop culture so seriously!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Malaise and Madame
Honestly, I just don't know what to say.
I feel bored, and that scares me.
Is it peace creeping into my life?
It's like a malaise.
"Malaise-lite."
My life has been a ridiculous pattern of climbing up hills, reaching towers, and tumbling down, being thrown off - SPLAT! - in the middle of the moat, and getting up to do it again.
Sisyphusism.
I just do not know what to say, really, and I'm rarely at a loss for words. It's like that horrible dinner date I went on a few months ago. When we were in bed fucking, there was plenty to say. When we sat at a table across from each other eating hamburger sandwiches, my mind as empty as the sky after a storm.
The website I frequent more than any other is YouTube. I love it for music, clips of movies, and comedy bits. Sometimes I will get an old TV-theme song in my head and need to look it up - thank God for YouTube to satiate that pressing obligation. YouTube has recommendations for me that I check daily and because I looked at the Gimme a Break! theme song one day, they recommended this show called "Madam's Place" with that insane looking puppet:
(When I looked up an image for this fright, there were several comparisons to Joan Rivers, which are quite apt. Other celebrities that were compared to Madame include Cher, Quentin Tarantino, and Dolly Parton. There was also an image of George W. Bush next to Madame, which made me wonder if Bill Clinton fucked her.)
I sent an e-mail out with a clip to the show's theme song. This is where I get into wondering who is going (A) understand how extremely funny this clip is because of its camp value and (B) appreciate my brilliance because I wrote "Why the FUCK is this show still not on the air!?!?"
In any case, the show's introduction is hysterically funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG2yJs3SwCM
Sample lyrics include:
When a young man looks at Madame,
She just throws herself right at him!
She's young at heart and still getting her kicks!
AND
Here at Madam's Place
She's the perfect host.
She rocks the airways
From coast to coast.
Then is says something about her
...charms in this funny farm
Okay.
Okay.
Another hilarious aspect of the theme is that it that when it flashes the actors' names on screen, it also states their characters' names AND what the character's role on the show is.
For example:
Also Starring:
Susan Tolsky
as Bernadette
her secretary
Johnny Haymer
as Pinkerton
her butler
Corey Feldman [yes, that one]
as Buzzy
the neighbor kid [with the Adam Rich haircut]
Ty Henderson [token black guy]
as Barney
her producer
Shit! This show was designed for mentally retarded gay men and people who watched Hollywood Squares, which could be one and the same.
But I will confess that I am now wanting to watch Madame videos. For anthropological research reasons only.
I feel bored, and that scares me.
Is it peace creeping into my life?
It's like a malaise.
"Malaise-lite."
My life has been a ridiculous pattern of climbing up hills, reaching towers, and tumbling down, being thrown off - SPLAT! - in the middle of the moat, and getting up to do it again.
Sisyphusism.
I just do not know what to say, really, and I'm rarely at a loss for words. It's like that horrible dinner date I went on a few months ago. When we were in bed fucking, there was plenty to say. When we sat at a table across from each other eating hamburger sandwiches, my mind as empty as the sky after a storm.
The website I frequent more than any other is YouTube. I love it for music, clips of movies, and comedy bits. Sometimes I will get an old TV-theme song in my head and need to look it up - thank God for YouTube to satiate that pressing obligation. YouTube has recommendations for me that I check daily and because I looked at the Gimme a Break! theme song one day, they recommended this show called "Madam's Place" with that insane looking puppet:
(When I looked up an image for this fright, there were several comparisons to Joan Rivers, which are quite apt. Other celebrities that were compared to Madame include Cher, Quentin Tarantino, and Dolly Parton. There was also an image of George W. Bush next to Madame, which made me wonder if Bill Clinton fucked her.)
I sent an e-mail out with a clip to the show's theme song. This is where I get into wondering who is going (A) understand how extremely funny this clip is because of its camp value and (B) appreciate my brilliance because I wrote "Why the FUCK is this show still not on the air!?!?"
In any case, the show's introduction is hysterically funny.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EG2yJs3SwCM
Sample lyrics include:
When a young man looks at Madame,
She just throws herself right at him!
She's young at heart and still getting her kicks!
AND
Here at Madam's Place
She's the perfect host.
She rocks the airways
From coast to coast.
Then is says something about her
...charms in this funny farm
Okay.
Okay.
Another hilarious aspect of the theme is that it that when it flashes the actors' names on screen, it also states their characters' names AND what the character's role on the show is.
For example:
Also Starring:
Susan Tolsky
as Bernadette
her secretary
Johnny Haymer
as Pinkerton
her butler
Corey Feldman [yes, that one]
as Buzzy
the neighbor kid [with the Adam Rich haircut]
Ty Henderson [token black guy]
as Barney
her producer
Shit! This show was designed for mentally retarded gay men and people who watched Hollywood Squares, which could be one and the same.
But I will confess that I am now wanting to watch Madame videos. For anthropological research reasons only.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Massacre
I have been essentially miserable for months. This is truly different from my usual misery. Migraine city. Or just headache city. One after another. Can't figure out of they're
migraine or
tension headaches or
sinus headaches or
rebound headaches.
My patience is truly thin today, I feel intolerant of all.
Last week I saw someone with a brand new, shiny Lexus SUV. Stuck to the bottom was a plastic bag that had melted onto the tailpipe. I felt embarrassed as it looked like a turd stuck on an animal's asshole. I think the SUV wanted to rub its back end on the ground to get the itchy bag off its tailpipe.
Two weeks ago I went into a Dunkin' Donuts near my job. I had a gift card given to me and was feeling gluttonous; this is not uncommon these days. Of course, there were two young men who happened to be beautiful working there. I felt the fat on my body hanging over as I scanned their sleek physiques. After taking my order for three sandwiches and six doughnuts - one doughnut was for someone else, the rest for me, but I pretended that the whole order was for my co-workers, a puzzled look on my face as I tried to recall what in the world did so-and-so order?, darn-it, I should have written that down! - a fashionable looking man with a fedora walked in to order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant and a coffee with cream, no sugar. I could only imagine how gross his breath would smell later.
He was funny to me because he was in a fucking American Dunkin' Donuts and pronounced "croissant" as kwah-SAH. He looked like a heavy drinker because his face was both doughy and severe. The Indian woman who took his order apparently disapproved of his drinking because she glared at him the whole time. I glanced at him surreptitiously so that I could use a five-syllable word in my blog.
He was given his sandwich before my three and looked in the bag. He asked for a ketchup packets. Without looking at him, the woman gave him a packet. He asked for more, saying he liked a lot of ketchup. Again, without looking at him, she gave him one packet. Here, he paused, and I could feel the tension mounting.
"I told you I like a lot of ketchup," he said. "Please give me at least four packets."
"No," the woman responded. "Only two for a sandwich."
I felt my own insides tightening. How dare she!? What was up with the condiment limits? Were we in a war? All of a sudden I wanted three for each of my sandwiches. I wanted nine packets.
"Ma'am," he said, and I could see that he was restraining the desire to raise his voice. "Please give me two more ketchups. I will pay for them."
At this point it was like the woman became unhinged. She began screaming that there was a limit of one ketchup per sandwich, she had already gone over the limit in giving him two, and they would run out if they gave everyone all the ketchup packets they ever wanted, couldn't he be satisfied with what he got!?
The man glared at her as if he had made a decision, took his sandwich, and left.
Now, I'm thinking because of this, the young man making my sandwich had gotten nervous, because he made mistakes on my order and gave me the wrong sandwiches. I had to wait while three more sandwiches were made. As I was getting my correct order and checking to make sure they were correct (I hate cheese), Fedora walked back into the shop with two bottles of ketchup in the squeeze bottles.
"Here you go, lady! Here's some ketchup for you!"
Fedora walked up to the counter and proceeded to shoot the red across onto all the doughnuts and muffins and bagels until they were bloodied with ketchup. I think it was Heinz brand, too, so it was thick and clinging. It took about 30 seconds, this pastry massacre.
While it was happening, I thought of how fortunate I was to have already gotten my cream doughnuts.
migraine or
tension headaches or
sinus headaches or
rebound headaches.
My patience is truly thin today, I feel intolerant of all.
Last week I saw someone with a brand new, shiny Lexus SUV. Stuck to the bottom was a plastic bag that had melted onto the tailpipe. I felt embarrassed as it looked like a turd stuck on an animal's asshole. I think the SUV wanted to rub its back end on the ground to get the itchy bag off its tailpipe.
Two weeks ago I went into a Dunkin' Donuts near my job. I had a gift card given to me and was feeling gluttonous; this is not uncommon these days. Of course, there were two young men who happened to be beautiful working there. I felt the fat on my body hanging over as I scanned their sleek physiques. After taking my order for three sandwiches and six doughnuts - one doughnut was for someone else, the rest for me, but I pretended that the whole order was for my co-workers, a puzzled look on my face as I tried to recall what in the world did so-and-so order?, darn-it, I should have written that down! - a fashionable looking man with a fedora walked in to order a bacon, egg, and cheese on a croissant and a coffee with cream, no sugar. I could only imagine how gross his breath would smell later.
He was funny to me because he was in a fucking American Dunkin' Donuts and pronounced "croissant" as kwah-SAH. He looked like a heavy drinker because his face was both doughy and severe. The Indian woman who took his order apparently disapproved of his drinking because she glared at him the whole time. I glanced at him surreptitiously so that I could use a five-syllable word in my blog.
He was given his sandwich before my three and looked in the bag. He asked for a ketchup packets. Without looking at him, the woman gave him a packet. He asked for more, saying he liked a lot of ketchup. Again, without looking at him, she gave him one packet. Here, he paused, and I could feel the tension mounting.
"I told you I like a lot of ketchup," he said. "Please give me at least four packets."
"No," the woman responded. "Only two for a sandwich."
I felt my own insides tightening. How dare she!? What was up with the condiment limits? Were we in a war? All of a sudden I wanted three for each of my sandwiches. I wanted nine packets.
"Ma'am," he said, and I could see that he was restraining the desire to raise his voice. "Please give me two more ketchups. I will pay for them."
At this point it was like the woman became unhinged. She began screaming that there was a limit of one ketchup per sandwich, she had already gone over the limit in giving him two, and they would run out if they gave everyone all the ketchup packets they ever wanted, couldn't he be satisfied with what he got!?
The man glared at her as if he had made a decision, took his sandwich, and left.
Now, I'm thinking because of this, the young man making my sandwich had gotten nervous, because he made mistakes on my order and gave me the wrong sandwiches. I had to wait while three more sandwiches were made. As I was getting my correct order and checking to make sure they were correct (I hate cheese), Fedora walked back into the shop with two bottles of ketchup in the squeeze bottles.
"Here you go, lady! Here's some ketchup for you!"
Fedora walked up to the counter and proceeded to shoot the red across onto all the doughnuts and muffins and bagels until they were bloodied with ketchup. I think it was Heinz brand, too, so it was thick and clinging. It took about 30 seconds, this pastry massacre.
While it was happening, I thought of how fortunate I was to have already gotten my cream doughnuts.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Buying Cat Food
My cats are not the type that I can let go hungry for even a little bit. The cat food bowl is not allowed to even go down halfway before the orange cat begins stalking me throughout the apartment howling as if he's at death's door. I do my best to make sure that I get a new bag of IAMS before the other bag even runs out, but this wasn't the case yesterday; the bag had already run out. So I had to go to the Rite-Aid.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.
The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?
Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels
in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.
If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats
, party hats
, tiaras
, and baskets of fruit 
on my head and have people take pictures of me.
When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.
I love the CVS, but I hate the Rite-Aid. CVS has clean aisles, usually fully stocked, the cashiers are all younger than ninety-years-old. The Rite-Aid smells like spoiled milk, usually has Christian or country-western music playing (no joke - Dolly Parton is cute to look at, but come on!), and perpetually has wind chimes on sale near the front that people are bumping into. But the Rite-Aid is much closer and the Survivor finale was on last night, so I had to go there.
In addition to buying the IAMS and some saltine crackers so that I could make peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches, I bought two cans of Fancy Feast.
The cats go ape-shit when I feed them a can. I think they put cocaine in that cat food. Sometimes I fear for my life.
I arrived at the counter to pay the cashier. There was two customers ahead of me and she commented on everything they were buying. "Oh, that's a good deal. Mmm, I'ma have to get me somma that." What the fuck was she talking about that she wanted to get Old Spice after-shave?
Meanwhile, I looked and saw a People Magazine in a rack. There was a photograph of Bret Michaels
in his hospital bed with his bandana wrapped around his head. This is pure comedy to me.If I am ever in the hospital again (Heaven forbid! There are no smoking rooms there!), I want to put cowboy hats
, party hats
, tiaras
, and baskets of fruit 
on my head and have people take pictures of me.When I finally was able to place my three items on the counter, the woman just said, "Huh." I looked at her and could see that her gums were tan and black - black! - as if she'd been a snuff chewer for the past 70 years. Her voice sounded like she chewed some glass and a few shards were caught in her throat.
"Huh." Dripping with judgment, that "huh."
So I told her that it was my dinner. I explained, maintaining eye contact, that the Chicken Feast Classic was very much like pate and tasted wonderful on a cracker.
She looked repulsed by me, shook her head, and said, "That ain't even right."
But that was all she said to me.
Monday, May 3, 2010
BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!
Yesterday, a lovely woman who I casually know called me "precious." She wasn't making a reference to the movie about the abused teen in Harlem, either. "Precious" is not an adjective that I (and definitely my coworkers) generally use to describe me. I could see "salty," or "fresh-mouthed," or "tornado," but not "precious."
It got me thinking about my spiritual advisor. I have known L______ for close to 20 years. We met when I was 18-years-old, but became friends when I was 19.
She has blond curly hair, very soft looking, like baby hair, and blue eyes. Now that she's in her 60s, her hair is thinner, but it still evokes a baby girl. When I first saw her, I could see the most excellent life energy she exuded; it drew me to her. Men love her. Women do too, once they get over their fears.
She blazes with light. I suppose it would be the light of God. I have been places with her and people are taken aback. They are confused by her light - it blinds them. They are angry, sometimes, because of their confusion and want to squelch her light. She doesn't allow this, but she allows them to be. Many men want to possess her to have that light.
When she was three-years-old, she would stand in her driveway and greet the neighbors. Here was this little dumpling in a dress with a dirty face waving and shouting "Hi!" to people. She always had an open heart and was interested in people.
L is the kind of person you can tell anything - anything - to and feel safe. She will love you.
She has worked hard to be this kind of person. She will tell you freely about her unsavory behavior of the past. She showed me a photograph of her at 16-years-old from a house party. She was drunk. Her hair in a Jackie O-flip, she stared alluringly at the camera. You could tell she felt warm in that picture, drunk in a good way, before you feel nauseous and dizzy and want to vomit. She had a scratch on her face, barely noticeable, because she had gotten in a fight with one of her girlfriends.
She tells the story of being on her knees in adulthood, so drunk that she was vomiting and shitting at the same time. She cupped her hand by her ass to prevent too much shit from getting on the floor.
She tells the story of having sex with three men in the same day and not even washing herself between. "Man, I thought I was hot stuff!" she exclaims. "Boy, was I delusional!"
In her early 40s, L made the decision to stop drinking. She has stayed stopped for more than 20 years. She has worked hard to develop a close relationship with God and it gives her joy. She helps people every day of her life. She meditates. She practices yoga. She is a vegan. She doesn't use curse words.
Last year a tragedy struck her family. Her sister's daughter drowned in the ocean. L called me up, shaken up, and told me that she loved me and to enjoy every day because we never know when life will be taken away. Later, she told me matter of factly that she would not be dancing at her niece's grave.
"Huh?" I asked.
L then explained that at one sister's burial years prior (L comes from a family of eleven children), she had brought a boom box and performed an interpretive dance in her leotards in the cemetary. She knew that her deceased sister would have loved her performance, but the living relatives did not appreciate it.
When I was 19, she took me to Quaker meetings (I looked for the Oatmeal guy, but he never appeared). Who would have thought a young drug addict would be open to attending Quaker meetings? L has that effect on people.
She always told me that I was a precious gift. It sounded absurd to me. Sometimes she would make me say that I was a precious gift. I would giggle. She would drop me at the corner of where I was living at the time and wait until I climbed to the porch. Then, for the whole world to hear, she would shout, "BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!" and speed away (that was kind of naughty of her, I think). My teenage eyes would dart frantically up and down the block to see which people were staring at the precious gift in their midst.
Gratitude does not come naturally for me. I have to constantly, consciously remind myself of things for which I am grateful. My spiritual advisor is always at the top of the list.
It got me thinking about my spiritual advisor. I have known L______ for close to 20 years. We met when I was 18-years-old, but became friends when I was 19.
She has blond curly hair, very soft looking, like baby hair, and blue eyes. Now that she's in her 60s, her hair is thinner, but it still evokes a baby girl. When I first saw her, I could see the most excellent life energy she exuded; it drew me to her. Men love her. Women do too, once they get over their fears.
She blazes with light. I suppose it would be the light of God. I have been places with her and people are taken aback. They are confused by her light - it blinds them. They are angry, sometimes, because of their confusion and want to squelch her light. She doesn't allow this, but she allows them to be. Many men want to possess her to have that light.
When she was three-years-old, she would stand in her driveway and greet the neighbors. Here was this little dumpling in a dress with a dirty face waving and shouting "Hi!" to people. She always had an open heart and was interested in people.
L is the kind of person you can tell anything - anything - to and feel safe. She will love you.
She has worked hard to be this kind of person. She will tell you freely about her unsavory behavior of the past. She showed me a photograph of her at 16-years-old from a house party. She was drunk. Her hair in a Jackie O-flip, she stared alluringly at the camera. You could tell she felt warm in that picture, drunk in a good way, before you feel nauseous and dizzy and want to vomit. She had a scratch on her face, barely noticeable, because she had gotten in a fight with one of her girlfriends.
She tells the story of being on her knees in adulthood, so drunk that she was vomiting and shitting at the same time. She cupped her hand by her ass to prevent too much shit from getting on the floor.
She tells the story of having sex with three men in the same day and not even washing herself between. "Man, I thought I was hot stuff!" she exclaims. "Boy, was I delusional!"
In her early 40s, L made the decision to stop drinking. She has stayed stopped for more than 20 years. She has worked hard to develop a close relationship with God and it gives her joy. She helps people every day of her life. She meditates. She practices yoga. She is a vegan. She doesn't use curse words.
Last year a tragedy struck her family. Her sister's daughter drowned in the ocean. L called me up, shaken up, and told me that she loved me and to enjoy every day because we never know when life will be taken away. Later, she told me matter of factly that she would not be dancing at her niece's grave.
"Huh?" I asked.
L then explained that at one sister's burial years prior (L comes from a family of eleven children), she had brought a boom box and performed an interpretive dance in her leotards in the cemetary. She knew that her deceased sister would have loved her performance, but the living relatives did not appreciate it.
When I was 19, she took me to Quaker meetings (I looked for the Oatmeal guy, but he never appeared). Who would have thought a young drug addict would be open to attending Quaker meetings? L has that effect on people.
She always told me that I was a precious gift. It sounded absurd to me. Sometimes she would make me say that I was a precious gift. I would giggle. She would drop me at the corner of where I was living at the time and wait until I climbed to the porch. Then, for the whole world to hear, she would shout, "BYE PRECIOUS GIFT!" and speed away (that was kind of naughty of her, I think). My teenage eyes would dart frantically up and down the block to see which people were staring at the precious gift in their midst.
Gratitude does not come naturally for me. I have to constantly, consciously remind myself of things for which I am grateful. My spiritual advisor is always at the top of the list.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Be A Neat Bug!
In celebration of Earth Day, many teachers in my school have had their students write about recycling, planting trees, and sundry ways to care for Earth.
A first-grade girl wrote an excellent paragraph detailing the ways that we should care for our planet. She finished her mini-essay with, "Don't be a litter bug. Be a neat bug!"
A first-grade girl wrote an excellent paragraph detailing the ways that we should care for our planet. She finished her mini-essay with, "Don't be a litter bug. Be a neat bug!"
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Getting Older
Trying a new font again.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
I know that my last blog was a little feeling-sorry-for-myself. It was the beginning of a migraine cycle, what can I say. Okay, and I do feel like I should receive an award or certificate or medal for taking care of myself sometimes. I just do. It's an area in my life where I'm immature, I'll admit it.
It's chilly out right now, and drizzling. I was thinking, though, of how neat it might feel to walk down the street naked if it were about 15 degrees warmer. Think about the precipitation on your privates, the breeze on your butt, the sun on your areola. How freeing it would feel! Why must it be only 3-year-olds and women on angel dust and/or crack who get to experience nudity in public?
Why no go to a nudist beach, Anonymister?, you may ask.
Uh, because I possess common decency.
So my sister texts me:
OMG, there's this this website called ____________ and this hermaphrodite has sex with this girl and the girl eats its pussy and sucks its dick and i was like gagging and almost threw up. it's so disgusting!
My first thought is for her to send me the link.
Years ago, in 1999, I read the book Geek Love. Very well written book. An ex-boyfriend had sent it to me (it was my first package ever delivered from amazon.com) because at that time I was very into freaks. (Is there a politically correct way to say it - "freaks"? Who cares? Are they going to boycott my blog?) These were people with physical abnormalities. I loved them. I wanted to find some to be my friends. I don't know why; I just did. I had watched the Tod Browning film "Freaks" and fallen in love with them, especially Schlitzie.
I remember my sister sitting with me in my apartment and watching me rewind the VCR tape and watch the scenes with Schlitzie over and over.
Jesus Christ, she would exclaim. Enough already!
I don't know why I like the things I like.
Anyway, this was when I had first discovered the internet, 1999. I would surf the web and find website after website about freaks. Massive human beings, tiny people, emaciated people, ugly people with cranial deformities, people with extra body parts located in fucked-up places, people with missing body parts...oh, the list went heavenly on and on. There were, too, the delightful conjoined twins (that's politically correct; do NOT call them "Siamese twins").
Like any addiction, it took more and more for me to get a hit. I needed more and more freakish pictures to delight in the freakishness of the specimen.
Let me add that I was in graduate school at the time. It was a great distraction when I had to read empirical research. However, I had only so much time to search the web. I was not savvy about searching for websites and if google.com existed, I was not aware of it. So there was just a limited amount of time and sites that I saw.
Fast forward to now.
Of course I go to the website that my sister talked about. I want to see the hermaphrodite have sex! I read the Pulitzer-Prize winning novel Middlesex!
But when I got to the site, I lost courage.
Is this what comes when one gets older?
I used to relish in looking at the freakiest shit possible.
And "shit" is not an exaggeration. If I heard about a site with German people squealing "Ja, Ja" while they farted in each others mouths and sucked a shitty dildo, my fingers made a beeline for that site!
Now, though, I don't want to upset my subconscious.
I don't want to watch a video of a whore with a toilet seat around her face while she sucks a man's stump leg (although typing that did make me giggle).
I don't want to see an old woman with a massive maggot infestation in her face.
I don't want to watch "handicapped sex." Nor do I want to see pussy lips knotted or carrots stuffed up someone's asshole. I just don't.
I'd really rather see flowers and kittens and sunsets.
BUT
I will admit that I watched the small penis contest that Howard Stern had on his show.
This makes me doubt the existence of God. I mean, how cruel! I've seen clits bigger than some of those dicks.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)