From the Mouths of Animatronics

Today in Los Angeles, a dazed HellCat wandered around the city of Hollywood, running errands and blinking her eyes a lot in hopes of bringing some clarity to life.

I ran to the Kinkos and discovered that the file I had sent myself was "corrupted," and I had to abandon my mission of printing the finest script ever written (entitled "The Love of Ella and the Prince," written by my Young Storytellers writer). I felt the sting of the aborted mission, and went to the post office. Nothing could stop me there! I have a key to my post office box, and an arm to pull the mail out with! Ha! What could get in my way? Next to nothing!

I discovered that a giant box could, actually. It was heavy and sitting right in front of the PO box. I couldn't move it, and it was big enough to make the stretch to my box awkward and potentially messy. I managed to pull the Netflixes and the magazines out, though, and returned to my car, slightly renewed. I had tricked the box! Ha HA! It could not fool me, nor could it keep me from obtaining the pieces of paper with my name on them.

My overheating car sputtered and coughed over to the Target. I had a wide variety of items to acquire. Among them were wrinkle remover spray (have you tried that shit?! It's amazing!), scissors for the kitchen, and a pretty notebook and pen for an 11-year old girl (something princessy, you get the idea).

I meandered through the Magical Land of Everything, and found a green peacoat that looked amazing on me (if I do say so myself). I also tried on a pair of black stretchy pants, hoping that they would suffice for workout gear. Only then, I caught a glimpse of myself in the nasty lighting that I deemed to be "icky" and quickly ran out of the dressing room without taking anything with me. I feel that, in those situations, abandonment is the easiest way to forget that you still have some sculpting work to do at the gym.

I wandered to the school supply section, and was amazed that crayons are only .45 cents! Incredible! And the scissors were reasonable, too. A pretty notebook was laying on the shelf, and I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw that it was on the Clearance Table. I gladly gave it a home in my cart, and trudged toward the toy section to see if there was anything pink in it that would make my Young Storytellers Writer smile.

I rolled the cart down the main aisle, straining to see what wonders were held in each section. Suddenly, my eye fell on a Pound Puppy. I loved mine as a wee HellCat, so I walked over to one and stroked its head. Amazingly, the puppy moved his head up and started making happy puppy noises! Oh for joy, he was alive! Or, at least he had fresh batteries. I looked down the rest of the aisle and noticed that everything else had "Try Me!" stickers on their boxes, so I began seeing what is available for our nation's youth in way of talking stuffed animals.

There were beautifully-colored birds, little farm animals, plush duckies, and crazy monsters. And, to my surprise, an entire section of the aisle was dedicated only to Furbys. I remember being fascinated with the creatures years ago when they were the Hot Christmas Toy to get, and so I pushed one of their little tummies in and waited. The little black ball of fur moved his eyebrows, and his little beak opened and closed, as though he was whetting his Furby pallette to speak. Then he said:

"You'ra happy to see me?"

He sounded kind of like he was half Italian, half mentally disabled. I decided he was cute, so I leaned very close to the box and said, "Yes!"

The Furby wiggled his ears and smiled. He was pleased with my answer. I clapped my hands with delight. Then, I looked to his sister on his left. She was grey and had an adorable pink beak. I pressed her tummy.

"You-a and Me? We friendsa, yeah?"

And I was about to repeat my previous affirmative answer when I wondered what happens to a Furby when it is told the truth. I leaned close to the plastic package and declared, "NO."

The little pink beak frowned. The sparkling blue eyes closed halfway, and her little ears drooped. I had upset the tiny grey Furby. I had taken her dreams of having love and friends and spat upon them. I might as well have taken her box off the shelf, urinated on her, and then let out the talking Tyrannosaurus Rex so he could rape her and eat her carcass all while roaring and saying "I'm king of the dinosaurs and have stubby arms!"

I felt bad about myself. I realized that I am not ready for a pet, since I apparently have no soul. And the worst part was, I am not alone. I looked at the rest of the Furbys at rest on the shelf. They all looked as though they were coming to terms with someone who just told them no, they were not their friend-a. All droopy ears and sad eyes. The entire goddamn shelf was crammed with Furbys who, given the chance, would have committed suicide or acquired a semi-automatic weapon and taken the entire store out.

It was heartbreaking.

I wanted to take little grey Furby home and try to convince her that even though sometimes people say No, that doesn't make the whole world worthless. I wanted to show her Disneyland and ham sandwiches and how to kiss with tongue, and although that last item might make the authorities haul me away, I thought even that might be a good lesson. The world ain't perfect, but there is an awful lot of beauty in it.

Like Santa Claus. Except here in Cali, he calls himself Tom.

thanks, Tom. g

From the Rooftops

When you're in a wonderful place on sensory overload, surrounded by friends, booze, music, dancing, and photo ops, it's a powerful drug. It can still be overridden, though. The magic can be dulled by a powerful foe.

The presence of your exes.

I found myself in a place with too many men that I have been intimate with in varying capacities. Lucky for me, everything always ends up amicable at some point, so there was a decided lack of drama. But this morning, as I was making my way through the Tree People hiking trails, I got to thinking.

We all know that things are never the same once you break up with someone. Even if you can still give them kisses on the cheek and take pictures with them while genuine smiles are plastered on your faces, there's still a difference in the air. Once, the two of you shared something special. You shared stolen glances across the room, long kisses, and late nights. And suddenly, even when things end in the most positive of ways, the Change is there. Suddenly, you are kept at arm's length just like the unwashed masses. Any means of communication, no matter how undemanding or infrequent, is not treated with the same importance as it once was. Suddenly, you fall into the category of "Average, Everyday Person." It becomes harder and harder to imagine that at one time you shared a toothbrush with this person.

We've all had it happen. That's just the natural direction of things. You have to make room in your heart for all the new experiences, which means moving the ones you've already had to the old, dusty memory attic. Pretty soon, the relationship becomes like an old home movie that we might pull out one late night when we're alone and feeling like reminiscing. And when I say "alone and feeling like reminiscing," I mean drunk.

Here's the thing. I realized that, given the chance, I wouldn't go back and make a different choice. I had some amazing experiences with these men, and regardless of what happened between us, I still find them Magnificent. It doesn't matter that they don't make goo-goo eyes at me or whisper sweet nothings in my ear anymore. It doesn't even matter that we can't have quite the same conversations that we used to. Julia Roberts, playing Shelby in Steel Magnolias, said that she would rather have five minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special. That statement had a profound effect on my life (and I'd better not get any flak for it, you fuckers).

This is why I'm choosing to take a chance again. I know someone Magnificent. What we've had to this point has meant a lot to me, and we'll always have it. There is always that lingering fear when embarking on an existential journey, because you're leaving behind what you know for something you don't. You can never go back. We hesitate to hold our breath and take the relationship plunge.

Deep in our hearts we know that Relationships are like Panda cubs.

Panda mating is delicate. It is infrequent, and for all the effort those little cuties put into it, rarely is a cub conceived. If one is actually born, they usually die quickly afterwards. So, as a result, the ones that survive are precious and beautiful and little black and white miracles. Relationships are like this. We try to find that connection with someone, and we give it our all, but most of the time nothing comes of it. All we have is that mating season (which by the way, in the Panda world, is like 48 hours). There is always that hope, though, and every once in a while you hear about a zoo that is proudly displaying their newest little addition to the captive family. And, in this metaphor, the zoo would be your family and the little panda would be, like, framed pictures of your 10th anniversary party on your parents' mantle.

I am ready for another five minutes of wonderful. Maybe five minutes will be an instant in time, or maybe it will be more than that. I don't care. This life should be about taking a chance on love, and how love is all you need, and how love lifts us up where we belong (Ewan MacGregor told me so!). Why sit in silence, waiting for mating season? Mating season should be every day! If Pandas were a little friskier and assertive, or if the lady Pandas would be more eloquent about their needs and boy Pandas scratched themselves less, then maybe we could have an abundance of Pandas. This world could be full of little adorable bears if we just tweaked our nature a little. I know it's unlikely, but goddammit, I am going to give it a shot.

I refuse to sit on the sidelines and watch this life pass me by. I am not the world's finest athlete, but I will run the race anyway. I have made some mistakes along the way, and I have learned a lot. But the only reason I run is because you get Gatorade when you participate.

I am willing to go out on a limb to believe that my Panda will be handing me the cups.

you be ying ying, i'll be su lin. g

Guitar!

We were driving in heavy traffic on the 91, heading out to our beloved RobMag's house for a big celebratory barbeque. Jeffy sat in my passenger seat, My Pablo was behind me in the back, and The Mighty G was by his side. As the Jetta inched along, we worked hard to keep our spirits high. Everyone was marveling at the distance between RobMag and us, and with every revolution of the wheels we became increasingly aware of the fact that what should have been an hour-long trip could very well take four more hours.

I had to remedy the situation and raise the spirits in the car. We had already listened to Pablo's serial killer jokes, and Jeffy was starting to get political (as usual). The G was moistening her lips, preparing to let loose with an onslught of mean, loud, and shrill declarations. I sensed that this was starting to get ugly. We had no food, and there were no gas stations on the side of the road to escape to. Luckily, no one had mentioned the bathroom at that point. But something still needed to be done.

I put in my "Lovely Day for Rockin'" mix. It starts off with Poison, and goes into AC/DC, Joan Jett, Boston, Journey, and Def Leppard. This effectively calmed the car, giving us something to laugh at, sing to, and discuss on a deep intellectual level (oh, like you haven't wondered about the "Cougar" in John Mellancamp's name and its mysterious disappearance. Yeah, you are SO much better than me).

Pretty soon, the traffic started to close in on us again. We were getting to know the people in the cars surrounding us. We were also wondering if just jogging there would be faster. And none of us are runners. You get the idea.

When I thought we were out of steam and the trip might come crashing down around us, The Darkness came on the stereo. "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" blasted out of the speakers, and I decided that I was going to sing it at the tip-toppiest volume my voice could muster. For anyone who doesn't know, that's pretty damned loud. So I am singing. I think Pablo was singing as well, although I couldn't hear him. Jeffy was giggling so hard his face was turning red, and The G was just embarassed for me, so she started rummaging around in her pockets and avoiding my gaze in the rear view mirror.

I glanced into the backseat and saw that The G and Pablo were divvying up those magical little pills that make rock concerts a religious experience and work just that much more tolerable. Their eyes locked. They opened their mouths, and in perfect unison, their wrists snapped and the pills launched down their gullets. It was truly a sight to see.

And then, as though the magic was there for all of us, the song erupted into the hand-clap break. And without making eye contact or discussing it beforehand, each one of us in the car began clapping along in that familiar steady rock and roll kind of way that the Darkness does so well. We were smiling, singing, and clapping as though our lives depended on it. And in a way, I guess it did.

The best part of this moment of brilliance were the cars surrounding us. They weren't inside to hear the wonder and merriment that is The Darkness. All they saw were two people in the backseat of a green Jetta popping pills, followed by everyone in the vehicle clapping their hands in unison. Then, they were laughing uncontrollably for the next five minutes for no apparent reason. To all our friends in the nearby cars, it appeared as though the inmates were driving the asylum.

To those of us inside the car, though, it was clear what had just happened. Sometimes you are blessed with moments that prove that you are, without a doubt, surrounded by good friends.

my heart's in overdrive and you're behind the steering wheel. g

Stalking on a Sunday

The other day, I was sitting shotgun in the Mighty G's chariot. We were on our way to a well-deserved breakfast at our fav morning hangout, and the windows were open. The air was crisp and the call of bacon was lulling us into a near comatose state. It was at that moment I chose to look out the window at some dude in a black BMW Z3.

His window was down, and the car was resting just far enough ahead of us that I couldn't entirely see his profile. I smiled, and my low blood sugar caused me to tear my gaze from the man and blurt out, "Hey G! That dude looks like Neil Patrick Harris, doesn't he? I fucking loved Doogie Howser. That show was the shit." And she glanced over and kind of nodded, saying, "Well, this is LA. It probably is him."

I returned my attention to Mister Beemer, and he was casually looking in his side-view mirror at us. I smiled and made my hand into the gun-shape and "pulled the trigger" at him. Then he slowly reached down and rolled his window up.

It was totally Neil Patrick Harris.

doogie! g

We Are All Dickheads

Americans only think their lives are crappy. Sure, some of us really have a reason to want to stick it to the man, but for the most part, we are all just fine. We have money to own cars, buy a Twinkie, and maybe even a CD once in a while. Feeling low? Visit your relatively clean neighborhood park, where the minor drug deals taking place are discreet and without weapons. Distressed? Go to the sink and get yourself a glass of drinkable water. Maybe even use the indoor plumbing and take a Maxim magazine with you. The options are almost endless.

Even Angelina Goddamn Jolie can go on national television and tell you that you ain't got it so bad. She's seen what it's like to be an orphan in Cambodia, so you'll excuse her for not breaking down and adopting Lindsay Lohan to shield her from her horrible, traumatic feud with Hillary Duff.

Take American Idol, for instance. Sure, some of those yahoos in line can tell a sob story weepy enough to get them on the nightly news. Yes, I understand that these people exist, although for every decent person who's really trying to accomplish something quasi-noble, there are 40 who just want to screw Paula and have their 15 minutes. In a half-assed retelling of one story, there was that one lady who was a single mom and needed to make it big to support her fam, so she sold a family heirloom or something to get money for a plane ticket to the auditions. That was pretty emotional. But even stories like hers seem like wacky anecdotes compared to some people's lives in other countries. Let me go out on a limb here and throw out, oh I don't know, Iraq.

"Talents," or "Pop Stars," also known as the Iraqi Idol, just launched the other day. There is no studio audience, and security is tighter than Nicolette Sheridan's latest face lift. The judges are in place, judging away as usual. But the people who go to audition have to dodge bullets and bombs on their way to the humongous line. Their lives are in mortal danger just sitting outside, waiting for their chance to belt out a tune. And when they get inside, the power often goes out or the Mayor complains that the music is too loud and will attract too much attention.

One kid got up there with his guitar. He sang a song about the hardships that people faced in his homeland. This isn't strange for the show, as most contestants sing songs reminiscent of the more flowery and classical Arab style that most consider to be high-culture. Anyway, this little kid gets up there and sings this song about people dying and hating each other, and he starts weeping as he sings. The judges lose their minds, everyone is crying, and I am thinking that we are all dickheads.

Can you imagine Bo Bice shedding a tear as he wails through his most heartfelt version of "Vehicle?" Is it possible to imagine Clay Aiken taking any criticism on his grammar during "I Believe I Can Fly?" All of our Idols are pussies. It's the Iraqi kids that are tough.

They'd have to smear Ryan Seacrest's naked body with cat food and put him in a canvas sack with a rabid raccoon to even halfway match the intensity of that Iraqi season finale. I should be a fucking network executive.

snl had it half right. g

See This Show

Hi all. It's time to laugh! The Animals from the Future, LA's sweetest sketch comedy group, is having what might be their last show for quite some time. Go see them...you have the HellCat Guarantee that you won't be disappointed. Skeptical? Okay, that's fair (dick.) Let me just qualifty that statement by saying that the last thing acquiring the HellCat Guarantee won the Tony this year. Seriously. Still not good enough? Do you hate the Tonys and think they're a corporate joke? Well, then, Fuck off. There's no hope for you.

ANIMALS FROM THE FUTURE!
This Saturday, August 27th
10PM
UCB Theater (on Franklin, between Bronson and Gower)
$5

The theater is smaller than my grandma's living room (and much less inviting! Where are the 23 cats, UCB?! HUH?!). This means you need to arrive earlier than is "cool" by LA standards, and you must also be okay with praying a little. Seriously. Come early, stay late.

(The ucbtheater.com site says the show is sold out. All this means is that they have taken as many reservations as they can handle, and those people get in first. Then the remaining seats are released to the rest of the folks in line.)

love you, Vinny. g

Coming to you Live from Bed

I am writing to you direct from my bed (or "mi cama," if we were speaking Spanish), where weather conditions are favorable (a nice breeze is blowing through the picture window) and the bed is doing a lovely job of supporting my weight (are you calling me fat?).

I woke up this morning and was accosted by visions of my life in the recent past. I got to giggling so hard that I woke up, regardless of the fact that I only got seven minutes of sleep.

Last night: Premiere of a friend's short film. I saw the guest list and decided to be official paparazzi of the evening, since the attendeees would be all of my favorite friends in the whole world. We got all snazzed up, with heels reaching skyward and suits nicely pressed, and we took the party by storm. The movies? Fun. The fiesta? Just what we needed.

Shotgun was witholding love from the Mighty G just to rile her up, and she was making every effort to step on his Converse and tighten his tie to an uncomfortable level. The Prototype was being faced with not one, but two, of his most enthusiastic stalkers and the tension was fogging up his new Buddy Holly specs. Jeffy (aka The Responsible One), was out on a school night and insisted on making the most of it by accepting smooches from the Rock Star and soliciting anyone who would listen (we promised we wouldn't tell his special lady).

My Pablo planted himself in a high-traffic area and let the action come to him and his hot duds, and he was always surrounded by the most interesting people at the show. This included the likes of my favorite sexual chocolate in the universe, T-Rex, and his hot girfriend, who have been dating for 3 years and keep us all entertained on the Crazy in Love department. Emphasis on Crazy. It also included The Greek, who will be leaving us soon for grad school (who will wear western shirts like you, Greek?). Debbie Cakes was nearby, in her handkerchief-masquerading-as-a-dress, as well as the Haberdashery-chic McAl, complete with Kangol cap and crisp button-down shirt that said, "I don't even have to TRY to look good. You, though? It's a little sad."

The Freeze and JenBear were mingling, fresh off a trip from Vegas but still managing to not look rumpled. Now that's talent! The Freeze's lightly be-pinked hair impressed the hoardes who have not seen her in many a fortnight. JenBear, still a naughty redhead, just smiled quietly and looked hot while sipping her drink.

The Coolest Girl in The World, Lady MelRaf, was in attendance, casually sipping drinks and giving the half-nod to her court when appropriate. The Rock Star was there, and as I mentioned earlier, was giving free kisses (without his guitar in hand, he tends to use cigarettes, cocktails, and sex to distract). He also tossed me around the dance floor like a rag doll, leaving me amazed that my heels didn't break...and my face didn't either. I almost toppled to the ground seventeen times, but was saved by his lanky, guitar-playing arms. It's not easy to lead when dancing with the HellCat, but let me assure you, my darlings, I was the follower in this scenario. And I was also glad I wore underwear.

The cake was great, and D1 and Buck Fever, the Brothers Nelms, made sure we all had some as well as the DVD of their last flick. Smith had to sit out of most of the action due to a bum lumbar region, but enjoyed himself nonetheless because he had a nice view of some young ladies' backsides. Choda Boy was there, albeit for a short time, and JB received lots of kudos for the acting and the suit. Instead of asking "Where's Messina?" we were giving Mister McKinley kisses on the cheek and major creds for his Bald Eagle shirt. He's very patriotic.

Soon, the evening had to come to an end. Our crowd, riding in the CIvic Chariot (aka Carson Daly), was full of little worker bees who needed to be home at a decent hour. We left the party, with the soles of our feet frozen in unnatural arches and our hair a little flatter than it was just three hours earlier. But it was a good kind of hurt.

Even though my dogs were barkin', as the saying goes, I waited until the Last Possible Minute to take the shoes off. And THAT'S when you know that your night was a success. You catch my meaning? Seriously, are you with me?...because I can explain it if you...ahh, nevermind.

this is the time. g

Fuzzy Ears, Elongated Necks

LeezyB, in traditional "girlfriend who is in touch with herself" style, invited me out today to a workshop. Leezy and I oftentimes end up discussing the value of being in tune with our bodies. We are both athletes and acquire a great sense of satisfaction from "moving and shaking," as it were. When the opportunity arose for her to share the Alexander Technique with me, I eagerly accepted. She had met a newly-certified instructor at jury duty who was giving free lessons to get some clients, so we were both enthusiastic about the idea.

I have spent many an hour listening to the merits of the technique. MLCIII's sister, who is a phenomenal opera singer, has been a longtime fan. Once she learned that I was into things like yoga and pilates, she filled me in. After awhile, I got the idea that most people who enjoy this shit are new-agey, crystal-wearing fuckers who like linen pants and quantum physics, and only a couple normal folks have infiltrated the group to learn some useful skills. I have to admit that most of it sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher talking. It's full of self-awareness ideas and touchy feely shit like that.

Regardless, I thought that the benefits were undeniable and it sounded interesting if nothing else. If it made me sit up straighter, then I was all in. We all know that sitting up straight takes off 10 pounds! So bring it! Plus, I figured that I could silently judge the fucking hippies if I got bored.

Fast forward to this afternoon. I'm sitting in this room in Culver City, curiosity piqued. I smelled a scent vaguely similar to patchouli, but decided to ignore it unless it was accompanied by the smell of either hemp oil or corn chips (at which point some punches would fly). The floors were sturdy, beautiful wood, and the faces of the other people in the group were calm and inviting. I was trying to unwind, but I felt mildly uncomfortable. "How do I convey that I am open to this idea?" I queried in my head. "Certainly not by taking out the joint in my pocket and lighting it up." I decided to instead mimick the Mona Lisa's smile and focus on NOT looking like a hunchbacked freak.

Apparently, Mister Alexander was an orator who kept losing his voice. It dawned on him that if he kept losing the power to speak even after resting his vocal chords, then he was doing something wrong. He researched and studied, and came up with the idea that humans have contorted themselves into walking train wrecks, and if they were to change their habits of movement then they would engage their bodies in an entirely different way.

We learned that Mister Alexander discovered that if you even just THINK about elongating your torso and keeping everything straight and extended that you are on your way to teaching the fucking classes yourself, therefore earning thousands upon thousands of dollars from bored housewives. We spent the next 20 minutes walking around the room, backs straight and necks lengthened. We looked like zombies trapped in a small space who didn't have a taste for blood, just a taste for walking. I felt it appropriate to try and make the instructor's living room a sacred space, free of swear words or guffaws. I only half succeeded, once I thought of the zombie image.

As much as I would love to entirely discount what the technique addresses, it is immediately wonderful and freeing. So freeing, in fact, that I ran into trouble. We were asked to stand in front of a wall. We were to then purposely feel the presence of the other walls behind us and on both sides of us. I did okay with the back wall and the left wall, but I suddenly felt very warm when I turned my attention to being "sun-kissed" by the right wall. I was picturing it shining its heavenly light all over my right side, and I became acutely aware of the sound of the room disappearing from my senses.

At first I thought I was acheiving a state of otherworldliness. My distaste for yoga mats subsided, and I no longer wanted men wearing tye-dyed Grateful Dead shirts beaten in public. I was proud of the warm sensation in my limbs and figured I was one step away from becoming, like, Buddha himself.

My core temperature soared, and I felt like someone had shoved cotton in my ears. I couldn't breathe anymore. M eyes closed and my legs buckled. From far away I heard four hard steps on the wooden floor being made by a six-foot tall female's backpedaling heels, and then there was a loud THUNK as that same woman fell on her ass.

That woman was me.

I heard exclamations like, "Holy Unicorn wings!" and "Someone get the lavender spray to revive her!" I was put on the couch, sitting propped against an arm of the chair, and my words came back to me.

"I am fine, thank you. I am going to sit here and listen to the sound of your voice to soothe myself." I was barely conscious but somehow making sounds with my mouth. "No, I'm great. I don't know what that was. Can someone get me some tea kettle? I think I just swallowed a beetle." I had no idea what words I was using. Just like that time in the biker bar when I asked the bartender for a Fresca--it's like my mouth was moving independently of my cloudy head and clammy body.

"I'll be fine, thank you. I'd love to hear more about the technique." I was really just trying not to throw up. I was pale, according to Leezy. Everyone was shaken up and was staring at me uncomfortably from their peripheral vision. Far away, in the recesses of my skull, the thought occurred to me that this was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to any of those people in months.

One of them, the older one named Martha, would go home to her husband and say, "Honey! You know that Alexander technique class I went to today? Well, a girl passed out and knocked her bandanna clean off her head!" and then her husband Archie says, "Is this Salisbury Steak or Potatoes auGratin?" and then they would watch their episode of Matlock in silence. It would only be brought up again one more time at the family reunion when Martha would have to find something interesting to say to take attention away from that old drunk Uncle Edgar who was attempting to put a Yorkshire Terrier in a headlock and feed it some funnel cake.

Anyway, I got some juice and a cookie and the color returned to my face. I was told by one of the instructors that sometimes changing your posture expands your capacity to take in oxygen, and your blood pressure can even change, causing fainting. So now I'm a card-carrying member of the "I Fainted Because I Stood Up Straight" club. Yeah, I can see myself getting laid because of that one. I felt like a DOUCHEBAG and couldn't wait to get out of there.

Of course, I had to wait to escape after the drawing for free lessons, which I won. Now I can relive my embarassment three more times for no extra charge! Hooray!

The worst/best part is that I can see the benefits of learning this information. I already feel different. I mean, besides the throbbing bruise on my ass. So don't let my story deter you from checking this stuff out...just make sure to wear a helmet.

stupid right wall. g

Satan Was Behind Me

The phrase "Music is important to me" is an understatement. Music is the cornerstone of who I am, but there is a definite limit to my indulgence. I automatically memorize song lyrics but not the band names. I rip CDs illegally but buy the ones that I want to show my full support for. I love finding the occasional band that has yet to break into the mainstream, but rarely pick up a music mag to find out what is happening on the scene.

This extends to shows. I enjoy the show from an unknown band that has some buzz (as long as my company is good). I usually front the money for bands that I enjoy listening to if they're in town and I am employed. But sometimes, shows come along that I absolutely cannot refuse for any reason. My legs never hurt from standing while they play, and I never once check my watch. Yes, my darlings, sometimes shows come through that excite the HellCat.

Like the White Stripes.

I found myself at the Greek theater tonight, sitting next to the Mighty G, sending naughty texts during the break, and making fun of Mexicans with the Mexican stranger sitting next to me (although he wasn't a stranger for long!). Before I knew it, the apple backdrop lit up a fiery red, and the magic began.

Pablo said it best. The sound that those two people create is mind-blowing. They charged through songs like Tecumseh Sherman on his way to Savannah...except they didn't kill anyone and don't inspire intense hatred from the Northerners. Anyway. Jack White played that guitar in ways that I didn't know were possible. He even worked the xylophone within an inch of its life. I actually felt during certain songs that my heart was going to leap from my chest, my legs would buckle, and I would lie helpless on the ground with a huge smile on my face.

I found myself getting awfully antsy. I frowned for a millisecond, wondering why. Then it hit me. The audience was being teased. Sexually. Songs varied in intensity, building the heat, backing off, and coming right back. That show was like a lover you've had for about three weeks that shows up at your door hot and bothered--you are familiar with their moves, but the new surge of hormones has made them animalistic and creative in ways you hadn't seen yet.

It was really hot.

Jack and Meg made their way through a great cross-section of their catalog, including most of the best songs from the new album. The show ended, but they came back for an encore. Sometimes, if any other shows were like fucking, the encore would be like pity sex. You love it, it gets you off, but it's over quickly and then the lights are on pronto. The stench of reluctance hangs in the air. This encore, though, was different. It was like they were interested in doing an entire other show. The White Stripes wanted to come back and make love to me again! Hoorah! Everybody get some water and take your pants off!

Before, I was getting excited and needed that special someone by my side to accost. During the encore, the mood changed. I felt the demons trying to get us. The demons were pressing in hard with intent to harm, but the Rock wouldn't let them. The Rock was saving us all. Jack and Meg were our champions, sending the demons back from whence they came. Jack slayed some of them with his Fell In Love With a Girl sword and Meg Seven Nation Armied them back to their caverns. We were safe.

Now I am considering driving to Morrison, CO this weekend to see them at Red Rocks Ampitheater.

Let this be a warning to you: once you impress me with your skills, be they rockin' or rollin', I can't get enough of it. I become insatiable. So gas up the tank, honey.

take, take, take. g

Lost

If you asked me how I was feeling right now, I would start listing some things that aren't very flattering. Among them are cowardly, manipulative, heartless, selfish, and ignorant.

But mostly cowardly.

And I don't know what to do about it. I have no idea how to make this better. Usually, I have some logical step that can be taken to at least give the illusion of progress. It's all about that first step, right? HellCat is the one who knows what's what. I am your answer girl. Ironically, today, I have no solutions for myself. Stop the presses, turn off the lights, this bitch has gone barren.

I suppose the tone of my writing would require that I relate this feeling to some story about my past. For instance, in school I would freak out when I didn't have the answer to a question and would theorize endlessly about it until I could bullshit my way through. I am a salesman, through and through, and I've sold many an icebox to an Eskimo. I use that skill to help get the wheels unstuck from the sludge and make things move forward. It's what I do. Sometimes any answer is better than none at all. In fact, that's usually the case, and if you can manage to make out some shapes through the fog that's all you need.

Right now I can't dress up how I feel. My spine turned to jelly when I needed it to stand upright. I cost myself a lot of happiness. Today it's coming back to haunt me.

I hate the high road. Sure, I like it in theory, but taking it is a totally different story. I believe you can trick people into believing you're taking the high road, when you're really pulling the wool over their eyes to solve all your low road problems. I think that I can get my way AND look good doing it. But this time, I fear that things might be different.

I don't think I can talk my way out of this one. It looks like curtains for our heroine.

I would tell you to stay tuned, but I don't think the end is going to be all that interesting. I think, as the seconds run out, that the audience would see the person who is supposed to save the day running away and chugging bourbon behind a dumpster and then throwing up all over themselves.

Not a pretty sight.

same bat time, same bat channel. g

The One and Only

Yesterday, I had just stepped into the shower for what was promising to be a magnificent post-workout rinse when my phone rang.

I smiled and picked it up, excited about who might be on the other line. 'Is he calling from his work line?' I thought. But instead of hearing a familiar, deep voice that sends shivers down my spine, I was surprised by a southern drawl that occupied the middle register.

"Is this my favorite aunt? Aunt Millie?" It was said with such gusto that my heart immediately expanded and felt warm.

I giggled. "No, I'm not Millie," I said with a big dumb grin on my face. "But I sure wish I was." It's funny how seconds earlier, I was content being HellCat--a HellCat who was sans clothes and only half-wet from the shower--but now a new desire crept into my heart. I wanted to be this man's favorite aunt.

He said that he was sorry and hung up. I stood in the shower, bewildered. What kind of fabulous, emotionally fulfilling life did Millie lead? What kinds of memories did this man have of his favorite aunt? Did she have a hot ass? Or did she just make hot, delicious buns for Thanksgiving?

The questions continued. Will I ever have a family of my own that loves me as much as this man loves Millie? Does anyone ever unknowingly call the wrong number and ask for their "favorite friend/fuck buddy/softball teammate/editor Grae?" I wondered. And I wondered. I rinsed. And repeated.

57 minutes later, I had given Millie backstory.

She was born in New Hampshire to Joeseph and Mary MacLastName on February 1, which made her an Aquarius and already positive she knew everything. She was teaching the other babies in the hospital nursery how to cry in order to get more attention, as well as how to wiggle their way out of those dreadful little hospital bracelets. Unbeknownst to Millie, this trick was so effective that two other babies were unidentifiable and went home with the wrong parents (luckily the Jones family had a successful dentistry, and Johnnie, the wrong baby, had a proclivity towards drills and pain. The other family, the Warwicks, took home little Tim. Tim would grow up and live in the basement, satisfying his mother's need for Swanson frozen dinners twice a day at noon and 5PM. His father had desire for nothing but his pipe, which Tim proudly cleaned and refilled for him, even years after his father's death in 1973).

Millie was a lovely little girl. She loved flirting with older men, much to Mary MacLast name's dismay. Millie adored frilly dresses, playing with her doll Sally, and making HAM radios for all the children in the neighborhood at rock-bottom prices. She used the money to feed her pink ceramic piggy she had named Party.

In her youth, Millie ran about the town like any child. She was mostly unnoticed by adults and would do normal things like eat ears of corn straight out of her neighbors' fields and then go to the picture show. No one in the town suspected that her smarts at acquiring monetary funds and her love of men were all means to an end, even at that tender age.

One day, when Millie was 16, she realized that the small town she lived in was no longer interesting to her. She had made all the radios she could stand, and the boys were no longer satisying her needs (and those were the only two things she did with her time). In order to feel like she spent her Friday nights well, she required dancing on country roads (with the car headlights on, of course) followed by heavy petting. Then, she needed french fries at the local hamburger stand.

Millie refused to compromise on the order in which those things came, and the boys nutritional peculiarities always ended up outweighing her needs. Her steady boyfriend of that fall, Howard, always insisted on the french fries first, because he said the starch helped his extremities get limber for all the dancing and necking. Millie, however, needed the starch to recover from all the activity.

It finally dawned on Millie as she was sitting in the backseat of Howard's car, wearing her now-rumpled cardigan sweater. She stuffed soggy fries in her mouth, and was saddened by the thought of those very same fried potatoes being new and warm just three hours before. She had betrayed them by letting them sit and rot. She was suppsoed to honor herself and the fries, and she had done neither.

Millie crammed the rest of the fries in her mouth with as much love as she could muster and demanded to be driven home. Of course, Howard couldn't understand a word she said because of all the food in her mouth, so she used sign language to convey her ideas and Howard eventually started the car. He drove her home, not because he had understood her motions to mean "Take me to my house," but rather because he was convinced that she had seen a large Jabberwocky-type creature somewhere (in the sky, perhaps?) and was convinced it was going to demolish the local library. As the car rambled towards their neighborhood, Howard was marvelling at the expressive qualities of Millie's hands while they were covered in french fry grease and Millie was busy planning her future (that did not include another french fry...ever).

She was going to leave Nebraska and go find some city men, who were surely more nutritionally advanced from these fly-over-state yokels. And maybe she would also find a job or something, perhaps as a UN leader. Or a model.

tomorrow! more Millie! g

Excess

I can't stop eating sugar.

Now, I don't necessarily mean Ding Dongs or Ho Hos. I am not asking you to picture me at my worst, hiding in the treehouse, wolfing down my seventh little apple fruit pie thingie that comes in the green wrapper in the gas station. There was a run-in with peanut butter chocolate chip cookies from Trader Joe's recently, sure, but the sugar that I'm mostly talking about is fruit sugar.

I can't get enough of it.

At every pause in my day, my thoughts turn to what fruit I have in the fridge and if it would dull my desires. So far I've been through honeydew, pineapple, peaches, red grapes, dried cranberries, and kiwi. Nothing can soothe the beast for more than 30 minutes.

I need sugar.

I am thinking that my body is hurting right now. I think it might be depleted of almost everything, and cantaloupe is the only thing that can replenish this barren landscape that is my person. Or maybe kumquats. Or strawberries.

The longing I have had for mashed potatoes in my belly has even disappeared. Carbs can't help me now. I need SUGAR and carbs. In my bloodstream. In my face. For the reals.

There are a couple of things I know about this thing called sugar. Firstly, it is not ideal for my body, and if I don't work it off with lots of fat-burning cardio, it will be the death of my relatively shapely ass. Secondly, it should be eaten not in a mixed fruit salad, but segregated and without accompaniment. The fruit needs to pass through your stomach quickly, apparently, and if it is hindered by other food, it will ferment in your tum tum and make you feel funny. It also loses most of its nutritional value that way.

So fruit is a demanding mistress. And she has a hold on my family jewels, so to speak.

I have to stop writing. I have to go try an apple.

Or maybe I can derail the whole problem by eating one of the exquisite pickles I bought at Trader Joe's the other day.

brine, brine, everywhere. g

Geeking Out

I love all things technology. Software update? Yes, please. New Features? Tell me about them! Bigger, better, faster? All some of my favorite words in the land of electronics and multimedia gadgets. I am often the one people call to help them learn how to use their digital products or hook up their ethernet. When I return home to the 'rents house in Denver, I know there will be at least one VCR that needs a new connection or a clock set.

This is what I do for a living, practically.

This runs in the fam. In Dallas, I get a call from my PapaBear when he upgrades his broadband connection to fiber optic cable. Do you know what that means? Well, I do. It basically means that the next time I hang out in Carrollton, TX, I will be able to download porn faster than anyone at NASA. That's what it fucking means.

You might remember that my Powerbook Conchata was ill recently. Well, she's all better now (thank you, Lee!) and she even has a brand new operating system, etc. And one morning, as I was avoiding editing, I discovered something.

No, wait. I discovered two things.

Let me pause for a moment and mention that I am wild about downloading ring tones to my celly. NOT the MIDI ones, but the actual clips of the song. I think it's appropriate that "Pour Some Sugar on Me" plays when the Mighty G calls. I hear Barry Manilow when my sister calls. You get the idea. Anyway, the part I hate is giving the cell phone company MORE of my hard-earned cash to attain them. Those things are $3.50 apiece, my darlings! Yikes! And I won't even go into the fact that most of the time, they don't have the perfect ring. It's mostly Jessica Simpson and Nelly and other things that have no business being made mobile.

Okay, now back to the two things.

It dawned on me that my Mac can create these much sought-after ring tones. All I have to do is take the mp3 file, chop it up in a sound editing program, and export it to iTunes. I then turn it into an mp3 again. I tell my computer to connect to my cell phone via bluetooth, and send the file over. My phone recognizes it, saves it, and I can apply it to any phone number in my address book.

This is a whole new level of Geekdom for me. I cannot stop giving specialized ring tones.

One much-loved actor friend of mine once told me that even though he's seen Caddyshack 140 times, it still makes him laugh. So, as I am downloading songs, I picked up the Bill Murray Cinderella quote and made that his ring. Every time he texts or calls, I hear "He's a Cinderella Boy!" Whenever I hear it, I picture him watching the flick while sitting on his oh-so-comfy couch at 4:30 in the morning. In my head, he is chuckling to himself and enjoying his time without pants.

This just might be the end of my social life. That's the second thing I discovered.

So, please, my darlings. If I have your phone number (and you know who you are), please leave a comment and tell me what ring would best personify YOU. Well, gosh, I guess you can even use this as an excuse to give me your digits AND your ring, if that's the track you were heading down. I'm all in, baby.

jingle. g

I've Got To Stop Drinking

This is getting to be overwhelming. My senses have spent the last few days on overload. Too many smells, tastes, touches, sounds, and substances imbibed. I am losing focus. This body is out of control.

"What's the best way to get control of your body, HellCat?" you're asking.

"Gotta be texting." I respond, slurring my words and pushing my fallen bra strap back onto my shoulder. Then, I think better of it and push it back down and smile.

This is getting to be a problem.

I feel like the brevity and wit required to text is what makes it genius. I don't buy into any of that "What's up?" shit. I prefer to send texts like, "We should be hitting it right now," or "You know what's great about clowns? Pancake makeup." No sir, no normal texts from me. I pride myself on this.

I think that I am best represented by my text messages. So much so, in fact, that I send texts to people that can't even receive them, just so I can say something better than I would when facing the person. At least my Outbox knows I'm smart and apologetic and sassy and cute, depending on who I'm talking to.

So tonight I am back from a night of poker with new friends. I had a shot of Cousin Jim. I feel funny inside. And I am pacing back and forth, when I should be sleeping, wishing that something was happening right now. I mean, something besides "Just Shoot Me" being on the telley. I am no stanger to sleepless nights these days, so don't mistake me for someone who needs some excitement in their life. No, I just am slipping into Princess Mode and I want something NOW.

So, on nights like these, the texts start. Sometimes I text everyone I can think of, soliciting their ideas, bodies, or laughs. I believe that this is both alarmingly brilliant and pathetic. I look at my cell phone and admire it, although the love is colored slightly by my own sense of dread.

Dread that I am not going to get through this night.

I have got to stop drinking.

None of this makes any sense.

Good thing Brother Jack wasn't around.

ring me. g

Apocalypse Nail

I come from a long line of women who do their own nails. I remember as a child, on Sunday afternoons, my mom would stop the world from spinning so she could do her own manicure. She would sit down in the kitchen under the strongest light next to the telephone and pull out her nail kit. It contained nail files, clippers, polish remover, cotton balls, and the polish. Moms is a pink frosted girl, and has never once strayed from that. It looks great on her tan hands and accentuates her flawlessly shaped, strong nails.

I was born with wimpy nails. I bit them as a wee HellCat as an act of defiance (and also as an outlet for my anxiety), and never once admitted to wanting them painted. I fought it, even though my mom wanted to pass on the tradition to me. Instead, I just sat with her after the process was finished while she was waiting for them to dry. We talked about life, my dad, and the reason that my nails were so weak. She suggested that I clip them continuously with a strong nail clipper and never file them. I tried for years to follow her advice, but it never worked. So eventually I gave up and resigned myself to having shitty nails.

Two years ago I worked where one of the higher-ups was a super duper Valley Girl princess. She had beautiful blonde hair, a cute ass, the perfect jeans, and flawless nails. One day I took a deep breath and asked her what she did to make them look so beautiful (as I hid the ten little train wrecks I called my digits).

"I only go to the best place in town." Followed by an implied, "Duh."

"Oh. How do they make your hands so...pretty?"

She explained the process of getting acrylics, and taught me right off the bat that they didn't have to be fire-engine red talons like I originally thought. I kept listening, and she kept talking, and my hands and I unwittingly entered a new phase in our time together.

I now get my nails done every two weeks.

I went to the place the Valley Girl recommended, and she was right about it being the best. There, they have fake cherry trees adorning a classy, serene salon where the women are all calm and the nail lacquer knows no earthly limits. Soft asian tunes (you know, lots of strings) play on the speakers. Endless photos of celebrities grace the walls, saying things like "Tammy, you saved my LIFE. Seriously. Take my first born. Love, Courtney Love." It's an impressive joint.

It's also so fucking expensive it makes my face hurt.

So, even though the work is without equal, my pocketbook requested that I attempt to look for another place. What I discovered was...well, not pretty. The women who work at the Valley Girl's salon are endlessly nice and take good care of their customers. Everyone else does not.

All the women working in every shop I've ever gone in are Vietnamese. And they pick only certain phrases to speak in Enlglish. Among some of them are:
-"What you need?"
-"French tip cost 5 dolla extra."
-"You want pedicure with that?"
-"You pay me now."

The rest of the chatter is exclusively in another language. This makes me uncomfortable enough. But to further my discomfort is the fact that I am sitting in a chair having a woman one-third my size wash my feet. I have just enough proletariat in me to believe that there is something wrong with that picture. And I think these women see it, too. So they talk in their native tongue (most likely about us) to blow off steam.

I like to picture subtitles underneath their faces, translating what they say. As Linn scrubs at my calluses, she says, "This one have feet like ox." She switches feet. "She will never marry and disgrace her family." The woman rubbing lotion into my hands giggles. "She probably likes women anyway. Family already disgraced." And their laughter floats through the acetone-scented air like cotton balls in a light breeze.

Then there's the fingernails. Here's where things get intense. I have silk put on my fingernails to strengthen them without making them look too "done." The result is thin, natural, and just strong enough that they look nice and don't break. The only problem is that this is the one way to get your nails done that reasserts the Vietnamese's victory in the war.

The excess silk extending from the tops of my nails always has some nail glue on it that has gone astray. It will stick to the skin surrounding my nails, resulting in the skin needing to be pushed back and away from the silk. In the war, POWs got bamboo shoots shoved under their fingernails. Today, in many salons around the United States, innocent women are undergoing the same thing, but with orange sticks or, in some cases, the manicurists' fingernails.

It is pretty intense. And I just keep thinking, as I am wincing from the tiny little pinches, that this kind of pain without pretty nails at the end must have been really terrible.

I try not to go to these other lesser establishments, because the Valley Girl's salon is the only one I have been to where I don't feel as though I'm being punished for dropping Agent Orange on the manicurists' families. The good news is that in the lesser salons, sometimes their attitudes change dramatically when you treat them like human beings! Gasp! If you ask their name, tell them thank you, or throw a smile in there, things might be different. I am reminded that performing such a service in a city where most people think it's their RIGHT to have people wait on them must be pretty shitty. So maybe this miniscule form of torture is just character-building for them.

But for me, I just want us all to be buddies. I want my white tips thin and gleaming. And I also don't want to have to go all Martin Sheen on their ass during a fill. Or maybe that's just triggered by waxing. Hmm.

this is the end. g

Blood, Blood Everywhere

I donated blood today.

I hate donating blood.

But here's what I'm thinking. I am healthy, I am strong, and I am a pretty rare blood type. B positive. Shout out to all my B-posi posse! Ahem. Since I am all of these things, I can't really justify not doing it. It's easy, it really helps people, you feel like a badass when you're done, and they give you free movie tickets. We all know the things I'll do for a free movie (and if you don't, feel free to ask me when we're alone and you have a free movie ticket crammed down your pants).

My iron levels are solid. So, this time, they requested that I donate double red blood cells. Instead of just letting your blood fill the little sack, double red blood cell donation means that they drain you, pump the plasma back in with saline, take some more blood, and pump the plasma in again. I'm not crazy about blood leaving my body, much less having a machine put it back in. But, the little woman taking down all my info (Have I had sex with a man who has had sex with a man since 1977? Have I ever! Oh, wait...) just got all excited about it and I felt stupid saying "No, I don't feel like saving more lives today."

Now the first problem was that this process takes about three times as long. As luck would have it, they had no chairs left with televisions near them. I hate the sight of the blood leaving my body and need all the help I can get taking my mind off it, so I was immediately nervous. I felt sick. I felt like running. Then, I felt excited because the nurse brought me Cosmo and the main article this month was "12 Sex Secrets you'll be SHOCKED to Know!" So I was all in at that point.

The needle entered my left arm through the middle vein. It hurt like a motherfucker. I focused on reading about the sex tips that I can't remember anymore and gritted my teeth. Melissa gave me calcium pills to chew on, since the anti-coagulant in the plasma solution makes you all tingly and weird if you're sensitive, which I am. Apparently the calcium battles the tingles, which has to come in handy at some point in real life. I tried to read my magazine and regain the feeling in my lips.

I have a real problem squeezing the little stress ball they give you. It keeps your veins open, and helps the blood flow out. I know that it's a good idea to use it. I just have this nagging fear in my head that says if I squeeze it too hard, either a copious amount of blood will flow out at once and spill onto the floor, or the needle will shoot out of my arm. I have to keep reminding myself that this is what everyone throughout time has done while donating, and for once it's good to let peer pressure make me do something I don't want to. That very thing happens to be squeezing the little stress ball in the shape of a hedgehog-looking animal with "Outpost.com" stamped on the side. Quit pissing and moaning about it, G money. No needle will shoot from your arm, otherwise no flobotomists would be employed at the place more than thirty seconds, since needles would hit them in their jugulars and asses and eyes about every other second and send them to the emergency room.

It's about this time that I begin to recall that I fucking hate donating blood.

The magazine lost its charm as I started to fuzz out. I tried to focus on my current editing project and decide where to go next. Zero interest in that. I attempted speech, but only babbled on about Kojak and how much I love his bald head (and no one was listening). I drank juice. It perked me up, but did nothing for the restlessness. I did everything to keep going, but I was mentally shutting down. I was just scared and wanted to get the fuck out of there, you know? So, I did then what I do every time I feel super uncomfortable somewhere but I have to stay put and stay sane. I focused on my most recent sexual experience, reliving every moment and every detail that I could remember. Smells, tastes, amount of light in the room, times I heard my toes crack, the pressure that I bit my lip with. Everything. From beginning to end, no detail too small.

The way the sheets felt against my skin. The giggles, the breaths, the sounds. The breeze. The color of the light in the room. The water that I gulped down greedily while trying to slow my heart rate. How fucked up my hair got and how much it made me laugh when I glanced in the mirror. Kisses. And the rest of it. You know what I mean.

It worked.

All of a sudden, my body said, "Open up and let the surge of plasma flow unhindered! We've got a live one here!" and my veins obeyed. It was over in a flash and everyone was somewhat unnerved by the huge grin on my face. They thought I was woozy and was going to pass out. Little did they know, they had a much better reason to be uncomfortable than that! I was not in fact woozy--I was thinking about the merits of having sex doggie-style, as well as theories about its' certain popularity among the ladies. Ha ha, I tricked them. Perhaps at one point they thought I was beaming because I was saving lives and was light-headed, but it was actually because I was thinking about orgasm. Ha ha! I'm not nearly as good a person as they thought! Booyah!

So, I don't have to go back for 115 days. And they gave me not ONE, but TWO passes for Pacific movie theaters. Who wants to go with me?! You buy the popcorn...

hit it. g

Recharge

I am emotionally exhausted. I don't feel the need to elaborate just yet, but I wanted to set the stage. I am sitting on the couch in my underpants (the white ones with Latin phrases embroidered on the back), and I am drinking some cool water. I just got done eating an Oreo and am pondering the mystery of life while I suck the remaining cookie bits out of my teeth.

I started compiling a list of things that make me happy. There are so many that it's getting overwhelming. Someday, you'll see the list here on this very blog, and you will know what makes the HellCat tick.

Everything from rainbows to mashed potatoes. Ewoks, those pound bars of chocolate from Trader Joe's, a day off. There's also little kid's shoes, musicals, and an affectionate hand on your ass as you fall asleep at night.

This HellCat might be tired, but she's got a lot to wake up for tomorrow. And the next day...and the next...

zzz. g

Mad for Mavis pt. 2

When last we spoke, my darlings, I was standing in the middle of the Apple store, with sweat dripping down my face and fear lingering in my heart. My computer was sick and I was desperately trying to forget that she needed major work done. Then, the Holy Lord God Allmighty took away my pain and showed me the answer on a box of software.

Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.

I had never heard of this Mavis person or any of her typing methods. At that point, it was immaterial, because her liquid brown eyes were staring at me, gently telling me that everything was going to be okay. Typing was not a part of her reassuring siren song.

I knew that if I asked, Mavis would bake me cookies. She would give me a high five when I brought home straight As, and buy me ice cream when my boyfriend dumped me. That beautiful woman with flawless ebony skin would help me become everything I've ever wanted to be. I knew her lessons were numerous and priceless.

So I'm thinking that we need to make more software for every niche market. I am confident that everyone can be touched by Mavis like I've been.

Here are some packages in the works:

Mavis Beacon Teaches:

--How to Kick the Shit out of Someone Who Deserves It
--Oral (with special emphasis on the Testes)
--Embroidery and Other Handicrafts
--Marijuana Harvesting
--Car Detailing
--How to Extort Rich Old Women with nothing but a Toothbrush and a Railroad Tie
--SWAT team Maneuvers (beginning thru advanced)
--The Importance of Duran Duran and Ayatolla Khomeini in World History
--Survival Techniques in both the Wild and the Midwest
--How to Craft Handpuppets out of Human Hair
--How to set Terrorist Traps
--French Horn for Lovers
--How to Make Babies Do Tricks to Impress your Friends

This is just the beginning. Join me, my darlings, in my quest to bring this woman and her genius to the world. Mavis can unite us all!

we are the world. g

Mad for Mavis pt.I

My computer is sick, my darlings. It's worse than I originally thought. I did a complete update on the system, and Conchata wasn't taking it well. I think she misunderstood my desire for current software as me telling her she wasn't good enough, and she just shut down.

She's going to have to have some work done. I discovered this after many hours in the Apple store, which as a side note does not have air conditioning due to the breakdown of rare and expensive AC parts. You can imagine how happy this makes the customers. There they are all shapes and sizes, just like a fucking iPod commercial, but less black. They are holding their broken iBooks and iSights and iPod minis, their faces dripping with iSweat. Soon, they leave behind the semi-sane person they were when they entered the store, and are reborn as an iCock.

I tried to make as many jokes as was appropriate and keep the mood light. I also really began to enjoy asking the people around me what their problems were. "What's wrong with that iPod, Myrtle?" and Myrtle would look at me lamely and say, "It won't download songs anymore," and I would respond with "Do any of your tables have a shorter leg that makes them wobble? Just use the iPod to balance it out. That's all it's good for now, sucker." The people either laughed or made motions to kill me. Oh, so sorry Mister Sensitive iBook owner. Just because YOU didn't think it was a good idea to use your piece of shit, 5 year old, 12" laptop as a chopping board to separate your coke on doesn't mean I was out of line to suggest it. So what if your teenage daughter was with you? Take it from me, she's no stranger to drug use. Maybe if you'd let her use that laptop for the nose candy all her boyfriends-for-a-night would stop using her tailbone as a table to cut their stash on.

They were having trouble diagnosing the problem. They installed, uninstalled, reinstalled, and booted in safe mode. They updated. They goaded, and eventually, my favorite Apple genius (appropriately named Joy) threw her hands up and went in the back room. I listened carefully for the sounds of weeping and/or property destruction. There were none. Instead, she emerged quite calmly, carrying something that made peals of laughter exit my body.

A stethoscope.

Like any layman, I thought she was kidding. "What's the prognosis, doc?" I chided. She ignored me, as any good Apple genius would do, and laid the shiny silver stethoscope on the bottom left corner of the laptop. She listened. Then she determined that Conchata even sounded fine, so she was stumped. No evidence of corruption with a regular-sounding drive. I am officially screwed.

She's going under the knife this weekend to receive more RAM and a new hard drive. Maybe. It's in God's hands now.

I tried to cheer myself up by taking a peek at all the fun software in the store. I went into geek mode, exclaiming things like, "Holy cow! You mean I can learn Spanish in just TWO WEEKS?!" and "Golly gosh, who knew that starting a small business could be so easy?!" People were starting to throw crusty glances my way. I was just about to tell them all to take their iPod shuffle, roll them up real tight, and cram 'em, when I saw it. Glowing proudly on the shelf, holding the answer to all life's troubles.

Mavis Beacon.

more tomorrow. g

Fritterless

If any of you were wondering what I was doing at approximately 11:30PM tonight, let me answer that burning question with pride.

Was I ending world hunger? Building shelter for the homeless? Making peace in the mid East?

No. I was on my knees in a karaoke bar, belting out my most heartfelt version of "Sweet Child Of Mine." I was also chugging beer during the musical interludes, nearly swallowing the lime in my Corona.

I was told that it was extremely rock and roll, and I choose to believe it.

When I karaoke at the magical and wondrous Sardos (voted most happening bar in Burbank, if you must know), I always like to imagine how amazing the night would be if I could end it with an apple fritter from the donut shop next door. Singing is not quite enough for me, you see, it's the fried dough that really clinches it.

Fritters are like fucking for some people. Their night is not complete without someone to go home with.

You can always see when they're about to end their nights. Their eyes begin darting around the room, searching for the signal that their night will end successfully. Anything. A smile, a nod, a wink. Any small signal could mean that the universe says it's time for the magic to happen.

Conversely, sometimes it ain't gonna work out. Some sad nights you don't achieve your objective and you must slink home, defeated. It doesn't matter whether it's yummy glazed foodstuffs or hittin' it. The sickness is the same. You've had it on your mind the whole night, and in an instant, you know whether or not you will be satiated.

Tonight, I had my split second of insight. The clarity came, and it became painfully clear that the wondrous, magnificent event would not be happening. It was during a terrible version of "Karma Police" that sent me scurrying for the exits. I was on the phone in my car, squinting at the pastry place. Instantaneously, I was positive that this night would end with me writing a blog about the horizontal mambo and fatty foods that would compare the two and allow them to be interchangeable within the entry.

That is not exactly the night I had planned out.

Now, don't get me wrong, my darlings. I have the AC at high, a cool water in my hand, and some comfy underpants on. It was a great night. We had some laughs. The Freeze dragged me on the dance floor and made me her bitch, and JenBear wowed me once again with her knowledge of the Oingo Boingo catalogue. But please note that it is 1:14 AM and I am busy...typing.

Nights won't always be like this. That's the beauty of it...sometimes you get that warm, delicious taste in your mouth while you moan in ecstasy, and other times you get to curl up in your comfy bed and fall asleep while passing gas without worrying about someone else hearing and judging you. Was that an overshare? You know you do it, too.

poot. g

Tecate and Will Ferrell

I can still smell the garlic.

My olfactories have been taken hostage by the powerful scent, and it lives within me. It has taken a stronghold greater than that created by Pamela Anderson's knockers over anything with a penis. I am wearing garlic goggles, my darlings, and every time I inhale, the air is accompanied by that strong, immediately recognizable odor. Everything I eat has a slight smattering of garlic to it. It has taken over my life. But it is not alone. It has a comrade. And strangely, this companion is the notion that Everything is Going to be Okay.

The Gilroy Garlic Festival was going to be a silly escape from this life and all its concerns. I planned to lose myself this weekend, and seeing as how I would be among friends, I didn't even care that my breath would smell. As we walked through the gates, we were immersed in a world that was blessed with garlic pepper steak sandwiches, garlic sausages, garlic bread, garlic scampi, garlic chocolate, garlic ice cream, and even Garlic Hats.

The sun was beating down on the garlic lovers mercilessly. Discarded garlic chunks baked in the sun, ensuring that everyone knew exactly where they were and what they were worshipping. White people's skin slowly faded to red everywhere you turned, and even the Miss Gilroy Garlic and her court looked a little spent by the middle of the afternoon.

Towards the end of the day, a kind of surrender spread over the festival attendees, slurring their speech and slowing their gait. The Asians stopped singing karaoke. The folk bands playing covers of "Hazy Shade of Winter" were slowing down to play durges that eventually just disappeared without anyone noticing. Even the guys tossing pizzas over large flames were starting to take their aprons off. We were all garlicked out.

The final entree of the day was a basket of garlic fries covered in crab meat and special super duper yummy seafood sauce. I thought initially that they would make me hurl everywhere, but it turned out that I was surprisingly addicted to these things. And that's where I started to realize that I've got my perspective all wrong.

The rest of the weekend was filled with the joy that comes into your life when you accept both Garlic and it's existential little friend I mentioned earlier. Naps, laughter, grandparents, barbecue, long walks, cool breezes, setting off house alarms, a hand on my knee, and croissants. Flawless. I was getting so buried underneath my woes that I was forgetting that this is what life is all about. Truth is, life ain't necessarily so great when you've got truckloads of money and screaming fans and paparazzi waiting for you outside the Whole Foods. Life doesn't get much better than cold cokes in your hand, sitting on the porch with your closest friends. That's all that most of us can hope for, and that's all we need. If you can't appreciate the occasional molasses cookie and loving tickle on your midsection, then you're fucked.

So it kind of dawned on me that I've really been letting this life pass me by. I've been given the gift of a summer vacation and I've spent it looking like a sad puppy. No more! I've gotten a valuable glimpse into what life Can Be! Now I just need to keep working towards it. I can guess what's on the other side of this hill, and I like it. It makes me smile.

I'm ready to get hiking. Might take a while, but most likely there's a cold can of Coke and someone to tickle me on the other side.

Maybe finishing the Miller Lite was the end of it. Or maybe that's how this story starts.

that last part was code. g