Halloween costume? Misogynist!

This year for Halloween, I will be dressed as a cook. I will be going to a Halloween party in the kitchen of Pie in the Sky cafe. Meaning: I'll be working. For a moment I got all jazzed up with the idea of the girls trucking around the neighborhood in their little red wagon. But, then Matt and I discussed the idea of losing a third of my student loan payment versus the girls having no idea what the hell is going on and being too little to eat any candy. So, again, I'll be working. No, I won't be dressed up, seeing I do not wish to catch a wig on fire while grilling up a tuna steak.

Sure, I used to love Halloween. The challenge of the costume! As Bonnie Parker or as stereotypical trailer trash or as a dead Laura Palmer or as an IRA catholic school girl or as Pris from Blade Runner or, my favorite, as The West Nile Virus.

Now, I am not sure what holiday I love. Actually, I think holidays are simply the tools of the labor unions anymore. Well, seeing my kids get excited about a room full of wrapping paper, gift bags, and empty boxes is heart-warming. However, having people in my home, even people I love, makes me edgy.

Thinking about the Catholic school girl costume I wore for twelve years of my life reminds me of one thing. Somewhere along the line, I think it was the four years at an all girls' Catholic high school, I became a misogynist. During those years, I had ONE close friend in that House of Mary. Robbe. And, we would spend time pretending to walk in slow motion down the hallways or quoting slapstick Westerns, "Don't put beans on table." Other than that, I didn't eat in the cafeteria. Well, I guess I had to at least once since I was caught setting a fire atop one of the tables while tryng to illustrate a point. Anyway, the point? I hated it! It seriously made me suicidal! But, then I discovered drugs and being alienated was more of a choice than an affliction.

I've always had this image of myself like a B-movie sci-fi creature. A pulsating brain with googly eyes. Just strolling around, taking it all in. Oh, the ugliness that lies in the hearts of teenage women! Watching girls beat each other with their shoes because one girl's guy gave his phone number to the other girl. But, we learn and grow, right? Nah, the majority of women are fundamentally catty, clique-y, self-hating, self-important, and vapid. And, these qualities do not mature of age. They are honed and used like knives.

I will, however, admit I do have some spectacular female friends. Most of which are also misogynists and act like they have bigger cajones than a sex-starved bull.

I overheard this the other day, "Did you see Sex in the City movie yet? I cried at the end!" That person deserves to be treated as an object. Yes, I've seen five minutes of one episode. And, I instantly hated every character.

I am starting to think similar things about vegetarians. But, I will hold off on any snap judgements. Right! No really, I do have some vegetarian friends. And, it is a let's agree to disagree situation, because I refuse to have scripted arguments about food.

As, I plated up a beautiful mound of grilled pork chops with a mustard-apricot glaze, a waitress said to me, "Those look delicious. But, now I know what they do to get the meat from that pig, I can't eat it."

My reply, "Do you know why God put pigs on the planet? (pause... waiting for a response... but getting none). "For me to eat."

The Aesthetics of Art (Patronage)

I was working at a tattoo shop in town and also doing some volunteer work setting up exhibits at the local museum. An exhibit of circus banners was scheduled to have a gala opening, with little freaky things thrown in like croutons. Like me, giving fake tattoos to the philanthropist around town. I drew up a sheet of pseudo-flash and grabbed some Sharpies (my passive aggressive way of wishing days of flesh scrubbing).

Me: What do you want me to draw on you?
Face lift: Barbed wire like Pamela Anderson.
Me: Are you sure? I have all these other ones. Some are even kind of historical!
Face lift: NO, barbed wire.
Boob job: Oh, look at that! I want that, too.
Me: The same exact thing?
Boobs: Yeah.
Spray tan: Ooooooh, wow! Me, too!
Me: The barbed wire??? Really???
Spray: Yeah, do it.
Me to my friend Gary after their departure: What the HELL was that! We're done with this. I have a prior engagement I forgot about. Can you f*cking believe that?
Gary: Yeah.
Me: I just know they're hoping their lying, cheating husbands will think it's hot. I hate myself.
Gary: HA! You should. You enabled that whole thing. You're an jerk.

Those are the types of people who are making our shared spaces more beautiful... eh.

I studied painting and illustration for two years in college before slightly waking up and finishing with a Liberal Arts degree with a minor in psychology and a minor in creative writing. I am now a stay-at-home mom, a freelance writer/illustrator, a retail jockey, and a cook. My husband has two degrees-- one in metalworking and another in art history. He works at a shop, manufacturing hand wood carving tools. I am pretty sure we both hate 'art'.

There! I said it again.

Newsflash! Don't ask me about my tattoos. Especially, don't touch them. Yes, there is a certain degree of art involved. But, the flattery of strangers is not necessary, said the spider to the fly. Get this straight! I've never been to Ozzyfest or whatever it is called. I don't like Tommy Lee and I don't like this new old wave of Hot Topics-goth-alterna-crap. I like Glitter Rock. I like Pink Floyd with Syd Barret. I like the Jam. I like Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Red Sovine, and Lee Hazelwood. I like bluegrass and classical, too. I don't read Rolling Stone. I read British MOJO. I don't like the dude that wrote Fight Club. I like Harry Crews. I like Mencken and Faulkner. I'd rather have lunch with Studs Terkel and Groucho Marx than that Chuck Whiny-ass rock & pop culture critic and Dane Cook. I watch Lawrence Welk every week and get excited when Joe Finney comes on. I haven't watched MTV since pre-1990's. I am an old lady stuck in a body 40years too young. The zeitgeist of today is a flaming bag of dog poop sitting on my doorstep. I think my tattoos are a barely acceptable form of self-mutilation. And, piercing is DISGUSTING! People leave your tongues, nipples, and penises alone! And, if you can't, please don't tell me about it just because I have a bunch of steak tattooed on my arm. When will they realize I think they are bigger freaks than their grandparents do! So, if you're wondering... which you probably aren't, I consider my practices more closely related to a religious zealot whipping himself into a frenzy than some kid with bad posture at some straight edge or Emo or this is when we sing really soft and this is when we yell and then this is the rap part and now we are singing really soft again only to get mad and yell and rap at the same time show.

"Ah, little lad, you're staring at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand/left-hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E! It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E! You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch, and I'll show you the story of life. Those fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warring and a-tugging, one agin t'other. Now watch 'em! Old brother left hand, left hand he's a fighting, and it looks like love's a goner. But wait a minute! Hot dog, love's a winning! Yessirree! It's love that's won, and old left hand hate is down for the count!" --Rev. Harry Powell

On my way home from work tonight, I was waiting at a stoplight at the corner of 8th & Pittsburgh. It's a creeper light. It takes so long to turn. If no one is around, you creep. Well, I am singing at the top of my lungs. If my foot weren't on the break pedal, I'd be tapping it. What was I singing you ask? Bobby Vinton, of course. Then all of a sudden I hear some bass thumping next to me. My nails start to dig into the steering wheel. Then all of a sudden I realize I am seriously BLARING Bobby Vinton! Hah. Stick that in your blunt and smoke it, jerks!

An Irishman by any other name still smells like a Mick

This weekend we went to the tail end of the Irish Fest. I'm mostly an Irish cake with delicious pipings of German and Scottish icing rosettes. So, when someone makes a comment that I am negative, alienating, and critical, I say its in my DNA. And, no matter how hard I try to gold leaf all the crap inside of me, it still smells like poop in the end.

Anyway, the fest was just coming to an end. We weren't able to buy any potato soup (mmm-mmm-mmm) or corned beef sandwiches. But, we were able to buy a bag of corned beef for Matt's meat fist lunches. I did drink a Guinness, and liken it more to a frothy coffee treat than a beer. I don't really buy into the kelly green shamrock bull crap. But, it was nice to be reminded of the Aran sweaters my great Aunt Mama Jim used to be able to pump out in a weekend. Instead of shopping, I had more fun watching all the aging Irish with hooked back and cataracted blue eyes shuffle around saying, "Huh??!?!" to everything. It's like a Christmas in the late seventies at my Aunt Betty's house. With close to twenty people crammed around the table.

All in all, a much better experience than German Fest. I told Matt, I think the Irish have a bad wrap. They like to have fun, but when you mess with their fun... Jesus Mary and Joseph up on the Cross, WATCH OUT! 'Cos, unfortunately, I think the Irish perceive most other people as screwing with their good time.

Ebay is making me go EBlind!

I always said I wouldn't be one of those people with piles. No, not hemorrhoids. What I'm referring to are stack of shit piled up everywhere all over the house. I know how it happens. It happens while you're paving the road to Hell with good intentions. I am sure someone somewhere will link it to an adult with ADD but my attention span has such a choke hold that it makes you wanna vomit from lack of air.

Okay, so these piles keep popping up all over the house. They are very neatly organized piles but still speed bumps to nuclear family living. In order to move piles from the basement upstairs or to simply create new piles, I have started listing the boxes of crap I have to sell on Ebay.

Some stuff would seem like things I'd own at one time or another. Various books, Western wear shirts, LPs or CDs, vintage Halloween costumes, etc. And, some stuff you'd never expect to find within a ten mile radius, like vocal selections from Broadway musicals (I can dig opera but hate musicals) or Avon perfume bottles (although showering daily is important to me, I do not wear make-up and infrequently sport scent). It's like this-- I find things and people give me things. If I was a fat old man with a foot long bead, red suspenders and a beat to shit pick-up truck, I would want to be a junk man. Selling other people's abandon possessions for my bread and butter.

Anyway, there are few things as monotonous as listing things on Ebay. Do not listen the the Grateful Dead's Blues for Allah while taking on this task. The MOJO free CD of Paul Weller's influences, yes. Greatest Hits of the Jam, yes. Brian Eno's 2005, Another Day on Earth, maybe... but, you'll find yourself thinking about Doctor Who episodes.

Das ist nicht ein Germanfest!

I forgot to mention German Fest this year was an abomination! We plan on NEVER returning to the Zem Zem Shriner grounds for such a farce. Okay, some things have changed in the past handful of years to finally pull all the straws from my fist. First, the Fest moved from a lush wooded park on the edge of town to a grass knoll usually reserved for additonal parking on the way to the Mall for cat shows and Shriner balls. Secondly, I gave birth to the two most beautiful children on the planet and have since changed my lifestyle a bit. Meaning, I don't like to go out and get blasted all day at Germanfest or anywhere. Thirdly, when a group of us took it upon ourselves to shield the other patrons from our fowl mouths and wrongly viewed as subversive lifestyles, we were told we couldn't sit outside of the ropes in the adjoining mini-pasture. Leave it to the Germans to get bossy about off-the-cuff-spur-of-the-moment rules.

And, finally, I almost got in a fist fight this year. We pulled up in the Grand Marquis about 5pm on Sunday, the final day of the Fest. We were looking forward to some tunes from the Mad Bavarian and some spatzle. After tugging the girls' wagon through the main tent toward the teeny tiny exit heading towards the petting zoo, I encountered a jackass.

He stood in the doorway, "Blah, blah, blah! Ha! HA! I'm the boss. And, my wife thinks I'm hilarious. And, I should just stand here and talk really loud and ignore the world around me 'cos I am such a dude."

I let that go on for about two minutes, because I've heard it said patience is a virtue and virtue is a grace and they all go together to make a pretty face. And, god knows, the most important thing to me is being pretty. I, finally, piped up with an, "Excuse us, please." Nothing. No repsonse. No acknowledgment.

"Did I mention my fat, sweaty ass is FUN-NEEEEE?!?!? Did I tell you my wife who looks completely beaten down and drained of all life thinks I'm the MAN?"

Again, a little louder this time, I said, "Excuse me."

Well, don'tchya know! I guess thems is fightin' words. The jerk turns to me with my wagonful of little girls by my side and says, "Ohhhhhh, well. Sorrrrrrr-reeee, sweetie! Let me just get right out of your way, honey! There you go swwwwww-eeeeee-teeee."

By the last remark, I had walked past. Before I knew what I was saying, I turned on my heels, walked toward the gentleman, and inquired, "Excuse me, sweetie?" And, after only hiccup of silence from him, "Yeah."

Matt later told me he was five seconds away from clocking the Teva wearing son-of-a-gun in the chops. That's assuming he had chops. Which means I was less than a minute from punching him in his knotty red face, because Matt is far more patient than me. Nice. Really nice. Picking a fight with a nice lady in her Eich bin ein Berliner t-shirt, in front of her toddler twins on a sunny Sunday afternoon at a family festival all because you can hold your booze.

After that feather ruffling, we went to see the chickens, pigs, goats, geese, ponies, llamas, etc. at the petting zoo. Of course, I wasn't too thrilled about the girls petting any of these animals since hoof and mouth disease can be transmitted from herd to human. Who knows what conditions these four-legging petting slaves have to tolerate at "home"! And, although my bacon loving self is far from being a PETA member, twelve animals locked in a pen the size of an electric oven didn't sit well. Also, I was aching to see if someone could douse the panting calf with a bucket of water.

Next, we moved on to the inflatable jumpie castle. While watching our friends' son jump around, I had a vision of tiny soldiers crawling and limping out in cast and on crutch. I saw black eyes and swollen lips. What happens when you take a physique with a feather light torso, noodly limbs, and a head constituting seventy-five percent of all body mass and let it hapzardly fling around with about twenty-five other similar physiques in an inflated netted room? Mayhem. No, I don't think my daughters should be wrapped in bubble wrap. But, c'mon. Then, suddenly, the castle started to deflate with about fifteen children trapped in its bowels. It's like it read my mind. We moved on.

Only two things left, spatzle and the Mad Bavarian. I bought an ox roast sandwich and a plate of the worst looking spatzle ever. Disappointment. The girls wanted nothing to do with the saurkraut and sugar sweetened noodles. The ox roast? A bite.

Okay-okay, the Mad Bavarian. Well, the speakers were so loud that standing on the wooden dance floor may have caused twitching and bleeding from the ears. No place for tender still forming neuro-pathways. At this point I did see an old friend, Mr. Shadle. He had his lederhosen on, of course. And, had danced the afternoon away. His tiny little self was all sweaty, but I kissed his cheek anyway.

"Let's get the hell outta here," Matt and I spit out as a chorus.

It isn't that I don't enjoy myself anywhere. It's just that people go places, and those are usually the places I like to avoid. So, maybe next year, we'll just have a little German Fest in our backyard. Like the MDA backyard carnivals I remember seeing in my youth. So, I won't burn my JFK quote in iron-on silver disco letters shirt yet. YET!

Sandbags through the hour glass

I collect suitcases. More specifically, I collect things that I put in suitcases. One full of found objects, another of original drafts, another of photos I've torn out of books & magazines, another of electrical cords, another of vintage pornography, another of found slides, another four of old fabric, and another of folders filled with scraps of paper, etc. Every scrap of paper contains notes about someone, something, or somewhere.

The other night my husband told me I was being critical. "Isn't that the point," I asked myself.

While trying to find something I thought I had printed out before deleting from my hard drive, I found a folder filled like a fat blister. Some pages 8 1/2"X11". And, some only 1"X1". All packed with some of the worst handwriting ever. Mine. I've decided I have to go through them ALL. I was hoping to maybe use bits for my new pack of essays. But, OH! The things I've seen. The things I've done. It's kinda sick, sad, and exhausting. Kristy Korea has often asked me to simply write an autobiography. But, I'm not famous, I tell her. Just jaded and burnt. She seems to think there are some life lessons contained in my sticky nougat filled life. But, are they lessons or just critiques of things that won't ever change? Things that just might get worse. Maybe a snapshot of the time the poop all cooled on it's way to hitting the fan. Or maybe I could just teach this: people, including myself and yourself, can be jerks. But, keep pushing through the meat locker of life. Although I am not a Calvinist, I do believe in a certain degree of predestination since having my daughters. I should have been dead ten times over. But, thirty-seven years into the game, I am only starting to figure out what the hell I might be doing here.

The first found pages written on rice paper are about an Australian I met in the early 1990's named Mickey. When waiting for the bus home from my pharmacy job, I used to hang out at a bar appropriately called Shooter's. Shooter's had elderly shaking drunks and young shaking drug addicts and drain flies in the can. The only reason I can figure I went to Shooter's regularly was this-- I was a self-loathing drunk. And, the only reason I made it through a couple of years at Shooter's was unfulfilled destiny.

Before we get to Mickey, let's think of a few other patrons. The Captain, a veteran in his seventies with Parkinson and the desire to dance. I liked Captain. He would sit and drink his beer, piping up with a giggle now and then. He would show up at 9am and leave promptly at 3pm with a six-pack under his good arm. Lee Mayberry, a welfare case who loved the song Green-eyed Lady. I hated that song and hated Lee for constantly playing that song on the jukebox. And, for his permed, red hair. Rich and Chuck, two men who realized you can always count on a hot meal in jail. And, the easiest way to get high is to provoke someone into beating you up, getting a script for morphine patches to dull the pain, but wearing them on the soles of your feet for a better buzz. Vinnie, the owner, a former cop and hopeless gambler. High-stakes, high-speed outlawed card games eventually made him lose the bar and gain an ankle bracelet. Pat, the literate heroin addict who knew more about the Beat writers than about himself. Some nameless whore with bleach blond hair back in the States after stripping in Asia, looking for some coke to shoot up and her shoes. The crackhead who disappeared to the joint after falling asleep behind some folding chairs while hiding from the cops during a break-in gone bad. And, on. Think of the old saying, "Who lifted up a rock in this place?" There I sat, in the corner like a lighthouse of innocence. And, every once in a while some scumbag who hadn't been beaten down enough yet would saddle up next to me. And, every once in a while, the scumbag would be handsome like Australian Mickey. I didn't think anything of it.

Back in 1988, tattoos still had bad connotations. Bikers, criminals, and a few punks. I was seventeen. I got a tattoo of a cherub with a skull face and bat wings by a woman named Brenda, in her living room which functioned as her husband's tattoo shop. Her husband, Perry was passed out on the couch. So, it was up to Brenda in her Care Bear sweatshirt and sweatpants to earn my ten dollars. I wasn't a biker yet. I had only experienced two run-ins with the law by the green age of nineteen. I had a really bad attitude and didn't much like listening to authority, but I certainly didn't consider myself a punk.

Mickey had a star tattooed on his earlobe. He was a criminal. He got it in prison. And, the "Fuck you" tattooed on the inside of his lower lip? Prison, too. Mickey explained the Gothic letters coated in spit had historical roots. The Romans soldiers used to have the same thing, in Latin, tattooed in their mouths, he told me. After battle it wasn't unheard of to rape an enemy's person for souvenirs. Before a victorious opponent could stomp on your face and peel back your lips for a handful of teeth, he would read, "fuck you". Unfortunately, the straight-edge hardcore punks have appropriated this little lip trick, using phrases like "4 Life" or "XXX". Yawn, I guess that's like having your testicles drop for a Mama's boy.

Clever and smart that ol' Mickey. I let Mickey buy me beer. Amongst the American dollars, Mickey weeded through various other currencies from far away places like Singapore. "Oh", he'd told me, "yeah, my brother is in Singapore." Sure. One thing about Shooter's, ninety-nine percent of the clientele would lie through their teeth if they had 'em. Mickey wore cheap loafers. My mother always told me to stay away from men in cheap shoes. All the more reason to talk to Mickey. Mickey told me he was just in town for a little while. However, getting arrested for beating up an old lady during a purse snatching turned mugging turned ultrviolence may have changed up Mickey's travel plans a bit. I never saw Mickey again.

About five years later, Shooter's would be torn down after the landlord refused to renew the lease. The building was beyond repair. So, it was just gone in day. Sadly, the building did have a bit of history. I had seen pictures of the bar from the early 1900's. Working men sitting on benches, kicking up the sawdust floor while waiting for beef sandwiches cooked up on a spit in the window. Somehow, that idea got skewed; because, during Shooter's last days, the owners decided to start serving food in order to get a Sunday liquor license. A hot dog that had been floating in a Crock Pot for a day and a half with a bag of chips for a dollar-twenty-five. Classy, I know.

Happiness makes me sick

What is the neuro-chemistry behind this? These two songs make me so happy I feel like I want to puke. Just smiling and puking uber sweet browned butter frosting everywhere while clasping my hands to my heart. I guess that's what they mean when they say music "moves" people. But, I always thought that pertained to gay men at roller discos with cock rings laced into their skates. Not me, at home, grinding my teeth and trying not to bite my fingers off with joy.

Yup. Just a little Sweet and Bob Welch to render me helpless.

Pins and Needles

I was digging through a metal suitcase full of original publications containing the wisdom and wit of myself when I happened upon my old tattoo portfolio. Did I ever tell you how happy I am not to be tattooing anymore? No? I am so happy not to be tattooing anymore. There are a couple of reasons why. There's the Sponge Bob smoking a joint reason why. There is the Tazmanian Devil in a baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag on it reason why. There's the fairy clown on a sagging breast reason why. And, the I don't really like talking to people much but somehow always find myself in the position of working with the public and it kills me slowly reason why.

I always found it amazing how shocked and dismayed people seemed to be that I would walk away from all the glamour and the hardcore rock'n'rolliness of the tattoo world. The blood didn't bother me as much as the constant yapping. I realize getting a tattoo is cathartic, but it is not an excuse to take an emotional and psychological dump on me. And, things only got weirder and weirder when guys started sending me uninvited Snapple and sandwiches from local pizza joints. Not even sandwiches I liked! And, then there was the guy who wanted me to slowly tattoo is his whole body while pining away, telling me I looked like Trinity from the Matrix. Ugh.

That was not the first time I had ever been courted to please, please, please inflict some pain on a doting individual. But, my favorites were Alina, a blond buxom dominatrix and her attentive, cross-dressing brother Arthur. They first showed up when I was working at a place in Chicago called Earwax. I was a night manager, book keeper, waitress, cook, and video clerk. In general, a run your ass off type of gal. Sometimes, during my runnig around, I would get a bit, umm, curt. Maybe even hostile. Regular customers like "Ol' Hole in the Ankle" (huge holes between his ankle bones and tendons perfect for hooking one's self upside down) would show up for his daily bottle of cherry soda and cower in the corner. However, Alina and Arthur would beam up at me. Waiting patiently for their beverage and a few words. She would show me the latest photos of herself, would complain about the slob of a boss she had, would tell me where I could find her if I ever needed to find her, and would ultimately end the visit by begging me to take the twenty dollar tip for her double latte. And, Arthur would just nod his head and finger his freshly waxed eyebrows.

Eventually, I left Earwax to go work at a record shop selling used vinyl. Alina and Arthur found me. They asked around and asked around until they got the answers they wanted. And, to show how much they missed me they promised to bring German chocolate cake and Orangina whenever visiting. The record store proved to be a far better arena for Alina and Arthur. They didn't have to share my attention with other customers. I would price records and Alina would tell me stories about her clientele while Arthur shuffled through the used porn we had for sale. "Hmmm", I'd say. She would show me photos. "Hmmm, " I would say. She even brought one of her little Eastern European gangster boyfriends in to meet me. "Hmmm, " I would say.

One day, I up and quit the record store because the owner was a liar and a crook. And, liars make me turn beat red in the face and almost stroke out... so, I left. I lost any contact with Alina and Arthur because I never kept her phone number.

The other night, I was talking with a friend about boxing and wrestling stories. Mine happened to be about a guy who liked to wrestle women and give commentary the whole time like Howard Cosell. The ladies would put him in a head lock and he would report the series of events, ending with, "Can he do it? Can he do it?"

I'll end this with a funny bondage story. Years ago, before Sean "Carnage" Carney fell into the arms of Hustler and LACA, he went to a Black and Blue ball in Cleveland for a US Rocker article. Or maybe since he was already there, he decide to do a US Rocker article for it. Anyway, he tells me the bits and piece... the knots and bolts. "Hmmm," I said, until he relived a Birthday party scene. Apparently, some gentleman stretched out in a barber's chair was having his scrotum stretched out and pinned to a foam core board. Once the pins were all in place, candles were jammed onto the pin heads and lit. A crowd circled around to sing "Happy Birthday to You". And, then, he blew out the candles between his legs akimbo. "Hmmm, " I said. Sean went on to describe the man: pastey white, mustache, red vinyl tanktop, and dirty tube socks. "UGH! That is disgusting," I exclaimed. Sean was dumbfounded. Usually, I can handle the bizarre, unnerving, and extreme. "The socks", I explained, "the socks! Dirty tube socks!" So, it was known for years if you wanted to give me the willies, just mention the dirty tube socks.