Familiar Faces and Station Wagons

Those close to me know what a headache my Jetta is. Beloved Graham Bingum has a 1.8 liter Turbo engine and is essentially a lemon, although not so much that a lawsuit would be immediately won. You dig? His Lemonositude is a grey (Grae) area.

This morning I got into my car and turned the key. Instead of hearing the engine roar to life, I heard a click-click-click and the dashboard lights were flickering. I tried in vain to jump the car. Nothing. In fact, my sister's Nissan 350Z just chuckled and said, "Damn, baby. Your car is FUCKED." And then it thumped the Jetta's tires and drove away.

I called the roadside assistance people and got them to send a tow-truck. They were, as always, super helpful and apologizing left and right for my car not starting. I just kept smiling and accepting their pity while trying to calculate how much money they have made off my car needing towing pretty regularly for the last three years. After using all my fingers and toes, my figure was about seventeen million dollars, courtesy of VW. Good. Fuck em. Send them my bill this time, too.

Anyway, on this lovely Wednesday, I had a lot of work to do. I had to meet an editing deadline, clean my room, and pack. I also needed some food and a bath. And, perhaps most importantly, a lone Netflix sat in its red paper package, eagerly awaiting return to the Nearest Shipping Facility. This whole dead car thing really didn't fit into my schedule. Yesterday? Would have been fine. Monday? Not an issue. Today, of course, was the one day I needed some peace and efficiency.

I went upstairs and tried to accomplish something before the tow truck came. I received a call that said there was a huge accident that was delaying my pick up, so I had some more time. When the truck finally got there, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, yelling into my cell phone that I HATED that fucking car and I wanted it DEAD (my mother was very shocked and suggested that I turn Satan out of my life. She suggested prayer.).

The driver pulled over and got out of the truck. I stopped hopping around and all of a sudden realized how bad my car situation had become. I KNEW THE TOW TRUCK DRIVER BECAUSE HE HAS TOWED ME BEFORE.

"Frank!" I said jovially.

"Grae! How the hell are ya?!"

"Could be better, my man. How's your daughter?"

And it kind of went on like that for a few minutes. Eventually, he told me that it was way more comfy in the A/C of the car and that I could fill out the paperwork in there. "You know the drill," he said with a wink.

As we started off for the very far away Santa Monica dealership, we filled each other in on what's happened in our lives since last we met. Frank had met a nice new lady, one that likes picnics and Pink's hot dogs. We discussed my love life ("Baby girl, if he ain't ready, go get someone who is") as well as my recent unemployment ("Their loss"). Frank thought that freelance was the way to go, so I could pursue bigger things. He said that he felt I was destined for something more. Something...greater. He also suggested I take a special man friend to a particularly lovely bar in Santa Monica, and no, I didn't have to worry about him expecting sex so early in the relationship. Frank says that guys aren't always like that. Then he mentioned something rather existential about having stripper poles in the middle of your living room that I didn't quite catch. But I'm sure it was gold.

We discussed Frank's first marriage, and why it went south. The conversation was peppered with truisms like, "I will NOT have her sisters comin' up into my house and pretending like I don't exist. Oh NO. Uh uh," and "So I shoved the cop and then my brother was like 'BLAU!' and he had me hogtied for at least 45 minutes."

He also suggested that I get a motorcycle or purchase a new Toyota or Honda. He mentioned that Jetta electrical systems malfunction in extreme heat, and that they don't do so well in the rain, either. Essentially, my car is known for never working in ANY weather. Oh, and if I DO get a motorcycle, I shouldn't white-line it and drive between cars. And if I do, revv the engine so people hear me coming.

We arrived at the dealership, and I was a little sad. I said goodbye and told Frank that we should really meet up when there aren't broke-ass cars involved, and he laughed and said it was a deal. I strolled in to the Volkswagen dealership, hoping that my short skirt would get me bumped up in the queue.

It did.

I voiced my thirteen concerns, signed the papers, and got my rental. When Marisa showed me to the car, I couldn't believe my luck. A 2005 Passat Station Wagon! Black, with silver accents. Tan cloth interior. Gleaming in the sunlight. I asked her if she had any kids I could rent to put in the back, and she just looked at me. I laughed nervously and kicked the tires.

"Looks like we're ready to go, then. I'll just have to talk to myself. Heh heh heh." she kind of half scowled at me, gave me the keys, and told me to have a nice day in a tone that suggested she meant something else.

I spent the rest of the trip home talking to my imaginary children in the back. Tim Tim has a nasty rash on the back of his leg that I think is the beginnings of leprosy, and Gina was busy discussing the fact that her soccer coach/english teacher didn't allow her friend Tammy to use the bathroom while they were reading aloud from Great Expectations. Tammy then threw a fit and ran out of the room screaming only to run into the hall monitor who happened to be a midget, and there was a tussle and the police were called. Gina said she liked the way midgets look when they're angry. Tim Tim was just busy scratching during the whole story, and I feared that he might be mildly retarded. But he's my imaginary child, and I'll love him no matter what. Harry Potter didn't die from living in the closet under the stairs, so neither will Tim Tim.

Anyway, I get the car back today.

cruisin'. g

Camera One.

I like this song. It reminds me of a time when I thought Josh Joplin might know what he's talking about. g

"The sandy haired son of Hollywood
Lost his faith in all that's good
Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock
Hung his clothes on the shower rod
But he never got undressed
And no, he never made a mess
It's funny how life turns out
The odds of faith in the face of doubt
Camera One closes in
The soundtrack starts
The scene begins
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
Take a bow
Take a bow
The trophy wife from Palisades
Whose yearbook beauty never fades
Sits and watches the sea fold in
And wonders what might have been
If she could ever have the chance
Would she do it all again?
It's funny how life turns out
The odds of faith in the face of doubt
Camera One closes in
The soundtrack starts
The scene begins
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
Take a bow
Take a bow
On the corner
By his streets
He sits in his lawnchair
In the heat
Sightseers see
What they want
They're selling star-maps
To the sun
The sunny-haired son of Hollywood
Lost his faith in all that's good
Closed the curtain, unplugged the clock
Hung his clothes on the shower rod
But he didn't get undressed
And no, he didn't seem depressed
It's funny how life turns out
The odds of faith in the face of doubt
Camera One closes in
The soundtrack starts
The scene begins
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
You're playing you now
Take a bow
Take a bow
Take a bow
Take a bow"

-Josh Joplin

Rise Above

Do you ever feel the need to punctuate a difficult situation by doing something super poignant? Do you ever feel as though the words coming from your mouth aren't nearly as eloquent as you'd like, and a couple minutes after everything dies down, you just want to jump in your car and drive over to their house and hold up a boombox and press play?

I think that might be the movie lover in me that wants to do things like that. Or maybe it's just the hormones. Hey, hold on for a second and think about it. Ever since those little friends of ours got to jumpin' around in our bodies, they've caused us nothing but heartache. I blame them for making people scream into the phone things like "You never loved me!" and "So go ahead and raise goats on a farm in New Zealand with HER, if that's what you really want!" Estrogen and testosterone has sent more than one person to that dark place where hanging up the phone is a solid bargaining tactic, and where throwing things (preferably breakable things like teacups, kitchen appliances, or a cherished record collection) is the solution to all disagreements.

I feel the need to do something unforgettable that changes all the things that are happening right now.

I want to take back everything I said. I was trying to be a big badass and get my bluff called. I was trying to hold my head high and do the noble thing that my mom would have done. Well, apparently my mom is just as much of a wreck as I am, because my bluff wasn't called and now I'm left cursing my big fat mouth. Sure, it was probably the right thing to do. But that isn't stopping me from wishing I hadn't done it.

I've had some really genius ideas in the past few hours. Seriously, some of these are gems. I got rid of the crappy, cliche ideas like text messaging and sappy emails right away. Those were noted and discarded immediately. I have since moved on to things like skywriting, sending dirty pictures in the mail, and fasting. Dumping mountains of greeting cards on the front stoop. Candygrams. Sending organic beef from the midwest. Anything to make this change. Anything.

I started thinking about these things when I realized that lying face down on my kitchen floor with nothing on but a terry cloth robe on was the worst way to accomplish...anything, really. Except dehydrating myself with all the crying and toweling off my body atfer a particularly wet shower. That was the only part of it that was going pretty well.

Truth is, I've gotten what was coming to me. I made one certain turn on this road of life, and now that turn is coming back to haunt me. I think I purposely got myself lost. Who said roadtrips were harmless fun? I feel like hiding right now. My car is both literally and figuratively fucked, and I just want to hit a rest stop and eat something decent from a vending machine.

Keep on driving is the only answer. Sure, I get a bathroom break here and there, and the satellite radio fills the silence. But I have to accept all of this, since I asked for it. I signed up for the trip, and pull my credit card out at every gas station to refill the tank. But damned if I couldn't use a night in a nice motel.

hit on all 6 cylinders. g

From Courtney to Rupert in One Slice

Lately, the stars have been shifting and it's making people act crazy. I'm not talking charming, Rupert Everett crazy. I'm talking more of a "I hate my life and want all this shit to disappear" kind of vibe. More like Courtney Love crazy. No one is releasing their dead husband's unheard masterpieces, okay? They're clinging to whatever they have as their knuckles turn white, and making Dave Grohl hate them in the process. Enough of the poor metaphor. Life is tough, is what I'm saying.

This weekend made me realize something. Life is presenting me with so many gifts, and I have been letting them pass me by.

This is the time of our lives that we will always want to return to. When we are old, rocking on the porch with our Depends making little crinkly noises at every opportunity, we will think back to these days. The days when we were beautiful and vibrant and could get away with anything. We have little more than money to pay the rent, gas in our cars, and some cash for a DVD here and there, but by cracky, that's enough. We have each other. We have fairly good health, easy access to drugs, and little need for makeup and a sensible diet.

Speaking of sensible diets, I had the best chocolate cake ever this weekend. No, I am not supposed to eat it, and no, it is not good for my adrenal glands. To top that off, I ate rich, delectable kalamata olives and spit the pits right on the ground. I had a Newcastle, too. And white rice! What did all of these things have in common?

The wonderful company they all came with.

This whole weekend was full of laughing, insights, and hope. How gorgeous it was.

Anyone who has been reading for the past couple of months knows that it hasn't really been the greatest summer for the old HellCat. It could always be worse, right? I could have been born with no bones in my face, or be an orphan in Cambodia drinking the same water that the yaks bathe in. But it has still sucked. And this morning, as I rose with a spring in my step and a smile on my face, I realized that I am surrounded by magnificence on all sides.

So are you. So keep going. Pretty soon, this will all come to a halt. We would have no appreciation for the good things in this life if we had never seen the bad. Keep your chin up. Insert whatever motivational phrase you've seen on one of those retarded posters with a skiier or a mountain climber on it right here, and follow it up with something a football coach would say right before the big homecoming game. You can even quote Morgan Freeman in "Lean on Me" or Edward James Olmos in "Stand and Deliver." Fuck, even a line from Michelle Pfeiffer in "Dangerous Minds" will do. Just say whatever you need to say to make it through.

And in the meantime, have some cake. I swear to the Almighty that it works wonders.

kalamata this. g

Go for the Gold

I am feeling super inspired today, and I wanted to share it with you. I want the fever to spread. So ladies, listen up. Men, please get on the sidelines, get out your tight sweaters and short skirts, and cheer me on. I'm going to need some backup.

Pom poms ready? Okay.

No one is perfect. I'm speaking about the physical today, my darlings, and I'm here to tell you that we are all flawed. Even those women that we are trying to emulate are not greek goddesses like we think. Hopefully, this is not a new idea to you. Perhaps you are suspicious of it, but try and send away the guards that protect your mind and heart from change (isn't it about time for their lunch break, anyway?) and let this idea in.

I've seen it up close. I've seen the women who I thought were flawless take the duct tape off and slump their shoulders. Some of them have those fat deposits on their hips that no one can seem to get rid of, some have terrible skin, and others have dull eyes. The possibilities are endless, really, for the things that could be wrong with someone's body. Even Rebecca Romjin Stamos doesn't look quite as hot on Saturday morning while she's chasing her kids around the house, scraping cheese of the couch with a broken fingernail, and getting dog excrement off her shoe.

So relax.

I was thinking that since it's Friday, I might give myself a day off from being negative about me. I don't have a huge problem with that, actually, but there are a few hot-button issues that always cause me to wrinkle my nose and sigh really loudly when I think about them. And today, that will not happen.

You know what spurred this on? A fantastic quote that I heard secondhand last night. Men were asked what parts of a woman they find sexy, and they gave hundreds of different answers. One man--one blessed, lovely man--said, "Well, they don't call them HATE handles."

So today, in honor of that wonderful man, my love handles get a break.

I am reminded of a time in high school when I was voicing disdain for my slight love handle chub. My good friend Whip said, "I like mine. They make me feel like a girl." Back then, I thought she was fucking nuts. Today, I admire her resolve and foresight.

On this special Friday, I am going to give my little cushiony pals a rest. I am going to love them. Massage them a little. Put extra lotion on them. I am still going to work out, but every time I am aware of their presence, I will say, "Hello, friend," instead of "Die, you ugly, man-scaring pockets of blubber! DIE! No longer will you hang over my low-rise jeans! No longer!"

There was another quote I heard that I liked a lot. Another man in the same group I mentioned earlier said, "It really comes down to this. No matter what size or shape it is, some man is diggin' on it." (At the time, he was referring to derrieres, but I think it applies to everything.)

How true. And the other thing is, you will become that much more irresistible when you dig on yourself (masturbation jokes aside).

This is KitKat Friday, and YOU deserve a break today, my female darlings. Pick out that one thing that you beat yourself up over, and love it instead. See what happens. Seriously, everything can go back to normal tomorrow--you can continue in your shame spiral and everything. But today, make a change. You might be surprised at how great you feel.

V-I-C-T-O-R-Y. g

The Atlanta Trotts with the Three Ts

I have a healthy obsession with Griffin Dunne.

I use the word healthy for a reason--I haven't seen all of his stuff, I don't go through his garbage, and if I ever saw him person I would probably just smile and nod. So, healthy. Yeah.

This talented man came into my life around 1990. I was a wee HellCat in the King Soopers grocery store, going through the used video cassette racks. I came upon this Madonna film I had never seen, as seeing as how she was my favorite star of all time, I couldn't pass it up. I slipped it into the cart and threw some frozen peas on top of it...and my romance with Who's That Girl, and consequently Griffin Dunne, was born.

He played the buttoned down tax attorney Louden Trott. For most of the film, he wore a tuxedo, and even pushed me closer to adolescence when he bared his chest for almost all of act two. He was funny, he was vulnerable, he let his guard down because the oh-so-captivating Nikki Finn got under his skin.

He was my first crush.

As I grew, I came to appreciate him for other roles in better films, like After Hours, American Werewolf in London, and Quiz Show. He even began to produce and direct. Recently, he even wowed me with his performance on that Celebrity Charades show on AMC.

I consider him to be an old friend. He's been there through it all--the time I got stomach flu on the way back from Santa Land (which put me off of funnel cake to this day), my first boyfriend and our romantic couple skating sessions at the roller rink, and even personal stuff like my first gynecological exam.

The other day, I had a realization.

I've even kissed him.

Yeah, I said what I said. It dawned on me that I have kissed Griffin Dunne. Not directly, of course, but in a roundabout sort of way. I kissed a guy who kissed his acting teacher who was childhood friends with Griffin Dunne, and she was his first kiss.

So I've kissed him, too.

It just goes to show that one day you're hiding used VHS cassettes under frozen veggies so your mom won't see it until it's already been scanned and bagged...and the next day you're sucking face with the star of that very film, sort of. I love this fucking city.

olive you. g

Similes Abound

Tonight, I understood why some women choose to abandon everything their mamas taught them to be groupies. I sat in that audience, staring into what I believe to be the very souls of these men, and felt like no one else was in the room. That music moved me, man. I laughed with them about their wild days with the boys, swooned over their waltzes for their dream girls, and cheered on their raucous antics. It was truly a great night for music.

It got me thinking about how great it is to have a song written for you. To be that one woman sitting in the audience who knows that those beautiful verses are written because she inspired someone...the very thought makes me blush. It must make you feel important to this world, like you're immortal.

I had a song written for me, my darlings. I never heard it performed live, but I have a feeling I will someday. Every time I think back to it, I smile at how expressly me it is, and how much it squeezes the lifeblood out of my heart to know it exists. I cherish it. I return to it in my quiet moments. I believe it is the source of my strength on days I feel like quitting everything. I made someone make something beautiful. And that is enough.

Musicians are like mercury, though. Not impossible to have--tangible, even. But they usually slip right through your fingers, no matter how badly you worship them. They are in constant need of recharging the old Inspiration Battery, and that means meandering through this life with a beer bottle in one hand and their heart in the other. We've all crossed their paths, we've seen this happen. The sad part is when someone thinks they've nabbed one, only to find out that they're just a rest stop on that endless highway.

I sat in that audience tonight and wondered what it would be like to meet the eyes of one of them and know that it was me they were searching for. Trouble is, that's rarely the case--the light is always aimed so that everyone standing out there with their hearts a-poundin' is faceless.

forte. g

Et tu, Conchata?

My computer is dead. I think it might be terminal. At the very least, it is going to cost me a large sum of money that I do not have to fix it. My laptop, the glistening, sleek, lovable Conchata Lawrence, has betrayed me. Why should my electronics be any different from anything else in my life?

And that, my darlings, is the last sad-sack thing you will hear me say for awhile. I know this journey will consist of plateaus and caverns...and a summit somewhere...but it's time to get a move on. This has gone on too long. I have maxed out too many sympathetic ears with my tales of woe.

I have been told that I am emo as fuck. That I need to figure out what I want. Friends have said things like I need to focus on myself, move to Europe, accept that which I cannot change, and hold my head high. I have also been told that I would sell out Anne Frank if it meant ending a dry spell. And now it is time for this to end.

I know that the texts I send to phones that can't receive them will always be unanswered. I will not find any magical, unexpected emails in my inbox. I understand that when sometehing has its hooks in your life, it's not a priority to make nice with old pals. No, no, no need to explain, I know when I can't show my face in certain places. And most of all, I have come to terms with the fact that I make the decisions for myself, and even if they're wrong or will hurt me in the end, at least I stood up to this world and made them.

Sure, I can use Saturn shifting houses into Leo as an excuse for my shitty predicaments. I can always throw my hands up and say, "Well, once the stars are aligned, things will go back to normal." That all might be true. However, in the meantime, when I have a chance to take the reigns on something and give myself one moment of calm, then I will do it.

I know the risks. I see both sides. I understand that things might not work out as I planned. But you know what? It's time to stand up for myself and make this world my bitch. I am choosing this path, and I am doing it on my own terms. This one is for me.

It feels good to know that even if something gets screwed up in the end, you took charge and screamed, "Come on! Is that all you've got?!" right in fate's face. Nice, steady steps. Focus. Hope. Strength. Determination. Love. And most of all, persistence that would make that little squirrel from Ice Age look like a pussy.

She's back, folks. g

The Power of Love

I was on the 60 heading west. I had just spent an absolutely wonderful afternoon with the infamous C Digital Fresh, RobMag, and his Lovely Mrs. Mag, and I had my thinking cap on.

The wheels were turning about the man I love. The man whose beautiful blue eyes reassure me that I am protected and loved when I gaze deeply into them. This man's wily smile turns me into butter, and I can't tell which way is skyward.

I've never told anyone how I feel about him before. I haven't mentioned to anyone that hearing his voice sends my body into shivers, and that the smile on my face would light up an entire city. No, I have kept the secret to myself, my darlings, until now. You need to know. This is important.

I love Huey Lewis.

Fuck it, I even love And The News. I love them all. I always have. Back to the Future only proved my point. This man is a God who walks among us. Picture Hue-dog, with his little Don Johnson sportcoat with the sleeves rolled up. And those faded jeans. Huey Lewis (and the News) is a real man. He can take me away from this pain and heartache--he always understands how to comfort me.

Honestly, I was listening to "If This is It," and it hit me square in the jaw. "Now you're confessing/but I'm still guessing/I've been your fool for so long...I'd rather leave than never believe...if this is it/please let me know/if this ain't love you'd better let me know/if this is it/I want to know/If this ain't love baby, just say so."

Who the fuck hasn't felt like that?!

God, Huey. The words that fall from your precious lips are like gold to me. Sing, sing, my angel of music. Help me understand this madness that swirls around my head. Give me shelter from the storm with your wisdom. Enlighten me, baby. Over and over again. Tell me about the heart of rock and roll, and the power of love. Give me something to cling to in this wild, unglamourous dance.

don't need no credit card. g

Awful Smell

When I opened my apartment door on Monday, that's when the smell hit me full force. As my olfactories tried desperately to forget what they had sniffed, my mind was horrified that I had let the garbage sit that long in the trash can. I sprinted to the kitchen sink to investigate the waste underneath it in that old, white container. Nothing perishable was in it, just an old milk carton and some Clif Bar wrappers. Couldn't be the cause.

Confounded, I checked the grabage disposal, thinking that perhaps some strawberries or chicken bits were left down there. I smiled to myself, thinking that must be it. I have had a power problem underneath my sink, and so I leave the garbage disposal plugged into an extension cord that I only plug in occasionally. Plus, it had been making a weird noise, which left me more unwilling to run the fucking thing at all. I pulled out a flashlight to find the offenders.

"Here, little bits of rotting food. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I am going to have to destroy you now." I thought that my friendly tone would coax them into existence, to no avail. The garbage disposal was clean as a whistle.

The smell remained. Like carrots and throw up. Waiting, untouched, by the Nag Champa incense I burned to dull the putrid stench. "Stupid hippies and their damned incense," I thought to myself.

The stench is a symbol, my darlings. A symbol of the issues in my life that are upsetting me. I knew that something was horribly, horribly wrong here. But for the life of me, I couldn't find out the source of the smell. I couldn't identify the problem and make it go the hell away. The incense did nothing. The open windows did nothing. It was there, taunting me. It made me want to throw myself off a cliff. Or maybe just my roof.

Today it dawned on me. A rat. Has crawled. Into my walls. And Has Died There.

The smell that was soaking into every tissue of my body was coming from a dead rodent.

On this lovely Wednesday that doesn't feel so lovely to me, I have had a moment of clarity. I get it, God, thank you. Now I know what was making me feel so terrible. Thanks for the insight, my eyes are wide open...and all that shit that people say when they feel like they finally open their goddamn eyes.

So my logical mind says, "What do we do, Grae? How do we make this better for ourselves? How do we avoid spending our precious time worrying and agonizing over this issue?"

The answer? Nothing.

I have to wait it out. I have to keep burning incense and letting the breeze blow through the treehouse, but the smell will linger. This is normal, everyone goes through it in the hills. I am experiencing something normal, something typical. And I can do nothing but wait it out and hope for the best.

Soon, the smell will go away. Soon, the pain will leave this heart of mine and I will be free again. Nag Champa will smell the way it's supposed to, and not like a weak, pathetic attempt to achieve normality in the treehouse. One day I will wake up and be excited about how wonderful life is, since I have a face and working limbs and clear skin and all that. Someday I will once again appreciate these things I have.

But right now, I am breathing in the fumes. I am over-saturated and imbibing something that I want no part of. I wish I didn't have to go through this. I wish things were different. I wish that rat had died in the hills, and that the people I love would love me back. But that's not the way it is.

Inhale.

Exhale.

g

Unattended

Pictured above is Yoda's and my horrific accident.

Syke!

This is actually the result of being unleashed onto the Universal Studios backlot without any kind of authority figure present. Here we are enjoying the craftsmanship of the War of the Worlds set.

Movie magic! Betcha thought we were like those sad fuckers on Lost, huh? Not us. We ate Churros right after this.

mayday. g

17 Tracks and I've Had it with This Game.

I believe that whenever something goes awry, life is presenting you with a way to learn some life skill that you lack. If you choose not to learn it, then it will happen again until you do. I believe that I have discussed this idea with you before, my darlings, and today it is in motion with yours truly.

I am surrounded by people who don't want my help.

I am used to being the one that people come to for a pick-me-up. Not in a "drug user/Candyman/Dr. Feelgood" kind of way, but rather in a "she has a level head and can make me laugh" kind of way. I feel like it is my one true gift to help people see the wonderful things in this life. And the bonus to that is that while helping someone else see it, I discover it too.

But there are a couple of important people that aren't letting me do it right now, and I feel useless. I feel confused. I am unwanted. Ignored. Obsolete. Without meaning.

It's a lousy feeling.

My phone messages go unanswered, my texts oftentimes go unnoticed and ignored. They go nowhere. Nothing comes of anything I try to put together. Now there is little to no hanging out. No laughs, no good times. Just my voice on the machine, feigning perkiness.

What's the fucking lesson here? I am being bombarded with opportunities to learn, but I have no clear vision of what I need to work towards.

Alls I know is that I am feeling a little bit like one of the castaways on the Island of Lost Toys. Or something like that. I'm talking about the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer claymation special where one of the elves wants to be a dentist and seems a little gay, and they fight the snow monster and stuff...Well, I mean one of the toys on that island. No one wants them anymore. They no longer make people happy, they just sit and rust and feel bad about themselves.

It feels awful to know that you could be helping someone feel better, but they won't let you. I have cookbooks open, ready to make dinner. DVDs are waiting on my shelves, begging to be laughed at. My garter belt is aching for its chance to make an appearance. All my lips want to do is smile, smile, smile, and make the bad things go a little ways away for awhile. I have singing telegrams that should be sent.

But unfortunately, after a long hard look at what's going on in my life, these folks don't want any part of it. I guess I need to find people that do.

search. g

The Old Routine

Yoda will be taking off soon. We have experienced much in this journey together, and all of the stories we have to tell involve flirting. Somehow, somewhere, there was flirting going on.

We have formed a special alliance as female siblings and have called it the FlirtForce Twins. When the opportunity presents itself to bat our eyelashes at a cute boy, we lick our lips in unison and put one hand on our left hip. Then, we wink at each other and a big explosion happens, leaving the unsuspecting man swooning and begging for our phone numbers.

Seriously, we are flirt machines. This girl is good luck. I've never been picked up on as much in one weekend as I have been with this girl. Perhaps Yoda, in her northern Texas wisdom, can teach me a thing or two about how to interact with men.

I've been told by my suitors that originally, they were convinced I was not interested in them. I always find this surprising, as I thought I was putting some extra elbow grease in there to turn on the charm and suggest that I would enjoy some lovin'. Apparently though, this is not the case. I am labeled intimidating and not very flirty at all. This is confounding to me--it is totally contrary to what is going on inside my head.

Anyway, Yoda has opened my eyes. A little laugh, a delicate move of the shoulder. Tossing of the hair and biting the lip. Shy smiles. All of these beautiful feminine subtleties can be bold in conveying how you feel about some hot hunk of man meat. Excuse me, I mean nice young man.

I think my problem was that I was trying to do too much at once. I want to show him I am a thinker, I tell good stories, and am funny. Also, I like to throw in a little hint of being a tigress in the sack. Right up front, that's too much. Take it down a notch. Make more eye contact, ask questions, shut up a little, and tilt your head to one side.

This kid should give classes. We were on fire this weekend. If she hadn't been sleeping on my futon, I would have gotten laid like 40 times.

You'll excuse the hyperbole, right, my darlings?

I have had such a lovely time getting to know this younger sibling of mine. I know now that there is someone around who enjoys my opinion, makes me laugh, and reminds me of some stuff that I've forgotten. Now we can exchange cute texts and gossip 'till our celly batteries die.

I have lost my futon for the weekend, and gained a sister for life.

family ties. g

Those Were the Days

This visit is going to be just fine. I have tapped into my center as an actor. I am 17 again. I am cool, carefree, and just figuring out how to harness the power that comes from having a noticeable bosom. Being 17 rules.

Well, no it doesn't. I mean, seriously, you live at home, you go to high school, your parents are an everyday fixture in your life, and every event is life-shattering. It can blow.

Remembering all of this is key to playing the role. The fact that you had to sneak out of your friend's house when you were spending the night to see your boyfriend and MAYBE have sex with him is quite the undertaking. Your friends telling your mom that you did this is the end of the world. And your brother leaving for college means you get your own bathroom. Ups and downs. I'm getting good at this.

Yoda stepped out of the gate in Long Beach and I made sure to look like I couldn't have cared less. I hugged her and called her cute pajamas girl, because she was in fact wearing pajamas, and then we proceeded to just miss pulling her luggage off the conveyor, causing an uproar at the North Baggage Claim. Just another day.

Luckily, she's so psyched to be away from the 'rents that she doesn't give a damn what we do. Go to the Chinese theater for a sneak preview? Okay. Nap for a few hours? Sounds good. Eat dinner, cruise Sunset, and go home for more sleep? Perfect. I think this will work out just fine.

It's easy to talk to a 17-year-old, as it turns out. Add in "I know, right?!" every few sentences and say "you know" and "like" a couple times more per sentence, and you've got the lingo. If you manage to remember that shopping, boys, snapshots, and cell phones are important activities and tools, then you're the coolest stepsister in the world.

So, today, she's sleeping late and I'm writing. I went to the gym, mailed some Netflix, and talked with my sis. I've got all my shit done, so now it's all about putting on the Teenager Hat and showing this girl that we got more bounce in California.

like, you know? g

Lord Help The Sister...

My step-sister is coming into town tomorrow. She is super-de-duper young (17) and we don't really know each other. I was told that she has a new boyfriend that she will be missing with the intensity of a hormonal high school junior (often compared to convection within the sun) and that she needs "big sistering."

This sounds like a recipe for fucking disaster.

I am struck by a few things. First of all, we don't really know each other that well. I never lived with her, and have only SEEN her about twelve times during our parent's marriage. She's nice and funny, and has grown out of her annoying phase. That's all I know. I know that she likes to "tie one on," as the kids say, and that she watches her friends play poker a lot. She is also on the drill team. I know her name, too. That's about it.

She'll be missing her boyfriend?! I can only picture the forlorn glances out the restaurant window as I order a hamburger with cheese. "That's his favorite food," she'd say, the world weighing heavily on her slim little shoulders. And the rest of the day I will have to supress the urge to smack her on the head when she sighs. Fantastic.

There's something bigger here that concerns me, though. "She needs big sistering." What in the good Lord's name does that mean? She needs a stern talking to? Or the aforementioned smack in the head? Does she need to talk about stuff? All of a sudden I feel like a new father trying to change a diaper when he's never even seen the things before. How does this shit work?

I am the youngest of the family. I have an older sister, but no one after me. I'm the cute one who had relaxed versions of our parents, free from the tyranny and youth of what everyone else got. I get pampered and called "Peaches and Cream" when I'm having a bad day. My momma sends me presents just because.

I am not sure I know what it's like to be anyone else in the family, where they have to set an example and pass on knowledge and stuff. How do you be an older sibling just like that?

I am kind of nervous now. What am I getting myself into? Will Yoda (that's her nickname) hate my bathroom? Will she sleep well on my futon? Is she going to return to Dallas despising me and wishing she had spent the week making out with her man instead? Will I live up to expectations and give my dad a moment's peace?

I don't know. I thought we could go do some Drag Bingo, see some flicks, go on a studio tour, explore the Universal backlot, and go to the beach. I figure that we could even get some henna tattoos. Go to the gym. Eat some ice cream. Talk about boys and our period and how lame parents are. Is that going to be enough? Or, will The Mighty G, in a moment of thoughtless hilarity, make some anal rape joke and terrify her?

I guess we'll see. I was hoping that by the end of the trip I would feel as though we've bonded and that we hold someplace special in each other's hearts. Maybe then she wouldn't be my STEP sister. Perhaps, in our time spent having fun and chatting over mochachinos, we could really make some magic happen. If she wants to spend every waking second either on the phone or sleeping, then I suppose the pressure to be a gracious hostess is off. That'd be sweet.

sisters, sisters. g

Bang, bang

Please note: today was a lot of fun. Great company, great meat, and great pie. There was also great fire in the sky. Now I am going to brush the day's gluttony off my teeth and curl up in bed. Maybe I will watch a film, maybe I will read a book. I don't know which one I care to do more...and that's what freedom is all about.

light it up. g

Nothing Worse

I've been fighting the melancholy all weekend. Although there were glorious moments of respite, feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty have been hovering on the fringes of my consciousness. I have been terrorized by memories this weekend, and I can't seem to outrun them this morning.

I heard someone paraphrase a comic once. The comic had asked his audience if they realized that back in the day, women wore garter belts all the time. Then, one day, someone created pantyhose. The comic boldly declared this entrepreneur an asshole.

I always thought the joke was funny, because garters are truly amazing for the wearer AND the onlooker, and it is this reason that has led me to favor them over pantyhose, no question. You can't take pantyhose off in FRONT of anyone. It's never pretty, because having taut nylon in such close proximity to areas that need a breeze can never end well.

Stockings allow the wearer to undress with personality. There can be a little tease to it, or an indication that you're getting down to business. The best part is that a garter and stockings, with strategic underwear placement, can always be left on if there are other activities that take precedence over removal.

Fun for the whole family, so to speak.

Anyway, last night I decided to try and find refuge in alcohol. We were attending a fetish party, where vinyl would be a'shinin' and bosom would be plentiful. I, fresh off my Deadwood-viewing stint, had dressed as a red-headed Bellaunion whore. My suit-wearing "Sheriff" companion and I laughed in the face of death and went boldly where no old west whore had gone before--the ceramics aisle in the Sav-On.

The party had potential. Stuffed animal puppies were "licking" peanut butter off private parts, there was some girl there who considered herself the "Original Vampire" (whatever the fuck that means) who was offering bites on the neck, we had a couple nurses, a naughty secretary complete with boss, a boy scout who liked it from behind (trust me), and "Daddy."

The birthday boy was drunk and belligerent, never missing an opportunity to hassle my party pal for not being fetishy enough. I felt those were bold words from a man wearing a tree branch, but perhaps that's just me.

I was having trouble getting drunk. This was a strange development, as I no longer drink and should have a wonderfully low tolerance at this point. Unfortunately, when Kansas showed up with Jack Daniels in hand, I figured that I couldn't be taken seriously as a whore if I didn't take a swig. I felt nothing...until we left the party.

We decided to cruise Sunset, and that's when I had a vision of my near future. I would soon end up at home, absentmindedly clutching a small bottle of TGI Friday's margarita drink that had "Tequila is in it!" printed on the label. I would be talking to myself. Video On Demand would be on, and I would have to hide my cell phone to avoid drunk dialing my ex-boyfriend. I would forget I was wearing a long, red wig, and only take it off when I realized that the tips of the bangs were dangling in my orange juice that I held in my other hand but wasn't drinking.

In a flash, somewhere between la Cienega and Fairfax, I saw my future. It made me sad. I lost my appetite for grilled cheese and fries almost immediately. As I walked somewhat gracefully up the stairs to my treehouse, the last nail went in the coffin.

My garters would be wasted.

I stomped the last few steps into the door and started tearing off my clothes. The skirt, the corset, the wig, the contacts, the heavy eye makeup, all of it, came flying off in an impotent rage. Anger whirled in my head and overtook my senses. Soon, all that remained on my frame was the garter belt and fishnets. This might initially seem like a hot image, but let me assure you that it was not. I might as well have had dark track marks on my arms, showing ribs, circles under my eyes, and lesions of varying severity all over my torso. I felt spent.

In a perfect world, that would have been the moment where I got a phone call with a male voice on the other end saying, "I'm at the gate. Get your ass down here, beautiful."

In this world, though, the only male voice around was coming from the TV. It was the bald Jewish dude on Sex and the City, by the way. Just when I thought things couldn't get any more distressing.

So, fitful sleep followed, and here I am. Currently, the desire to eat a ham sandwich outweighs my need to whine some more. So, here I go. Happy fucking Independence day.

on rye. g