Lacking

I realize I haven't really written anything worth reading in a long time. My inspiration comes in flashes and I guess I haven't been struck by lightning in a while.

Lately my life fits into a tidy little box that is filled with love ... to the fucking brim. There are no messy edges. No carelessness. No angst.

Basically there's nothing to write about.

And yet here I am still struggling to put words to my humdrum. Passion to my plaintive. I don't know what moves me to do this. I don't know why my fingers always search for the keys.

I am inspired by a lot of things.

Today it was a little girl in red mittens. A sign in a living room window. The old man pushing a heaving cart of bulging bags full of cans past my house to the beer store.

I know its dysfunctional to envy his messy edges, but I do anyway.

The thing is, my inspiration is fleeting. It never sticks. I subsist in it for as long as I can, backstroking happily through waves of insight and revelation and then nothing. Poof. Like a dream, it's gone.

I wake to find myself staring at that homeless man's face, feeling nothing as the woman in the car behind me begins honking her horn.

And all the sudden, I'm just a girl in a car at a stop sign.

if apathy is the poison, hope is its antidote

When I think of the events that occurred on Tuesday, my first reaction is to attempt to cage the disbelief running circles in my head. How do I wrap my head around this thing? Did it really happen?

Let me tell you what I have learned from all of this. While my heart aches over the last eight years, I am grateful for the clarity it has brought in its wake. Clarity so strong, it compelled a country to change.

The way the nation has come together and the speed of their unity amazes me. It gives me faith in humanity and restores my trust in democracy. The faceless masses across America and around the world have united. They need no faces, they have one, and in it is the proud reflection of the United States -- disabled, but determined.

The capacity I see for hope overwhelms me. It transcends race and ethnicity, wealth and poverty, cultural diversities and border lines. If apathy is the new poison, then hope is its antidote. Barack Obama knew before anyone that hope could change the world.

And as I stare into the open face of possibility, the United States of America gives me reason to believe we've only just begun to fight.

So continue to let freedom reign and trust in the fact that the rest of the world is listening.

I love you, Magic Bullet!

Current mood: Compelled to make salsa.

I watch infomercials like some people watch the playoffs. I mean, I am invested. Even when the footage begins to repeat itself in that ourobouros-type way, I keep watching. It's the rhetoric I love, the promises made. An infomercial is like a first date with a guy who seems perfect. (Four dates later, you discover that he "just doesn't like" doing certain key things in the sack. But still! Rhetoric!)

In the past, I've bought and/or been gifted with such products as the Rotato (only useful if you're militant about peels and/or my mother) Yoga Booty Ballet and the Total Tiger (I literally threw that thing into the alley behind my San Diego apartment circa 2002.)

But the Magic Bullet ...for lack of a finer metaphor ... eats pussy.

I grind coffee beans in this thing. I make smoothies. I make guacamole that doubles as a soothing face mask. You can pour bourbon and ice directly into the Magic Bullet, pulse that bitch a few times, throw in mint and pretend it's a Julep and that you're not an alcoholic.

I haven't tried making the BLOOBERRY MOOFINS! that the British guy in the commercial keeps crowing about, but I may have to try it. Maybe pulverized batter will cure my methface.

Sorry, You're out.

I met this girl the other day.

I hate her.

I would like to just stop there. But my mother always says that hate is a strong word, so I think I should provide sound, reasonable reasons for my hatred.

Strike Numero Uno: She’s a girl.

I can hear you all in an uproar already. “That’s unreasonable, YOU are a girl!”

Details.

Hypocrisy doesn’t make something an unsound reason. Although I am a female, I can’t really say the gender does much for me. It’s something about the combination of the inability to make a joke that evokes laughter, the propensity towards over excitement due to ballet flats and the need to divulge private information to strangers when drunk that makes me nauseous.

Strike Numero Dos: She apparently wanted to be my psychologist. And although I probably have multiple issues (most of which revolve around extreme hatred for fat kids), I wasn’t in the mood to be taken seriously.

She was overly attentive.

She nodded excessively.

She made uncomfortable amounts of eye contact as if her eyes were laser beaming small, but oh so many, holes into my soul.

She threw out the exact same overly thoughtful “hmm…” every time I made an observation (mostly about fat kids). She would have provided the same response no matter if I told her I liked eggs, had an ingrown toenail or liked to get pissed on.

She said “I see” while pressing her lips together so many times that I began fantasizing about first gouging her eyes out, then cutting her lips off and stuffing them into her empty eye sockets. At least that way it would be funny when she commented that she could see (and therefore unstriking Strike Numer Uno).

Just by being in her presence I began to yearn for a sticky leather couch, a box of tissues and childhood issues.

Or just the relief of the cold metal of a rifle at the back of my throat.

Most likely the latter. But really. What’s the difference?

Strike Numero Tres: She spells definitely incorrectly.

I refuse to even replicate the spelling for fear that my fingers might fall off and my IQ would drop to the single digits. Let’s just say there was an “a” forced helplessly (probably kicking and screaming) into the middle.

I have standards here, folks. I believe that people that spell definitely incorrectly are not worth my friendship, but are, in fact, worth my loathing. Call it cruel, call it judgmental, call it whatever you want but I have a feeling Jesus would back me up on this one.

Update

Okay. So, hi. I've totally slacked the past week or so but I was in NY and I also moved. So, yeah. I moved. A big part of me is sad. And I feel like a loser. Millions of people have mortgages. Millions of people own homes. I'm just not going to be one of them. At least right now.

However, a whole other big part of me is relieved. Living in between a liquor store and the beer store has its obvious advantages. But really. One of these days, I'm going to want to get knocked up and you can't have a baby near a liquor store... can you? It's just weird and wrong. Is it? Also there's some sort of nursing home for alcoholic amputees in the nieghborhood so about once a week, there's about 5 or 6 people with only about 8 limbs between them, sitting in my alley swigging beer.

Otherise, the new place has its plusses. It's bigger. It has rooms and closets and exposed brick walls. I have an amazing terrace with a fire pit. My neighbors are cool. It's on a really quiet street. My old place was a cement box loft with train tracks a few blocks away. It was really fucking loud. And bright. Even with all of the lights turned off in my place, it was almost bright enough to read. The new place is dark. And quiet. I've been sleeping like a lamb.

One thing about my new place - I did have an uninvited houseguest. Possibly the largest spider I have ever seen. He lived in the doorway of my terrace - and he wouldn't let me out ...I tried to coax the cable guy into exterminating the spider but he literally almost cried when he saw it. So I sprayed it with hairspray, Windex, and Pledge. Nothing worked. I was finally able to succeed... took an entire can of hairspray, half a can of carpet stain remover and a boot. But it's dead. There was some question as to the size of the spider. The body was not quite as big as my forefinger and thumb making an 'ok' sign. But if I used my pinkie finger and my thumb, it was approximately that big. And its web was easily 5' by 3'. I know this because I discoverd the spider by walking my face into the web. But we can all rest assured, the dinosaur spider is no more. Rest in peace, little fucker.

Music is my boyfriend

I've been thinking lately about how I grew to be enamored with music; how that relationship evolved. It's become such a big part of my life, such an important part and I often need to recount the journey.

When I was growing up music was much more than background noise to me. I would constantly hear the voices of Robert Plant, Roger Waters and Neil Young, poetic and raw, filling the rooms of our house, telling stories about Chelsea mornings and the earth moving under their feet. Later, in my teenage years I'd hear those familiar songs on the radio and my friends would laugh that I'd know every word, every guitar string strummed ... it felt like home to hear this chord or that hook. I'd remember the watermarked album covers in my dad's collection, strewn across the shag carpeting like lily pads on water.

This music stayed with me. Like the lines of poetry, songs have always stuck with me, the meaningful ones adhering somewhere inside, the less meaningful ones falling away through the years. And to date, I've built this abounding library of songs that correspond with particular moments in my life.

"A Long December" instantly pulls me back to high school, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my room, reading over that handwritten note asking me to Prom. "Whole Lotta Love" sends me to my basement, five years old, frenetically dancing with my sister. And Snow Patrol's "How To Be Dead" puts me right back in the middle of winter. Into the middle of bad memories. Of frozen feelings. And those moments have been stored for me, as if etched into the records themselves, released with a touch of the needle to the vinyl. I can keep them as close as a bookshelf away.

When I listen to the music of the 60's and 70's ...it breaks my soul that I'll never truly be able to capture that experience and it's something I think I chase. It's a romantic idea, changing history through music, through a movement. I don't see that happening with my generation. I guess I'm somewhat envious. I don't know if I will ever be a part of a galvanizing movement like that in my time. And I sure as hell don't have enough talent to start one of my own.

The history of music...how the trite, safe, homogenized music of the 50's evolved into the politically charged, inconsistently mellow music of the 60's into the truly innovative and, in my opinion, the most exciting time for music, the art-rock turned punk, kick you in the pants music of the 70's and early 80's. How the turmoil of whatever era we entered into shaped and paralleled the music that emerged from the underbelly of this war, or that recession. The urge to say SOMETHING ...and that made a serious impression on me.

I can recall specific moments that changed the way I looked at music, felt about music, what I believed music could do, be, change. I guess that's what captivated me about the whole thing--how different it was from everything else. I am attracted to that quality, that darker, mysterious side of things. The side left unexplored. The side people are afraid to explore.

It's because a group of people, a culture of people, had the desire to break the mold, even if it proved unpopular. That to me, is real courage, real risk. And I'd be lying if I said I didn't admire that with every ounce of my being ... and if everyday I didn't wish I could be a part of something like that.

I guess I just grew up in the wrong generation.

What It Means

I need to write this.

I haven't spoken out loud very much these days, but I've been thinking to myself in what feels like surround sound. I can see so many things clearly, and feel so connected to myself and the world around me that I need to share my perspective with you.

I'm already aware that when I write anything, 50 percent of the response will be in support of it and the other 50 will want to discount it. This blog, though, exists 100 percent as an outlet for me. If my blog truly does have any affect, then it should be used for more than just pictures and funny youtube videos. No?

This is about us all.

This is about a level of self consciousness so high in my generation, that it's actually toxic.

This is about the girl in her bedroom who poses in front of the camera she's awkwardly holding in her outstretched hand. She'll take a hundred photos of herself until she comes up with one she's happy with, which inevitably looks nothing like her, and after she's done poring over images of herself, will post one on her Facebook page and then write something like " I don't give a fuck what you think about me."

This is about the person trying out for Canadian Idol, who while going off about how confident they are that they were born ready to sing in front of the world, are trembling so badly they can hardly breathe.

This is about me, the girl who will throw on a tutu in the middle of a crowded afterhours bar yet doesn't want anyone to look at her ...

This is about us all. Every one of us. Who all seem to know deep down that it's incredibly hard to be alive and interact with the world around us but will try and cover it up at any cost. For as badass and unaffected as we try to come off, we're all just one sentence away from being brought to tears ... if only such sentence was worded the right way. And I don't want to act immune to that anymore. I took the biggest detour from myself over the years and I committed myself to stop caring about what others thought. I got to the point where I had so much padding on that I couldn't feel the negativity ... but that's because I couldn't feel much of anything.

And I think I'm done with that.

I'm not the first person to admit we're all self conscious (I think Kanye was). But what I want to do is to shed a little of my light on why we're all in the same boat, no matter the shape of the life we lead: because every one of us were told since birth that we were special. We were spoken to by name through a television. We were promised we could be anything that we wanted to be, if only we believed it and then, faster than we saw coming, we were set loose into the world to rub shoulders with the millions of other people who were told the exact same thing.

And really? REALLY? It turns out we're just not all that fucking special, when you break it down. Beautifully unspectacular, actually. And that truth is going to catch up with us whether we want to run from it or not. It's just a matter of how old you are once you embrace that fact.

What now, then? I can only really say for myself: Enjoy who I am, the talents and the many liabilities. Stop acting careless. In fact, care more. Be vulnerable but stay away from where it hurts. Read. See more shows. Of any kind. Rock shows, art shows, boat shows. Create more art. Wear hoodies to dinner. Carry a notebook and hand it to people when they passionately recommend something and ask them to write it down for me.

Root for others.

Give more and expect the same in return.

Act nervous when I'm nervous, confused when I don't know what the hell to do, and smile when it all goes my way. And never in any other order than that.

And when it's all over, whether at the end of my career or of this beautiful life, I should look back and say that I had it good and I made the most of it while I was able.

And so should you.

Midgies

Yesterday on my way to Starbucks, I happened upon a large black man standing next to a small woman. A very small woman. She was a midget - with black hair. She was wearing a lacy black bra and belly shirt, which barely covered her little midget breasts and her tummy ran in muscular bumps to the crotch of her jeans. She was also wearing rainbow colored leg warmers... which I cannot say enough lovely things about. She was smoking a cigarette. Her lashes were the longest I've ever seen. I had never seen an attractive midge, but found myself in just such a sitch.

She looked vaguely familiar. That sometimes happens in Toronto. People look familiar. But it was more than her facial features that matched up, it was her whole body ... then I realized I had recently seen her fuck a fat man and his big fat black girlfriend on Cathouse: The Series.

I must say, Bridget the Midget is smoking hot ... and not because she smokes.

Fifty things I miss about California

1. Breakfast Burritos (did you guys think this would be any lower than #1 on my list?)
2. Cheap beer
3. Ghetto beach housing
4. Hearing my mailman, DZ, start up his roaring Harley outside my bedroom window at 6:00am.
5. My girls.
6. My boys.
7. Being able to drive on a road that actually moves
8. The smell of the ocean.
9. The Chargers
10. Happy hour at Cabo Cantina on Friday nights.
11. Sidewalk skateboarders.
12. RUBIO'S. Best fish taco's .. like EVER!
13. The fact that men don't wear skinnier jeans than I do.
14. Not paying $5 plus tip for a Bud Light.
15. Fashion Valley.
16. The leaves not falling from the trees in September.
17. The fact every 2nd store on Garnet is a tattoo shop ... or a bar.
18. Taco Tuesday's at World Famous.
19. Pacific Beach Pub
20. Not living amongst creatures.
21. Two-fer Sunday's at Moondoggies.
22. Not dealing with people who talk about how "important they are"
23. Wearing flip flops outside and not having my feet look like I walked on coals.
24. NOT HAVING TO WALK IN THE RAIN.
25. Being able to run outside and not worry about inhaling exhaust.
26. Being able to bike freely and worry about impending death.
27. Fat Tire Beer.
28. Women who spend a reasonable amount of money on purses.
29. Mexican food.
30. SoCal Punk Rock.
31. TAILGATING.
32. Having after work drinks on the beach
33. The Mexican Walk-In clinic.
34. My Dentist (sorry, he had the touch) I love you, Dr. Ferrario
35. Pacific Beach Block Party. Holla!
36. Being within driving distance of Mexico.
37. Not having people smoke crack in my courtyard.
38. Outlet malls in Carlsbad.
39. MOTHERFUCKING TARGET.
40. Trader Joe's.
41. The sound of crickets
42. No mosquitos.
43. Going to Padre games.
44. No fucking snow.
45. The tweaker who split wood in my alley all night long. Loved that guy.
46. No central air ... just open windows and ocean breezes.
47. Paying less than $100 for a decent haircut.
48. Being able to go about my day without having to drive, take the subway or taxi.
49. My boogie board.
50. A place to call my own.

I've found my Nirvana

Justin, who by the way is the greatest friend like...evah, bought me a bottle of 16 year old Woodford Reserve Four Grain Bourbon the other day while he was at the liquor store. Now I've had a ton of bourbon, covering the gamut from cheap-ass rotgut to stuff that generally tops out at around $100 a bottle. This stuff however, is on another planet. I love 1792, and this is similar ... but on roids.

Immediately after opening the bottle and just sniffing the cork you get a heavy sense of the smoke and the wood that you're about to be treated to. Pouring it into the rocks glass and getting your nose in there only increases that sensation. And sipping it, good gravy. It is the best liquid I've ever consumed. It's like...drinking a BBQ done over oak and moss. But rather than being harsh, it's as smooth as fresh pressed silk.

And if you ever saw someone put ice on it, you should immediately scold them. Then punch them in the mouth.

Love it!

Trapped

This boredom is good for my writing. All I have are my thoughts and this sorry keyboard to free them with.

I don't have that teathered to a rock feeling inside me anymore. There is no tension, immediacy. I miss it.

I miss longing and being unsure. All the aching questions tumbling about inside my head for hours. It’s easy to write then. Inking out the way I would get through this or that or it or him. And it was always him. I could have misplaced an arm on the way to work and it would still be about him. That was where the rawest emotions in me came from. The freshest cuts left to be gingerly dressed. The buzz in my head and the catch in my throat. I was the walking wounded, but I felt alive.

Complacency is like L.A. fog. During the day you don’t notice it because you are consumed with daily tasks. Only when you’ve escaped the work day can you see it rising above the skyline, massive, yellow-luminous and steeping the air with indifference.

I'm plagued by a different beast now. And even though it's not one that cuts as deep, the damage is slower and more lasting.

There is a difference between stumbling into some restlessness and actually mass producing it. I don't know if my luck is just really bad, or if I am just this strange magnet of small tragedies.

But on the other hand, would I be satisfied with a life of effortlessness?

That's a tough question. I think I thrive on the difficult, expect it.

It just seems I am always on the verge of this massive heartbreak and I don't just walk towards it ... I run full speed ahead.

Why I Write

I write to keep the world in perspective. To knock it back from its skewed axis enough to try and understand it. I write to avoid the ever-feared cliché, to get inside the ring with a paragraph and work it over until it pleads for the bell. I write because I am hopelessly in love with the sound of words. All of my books have scribbles in the margins and dog-eared pages. A star here, an underlined passage there. I can't think of any other way to read a book than to constantly remind myself of why I need to write.

Mostly, I think I write to discover foreign lands within myself. I wonder oftentimes about those who take no pleasure in it, why? Perhaps it would be wise to consider leaving the shore more than just once in a while.

In a world where what we see is what we get, it is important for writers to brighten that image; to make it accessible to as many people as possible. Making blades of grass into tiny green swords that swipe at our shins. Skyscrapers become stilts for God. Tree branches resembling twisted, arthritic hands. They hold the power of metamorphosis in their hands and all they have to do is get black on white. But writers are not magicians. They can’t turn numbness into passion. They can’t use their pencils to erase wrong, and for me, the sting of heartache still smolders even when cloaked in eloquent language.

Sometimes I wonder if the seeds of my existence were watered with the ink of tormented writers and this is what pushes my pen to the paper at night and on sad days. Or maybe it is simply the need to write. What is true in the world? What is our purpose in the universe? How do I live my life? On countless pages, I deliberate. I spread the wrinkles of my mind flat in order to take more in and then I write.

Sometimes I wonder at the eerie fleetingness of the written word. When a writer settles into his bed at night and picks up his journal to record the slips and falls of his day, it seems odd to me the urgency to get it all down. It’s sad really, the art of writing things down in a journal or diary because when you think about it, we write things down to remember them later. Do I write because I want to remember my own life? I think I write in order to understand … not remember.

Stepping onto foreign soil is not always the easiest task. There are many obstacles to tackle on the road to self-discovery. Writers are pretentious and arrogant. They are vain, they are serious. They hate each other, are viciously jealous, but can recognize a good thing when they read it, even if it is not their own. They steal from Joyce, Hemingway, Baldwin and Whitman with no intentions of returning what they take. They scan the dictionary for the perfect word, and then devour it like wolves. They are ruthless, proud, demure, and calculating, but at least they are all these things together.

A writer’s biggest fear and ally is the world itself. I am sometimes afraid that I will not be able to adequately and justly recount the world around me. It is almost like a blind man seeing for the first time. There are so many aspects to sight: colour, space, shade, size, movement, that to realize all these things at once would send any mind reeling.

To become a writer, I fear this disillusion, yet desperately seek to capture it. No matter how difficult, if a writer succeeds, then he or she has contained the world---lassoed its rearing, ugly head and corked it in, like a tiny ship in a bottle. From this triumph, we can poke and prod to learn more about ourselves and our lives within this world. We begin to understand from rolling the bottle between our hands how small the world is, and what connects us to its every aspect. Language transcends barriers of race and gender. Words act as bridges between cultures. And ultimately, writer or not, we begin to see worth in the art of writing.

And I do think that only the observant eye of a writer could capture all the elements of sight at once. However, unlike a photographer, our negatives develop on paper. Instead of using shadow and light to know something is round, we use adjectives and similes. We can sway a reader by changing the round object into a ripe, fuzzy peach, or a different kind of round, the ethereal sphere of a bubble freshly blown. A photograph cannot intensify the experience, it only documents the reality.

Some say the written world is not real. They claim it is an embellished representation of what one person thinks is real. I disagree. Allowing ourselves into other people’s perceptions is what makes our lives real. By stepping onto their shores, we are given permission to question, to run about barefoot and wonder like a child. We see for the first time all over again.

The written world is the only medium that lets us travel to these foreign lands consistently and without resistance. Writers offer a kind of displacement that one can only get lost in through words. A good book can take you anywhere you want to go. Where else are we permitted to wander and explore the capacities of our own minds and free ourselves of the world we know for a moment or two?

But perhaps writing is for the bold. It is for people who seek to find and don’t stop until they have reached somewhere they have never been. It is for those few who have an irreconcilable need to express. And again, for those who simply wish to create something they are proud of. Sylvia Plath said that she decided to write, not in order to save the world, or to serve her fellow men, but for the simple, personal, selfish, and egotistical happiness of creating the kind of men and events she could like, respect and admire. There is a certain poignancy in wanting to assemble something as honest as that. I understand this. I care about the words I write; I seed and water them until they perfectly bloom into my thoughts.


I sometimes laugh when I hear myself say I’m a writer at heart. Images of me in twenty years in a dimly lit room with bad wallpaper, hunched over a typewriter, a cigarette dangling from my lips and a short glass of warm bourbon on the desk next to me. Then I see my face, and I am shocked at the immutable frown I wear. Then, I look more closely and see the corners of my mouth quiver and upturn ever so slightly and I know this is the beginning of a smile.

I am revealed. I have found another sandy shore.

The Politics of Music

In an age where our world's political climate is sweltering and virtually every move our leaders make becomes satirical fodder, shouldn't we at least have some good music? Isn't it warranted?

Is there any inspiration I can glean from a song titled, "Freek-A-Leek" or lyrics like,

"To the window, to dat wall/ To the sweat drips down my balls/ To all you bitches crawl".

It's puzzling really. I mean, sure, give me a good hook and a loud bass line and I'll shake my ass with the best of them. But this is an opportunity for the creative people of the world to actually SAY SOMETHING.

What happened to bands like Neil Young, the MC5, The Yardbirds, Bob Dylan and The Who? And then those that followed, Bad Religion, Public Enemy, Pearl Jam, Rage Against the Machine, Ani DiFranco? Even the Sex Pistols. Damn, and the Clash. The Clash did it right. And they did it in the time of hair bands and fake metal followers.

"Kick over the wall/Cause governments to fall/How can you refuse it?/Let fury have the hour/Anger can be power/Didja know that you can use it?"

I'm sick to death of turning on the radio and hearing the same insouciant, alternative crap and phony, made-up gangster lingo.

Where are the Clashes and the Rages? Are there none left? Where is the dissent? The rebel yell?

Self Therapy

I used to do this all the time and it really made me feel better! Randomly write down twenty-five things you want to say to people without revealing who they are.

1. I’m constantly getting disappointed by you and yet you blame me.
2. I think you're going to break my heart.
3. Stop taking everything so personally. It’s not always about you.
4. I know I am smarter than you. Stop trying to make me look stupid, asshole.
5. I would die if you died.
6. So what if I drink too much? Everyone does.
7. I’m afraid we’ll never be the kind of friends we used to be.
8. Your ass kissing makes me want to break a chair over your head daily.
9. I think your self-confidence is completely contrived.
10. Your casual dismissal of me only makes me want you more.
11. He’s terrible to you and for you and I'm worried about you.
12. You make my skin crawl.
13. Give yourself some credit. Self-doubt is unattractive.
14. Your hesitance is my hesitance. We’ll never move forward this way.
15. I need you to do more drugs.
16. I am the person I want to be when I’m with you.
17. You’re a fake. Don’t think I don’t know it.
18. When I'm with you I'm completely exposed. You make me feel naked.
19. I’m sorry I don’t visit more often, but I think about you all the time.
20. When you cry, it embarrasses me.
21. Your constant negativity seeps under my skin and I'm afraid it's changing me.
22. My biggest fear is losing you to someone else even though I don't want you anymore.
23. Your righteous attitude and subtle piety really annoy me.
24. Your need to subtly turn everything into a competition frustrates me.
25. Your pessimism is self-perpetuating. I don’t know what to say to make you feel better anymore.

Painfully Poetic

I recently saw Glen Hansard of The Frames & Marketa Irglova in concert. You may remember them from a little movie called, Once. If you haven't seen it, I implore you. Go rent it. Watch it. You won't be able to catch your breath, I promise you...and I only saw it in pieces.

Anyways, don't take it from me. As I said before, see it for yourself.

Moving onto the concert...

Here's the deal. Most shows I've gone to follow the same routine. People show up, the band plays, people party, people leave.

This concert was completely different.

The entire venue was silent when they started their first song, "Lies". All you could hear was an errant cough, the shuffle of a sandaled foot. At first I felt like something was wrong. I was almost slightly embarrassed for the band because no one was clapping. But then something happened. The tide turned and all at once I realized it wasn't a silence of distaste or dislike, but one of anticipation and captivation. People were literally holding their breath.

As Glen Hansard launched into the chorus of the first song with a passionate howl, "The little cracks they escalated, before we knew it was too late..." the crowd responded like the buzz of a window with a passing train.

By the time he got to the second verse of the chorus, "Maybe if you slow down for me I can see you're only telling lies lies lies...breaking us down with your lies lies lies" the crowd erupted.

From that point on you could feel the pulse of every person in that audience racing with each octave Hansard's voice climbed. By the time they got to the piano build up alongside the strong guitar in the middle of the song, I had tears streaming down my cheeks.

The energy those two put off is contagious and genuine. Their rapport is loving and witty and authentic. It's beautiful to watch. They pull you in with barely any effort.

Glen Hansard is fucking amazing. The lyrics are fantastic, heartwrenching, poetic. But it's his performance that is so riveting. He plays with such emotion and fury that you can't deny his talent. You know that he's the real deal, not just playing for fame or fortune. It was so refreshing.

Marketa Irglova was the perfect complement to her partner's rugged candor. She's reticent and demure and has a compelling likeable incorruptibility. But when she sings with him she comes alive. Her voice is like breaking glass, beautiful and torrmented. When she sings, "I'm sorry that you have to see the strength inside me burning" it makes my heart hurt. It awakens something slow, melancholic and regretful inside of me.

For me the best song of the night was not originally one of my favorites on the soundtrack, but has slowly crept its way to number one. "Leave" really and truly makes you feel like you are running in slow motion, trying to catch up with someone who's already gone. As the song moves toward the end, Glen Hansard's voice grows progressively more out of control, violent, louder. His pleas become more desperate and achingly earnest.

From the buildup to the breakdown, this song was probably one of the hardest songs to listen to. You just know that distinct pain in his voice. Everyone can relate to that deep, deep hurt. I have to listen to this song on full blast on my iPod because otherwise I will ball my eyes out.

It's perfect.

The whole show was perfect, yet I can't accurately describe it ... and I know more words than the average person.

I just thank God for creating artists who share their beautiful gift.

Dear Boyfriends, Potential Dates and Prospects on the Sidelines,

Let's get this out of the way now.

You really shouldn't like me.

First of all, I'm fucking weird. I do weird things that are irrational and inexplicable. I act weird, seemingly senselessly and ambiguously. I'm a cross between an old-school Italian house wife and a shameless dirt-bag.

I don't believe that the glass is half full because I'm the one drinking out of the 12" tall glass cowboy boot.

I am a walking contradiction, a caster of stones and careful architect of my own glass houses. I own several and rent out the ones I don't live in.

I don't sleep. But when I do, you'll never understand how. I've calculated the exact position of my pillows to quantify the perfect amount of sleep. I am addicted to white noise yet I sing in bed. I don't know how anyone puts up with my odd sleep patterns and insane bedtime routine.

You shouldn't like me because I won't keep my opinions to myself. I find it impossible to be fake and am visibly awkward in situations in which I feel are not genuine. Small talk makes me itchy and people usually think I am unapproachable and emotionally unavailable.

You shouldn't like me because I live more on paper than I do in real life. Because I'll keep my most intimate moments for myself on my hard drive and in softcover journals. This will drive you crazy. It will make you jealous in a way you can't describe.

I'll know you better than you think in a shorter time than you think and this will unsettle you. It would unsettle me.

You shouldn't like me because there will always be that one percent of you that doesn't trust me completely. I thrive in that one percent. It's not intentional, it's just where I feel the most comfortable.

You'll wince when I tell you my guiltiest pleasure is the dirty South. You'll cringe when you hear me humming the chorus from Skynyrd's "Poison Whiskey" while I'm on my blackberry. Oh, and I will force you to listen to classic rock while we drink bourbon at my kitchen table.

It's just who I am.

Here's something else. I spend more money on clothes and shoes than I do on groceries. I don't floss my teeth enough or dust when it's required. I will always take a shortcut if one is made available to me. I'm not as consistently kind and considerate as I appear to be upon first impression.

You won't be able to relate to my priorities. I definitely want to have babies but am indifferent about getting married. But I do believe in the institution of marriage, family and true love.

All of this will puzzle and confuse you and just before you've got me figured out ..... you'll run.

So, basically you're probably better off without the headache.

With all sincerity,
Rebecca

Pure Lust

Here's the newest addition to my footwear collection. I'm so obsessed with them, I practically wore them to bed. Like, I want to f-ck my boots.

My Saturday night till 6 in da mornin'

It started out simple enough. I left my apartment somewhere between the Lower East Side and the Financial District. There was a limo waiting for me as I left, and it was gorgeous. A late model Cadillac kind of limo. I then kindly asked the driver to leave his vehicle so I could take it for a spin.

I might not be the best driver, and as a result I crashed into a few street lights on my little joy ride. I also may have hit a few pedestrians as well, but there was little blood so I assumed everything was ok. I continued on my drive down to the South Street Seaport. I finally reached my destination, and got out of my limo. I may or may not have heard sirens in the distance, but all that didn't matter now.

I was going to steal a helicopter.

I walked on the helipad and ripped the pilot out of the driver's seat. He was sitting there waiting for someone. Maybe a high profile passenger like Donald Trump or Jay Leno, or maybe he was waiting for me. That all didn't matter now. I got in the pilot's seat and took off towards JFK.

I landed near taxing 747's and left my helicopter on the runway. I tried to steal a 747 by trying to cling to the wheel well, but the plane was too big. The sirens got louder, and I broke out into a run searching for a vehicle so I could make my escape. I found a luggage transport vehicle to drive, but the beast of a truck proved not worthy of a getaway car. Eventually I was shot along a grassy knoll near the Van Wyck.

I woke up again in my apartment. Was it all a bad dream? Maybe. I had a new mission though. My true mission.

I needed some poon.

I stole a nice bus this time. It proved to be very useful in driving over cement dividers and running stop lights. Finally I took a corner too hard and rolled the bus. There was a young gentleman in a convertible that tried to talk shit to me as I emereged unscathed from my metal box of death. I mean, he didn't even ask if I was ok. So I shot him. Point blank. I guess I must have hit his gas tank too cause the asshole caught on fire along with his car. That fucking showed him for talking smack to me.

Again, sirens.

I picked up the pace to my desired destination. Nothing was going to get in my way! Not even men on fire. Finally, I made it. I opened the door to air conditioning and the sweet smell of dirty pussy. I was home. I was in the strip club.

After being ushered to the back for a private lap dance (that's how I roll, yo), a nice young lady with brown hair and a hot pink thong began to dance. It wasn't enough though. I wanted more. So they brought out a blonde with a yellow thong and both of them girated on and around my huge wood. It was glorious.

After they were done, one of the ho's was all, "You're the greatest...blah blah blah" so I fucking clocked her. Right in the jaw. Bitch started to yell and was all, "why'd you hit me, asshole?" so I shot her. Doesn't she know who I am? This did not please the bouncers too much, and after a shootout in the main room, I died.

But seriously,what a way to go. So fucking bad-ass!

Awkward

So, I have a new "big boss" client who just started about a month ago. Anyway, he was in the office earlier in the week, along with his boss and their lawyer to negotiate the terms of our retainer. Anyway, I'm in the meeting room with another person I work with and I'm bending over to plug in my laptop and I have a nice size tattoo on my back - which was exposed .. due to my pervocative ability to bend.

Anyway, the guy I work with sees it. And...

Him: Hey, sweet tat man.

Me: Oh, thanks.

Him: That's awesome. I have one in progress (shows me). Hey, what did you use for the aftercare?

Me: Um, A & D, then just Lubriderm after the first few days.

Him: Next time you should try Bag Balm. I got a mess of tats, that's what I've always used, it works awesome.

Me: Bag Balm?

Him: Yeah. It's what farmers use on cow's tits.

We both turn around to take our seats, and see 10 people - my boss, my clients, their lawyer, etc... in complete stunned silence.

Perfect.

life in a parallel

These days I can't seem to catch a break. I usually have a pretty rock solid sense of self, but lately I am finding cracks in the foundation that make me think otherwise. I don't see things as clearly as I used to. I have been making irrational decisions and questioning truths that have always been unwavering variables in my life. It's weird. I'm unraveling.

In the past, when something like this would happen to me I would wait it out. I'd wake up in the morning and travel throughout my day and somewhere along the way something would tell me what is right, or what it is I should do. Well I've been the most aware I have been in months, more present in my own life than ever, and yet I can't see it. I can't see the answer. It's like looking through a window in the rain. Even my own reflection is blurry and faceless. I'm unsure of my direction, roaming around in a body that doesn't feel like mine.

I can't even talk about it because I can't even describe it. Interesting, I know; I've never NOT had the words for something. I liken it to someone blindfolding me and then driving me to the middle of nowhere and leaving me there. I remember where it was that I came from and feel that burning sense of longing in my chest to go back, but I just don't know how to get there and I can't find the tools to help me on my way. No one is looking for me, no one even notices I am gone.

I can't get away from it either. It consumes all of my thoughts, all of the time. It's really starting to freak me out.

Is it weird that shoes make me horny?

Cuz this pair really do it for me.

Yes

I want somebody who sees the pointlessness
and still keeps their purpose in mind
I want somebody who has a tortured soul
some of the time
I want somebody who will either put up with me
or put me out of misery
or maybe just put it all into words
and make me say, you know
I never heard it put that way
make me say, what did you just say?
I want somebody who can hold my interest
hold it and never let it fall
someone who can flatten me with a kiss
that hits like a fist
or a sentence, that stops me like a brick wall
and if you hear me talking
listen to what I'm not saying
and don't ask me to put words
to all the spaces in between
I want to peel away your layers
and pull the realness through
just lay your true self on the line
and I might lay myself down right next to you
but don't sit behind your eyes
and wait for me to come get you
I want somebody who can make me
scream until it's funny
give me a run for my money
I want someone who can
twist me up in knots
and tell me, show me,
the girl who’s all or nothing
what have you got?
I want someone who's not afraid of me
or anyone else
in other words I want someone
who's not afraid of himself
do you think I'm asking too much?

Love. Love. Love.

I love coming out of cold movie theatres into warm summer nights. I love the smell of suntan lotion. I love the feeling of cold sheets on my skin. I love the sound of crickets. I love the smell of fresh cut grass. I love swinging on swing sets. I love my afro. I love the crunching sound of my shoes as I walk along a dirt road. I love my bed. I love weeping willows.

I love seeing babies smile. I love tattoos. I love rock and roll. I love trashy magazines. I love hot hot showers. I love the sound of rapidly typing on my keyboard when I have fresh, new ideas to share. I love road trips. I love my Dad. I love walking around my house in my ballet slippers. I love mixed CDs with no rhyme or reason. I love reading. I love driving really really fast. I love violent thunder storms. I love my black hair.


I love party dresses. I love rediscovering how many stars are really in the sky when you’re away from the city lights. I love the smell of lilacs. I love lying on my stomach on a hot sandy beach. I love falling asleep on the couch. I love dark nail polish. I love homemade soprasatta. I love bourbon. I love wild parties at my farm.

I love Christmas trees. I love singing. I love San Diego. I love the fact that I have volumes of journals dating back to 1994 with millions of quotes and passages that have appealed to me through the years. I love tight jeans. I love long, passionate kisses. I love getting caught in misty rain. I love going to concerts. I love the Nebraska Corn-Huskers. I love the Texas Longhorns. I love town's with one traffic light.


I love high heels. I love Potbelly’s skinny chocolate malts. I love Rob Zombie movies. I love creme-brule. I love kicking ass playing Madden 08 on Wii. I love traveling. I love skimming across the water in speed boats. I love the smell of salt water. I love unsophisticated humor. I love the first sip of beer on a Saturday morning during football season. I love finding hole-in-the-wall restaurants with great food. I love catching the subway just in time.


I love the smell of spring. I love dancing. I love Lynyrd Skynyrd. I love that I can still get away with no bra. I love funky t-shirts. I love waking up next to someone I love. I love lacy boyshorts. I love listening to talk radio. I love cooking. I love singing all the lyrics to Elton John's 'Tiny Dancer'. I love the way my Isabella follows me around. I love the smell of clean laundry. I love grilled cheese with cheddar and tomato. I love hot tubs. I love sitting around campfires and eating s’mores. I love bubble baths.


I love heels and a short skirt. I love yellow jellybeans. I LOVE red lipstick. I love fresh strawberries. I love ribbons. I love crossword puzzles. I love when you meet someone new and they just get you. I love laughing hysterically. I love going out for breakfast. I love kissing a boy with whiskey breath. I love the sound of waves crashing on the beach at night. I love Mexican food.

Most of all, I love my family ... my WHOLE family ... all 73 of them.

Guys are really mature. Part I

This guy called me last week while I was in the waiting room of my doctor's office. I texted him back saying I couldn't talk because I was at the doctor.

Guy: "Ew. The vag doctor?"

Me: "You're mature."

Guy: "Ask him if he has any information on labia reconstructive surgery. Then say, 'but it's not for me. it's for a friend.'"

Conversations like this make me wonder why I'm not a lesbian...

If

If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between deep purple and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my darkness.

If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.

If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.

If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.

If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.

If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.

If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.

If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.

If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.

If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.

I need a break.

I have a tendency quit books right before the end. Not quitting for good. I see it more as a break. Like I reached a good stopping point with less than a chapter to go. I had ten pages left in Helter Skelter for a year and a half. And those are a pretty significant ten pages. But I'm like, "damn, I've had enough reading for now" even though a reasonable part of me is like,"seriously? you've got ten pages to go?!" And often times I'll find a new book because, hey, I'm almost done. All the while, I'll have every intention of finishing the old one soon. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not.

In psychology they talk about pregoal and postgoal arousal. Basically, it means people are motivated by the prospect of accomplishing a goal and by reaching it. Some people show a stronger tendency towards one or the other. People who go to med school, for example, are excited enough about reaching a goal that they don't seem to mind that it won't actually be accomplished till they are about hundred years old. Postgoalers, on the other hand, might be so pumped that they graduated from high school that they can sail on that (perhaps in their mother's basement) for a good decade or so before they need something new.

I think the assumption is that it's healthy to have a good mix of the two.I'm pretty sure that I'm a pre/post goal kinda person (even if the actual category doesn't technically exist). I love the endings. That's why I think the greatest thing about a book is you can stay in the ending for as long as you want. How cool would that be if you could stay 23 for a few more years? I would gladly sell (or maybe just rent?) no sell, my first-born to stay 23 for few more years .. hit a few more parties .. hook up with a few more guys (gulit free cuz, duh, I'm only 23).

Forget the honeymoon phase, I'm not that into beginnings. I despise the awkwardness of first dates; the beginning of a semester always made me sick; and no matter how tired I am, the prospect of falling asleep is no where near as enjoyable as those last cherished minutes before you have to get up. And I don't care what the concluding line of Hope Floats says, the middle is NOT the best part. It's the darkest part of the tunnel. Who cares how cool the tunnel is? Fuck the tunnel. I think I'm getting to a point where I'm ready to put a book mark in my life and set it down for a bit.

I'll finish it eventually ... but right now? Yeah, not so much.

The Tide is High

I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I need to be reminded of it every day?

This morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled Metal Mulisha t-shirt, the hands of sleep still covering my eyes. The floor is cold and my feet are bare. My arms hang loosely at my sides, not yet ready to function and as I make my way to the bathroom, I hit my funnybone on the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I curse and rub my elbow furiously and I know what kind of day today will be.

Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. A sore elbow.

And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.

Few know that I'm thirty and am still scared of rapists. When I get home late at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.

Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am completely exposed.

Then I toss and turn and wonder ... how can this ship ever sail with so many holes in it?

Right up my alley

Place: Townie bar.
Song: Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers
Scene: Old guy attempts to dance with me, when I refuse, picks up chair and begins to waltz.

a tribute to the delictable pink pills which currently reside in my purse

Dear Pink Pills,

It's been a long time hasn't it? Almost a whole year since we last crossed paths. I take partial responsibility for this, dearest Pink Pills, because I felt I didn't need you (and in truth I really didn't) and also because I don't live 15 minutes from Tijuana anymore and couldn't get my hands on you without a prescription. As much as I love you, my pride forbade me from providing sexual favors for doctors specifically to procure myself (unnecessary) medication.

But this week I found myself needing you, desiring you, begging to have you back in my life (literally, I actually begged someone. Like, down on my knees,begged them). And you came through for me, Pink Pills. You made my life better - a place of happiness and light in those hours I couldn't rely on my main man, Jack Daniels, to take the pain away. (Fabulous as he is, he isn't always appropriate company. Remember the mess he made the last time I enjoyed his company on the train? Not. Good.)

You've helped me through some tough times before, Pink Pills. Like the time we first met after I had been so roughly assaulted by a baseball bat (though others may not agree, I maintain that merely taking part in the game of baseball counts as a form of assault), or our encounter when you so kindly helped me recover from a ballet (pulled groin) related injury. But the time that I knew you were really for me, Pink Pills, when I knew that you were more than just a fairweather friend was when you helped me through the pain when I fractured my wrist trying to save my bottle of Patron. I thought I was going to die from the pain and you saved me. You even made my week one day shorter by allowing me to slip into a mild coma for 36 hours.

And now, although I'm not asking you to help me climb mountains, you have gotten me through the last eight hours. So I thank you for that, please don't think badly of me this evening when I abandon you again and run to the loving arms of Mr. Daniels. You know I love you - he's just more fun in social situations.

Thanks again, Pink Pills; for some you may just be an aid to combat pain, but for me you are 400 milligrams of candy coated happiness.

Eternally yours,

Rebecca

It's been a year ...

If tears could build a stairway
And memories were a lane,
I would walk right up to heaven
To bring you home again.

No farewell words were spoken.
No time to say good-bye.
You were gone before I knew it,
And only God knows why.

My heart still aches in sadness
My secret tears still flow.
What it meant to lose you,
No one will ever know.


I miss you so much, Nicky.

An Impromptu Tour of My Brain.

Among my many quirks is this - I get obsessed with things fairly easily. The length of obsession generally varies. Sometimes its with people. Sometimes its things. When it happens, I am amazed at how quickly I am completely consumed. The more there is to learn about something, the more voracious I become.

For example, in eighth grade I became fanatical about Charles Manson. Yeah, I know, it's kind of weird coming from a cute little thing like me. I hung the cover sleeve from Antichrist Superstar on my bedroom door and would dance pirouettes around my room to Iron Maiden.

Six years ago, I became quickly infatuated with anything Russian. Don't ask. From there, I jumped into the whole saga of Nicolas and Anastasia, which was even darker and more plagued with dirty, Russian secrets. Those thick, heavy accents, the filthy snow and ragged serfs begging for food. Autocracy and despotism. I was all over it.

There have been other obsessions: Chuck Palahniuk novels, vanilla perfume, John Bonham, cake decorating, the Dirty South, Irvine Welsh, deep sea creatures, tornado's, the poetry of Philip Larkin, Mark Strand, the plagues of the Bible, Hunter S. Thompson. You name it, I have been completely consumed by it for at least twenty-four hours.

But by far, nothing has captivated me more than music history. Though, specifically between the years of 1967-1972 in England and New York. Yeah, I'm talking about the Punk Rock movement. I know a lot of you already know how insane I am over this shit ... and it doesn't even apply specifically to this era - I love SoCal punk bands who played night after night in the garage beneath my unit, who play at Pacific Beach Pub on a Wednesday night. If you're dirty, loud, full of ink and have some sort of substance dependency ... there's not a day my heart won't find you.

My obsession remains unwavered.

And for a chick like me -that means something.

Quote of The Day

"We can't even be friends."

which is a close second to my favorite:

"I'm gonna to take a shit on your picture."

"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you."

I love Fleetwood Mac.

Thankfully, I was blessed with a father who loved great music and ensured this passion was ingrained in his children from birth (he taught us about Zeppelin, Floyd and CCR before he taught us table manners).

The thing about The Mac that I was always drawn to was the Lindsay /Stevie angst - it's fucking divine. This particular performance is off the chain, because "Silver Springs" is about immortalizing a love affair through art. Stevie has said that she hoped her songs about Lindsay would ensure that she'd be burnt into his psyche forever. The music they made together guarantees they will be dicking each other over in spectacular fashion for all of eternity.

Even if you hate Fleetwood Mac, you have to at least watch the end of this. The way she looks at him when she sings "Never get away..." CHA-HILLS runnin' up my spine, brother!

Confessions

To the girl I pushed out of my way and called an idiot because she stood still on subway escalator and blocked people (me) from passing. I may have overreacted. A bit.

To the guy from Tonic, sorry I didn't come to your place and have sex with you like you suggested. Apart from the fact that I'm not a whore, your place was the opposite direction of my house and I really didn't care for your jacket.

To the other guy who sat at the bar for 3 hours and ogled me. Thanks, but you weren't my cup of tea. Also, I wouldn't be interested in someone who has wiry orange hair billowing out of his argyle twin set.

To the SkaterBoy, sorry I didn't like you as much as your heavyset friend but he had a beautiful smile and refused to laugh at my story the second time he heard it. Additionally, you were too forthcoming with your "grooming rituals" ...if that's your deal, fine - I don't judge, but that's something best kept to yourself methinks.

To Heather Levin, sorry I let your older brother feel me up twice (2x) in the tent in your backyard after your birthday party.

To Crash, yes I did and it was awesome.

To Michael, I was the one moving the controller on the Ouija board.

To Allison, sorry we threw that going away party for you the day after you moved.

To the lady in the automotive dept., sorry I reared back like someone was trying to force my face into a bear trap when you were talking to me. A little mustache on a girl can be endearing, but that thing looked like one of Peter Gallagher's eyebrows. I swear when you turned to say something to me, your whiskers scratched my eyeball.

To Nicole, no it wasn't my fault, it was yours. You were wearing a maternity shirt.

To Doug Atwell, - D.K never really screwed your girlfriend like I told you. My brother did. Oh, and the part where I said she was a filthy slag? That was true.

To Jen S., sorry I drank half a bottle of your mom's Stoli replacing it with water. I didn't know she'd ground you. You wouldn't have liked the Apple River trip anyway.

One for my friend:

To the girl with the (possibly) lazy eye in the sunglasses from the Laguna art festival, my friend Jeremy would like to thank you for the spirited blow-j - but he couldn't help but wonder why you selected U2 as the soundtrack for your activities. He found it be be very distracting and repetitive.

And he's sorry about your hand towel.

Football & Stomach - Two big upsets in one night.

First off, I'd like to say congratulations to the New York Football Giants for an absolutely amazing game. I started out at a bar for the night, but the free Jim Beam and mini soy corn dogs did not sit well in my already temperamental stomach. I was forced to go home during the first quarter to lie on my couch with a bottle of Pepto. Not fun.

Now, this is one of the few, if not only times I will cheer for the Giants. I hate them. I dated a Giants fan during the 2002 NFC Championship debacle, and I never heard the end of it. I took a lot of pleasure watching the Vikings destroy the Giants this year. However, the short-sleeved force of evil known as Bill Belichick needed to be stopped. I swallowed my pride, and attempted to muffle my laughter when Eli got another delay of game penalty. THAT'S how badly I wanted the Pats to lose.I found myself jumping up and down in my apartment alone when Stems Plexiglass caught the game winning touchdown. Then I stood there in awe when something occurred to me. Something I never thought would ever happen in a million years.

I was impressed...by Eli Manning.

I'll just let you guys marinate in that one a little bit.

At that very moment, I was almost proud to be residing on the same coast as this great team. The ultimate underdogs. It was like last year's NCAA Fiesta Bowl and the Giants were Boise State, and the Patriots were Oklahoma U. That's how it felt. Miraculous. Seeing that fucking smug, cheating bastard in his red hoodie (NOT the game to change it up, yo) abandon his entire team on the field with 1 second left made me almost throw my TV out the window.

Anyway, that's my Superbowl night in a nutshell. So0000 not the same as the parties we would throw in the courtyard of the unit - but hey, I'm back in Canada. I'll take what I can.

Why is my left arm numb?

I went out and drank a few (nine) drinks last night and it was fun. So fun that I forgot to eat dinner.

Upon waking up (late) this morning, I was hit by the "Jack Daniels Gut-Rot" coupled with intense starvation. I rushed through a shower and out the door, ran to the subway, caught my train - then as I was walking by McDonald's I was captivated by the poster for the Country Breakfast Burrito ....bacon, eggs, hash browns, AND cheese all rolled conveniently into a nice utensil-free meal. Anyone who know's me knows that I am eternally devoted to the breakfast burrito, so......I went for it.

It was f'n delicious but I think I'm having a heart attack.

Just another Saturday night

You know you shouldn't have any more wine when you go to crack open a fifth bottle, and can't. The corkscrew is bent. At least that's what you tell me when it rips out and takes the middle section of the cork with it in shreds of waste. Well, this bottle is ruined, so now what? You mention driving to go get some but DUI's are real expensive. You're not thinking of the vans full of children, because...why would you think about them? But, oh right, you're not drunk...just DUIable.

So the next best (and yes, reasonable) idea --push the cork into the bottle. You stab a steak knife into the cork and twist it a bit. Shreds of cork fall both onto the floor and into the wine. You jerk the knife wildly, working yourself into a good sweat, but that cork won't budge. You give up on the steak knife and move to a phillip's screwdriver. You're fixated at this point. You resemble a chimp with his stick at the ant hill. A final burst of strength pops the cork inward, and because you're not interested in the sciences, you're unprepared for what happens next. You didn't know a wine bottle is an air-tight vessel (?)- when the cork is being pushed through, a suction force is created - and what you refer to as a "vacuum" has now sucked up the shredded remainders of cork well into the body of your '92 Chianti, and at an impressive speed.

Hey, you're the one who wanted wine.

A shower of wine is what you get - on your hands, shirt, the kitchen counter, the stove, the walls and the ceiling. You wipe the wine off your face and forearms and then pour it into a pint glass. Right to the rim. Cork shrapnel sinks to the bottom, which is surprising, but nice. That way you can consume the wine off the top and not worry about eating cork.

But you eat cork anyway.

That's when you realize it's probably not a good idea to drink anymore wine.

Hello Tom Green!

To CC or not to CC

Emails were shooting around today between the boys regarding the Buick Invitational which happens each year in La Jolla - and uh-oh, Elliot was downgraded to the "cc" column by Wood. He didn't take too kindly to that - here's the email that came back:

By Elliot

Re: Cc This, Muhfucka.

Thanks for the fucking courtesy copy, Wood. What the fuck. Is it too much to ask that I be included among those whom the email was intended to be received by? I mean what is the point of really going out of your way to specifically single me out as somebody not worthy of the same consideration as those whom the email was directly sent to?

I understand that you are basically saying “You are my friend so I want to keep you in the loop, but I know that you probably won’t go because you are too busy awesoming in Hollywood.” But is it too much to ask that you just include me with the rest of your friends? Or has 15+ years of friendship gone by the wayside? By adding my name to the “To” column, rather than the bitch-ass “Cc”, I promise you that I will not feel pressured to attend the fucking Buick Invitational. In fact, maybe I would be more inclined to attend because I would feel as though I were part of a fraternity where my input was valued and appreciated. But instead, I am treated as a third-class citizen, relegated to the periphery, hoping that one day I can be in the in-crowd of those in the “To” column.

I got news for you, fucking Steve: I have the memory of an elephant (who smoked a lot of weed over the span of their elephant life) and I won’t soon forget the treatment I received today. As you can see through those squinty little bloodshot eyes of yours, I have sent this email to my favorite little blogger to ensure that this day will be remembered a long time from now as the day when yours truly stood up and said, “FUCK THAT”!


PS. Wood was cc'd.

PPS. I bolded and enlarged the most important sentence in this post. Why? Cuz I can.

Peace.

Ahhh, Dusty. You stupid little bugger.

This is a new record for me. Three posts in one day ... and YES, I do have a job and I am actually quite busy - but I couldn't resist. Here is a little ditty (courtesy of Wood) about our favorite boy wonder, Dustin.

By: Wood

Here’s Dustin’s weekend in a nutshell:

Friday Night – He and Troy go party somewhere in Mission Beach – one of Troy’s friends. I guess they also stopped by Jessie and Jenna’s new place. Dustin was apparently very drunk. Then they went to Sand Bar, which Dustin doesn’t remember at all– again, very drunk. Comes home around 1am and stays up to play poker until 5:30. Loses his ass and doesn’t remember going to sleep, or whether or not he was up or down winnings-wise…

SaturDAY – He wakes up around 10:30, makes a cup of coffee, eats some potato chips, makes a drink, aaaaaaand goes back to sleep.

Saturday Evening – Wakes from his nap at 6:15 - and at 6:30 he retires to his room and is asleep by 7PM.

Sunday AM – We all wake up to start watching football, so we obviously commence with the drinking. At 11am we start with some tequila shots and vodka drinks - then the Charger's lose and he is not happy. We drink more, finish off with some red wine, which I proceed to spill on his pants (just a little, not like throwing my drink on him or anything). He freaks out cuz they’re his favorite pair of pants, so I tell him to take them off and put them in water, so the stain doesn’t set. He then puts them in the bathtub (with about 4” of water). Naomi mentions to me before we go to bed that I’m going to have to deal with his pants in the AM (as I’m always the first to shower). Damnit.

Monday AM – I wake up, crawl to the shower, only to discover the wet pants in the bathtub that I forgot about. As I’m cussing to myself, draining the water and hanging his pants, I feel something clumpy in one of his pockets. Yep, it was his wallet… just sitting in 4” of water ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!!! All of the sudden, I was kinda glad I had to “deal with his pants” in the morning - I really needed the laugh. I don’t wish bad upon him, or anything, but it was pretty funny how utterly fucked his wallet (and weekend) was at that point…


Shanda's take on this weekend:

By: Shanda

Dustin was hammered at Sandbar on Friday and was getting yelled at by these huge vato Mexican guys because he wouldn't dance with me. They were all, "hey homie, your girl wants to dance...be a man and dance with her. Don't let her dance by herself." Dustin refused to dance. This made the vatos a little uspet so they approached him again. Finally, Dustin realized that if he didn't dance with me he was probably going to get his ass kicked, so he decided to dance. So there's Dustin, dancing in the middle of a whole group of vato guys and black guys who were just staring him down. He totally wanted to move somewhere else, but I was having too much fun watching him dance in fear (I know, I am mean, but it was so fun).

Then he started getting all pissed off (yes, he was drinking redbull and vodkas) so I decided we should go to the other side of the bar because Snakes McEchols was going to come out and he would have gotten his ass kicked. I admit it would have been hilarious to see Dustin step up to these guys (with Troy as his back up), but I didn't want them to get hurt so thought it was best to move.


Dustin - Thank you.

Sincerely.

You cured my case of the "Mondays".



Dustin's response to this post:

Hahaha…just laugh it up…my antics are just soooo funny aren’t they? Yes that’s what I’m here for…to amuse all you bastards! One of the shittiest weekends ever!!

I'm just sayin' ....

I have been trying not to use the word "HATE" when describing the way I feel towards something as HATE is such a strong word. So I’m just going to say this….

I "don't appreciate" the Pat's in general - but now more than ever I wish them impending doom for stealing my dream of the Charger's playing in Super Bowl XLII.

And who the fuck plays an entire season undefeated, anyway?? Where the hell is the excitement in that?

Bastard.

(oh sorry, that would be his son)

BURN!!!

C.H.A.L.L.E.N.G.E.!!!

My cousin is in sixth grade and got a Mac notebook for Christmas. I know. Totally jealous.

At any rate, yesterday I helped him create a podcast. When we were done, I went downstairs to eat and my cousin picked up his computer, and the AC adaptor, and left the room. Thirty seconds later I heard a loud crash. I walked into the room to find smashed glass and water gushing out all over the floor. Turns out he had been swinging the AC adaptor over his head like a lasso and the heavy white square part crashed into a glass vase on a shelf, breaking it into smithereens.

Do you remember being a child and having such a freewheeling and irresponsible relationship to material objects? I once accidentally kicked a pair of heels off in a hissy and broke a stained-glass window. I remember my sister and I were once chasing each other around the island in my parents kitchen, each with a full glass of water in our hands and then suddenly, like drunken whore's, clanked the glasses together, shattering them and drenching each other. I feel like I haven't gotten carried away with that kind of fun in a long time. Sad.

That said, I am fully committed to break something carelessly this week - believe me when I say, I'm due for some serious destruction.

Game on, bitches!!

Paging Mr. Sandman

Insomnia. It's here, and it's here with a vengeance.

It's hard to point to the cause as this is a relatively common issue with me. But I feel like I've probably had two nights of sleep in the past week. It's getting brutal. Today I woke up at 3:00 AM, and lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself back to sleep. And eventually, I did. I fell back asleep at about 6:30 AM. 30 minutes before my alarm went off. Awesome.

Have you ever had insomnia so badly that you start drifting into madness? I think it's starting to happen to me. It started out normally... and then I started thinking, (which is the kiss of death for insomniacs). I thought about work. I thought about California. I then started thinking about whiskey, and what my favorite brands are. I thought about Irish vs. Bourbon, and decided I'm definitely more of a "Dirty South Bourbon" kinda gal. I then started listing my favorite Led Zeppelin tracks, and wondering how anyone could possibly create such unbelievable music and still have enough genius left over to make the 'The Song Remains the Same'. I then decided to write something about John Bonham (because I'm eternally obsessed with the drummer). I even started composing it in my head. It went downhill from there.

Finally, I was staring insanity in the face.

I called my ex-BF (which is my go to move when I can't sleep). We discussed different methods regarding how one may be able to induce sleep - he wondered (seriously): Could a person punch themself hard enough in the face to knock themself unconscious? I mean, I'm a relatively small person, but he's confident that if I got my weight behind it, I could knock myself out. Sure, I might break my hand, but the point is - could I turn that on myself? I decided the physics and the angling just wouldn't work. So instead I got up and went to the bathroom. Upon exiting the bathroom, he suggested... "what if you just charged towards the bed, and deliberately slammed your head into the wall above the bed? You'd get knocked out, and then just collapse onto the bed". It seemed a perfect plan, except the force would probably snap my neck. Back to whiskey. I thought, "I've got a couple bottles. Maybe I'll just go drink a mess of whiskey and pass out." I abandoned this thought because a) drinking alone is indicative of a much larger issue b) I had already slammed half a bottle Nyquil and c) probably not the best plan when I have to be at work in four hours and I am just beginning to get over the flu.

Then, miraculously, I fell asleep without having to drink myself into submission or crack my skull. And then 30 minutes later my alarm went off. Despite my preference for ditch-pig profanity, I couldn't possibly type out the words I used this morning. It was that bad. I mean, big points for creativity.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is... I'm really fucking tired.

And I think I need to go to the hospital.

Thick and thin ... you can always count on Rubio's

When I was back in California in September they were erecting a new fast food restaurant in my ex-BF's neighborhood- every once in a while we'd drive by and I'd comment, "Mmmm, we have to try that restaurant when it opens."

So, while I was back again over New Years my friend Holly told me that said new restaurant is one of her favorite fast food places. And I re-told this story to ex-BF, reiterating the fact that we should try it sometime.

He replied, "Nasty."

"How do you know? Have you been there before?"

"Yeah. A grip of times."

And before I even had the logical thought of "Dude, if it's nasty, why have you gone a grip of times?", I'm thinking, WHAT!!? You went to a new restaurant without consulting me? Don't you know that you must check in with me before doing ANYTHING IN LIFE because I might want to do it too? How dare you stop at a very convenient restaurant that is exactly on your way home from work to eat when I am 2000 miles away? Here I was counting the days to try the restaurant with you so we can enjoy an experience TOGETHER, only to find out you are off discovering new restaurants and new shops and new cities and probably new women!!!!!

I was actually getting quite bitter about it - because I am an irrational asshole and I need to be punched in the face. Luckily, he knows me well enough to laugh at my emotional outbursts ... and then take me directly to Rubio's for fish taco's.

All's well that ends well.

Home.

When you're away from home for two weeks, you return to what seems like an altered state of reality. Everyone you left behind went on doing whatever they did before you left. They washed dishes, had conversations, sang along to the radio, went on walks.... And I am back in California stepping right back into a life I left a year ago without missing a beat. It seems like I never left. And then I return home, wash the warm ocean air from my hair and take off the make-up I painted on before I left San Diego, and I feel odd. Uncomfortable. Unsettled and uneasy in my own home. I wonder what it is, this strange adjustment to a life I, oftentimes, don't feel connected to.

"Where the Hell Did You Get These Towels?"

Well, the holidays have come and gone. I have done much over the past few weeks, but I think I will start with Christmas at my parents. We had our usual gluttonous eve and day - lots of food, family, alcohol - and yes, fire. I also managed to exchange the usual pleasantries with my mother, including this little ditty, which I entitled "The Towel Incident":

(Cut to my mother, folding up my already clean laundry, which she insists on rewashing because she doesn't trust the detergent I buy (Cheer). She grabs an over-sized white towel with a navy blue "R" embroidered onto it.)

Mother: WHERE DID YOU GET THIS TOWEL?

Me: Oh, the Bed, Bath & Beyond Outlet. They put the "mistake" towels in a bin for like $6. Why?

Mother: IT IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL TOWEL! IT'S HUGE!!

Me: I know.

Mother: AND THE PILE... IT'S SO THICK! I THINK THIS MIGHT BE ONE OF THE NICEST TOWELS I'VE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!!

Me: Do you want it?

Mother: Psssshhht, get out of here!

Me: I can buy you one online and ship it here... they're like $20...

Mother: YOU KNOW WHAT????!!! .... do me a favor, keep your money... I don't NEED any more towels.

Me: Are you sure? I can do it right now.

Mother: REBECCA, PLEASE! Get out of here with your idiot ideas.

Cut to: The Next Morning.

Me: (Washing my face, and drying it on one of my parents' towels. As my face pulls away, the entire towel is soaked in blood, because that is how hard and stiff and sandpapery it is.) This towel is literally absorbing every ounce of moisture from my body!

Thankfully, this will all be scripted in the upcoming Lifetime special I'm writing called "Mother's Towels."

It's Called Having Standards

I sat at work today peeling an orange for my mid-morning snack and bemoaning my tendency to agree to impossible tasks when I suddenly had a flashback to preschool.

Specifically, I remembered the two types of kids that I reserved my greatest four year old indignation and hatred for. The kids who I would never play house with because they’d ruin the entire recess by insisting on being the baby and spending the entire time screaming so that I (in the role of Mother, aka boss) couldn't’ get dinner made or find time to clean the house before my husband got home. I suppose some people in our child worshiping society might argue that being four is an acceptable excuse for most any personality disorder but these people are mostly idiots, democrats or hippies ... so nobody should feel obligated to listen to them.

If you are the parent of a Gen Z'er, it would be wise to ensure they grow up to avoid the following children:

Kids who say “ruf” instead of “roof”
Kids who ask adults to start their orange for them.

Just to clarify: The first set of kids are not unaware of how the word "roof" should be pronounced (and frankly I’d cut them some slack if they were at least pronouncing it phonetically) they just think it’s cute to say the word incorrectly. A desire to be wrong but adorable is cause for much concern and a clear indication of mild retardation. And the second group? The wimpy kids who behave as if they had been born with some sort of fingernail defect? Co-dependent, needy, self important babies. Obviously all of these children would perish had survival of the fittest not been trumped by over protective parenting. And where do you think each group of children from my preschool class (“82 FOREVER!!!”) is now, 26 years later? I suspect they’ve all grown up to be the kind of adults I hate.

1) Women incapable of managing their own money and always willing to claim their boyfriend is smarter than they are.

2) Men who can’t sew on a button and happily turn over tasks like remembering their mother’s birthday to their wifey-poo.

Excuse me while I barf.