No Theme Today

“S” just called, she’s done with finals, and is patiently waiting for me to knock off work early.  I’m listening to Estelle’s “Come Over”, like sweet breath to my ears.  “S” told me her man has been hired on as a GM of a fitness franchise here.  We’re movin’ on up!  haha…maybe she can trade in that crappy Grand-Am.  We went from a slammed 500 series Beamer, to an Acura, to rollin’ the Grand-Am.  Economy’s been tough.  When I refer to “we”, I try to live my life without materialism, I enjoy that moral high-ground, so I rely on my friends and family to sell out to the “man” and collect the fringe benefits.  Works out well.  So, yeah, “we’re” movin’ on up.

I woke up this morning to the tragedy of Chengdu.  On the Today Show, I thought I saw a misty Anne Curry for a split moment as she was forced to segue into the dumb democratic primary.  Maybe it was me welling up.  Chengdu is where we send our students to study abroad here.  I wonder if they are surviving.

62,000 dead in Myanmar, civil war looming in Zimbabwe, the Sudan still…and here I am in this cubicle coma, staring at my computer screens.  I cannot claim victory over feeling useless these days.  My hands, my eyes, my heart, all untapped resources for this crazy world…

I have to go meet “S”…

Ultimate Fighting is Homo-erotic

It is.  Roman-Greco wrestling was too.  Shining male bodies, scantily-clad puting each other in very compromising, tight, contortionist positions.  Looks like foreplay to me.

We went to the cage fights Saturday night.  Admittedly, it was very exciting, lots of adrenaline.  What I noticed was that these fighters were small, out of shape, physically confusing to me.  I’ve dated guys fresh out of prison that were true scrappers.  There is a lot of money to be made as a trainer, as a steady supplier of contenders, or fight promotions.   After the drinks loosened me up, I told Leggs we should look into it.

The ringside table was pimp.  The table service was money.  Big money.  At the end, the tab resembled a five-star restaurant bill.  I shot myself in the foot by going stag.  I could’ve at least split it.  Seven dollar beers, ouch.

Sunday was mother’s day.  Wonder what she is up to.  Wonder how long my stubbornness will get the best of me.  Wonder if I will admit all that is necessary for me to have peace.  Wonder if she thinks about me too.   Mothers.  Such a hold they have on us.  They can give up on us, hit the pipe, and sleep away our memory, and yet their touch is a blanket of warmth and refuge.  Just because they gave us life, our life is never complete without them.  What a price we sometimes pay.

Jason came over at the crack this morning.  I stayed up until midnight cleaning.  He’s so good at worshipping parts of me.  Just not the parts I would prefer him to worship.  I wasn’t even close to asking him the questions that have plagued me about this man.  He drives me nuts.  How dare I let my political enemy get the best of me.  I guess I am just keeping him close for now, as the saying would have it.  Promoted to commander, on his way to corporal.  Jason’s ambition is frightening, slightly enviable.  He asked why Gotti is not trained yet.  I guess that’s how things are in his world.  Everything is trained, follows orders, understands duty, and the only goal is to complete the mission.  Here I am…everything unruly, my home, my dog, my life.   Whatever, I didn’t sign up for any of that shit, he did.  He gets my gratitude, he was tasting it on his lips and chin on his way to work this morning…haha.  

Ok…so my gourd friend?  We think it’s a Japanese game show she’s been chosen for.  Hilarious.  At least it’s syndicated.  

Summer Anthem

She sounds like the lead singer of “The Sounds”, other times she sounds like a cross between Joan Jett and Gwen Stefani - her vocals are top-notch.  The lyrics are like sweet messages from angst heaven, “…We think you’re a joke, shove your hope where it don’t shine…”  Santogold is a genius.  She’s doing the obligatory Europe tour before her American tour.  It takes us awhile.  I first found her on Pandora with SIA radio.  I love music where ladies standoff with life and love.  SIA’s “Buttons”, Lily Allen’s “Cheryl Tweedy”.   

Karaoke Junkies

Karaoke, ‘kara’ meaning “empty”, and ‘oke’ meaning “orchestra”, in Japanese.  If you can’t spell it and interpret it, you should not be able to perform it.  That should get me to the front of the line quickly.

We went to the ‘dirty, dirty’ last night.  It’s in the middle of a dying town center nearby.  The kind of bar you go to when you’re feeling down about your lot in life.  Five minutes in that place will cause great amounts of gratitude for all that you are, and all that you have.  Tweakers, loners, fatties, geeks, retards, elderly, if I was forced to pigeon-hole them all.  “S” and I were supposed to go to the batting cages, but I was late in getting to her house (suburban coma).  So we settled on a beer and one karaoke song.

The karaoke master of ceremonies was a mixture of power-drunk and alcoholic-drunk.  A masculine woman with no teeth and no pesky urge to shower daily.  She only had two song books for a large group of people.  There was at least a 3 minute intermission between songs, which in karaoke time, is like 3 hours.  Dead air.  I snagged a book from a couple of large ladies at a large table.  “S” ordered a screwdriver, I had a greyhound.  Although we ordered well, the bartender poured us Stoli, god bless her heart.  A great bartender by the way, a put-away-wet, dairy queen blond in her early 30s.  The right amount of attentiveness, no trace of bartender arrogance.  It was time to pick our songs.

“S” and I have different approaches to choosing a song.  I have no delusions of grandeur when it comes to karaoke.  My singing voice is flat and off-key.  I would consider myself an entertainer.  My song choices revolve around my audience.  I search for songs off the beaten karaoke path.  These songs are difficult for the average karaoke singer, and only for entertainment purposes.  Freddie Mercury of Queen, Robert Plant of Led Zepplin, Billy Joel, Foghat, these are all examples of artists you would not seriously attempt to karaoke.  “S” on the other hand can carry a tune, she’s definitely a contralto, higher than Nina Simone, lower than Christina Aguilera.  “S” typically does the same list of songs, although she will throw in one or two that she wants to experiment with.  My songs are always changing.

I was stoked to sing “Fat Bottomed Girls” by Queen.  I just discovered it a week ago.  Bryan May, the Queen guitarist, wrote the song.  What a genious.  When I turned my song into the slurring karaoke MC, she held my hopes hostage for about 5 minutes while looking for it, then finally declared that she did not have that song available.  In my disgust, I asked if there were any other song choices we should stay away from due to her supply issues.  I think I walked away without waiting for an answer.  I went back to her a drink later and handed her Led Zepplin’s “Whole Lotta Love”, what a great yelling song.  Robert Plant is a god.

When I got up there, I danced, I yelled, “…keepa coolin baby…”, and the pack of guys in the corner table gave me a couple hoots and hollers.  What worked is that this song is great even with awful vocals.  It’s upbeat, and sexy.  Afterwards, my throat hurt from the yelling.  I wanted another shot at, I knew I could nail it so much better the second time around.  Alas, you have to move on.

Someone sang the “S” trademark Cher song, “If I Could Turn Back Time”, twice.  I honestly can’t remember what she ended up singing.  That is the pitfall of karaoke.  Like a self-absorbed junkie looking for another hit, pun intended, all you can think about after singing one song, is what you’re going to sing next.  The clapping and accolades for other singers is robotic and not very heart-felt. 

I sang a duet with “S”, Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe”.  We were quite good.  I called my country boy sweetheart up north, and left it on his voicemail.  I went on to sing, “Move Out (Anthony’s Song) by Billy Joel.  I know with some practice, that could become one of my classics.

I had to work in the morning, but the drinks and the karaoke junkie in me kicked in.  We finally left at about 1:30am, played a little Yahtzee, chatted, then went to bed. 

Haven’t done that in awhile, it was refreshing.  Until tomorrow. 

I Dream About Him

He’s a country boy, and I’m a city girl.  We met in college.  He would sit by me in business class and listen to me challenge the professor.  I don’t know what I was doing in business school.  When the topics were profit margins, overseas manufacturing, and maximizing stockholder wealth, all I wanted to talk about was environmental practices, sweat shops, and genetically-modified food.  I went through 5 years of that.  He loved it though.  He got me.  At first I thought he just wanted my proofreading skills (calling his spelling and grammar poor would be an understatement), but then we started revealing ourselves.  I could not wait to see him in class.  I would get goosebumps when he leaned over to share a secret or tease me.  The way he threw back his head when he laughed, and flashed his smile, he made me want to sell all my worldly possessions and learn how to jar preserves.  I would read his term papers and make fun of him.  He never minded.  His favorite part was when I would ask him about women and sex.  Nothing was ever too personal.  He was an open book.  There was something unexplainable about our connection. 

We were from different corners of the earth.  However, we both had this aching desire to experience life and not conform, both stuck between selling our souls for money and success and searching for a higher plane of happiness.  I would prod him, test him, question his faith (his family is Mormon), make him search himself.  No one had ever done that for him.  He would call me beautiful and worthy, he admired my intelligence, such a rarity.  Every man desires a smart woman, as long as it doesn’t tread on their ego.  I’ve never tread lightly on anything.  I morph from self-effacing to a bold assertiveness, it’s really quite a spectacle.  My recreational drug use and casual sex only served to fascinate him.  Imagine that, I could be myself with all the lunacy and seediness that make that possible, and he lost no love.  What he liked most was how I couldn’t watch my manners.  If he was moody, I called him an asshole.  If he talked about hunting or politics or religion, I would give him a puzzled look as if he’d just pissed all over my Edwardian rug.  I always shot him straight.  It tickled him.  Imagine that, not having to bat my eyelashes, feign interest, or spoon-feed his narcissism.  Um, jack-fucking-pot. 

I did not see him too much after college.  We keep in touch still.  I call him after breakups, and bouts of my kamikaze syndrome.  When the world doesn’t make sense anymore, and I’m feeling like I’ve done my best, and nothing gives, I dream about him.  I dream of us running away to old Mexico and searching for Aztec gold.  A dusty road, a bottle of cheap tequila, couple of gold pans and his shining blue eyes.

Someday maybe.

Transcripted Life

So my gourd friend is flying out today for 3 weeks of reality show taping.  I’m stoked for her.  The exploitation of modern society is so much more fun up close.  Her boyfriend even proposed to her last night, more kindling for the reality show producers.  If I express even a pinch of discontent publicly, I will be pinned with a chartreuse “J” as opposed to a scarlet “A”.  I think every one of us yearns for a lighted makeup mirror and fifteen minutes of network air time.  Would we be able to effectively communicate who we are and force the world to understand us in that amount of time?  Probably not.  Perhaps 3 weeks is enough time to illuminate who you are.  Though months of editing is definitely enough time to erase any evidence of that.  Reality has never been good enough for reality television.

MTV was the pioneer of this genre of programming.  I fell in love with “The Real World” the first time I watched it.  The San Francisco cast was genuinely the best produced of that show’s history.  Puck was money.  Pedro was heartbreaking.  Rachel was annoying.  A year after that, Pedro’s widower Sean Sasser (they were married on the show) came to my college for a speaking engagement.  I was in student government at the time and as a quasi-ambassador was able to enjoy a potluck lunch with him.  It was one of the highlights of my life, very touching, and very real.  There is life after appearing on a reality show, whereas, Sean Sasser brought awareness about AIDS, and Gay issues, other reality actors shed light on their apparent personality disorders. 

When the time comes, I will watch my friend with excitement and scrutiny with the rest of America.  I’ve been watching her for the last 10 years, just without commercial breaks. 

Weekend Update

I went to the 58th annual rodeo.  I woke up Saturday morning and “felt” like it.  I had some needling motivation too.  Chale wanted to come along, and it seemed like a good opportunity to get to know him better.  Road-tripping is an excellent way to do this, if you can survive on the road with another person, you can survive most things life has to throw at you.  It takes teamwork, resourcefulness, and compromise. 

So I drove, and Chale thanked me profusely for inviting him.  His excitement was palpable.  He loves the outdoors like I do.  He turned up my music in between imparts of light conversation.  Chale has a speech impediment, and a bit of a stutter.  He also has a lot to say, and spends a lot of time figuring out the right words.  He has pockets of insecurity about this, so he will alternate between being a chatterbox and being reflectively quiet.  The rodeo was a 3-hour drive, and we had to stop for some famous fried chicken on the side of the road about halfway there.

When we got there, the rodeo was almost over for the day.  Everyone was making their way back into town and the bars.  Chale, Dar, and I decided to setup camp.  We politely asked a guy named Earl if we could use his lawn for the night for our camp.  It was a stone’s throw from the downtown action.  He was so generous to give us permission.  His brother Charlie came out later to chat with us.  They looked like less-famous relatives of Willie Nelson.  Dar only had to setup the back of her Jeep Cherokee with about 10 sleeping bags (she was smart to have so many, it gets cold).  I watched Chale setup an 8-person tent, hand-pump a double queen air mattress, and haul coolers and fishing gear.  I would’ve helped, but he kept insisting he didn’t need any.  Two reasons in my mind this happened, he was looking for a favor later, or he’s one of those guys that has to have things a certain way so he would rather YOU just stay out of the way. 

After I watched Chale setup everything, we decided we were hungry.  Dar let Chale start up her propane grill, and Dar and I decided to head to the bar for a cocktail.  I knew it would be okay with Chale, because up until then he had been a self-proclaimed (almost braggart) non-drinker. 

Dar and I walked into the Rodeo Club, a smoke-filled, honkey-tonk watering hole.  I love that burst of ‘you-don’t-know-me-and-I’m-on-vacation’ energy when you first walk into a local boozery.  I felt like shouting, “Alright, listen up!  I’m gonna start drinkin’ now, and I ain’t stopping until everyone in here looks like they have a full set of teeth damn it!  The party has begun!”  Dar and I pounded a shot and then she challenged me to a game of pool.  There were four guys shooting around the pool table in the back of the bar.  Dar sidled up, and announced with a big grin that she was looking for a game, I seconded it by letting out a loud “oh yeah, whooop!”.  I threw two quarters down.  As they played and we drank, we noticed that one guy was deaf, they were all signing to him.  Then we noticed a second guy was deaf, and then a third.  Three of the four guys were completely deaf.  I can’t really say exactly how I felt at that moment.  Humbled, scared, excited, interested, challenged…probably a mix.  I didn’t skip a beat, I mouthed and used hand gestures to clarify in no uncertain terms that we were going to kick their ass AND we were playing for drinks.  I have to say Dar was very overwhelmed by the whole turn of events, almost in tears.  This woman lives for moments like these.  Touching, dramatic events which make you uncomfortably human. 

We ended up losing the pool game (Dar’s fault…haha), so I bought the first round of crowns.  Then I bought the second, and the third.  I couldn’t help it, these guys were the best dates in town.  Funny, sexy, warm, outgoing, interesting, and I swear I’m not making the exception you think I’m making.  Believe me, I walked into that bar searching for an over-sexed, over-rated, redneck bull rider I could love and leave.  After all, I wasn’t there on a humanitarian mission.   But I really didn’t want to cut out on these guys, I was their adoring fan.  So was Dar.  So was Chale, who showed up not even 5 minutes after we got there.  Imagine that!  For a non-drinker, he sure did put away those beers. 

After a couple hours drinking, we wanted dinner.  We all went next door for a steak.  Took about an hour and a half for two prime ribs, 2 steak & shrimps, and some sort of beef hash.  We saw Lizzy, her sistah friend, and their ambiguously gay guy whom I called “Prep”.  He was wearing plaid bermudas, and one of those Izod-esque ‘pop your collar’ polos.  Lizzy only came over to our table long enough to complain about the food and service.  We were patio dining and behind us was a mechanical bull which was drawing quite a crowd.  Chale, whom had nursed enough liquid courage to swim with sharks, kept mentioning how he’d ridden a real bull twice.  I grabbed him and Brian and we went to ride.  Chale went first, he was up, we blinked, and he was on his ass.  Brian went, he couldn’t hear the mechanical bull operator tell him to put his feet forward, but just as if he had, one of his arms went up and both his feet went forward in a locked position.  He rode that bull for a good, long 5 seconds.  When we got back to the table, Dar and Andy were mashing face.  We all giggled and made kissy faces.  It was the best dinner party I had been to in long while.

When we were done with dinner, it was late.  Dar was on her lips.  My stomach was gurgling with Crown Royal, beer, prime rib and a bottle of aspirin.  The restaurant was connected to a bar.  There was a loud live band.  The guys bought us beers.  There were two older couples on a teensy dance floor and a heavy crowd watching.  During rodeo days in that town, the old folks get dressed up and stay out late.  The dance floors belong to them for one weekend out of the year.  Don’t even think about bumping and grinding and swinging your ‘girls gone wild’ hips on their dancing squares.  Watch for a few minutes and revel in the cozy simplicity of the past.  Grow a little envious over their neatly pressed outfits and their fancy footwork and twirls.  Nowadays, dancing is sex with your clothes on, whatever happened to dancing for happiness, for fun, to celebrate life and music.  I’m guilty too, many can attest to my public peep show.  I couldn’t stay long, I had to get Dar home, she really was on her lips.

At 4am, I woke up to the sounds of klip klopping hooves and off-key voices singing something about a pina colada.  They were slurring, and judging from the sounds of the hooves, their horses were drunk too.  I busted up laughing to myself.  At 6am, I woke to the sounds of a loud speaker going by which was bellowing something about waking up, and going to a cowboy breakfast at the lodge.  Again, I giggled to myself.  Hilarious.  I woke up Dar and we hitched a ride to the cowboy breakfast with the loud speaker guy.  When we got back, I crawled back onto the air mattress and passed out.  I woke up to the searing heat of the mid-day sun, I was sweating all over like some kind of farm animal.  I could hear lots of people outside.  When I finally unzipped the tent and stumbled out, I realized it was the rodeo parade going by on the highway a few feet away.  A couple people clapped as they saw my entrance, another guy yelled, “Atta girl!”…I took a bow.

I washed up at the Chevron down the street, and I have to say, the elements really agreed with me.  I was unshowered, wearing the same outfit, and hungover, but I looked hot, I felt sexy.  I bought a six-pack of tall boys and a bag of ice and we finally headed out to the rodeo.

I loved the rodeo.  We met up with our deaf boyfriends, who were total rock stars.  It was a red neck riot.  Barell races, bull-riding, hated the calf roping.  Sitting on a dirt bleacher carved out of the side of a mountain, a hand-dipped foot long corn dog in one hand, an ice cold beer in the other, I must’ve been the happiest girl in the world at that moment.

I think Dar is in love, I better be MOH at that shot gun wedding…

God bless rodeos and small towns!

Rodeo Action

I have a decision to make tonight.   The Rodeo is in town.  Well, it’s in a small town about 200 miles from here.  It is comparably the most exciting annual rodeo in the state.  Thousands of folks descend on this quiet, sleepy town on the Salmon River, and cowboy up the whole weekend.  Dotted along the main streets, there’s campers, and coolers, and BBQs, music, and mayhem.  It is like Vegas crossed with a spaghetti western.  A party every couple of feet.  The bars are stocked with old timers, and old jukeboxes, maybe even karaoke this time around (a microphone-lover like me would hope). 

I remember “Chris” telling me a story about her first time going to this rodeo.  Her and our friend “D” had just got done partying at a local watering hole, and hopped in “D”’s rig.  When they were backing out of their parking space, who did they almost bump into? Demi Moore.  The queen bee herself.  Demi flies out of her vehicle and bombards them with a rated-r verbal assault.  Anyone who knows “D” knows that movie star, or not, she loves a good tussle.  Her family owns the largest guest ranch in the state, so she’s no star gazing, celeb-whore.  “D” gave it to her right back.  Great rodeo story.  And guess what, “D” is a Scorpio, haha.  I think all of our friends have a distinct alpha streak to them.  If there’s booze, boys, and bars, won’t be long before we’re duking it out.  It’s partly boredom, partly attention, mostly boredom.

This year, Dar invited me.  A sweet lady, in her late 40s.  So much fun!  We’ve been camping a few times.  She is very young at heart, which can sometimes be her curse.  She does not find common ground with people her own age, and has a difficult time connecting with a younger crowd.  As to the latter, so do I.  However, at least I look the part.  On trips, she always over-packs, she loves to bring her beat-up old car, and she has tendency to pass out early (except for last time, that award went to me, I was nursing a bad break-up as usual).  I did try to get other friends to go.  The Golsons are in France in two weeks (not interested), “S” is going south on the fun bus to gamble, ”V” just started school online and has homework, Deja Voo Doo might still be down (this would be awesome because we haven’t hung for ages), Leggs is on domestic duty (and has sworn my plans off forever since the last adventure I sponsored), Sali would want to bring her b-boy, wankster husband (aw hell no, right?), and I suppose there’s a couple others I could pull at the last minute…but there’s nothing like your best girls to make the event special.

Wonder if our Gourd friend up north ever got picked for an ABC reality show she was a finalist in.  I call her our Gourd friend because she was talented in drying these hard fruit shells and making them into beautiful decorations for her home.  No one I can think of would do a better job making reality TV than this woman.  Dramatic, funny, manipulative, gossipy, excitable, judgemental, fun, crazy, exciting, she’s really cut out for this type of stuff.  You have those friends that ponder and pose with a quiet intelligence, the ones with whom you can talk about things with depth and honesty.  She’s not one of those.  Haha.  Yet, we love her for what she is not.

So the rodeo.  To save or a horse and ride a cowboy, or to not?  That is the question.  I’m thinking on it still…

Today is the First Day…

…of the rest of my life.  Haha.  Not really.  Actually, I’m fairly hungover today from the night before.  “S” and I went to the north-end compound, or artist’s refuge, owned by my dearest friends, who I will simply call the Golsons.  I met her when we worked up in Stanley, Idaho in the summer of 1999 or was it 2000. 

That was a summer of doom for sure.  I was sentenced to serving grumpy campers at a hotel/resort in a town with a population busting at a whopping 100 people.  All the summer help of the female persuasion was housed in what was dis-affectionately called, “the rock garage”.  To its defense, it was made out of river rock and kinda rustic-chic.  This is where I met the better half of the Golsons.  All my life, I’ve been drawn to Scorpios, and she was no exception.  A tom boy flair, with a fatalistic streak, morals and ethics, and an unmatched sense of adventure.  They’re the most loyal friends you will ever know, and the ones you most find yourself wanting to kill.  Scorpio women never cease to delve into your psyche and make you search yourself for answers to very difficult questions.  Without making this an astrological reading, I will say that my Scorpio girlfriends will drink you under the table, make you laugh till you pee yourself, then break your heart all in an evening. 

I have two major friendship eras.  The high school era, and the Stanley era.  I managed to make strong, deep, lasting friendships in both eras, dating all the way up until now.  It’s often difficult for women to forge friendships when they get older.  We become more judgmental, more picky, less likely to have the time and effort available.  So when life offers you friends, you should always make that trip to the bathroom, even if you don’t have to go pee (if you know what I mean).

The Golsons are getting hitched in France.  Am I invited? Of course.  But the dollar is weak, and my pay check is even weaker.  So I will not be embarking unfortunately.  When they showed me the Chateau the guests would be staying at, I started to tear up.  Not because I was emotional over their nuptials, but because I was missing out on staying at a French palace with french courtyards, and french pools, and french birds that sang you sweetly out of your french bed in the morning.  Not going to happen this time without a budget allocation from Congress.  It will be a beautiful wedding, and I will remotely share in their joy.

“S” and I stopped by the Co-Op to buy wine.  We found a great deal.  3 liters of wine in a box for $16.99…and the box was not obnoxious at all.  It was actually of a conservative size and shape, made out of recycled paper.  At the check stand I grabbed a wedding card for the Golsons which had a sparkly Eiffel Tower on the front.  As we were filling out the card, the check out lady asked if we were getting the box of wine for a French person.  To which we answered yes, then giggled because she seemed to be posturing.  A look of understanding came to her face, then she blurted, “Oh, it’s a joke, I get it.”  Which made “S” and I laugh even harder, as we replied, “Nope, it’s not a joke.”  Apparently this low-brow purchase was very puzzling for her.  And the way she was so outward about it, puzzled us.  As if the Co-Op wasn’t already a bastion of tacit-disapprovingness.  If you’re not eating organic, living green, listening to indie/folk, and driving a Prius, you’re so not cool in their bio-degradable book.  Well we had news for that sista friend.  We love Taco Bell, I drive a truck that gets 8 mpg, we think indie music is produced by people who didn’t get enough attention as children, and hot damn, we love wine in a box!  And, our snooty, north-end French friends love wine in a box too!