Meet The Latest Addition to My Tattoo Family

So, here it is. Got it done on my birthday. You'll notice the red bits... that's bruising. It's all healed up now, but man. I'm here to tell you that a tattoo on the ankle FUCKING HURTS. I have 4 other tattoos. Granted, they're all on my back and shoulders, but NONE of them hurt like this one.

In other news, I had a dream last night that I was smuggling drugs with the Douche's brother. What the hell is up with that? Then, in another part of the dream, for some reason I had a package delivered to the Douche's house. It was sent back where it came from as he refused the package. So, I call over there to find out what it was, as it was clearly ordered from a place that had not updated contact information for me (I've never used his address for anything)...and I get an answering machine that says:
"We can't come to the phone right now, but leave a message and WE'LL get back to you as soon as possible."
WE??
So, I start to leave a message, and a girl picks up. Apparently her name is Sophie. Why I know this remains unclear. So, I ask for him and she says:
"He's sleeping. Who is this?"
"This is Laura. I'm..and old friend of his.. I'm calling about a package"
"Wait? WHO is this??"
"Laura...an..fuck it. I'm his ex."
"Listen, don't you realize that we've been out of town and he is VERY tired.."

Then, I hear him in the background saying:
"Tell her to apologize for calling here."

"Yeah, you need to apologize for bothering us."

Then I woke up.
I fucking HATE those dreams.
Ah, emotionally abusive relationships.... the gifts that keep on giving.

Compelled to Be Interesting...

Compelled, yes. Successful?
non.

However, I have overdosed myself on cinnamon-added-to-my-morning-coffee right into an allergy to said cinnamon. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know why my mouth was a dry wasteland after 70 Bong hits and my tongue was swollen and making everything taste well...not right. Now, we're not at Epi-Pen status here, but I'm staying away from the crap anyway. Which rather sucks as most of the desserts I eat are made with cinnamon.

In other news...Sun Poisoning.
Yes, apparently this weekend marked a triumphant, true, and total transformation into my alter-ego:
"13 Year Old Boy: Red-Headed and Allergic to Things".
Yeah, I screwed up on Sunday and used sunscreen that was not paba free and later that evening broke out into the itchiest rash ever.

OK, well then. Time for morning status.

Happy Tuesday!

Burning Question

Can someone please tell me why the hell "Sweet Home Alabama" is the theme song for KENTUCKY Fried Chicken ads??

Fucking Blocked

I want to write, but I have absolutely nothing to say.
I could talk about American Idol and it's place as one of the 4 Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but it just seems pointless now.
I could talk about work...and risk getting fired.
I could talk about sex...and how much I'm not having anymore.
Fucking shit.
The well is dry.

Fuck it.
Here's a short story I wrote last year participating in Chuck Palahniuk writing workshop. It's a reworking from a story I wrote in college.

The Grass and the River (For Want of Rain)

Her face crumpled in despair-my own heart a jackhammer in my chest. You think of all the times when you joke with your friends “Dude, this is so surreal.”
Standing on the bank of the river that runs between our two houses in the waist high grass with the girl you grew up with. The girl next door. The girl whose existence establishes absolute certainty that Loving her is easy cuz she’s beautiful...doo doo doo doo... The girl who’s fixin’ to blow her face off with her dad’s old 45. Surreal? It don’t get much more Magritte than that.

The gun was comically large in her petite hand. My body heavy in this brackish swamp drowning in all the things I shouldn’t do. -images of her brain splattered on the grass-shuddering.
“Fuck, Lucy, c’mon” The sun was so hot.
“No! Don’t…” She’d become feral. Panicked. It was as if she could smell my next move and the wrong one would end this scene.

A man was traveling the jungles of India with a guide. From the east he could hear something heavily crashing its way through the trees. The guide looked…concerned.
“We should hurry.” He warned.
“Why? What is that?” the man asked.
“Lone Elephant.” The guide was moving faster now,
“What’s wrong with a lone Elephant?” the man laughed.
“You know, Elephants move in herds, yes?” hacking with the machete.
“Yeah, come to think of it, why would an Elephant be alone?” swatting at branches in his way.
“Because he wants to be.”

Lucy moved on her own. While the rest of us ran around like a pack of dogs, there was Lucy. Alone. Angry. At first, it wasn’t that people didn’t want to include her in their reindeer games. She let you know she didn’t WANT to play. That made her strange.
Lucy disappeared. A lot. She was nine when she found her dad hanging from a rafter in their barn. For two days her frantic mother haunted our mother’s kitchens-“could she use your phone? Ours is…well…” calling the police, calling the undertaker, calling her mother. “Y’all got anything to drink around here? My nerves are just shot.” My dad found her. Curled up in the back of an old Plymouth her dad had been tinkering with. And then she was just one of those kids who ran wild in the absence of anyone to tell her different. She played by her own rules. I did my damndest to keep up. She was never happy. She rarely smiled.

Lucy never said anything much, but when she did, it was always something you heard. She was reading the philosophers these days, smoking grass…because she said, “well, shit, you can’t philosophize as a teenager unless you’re pulling tubes, smoking cigarettes and GESTURING with those cigarettes.” She’d laugh, but then the sadness.
“There’s beauty in this world, Stevie. I see it all the time. I just don’t feel it.”
And when she spoke- a mellow earthy tone. It broke your heart. Her soul was anguish and to look into her eyes was a kick to my chest, knocking the wind out of me.

I tried to kiss her. Once. She decked me one in the jaw. She called me a charlatan.

I didn’t see her again for a week. My shame was acute. She called me friend for my lack of any agenda. Kissing her changed all that. It was a betrayal. Suddenly I was a predator. But I loved that girl.

The river was a brook for lack of rain. We stood charging the air with a thousand things to say.
And the gun.
I looked up and noticed the clouds inching across a too-blue sky. My skin tightening with inevitable sunburn. I could smell her brown hair. And suddenly my ears were ringing and she was on the ground and my legs melted under me and I landed in the grass hard. My head dropped into my hands as I let go of the sobs wracking my body.

Best Line On VH1 ever.

Fucking Lead singer of Poison.. Brett Michaels?

"I never wrote a ballad I didn't feel. When I wrote 'Every Rose' I was dating this stripper. And I was convinced that she wouldn't break my heart. And she did. So, I wrote about it."

You've got to be goddamned kidding me.

"Glitter" by Motley Crue makes so much more sense now...

On the Bus...

So, here's a breakthrough...

I'm on the bus. Listening to my music. Fiona Apple to be precise and then Architecture in Helsinki and then The Real Tuesday Weld...and a man sits next to me. A good looking man. Dressed all in his black sweater and black pin-striped pants. And there's me. Jeans, birks, bandana, hair in braids, and leather jacket (not as a fashion statement but in case it got cold)...looking like a refugee from some Harley/Hippie convention/love-in, thinking:

"I miss him." The Douche.
"What the hell happened? We used to have so much fun together"
Looking out over the lake:
"Rides to work were awesome. He used to hold my hand..."
"Why do I still feel this way? Does it mean there's something more I can do? Am I obsessing? Goddamnit this is exactly the kind of shit that distracts me from the rest of my life..."
"Wait. Hold on. Why AM I feeling this way all of a sudden right this second?"
"What does he represent?"
"Well, he represents everything about myself that I'm not comfortable with."
"Right. And what's you feeling uncomfortable about yourself just now?"
"Holy shit...."
"That's right. Mr. Pin-Stripes. Yes, he's very good looking and you are dressed like a hobo today. Big Goddamned deal. You're an artist. You're supposed to dress like that... Hey, look, he has a Nano! Guess What? So do you. HEY he doesn't have a case for his, you do. His is going to get all scratched up. How dumb of him. So, see? You're smarter AND cooler than him, now knock it off."

And that voice, Ladies and Gents, was the voice of reason. The voice that sounds like a bizarre combination of my mother and Ms. LK. It's a very comforting sort of voice. It's the only voice surlier than my own...

I don't miss HIM. I'm longing for feeling good about myself. Not all the time, but times when it's triggered.
I am goddamned brilliant.

Now, what I wouldn't do for some thunder today...

The Double Door

This past Friday, I had the extremely goddamned kickass pleasure of performing at the Double Door.
There are few words to describe how it felt, and I will now use them.
I am in a band.
And now, I think it is my calling to be a rock star.
I will do my best to avoid any and all rock star cliches such as using enough drugs to power a small town in Nebraska.

Aside from a near crippling case of stage fright...the likes of which I have never, in my entire life felt, it was one of the most amazing moments of my life. Seriously. Stage fright? There were two moments before I went on when I came dangerously close to bursting into tears. I was in a total panic for about 2 hours before the show.
It was the sound check that did it. I got up there and as we were running through our set, I looked out into the bar and remembered how many times I had seen bands play the very stage I was standing on. And how everyone was going to be looking at me. And how I couldn't fucking hear my monitor. Ben, the sound engineer came to the rescue and gently reminded me that I needed to sing louder. Which, fueled the panic even further as I promptly forgot all the words to all the songs. In the world.
Then I remembered I had a solo. And very nearly vomited all over my new shoes.
After some food and 3 glasses of Cabernet I wasn't feeling any less panicked. At all.

But when it came time to take the stage and I was standing there and the lights were on us and the band started and I felt Jason's drums shaking the entire stage...and remembered also that I was being backed by the drummer from fucking Caviar (one of my favorite bands) all was right with the world. Everything felt as natural as though I had been doing this all my life.
I never wanted it to end.

We had a 30 minute set.
I go into the studio to record our album in a couple weeks.

daddy-cool...

We Interrupt this Introspection With A Rant About...

Fucking Music Reviews.

I don't think there has ever been a more aped, pretentious form of writing in this universe. Aside from being ridiculously verbose and unneccessarily glib (as I just was) most of them make no goddamned sense and tell me NOTHING about what the album actually sounds like.

BEHOLD!

Amazon.com Reviews of The Raconteurs' debut album Broken Boy Soldiers. These reviews were chosen due to yesterday's equally inane and nonsensical review in The Onion. Also, I couldn't steal 'em from itunes. And THOSE were the ones that drove me over the edge. Anyway...

OK, let's start with the Editorial review from Amazon:

"Smothered by the indulgence of his rock star ranking, Jack White steps into the eccentricities of the supergroup, and at first glance, this seems to be a band where White's imposing presence could overshadow the rest. Not the case with these Raconteurs. Teaming with fellow Detroit songwriter Brendan Benson and Jack Lawrence and Patrick Keeler, the rhythm section from Cincinnati band the Greenhornes, White exhales a bit, deferring enough to his mates to make Broken Boy Soldiers play like a team effort. Following the Benson blueprint, "Steady as She Goes," which opens as a slice of 1960's radio pop, the record steers away from pigeonholing the rest of the way. White's in a Middle Eastern mood for the title track as he pulls off a wicked Robert Plant howl, while Lawrence and Keeler excel on the chorus-strong "Intimate Secretary" and the optimistic acoustic rocker "Yellow Sun." Like so many all-star bands before them, The Raconteurs could be one and done. But don't place the blame on this fertile and genuine debut."

So, basically, what this tells me is that Jack White is in a new band. It doesn't sound like the White Stripes. The beginning of Steady As She Goes sounds like an oldie and he rips off Robert Plant at one point but it's cool because it doesn't suck. Also, there's a catchy song and a happy folk thing. ...right?
I have no idea what the fuck the last sentence means.

But some of them are just plain obnoxious. Below we have the last paragraph from a USER review and you'd think he knew the band personally.

"...In fact Jack sound's (and in publicity snippets he looks) as if he's having a ball and is a lot looser himself than the Jack White of late who broods onstage with the Stripe's. Maybe it's that he has freed himself from the self imposed white and red constraints of the Stripes, maybe it's because he like's hanging out with the boys for a change. He certainly seems to be invigorated and this can only bode well for future albums wether they be Stripes, Raconteurs or Saboteurs."

This reminds me of a Con I went to a couple years ago. It was a DC panel, if I remember correctly, and the moderator had such a hard-on for the artists and kept referrring to them by their first and sometimes shortened names and acting like he knew all kinds of in-jokes.
The panelists just looked at him like every character looks at poor Meg Griffin.
And more than likely stuffed him in a garbage can later.

My point is, that while I appreciate that writing about music is difficult, one need not be a total douche about it. Like this asshole:

"The title says it all...John Anthony Gillis, better known as Jack White, is not only the president, CEO, AND vice president of the new movement of rock and roll that, while remaining a relatively underground movement to the left of that Atlantic, has swept our brethren over in the great country of England; he is the greatest musician of our generation. I'd even venture to say he's the most genius musician since Frank Black Francis Charcoal Franky Dark Franklin, or whatever moniker combining variations of the name Frank and the color black the former Pixies frontman is going by these days."

THAT IS ALL ONE SENTENCE! And Tits, dude! You know all their real names! Sweet.
Now go outside and get a goddamned girlfriend.

Or this handjob:
"Terrific album; this generation's Traveling Wilburys"

Enough f-ing said.

And so it goes... one more time

and it does...go.
So, I go
ahead and walk forward.
Seems to me life is simpler
without it.
Clouds the judgement
of what's important
muddles thoughts better...unmuddled?
What?
I am the first to put other's feelings first
when I have feelings to feel about feeling.
So, I cut out the middle man
and cut in line.
Life doesn't have to be the
goddamned DMV.

Fuckin' Burlesque

Last year at this time I was dancing in a Burlesque show. I was probably about 5-8 lbs lighter and in much better shape. I'm understudying this year's and the ladies are at my house rehearsing...and good christ. I have to lose a lot of weight.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Fuckin' seriously.
God.

Although, my rack and my legs still look amazing.

Body image is such a problem for women. Because honestly, most women look great. We're all beautiful in our own right. But all it takes is one comment.
"you've gained some weight since we started dating"
and WHAM.
Feeling sexy or desirable is like pulling teeth. And you start to notice you're wearing clothes to cover up.
You find yourself apologizing to new flames for being fat.
But you're not.

So, guys, be careful. There are ways to let a girl know..if you absolutely MUST. Talk to another woman first. She'll help you. And if you're lucky you won't destroy another woman's self-image.

I'm being a baby. I know.

Stuck

at a crossroads. for serious.
My therapist thinks it's an important place I'm in
because it is familiar.
How do I get
unstuck.
I'm not going to like it at first.
And it's going to take willpower.
If I choose what I think I might have to choose in order to choose the unsticking of myself.

Or not.

A Frightening Vision

On the bus, just as we were getting on to LSD...
I thought, hmm, more troops guarding our borders. That's a good thing. Cuz, Jesus Christ on a Cracker it's easy to be here illegally.
But then another thought...a darker thought.
What if, and I say just WHAT IF, this is part all some master plan by the government to actaully turn into the facist regime everyone is so up in arms about? Is that possible, given the nature of America and its Constitution?
Did anyone SEE Prison Break last night?

Ok, for serious. You Liberals better get your shit together, if fact this can all be attributed to Conservative vs. Liberal agendas. (An opinion I've thought is just unrealistic for some time now). Please. Either take back control of the House and Senate or get a candidate for whom Middle America is likely to vote. This means NO HILARY. AND NO GODDAMNED AL FUCKING GORE.
Get your heads out of your ass, and your balls out of your purses and win this fucker.
This also means to shut Ted Kennedy the hell up.
Actually, I think it best if all the Kennedys were locked in a bunker somewhere until this is all over or until they learn to do other things besides get drunk, do drugs, drink and drive, drink and drive and kill people, or generally just being menaces to society all together.

I'm waiting for my friend Jack to lambast me on this one. ;)

A Bad Shopping Day Turns Good

There is nothing worse...well, of course I exaggerate...there's plenty worse. But fuck it, having a bad shopping day can bring on a depression the likes of which I cannot even explain to you.

The scenario:
I am singing with my band this week. (That's right. My band. I'm in a band. I'm a rockstar. I'm so gay.) We have a gig at a really well known venue. It's a competition. And well, simply put, I'd like to look amazing. And cool. And hip! So, I thought, I'll head on over to H&M. Great prices and some really cute things.
For flat-chested 13 year olds.
Ok, now I'm no buxom hourglass type. I'm a very respectable 34C. Many of you know how I feel about my rack.

I go to try on some of these dresses, and I kid you not. There are no darts put in for boobs. What the fuck??? Everything fit perfectly otherwise. Then, as I looked in the mirror, I take a look at the backs of my arms, which I don't normally do, and let's just say starting tonight, it's 30 push ups a night. My fucking God.

SIDEBAR: I'm watching Prison Break right now. And, I gotta say, while the directing and production are really good, but Christ in the sky are some of these actors AWFUL. Who told that chick from Thirtysomething she could get back on TV??

Anyway. So, I got to about 3 more stores and each one is more depressing than the last. I begin to fear that I've grown so huge that nothing will ever look good on me again and that I should just stay home in a mu-mu in manner of Homer Simpson.
This, unfortunately is not an option as I don't own a mu-mu.

Alright, so flash forward to after work and I think "I'll hit Marshall's...just in case."
BINGO!
I found 2 dresses.
and a pair of kick ass shoes.
I spent less than 100 bucks.

Now I just gotta decide which one to wear.

K, it's time for those fucking pushups.

Punching Babies

At its most extreme, the above is what PMS makes me want to do.
Coffee probably isn't helping.
The fact that slept most of the night on the sofa in front of the TV subconsciously absorbing infomercials and having dreams about starting my own business out of my one bedroom apartment starting with little ads in papers everyday and making THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS...isn't helping.

Also. No sex since before Lent and a new leaf to abstain until it's worth it is also. Not. Helping.

Damn.

The Taxi Boycott

That's it.
I've had it and I am done with Chicago Taxis. For that matter, I'm done with all Taxis.
In the majority of my experiences I've encountered drivers who rip me off, their cabs fucking stink, and quite honestly most of them have been assholes.
They're not supposed to be on the goddamned phone, and they are.
They're supposed to accept credit cards...actually, they're required by law to do so, and they give excuses such as:
-My machine is broken
-I don't take them because I won't get paid until next week.
-You're not going far enough.
And most of them drive like total assholes.
Also, when they ask me "which way would you like to go?" and I say, "Hmm, I'm not sure, what do you think will be quickest?" and they get all impatient and say "I don't know" or just shrug...THEY ARE NOT DOING THEIR FUCKING JOB.
Enough.
Fuck you Cabs.
Just fuck you.

I'm taking the goddamned bus.

A New Tattoo

And it really fucking hurt.
It still hurts now.

But it's beautiful.

ToCrow...ToGeary.. .wait...what do we call you now???

YOU are going to love it.

See Y'all tomorrow!!!

Leavin' on a Damn Jet Plane

I hate flying. I especially hate flying coach. I especially-especially hate flying coach on an airline that charges way too goddamned much for it’s fares and couldn’t give 2 flying fucks about its customers.

I give you:
American Airlines.

I arrived at the terminal ridiculously early. Somewhere in my brain I had stored the idea that I needed to leave the house no later than 1:00 to arrive at the airport by 2. I got there at 1:38. 2 was even too early as my flight wasn’t scheduled to leave until 4:20…but anyway, what with the new rules about checking in bla bla bla… ok. So, I enter through the automatic doors and already it’s total pandemonium. There are people everywhere, but the only queues seem to be at Security. Where in the the F do I check in? Glancing to my left, I notice the self-check-in-kiosks. I love that word. We use it all over the place at work.

“Is this the copy for the card going on the kiosk?”
“Will we be designing new kiosks?”
“Where in-store will the kiosks be?”

I walk up to the thing and it asks me for my e-ticket number, that, or a credit card…the card that purchased the tickets, I’m assuming, the credit card I don’t have. I can’t find the e-ticket number. Ok, fine, let’s do this the old fashioned way. I make my way to what looks like the entrance to the check-in line and hand my itinerary to the woman ostensibly “helping people”.
“Go to the self-check in and swipe your credit card.”
“Um, I don’t have the card that purchased these tickets”
“Any credit card will do,”
“Will a debit card work?”
It occurs to my at this point how absolutely determined this woman is to make it so I do NOT deal with a real person for my check-in needs. Which, just seems so….wrong! I mean, wouldn’t it stand to reason that dealing with real people would be better for airport security?? I just don’t get it.

Ok, so the kiosk mystery solved, I was now ready for security. The line was very long. Made longer by the new Get-Naked- and-Put-All-Your-Worldy-Possessions-in-These-Tubs-procedure we’re all enduring these days. Amazing though, how quickly we’ve acclimated ourselves to it. I’ve almost got it down to a science. I even took off my belt this time.

So, now it 's time to find a place to get a snack or a beer or whathaveyou. As I walk through the concourse, it strikes me that American’s Terminal just sucks. There are 2 bar/restaurants where I’m at and none of them have room for more than 5 people at a time at the bar. I order a beer and take a sip, then notice an empty seat. The “bartender” informs me that I cannot sit there as there is a woman already there. I could swear I saw whoever it was take off, but I shrug and say, Okay, and continue sipping my $6.00 beer.

“You can take that beer with you, you know.”
“Cool, thanks. I’m comfortable here.”
“Yes, but I need the room in case other people come up to order something.”
Sigh.
“I’ll move in a minute.”
“Ok, I’m just saying…”
“Yes, I see. I’ll move in a minute.”
“Ok, but..”
“I WILL MOVE IN A MINUTE!”

In a minute, I moved.

When it comes time to board the plane I look at my carry-on items and realize that I have 3 rather than the requisite “1 + a personal item such as a purse.” This was going to be tricky as this time around I didn’t have any room to combine bags. I tried looping my purse over my arm and covering it with my coat…wondered if I could, in fact, get my lap-top into my already over-taxed suitcase. In the end, I decided to used the little strappy-thing on my suitcase to attach my laptop bag in order to make it look like part of the suitcase proper. I board the plane without incident once again feeling like I somehow “stuck it to the establishment.”

Alright, so, belted in, carry-ons safely stowed, we take off. Over the intercom:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a non-meal flight, however we do have a snack box available for purchase at $4.00 each…cash only, correct change is always appreciated.”

Ok, maybe I’ll purchase one of these “snack boxes”. They usually include a smallish sandwich, and I could go for something like that.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, once again, we are offering a snack-box for $4.00. This box includes: Peperidge Farm Goldfish, *snicker*, (Christ, even the flight attendants couldn’t get through the list without laughing) Lorna Dunne Cookies (what sounded like some kind of beef jerky situation), raisins, crackers, and cheese spread. These are available for cash only….”

Yeah, $4.00 for some crap that costs about 2 bucks at the goddamned gas station.

Our movie: King Kong. Awesome, right? Sure, if the plane was fitted with screens for each seat, or at the very least for each banke of seats. No, we’ve got the over-head uniformly spaced screens to deal with. Which are useless if you’re not right underneath them. In an aisle seat.

The one closest to me is broken.

I’ve only been in the air for an hour.

About 4 more to go.

Great.

Bad Habits

Or are they only habits of a creature.
She's a year older. A year wiser. But is she?
Is she only reliving, recycling, rebuilding the comfortable spot she's used to?
It stands to reason that it's time for movement forward. Movement onward. Upward. Away from the things
that bring or brought her pain.
It's time for enough already. Enough of pain. Enough of goddamned longing.
I got to change the way I'm living, Cut out the fags, fast food and the women... thank you Tuesday Weld.
It's 2006. I'm 31. 31. 31.

And so I leave town. To go to someplace where a soul don't fuckin' matter.
Just look good. Feel good. Opiation. Los Angeles....
She's a sour girl.

But man, if she isn't passionate and hot inside.
Waiting for the time when she can let it absolutely fuckin fly,
Oh you have no idea what's possible,
She could overwhelm if she wanted...only she chooses to be overwhelmed. All the time, always.
Such a sad sorry state of affairs.
But so gorgeous in its mystery.
Can she be tamed?
Of course.
But she wants to be tamed by whom she tames while he's taming her,
the Shrew. The girl with the thorn in her side and a crease in her brow,

The Day After Tomorrow...

I leave for LA. For my Birthday. Another birthday.
I decided that this year I would get the hell out of Dodge, and create a completely different memory of turning one year older.
Last year I turned 30. There was a great party thrown.
This year I'm single.
And I'm happy about it.
I'm going to be 31.
Christ in the sky. 31. Where did it all go?
We spend (or I least I did) so many years growing up as fast as we possibly can...chasing some vision of "What we didn't have growing up but will have when we are adults".
Have I found it? Have you?
I thought I'd have a couple kids by now. Married, with a house. And a dog.
Nope.
Not that I'm complaining too much. I suppose the only setback, though, is a sense of incompleteness. That somehow, I haven't started my life yet.
The shitter is, and I've said it before, I have. We have. This is it. Make no mistake where you are...
Ah! Yacht Rock. Where have you been all my life?
But I digress...
I still walk around with an "if this, then that" mentality about my life.
And am I doing ok?
Are my parents proud of me?
Does it even matter anymore?

I'm spending the weekend with my Dad. Once upon a time we were really close. Not so much anymore. What happened? Are we on some delayed Dad/Daughter-relationship-time-continuum set by the limited days we've had together? Is our relationship measured in "Divorce Years" in manner of Dog Years? So that if you mushed all the days together, I'm really only 16 and we've started the "I don't know who the fuck you are anymore" portion of our time together?

I'm here to tell you, (in my infinite and egocentric wisdom) that there is nothing worse than looking at your parents and realizing that they are people. And not necessarily the people you'd choose to hang out with now that you've developed your own Values, Attitudes, and Beliefs (VABS according to Professor Paulus). For serious. Now, my mother and I have already been through this and back. She and I have an understanding. This, based on years of top-of-our-lungs fighting and her realization that I outweighed her by 15 lbs. and could in fact HURT her if she tried to hit me in anger. She and I are peas and carrotts.

My father and I are behind the times. I never raised my voice to him (except one time) until 2 summers ago. I never confronted him as an adult with my feelings. Now that I have, it seems he looks at me differently. Perhaps he feels a certain amount of "where'd my little girl go"? I know I feel an empty space where that innocent, blind, hero-worship of my father once was.
I was 29 when he toppled from that pedestal.
When does it happen for everyone else?

Maybe now is the time I discover and really start believing that, in fact,
Dudes ain't shit
And I can definitely survive and thrive on my own...
Christ. Are the two even related?

On the Topic of Goddamned Mini-Kiss

Ok, aside from KISS being one of the worst bands ever...And aside from Gene Simmons's fucking makup scaring the shit out of me as a child...

We now have this:



Mini-KISS.
This photo was taken at a block party one of the companies down the street hosted last summer.

It was horrifying.
Seriously. It wasn't as if they were playing "serious, life-affecting music" up there. They were there for what I can only guess was the sole purpose for people to point and laugh.

Much like midget wrestling.

This really BOTHERS me. I suppose I should be happy that finally, a group of people has enough of a sense of humor about themselves to get up there and exploit their size, but there's something reeeeeaaaalllly twisted about it.

People were laughing at them.
I just felt uncomfortable.