Apocalyptastic

It's good to know that while Mel Gibson is losing his mind, he still has a sense of humor about it. This is a single frame from the Apocalypto trailer. No fooling.

passion of the mel. g

I'm Sorry I Masturbated on your Ikea Catalog

Self-explanatory. g

A Facial in Jail

You know, visiting my Papa Bear totally sucks. I just spent a whole night eating Fettucine Alfredo while watching DVDs on a 50-inch LCD TV. THEN, as if the night couldn't get any more unbearable, we drank Shiraz in the hot tub and I got to take my new bathing suit for a spin.

Life can be really, really shitty.

So my pores are clear, my aching muscles are soothed, and I am drunk. I cannot wait to come home. This place is like being in prison. A spa prison. Mud wraps and Evian in the YARD? Gag me with a spoon.

I even heard a scary story that disturbed me. My stepmama's bro managed to get me all flustered with the story of Shumann the Sheetless--ooh, I can feel the goosebumps prickle on my skin just typing it. Picture a middle-aged man who lives in a nice house. He keeps to himself, but is successful in the working world and manages to have some friends and play poker and stuff. The only thing is, he doesn't put sheets on his bed. No sheets anywhere.

So I'm assuming that if Shumann ever has sex, it's in some kinky place where his partner won't discover that Shumann shuns our culture and goes sans bedclothes. "Sorry honey, no vanilla sex tonight. We're fucking up against the fish tank like we always do."

Creepy. I've spied upon many a bed that could use clean sheets, but not one that was completely without. What other social norms could I not live without? I probably couldn't be with someone who totally despised the United States Postal Service...or someone who doesn't watch TV. Maybe someone who hates chocolate? Out of the question.

Battery on the wireless keyboard is dying. Must wrap up. Will be haunted tonight by images of sheetless beds and the Blair Witch twigs behind our suburban house. Don't ask...although, for the record, when I run into the Satan worshippers while taking out the garbage or something, I'll be sure to ask them if they have sheet sets on their beds. I bet they do. And I'll bet they invest in blood red satin ones, just to keep in step with the whole sacrificing/killing/voodoo that they do so well thing that they do (so well).

basement! g

Drinking Nog out of an Alcoholic's Mouth

Christmas, Treehouse style. It involves touching turkeys innappropriately with oils, red bras hanging cermoniously from the ceiling fan, shockingly blase drug use, and some super-charged nog. You thought YOU partied hard? Just fucking wait.

Apparently the Pennsylvania Dutch are a bunch of low-life, alcohol-guzzling whack jobs, and their existence ultimately led to the end of my Christmas celebration because we were all nearly passed out on the floor after drinking their precious egg nog.

My hairdresser and confidante, The Fabulous Lady P, passed along a large bottle of pre-spiked egg nog from our favorite wooden-clog wearing motherfuckers over in Pennsylvania. There was not only bourbon in this nog, but whiskey as well, to separate the Elves from the Santas, if you catch my meaning.

The Mighty G poured the nog delicately into my fine china teacups. When everyone had an equal portion, I sprinkled some cinnamon in it at the request of Pablo Honey. We brought it to all of our friends, and the rambunctiousness of the night rocketed into the air faster than a homophobe that accidentally sits on a skywardly-pointing candy cane.

As more and more egg nog slid down my throat, the charming and elegant Christmas jazz morphed into "Anna Godda Davida." The fiber-optic Christmas tree was twisting its branches towards me, beckoning me to join him in a Bacchanalian embrace. My boyfriend and The Mighty G were having a punching contest, there were people making out on my bed, someone had taken their top off, and if you listened very carefully, you could hear another soul carefully reciting the Gettysburg address.

It was wild.

The party ended in that moment. We caught a glimpse of Pleasure Island that night, and we were not ready to turn into donkeys. But at least when we sobered up we could recall a lovely night spent with good friends and yummy food.

christmas past. g

Yee Haw

If you was lookin' fer me, you'd find me in the Great State of Texas, hanging with my paw and shootin' critters. I have a few blogs here, waitin' fer me to fine tune 'em, which I will do within the next couple days. Hopin' y'all had a mighty good Christmas and such...talk to ya soon.

cowpoke. g

Like a Kid Again

There are presents at my house.

Somehow the Treehouse has filled up with bow-y goodness, and tinseled and colorful packages are spilling off the tile onto the carpet. Being an adult, I have let them sit there and twinkle in the flattering lighting, not once needing to accost them in any way. They will be opened this weekend, no compromise necessary. They are friends whose presence I relish and I will be sad to see them go.

This weekend, all that changed. Three new presents arrived, nestled in my special man friend's arms. And all of a sudden, the voice in my head that was once so calm and logical is now saying "Your boyfriend got you THREE things! And they are pretty and shiny! Now get over there and shake the shit out of them!" The voice continues to say, "In fact, these presents are from people who are 1000 miles away! How are they ever going to know you shook and prodded them? You could even OPEN them and they would be none the wiser!"

So now, the area of the Treehouse that once created such joy and warmth is now annoying the hell out of me.

In fact, a package shipped to me from QVC arrived today. It looks kind of damaged. I think I had better open it and make sure it isn't all smashed up...whatever it is. The scissors are sitting right here, and the package is within reaching distance...

Oh no, it's happening. I just slit the clear tape on the outside of the box. A wonderful gingerbread smell is filling my senses. The aroma is wafting towards me, both easing my animalistic present-craving while somehow feeding the flame! I must save this present by unsheathing it from its cardboard prison! Onward!

It's open. More boxes lie within. Styrofoam. Tape. A little gingerbread card. What could it be?

Ah, a candle! A sweet, gingerbready candle. It even has a little lampshade with dancing gingerbread men on it. Adorable! Thank you Mom (and QVC)!

Should I feel bad? Have I broken some code, some unspoken law that governs all of us Judeo-Christian motherfuckers around this time of year? Am I going to hell? Or will I wake up with no presents? Will my leg fall off, or will my face break out in a rash of oozing pustules?

At least my apartment smells way tasty.

knock on wood. g

Grae Pouty Face

I've been to Santa Land. It is just outside Colorado Springs, and is only open during the summer. Admission includes pictures with Santa and access to every attraction in the park. I remember it being a whirlwind adventure filled with candy canes taller than me (which was an achievement, even when I was a wee HellCat), lots of christmas lights, and reindeer. Red and green everywhere, and snow on the ground--yes, even in the summer.

My desire to think back to Santa Land is brought on by my quest to think of a time where I was worse off than I am right now. Today, I have a horrible migraine and am hovering on the brink of illness. No energy, slightly stuffy nose, sensitive throat. Not a full-blown cold, but close enough. The treehouse is beginning to look like Christmas exploded in it and much holiday straightening needs to be done, but I can do none of it. I can't edit because of the migraine, and I have no appetite and am forcing myself to eat and drink. This blows. But I know that it's been worse. So back to Santa Land.

As a youth, my parents packed up the whole family and hopped in the motorhome to head up to Santa Land. On the way up, I was reading an off-limits scary novel of my sister's about a musical boarding school for girls that turned them into zombies or something. I still remember the picture on the cover of a skeleton playing a baby grand that I always imagined was playing Melissa Manchester songs. To avoid prying mama eyes, I was riding in the back while my mom was busy playing hostess in the front. As long as there were cocktail weinies to be eaten, I knew I was safe. I flipped the pages of the forbidden book with delight, punctuating my disobedience by eating Doritos.

Unbenownst to me, there was a biological storm brewing within me.

Santa Land was great. We went on all the rides, took photos with the big man himself, and ate our weight in goodies. I ingested lots of things that day, with the most prominent of all being Funnel Cake in all its powdered sugar goodness. It was a wonderful day for a child.

Until the barfing started.

Apparently I was simultaneously learning about G-force and its effect in high altitudes as well as breeding a nasty strain of stomach flu at the same time.

So that's where the story ends, really. I was miserable. I was definetly in worse shape at that moment in time than I am now. The difference is that my mom isn't here to take care of me and make kissy-face-sicky-boo-boo voice when she asks me what I want for lunch. But my sister is going to bring my mail upstairs for me, Jeffy brought me some chicken soup the other day, and Pablo Honey purchased me some delicious sorbet and let me fall asleep on his tummy last night. I think I even drooled a little, and he didn't mind. So things are different but still nice in this adult-esque world I inhabit.

But will somebody bring me some Sex and the City DVDs anyway? Seriously. Usually, it's horror movies that make me feel better, but this time around, it's the horror of relationships and SJPs shoe fetish that is making me want to live. Please don't make me do pouty face.

Oh, and by the way, even 15-ish years later, I still can't eat funnel cake.

hack. g

On Board

I just saw the trailer for the latest remake of the Poseidon Adventure. Before, I was one of the old curmudgeons saying, "Why remake a perfect film?" but I have changed my tune. Why? Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas is onstage, so now I am excited as fat guys when they see biscuits and gravy. Bring it, tsunami! Knock that ship over! That wacky and strangely fascinating pop star must GET IT!

(share my joy at apple.com/trailers)

blub blub. g

Prof. Kong teaches Love 101

Yes, the movie is incredible, and yes, you should sacrifice life and limb to see it as soon as possible. It is both masterful and electrifying. As I sat in the old Cinerama dome this morning around, say, 2ish, it dawned on me that this movie was not only meeting all my Kick-Ass Action Needs, but it was imploring me to learn as well.

As a lady, I found Kong and Faye's relationship delicious. Kong embodies the qualities that women love about men. Anne acts as the same archetype for men. The two of them together produce this magical, idealistic relationship where the male will fight to protect her with a fierce passion, and the female is thankful and loves him in return. Now, of course this only goes so deep, because Kong never got a chance to forget her birthday and Faye never punished Kong by withholding sex, but bear with me.

He loved her so much that he fought T-Rexes, bit the heads off bats, and even got her away from all that nasty New York traffic. With each mighty strike upon his chest, he was protecting her because that was the only option. And once he had earned her trust, she wanted to please him and show him that she appreciated it. "Thanks for saving me from the dinosaurs, pal. Here, let me do a little dance for you."

The scene where they were in Central Park playing on the ice really killed me. This huge "beast" just wanted this little blond human to be happy. Oh, the estrogen coarses through my veins just thinking about it.

I began to wonder, though, during the Super Gross Bug and Uncircumcised Penis Monster scene, what men were supposed to be getting out of this. I don't think it was nearly the same.

I think it was something along the lines of

YOUR LIFE WILL BE FINE UNTIL YOU MEET A WOMAN YOU LOVE, AND THEN YOU WILL BE KILLED--METAPHORICALLY, AND POSSIBLY LITERALLY BY BI-PLANES.

Isn't that really what love is for dudes? An unavoidable death?

Their existence alone is fine. Perhaps a Single Man's Saturday consists of eating Roman Noodles or Twizzlers for breakfast, scratching himself on the couch, and playing his video gaming system until he feels like going out and getting drunk with all his friends. Few complaints or worries. An abundance of money and spare time. Little to no talking. And then a dame walks in through his door, and the whole deal changes.

She's soft, and smells good even after she works out. Her smile breaks your heart. Her nails look nicer than yours, and she has breasts. Hopefully she likes giving you oral and does it often. Maybe she talks a lot, but you like the sound of her voice when she's happy. You begin to include her in your big picture and she secures a stronghold in your heart. Pretty soon, you're destroying the Ahmanson theater just to get close to her. You take the relationship to a new level (or at least to higher ground). A meaningful glance is exchanged...and then you get shot in the back by dickheads in planes.

You're in love. And you're dead.

Lucky for men, they can eventually be magically resurrected. Sometimes love doesn't last forever. If the movie was real, and this whole entry wasn't a metaphor, and somehow the entire Space-Time Continuum shifted, Kong might have been able to peel himself off 5th Avenue and hitchhike back to Skull Island if only he decided she wasn't worth wasting his life. But he stayed dead. The movie ended.

It was fucking wonderful.

And it makes me want to enjoy a sunrise with my Kong.

beautiful. g

Ride 'Em

This Brokeback Mountain thing has got me all hot and bothered.

I remember the first time I saw that trailer. My special man friend and I were in a flick on what had been to that point a heterosexually hot evening. He was eating a snack, I was thinking about whether or not my eyemakeup was blended properly-pretty average. Suddenly, the Copperplate Gothic font I know so well flashed on the screen, and what followed made my jaw permanently bond to the non-sticky ArcLight theater floor.

Dudes kissing.

And here, dudes even gets a literal meaning because they are cowboys. These two hotties are keeping each other warm during cold nights, living in sham marriages, smelling each other's old jean shirts, and pressing their sculpted bodies against each other while staring at lakes.

As the trailer ended, I sat there rooted to Row K Seat 21. My heart was hammering in my chest, my palms had the most delicate beads of sweat forming on them, and I felt like I might die from happiness. I realized that this might insult my man friend. I turned to him. His eyes slid away from the screen and he whispered, "That's pretty much going to be the hottest movie ever." I exhaled with relief. "Holy crap," said I. "I feel like Christmas came early."

So I've been thinking about men who steer cattle and screw each other. Whoah, Nelly.

It dawned on me that there's a trick to this. Dudes kissing is hottest when it involves two men that are Hetero Enough to also maybe want to ravish a woman. If there are two muscly men kissing that obviously want nothing to do with labias and such, the hotness is watered down like hot chocolate at the homeless shelter.

I call this the Hot Chocolate Homo-Hetero Hotness Theory. Look for the paper in the next Scientific American.

yeehaw. g

Eyebrow SVU

Sometimes eyebrows suffer too. The poor darling fraternal twins try to grow and thrive on some woman's face, but after years and years of being beaten down by uneducated, misguided plucking, they just give up hope. They keep the shape that the wannabe esthetician gave them, and more often than not, it is the wrong one. But they were no match for the cold steel of the tweezer, so they just did what they were told.

So often one might hear the tale of how their arch hits the middle of the eye, as opposed to the outer corner, forcing the poor defenseless eyebrows to peak too soon. They were pushed farther away from each other like brothers and sisters during the Holocaust, with iron bars and gas chambers being metaphorically replaced by forehead. They ended up distant from their sibling and made the woman's nose look wider at the same time. And they were overall too thick in some places and too thin in others--and had classic self-image problems like Karen Carpenter or Mama Cass.

We need to help these poor, hairy darlings. Otherwise, they might completely jump ship and force women to get tattoos above their eyes. This cycle of disdain and sadness that has kept the world spinning on a tilt must end, even if it shifts the balance of things. Women, we must do something.

I am doing my part. I am working with Beverly Hills' finest Eyebrow Shaper to set my precious, furry expression-helpers free. Where would I be if I couldn't raise one of my eyebrows when someone comes to me with a plea for help, or perhaps a terrible idea for a television show? Nowhere, is the answer. I have pledged to hide my tweezer and pray.

Join me, ladies. Everything you thought you knew about your eyebrow shape is probably wrong. You're walking around with fat ass noses and heavy lids and you don't even know it.

It took a trip to Beverly Hills to show me that I had let the philanthropist in me die. As I passed Tiffany & Co, Crate and Barrel, and Emporio Armani, it became clear what an asshole I am.

liberty! g

(and at Christmas you tell the truth)

The Treehouse is freezing. In a last-ditch effort to heat it up, I am cooking. I have a big copper pot on the stove making sausage-and-bean stew that I think is going to be marvelous. There are Christmas decorations strewn about on the floor. A holiday dress that got the official "OK" last weekend is thrown carelessly on the couch (where I left it, heh heh heh). I am enjoying this.

I have decided that this holiday is going to be like "Love Actually" in real life. I am going to be bold. I will honor my family (although it won't keep me from having sex with my super hot man like it did for Laura Linney--sorry, girl). I will get cozy with friends. I will go to holiday recitals and make out with my boyfriend behind the stage. Later I will declare my love and intentions for him in front of a bunch of Portuguese people. Claudia Schiffer will make a cameo. Bill Nighy will end up naked on my television. And little girls will do the running man when someone sings that King Wenceslas song.

I love that frickin' movie. I've seen it five times recently, and we're not even a week into December yet. Thank you, dear Britain. You have inspired me to make each moment in this life one that I can be proud of.

And Billy Bob is a dick. g

New Year, Schmew Year

For 24 years in a row, my New Year's Eves sucked more than one of those yellow Dyson vaccuum cleaners everyone gets so excited about.

Last year, though, the streak was broken. I decided that even though my love life was a wreck and my head felt like a cement mixer filled with rage and Worcestershire sauce, I was going to surround myself with as many loved ones as I could find and make some magic happen.

I began the night with a call from my ex. We chatted, trying valiantly to pretend we were okay. I hung up the phone and tore into my large bottle of Chimay red label faster than Pamela Lee unzipped Tommy's pants when the camcorder's red record light lit up. My guests arrived. I was soused. But I could still feel a tingling of pain in my sternum, so I kept going.

"Have an adorably small bottle of champagne, gorgeous," was the siren song coming from RobMag. No, wait, that was Halloween, but I was drunk and WISHING I had those presh little bottles that he introduced me to, but no liquor stores seemed to have. Yeah, that was it. That's why the memories melted together.

My friends and I ate some finger foods. We looked mesmerizing in the candlelight. We laughed. I was feeling numb. And the party hadn't even started yet!

The Mighty G, bless her sober heart, drove me to the gathering. It took all of ten minutes to drive to Atence's place, and I still managed to sneak a few tears in just to make the G feel a little worse for me (if that was even possible for my pathetic ass). I don't remember this, by the way, but she seems to believe it happened. So. Apparently I got a hold of myself enough to enter the party and turn on the fabulous. My camera flash was going off once every 15 seconds. There was a big bottle of Jack Daniels...or was that the party this summer where I dressed up like a saloon whore?...hmm...

The All Stars were there. Old friends all, smiling and laughing and drinking and hitting on one another. There was an abundance of kissing, sometimes even with the person you were there with. Music, debates, jumping on the bed, making fun of the hostess...not a down moment. I was out-of-control-drunk, which means that I was talking sex and matters of the heart, laughing too loudly, and making out with people I had known platonically for 3 years. Not once did I feel bad about any of it. I had escaped my worries.

I was driven home, and managed to make it up the windy steps to the Treehouse unscathed. And that's all I remember.

I woke up the next morning with the TV blaring "Any Which Way But Loose." I felt that I had my shirt on from the night before, but nothing else, indicating that I was undressing but got distracted and passed out. I was glad I was alone, so no one else could see me like this. Then I realized that it was incredibly dark in the room, and I wondered why, seeing as how it was daytime and all. I felt my eyes. And slowly, as if underwater, I removed my sock monkey from his perch across the bridge of my nose and opened my eyes for the first time.

This is when shit got weird.

I glanced toward the foot of my bed and saw that a perfectly sliced piece of banana bread was lying on my chest with one bite taken out of the corner. As my chest rose and fell with each confused breath, I formed a theory that the banana bread was an offering to the sock monkey who just wasn't hungry. So I ate it myself and crawled daintily to the bathroom to be sick.

As this year comes to a close, I am feeling hopeful. For the first time, I had a Rock and Roll New Year and took no prisoners. I resolved to make the entire year about resolutions; to contantly improve myself and gain some new understanding of the world within and around me. I chose to dedicate the year to the people who have stuck with me, through anything, no matter how poorly I treated them or how much I hurt them. The last 11 months have been for them. So it's been a pretty good year.

I wonder if having a shitty lead-in to the holiday is a requisite for having a super happy New Year's Eve. If it is, I might as well just stay home this year. No furry coats, dancing, alcohol, or loud music for me. This girl is too content.

But don't let this entry stop you from inviting me out. I'll bring the banana bread if you bring the champagne-lettes.

cheers. g