Witching Hour

I am not a nice girl. I am not a sweet woman. The clock just struck truth and madness. I started this mermaid symbology to tap into my inner beauty but my inner beauty is dark and strange. On Saturday I was toted in a bicycle chariot up California Avenue by a potion brewing warrior. We kissed in the shadows and now I finally release my inner mother nature. This year, boys and girls, mother nature is tsunamis and tornados. She is moonstruck coyotes clamoring at the cataclysm. She laps up chaos and laughs at your dismantled structures. This siren sings sailors from their personal bondage and throws mona lisa smirks from her island.

Swim, bitches, swim.

(Credits to Dean and Diamanda Galas for inspiring this train of madness. Also to Tray Mead for the image.)

Muscley Mama

I'm slowly getting better. My doctor is giving me steroid infusions for 3 hours a day, I'm starting to remember words and I'm going back to work on Thursday.

********************************

Do you think I'm sexier on steroids?

Ironically Craving

craving: an intense, urgent, or abnormal desire or longing

What I crave and what I do are not presently joined. I crave a long sleep on the warm grass but I sit at a desk and read articles about craving. I craft a grant about craving scales as they relate to addiction while I crave sunshine and birdsong and leisure but my arms are strapped with plastic tubes to the keyboard and so I crave as I create an explanation of craving.

I have officially drowned myself in the existentialist sewer.

Muskrat Love

I have this gnawing suspicion that I am not living my own life. Like maybe I accidentally spliced the tape of my internal soundtrack to a copy of America's Greatest Hits and I'm walking around singing about a horse with no name and Ventura Hwy even though I hate those songs and they aren't even in my key but they stick in my head forever. In my dreams lately, I'm the only one who realizes those people gathering on the sidewalk are actually flesh-eating zombies and the Program Director insists that I bring them in for an appointment right away because they are just a little psychotic. Somehow he doesn't notice them spitting out fingernails and eyelashes. Meanwhile, my supervisor is giving away the last water in the county to these zombies who really are just waiting to snap her neck and chew on her brains and Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn't already have and there isn't even a power button on the goddamned sound system. It just gets louder and I'm almost grateful when a crackhead knocks me down and starts repeatedly stomping on my face.

And I'm working on a graduate degree in this discipline and you really can't even think about a career shift during a recession with a kid about to go off to college. So just keep kicking me in the face, crackhead, just keep kicking. Sooner or later I'll either pass out or remember another melody and then I will sing all of the notes to some sick acid rock guitar solo in a perfectly pitched wail and it will drown out all of the Sister Golden Hairs who will hold their bleeding eardrums and slip on all of the shit leaking out of their state-of-the-art septic tanks and I will not document how many days the tank has been leaking and I will not pull the records of the purchase date and I will not write down that their eardrums are bleeding nor the causality and I will not fax a picture of the event to the FDA within 24 hours. I will just laugh and scratch out all of the band America's lyrics with a leaky, puddly pen and I will never, ever initial and date those blobs of ink. I will just laugh and sing all of the acid guitar solos that used to accompany my dreams and also all of the original Tom & Jerry soundtracks louder and louder and louder until we all finally admit that life is just one great, big fat Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle -- or maybe a Quantum theory of observation -- and if we don't wise up, it's going to seem like the flesh-eating zombies are eating our brains but we still have to get up at 5:55 a.m. and go to work and think about the best way to identify an error correct or how to keep that crackhead clean once he's kicked it.

Braaaains ... need brains....

I wrote a test on OK Cupid and you should take it and rate it (because I entered it in the geekery contest.)

Go, now before the zombies get you. Have fun!

http://www.helloquizzy.com/tests/the-zombie-pandemic-personality-test

"Waiting For My Man"

In case you hadn't noticed yet, I have a very intense and admittedly bizarre crush on John Leguizamo. (He's sexy, smart, an author, a playwright and he chooses interesting roles -- for example he played Toulouse-Lautrec and an MD who snorted lines off his married mistress' ass on primetime network TV while brandishing a gun and admonishing his residents to stay abreast of the latest medical research. Also he was in a Romero zombie movie and I can really only love a man who knows what to do in case of zombie pandemic.)

Anyway... Leguizamo is in town -- actually, he and Freddy Rodriguez (another man with a zombie pandemic plan) are filming a movie in my neighborhood and like my neighborhood, it's called Humboldt Park. (I am not afraid to tell you where I live because you are way too much of a wimpy crybaby to come here and find me.)

I know he's married, but I figure since we'll be in the same neighborhood, I'll have him over for some barbeque and beer... that's all, because I'm actually a lady even if I am occasionally lascivious and often way too tough for you.

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

This audacity of theirs is not new.



Oh, Dick!!! I Want To Ream You!!!

Cheney, Cheney, Cheney

Mine own ravenous vampire

My Midas zombie king!!!

Go and run far away.

Just run and run and run

Take your lead heart

and your thirst and your hunger

To lie, to sneer, to kill

I caress your lily white hands

Soft as the Pillsbury Doughboy

You are soft as the Pillsbury Doughboy

Because you are old and impotent

And this is why you kill children

And this is why you kill mothers

And this is why you plunge drills

Deep into the earth's core

Because you are impotent

And so we all shall suffer

Your hanging flag

And your long shotgun

Your long, long shotgun

For you are not a man.

But you are from Wyoming

And know the glacier

Of inadequacy.

And so you kill babies

And so you kill Americans

And so you kill Iraqis

And so you kill everyone

You shoot your friends

You rape civilization

You rape the constitution

With your lily-white hands

And your limp Dick Cheney

In Hell you will be spread

Shot and speared and reamed,

Dick -- 9 times in 9 places

Forever and ever again and again...

In your head they are fighting...

How bitchy is it to be really irritated by those who use no punctuation nor capitals in their emails -- except when their LOLing all over the email like a giddy 12 year old girl on a sugar high?

LOL, LOL, LOL

I enjoy laughing aloud. I've even been known to gleefully cackle. When I write an email, my laughter is implied. Use the context clues. If there is a misunderstanding, farcical plotlines ensue. Later, we can LOL together.

Also, WTF is IMAO? I googled it -- instant message at once.

One of my standard icebreaker questions when meeting a gentleman who might have potential is: What would you do in case of a zombie pandemic? How would you survive?

This question separates the men from the boys. It's a brief global assessment of a man's wits, imagination, priorities, sense of humor, common sense and his ability to survive a pandemic in order to reproduce -- which on a Darwinian level, gets a lady all worked up. (Of course, it probably helps if he's into zombie flicks. There could be a minor snag in my seemingly foolproof test.)

Anyway... perhaps you can understand why I might have found "IMAO" as a response to this question rather disappointing.

OMGWTF, LOL.
Oh and NFY...

A Girl and a Bar

We had an impromptu Streetside regular reunion on Saturday evening. It was big fun and I got lots of spine-aligning hugs and beery kisses.

What rocks about Streetside:

1. Reasonably priced drinks, comparatively speaking.
2. All tall mixers are served in pint glasses.
3. Bartenders know how to pour.
4. Everybody knows my name.
5. Fantastic collection of drunken geeks.
6. Eclectic and interesting topics of conversation (examples listed below)

• Methods of surviving a long-term zombie infestation
• Naughty proclivities of individuals born under the sign of Virgo
• Spelunking adventures
• Advanced genetics
• Overlooked film directors
• Movies you never saw but should have
• “Can’t get enough of that funky stuff!” and the "Pusher Man."
• Who has been pulled over/ arrested most
• Military service and other sucky jobs
• Politics – municipal through national
• Fractiles – Musical expression or mathematical masturbation?
• Who got shot at the Ace of Fades this week?
• What is this, Deadwood ?
• Baseball
• Neurobiochemistry

What sucks about Streetside:

1. Incessant firing of excellent bartenders.
2. Shameless courtship of the Westward Ho Chads and Trixies.
3. Current patronage of Chads and Trixies visiting the neighborhood to buy up all of the real estate, screw up the local cost of living, and generally exhibit bad taste in music, fashion, politics and baseball.
4. Yo, DJ! Turn the treble down! The sound system is messed up.
5. Talking billboards in the "Girls Only" room
6. Why must all the beer specials involve PBR and 312 (local brew tasting of draft line smegma and stale cheerios)?

It is also one of the only bars open until 2 a.m. every night in Humblo Squark. (Don't forget Maria's Whirlaway Lounge.)