Pasturized, Homoginized, Liquified, Carmelized

This is my first day of National Blog Posting Month. Go me.

So last night I went out for Halloween. This used to be my favorite holiday, but for some reason I just couldn't get into it this year. It may be because my partner in Halloween was out of town...she's a big Phillies fan (Phan?) so she was back home for the festivities...I guess they won some baseball game or something. Maybe it's because I didn't get my shit together fast enough to pull together the perfect costume. It's NOT because I'm getting too old, so don't even say it.

After thinking about it, though, I decided to go to a party that was very close to my apartment. I refuse to go to a Halloween party without costume, though, so I pulled something together. (The reason I could do this is because I keep a list, all throughout the year, of things that would make good costumes. I also do this with karaoke songs.)

I was this:



Can you guess who it is? It's not the greatest photo, and the costume itself was really hit or miss. People either instantly recognized it, or they stared at me, mouths slack and agape with "what the fuck is she doing"-ness. I won a prize for "most intellectual costume," though. Not really what one strives for on Halloween, but I suppose it confirmed my nerd status. NB: I don't look so great in that photo. I'm hotter than that in real life.

I saw two people dressed as the Golden Girls last night. Well, not all the Golden Girls, just Dorothy Zbornak and Sophia Petrillo. I adore the Golden Girls, and have won awards for my knowledge of GG trivia (no kidding). Fake Dorothy and "Ma," were terrific and I hope that when I meet the surviving Girls, I'll have as quick kinship with them as I did with their replicas.

Oh! I just thought of something that I forgot to tell even these girls last night: a few years ago I went to go see an awful Broadway musical with my family, my ex (not Double Ex, a different one), and his family. During the intermission, I went to get a drink, and I spotted Rue McClanahan at the bar. I instantly started choking up. I adore her. I generally have a "leave them alone" policy when it comes to celebrities, but I could NOT leave Blanche Devereaux alone. I would never have forgiven myself.

Anyway, I pulled myself together as best I could, walked over to her, and said "I'm so sorry to bother you, Ms. McClanahan, but I need you to know that I am a giant fan of yours." (I could say "giant" because I was considerably thinner, then.) She just turned to me, grasped my shoulder (!!), and said, in an accent dripping with Southern goodness (I hope it wasn't just put on for my sake) "Oh, honey. It's never a bother."

I love her.

Halloween also makes me think of someone I miss very much. So, if you read this (sometimes you do), I miss you. And yes, I know we never spent Halloween together, but I've seen MoFoFed many times on Halloween, and they always make me think of you.

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.