Pillowman

Broadway has changed in my eyes. Before I thought it was only famous people doing famous shows performing famous songs...but now I know better. I heard a strong recommendation for a new show that is a smash hit in London and has gotten tons of Tony noms, etc. And it's a little off the beaten path.

Pillowman stars Billy Crudup and Jeff Goldblum. It is playing at the Booth Theater on 45th, and we ended up with cheap rush tickets. As the curtain rose, I was so excited I was about to jump out of my skin. I was so close I could smell them and see their spit hit the ground in front of me.

I was told that the show was "deeply disturbing." This was correct. Without launching into an entire re-hash of the plot, let me say that the onlsaught of sickness involved mental illness, blood and brains falling out of people's heads, torture, kids being nailed to crosses and getting toes hacked off with butcher knives, lots of yelling, and fires that actors set onstage.

It was fucking awesome.

The performers were amazing, the story was great, and I even laughed amid the chaos. I walked out filled with intense joy. How lucky am I to have seen this show? For such little fundage?

I am headed home today. A short trip, but a rich one nonetheless. I wil be smiling on the plane, thinking of the beauty of this city. Why haven't I moved here yet?

Oh, yeah. I forgot.

I hate bagels.

lox sux. g

Wine Spritzers

I have decided that it is super fun to visit people you know in a large, overwhelming city. They know all the greatest places and can maneuver through anything. You don't need to waste alcohol money on maps or extra subway rides when you go the wrong way...

We spent yesterday eating brunch at an amazing Israeli place, complete with fresh pita and orange juice. The food was so incredible, I almost forgot that they probably poisoned by freedom-loving self's food. No, now, Hellcat was only kidding. If it were a Palestinian joint, then she would be worried.

Chelsey was calling us, because several galleries were holding shows that sounded cool. Alas, one was closed due to the holiday weekend, and we ended up trying to answer the question "What sound does color make?" The exhibit was subpar and the only answer I had to the queston was something similar to the sound my soul makes when being sucked out of my solar plexus. And it also sounds like kittens dying.

We needed a drink after that one.

Anyway, we stumbled upon an exhibit of Mona Kuhn's photography, which really blew our minds. She photographs friends at a French nudist colony who are all young and beautiful...she mostly uses a super shallow depth of field in the photos, and they are a knockout. Even if these hotties had their clothes on, it would have been amazing. But, as it was, we got to see some naked, glistening parts, so...

We needed another drink after that.

Apparently the drink of choice in stuffy Chelsey is a wine spritzer. Not being blonde or rail-thin with a sweater tied around my neck, I opted for Guinness and was immediately labeled a bull dyke by the waif behind the bar. I licked my lips at her and kept walking.

A friend of David and Caspian's was going to a play, so we joined in. We were surprised at the lame acting. The writing really had us in the first act but went totally downhill in the second, so we spent dinner compaining and offering ideas on how to make it good. It was taking a lot of work, and a lot of vodka. My mango-chutney prok chop was fabulous, though. And I think we ended up with a hit show on our hands.

David suggested we get a cup of hot chocolate. We walked uptown, and discovered that with every step, David got more and more sad about his old relationship with his last serious girl. They lived near where we were headed and his melancholy was palpable. This reminded me of MY melancholy...

...we have to go to the box office now. Going to go see a Broadway show. More to come...

ring a ding ding. g

Taking a Bite

Well, my darlings, I have arrived in the city that never sleeps. And I did, in fact, sleep. Eventually.

It was a harrowing journey in which your heroine was ignored by airline reps when Hotwire "lost" her reservation and ignored AGAIN in the security line. She was chastised by this "security" for using 800 speed film that had to be hand-examined, and then told to "just go sit down" instead of getting a seat assignment at the gate.

On the bright side, I got exit rows on both legs of the trip, and had a nice turkey sandwich.

Upon arrival, DSoll was not there to get me and had not given me his address so I could cab over. Fucking liberals, this is what they do. Anyway, I arrived on Kent street, grapefruit margaritas were had, and then all was right with the world. Seriously, those things are the nectar of the gods.

The rest of the night was spent listening to dirty music, drinking, laughing, doing cartwheels on the roof of the warehouse DSoll lives in, and high-fiving Sigfried. Yeah, I said what I said. I high fived the motherfucker.

I also kind of growled as he kept walking down the dark Willimasburg street, and I swear he flinched.

I was a little wary of sleepy time, as the couch I have been assigned looked a little shady. But, my fears were assuaged by the presence of my DREAMSACK!! I have been looking at these silk sleeping bags for YEARS in the Sky Mall catalogs, and recently decided fuck it, I'm ordering one. It is extra large, dusty blue, and oh-so-lovely. I slept like a rock. A rock wrapped in luxury, if you'll allow me to be all flowery.

This morning, I have done my push ups and sit ups, showered, and re-lacquered my nails. I am ready to hit Manhattan. Look out east coast. She's got her flip flops on, and she ain't fuckin' around no more.

shiny. g

As an Aside

The Cedar Sinai people called me and were practically begging for blood...they said that there is some weird bug going around and everyone is getting sick, therefore making them have to cancel their appointments. Hence, they are super low right now and are getting antsy.

If you are well and can go donate some blood, they really need it. The number to set up an appointment is 310. 423. 2633.

I haven't mentioned it in the blog yet, but EFil is still doing well. Better everyday. He went over to the East Coast to recover, because being in Rhode Island and putting sweaters around your shoulders to coordinate with your Dockers makes everyone feel better. Oh, and his family is there too.

It's a process, you know? There have been bumps in the road. But the overall synopsis is that it doesn't look like we're going to lose him anytime soon. Thank goodness for that...and if you're reading this, EFil--YOU HAD BETTER COME BACK, FUCKER.

true dat. g

If I Can Make it There...

Please note, my darlings, that the time I am posting this is 3:16 AM. That is not incorrect, it is actually 3:16 and I am bright eyed and bushy tailed. After an deliciously artery-closing meal at Roscoe's, I managed to convince the G to let a sista go to bed super early so I could wake up at this god awful hour for my FLIGHT TO NEW YORK.

Yeah, that's right. I'm flying to NYC to visit DSoll, who you might remember from several entries. We are going to wreak havoc on the city, using swear words at every opportunity and eating lots and lots of deli sandwiches. Maybe we'l eat so many that the city will run out and they'll shut New York down, I don't know.

But luckily, DSoll is just as much of a computer dork as I am and he has an incredibly fast DSL connection. I will probably get a chance to empty out all my thoughts into this blog while I'm there. That is, unless something else is taking up my time...like visiting the sex stores, or hassling the puppets from that Avenue Q musical.

Adventure awaits! g

Swiff, swiff.

There's something you should know about me. I hate mopping.

I have no problem with cleaning the floors we walk on, but I prefer to vacuum. My beautiful little Royal named Gertie III does a wonderful job on my place. I find a sense of zen in my heart when I push that machine back and forth over the carpet. I adore the sucking sound (insert joke here) and relish the chance to use the hose on hard-to-reach corners (insert other similar joke here).

I lived in a co-op for 3 years of college (keep in mind that it was Austin, TX, okay?!). We all had to do labor on the house, and my job was to vacuum all 6 floors. I loved it. I had a system that made it all seem so effortless. While I was vacuuming, I would reason out some life issues I was having or relive a special tender moment. I would stop and chat with friends who had their doors open. I accepted payment to vacuum people's rooms, and even vacuumed boyfriend's apartments without them asking me to. And my parents thought it was so hilarious that they bought me a tee shirt that says "Vacuums suck."

In my late teens and early twenties, I became known as the Vacuum Goddess, and I consider that a compliment.

In fact, I love carpet too. Berber in particular, but any clean rug will do. Once, my roommate was in the bathroom and our bathroom cabinet fell on the sink, which in turn fell on her foot. She wandered into our room, bewildered and spurting blood all over, and the first thing out of my mouth (according to her) was "Don't bleed on the carpet."

Hence, you will not be surprised to hear me say that I am not particularly fond of tile. I understand its necessity in bathrooms, kitchens, or entry halls, but it's not my favorite floor covering. I love the look of wood flooring and admire the strong, sexy men that lay it down for all to walk upon, but my heart lies with carpet. I blame my mom, who loves carpet so much she covered portions of our kitchen walls with it and ended up in the Sears catalog. It just looked that cool.

I just realized that I've written "carpet" so much in this blog that it will end up on search results for everyone requesting Lesbian websites on Google today.

It worked out that half my apartment is tile. A beautiful tile, mind you, but tile nonetheless. It is large, heavy Italian ceramic, mostly grey in color, with flecks of tan, peach, and cream in it. Very classy. But it also hides dirt. As a result, I vacuum it and clean up spills, but I have never actually mopped it.

I hate mopping because a mop is never clean again after you take one swipe on the floor. So, in my head, I am straining my lower back and sweating just to push a bacteria-and-dirt-infested sponge around on the ground. That is total bullshit. I would rather get on my hands and knees (this joke is too easy...don't you have ANY pride?) and use paper towels to make sure the floor is actually dirt-free.

I was at the grocery store in the lightbulb aisle, which further down turned into the cleanser aisle. It was there that I stumbled upon the Swiffer. I figured that the Swiffer is the mop-version of me getting on my hands and knees with paper towels, so I bought it. The dry ones attract dust and lint, and the wet ones clean the floor. Genius. It's everything I always wanted.

Today, with all my new free time, I pulled stuff out of my closets and created a pile for shit I have to sell on ebay. I cleaned the counters and under the couch, did mounds of laundry, and even had time to have some personal time. But then it was time to get down to business.

I had to use the Swiffer.

I vacuumed the floors, then I used the dry towel. It did a great job of picking up some lint that the vacuum (gasp!) missed. Then, I pulled out the wet version. It got the minor spots of questionable material off the floor, and shined everything up quite nicely. I was conservative in my use of the wet towels, but didn't hesistate to change if things were looking really dirty.

The thing that is pleasing me the most right now is the light, fresh smell left behind. My apartment has never known this fruity scent...and it suits the apartment, I must say. I am breathing deeply and loving life.

During my cleaning session, I remembered that I have heard horror stories about Swiffers breaking mid-clean. I can totally see that happening--the handle is thin and comes apart pretty easily. I was worried that it would snap and ruin my momentum...but nothing like that occurred. This was truly a blessed cleaning day.

I am sitting close to the tile right now. It is twinkling in the low, sexy light of my place. The breeze is drifting in the windows and out the front door, and the smell of mashed potatoes and garlic is calling my name. Yes, the old apartment is a lovely place to be tonight.

Come to think of it, this Swiffer stuff smells like success. Or...freedom. Or at least Change. And that's what the HellCat needs right now.

swifferific. g

A New Day

Many thanks to those of you readers sending supportive text messages, emails, and general love over the telephone lines. There were plenty, and as a result, I feel like less of a loser. Today was just fine, in fact. I was rushing to get new cell phone service and wasted most of the day, but it was saved by the eventual success in the unemployment office and a GREAT documentary ("Mad Hot Ballroom").

So, dancing. I have always wanted to dance. I am so tall that I have never really looked stealthy doing anything--softball, basketball, or even walking. But I make up for my lack of grace with sheer power and results, you know? I ain't no point guard, effotlessly rushing up the court with supreme ball-handling skills a-shinin', but I can knock the shit out of any other girl fighting me for a rebound.

Dancing has always haunted me.

I love dancing. I love the thought of two people gliding on the shiny ballroom floor, arms raised, faces glowing, and hips shaking. The thought of a man's hand on my lower back makes me smile. I even love skirts that swing gently in the electric air. Everthing about dancing interests me. But I don't know how to do it.

I have always dated men who despise dancing, or at least refuse to take lessons just for the fuck of it. They are the opposite of interested, and will most likely avoid it even on their wedding day given half an opportunity. I want to feel beautiful, gaze in the eyes of my special man friend, and shake my ass all at the same time. Is that so much to ask?

So, maybe one of the things I will do is find a goddamn dance partner and take a class. For once in this life, I will do this. I will cha cha. I will waltz. I will merengue all the way to the opposite coast. I will wear that swingy skirt and I will not feel uncoordinated. I will sparkle and shine and just once, the world will understand that I am a white girl with rhythm.

take a bow. g

Free As a Bird

My darlings, the Drake premonition strikes again. These problems at work had spawned a genuine sense of unrest within the old Hellcat...and Friday, I got laid off. Not fired for poor performance and general idiocy, as I feared, but laid off because someone in the Czech Republic is going to do my job for a third of the cost.

I am one of those Americans who have had their job stolen by some faceless, smelly fucker wearing either wooden clogs or some goddamn lederhosen. You might as well put me in a wheelchair, grease up my hair, give me a dirty flag and re-shoot Born on the Fourth of July or something.

Life is testing me. I feel like a lonely loser. All I want is some company, someone to hold my hand and tell me that it's all going to be allright. I want a bath, a massage, some lovin'. Yet no one is texting or inviting me over to meet the relatives. I have got to toughen up and learn that a book and my right hand is all the company I need. I am a strong, independent, soft, and sexy modern woman.

Make that an unemployed modern woman.

I have some business to take care of--movies to make, instruments to learn, and skirts to sew. So I think I'm going to take some time off while I look for something better.

But right now, after a day of solitude, I just feel lame. I am not sure that I'll do the whole unstructured life thing very well. Or maybe I'll like it too much and will never look back. Damn. I didn't feel like this when I fantasized about getting canned...I felt strong and free. I felt like someone did me a huge favor, and now I can sleep in and finally clean my closet. I can get the porch all set up. I can read the classics, and write up a storm. I can do the things I have always wanted to do...

Right now, all I want to do is cuddle. There was someone with me in that fantasy I was talking about a minute ago, but the light is on and I see no one in my apartment.

How sad.

bleah. g

Jimmy, Ryan, and Wanda, oh my!

The past two days have been chock full of wild and wacky fun, LA style. Wednesday night the crew rolled over to ArcLight for the Revenge of the Sith screening. With protestors that looked strangely similar to George Lucas and wookies at the bar drinking Amstel, there was much rejoicing in our geeky hearts.

Before the movie began, we were sitting in the theater, eagerly awaiting either the film or a glimpse of the girl dressed as a scantily-clad Leia. It was one or the other for everyone in the auditorium, you dig? Anyway, all of a sudden a security guard rushes from the side of the theater straight towards someone in the audience. Everyone was stunned and was staring at him. Breathlessly he excalimed, "Sir, Light Sabres OFF!" The joint dissolved into giggles. Who did this fool think he was? That fat Asian dude he just reprimanded could seriously slice him in half with the flick of a wrist. He took pity on the man earning minimum wage in that sad burgundy sportcoat, though, and let things continue in peace.

The abridged review of the film? No spoilers here, kids. I thought it was by far the best of the 3. Although I zoned out during the dialogue scenes, I found the battles captivating (although slightly restrained) and the dialogue less sucky than the others. Jimmy Smits made me chortle when he murmurs, "We've always wanted to adopt a baby girl." I am not sure why it got me, but luckily several others joined me in the moment.

It was good to see the wookies, as always. Ewan was dashing as per usual, and Hayden Christensen became tolerable towards the midpoint because he replaced his trademark wooden speech with a silent glower. Get the makeup girls to give him some circles under his eyes, and presto! He's Darth Vader, no doubt.

So go see it. I am going again to see it in glorious 2K digital projection in the Dome one of these days...

Last night was the Young Storytellers show over in South Central. I love these things, because you really get to see a non-Hollywood side of actors. They have no choice but to drop the act or at least get a new, kid-friendly one.

I nearly got whiplash from the double take I did when I saw Ryan Reynolds standing in the middle of the auditorium. You might remember Mister Reynolds from his roles as Van Wilder in the movie of the same name, and the Daddy in the recent "Amityville Horror aka Watch Me Take My Shirt Off and Kill My Family" Movie. I eventually headed over to make him one of the group by giving him a sticker. I decided that Ryan Reynolds needed an orange. I resisted the urge to stick it to his rock-hard abdominal muscles and instead put it on his shoulder. I was very proud of myself.

Deborah Wilson, of Mad TV fame, was on-call for this one as always. We always get a kick out of Deborah because she's totally over the top and usually makes a questionable clothing or undergarment choice. The kids love her, though, and she really throws herself into the whole thing. It's sweet of her to do so many shows for us...

Not to be outdone was Wanda Sykes, with her breakthrough role as Little Big Hands in the story entitled "The Land of Dirty Dishes." Wanda really brought down the house with the line that explains her characters name. "It's because I am so little, yet my hands are so big." She was a good sport and signed tons of autographs with her little big hands.

The cast worked really well together. LeezyB made an appearance, gracing us with her presence. She did a wicked impersonation of our head mentor Valerie that goes in the history books. Not only was Valerie a surgeon, but she turns into a vampire as well. Not an easy role to play, my darlings. You need real range for that one.

I am ready for life to settle down a little. Yoda AND Ryan Reynolds one after the other? Too much.

orange you glad?...g

Thank Christ it Wasn't a Jellyfish Sting.

A Vietnam veteran in a wheelchair was minding his own handi-capable business on a Staten Island bus. He was on the way to the video store to buy "The Exorcist" after picking up copies of the "The Iliad" and "The Odyssey" at the book store. Suddenly, a few wiley youths with little to no regard for human decency set the man's wheelchair on fire. His left leg would have caught fire if he still had a leg, which he (thankfully?) doesn't.

In a flash of brilliance, a nearby woman who is the mother of a newborn extinguished the flame. With her baby's bottle. That had breast milk in it.

A woman saved an amputee's life by dousing him in breast milk.

They caught the 15-year-old kids and are charging them with arson, criminal mischief and reckless endangerment. From the New York Daily Post: "Asked about the fire being extinguished with breast milk, Abrams bristled, 'I don't care. It doesn't bother me.' "

You don't know, man. You weren't there.

That shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S. g

Perspective

I was reading one of the 75 forwards my mom sent me, and I was suddenly taken aback by one of the statements. It was one of those forwards that shares little witticisms about life that make you laugh, cry, and learn a little bit about yourself. Most of the time I roll my eyes and click delete, but this one really had me--I waited TWO extra seconds before getting rid of it.

It said, not unlike a wise limerick on a bathroom stall, "No matter how good she looks, some other guy is sick and tired of putting up with her shit."

Whoah. The truth of that statement is staggering. I sat there, in front of my 30" Apple widescreen monitor, and bit my lip. I am one of those women. I carry the secret that I really pushed one man to the limit and made him go nuts. I live with that knowledge. He is sick of MY shit. And if he isn't, he should be.

That little sentence spells it all out. We all come with pasts. When you're with someone, you create a past together, and it comes with all the things that glue us to one another. Great times...like vacations where you drink too much and accidentally eat soap, end up on a bus in a sketchy neighborhood, find yourself competing with other hostel-dwellers in a "Who can be louder while doing it?" contest, concerts, dinners, and nights at home. There are the bad times, like meeting exes and fighting over money and hating in-laws...

And this is what it's all about. Other people force you to go through something so you can become a better person. We seek out people who are strong where we are weak. This creates conflict, which is only an opportunity for growth. Fights, as long as you play fair, teach you things. There is a lesson everywhere, you just have to pick it out.

In my youth, my dad and I would take the latest issue of Highlights magazine and search for the hidden pictures. Next to reading Goofus and Gallant, it was my favorite thing to do. He would sit patiently, seeing almost every single hidden object clearly, and just wait for me to find it. I would take my pudgy little finger and point at something when it revealed itself to me. I would also squeal with delight, probably right in his ear, but he never complained. I loved finding those camoflauged objects more than anything, and I think that has carried into my adult life.

I love finding the lesson in things.

When pondering these things, I feel as though I am transported back to Denver with a new Highlights magazine sitting on the table, begging for me to take a peek. "Sure Grae," I say to myself in quiet moments. "Things are pretty bad right now. You feel sick. You can't sleep, don't want to eat. Your work is suffering. You're having to force the smiles." It's at this point I start to become fully aware of how shitty I feel. So, to come through in the clutch, the next thought is always, "What is it that you need to learn from this to become a better person?"

The answer is usually difficult. Oblique, even. But I feel as though, especially when in conflict with a loved one, it's important to try to emerge from an incident with some knowledge and perspective as a kind of tribute to them, like in the old country. It's like Robert DeNiro and Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. They gave Paulie some of the Lufthansa heist money, not because he was in on the scam, but because they had respect for him. And that is what I try to do.

(side note: To ease your fears, I won't relate anything else I do to in MY life to that movie. No butcher knife stabbings in the trunk of my car, or gold-plated living room walls or anything.)

(although I might end up selling stolen cigarettes to the neighborhood at some point, depending on how poorly I keep performing at work.)

We all interact and make memories together. So, yeah. That guy you just started seeing has some girls back home who are pretty mad at him. You might be surprised by just how often your girl has received angry phone calls from exes over how she treated them. The only thing we can do to protect ourselves, in the end, is stay at home.

Wait, wait, I was only kidding. You just have to act with as much integrity as you can muster, and make sure you understand that you are capable of messing things up as well as learning from the armageddon and doing a whole Phoenix thing. In honor of those you hurt. Love without fear and be glad you can.

Small tangeant: underneath the quote I've been discussing was another one..."If it has tires or testicles, you're going to have trouble with it" and "Beauty is only a light switch away." The truth is still hurting...

it smarts. g

The Escape of Shallow and Dippy

One weekend, Shallow and Dippy fled their evil, soul-sucking surroundings with seductively beautiful weather patterns and hopped aboard the magical Metro. They asked the beautiful, shiny ticket machine to give them a special pass that would allow them to travel all day long aboard the aforementioned magical Metro, and it spat out two small blue tickets and sent them on their way.

They consulted many colorful maps that were affixed to walls and other things that people can't steal, and decided to head to the Sea. They knew there were things to see and do there, so they crossed their fingers and stepped aboard. Thus far in our story, our heroes had run into no obstacles to ruin their journey. When they stepped on the Metro, however, they realized that there were many other people in the kingdom with the same idea as them and there was nowhere to sit.

They agreed out of necessity to stand near the end of the train, and although there was a cloud of trepidation hanging over their heads, they tried to make the most of it. The knowledge that one sharp movement would send them careening into a small baby or the nearby homeless man's sack of cans made them uneasy, but they perservered nonetheless. Eventually, some seats became available and all was right within the train again.

Their travels went all the way through the southland, although they narrowly missed Norwalk and Redondo Beach, which they were grateful for. Shallow and Dippy maneuvered through many perils, such as askew train tracks, people with bicycles, and youths with extraordinarily loud iPods.

Finally, the air lightened. It didn't smell like poor people anymore. Shallow and Dippy knew, as they took those first breaths of tourist-ready air, that they had reached their destination. Their feet hit the ground, and excitement spread throughout their bodies. Where would they go? What libations would they ingest? And most importantly, where were the potties?

Shallow and Dippy figured that while at the sea, you must gaze upon the creatures that inhabit it. And, seeing as how the Aquarium of Amazement was closing early due to a royal fundraiser, admission was half price. How could they lose? Shallow showed a talent for giving all the animals funny voices, and Dippy excelled at petting Bat Rays. Their enthusiasm could not be curbed, even as they were hurried out of the Jellyfish exhibit by wary worker-gnomes. Shallow gave one last wave as they exited the Aquarium of Amazement, exclaiming, "Thanks, friends!" She swore she heard the Cuttlefish respond with a hearty "Who loves ya, babe?" but Dippy was unable to verify that it had actually happened.

The Land of Gaming called to them, and they spent the next hour and 400 credits shooting dastardly demons, zombies, and weird worm thingies. Shallow allowed no one to escape unscathed, even the people she was supposed to be saving, which greatly hurt her chances of getting top score. Soon, our heroes became disinterested in violence, so they raced chariots and marveled at their inability to swipe their gaming cards correctly instead.

The Old Ale House was the next stop on their tour of the city by the sea. As they reminisced about homes and lives they had long since left behind, Shallow realized that the sky was a perfect shade of blue and the air had just the right amount of salt in it. It hit her that life as she knew it would never be the same. She thought of people left behind in the wretched glitter of the city they had come from, and she felt the Sadness in the pit of her stomach. Would they be able to see It in her eyes?

As their ales came to a tasty close, they decided to make one last stop for Sustenance. Servers bestowed gifts of Pineapples, Beef, Vegetables, and Liquor upon them. They did forget napkins, but this was remedied and no harm was done. Our dynamic duo did an honorable job of talking around the food they were shoveling in their faces, and they learned many new things about each other and the world they shared. Full and satisfied, they paid their debts and sought solace in the green glow of train lighting.

On the way home, the train was mostly empty. Shallow and Dippy used this as an excuse to behave inappropriately and hopefully make anyone watching on closed-circuit television nervous. Alas, no one acknowledged their escapades, and they arrived back to Hollywoodland unceremoniously. Following the Mighty Cos with his "2 X 4 of Justice," they emerged from the bowels of the subway and began walking home.

The night ended as they returned home to Dippy's empty Kingdom. They turned on Deadwood and were thankful they knew what the word "cocksucker" means, or else they would have been lost. A copious amount of Ben and Jerry's chocolate ice cream slid effortlessly down their gullets (although not all at once), and later on, they both slept a deep, dreamless sleep.

Shallow and Dippy know that there are dragons left in the world to slay. This is a tale, my darlings, of their one moment of respite. Is there a moral, you ask? But of course!

"If you're going to nail the cheerleader, make sure she has her uniform on."

ever after. g

Till the Cows Come Home.

That's how long I will love you.
g

Truly a Great Land

What activity do a whole bunch of young, hip college kids like to engage in for funsies? Well, I've mentioned our taste for porn in previous entries. Think cleaner, for once. Think corporate America, minimum wage, and poor craftsmanship.

Think WalMart.

We would get crazy ideas in our heads at ungodly hours, like "Gee, I sure could use a strong round of Jenga right now," or "You know what would make this barbecue better? Long underwear." And, like little consumer machines, we would pile in a vehicle and head down I-35 south just past the movie theater but before the Applebees to accrue charges on our parent's credit cards or pool our laundry quarters together, depending on how dangerous we were feeling that night.

Yes, my darlings, many a night was brightened by an impromptu WalMart trip. It was a kind of a rite of passage, seeing as how, while at home, our parents had met all of our needs. They purchased the kiddie pools, sheets, laundry detergent, and thermometers. They took care of us. But now, it was up to us to attain our own cowboy hats and patio furniture. It was time to grow up.

I hang onto this fondness still today, although I have come to terms with the lack of WalMarts in my immediate area. Things are different in Cali. The women have fake knockers and the city lacks a superstore. I'm okay with that. But what's a girl to do when she feels like doing some late-nite spending?

Target.

The other night, I cleaned the apartment, fixed a respectable dinner, and watched a great doc ("How to Draw A Bunny"-thanks, BoomStar). It was only 8PM when those activities were all done, and all of a sudden I got a hankering to purchase the Life Aquatic DVD that had been released that very day.

It turns out that the geeks were out in force on Tuesday morning and left your heroine with no copies of the film. But this did not stop me. I still had time before the other Targets closed their doors for the night. I headed into Hollywood--windows open, nothing but the sounds of the wind to soothe me. I looked out my window. There was a guy I knew from Austin in the car next to me. I was the tutor for his film class.

He leaned across the man in the passenger seat. "Hey Grae!" David said. "Hey, do you remember that time I tried to make out with you at that party, and you were all like, 'Um, you're standing like RIGHT NEXT to my boyfriend.' Wasn't that crazy?" I think he was trying to impress his passenger, because I KNOW he wasn't trying to pick me up. David, between his life as a junior at UT Austin and his new life living in the Valley, has obviously become more open to the fact that he is more queer than a 2 dollar bill.

"Yeah," I said with a smile as I tried to muster up some enthusiasm. "That was wild!"

He asked me what I was up to. I finally found some enthusiasm somewhere and used it to yell the words, "Oh, just out buying a DVD!"

In retrospect, this was really not the most consistent follow-up to a story involving offers of wanton sex at a ragin' party. I should have made up some story about trying desperately to find crotchless panties and a diaper large enough to fit a 6-foot-tall man, as well as some lube that was not KY. But I chose to tell the truth.

David and his passenger kind of nodded and sped away. I don't blame them.

At the Target, I discovered that they too were out of the elusive Criterion 2 Disc collection set. I picked up the special edition Ed Wood to soothe my weary bones, and even picked up a 7 dollar Zoolander (I think because the pain in my heart was making me woozy and blocking coherent thought).

I wandered over to the housewares department and remembered that I was in desperate need of a bathmat. I cruised the aisles, hoping for a rogue tatami mat or something lacking in fuzziness. I came across a tightly woven mat with 3 palm trees on it. Sold. The green in the trees matches my shower curtain, which is a rice paper consistency with a tinge of green to it...

Aging quicker by the second, I remembered that I needed a pill case to keep up with my demanding supplement schedule. Against my better judgement, I approached a small Filipino woman and asked her where I could find a pill case. She looks at me with huge eyes and says, "Why you want THAT?" like I had told her that I asked for angry anal for my birthday instead of a goddamn plastic case to hold my digestive enzymes.

She doesn't know where one is. She keeps mumbling "medicine" and "pill" and "holder" in her walkie talkie but no one understands what she's looking for. Finally someone comes over to us in the department, asks me what I need, and produces it for me in less than 30 seconds.

"Oh!" Helpful Hanna exclaimed when she saw what I held in my hands. "In Phillipines, pill box mean firecracker. I know we don't sell THOSE here. I thinking you want something to EXPLODE in your hands! Yes! Oh, yes. Pill Box! Right next to Preparation H!" and she kind of clapped her hands, and puttered off in the direction of shower caddies.

Who says that college kids have all the fun? Huh? Who?

rheumatoid. g

Funny.

It's funny how this city and I interact. When I ask it for things, it brings them to me.

Tonight I was on my way home from Whole Foods. I had some killer produce, a smattering of dried delicacies, fresh poultry, and a mind full of thoughts. There was someone I really wanted to talk to; someone I had been thinking about all day long in one form or another. Even the Sinatra oozing out of the stereo and the cool air on my face couldn't distract me from that head of mine, resting so heavily on my shoulders.

I was going to be responsible for once, and get some gas before it became an issue (which it always is). I slowed down, left blinker a'blinkin'. Just down south of me at the light, a few cars readied themselves for the right turn that would prevent me from making a clean getaway into the Exxon. I turned left with trepidation, blocked slightly by one car.

He was in it.

I didn't have the presence of mind to honk. Instead, I yelled out his name and kind of reached my hand out. Of course, he didn't hear me and drove away, unaware. The metaphor hit me, and although it was reminiscent of some Harlequin romance novel, it still managed to make me sad.

I sat in my car, green gas station light spilling all over my hands and legs. I picked up my phone, dialed his number, and got no answer. Any other day, I would have shurgged it off. Maybe I would have laughed and thanked the city for listening to me. But tonight, my darlings? Tonight it made me feel hopeless.

g

Fatty Boombulatti

Think back to the days when you had Converse sneakers on your feet, a flannel tied around your waist, and were still mourning the relatively new death of Kurt Cobain while you thanked the Lord that Eddie Vedder was still around. Well, according to the airlines, way back in good old Nineteen Ninety Five, you were ten pounds lighter. Of course, this is obviously true for all the youngsters out there, who were nothing but 15 year old loser boys trying desperately to catch a glimpse of some breasts or MAYBE touch them. As for girls?...well, whatever. You were bitches then, too.

Airlines are spending an extra 275 million jetting our fat asses around the world these days, and in the midst of dwindling travel and high competition, these poor suckers are really losing bucks. I'm no economist or nothin', but I can see how these folks are sweatin' it. They've had to turn to good old-fashioned know how to lighten the planes.

They can't get us to do some Jazzercise or eat one less packet of Cheez-Its, but they CAN change out their metal silverware for plastic. They also have stopped stocking big ole magazines for us to read with our small, pig-like eyes.

This notion spooks me a little. What's next? No Sky Mall catalogs? One less flight attendant? No bathrooms? Or worse, no PAPER TOWELS in the bathroom?

In the end, the airline bigwigs get what they deserve. I am going to go out on a limb here and make a bold claim: It's THEIR fault. Yeah, I think that United, Delta, Continental, American--heck, even SOUTHWEST--are to blame for this. Why?

We can't smoke on planes anymore.

This whole Fatty McGee problem is an American thing, of course. Have you ever taken a flight coming back from a "third world" nation? Say, like Ecuador? Well, I have, and let me tell you. When I stepped off that airplane onto American soil, I smelled like an ashtray that had been used and abused by every passenger in the main cabin. I was so happy to get some fucking oxygen in my lungs that I even tolerated that fact that I was in Miami. Who ever says that? No one but non-smokers on international airplanes.

Sure, I had second-hand nicotine coarsing through my wee HellCat veins faster than the speed of light. Of course my eyelids felt like they were being raked over sandpaper every time I blinked. But that plane got here so fast, you would have thought we were being carried on the wings of an eagle sent straight from heaven. As I exited the plane, I could have sworn I heard the captain say something like, "Dios mio, Pepito! We have so much fuel, what are we going to do? and Pepito was like, "Si, yo se! There's so much of it, let's just dump it in some kiddie pools and let our children play in it for awhile! Como no!" and they laughed and laughed.

So if you can't give up those Ding Dongs and Ho Hos, or your Little Debbie Snack Cakes (wink!), then spark up a fag, or a cigarette (double wink!) and board that plane.

I'm writing a letter. Who's with me?

hancock. g

Mama Said

This is one of those days, kids. I am not up for more than 30 minutes when I am being rocked by several odd world happenings.

Yesterday, MSN entertainment gossip clued me in to the fact that Renee Zellweger had surprised a Kenny Chesney concert audience by bringing him a margarita onstage--a duty normally reserved for an anonymous cocktail waitress. I am still stinging from the Jim Carrey break up, but I spent last night getting used to the idea. This morning I found out that fellow Texan Renee actually married this country singer yesterday in the Caribbean. Jim inspired you to look voluptuous and wear yellow like nobody's business, Renee! Jack made you spend more time inside, die your hair black, and starve yourself. Is Kenny going to bring you back to your Katy, TX ways? Let's hope. I bet he can't do an Andy Kaufman impersonation to save his life, so...Kenny, I'll be watching...

In addition to this surprising news, the internet continues to astound and amaze. It must be terrifying to have a child that knows how to cruise around on this cyber-highway, maneuvering around effortlessly to find things like these new racist video games. At first I wanted to give the games the benefit of the doubt, thinking that a game called "Border Patrol" might just be celebrating people who have an intense job that involves shooting people. Then I keep scrolling and find the game "Ethnic Cleansing," which is considerably more difficult to make an excuse for. And just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, I find "Shoot the Blacks."

It really gives you the warm fuzzies. I can just imagine the family settling down for the night. Mom is baking a cherry pie in the oven, Dad is reading the Sunday paper, and Little Timmy sits in front of the computer playing a feverish game of "Watch out Behind You, Hunter! (Shoot the fags before they rape you!)."

You really have to run a strong defensive game in this world to not end up, at the very least, a cold-hearted cynic.

As I am writing what will become the finest anti-racist, pro-human diatribe you will ever set eyes on, I am listening to Gwen Stefani. Her song, "Hollaback Girl" really has me confused in a lasting way. First of all, what in the sweet Lord's name does "I'm not your hollaback girl" really mean? Secondly, towards the end of the song, she spends a strong 30 seconds chanting, 'This shit is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S." Gwen is just spelling bananas for a good few measures. What has living with Gavin done to this poor girl's mind? Are they gonna have kids?

I shudder to think. The diatribe will have to wait. I have to go google hollaback.

firefox rules. g

In Dreams

I had a dream last night that I went to the darkest, dirtiest alley in the city to enroll in a Cirque Du Soleil training class. As I handed the soil-stained check over to a short man who looked like the mechanic in Triplets of Belleville, someone grabs my shoulder from behind and whirls me around. It is Seann William Scott. He hands me a gigantic red rose with his left hand. I noticed that his right hand was wrapped in multi-colored christmas lights.

He looked deep into my eyes and said, "Do not give the little man money. He is untrustworthy."

Words to live by. g

Rainy Days and Mondays

They always got Karen Carpenter down, and I must say that I generally disagree. I love cloudy days. Particularly here in SoCal, cloudy days are rare gifts that allow you to pull the hot cocoa out of the cabinet and snuggle with your loved ones. It makes you appreciate the sun even more, am I right?

Mondays, though, generally suck. There's no excuse for them, no way to improve them. There are exceptions to the rule, like when you take off work to go to Disneyland or something, I guess. Even if there's something happening that makes a Monday sweet, like your baby being born, the fact remains that you still had trouble getting out of bed that morning.

Today I am feeling less optimistic and more like that wacky anorexic songbird Miss Carpenter.

I can't help but think of the people whose feelings I have hurt and how cowardly I can be. I make a big show of learning from other people's mistakes and trying to rise above it all, but I am just like the people I watch. I get caught up in it all and can't see past the end of my nose.

Sigh.

I wish I were better than I am.

drip. g

What's Next?

This is getting to be ridiculous. Our rights are being taken away more and more, my darlings, and I am really hot under the collar today. Our simple pleasures in life are being squelched. We can no longer turn on the boob tube and see people playing tonsil hockey on television or watch movies about wars. Howard Stern cannot let sluts speak as freely as they want. What freedoms will be gone next, I find myself wondering.

I have my answer.

The Texas Education Agency is making it illegal to do sexy cheerleading routines.

Sweet Jesus! No hot cheerleaders? Our men will lose their minds! It's happening now in Texas, but it will come to you soon in Maryland and Florida, just wait! Men all across the nation are being deprived of their pleasant visuals to file away for stimulation later on, and I think this is criminal.

State Rep. Al Edwards, a Houston Democrat, sponsored the bill. He complained of cheerleaders "shaking their behinds" and "breaking it down." What is this dude's problem? Since when is breaking it down a bad thing?

I figure that this kind of legislation will drive men from their children's varsity sporting events and straight into the strip club. And while the men are away, planning out the construction it will take to turn their basements into a porn den, Al Edwards will be defining exactly WHAT constitutes a sexy routine. Our Rebel cheerleaders at Denver South High were little cuties, and one hip shake from that blonde one would give old people a heart attack. Today, they would shut blondie down and some high school boys would never become men just by watching her cheer.

And you can forget about the girl with glasses. They wouldn't even let her on the field.

let's go, rebels, let's go. g

Rub-A-Dub-Dub

Living in Austin, TX really learned me some stuff. Not correct word usage, neccessarily, but more life lessons. I am in a rememberizing kind of mood today (Which is a fancy word for reminiscing), so in the shower this morning, as I put on my loofah gloves, a memory hit me.

I had been asked to help PA on a student film over Spring Break back in '00. I had done the PA thing once before and my talent was so extraordinary (meaning I was breathing and could follow instructions without drooling on myself) that I was asked to help out on more.

Anyway, we were conducting this film shoot in a house that was walking distance from my co-op. I knew little about this place or the people inside it when I started, but I learned quickly that it was indestructible and kind of perpetually dusty. It turns out that this place was the precious domain of the amazing duo of MLCIII and The Tino.

There was a girl that lived there, too. I heard MLCIII and Tino screaming at her once. Although time has erased the full details, I know that it didn't end well between the two parties.

Anyhow, my objective on my first day inside was to paint the walls in the living room. I painted with all my heart and soul between timid attempts to flirt with MLCIII, and as it turns out, I guess I did a good job. Eventually I needed to use the restroom. To my right was a pink bathroom with 1920's pin-ups all over the walls. "This must be the boys bathroom, what with all the female nakedness," I thought. "It's so clean! I definitely want to have sex with this guy."

It turns out that I was using Andrea's restroom. As I wandered over to the other side of the house, I found a blue bathroom. This one had some hair and dust on the floor, a rumpled bathmat, and little to no toilet paper with twice the toiletries. I was confused. I thought I had it all figured out, but all of a sudden bathroom ownership was up in the air. I stepped inside cautiously, and examined the situation further. There was a bottle of Mr. Bubble on the bathtub edge. Curious...

...and then I saw them. Loofahs. Casually tossed on the back corner edge of the tub. One was aqua-colored. The other was pink. PINK! "Pink?" I thought. "What boy uses a loofah? What kind of man allows it to be pink?" This was a long time ago, before metrosexuality was discussed in local newspapers.

I was panicking. The Tino seemed like one of those guys who would refuse to compromise his masculinity by allowing such a girlie thing in the same room where he relieved himself. On the other hand, MLCIII was no sissy boy, either. Zounds! Was I really going to have a shot with this guy, or not? If he was the owner of that pink loofah, was I really going to get any? Or would I be doomed to sing showtunes with him while sipping mint juleps on the veranda?

I was frantically trying to reason things out in my head. I was going in a million different directions at once. I was trying to appreciate men who understood the importance of exfoliation. They probably moisturized, too. No dry, scaly skin for those guys. No toenails that could slice open a tin can or rough skin on their knees. I was simultaneously making excuses. Maybe Andrea had carried HER loofah over to that shower because her shower was busted and she had forgotten to take it back. Maybe the guys had gotten them for free at the grocery store but neither man knew what it was for, and its next job would be to filter coffee grinds.

Anything, anything to cling to my hopes for getting laid.

I decided to ask them who owned it. I casually inquired about the rosy-hued loofah, hoping that my tone was light and lilting. Both men were nonplussed. I don't even remember their answer. They seemed like they enjoyed the sloughing of dead cells that it brought, but mostly used their hands or a washcloth if one was hanging somewhere. I exhaled. I still had a shot.

The Mr. Bubble definetly belonged to MLCIII, though. I glossed over it in my head, imagining all the wild, masculine, sexy things that people can do in bathtubs that require suds. I never said anything, though, and I put it out of my mind. I even used it once, actually, but never saw another container show up after that one was emptied.

And guess what? I read that if you really want to exfoliate, take a coarse paper towel and rub it over your skin while it's dry. Then get in the shower and wash with your hands. Apparently loofahs are the devil for a couple reasons: the first being that they harbor a ton of gross bacteria that harms your skin. The second is that it can scare away young, horny co-eds from banging someone's brains out because they fear that "it's" going in the "wrong place" if "it" goes in at all.

Thank God one co-ed was wrong.

don't want no scrubs. g

Spring is in the Air

The aformentioned statement is the declaration from my trainer Bill/Warren Beatty. He has been a little off mentally the past few weeks, and when I walked into the gym this morning, I had to hit the ground running. He is BACK. The first thing he says to me? "I love women." and he proceeds to talk about how we are works of art and we are phenomenal. It sure helped me get through my hip adductors, I'll tell you what.

So Spring is definitely in the air. Bill was what seals the deal. I suspected this was the case, with my addiction to pastels and cuddling and need for sunshine on my shoulders.

This weekend was all about music. Coachella was the shit, my darlings. It's going to take a killer lineup to get me out there again and ruin these memories.

After a delectable Moons over My Hammy sandwich, we were denied entrance to a Filter party. I think it's because I was wearing my Birkenstocks and had my Devious Honey hoodie on, but everyone else contends that it was because we were TOO COOL. Once we heard the sounds of Jody Watley wafting over the fence, we were convinced. The rest of Friday night was spent cuddling with a very insistent white boxer named Mister Righteous. He didn't care that I was allergic to his luxurious white hair, he wanted a piece and he got it. Of course it was a piece of my leg to rest his little head on, but hey.

Saturday, we began the afternoon with a killer set from the Raveonettes. Snow Patrol followed, and as I was watching them bounce around stage doing their best rock star impersonations, I remembered being acutely unimpressed. I love that damn album, but they were lametown. The Kills really picked up the pace though, and so did Chloe Sevigny and her stupid black stiletto boots. I almost complimented her on her performance in Melinda and Melinda, then I thought, "Naw. She's too high to remember she was in it."

Then, WILCO. This performance meant a lot to me, since Jeff Tweedy had to cancel their set last year because of rehab. I've seen them three times since then, and that band keeps getting tighter every time I see them. They are truly awe inspiring and make me glad I can hear.

Weezer followed up with a slightly pedestrian set, comprised of hits and some strange new songs. It was fun, but the best part of the show was the weird old dude behind me who kept screaming "YES!" at every guitar solo. When Rivers set the guitar to feedback, he followed up "YES!" with a hearty "FEEDBACK!" which really cleared things up for those of us who had no idea what that strange noise was.

Bloc Party and Secret Machines closed out the night loudly, and we hightailed it outta there before the oh-so-snoresville Coldplay came onto the stage. Mister Righteous was banished to the backyard and we actually got some sleep.

I am really having to use my words here to describe how fucking amazing Sunday was. Now, keep in mind that the temperature in Indio is about 15 degrees cooler than normal. There is no sunburn on my shoulders. I have my floppy hat out, a wicked strapless sundress, and I am not fucking around anymore. I am ready to hear some music.

Fiery Furnaces came out with their usual gusto and non-stop barrage of sound. Tegan and Sara made me wish I had seen the Futureheads instead, although they are very charming for Canadians. And then...the award for best performance from a band I had never seen live before followed them: ARCADE FIRE. Everyone and their mom was there for the set, and we all shared our amazement and wonder at this disarming, take-no-prisoners ensemble. They were climbing on the scaffolding and throwing instruments around stage, but that was the least exciting part. The music floated from the heavens into this world and we were ecstatic. Go get their album, Funeral. NOW.

New Order did a great Joy Divison cover of "Love Will Tear us Apart Again" and rocked Blue Monday, and then our socks were blown off by Nine Inch Nails. "Closer" made me want to abandon all socially acceptable behaviors, and the closing tune "Head Like A Hole" made me glad I was alive to see this rock legend perform. In all his muscular glory...seriously, Trent Reznor has spent the last five years doing his push-ups. And retaining his coolness.

The Faint and Prodigy wrapped up the night pleasantly. And as we trduged back to the car, my heart was happy. There was great company, some burritos in the VIP tent, and some of the greatest tuneage known to man. Bless that fest.

I am ready to meet Spring with new gusto.

sprung. g