Every Day, EmEffers.

So I decided to sign up for National Blog Posting Month, which starts in two days.

This means that if I do this correctly, I'm going to post every day during November.

Y'all are some lucky motherfuckers.

That's the Fucking Way!

Did you ever see the movie Dodgeball?

Yesterday was the last day of the season for my hockey league. We watched the game from the "stands," though we play at a very rough-around-the-edges park, so there are not actually stands. It's basically a little railing that we stand behind, and we call it the Heckle Wall.

Anyway. Dodgeball. The team that did not win, happily, was a team that reminds me of team GloboGym from Dodgeball, except without the hilarity. They are way better than anyone else in our little league, but not because they've played together forever and persevered. They are the best because they recruit from real hockey teams and college ice teams. This is weird, as we play at a park where homeless dudes pee in the corners and there's dogshit around and we play on sneakers and we drink about 7x more than we play, anyway. This is the type of league it is. It's the sort of league that someone like me, someone who's not totally athletic, can join. This is the sort of league it is NOT: a league where captains recruit players from craigslist with ads in French and Czech to assure the best, scariest, most serious hockey players that grace this earth. They live in Crazytown.

They lost yesterday, and they lost to a team that is fantastic. When I say fantastic, however, I mean that they are good hockey players, freally great people, and personify the friendly/collaborative spirit that our league is all about. The title of this post is their cheer (my team's cheer, incidentally, is "Let's Do This Bitch").

It was such a happy moment. Good won over evil. The entire league was cheering the happy team, and booing GloboGym. It was like a cheesy sports movie, but in real life.

That's all. Congrats Kills.

Not x365, Part II

#4 We had Bon Jovi concerts in the kitchen of the restaurant...the one we ran in NOLA. The concerts consisted of this: waiting until the restaurant closed, turning up the Bon Jovi casette very loudly, drinking splits of crap champagne, dancing around the kitchen, and scream-singing into plastic spatulas. We also had a version of these concerts that we would give at your house, except we usually drank wine, then, instead of champagne. When "Tiny Dancer" came on, we would cry. Your ex-husband would get annoyed when we did this. We lied to him constantly about how much we drank. You housed me when I was homeless, you employed me when I was unemployed. You lent me scratch when I had none. You let me stay in your apartment when you weren't there. I recently lost touch with you and suspect this is my fault. I miss you.

#5 YOU ARE INCREDIBLE!


#6 I recently learned of a mental condition from Law and Order, SVU. Those with this condition think that they are in a romantic relationship, while their supposed "partner" is left completely unaware. I think you have that. Remember when I was your girlfriend? I know you do, but I don't. Remember when you got really mad at that guy I fooled around with, and threw an ashtray at him in the middle of my bar shift? Remember when you told him "stay away from my girlfriend?" I honestly had no idea you were talking about me. Do you know how crazy that is? You're married now, and I must admit, this shocks me. You've proposed to a lot of people. Congrats, though, you seem to be happy.

Prison Rodeos and the Three Strikes Rule

Last night I was flipping through channels with Boy, and we came across some sort of fluff news show (or maybe it was one of the seven hundred ESPN channels) about the Angola Prison Rodeo.

Angola is the Louisiana State Penitentiary. Angola is where they put you when, as Double Ex used to say, "you need to go UNDER the jail." They also call it "The Farm," though I don't know why. Maybe it used to be a farm...it's far enough in the middle of nowhere for it to have been a farm.

ANYWAY. Every year, Angola hosts this event. It's basically a mini festival within the pen walls, complete with food, fun, and rodeo, the rodeo, obviously, being the main event. The rodeo participants are the prisoners, and the whole thing gets pretty brutal. It's possible that all rodeos are this brutal, but I have not been to any other rodeo. So I can only comment on this one. It's crazy.

This is the event called "Convict Poker."


Prisoners are on a huge waiting list to participate in this yearly event (only the best-behaved prisoners can participate). I've heard it likened to a Romans/lions/coliseum sort of situation, but as the warden of Angola says (and I have to agree), these prisoners are not only willing participants, but they are basically clamoring to take part. He mentioned that 80% of these dudes don't get any visitors. Like, ever. Meaning the only people they EVER see are the people that work at the prison and their fellow inmates. If these dudes find it fun to get roughed up a little by a bull, I say, go for it. And besides, there's lots of other ways to participate: all the food stands, art stands, and bandstands are run by prisoners as well.

ANYWAY. There was a prisoner talking about how much he enjoyed the rodeo, and the media dude asked him what he was in for. He told the guy (in the SE Louisiana accent that I just lurve), that he got picked up for dealing coke. Or holding enough to deal or some shit. Why is he in Angola for life? Because Louisiana is one of the "three strikes" states. My man got picked up for something twice, and the cokie offense was his third strike.

As Boy pointed out last night, this is the dumbest law ever. Here's why: someone like this dude gets picked up once, gets a public defender who doesn't give two fucks, gets convicted as a felon, does his time, it happens again, happens one more time, then boom. He's in jail for life next to mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Right there on the bench! On the other hand, someone like Robert Downey Jr. (who I do adore, and don't want to see go to jail, but just let me have my point here) gets picked up for the same thing (California is also a three strikes state), gets his charge knocked down to a misdemeanor by a fancypants gazillion dollar lawyer, does some service, it happens again, he does a teeny bit of time (again, a misdemeanor), it happens again, he does time, but the difference is, he gets out and makes Iron Man.

I loved Iron Man. I'm glad it was made. I just think it's horrible that Cokie Louisianian has to go away for life for the same shit.

I promise that at some point, these posts will start being well-written again. Also, thank you to Boy for the RDJ example.

No Offense Meant if Your Name is Gioconda (aka: I Haven't Had My Coffee Yet--Don't Ask Me to Have a Cohesive Thought)

The hiatus is over...I am back. I spent the last week in Florence with eight other people. Me, Boy, my family, and various others. I won't exhaust you with a comprehensive list of our day to day activities, but I will share this:

This is Alvaro. Alvaro was the chef in a cooking class that we took one day. The class was run by a really wonderful woman named Paola (these are their real names. I know I don't normally do that, but if anyone who ever knows them reads this, I'll be so happy that I've reached that far that I'll suffer any wrath they want to shoot my way). She was a hilarious woman that spoke perfect English with a beautiful accent (you can kind of see her in the back of the photo). We took the class at Paola's home--a 13th century farmhouse in Chianti, Tuscany. Freaking gorgeous in that rustic way. Check it: Welcome Tuscany

Anyway. Alvaro. This man spoke not a word of English. His way was the only way, and every other word out of his mouth was "stai calma!" This roughly translates to "chill the fuck out." He'd ask you to come help him roll out the pasta, then slap your hand away when he felt you weren't doing it correctly.

I loved this dude.

Also, Paola's daughter was an adorable six year old girl named Gioconda (like the Mona Lisa). She was funny in the way only an Italian kid can be. We all fell a little bit in love with her, especially my mom. Allow me to post a conversation that took place between my mom and Paola:

Mom: Your daughter is beautiful! What's her name?
Paola: Gioconda. We call her Gio.
Mom: I love it.
Paola: She didn't at first, but she does now.
Mom: Wow. What a name. If I had known you could name a kid Gioconda when I was pregnant, I absolutely would have named my kid Gioconda.

As her first daughter, I can earnestly say, three cheers for my mom's ignorance on this issue. Seems I dodged a bullet in utero. It's not exactly a name that would have rolled off the tongue in my town.

Now for coffee. Hope this made sense.

A Blogging Hiatus

I didn't just stop blogging again out of laziness, folks. Im away. I'll be back on Saturday. Woohoo.

My, What a Meaningless Post.

I'm feeling lazy today. For some reason, I woke up with the most annoying song in my head this morning. I don't think I was dreaming about it, because I know what I was dreaming about. I was dreaming about my arch nemesis and my upcoming hockey game.

Anyway. I hate this song. Here it is, in all of its suckdom.



Want to know what else? NO ONE will EVER need to call that number. Ever. What's with that crazy water dragon guy? And does anyone else find him really sexy?

Here's something worth listening to. I love this shit:

This is Not the x365 Project.

I read about this thing called the x365 project. Yes, it was created in '06, but I'm sort of slow on the uptake on this kind of thing. Basically, what you're supposed to do is write fifty words or less, every day, about various people in your life.

I'm not going to do that.

It's really limiting, and I have enough trouble keeping up with this blog without having rules. Also, I'm not always comfortable putting people's names, even just their first names, on this thing. What I will do, however, is do a few of these whenever I damn feel like it, with whatever names I want.

So here's three.

#1 You were an ex of mine. You were two exes ago, so I'll call you Double Ex. This name fits for you for many reasons. You were verbally abusive. Let's not mince around on tippy-toes about that, either. You were. I'm glad I am able to let it go a little bit now, and that I no longer feel I have to hit ignore on my phone when you call. And I won't lie, I sort of relish the fact that you are so sorry you "let me go;" I'm not proud of it, but I sort of like that you feel shitty about how you treated me. I'm sorry you don't know what to do about that girl you just got pregnant. I hope you find a way to be happy, but I'm pretty sure you never will. I'm sure at some point we'll see each other again; NOLA is not that big of a city, and your armada of trucks swarms around the place like roaches.

#2 Nutty ex boss! Granted, I've had many nutty ex bosses, and you were not even the nuttiest. Your weird relationship with your dog bothered me, though. You were a crazy rich dude and you tried to make your dog into a crazy rich lady. You said she would only eat if there were no coats on the chairs, and if the dishwasher wasn't running. When she pooped blood once, you said she was developing an ulcer because I watched her when she ate. It was strange that you canceled an interview you were supposed to do because of the blood-pooping incident, by the way. You told me she did yoga. She did not do yoga. She was lanky, so I'll admit, sometimes it looked like it. But she wasn't. Want to know how I know that? Because she was a dog. Know the only thing she was passionate about? Chasing cats. You bought her perfume once. That was crazy.

#3 I will call you Lucian. You and I were on the same trip in the summer of 1993. We were fifteen. You lived across the country. I was attracted to you, despite your weirdness (not because of it. I was too young for that at that time). Once, on a bus trip in Germany, we almost held hands. We did not, because you thought I had a boyfriend back home. The reason you thought this was because I told everyone I did. Needless to say, I did not. After you and I did not hold hands, you got up and sat with another girl. By the end of that bus trip, you and she were a couple. After returning home, you wrote me a few very strange erotic letters. I never wrote back. After a few weeks, you "broke up" with me. You said it was because of religion.

And there you go.