Ridiculous opinions
Random Stories
Music & Film
Pop culture investigation

I don't aim to offend, but I might anyway












Excuse me, but your toothy, death ray shooting, spewing alien portal looks an awful lot like my beautiful vagina







    You know, I never really could grasp why pasty basement dwelling sci-fi nerdy types were so completely socially inept at dealing with women's sexuality. A hug from one of them is this sort of atrophic, stand offish uncomfortable silence where you're kept a good dictionary's length from them. Shall you deign to move in closer and go hip to hip or breast to chest, you are met with a shy giggle or a pat on the back, or perhaps both. 

    Back in the day, my younger self was a bright eyed and bushy tailed young package, and she used to entertain the idea that those nerds and sci fi geeks really, at heart, had a lot to offer a lady. They're well read, usually very smart, and  there was an endearing quality to their shyness and ponytails. That there was a difference between a geek, a nerd, and a dork. And geeks were far better than the two latter. 

  Then one day I was baited with the promise of impending pizza delivery to a basement of one. Cornered onto an old swivel computer office chair circa 1974, I was, while one of these Morlocks held both my sanity and appetite hostage during a 3 hour tirade that journeyed me through a point-by-point breakdown of  the book and film versions of Dune. 

    I realized about a quarter of the way through the tirade, I simply didn't care. Sometimes, when you're young, you find you can tap into this bottomless well of energy to debate thousands of meaningless topics just for the sake of hearing yourself talk. Things have a newness to them, and there is fresh energy for each new thing. But this was probably the first occasion of my young single life where I realized I'd rather be waxing a dog than talking about Dune. And equally the first time I realized that the lure of pizza only had so much power. I love Sci-fi and all, but these epic stories--I can't get to page 32 no matter how badly I wish that I could. I can't retain any any names of anyone or anything that was fabricated within the glassy-eyed 1,000 yard stare of an author alienating his wife and kids in the stupor of sci-fi reverence at the dinner table.

   Over the years, I noticed in several movies on several occasions, the tendency for sci fi movies or video games to consistently use my vagina as the base model for all alien portals--both structural and physical. To further drive their point that the woman's love lasagne is an object of terror, "they" give these portals teeth, slime pools, red death lasers, and almost always add a sputtering slimy mucous shot that's either spitting something horribly disgusting from it, or sucking men up into it.

More and more, I find my precious female pleasure center to be copy-catted in a most unflattering light. To be shoved into the mouths of these babes, so to speak, with a firm,clear message:  "Anything that looks like this will suck our your life force, kill you instantly, or implant it's alien embryo's into you so that you, in effect become one of them and are impregnated with their spawn. So stay away from this thing, boys. Just stay here with us, in the safe, dark corner of your basement. Oh look, your mom is warming you up some pizza rolls as we speak. Stay with us, sweet nerdgeek, where you will be forever safe from such things."





              The name of this player, located in the top left hand side of this image says it all. Oh look, and the weapon's bullets on the right look like tiny penises.






           "My fangs say carnivore, but my throat hole says I only eat things squeezed through douchenozzles. "






     This illustration above,  from the video game Alien Crush wouldn't be so clearly a gigantic Vagina Dentata if it wasn't flopped down on top of what is clearly the rungs of a vaginal wall.






           Can't just be a standard set of rectangular doors. Has to be men walking into vagina.







                                              We all know what this thing is, and what this thing does.







                              Don't even go near the vagina. In fact, run away. Run far, far away.





                                                        Et tu, Tilda?


Click to add text, images, and other content

The ole Al-Can Highway

   In 1995, I was 20 years old. Things were working out well for old girl. I had returned to Alaska the year prior, gone from working in the slums of Wal-Mart to the well lit offices of Bank of America as a bank teller. I had business cards, a nameplate, a station, and bosses-- who for some reason wouldn't fire me no matter how many times my till was off. Which was routinely at the end of each business day. 

  I was freshly single from my soon to be Baby Daddy (a fact of which I was unawares), he just having left Alaska to move "back home" to Illinois. I was a tight little package, if not in body, than in spirit. I fancied myself a beatnik even though I didn't drink coffee or read poetry. But I wrote poems and that for me was well enough. On my "on" days, I liked my hair black, my skin pale, my lips red, and my entire body encased in black. I was the movie "Singles" in my head. Or at least  "So I Married and Axe Murderer".

  A most annoying co-twat I worked with one day looked me up and down and said "Felicia.....what ARE you."  Just like that. A statement. Not a question. She, like so many others in Alaska, was military. She wore matching pastel blazer and skirt business ensembles and the same shit brown sensible scuffed low heeled pleather business shoes with every outfit, no matter what the color scheme. She was the first person I knew to get "the Rachel" haircut, and subsequently,  the first person I watched enter into an ill-advised courtship between a round brush and a blow dryer to maintain the style. A style I called "the Wayward Rachel". It looked good for exactly 2 days. Then it slid into a gradual decline ending into what appeared to be a large mushroom cloud of choppy horizontal bushels that lie just above the shoulders.

  But most days at the bank I wore flowery, flowy dresses, black Doc Martens, white slouchy socks, and that good ole matte cranberry lipstick. An overgrown version of Blossom.  I didn't have a lot of clothes and it was a time in my life before I had learned that attempting to mix your youthful, full of life, quirky, fun, interesting and unique personality with business casual was akin to marrying a bicycle pedal to a realtor.

   However life was flowing in the direction of the Great Big Magnet, and I was moving on up with it. I got a $1,700.00 loan and bought my first car,



received my first real paychecks, and enjoyed health insurance. I answered an ad for a roommate with a couple of sweet college girls, got a 3 bedroom apartment overlooking a gorgeous lake and a great deal on some second hand furniture that fully furnished the place. To add to all of this, my boobies were only 6 years old and at their prettiest. Really, nary a care had I. 

  Then I got a phone call that would change my life. My ex-boyfriend, my future baby-daddy, who had left Alaska to Illinois a few months, back called to tell me he was moving back to Alaska. He missed it, missed me, wanted to get back together. I knew in my heart that I had moved on and was starting to finally achieve so much on my own but......I didn't want to break his heart or hurt him. I did love and care about him. And, since he seemed bent on becoming an Alaskan for life regardless of whether or not I was in the picture, I figured we'd carry on for a little while longer, and then we'd probably just end up breaking up down the road.  So I accepted the idea with loving arms. He'd move back to Alaska. I'd take my first official two week paid vacation from work,  and I'd fly down to where he was near St. Louis, MO, and we'd drive to Alaska together with his stuff. 




  Now, we were at heart, a couple of blossoming young potheads. He--trying to avoid it, me--,attempting to smoke my own hair if I thought it had some THC on it. Now I never let pot get in the way of life--being social, being alert at work, driving sober in 30 below on ice in the middle of the night. But I loooooved me some Mary Jane come quitting time and on the weekends. I fired it up in secret because both of my roommates didn't like it. I smoked it alone whenever and wherever I could. I'd put on my Midnight Radio album by Big Head Todd and the Monsters and enjoy. I didn't have any friends who smoked or resources to get any pot. In fact, I can't remember how I ever got any. But in Alaska, it seems to just be a part of your yearly dividend.

 " Here's your yearly $750.00 check and a bag of weed. Enjoy your residency here in Alaska,"  it used to say.

   So on the drive to Alaska, we had the problem of the Canadian border. They are not The One when it comes to bringing marijuana into their country. They can sniff you out like a wet dog hiding in a stack of freshly washed linens. A fact we deliberately ignored as we enjoyed the drive from St Louis though Kansas and North through Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana. 

  We listened to Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits and Alanis Morissette's Jagged Little Pill album. We wore beaded hemp necklace, sandals,  and Indiana Jones style hats. We drove a little blue Honda CR-X, packed to the hilt  with stereo equipment, clothing, some kitchen items, and a big ole bag of dope to share between us. We stopped at Custer's Last Stand and smoked cigarettes with the windows rolled down, in an Indian summer of Early October.

  The night before we were to cross the border into Canada, we got a hotel room and discussed what to do with the bag of marijuana we had. To imagine tossing it out to be in full compliance with the law and to avoid  landing in Canadian prison together, was far too depressing. We would then have to face the 5-7 day drive up the Al-Can highway without being high.

  This would be like like viewing the Mona Lisa with sunglasses on. Window shopping when you've got $1,000.00 in your  pocket. Going to see the grand canyon and never getting out of the car. I mean, who drives the Al-Can Highway sober? Not us, we decided. Come hell or Canadian prison by God we would keep our marijuana and risk it all. 

   We placed the marijuana in film canister with the pipe, put it in the pocket of a pair of my FBD's (future baby daddy) pants, rolled them up and stuck them in the bottom of a gigantic green military duffel bag stuffed full of clothing. This bag was two feet deep and three feet wide. We packed the bag deep into the heart of the CRX and nestled everything around it extra snuggly, As if we couldn't possibly keep our marijuana in such a well packed area, with difficult access. 

  At the border, everyone in front of us seemed to be ushered through with the greatest of ease, as if Canada rarely gave a second thought to what may be coming across their borders. A quiet, sunny day where one car after another, ushered through with a wave and a smile. So we met with surprise, the request for us to pull over to a small parking area and come inside to answer some routine questions about our visit. 



    In the building, we were taken into separate rooms and interviewed about our plans in Canada. 

  "Just passing through, on my way home with my boyfriend who is moving back to Alaska, you understand," I said with an innocence that surely would convince the most enthusiastic Canadian officer of my honest intent to not fire up a bowl the nano second I am able to wrap my talons around my fimo clay smoking pipe adorned with Yin Yang signs and psychedelic flowers. 

    The interview process took about 30 minutes as they checked our background and cross examined our stories with one another.  Eventually, we were handed papers and instructed to bring them to the officers downstairs where we would be "free to go."

   We bounced down the stairs, the stench of young ignorance exuded from us in such a potent mix of incredible asshole-ishness that we handed the papers over to the officer without even looking at them. She took a moment to skim the report and handed them back to us with a smile and said, "Okay....everything's ready to go, why don't you two step outside to observe the vehicle search."

  Suddenly I had an overwhelming need to urinate. 

   "Ss--sh--shuuuuuree. Um. Can I go to the bathroom first?" I said. The fear was clear, or so I felt. It was apparent that this woman's words had literally  gone and scared piss from me.

   "Yes, however I will have to escort you," she answered.

   "Oh. Um...okay. You, mean, like, you hafta go and, like go IN the bathroom with me?" Remember, I'm just 20 years old. 

   "Yes, it's actually a stall-less bathroom. I will have to observe you using the toilet."

    And then I suddenly felt the overwhelming need to hold that shit in until my eyes turned yellow. I told the woman "Nevermind, I'll wait" and feigned shyness. I was shy, but the way she looked at me after that told me that I may have just extended a warmly written invitation to conduct a full cavity search of my person.

     Outside, two female polices officers pulled two rolling carts up to our vehicle and began a search that can only be described as terrifyingly fucking THOROUGH. These two bitches were trying to pull apart my lipsticks in my make up bag, using special little tools to pry open every tiny nook and cranny on the car's dashboard and center console. Nothing was safe from attempted disassembly to find secret compartments, stashes, or hiding places.  Writing pens, cameras, the goddamn stitching around the car's floormats. After each tiny detail of every single item contained in the front seats of the car was picked through with the brain surgeon-like precision, they began removing, unpacking, uncovering, unzipping, and opening each and every bag and parcel and article of clothing in the back of the CRX. 

   FBD and I stood about 20 feet away, absolutely completely shitting ourselves and each other and whispering about our plan of action once they found the marijuana. Say that it was old, we forgot it was there. What does it matter--what cop ever gave a shit about that excuse? We knew it was over. As we talked about what was happening, we watched both the officers pull out clothing from bags, shake it out and check each pocket. 

   Because he was a great guy, FBD was. He going to take the fall. He was going to claim it was his, I knew nothing, and we were discussing what my plan of action would be from there to gently pry him out of his new lover's arms in his tiny cell. All there was to do was wait. 

   Finally, the officer pulled out the duffel bag containing the stash, placed it atop her cart and began taking everything out. Checking the pockets just as thoroughly as she had just begun the search. We watched the stiffly structured bag collapse, as little by little it was emptied of it's contents. And then with her right hand, the officer pulled out the rolled up pair of pants with the stash in the pocket. She held it in her hand while her left hand felt around in the bottom of the bag searching for anything else lying in the bottom. And then, she put the pants back in the bag and said, "okay....everything here is clear. You guys need help packing this all back in the car?" 

   Couldn't believe it. The ONE LAST ARTICLE left to be searched in the entire car was the pants with the stash. She had that shit IN HER HAND, and didn't search it! 


  And of course farrrr be it from me to bow my head gracefully and leave the premesis as if Satan himself were lubing himself up for rear entry, I stick around and casually start repacking the car and say to her, "So, how often to people come through here with drugs? How long have you been a cop? What's the training here in Canada to become a police officer? What would have happen if she found drugs on me?"  I took my FBD's side stinkeye as a cue to shut it and shut it good and hard, so I did. And we drove off into the Al-Can highway.





Today's Special is





    Back in about 2002 or 2003, I was working 3 days a week as an Alzheimer's Day Program Director. Sounds exciting and impressive, but it was non-profit work for a 3 day a week program, which didn't aim to make any strides in becoming "for" profit. So they paid me dick wages while asking me to massage balls.

    I knew a girl named Anita back then. Not to be mean, but to give you a visual (plus that bitch never returned my phone calls again after I quit working at the restaurant. Okay, I no-called no-showed, I deserved it), Anita looked like an overweight female blonde version of Gargamel. Like if you took Gargamel's face and put Smurfette's hair on him and gained him 80 or so libbys, you'd basically have Anita. Here, put these two together and imagine how awesome it would be right now if I knew how to use Photoshop:




   Now, I'm not trying to be an asshole about this Anita chick. First, that's not her real name. Second, I haven't spoken to her in 10 years. And third, I think she died or is living in Belfast. So the statute of limitations has long expired on our acquaintanceship to give this full Gargamel/Smurfette likeness disclosure. It's true. If I thought for a second she'd ever read this website, I'd never say such horrible things. But this old lady announced to the entirety of Wal- Mart once that I "favored Roseanne Barr", and I survived that trauma. So I'm sure this ghost of my past can forgive that I think she looks like a fucking fantastical medieval wizard love child of Mr. Magoo and the Wicked Witch of the West fell into a vat of 50 volume hair bleach. See? I have a heart.

  Anyunbearablelikenessofbeing, Anita worked as a server in a little neighborhood Italian restaurant, and after chit chatting it was decided I would apply for the night hostess position the restaurant had available 2-4 nights a week mixed in with a little on-call duty as a back up to the regular hostesses. My little boy was off visiting with family in Illinois for the summer, I thought it a great way mingle, make extra cash, and fill in some of my downtime from my part time gig with the senior center. 

   The job is cut and dry and going as expected. I was enjoying the work and having fun hanging with Anita and the staff. And one summer evening, I'm working, looking adorbs in my short, flowy summer dress and fab sandals and ready for a long shift of fun and flirting with cute boys.  Enter four men, ready to be seated. And by men, I mean MEN. As in men I'd TOTALLY DO IT WITH.  Four of 'em. Now, I'm the kind of girl, I rarely go by looks. You wanna catch my attention you better have visible talent or bring your best John Cusak. I don't go for "cute" or "hot" or the bad boy whose attention I will have for 55 seconds every three days.

  So in walk these four John Cusaks and I smile and begin to seat them. I'm walking them towards the back of the restaurant, a little spring in my step cause I just look so cute today. I'm carrying four menus in my left arm and four linen roll ups with eating utensils nestled inside in my right hand. I find their table and turn to face them and usher them to the booth. I realize they were slow walking and not quite caught up to me and I had to sort of wave them to me.

  RIGHT THEN, Anita comes out of the kitchen and sort of yells politely, "Hey Felicia, do you know where the creamers are?"

    I lift my right hand to point the linen roll ups in the direction of the creamers and the linens catch on the bottom of my dress, flipping it up, and plastering it to my boobs.

   Now, I've tried to recreate exactly how this happened over and over again. I've never, since that day, been able to make four rolled up linens with silverware inside cause the same type of incident.

   Back to the feature presentation.

    The entire restaurant that I'm facing, the Cusaks, and Anita are ALL staring at me from mid belly down to my toes, barenaked with the exception of my ugly, period granny panties that I had chosen to wear that night because, well, I was on my period. 

   It was a scene in a movie. Everyone stopped eating. Silverware hit plates, the Cusaks froze, absolutely EVERYONE was staring at me. Anita's eyes got big as bagels, her mouth dropped and she turned on her heel and walked right back into the kitchen, nary a word more. I looked down in slow motion, and realize the dress wasn't going back down into position on it's own, it was sort of stuck to my cardigan. I tried grabbing it with my free fingers but I didn't really have any "free" fingers, one hand is holding 4 linen rolls and the other 4 menus. So I open my hands, drop everything to the floor in one of the most ungraceful moves in my career as a human, grab the hem of my dress and shove it back down into position. 

  I don't acknowledge the incident, the Cusaks, or anyone who saw me. No one was laughing, everyone just had this "ohhhhhh, pooooor girl" look on their face. I mean, this did not look good. It's not like I'm Kate Beckinsale and an upskirt would be a godsend into most people's day. I mean, I'm an average, pudgy, 5' 6 and 3/4"  lady. Things are foldy and flappy and dimply and in need of photoshop repair left and right. My wobbly bits in full display, wrapped up in nice, used to be white granny panties in a fine Italian eating establishment. I exit the dining floor of completely silent patrons to Sinatra's "Mack the Knife" playing as a soundtrack to this lovely memory I would carry with me forever. I got to the kitchen where Anita says, without missing a beat, "I didn't need to know where THAT was!" 

  What could I do--I laughed so hard I cried and then I just cried. And 5 minutes later, I was back out on the floor, having no relief come to me until all the patrons who witnessed my Flesh and Chonie parade were gone, off to digest their meals somewhere in the privacy of their perfect, flat stomached, lives. And putting as many miles of road and minutes of memory between my who ha and their existence.


  However that experience is only equaled by the following:


    Met a guy named Marshall. I am using his real name because I think this guys is dead now or at least living in Norway. But for reals this time--I called him Bjorn, because he was a Norwegian Viking dude straight outta Norway.  And he was as big as a house and that's what they called dudes like that in Norway. Kind of like how the south calls big boys "Bubba". I think Bjorn means "bear". But his mom was American so he was raised in both places. So big dude, white blonde hair with a strawberry tint in his facial hair and big blue eyes. We met through a mutual douchebag friend of ours whose house we were helping remodel. He was an electrician and was there doing wiring. I was painting.

   This is one of those hook ups everyone hopes for that comes along only a few times. Instant eye contact, instant chemistry. He had a way of just saying what he thought and he thought cool things. I knew I liked him when he told me I had cute toes as he was asking me where a toolbox was and I was standing on a kitchen counter. He knew he liked me when I asked him to rip the sleeves off of my shirt for me because it was hotter than balls up in the ceiling where I was doing my work.

   Before the night was through he asked me out on an official date. In the world of internet dating, this kind of thing just doesn't happen much. We had a couple of very romantic dates--real dates. The museum to see the Viking exhibit, a concert to see some friends of mine. Getting to know each other slowly and in good time. He said he didn't find himself romantically interested in a woman very often but  that his feelings for me were becoming something he didn't quite know what to do with. I was of course so very flattered.

   When I caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his chest, I asked what it was. He opened his shirt to reveal, over his heart, an enormous elephant illustration, sort of determined and stampeding with glowing red eyes. At that point in my life I had suddenly started to receive elephant knick knacks as gifts from people and had really grown to love them. I felt it was fate. 

  About three weeks into my evaluation of Bjorn, I decided I was starting to fall in love with him. He was charming in a shy, little boy kind of way and he didn't hold himself back emotionally and had a really neat little house full of unique and interesting things. He had a sweet pit bull named Levi who was the perfect dog. He came over for dinner one night, we had a fantastic evening together and for the first time, he spent the night at my house. The next morning we both had to work. He asked if he could take a shower, I said sure, and went back to sleep. When I woke up, he was gone.

  A couple of hours later, I got up for work and yawned and stretched and ate peanut butter toast and felt like the hottest chick on the planet because I had just had a man tell me that I was and why would he lie? I roll into the bathroom, turn on the shower and hop in, still smiling from my great evening and the realization that Bjorn is now officially, my boyfriend.

  "I have a boyfriend named Bjorn....how cool is that?" I actually said outloud.

   Simultaneously as my eyes are looking down at my feet and I walk back to put my head in the shower stream, I notice what appears to be a bloody trail of.....well, blood, running into the water at my feet, tinging it pink. Naturally, I assume my new Viking boyfriend has painted for me an illustration in my shower. A poem, perhaps in his blood on my shower wall, to express his admiration. My eyes roll up, following this interesting trail of red up to my soap dish.



And I freeze.





      "NO.......... NO.........nononononoNONONONO!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"


    What was in the soap dish? A bloody, used, TAMPON.

    Now what you are thinking is, I'm sure "Any beastly creature who would ever pull out her tampon and put it in her shower soap dish doesn't deserve a Viking boyfriend!" And you'd be right. But please, let me explain. I know this is TMI for most, I KNOW. But you've come this far, just go a little farther.

    The night before last night with Bjorn was the last time I showered. It was the last day of my period so my flow was light, but still present. I had just given my bathroom shower a good cleansing. And when I clean my bathroom, I'm a pro. I take out all the trash bins, the rugs, and shake it all out, empty it, sweep, scrub, mop, then put everything back in it's place when the floor is dry. 

   I had taken the trash bin out of the bathroom for cleaning and forgotten to put it back in. So I got in the shower for my ritualistic  "Yay my period is over" shower. A few minutes later, with conditioner in my hair working it's magic, I realize I had forgotten to remove my tampon. So I took it out and went to throw it in the trash which was usually right next to the shower. Usually I wrap it in toilet paper first, but that could wait.  But there was no bin there. In this particular home I lived in, I couldn't flush female products such as this, or so the landlord had asked me, because the sewer couldn't handle it.  He asked me to please put feminine products in the trash instead. So, I stood there for a moment with a tampon dangling from my fingers (I like to hold on to these things about as much as you like reading about it, believe you me), and I've got nowhere to put it. I don't want to trail water all over the freshly mopped floor, so, I just put it in the soap dish. I don't use the soap dish. I have a shower caddy. I figure, I'll take it out when my shower is over and then rinse out the dish. Except of course, I forgot about it.

     So I stand there looking at this tampon which has absorbed so much water and moisture that it's seeping blood down the shower wall into the water and I know, I just KNOW that Bjorn had to have seen this. I mean, Ray Charles could see this shit, there was no getting around it. It was obvious when I got in the shower, the trail of blood was already there from when Bjorn took his shower hours earlier. He stood there and started at my bloody used tampon. There's simply no way he didn't see it.

   Mortified, I go to work, running it round and round in my head what I should say. Should I bring it up? Will he if I don't? What should I say? What can I say? All I can say is the truth and the truth stands. It is what it is. He can either believe I'm a shower unloading tamponeer or believe this really was a one time thing that I've never, ever done before. And it really wasn't something I'd ever done before (or have again) so, all I could do is tell the truth.

  Of course I run it by all the ladies at work. An all female office of four of us. I tell them what happened. Mouths are agape. Then the laughter. Oh the evil, painful laughter. Of course none of them have ever done such a stupid thing in their entire life. I mean none of them would ever even think of taking their tampons out in the shower, no matter what! So there I was, the cheese that stood alone while all these Princess Perfect's around me walked around in their glass homes sitting on their lily white asses eating their curds and whey cringing at the big fat ugly spider and her stupid tampon in the shower story.

    I called Bjorn and he was acting as if nothing in the world was wrong. I said, "Come on.....let's talk about the elephant in the room.....my tampon was in the shower dish." Cackles and giggles from my eavesdropping coworkers coming from every direction. 

  "Yeah.....I noticed that," he replied.

   And then I told him the story to which he just responded, "Felicia.....this is really no big deal at all. No need to explain." 

   "But I do need to explain, this is not a habit I am in the practice of doing, this is not normal behavior, it was extenuating circumstances that led to an end I am mortified over!"

   "Yeah, but I've seen so much worse out of women," he responded.

    "REALLY? What on earth could be worse?" I asked, honestly curious.

    "Well this one chick once told me that she can't stand people who wear cheap jeans and that anyone who doesn't spend at leat $200.00 on their jeans has their head up their ass and doesn't know quality. I very clearly remember feeling miles more disgusted by that then your little friend in the shower this morning."

    And just like that, we were in love again. Until a few more weeks went by and his psycho anger management (or lack thereof) issues came to boot and I dumped him.

   And that's my two most embarrassing moments.




The time I got pulled over in New Mexico.


  Several years ago, when I was just a young 20 something who thought nothing of driving 6 hours to a concert mid work week, I used to drive 6 hours to a concert mid work week. On one particular occasion, I decided to drive to Taos, New Mexico from Denver, Colorado, in order to attend the Taos Solar Music Festival. And since no marijuana was involved in this jaunt, my boyfriend at the time decided he would not attend with me.

   From the pompadour wearing, foul-tempered, loud mouthed, whiskey-sneaking husband husband-wife team whom I had the hellish misfourtune to have to call my employers, I was able to secure a reluctant, far from grudge free pardon from work that afternoon so that I could make the 5-6 hour drive in to arrive at the show grounds just around late afternoon.

   Being that this journey was before I relied on online map sources, I pulled out my well loved and well used United States Road Atlas, from which I had planned and executed over 6,000 miles of road trips. There were two clear route options. I could take a direct city to city large highway route, or go west first, then south through the Rocky Mountain pass after mountain pass to my destination. Being a typical 20 year old who enjoys impressing the shit out of herself, I chose the latter. Bought a pack of smokes, loaded up my sleeping-in-the-car gear, some Slim Jims and a few other predictable supplies, and down the highway of Independent Know-It-All Womanhood I went. 

  Road tripping, for about 6 years of my life, became my life. The purpose of the trips were concerts. I would to drive 500 miles to some shitty dive in Detroit just to say I drove 500 miles to some shitty dive in Detroit. Shitty dives became rather fascinating to me. Because a shitty dive is reliable and dependable. I trust a shitty dive far more than a meat market upscale disco where STD's are the name, and pretending no one had any are the game.

  There's going to be some moody reclusive sound guy who refers to his bitch of an ex-wife within 5 minutes of meeting along with the laundry list of things she stole. There's going to be an owner darkening some shadowed corner who is either:

A) Drinking

B) Trying to fuck, or

C) Pretending he doesn't want to drink or fuck.


  There will be bar hags who will take it personally that you are not one of them. There will be an overly wistful dorky man drinking water, there for the music, who will fall in love with me within 55 seconds and who will do everything he can to "subtely" hint that all I had ever been looking for in my travels was actually right here, in front of me, all the while. There will be women who hate the sight of you, men who hate the sight of you, and a bathroom the size of a college dorm refrigerator with "cool" graffiti written all over

   But there is a freedom roaming amongst these masses. A mutual understanding. We are the ones who Don't Give a Fuck. We aren't easily offended, yet we easily offend. The word Cunt never bothered us much and  at some point in all of our lives, someone beat the shit out of us. And here, in the shitty dive, no one's warts are big enough to scare off a troll. .

   So you can imagine driving down to Taos, a whimsical town full of wise older women who wear their hair long and as gray as it can get with flowy skirts, tanned skin, turquoise jewelry and bright eyes, seemed appealing. A nice outdoor stage, even Harry Belafonte was going to play.

  I arrived with peeled eyes, driving slow through the gtown, stopping frequently and admiring the strung lights across the stucco walls of each earthy home, veranda, pergola, porch, and patio. Even the convenience stores felt like a novelty. I parked my car and walked onto the grounds of the festival, where I enjoyed a few hours of a good music, excluding the 20 minute GD version of the Banana Boat song where we were continually forced to sing "Day-O" over and over and over again to the old man. Later a sound guy for the show told me the crew strongly disliked Mr. Belafonte because he walked into a room where all of his roadies were eating and proclaimed he was so hungry he could eat a whole rack of white man all to himself, or maybe even just a leg. I suddenly found new respect for Mr. Belafonte. 

  After enjoying a sky, a sunset and a perfect evening of cool desert breeze, I took my sun drenched, slightly burnt self  back to my car as the desert sky opened up to receive all this musical energy that I had absorbed. I felt alive, beautiful, loved, mysterious, strong and young. I was 26 years old. I didn't realize it then, but it was one of the best days of my life.



    It was almost midnight and I began the drive back through the way that I'd come. I decided to take the I-25 up through Pueblo back to Denver once I got out out of the mountain passes of I-60. Somewhere along the way, I would keep my eyes open for a good place to pitch my tent, a tent that I had very little faith that I could actually assemble before it was time to continue driving home in order to make it to work by 8:30 in the morning. I was going for broke. I wouldn't even go home, just rest and drive all the way to work in 9 hours time.  But I wanted to sleep in the mountains, just me,  off the road a bit, but where I could still see the road and my car. 

   I started to get very sleepy about an hour into the drive. The day had caught up with me, the night was working magic on my senses, I was sure that I had almost hit a werewolf a minute ago and that there were glowing eyes just up ahead. I started to remember the stories I used to listen to on Coast to Coast AM since I was 13. Art Bell would entertain callers telling their stories of encounters with ghosts, spirits, UFO's, aliens, chubucabra. My mind was filled with the imagery I had long ago designed to go along with each story. I remembered the phenomena long distance truckers would describe of picking up cryptic strangers or hitch hikers on stretches of lonely highway at night, to later get creepy lingering feelings that the person was a spirit, haunting the highway or even the devil himself. Then, I remembered this:


    Which, while beneficial in that it introduced my 8 year oldness to not only Albert Brooks and CCR, but to the cold fact that there are werewolves in the desert. And to never sing tv show theme songs to anyone at night in a car.

   Music and cigarettes only have so much power to keep the hairs on the back of my neck from forming into stiff porcupinous spikes of death to the headrest.

   Eventually, I abandoned my idea of sleeping at all until either the sun came up or until I got back into my own safe bed later that evening. 

  As an added frustration, I couldn't seem to get the temperature in my car just right. Too hot or too cold. No variation of temperature vs. air thrust could seem to satiate my temperate needs within my little 94 Saturn. I decided that the answer was not going to be found in heating system adjustments, but rather in my attire. I had in my bag, just next to me on the passenger seat, a nice pair of roomy cotton pants and big warm fuzzy wuzzy socks which seemed to beckon me from my sandals, shorts, tank top, and rapidly cooling skin from the day's sweaty and sunny activities. 

  But there was no way in all of creation I was pulling that car over in order to get dressed properly and safely. So I spent the next couple of miles taking off my sandals and shorts. Paying close attention to the road and making each maneuver as safely as possible. I got as far as putting on the socks, but became leery of attempting the pants while I was driving. So, I simply grabbed my road trip travel blanket and wrapped it around my legs and waist the best I could and drove onward.

   However, I had not realized in all of my doings and undoings of wardrobe, that I had coasted into a sleepy desert town with a speed limit of 45mpg. I was going 65. The police officer on the side of the road immediately put his lights on and spun out onto the road as I whizzed past.

   He came and shone his light into the car . I was suddenly embarrassed of my empty Pringle's can and display of  American road waste: wrappers and papers and plastic bags, wadded up receipts, an 8 hour old Big Gulp. I am sure the cigarette smell alone was enough to choke out an entire speakeasy during prohibition.

  "Hi. License and registration please."  he said. His eyes moved around the inside of my car, falling upon my backpack, which did contain, unbeknownst to abandoned Denver boyfriend, a nice fat bud or two of the purple stuff. I felt almost naked.

  And then realized I was almost naked. Visions of my walking into a county jail in New Mexico with nothing on the waist down but my granny panties (let's just be honest here) and my red tank top sent me into a tailspin panic of fast talking overly polite stammering.

   "Abso-l-lutely! I was just c-c-oming back (gulp) from the festival down th-there and there was music and and I'm just heading home now but here you go, here' s my  license. I- I'm from Denver. My boss wouldn't let me have the day off so I hadda drive straight back home from the show.....so I was just driving home so I could be on my way to work right now." Apparently my fear told me that over sharing would be a great method of causing him to lose interest in my marijuana stuffed back pack.

  Yes, sir! M-o-o-n, that spells JAIL.  The officer nodded his head and gave no verbal response that would serve to alleviate my intense belief that I was going to the pokey. 

   I began to look for my registration and proof of insurance, which I always kept in my little pocket Atlas in my glovebox. I had it out for the journey and it was in my center console for the duration of the trip, as usual. I picked it up but  could not find my registration or insurance proof anywhere. It had been there earlier, I was certain. I explained to the officer. I ruffled through my road trip wrappers, bags, and personal belongings but to no avail. I realized I'd have to get out and look for it.

 "Officer, it was here, I know it was. It's ALWAYS right here. It has to be here...." I was sincerely confused.

  "Well, I'm going to give you a ticket for 65 in a 45 and I'll need that documentation. Why don't you go ahead and step out of your vehicle and give it a good look or else I'll have to cite you for not having proper documentation as well."

   And it was then that I knew. The jig was up. I had to explain that I was driving naked from the waist down. Not only that, but speeding naked. 

  "Well umm....I can't really get out of the car. I was really cold but the heater was too hot, even on the low low setting and so I wanted to change into something warmer and so I started to but then changed my mind and now I have a blanket wrapped around me and I don't have on any pants."

   Now this genuinely surprised the officer. He then asked, as calmly and as casually as you please, "Can you find your pants for me?"

   I struggle to describe exactly what this question, at that time, by that person made me feel. To say I felt like a child caught playing doctor with the neighborkid would be close. I felt dirty, ashamed, silly. Now it all made sense. What was I thinking? The cosmic universe opened up my car door, shone a light in my face and asked..."what the helllll are you doing??"

  "Well, yeah, my pants are right here. But can.....can I have some privacy to put them on?"

  "Uhhmmm, I'm afraid that wouldn't be a good idea ma'am" he said.

   "So. Whaddo I do?"

    "Just step out of the vehicle, you can keep you're blanket around you but I'm going to have to be assured you're not carrying a weapon or anything in there."

   "How?" I asked, completely horrified by the answer I had already predicted

   "Well, you can stand up here next to the car and remove the blanket, shake it out, or I can do a simple pat down. This is just to protect myself, ma'am, I don't want to embarrass you."

   "Sir, that really is going to embarrass me though."


   So, I got out, and stood next to the car, holding onto the blanket around my waist as if it were a lifeline to sanity,

  "Go ahead and see if you cant find your documents, I'm going to the car to run your license." Threat temporarily softened.

    I looked on top, underneath, around the side, in between, and straight through each and every movable and immovable object in my car. No documentation whatsoever. So I admitted defeat, decided to take my half naked pat down in the desert night on the side of the road like a woman, and accept a speeding ticket and whatever other charge I was going to have take, already envisioning the story I'd tell the judge.

  As leaned against the driver's side door and awaited my deep tissue massage, The driver's side door of the patrol car opened, the officer quickly approached me, handed me my license, and walked back to his car, saying, "I've got another call for some domestic violence, ma'am....go ahead and head home, slow it down and no more Ricky Racer." 

   And then he drove off. I took a deep breath and watched him drive away. 20 seconds later I realized I was standing smack dab in the dark amongst the werewolves with my panties on and jumped in the car. And as I sped off, I couldn't help but feel a little offended that this officer would rather make up a story about domestic violence in his town than to frisk me.

   I thought I was just a little hotter than that.  



Well Aren't we all so peachy fucking Green



 Turn off all the lights all the time. Buy proper light bulbs. Recylce. Use canvas bags.

  But by all means if you need to pick up the shit from your perfect, lily white-assed dog to the dog park, bring all the plastic bags we've worked so tirelessly to keep out of landfills and fill them with "meat first" dog food filled feces and *then* throw them into a landfill.


 So when the turtles choke on our plastic bags at least they'll get their final meal along with it.  Eat shit, Environment.  Literally.

Here's a link to where you can buy biodegradable dog shit bags.



Google Images presents: representations of my most life altering relationships

 My parents. I consider parents the first real run in with the landlord tenant relationship. You do what they want or they remind you the roof belongs to them and they turn your life into a real life fatal attraction up in this mug.

My mother :


   She's the funniest bitch in the room no matter who disagrees.  She is a 60's Hollywood starlet wanna be with modeling shots of her looking like she's appealing to be the next James Bond Girl. She owns a bar and bed and breakfast in the Alaskan wilderness with her husband, and for years couldn't understand why I didn't want to be there with her. But we have come to terms with one another over the years and finally have found a mutual respect for the fact that neither of us wants anything to do with the lives the other one leads. 

My father:


    Funny. Deep. Long winded and tiring. Folding the laundry improperly will have my dad  on you with a two hour lecture in poetic righteousness, the importance of not doing laundry "with hate". Then he'll go ahead and tack on simple explanations of the inner workings of the less obvious dark spots of the planet's social personality, while peppering it all with a symphony of cursing that could make the pope renounce God. Then he'll spew forth such ranting paranoid delusion that you grow a beard in ten minutes. He's too funny to hate, and too scary to love.



The First: 1991 ish-1994 ish Aged 18



                                                                                           Actual Haircut

  That one cool black leather couch. The class table top everything with black and gold plastic legs. Stark white walls adorned with nothing. Two bath towels between us and a water bed with satin sheets. He called me Babe almost every other word and wanted to go out to eat at absolutely every meal. So I gained 25 lbs. He drove cool vintage ragtop VW bugs until one broke down and the other got stolen. Then he drove an LTD he got for $400.00. He didn't think that me moving out and to Alaska meant I wanted to break up. He eventually figured it out. Insecure, ego driven....but very very good to me. His name was Ernie. No joke.

    I met him during my junior year of high school. He was an ambitious high school drop out who worked at a gas station and also had his own office cleaning business on the side that I used to help him with at night. Ernie lived with his parents and they were very interested in my comings and goings to their home, which was not a hotel. He hid me in his closet once for well over an hour during a hot 115 degree day to "prove" to his mother I wasn't around. When he came and got me out, I was dehydrated, sweating, and snorting fire through my nostrils before I went into a comatose state of sleep from which I am still shocked I ever roused.

   He really really loved me, too. Bordering obsessed or just plain so. Which was fine with me, because I've always been into stalker types. He didn't really want me having friends or jobs or hobbies or things to do. Which is why we met our end. It was an immature love, but it was otherwise respectful and real. I never heard from him after 1995 and only recently we were able to connect on facebook. He said he always thought I'd come back and we'd be together and that he thought Alaska was a need for me that would be fulfilled soon enough for me not to be gone too long from him. He eventually married, embraced his Christianity, and helped his wife raise her son. We talked on the phone and closed up all of our loose ends. And then he erased me from his facebook page and never contacted me again. But I think I know why.



                                                                                             The LTD






1994-1994  The Scoundrel


    His name was Jason, and he was a helicopter pilot in the air force in Anchorage. He, like many of the enlisted, also had a part time job at Wal-Mart as the hardware department manager. He was 27 years old to my 19 years old. An older man. He had a handsome, soft, buttery face and rounded features with golden brown eyes and ever so sightly soft in the middle. There was a way about him--the way he'd walk past me and slow down to look, stop, smile, and give me the most deliberate hello a man had ever given to me. I was a late bloomer, not used to male attention. The kind of person who looks behind me to see who he's really saying hello to because it surely wasn't me. And he caught me off guard with a slow smile and a humor not easily understood by most. I liked trying to find the homes for lost puzzle pieces and he was one. 

   We dated and he was the first man for me since my first love. There was a step I was taking that felt almost like I was a traitor. "Now it all begins...' I thought. My life of wayward strange men and serial monogamy. Once you break the seal on your #2 man, you see yourself in a way you kind of dreaded. Suddenly it seemed I would be buying condoms and keeping them in my nightstand myself. I could hear the call of STD and pregnancy scares, uncomfortable morning afters, years of promised phone calls that would never be. All because a girl was ready for a new boyfriend.

   But Jason had a reputation at Wal-Mart. He'd dated 3 out of 5 women there, some of them married. I caught wind of it a few weeks after we started dating and broke up with him when I was sitting with him in the Wal-Mart McDonald's. Having just eaten, a beautiful young Hispanic girl who worked as a stocker walked by. His eyes followed her as she walked and he smiled and said hello to her just the way he used to say to me. Then he said, "Coma conmigo, bonita..."  

  Unbeknownst to him I was not only 1/4 Hispanic and raised around a fair amount of Spanish, but also a card carrying member of the C+ high school Spanish student two years running. What he said was to the effect of "come eat with me, beautiful."

   "Did you not get enough to eat?" I asked innocently and kindly, suckling on my orange drink through the stray until it gurgled down to the last bit of liquid. 

   "No, I'm good," he answered.

   "Oh because I'm confused. You asked beautiful over there to come and eat with you. So if you're not hungry then you must just be an asshole." I got up and walked away.    

     I wasn't particularly hurt but it was my first after my first, and that to me was a very big deal. It should have been buttercups and rose petals in my young eyes--a real man to sweep me off my feet and then ending up feeding me McDonald's and hitting on Consuela from Housewares right in front of me. And then I thought of the mysterious condoms I would find around the bed after we'd made love and suspected he was taking them off during sex. A pregnancy test confirmed I was pregnant. He wouldn't help me have an abortion and wanted me to have his baby even though he already had two children he never saw and couldn't seem to do so much as his damn dishes. He became scarce so as not to have to face me. I followed through on the abortion on my own and suffered through months of depression and humiliation over it. 

   He'd come knocking on my door later and ask me if I wanted to go "grab a bite" or "catch a flick" and walk by me patronizing me while I was at work stocking shelves by saying "Hiiiiiiiii Felicia...." as he walked by. And that sealed the ziploc shut on the rancid, putridity of the rotted remains that was once my love for him. Then I found out he gave me scabies.





  1995-1999-: The Baby Daddy



   Nice guy, your typical "we were too young" story. Things happened fast with very little caution paid one particular vacation towards preventing pregnancy. We had the baby and married--in that order, and failed. While we technically are cool with one another, I can't help but feel he'll never get totally comfortable around me. 





The Boy:  1996- present Day




  You inhale them as if every tiny bit of them engages with your core and integrates with the fibers of your body, forever infused and intertwined with your cells. It's your living and breathing soul and heart, in the flesh. I never thought a child of mine would have blue eyes. I stared at him. I kissed his mouth. I became so hyper aware that I could lay in bed with him on my side, holding my breast from his nose while he breast fed and rocking him gently while I was technically sound asleep. To this day, find myself rocking myself to sleep the same way. It's an extension of you that you actually love more than yourself. And with that, there are no more words I can say that haven't already been said by millions of other people.





1999-2003: The Yo-Yo.




   What other name could this guy have except Dave. For Dave and I, it was love at first sight with an unwillingness to give in. We met unexpectedly and instantly liked one another. I didn't know he was a stoner. I mean, I knew he got stoned, I got stoned with him. But he was a pothead stoner. He was in graduate school, and eventually graduated and began to work for the D.A.'s office in Denver, so it seemed to be all on the up and up. But eventually he needed to get stoned just to go on an outing. The light faded in him, but my love took longer to leave. I felt he was it for me, and hoped our age could catch up with our hearts. For years he was the one that got away. He was sweet and funny and a good person. But he was also spoiled and hid how much he really coasted through life while his parents funded it. Two big breaks from each other, but we got back together both times. Until........well......Dave and I are the only two people who really know what happened. Suffice to say that when true love comes knocking, you have to put down the bong and answer the door. I would run into him years later with my fiancee, who is now my husband. His girlfriend would barely acknowledge me as we made introductions and said hello in the restaurant. During the end of our relationship that neither of us wanted to acknowledge, we were driving on the highway and a huge bush was on fire on the side of the road. We both knew it was over.




2003- 2005 The Tearjerk



        I met Tearjerk through a friend. I had met him years prior when he was married to a girl I kind of knew. They got divorced and she was with a guy I was a little in love with the year prior. Denver is a small town. He had  bright eyes and a large smile but his soul (and his face and beard) looked like the above picture. He was so bruised and sad and so was I over Dave. It just made sense to couple our misery and become a couple to boot. We laughed all the time, we took walks, he held my hand and kissed me in public, something Dave never liked to do. He surprised me with how gentle and calm he was. And he was so smart that I could pick virtually any topic and ask him to explain it. Socialism, democracy, history, geography, the human condition. Breaking up was like pulling hot and fresh taffy apart. It took a good year to complete the job. I cry when I watch Little Miss Sunshine because Steve Carrell's character looks and acts so much like he did when I met him. I am happy to report he is still in my life and one of my closest friends.





 2006-2008: The Bullet



                        I never knew infatuation, lust, and love like i knew it with Bullet. He consumed me as if he were made of gelatinous acid. He was commanding, had a deep, dominating personality and voice that halted me from the first date, when midway through dinner, he got up and swung his chair around the table to sit right next to me even though our table was 2' X2'. He mended himself to my side, was always in my corner without question from our first date until we broke up two years later. I knew I was in too deep, I knew my feelings for him weren't what they should be--I wanted to be with him more than I wanted to be with him if that makes any sense. I convinced myself with virtually no evidence that he was the one for me and I held to that notion like grim death.Until it became apparent that we didn't make sense together and there would be no future. I am silly, self depreciating, funny, like to laugh. He was serious, quiet, stern, and hiding the real him through layers of thick skin so deep no knife I held would cut through. I shook him looking for loose change, I knocked on him waiting to hear someone invite me in. I poked him to see how he moved. We never got comfortable with one another. And then his psycho ex girlfriend who was stalking him online got him to carry on an internet relationship with another girl and presented me with all these letters he wrote. The letters were bullets and they shot holes through my heart. I screamed, I cried, I begged for him to make it make sense. I told him I could never be with him again. I remember him saying, "Felicia, don't do this....." when I told him to get out of my life. Those words would haunt me in the bog of pain and loneliness I would encounter in the months to come. He held me while I cried in ways I hadn't since I was a child, waiting for the darkened window to lighten, knowing when the sun came up I would make him leave, dreading goodbye, dreading his absence, dreading the pain it would bring. I knew when the window got lighter, I'd never be with him again. And I was right.

    It would be weeks and months until any tiny moment of healing showed itself to me. I believed he made me a better person and that without him I wasn't who I wanted to be. It was as if he had my identity and took it with him hen he left. The biggest shock, pain, and heartbreak anyone had ever given me. After I moved on and fell in love again and married, we exchanged emails where we were able to apologize to one another for what we both had done. Me for making him a Ken doll I dressed to my satisfaction, and him to me for not just coming out and saying he didn't feel he was the right guy for me. And the book is closed. 





 The Lifer 2009- Present




That one book written by that one dude who is trying to tell women that unless the man lights himself on fire and spells out "Will You Marry Me" in their melted flesh, then they're just not into you? Totally true. When you meet the guy who wants you to be his wife, he will stop at nothing to let you know this. Chances are that he'll do this in a way that frightens you a bit as well. I'm married now for a year. And when I think of all the emotional arm wrestling I used to do with men, it's nice to just be with someone whom I love and who loves me and the complication stops there. Because God knows, love is complicated enough without adding to it beyond that.  No more looking around the crowded room for anything that may there that I haven't found. Both of us being products of the 80's and 90's, we were just as terrified as anyone of taking the step into marriedhood. Will we become the typical sitcom husband and wife where I roll my eyes at all his jokes and he tries to trick me so that he can go watch the game at a buddy's house? So far, that's not who we've come.

  The first year was hard--suddenly you have to figure out a way to tell the person you've been with that that one thing they've always done really  annoys you deep down because now you know that you've got to deal with that shit for a very long time.  But you get to be with someone. And if you're lucky like me, The One just so happens to be someone who goes on the road a lot for work so that you get time to be a singular asshole and wallow in your own selfish needs as much as you want from time to time. 

  Otherwise it's that one person's smile, smell, touch, and voice that brings the most comfort and at the end of the day. They are your favorite person and strangely, the pull of your obligation to them, while stronger than any, feels easy. And life becomes just as challenging as it is comfortable. And it's good. 



Bitch Please


We already heard the genius that is RedOne, the producer of Gaglady's new as-of-yet unreleased album (just scroll down this page and look for the dude in a cardigan wearing those blue blockers), Born This Way. And now it's time to hear it from the horse's mouth herself, the fact that stars will fall into miniature rainbow bursts of saintlike proportions onto our souls and ears, in giving us this new, amazing "album of the decade". But don't let me make such blithe, pretentious, assumptive predictions. Let the lady herself do it:

"I promise you, I'll never let you down. And not for nothing: The album's finished and it's fucking really good. So whatever this is, whatever you just did for all of us…I promise to give you the greatest album of this decade, just for you. The funny thing is that some people have reduced freedom to a brand. They think that it's trendy now to be free. They think it's trendy to be excited about your identity. When in truth, there is nothing trendy about Born This Way. This connection that we all share is something so much deeper than a wig or lipstick or an outfit, or a fucking meat dress. Born This Way is about what keeps us up at night and what makes us afraid."

   The reduction of freedom to a brand? I have gone round and round and round and round on this one. To what is Stefani Germanotta--I mean, LADY GAGA alluding?
   That freedom is her art form, not a brand?  That she is free--not a "brand"
  Kick that around. And now, for some DIRECT GD quotes from Lady Gaga's OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE WEBSITE:
   "Spend $55 and look for additional savings on Lady Gaga merch at checkout!"

   "Buy More, Get More This Week In The Official Webstore"

   "Get Up To Three Free Items Added To Your Order When You Spend $50, $100, and $150."

  This sounds suspiciously brand marketing sales gimmickery of the 1st degree. And here are some official Lady Gaga items you can purchase that are adorned with her name, face, or who ha. 


-15 or so various Gaga Halloween Costumes



-Official wig




-Wall Calendars

-Key Chains

-Pre loaded USB drives

- Make up




-Prayer candles--YES, PRAYER CANDLES

-i phone cases


-Tote Bags

-Temporary tattoos


  Yes. That is a funny thing that some people have reduced freedom to a brand. I'll have a good think about what kind of people would reduce freedom to a brand and who would make me being excited about my own identity "trendy". While I'm wearing my Lady Gaga glasses and gloves and hoodie, with my LG make up in my LG totebag and praying to my LG candles, I'll give that a real good think it over.

   I'm all for LG. The world is more colorful with her, I like to look at her. But damn lady. Know what it is you are a part of and quit stinking the place up with your hypocrisy.

Sexy Beast

   In the year 2000, the British film Sexy Beast was released as the debut film of amateur film maker, Jonathan Glazer. The guy's only film experience was making music videos for British electronica bands and commercials for various large retail corporations. 

   The film's plot revolves around a former London underground criminal safe-cracker Gal Dove (Ray Winstone), who after spending 9 years in prison, lives a blissfully quiet soft-in-the-middle perma-vacationer life with his lovely wife, DeeDee. They receive a visitor; the love-fearing violent sociopath, Don Logan (played by Sir Ben Kingsley), who has come to recruit Gal into joining a team in London preparing to relieve a high end hush hush bank of it's wealthy clients' security deposit box contents. The rest of the story is simply too good to tell you more.

   Now, as someone who doesn' t really care for heist films, I can vouch for this film as being so much more. Ultimately yes, it's about loooooooooove. To really get the most out of the film's brilliant dialogue, watch it with the subtitles on. 

   Ben Kingsley and the film won many awards and Kingsley was nominated for an Oscar for Best Supporting actor but lost to a dude I've never heard of in a movie I've never heard of. I'm sure it blows.

   I leave you with the Ebert and Roeper review of the movie because the damn 4 minute long trailers practically tell you the entire movie and show parts that are best seen in context.

   Netflix it and you'll wanna kiss me full on the mouth!



 Siittin' on the beaches lookin' at the peaches...



Smirky Mcfuckface


    Years ago I came across this video of Mrs. Tom Cruise....ummm..singing? This tom foolery happened on that tween drama show called Dawson's Creek. Amidst the almost grown out Rachel haircuts and just about the time we were all throwing away our glittery mini butterfly clips worn in our twisted do-it-yourself dred updos, came this gem that slammed the last nail into the coffin that was 90's youth. Joey all grows up and sang a song like an  adult and everything. I never saw the show but it's obvious by the way that Heath Ledger' baby mama mother fucks Dawson's teenage prematurely receded hairline so hard he chokes hairballs, that this is Joey making some sort of declaration into the face of unrequieted love that'll have that pez dispenser Dawson holding up his CD player to Joey's window while Paula Cole's I don't Wanna Wait blares into the boring ass boring night.

   Notice the casual toss of her head, the "I guess this is how I feel after all" shrug of the shoulders and that GD smirk that could peel the paint off a road sign. The knowing glances into the spotlight, the nasaly attempt at vibrato. . Dawson pretending that this is anything but real life where he would smile politely through the performance, pat her on the shoulder and say something like, "That was cool, Joey......I gotta go now." And then just drive into the night, embarrassed for his childhood friend. 

     This video had an impact on me so much that I still wake at night, missing the matte cranberry lipstick and platform flip flops of yesteryear and wonder....where, oh where has our Katie Holmes gone? No longer is she the fresh faced young middle American girl next door who would have her first kiss be meaningful and in the safety of her upstairs bedroom after 3 months of dating while her parents were downstairs popping popcorn rather than under the bleachers while sucking on Tic Tacs and Cherry Pepsi between 1st and 2nd period. Like the rest of us.

   She has become an oddity... a sad lady who looks like at any moment she could vomit or pass out or both in public and everyone would instantly have a host of reasons why without much speculation.

   "What happened?" A stranger on the street might say.

   "Oh, that Kate Cruise....she just passed out in a puddle of her own vomit," another would  answer.

    To that the passersby would just nod their heads in silent acknowledgment and say, "Right, right....well...of course."

 This video makes me embarrassed for Kate Cruise. But apparently she doesn't feel the same way because this bitch is still singing. On television, charity events, award shows, television shows, she even drags her husband on stage to for a ridiculous song and dance amongst their peers.. I'm convinced that none of us know whether or not to scratch our watch our wind our butts when we are faced with a Kate Cruise performance. And really, I for one am starting to believe that is what her star power is all about. Like Jennifer Aniston. The only reason we care about her is because she's got a hot bod and a sweet rack and Brad used to do her.  I'm starting to think the only reason we "care" about Kate Cruise is because she's living in what has become an alien fish bowl of a marriage after we watched in odd fascination as she ever so willingly sacrificed her sweet sweet youth to the Gods of Hollywood in order to marry Mr. American Apple Pie. 


   You'll lose ten pounds a minute listening to this shit. You've been warned.





Eat, drink and be married


   In high school, if ever there came an elective run by the some balding, frizzy haired male teacher resembling Doc from Back to the Future who refuses to accept the subpar educational system, thereby creating college level elective classes with names like Individuals In Society to be passed as English credit, I was in line before the ink hit the paper on the official listing. I was always attracted to the experimental electives that lost their funding after one semester.

   It was in this Individuals in Society Class that we would have guest speakers representing mental states and special interest groups stemming from the small range of liberal to waaaayy hay haay lefty loosey. And sometimes, our speakers were simply everyday people in their quiet corner of the world,  fighting for a cause, hoping to raise awareness about a sad issue that needs repair, or a representative from some committee or movement designed. These guest speakers were there to spark our fresh minds into some sort of  action supporting the little guy and the underdogs. And it was in this class that my arm rose high into the air to ask our gay rights speaker what I, a "normal, ungay (God help me yes those were my exact words)" person, could do to really help out my fellow gay in their fight to be treated fairly in all facets of society. He answered me first by correcting my ignorant remark.

   "Do you mean....what can you do as a straight person?" he said with a smile. 

   "Um. Yeah." I was relieved of my ignorance with an embarrassed  giggle.

   And in a moment of Malcolm X like grace, in your face rebelliousness, and smug annoyance, he answered.


    Blinks. Stares.

    And then, rather like in a movie, the bell rang and we all shuffled out as the teacher yelled behind us our evening's assignments. I silently gathered my belongings, my blue canvas 3 ring binder with my handwritten Metallica's written all over it  , not because I like the band (quite the contrary), but because I liked drawing the font, and walked out the door thinking: Fucking... NOTHING?

   Come on, nothing? Bitch can't decorate a float for a parade, staple some papers together for some handouts, attend a gay pride anything, give my in-the-closet gay friend pretending to be in love with me encouragement to be free? I can't lead by example to my straight peers and accept the changes the gay pocket of society bring forth in to the world with grace and love? I mean there isn't a GD thing I can do to embrace the rainbow colored gay dawn and usher in a new era where grandmas are buying lip gloss as stocking stuffers for their grandsons? I resented this gay man telling me there was nothing I could do. But I also did something that would make his visit to Herbert Hoover High School detrimental to his cause for decades to come: I believed him.

    Then the years rolled by and something came my way that would sharpen my focus on gay causes--where it stopped being a gay issue and morphed into human issue: I became a hairstylist. I saw firsthand gay men and women wanting families, health insurance, and recognition as chosen life partners. Gay men and women who taught me that the word "faggot" is as to gay people as word "nigger" is to African Americans. People saying with words, actions, and in movement, that to declare one as a husband or wife is a privilege they are denied by the very same people who would tell me that even if I were gang raped by a pack of lepers, I wouldn't have the right to terminate that pregnancy. The hate and contempt that I had for the Great Deciders out there who would turn their religious beliefs--beliefs for which they held no conviction over in their own lives-- upon me and mine, grew. They're getting away with it because they come from a long line of thinking that so happens to run this country. An old school that should have been burned down centuries past.

    If God is their rule maker, why do they not let Him be the punisher? Judge not lest ye be judged and all that shit. These are not new ideas and concepts I'm spouting forth. Why are they treated as such?

     What are gays guilty of that makes the idea of them forming unions so obscene to these fanatics, I ask? Opinionated fashion sense? Spotless homes? Taking fat chicks to the dance? Taking our children left behind, showering them with love, giving them something my two straight parents never had a clue of how to do: provide happy, healthy childhoods to children.  

    Celebrating love, partnership, family, and being able to protect someone that you love better by providing for their health needs if they are sick--these are the things that all human beings should be afforded. Health"care"companies aren't going to get mad at receiving more premium paying members, true.

   Let's separate church from state once and for GD all, call this issue a day and I don't know, stop murdering women and children overseas in the name of God, maybe?



                                                                            Aaron and Briceson

                                                                   artists, activists, terminally engaged

                                                                     copyright Norman Dillon Photography




this bitch....


   I don't think my cousin Rene "gets" this whole website. My excited sharing of the link with him over the phone was met with crickets until the birds chirped in the morning. He doesn't understand celebrity skewering and probably thinks I'm mean and the we should all be fair to our fellow brother, and find better artistic endeavors or hungry children to feed or beaten women to heal. But he also spells "color" "colour" and whatnot and is into all sorts of new age whodiddly bell chimes stuff so...to each artist his own. 

  When people do stupid shit--I point and laugh. When I do stupid shit, I point and laugh. And if ever comes a day when there's a photo of me doing stupid shit--by all means, point and laugh.

   And so begins my new "This Bitch..." chronicle. Stay tuned later for "Look, Dickface..."

    The first ever installment of This Bitch goes to a woman named Samantha Ronson. A Holloywood party DJ, in the vein of DJ AM, RIP, except female. She's an A-list DJ for D-list stars and has beens of young Hollywood's past.She's stupendously lesbian and had a famous relationship with Lindsay Lohan. She is also indeed the sister of Mark Ronson. Anyways, this bitch's photo face could make a cat gut itself. She seriously needs to come up with a new stock pose. Been noticing it for years, been waiting for a change, but it never does. 

     The many faces of Samantha Ronson that fucking never change. I'd point out which one is she, but you'll be enlightened on that nugget of info once you feel the odd sensation creeping in on you to punch a baby. I find it funny that there were so many of this pose to choose from I actually got cross eyed and sleepy ad stopped 20 shy of the amount of photos I wanted to post. 


   I do the hard work so you don't have to, folks.















Damn you will and jada



The decision has been made  (<-----click on that sentence for the video) to give us another 9 year old pop star working on nowhere to go but down and a midlife crisis by age 18. All courtesy of two Hollywood parents who fucking should have fucking known better.  With the link, I present you with the video release of NINE YEAR OLD Willow Smith's song "I Whip My Hair Back and Forth".

    Now, because I DON'T BELIEVE IN EXPLOITING CHILDREN, I will not contribute to this fuckery by posting images and videos of the Smith children in plain sight. You'll have to really care about this issue to look further enough to click on the link I provided above. But I will sure as hell talk about it here.

   That smirk. That chorus. The bejeweled lips and nails. The wippin' of 'da her. The "I love ME" t-shirt. The exclamation that "Can't none of them whip it like I do" and "I'll keep fighting until I get there".  Someone drop this child on East Cold Facts avenue here in Denver for 5 minutes in the nighttimes and watch her cave so hard we'll be tubing sammiches down to her daily for two months until we can dig her out. 

   Let us pray: 

  Lord, please. No more 9 year olds breakin' it down on autotune.....or 40 year olds. Thank you Jesus and Baby Jesus. Amen.

   Will the day ever dawn that someone in charge of Hollywood decides that not all things that *can* be done *should* be done? Did Jada and Will ever think in the production of this video that maybe thrusting their 9 year old into the public eye fronting prepubescent smirks and aggressive self-assuredness set to a meaningless anthem of pretension by a human who hasn't so much an underarm hair might make said child a target to a host of society's emotions, none of them good? 

   The girl is a product of two fame hungry American culture maggots who represent all that is embarrassing about being here. Unfortunately the entertainment industry can't get enough of the 0-10 year old age demographic and does all they can to sexualize, dumb down, and spoon feed these kids from heaping piles of mindless shit that's taking the evolution of intelligence down a road leading to zombified Jersey Shore watching 18 year olds.

   In no way should a child become a form a of mass commercialized entertainment. No matter how you arrange that shit on my plate, it's exploitation. It is doubly bad when the parents don't even have the excuse of needing the money and are exploiting for pure indulgence of childhood dreams/desires.

   I'm not at all placing my loudmouth crosshairs on these children--they are what they are and they're from who they're from.  When my son was 6-7 years old he wanted to be a spy. And can you imagine if at that age we were able to actually set our children on the career paths in which they express interest?  On a public level, no less?

   Now, I'm sure The Smiths will reckon all day long that little Willow ate all her vegetables and did all her chores like a good girl and begged mommy and daddy to let her be a star--to which they could only walk her youth blindly into a meat grinder where all she has to do is impersonate her favorite half naked singer, Rihanna, and sit on mom and dad's lap in the studio saying things like "No." and "I don't care" and "I don't want to".  And the executives in the studios spend their time wondering how to make money off of it. And kids open their mouth wide and whip their GD hair back and forth.


  They Live lives.



Annnnd *this* is what the music industry calls genius


    The above photo is of big time music producer, RedOne. He is responsible for producing mostly B-list material for B-list stars. With Lady Gaga, he has ridden the express train from B list to A list as her producer.

   And now because Gaglady wears meat dresses and janky wigs, he's supposed to be a GD musical genius by association--when he's produced the worst albums this century in only this side of 5 years. Rather than spend  2 minutes typing out the laundry list of musicians" whose albums he's produced (one example: Lindsay Lohan), he got lucky by becoming Lady Gaga's man in the studio. I googled his image, he's holding grammys in a few of them, but I decided to post this one of him in his blue blockers instead.

   After reading the below mindblowingly intelligent, insightful, well thought out sentiments he has regarding Lady Gaga's upcoming album Born This Way, you may understand why I'd rather fart right now than to list his "accomplishments" in the industry. 

He vomits:

"I think it's more of her freedom album. It's like freedom this album … it's her album! To be honest with you, I think that this album that she's making is too precious to talk about. When it comes out you'll hear and you'll make your choice. I think you're gonna love it. But I think it's too precious for me to talk about it. It's crazy. I said with everything I do I want to shock people. Honestly, it's like whatever I do, I always want to shock people sonically, lyrically with the writer, anything that's gonna get the reaction. And so when it comes to her album, I mean honestly, I really think it's too precious, it's too good to talk about. I don't want to talk about it at all. I just want to save it. I'll let her talk about it. It's her. It's her presenting Gaga. I'm the producer, but she's the artist. Whatever happens later is going to happen. I can't say I'm doing this or I'm doing that. It's a surprise. I want to leave it like that."


   So Please god somebody tell him that if he really doesn't want to talk about it, HE CAN STOP ANYTIME. Because after having read that, my intellect has retarded itself into having me stare into an empty kitchen cabinet wondering how I roll down the window. 




There's slow death in them thar hills



We all get asked from where we hail from time to time. Those of us from demolished homes across the country with only rubble to speak of in our mind's eye memory have a difficult time answering this question. The mostly true answer, "I'm from Fresno" kills a conversation just as quickly as if I'd just said "I have milk in my refrigerator." Probably due to the fact  Fresno is notorious for...well.....nothing. It's just not exciting.

   So now and then if I'm feeling up for it, I'll throw in that I also grew up in Alaska. I like to get annoyed with the two responses this usually gets me. "Ooooooooo I hear it's just beautiful up there...." and they wait for me to either confirm or deny this. Over the years I've evolved from the "oh yes, it's quite nice up there," to answering this with "Sure.... if you're into that sort of thing."

  Then moving to Colorado, everyone I know enjoys spending their time in the great outdoors and wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I think most write me off as lazy or just plain bitchnuts. Why on earth would I not to want to be out in the fresh air saying good morning to people on easy day hike trailheads and commenting on what a beautiful day it is? At 7 am on Sunday? The BEST time of the week. 

   I admit, I can certainly come off as uppity about this, looking down my nose at others while I accuse them of looking down their nose at me. But if you will open your heart to me on this subject, I will open my heart to you. 


 At some point in my young years, probably around age 3 or 4, my mother, who was estranged from my father and my brothers and I, moved to Alaska. Specifically, she moved to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska on the North Slope. Working on the pipeline, fraternizing with the engineers and eventually marrying one. Cause my mom was a hot piece back in the day. So this engineer she married, Al, was building a nice home in the wilderness "town" of Beluga, Alaska. Pupulation 12 at the time. Now I think they are up to 32. However, Chugach Electric is located there on a gas reserve and it powers roughly half of the power to Anchorage. So the only next logical step to be taken for my mother and stepfather was to build a bar (drinkable spirits and so on) so that the linemen and engineers of Chucagh could get tie one on after they finished performing some of the most dangerous work on the planet. 

   But let's back up. Enter my mother's children. At first we lived in Anchorage--I was in 4th and 5th grade, and on weekends and whatnot, we'd fly in my stepdad's Cessna puddle jumper to Beluga to spend time building up "the cabin". Before it was "the bar", it was "the cabin".

   Alaskans looooove to scare people from the lower 48, or newbies like me, with the horror stories of the bush. Age ain't nothin' but a number to them, either. I was already quite terrified of the water and the airplane and the shoreline silt that if you step on could suck you in like quicksand and they may have to fly in a helicopter to try to pull you out but it may cut you in half instead like it did to old Bill Saunders back in '82. Course they may also try to give you a water hose to breathe like they did that young wife on her honeymoon out four wheelin' on the beach.  Except it won't do much good because the tide will come in and you'll be under 12 feet of water trying to live through hypothermia which will kill you worse than drowning and they'll have to wait 12 hours to get you when the tide goes back out cause the summer days here are long and by then the fish could have eaten your eyes out and their eggs will have to be sucked out of you to give you a proper burial. And don't make eye contact with moose, they weigh 850 lbs and one kick out of them by accident will kill you dead. And if you run across a bear make yourself real big and shout and try to scare it off and when that doesn't work, just play dead when they eat at your scalp. And don't eat those berries, they'll turn you blue and lay you out flat. And don't go near the bluffs because the sands are libel to just go right out from under you and you'll slide right down that 60ft side and land on your face in the cottonwood stumps. Make sure you tie everything down in the plane because if anything shifts in flight, it could offset the balance and turn the plane over on it's belly in the sky and land you straight into the freezing inlet water where they will never find the plane--it's already killed a young family from Florida here on vacation. Baby died strapped to her mama's back, still down there to this day, no way to retrieve them. You'll just have a watery grave and funeral. 

  Living a life of "one false move and you'll die" put me in a perpetual state of fear that nothing broke me out of. Except the city.

  One of my earliest memories spending time in the wilderness, was in our framed out cabin. I was about 8 years old and we spent our days chopping wood, and setting everything up to achieve some semblance of comfort. There were some walls, some doors, a partial roof, not all connected. So it was like camping in an above ground shipwreck. We had a generator and air mattresses--a big luxury. Al fired it up and got it going to use the air compressor for blowing them up one night as we got ready for bed. My brothers and I upstairs, my mom and Al down in a basement like area, calling to us for one mattress at a time to be brought down. With us playing and the compressor and generator, we didn't hear mom calling for the next mattress. She came up the stairs snorting smoke from her nose and steam from her ears that we had not complied with the request, mumbled/yelled something about having to do everything her damn self, grabbed the mattress and hoofed it on down the stairs. A few stairs in and she tumbled on down the rest of them. Her legs were completely out from underneath her, it looked like she was part surfing the mattress down and part racing it to see who could get to the bottom first. She landed at the bottom in an unmoving heap. When she got up, I saw a flash of several broken fingers and a couple of wrists in unnatural positions. My stepfather cursed, grabbed her, threw her in his truck and gave us a 2 minute lesson on the proper and improper uses of an array of firearms and what we may need to use, and on what we may need to use them. He then hauled it to the airstrip and flew my mom, sans children, to Anchorage for treatment. Why we didn't go with them...I'll never understand.

   That night, I had more than a difficult time of it, trying to fall asleep with visions of grizzly fangs dancing in my head. Not helping things was the last known memory of my New Jersey stepdad saying "if ya gonna use this gun, make sure ya wait until it's got it's face two inches from yours so it would do some damage. Otherwise ya just gon piss the bear off and you can kiss your ass goodbye."

   A popular question for this point in the story is, "Weren't there any adults with you? How old were your brothers?" We were 8, 9, and 12 years old.

    After 24 terrifying hours, my stepdad came back and took us back home to Anchorage where wiping my mom's ass and feeding her for a couple weeks further ingrained in me how dangerous the wilderness can be.  

   Soon after, my mother and Al moved permanently to Beluga all year round, where they still reside (although have taken up wintering in Anchorage). And over the years in Beluga, I would have many wonderful experiences--a one of a kind childhood. Salmon steaks cooked in seasoned cast iron pans right on the riverbank just minutes out of being fished out of the water. Beautiful snowy winters in a big cabin warmed by wood stoves. Sunsets that would make Satan himself take a break and admit, there's some good shit here on earth. But the fear and danger I seemed to constantly be in if I didn't have my guard up, my guns loaded, 15 cords of wood chopped, split, stacked, and dry, the wood stoves burning moderately but not too much lest the roof catch on fire and we'll all be dead from exposure weeks before anyone even knows we're gone. Bear calls, pooping in the woods terrified an animal was about to eat you business end first... to me it was all I thought about. My brothers made fun of my, saying I was scared of dirt. 

   I was four wheeling by myself around Three Mile Creek in Beluga and tried jumping a 30 foot almost 90 degree incline, flipped over on my back and tumbled ass over four wheeler down a 50 foot brush ravine, landing on top of the damn thing. If it wasn't for my brother who just so happened to be driving by the creek and saw me do it, and if I landed in a more unfortunate way, the best I could have hoped for was just to be instantly dead rather than simply missing for a couple of days before I expired.

      It all became too much. It got to the point that I looked more and more forward to being in a city. Safety. Not dead by dawn should one tiny thing go wrong. People I knew died in tragic and slow ways just by trying to get from point A to B. 

    I've icefished for 15 hours straight wearing Carhart overalls built for a 300 lb grown ass man while sitting on a milk crate over an uncovered hole. Not that nice ice fishing you see in Grumpy Old men with shacks over iceholes and benches and tv's. Just me, my partner, a manual ice augger, and a hole in the snow. Other than the hole, you wouldn't even know you were standing on a frozen lake under 2 feet of snow. I've seen fresh bear tracks as big as my face right next to where I was fishing when a woman in the party told us all she was on her period wearing a maxi-pad. Put that together. I've macheted my way through brush wearing a mosquito net armor only to find out I'm 3 miles off from where the river is. I've served booze to bushwhackers who I'm sure would put a bitch in the trunk if I looked at them sideways. Someone was once shot dead in my mom's bar. A sore subject in our family. Drugs, sex, rock and roll. All in remote wilderness with no law, no "man", no nothing, except Jack Frost nibbling at your soul. And a mom who loves waking you up each morning with this song: "Lazy Mary, it's time to get up, it's time to do the dish-eeeeeeehs. Lazy Mary, you better get up it's time to do the laundreeeeeeeeee.........."

   My love for city things developed slowly and surely. The city became exotic. I spent a lot of time in cities--more than I did in the bush to be sure. But a year in bush seems like 3 years of your life. With each incident or horror story-- while there was plenty of joy to be found, there was a stark backdrop of life or death reality to me. I couldn't get out of that environment fast enough by the time I was 19 and there was a lot of pressure for me to stay. My mom wanted me to "stay on" forever and ever and take over the legacy of what she had built with her husband. But my life called me somewhere else and there was never really any way to help her understand that. 

   And now I am 35. The Great Outdoors, for me, is something I've grown to respect. But also....to admire from afar. Give me a dirty, stinking city to play in. Just as long as I can look at mountains. Oh, sure, being "safe" in a city may be just as much of an illusion as being safe anywhere else is. But it feels like home to me, it always has, And now and then, just now and then....you may find me secretly enjoying an outdoor activity.

   So you see, my fair jungle friends...it's really not ignorance on my behalf that keeps me shying away from the occasional mountain fare invite. It's a learned character trait. My distaste of the outdoors is an earned right. Or wrong.




boobs are the new preschool


Katy Perry's funbags appeared on Sesame Street with a reworked version of her song "Hot & Cold" to sing to the children. 

   How, at some point, no adult ever stepped in on this idea to contribute so much as a "nay" into the voting process for guest star ideas, is as lost to me as how it was Katy Perry made it onto the sound stage dressed as if she were a contestant on Rupaul's Drag Race.Was there really not one person in charge of CHILDREN'S TELEVISION PROGRAMMING who can say "maybe a chick who's first hit includes a song about making out with other women, whose current hit is not only misspelled but about half naked chicks melting meat popsicles should stick to prime time television."  ?  

   Five year old's everywhere just got new ideas about what "dress up" and "play with you" means. 

  Now I don't give a good god damn if Katy Perry wants to play tonsil hockey with teenage girls or go around sexually impressing adults with the fact that she's a California girl. Awls, I'm saying is that for everything, there is a forum. Maybe the preschool arena can hold off on a dress that looks like it's being held up by pasties.  

 There's kid's watching. Put the sex away for fuck's sake.









Never again


    Willy Dean shows off the mouth of his new bull shark friend. He's keeping it in the walk-in freezer to show off to  the neighbor kids so that a new generation can be terrorized by the jaws of the deep.


   I just mother fucked my husband with a side stink-eye that would make a freight train take a dirt road. 


   Ever since I was 5 and saw Jaws, I've been afraid of bathwater, canals, rivers, lakes, swimming pools, rain drops--and I'm fairly certain I am always dehydrated because a mere glass of water can have me running to the nearest sand dune to stick my head in for shark safety. Doing the dishes or using the GD water hose can be enough to put me off the simplest of home chores.   I don't like being in the water. 

  Actually, I love the water. I just hate the fear that takes over as soon as I remember that when I am in the water, I am the slowest, fattest thing around. I'm fairly certain that if a shark did accidentally mistake me for a seal, that he'd continue on with the job because he'd find me to be quite a meaty morsel to just go ahead and swallow whole. It's taken me years to get to the point where I can can now snorkel somewhat unconcerned in shallow water. I will always expect to look far off into the water, the great big blue, and begin to make out a triangular shaped mouth agape coming straight at me. 

  But then I remember that sharks prefer the element of surprise and they usually hit you "out of the blue, like a freight train" as so many of the survived claim. They are all skinny people, I may add, the survived. The fat people always go down smooth and easy--like an oyster, for a shark.  Nary a chomp, just a straight gulp. So, if you're in the ocean with me, you're safe. That shark's coming straight for ME. This is why I always try to make sure I am swimming with some one under the age of 5. The smallest, slowest always go first. I should safely be to shore by the time the shark even knows I'm gone. 

    So here's the deal. For years, fucking YEARS, everyone and their neighbor goes on and on and on and on about how there is nothing to worry about in that lake, river, pond, etc. Just dive in, go water skiing, tubing, whatever I please, it's soooo ridiculous to think that sharks would be in the water.  They weren't up with me all those nights under the covers with my shark attack books with the flashlight, intensely studying all of those photos of  lacerations, lost limbs, gallons of blood, red stained water, and floating torsos. In that time, I developed a relationship with the shark. One in which these sharks looked at me from each page, a toothy grin that promised one day, I would know the sinking of their teeth into my flesh, chirping against my bones. One day I would be next. My only defense : swear off the water.

   Years go by, you become an adult. My fear is down by, say, 50%, but still very strong. Then I see stories like these and I stink eye the shit out of my husband who is one of those "you have nothing to worry about in the water" types. Last time we went snorkeling in Mexico, he looked at me and said "see? there ain't no motha fuckin' sharks heyah!". For me, that phrase is like the call of the wild. Every shark within a 10 mile radius just turned on it's snout and is following their nose to the arrogance in the water. Arrogance is as attractive as blood.

   So here's a GD nearly 9 foot bull shark--the most aggressive maneater known to....well, to man. Caught about FORTY EFFING MILES inland on the Potomac River. The fisherman said casually in the video that another one was caught a few miles UP river. That would be even further inland.

  This has happened before in history. Sure, sharks may have their boundaries, but fear doesn't. My fear tells me that if the sharks were able to survive the swim 40 miles inland into freshwater (I don't care how high the salinity is), what would stop them from hopping out, sticking out a fin, and hopping a ride and river hopping it's way into the Chatfield Resevoir here in Colorado where I have been known to cool my skin in the frigid water in the summer. Or to just go ahead and land in the Golden River where I tube when the water is high enough that rocks don't pummel my backside like so many sledgehammers.

   I don't even know how to end this post. just will say that the next person who goads me on into jumping into some deep blue water where only my little legs stick down and look like mozarella sticks to some human hungry creature of the sea, I'll shout out "Potomac, Bitches!!" as I am dragged under water, and turned into fish food. 




                                                                   Last known photograph.   


Camera One, camera two....camera one, camera two


   I've always wondered what it is I don't like about Maria Carey's face. She's a pretty lady, ain't nobody trying to take that from her. I've always assumed that what I didn't like about her face was that her personality was attached. But over the years I've thought there must be a valid reason I don't like this woman's face. I mean, it's pretty common knowledge that she is not any more interesting to look at or think about than any other 40 year old woman with the tastes of a 9 year old streetwalker. Any woman of a certain age who hasn't yet learned that inserting the word "slutty" before a profession of choice does not a Halloween costume make. It seems a bit Wheelie McSpinsalot in relation to GROWING THE FUCK UP. 

   But then today as I was pumping gas into my sweet ride at the Farm Crest, it hit me. That goddamn lion from the Wizard of Oz. 

  It is not in my nature to like anything that everyone else likes. I'm the Grinch, I own it. So, naturally, I hate the Wizard of OZ. Watching that movie when I was 5 gave me my first known and memorable wave of nausea. That witch, that cackle, landing on the one witch with the hot shoes and smashing her to death while all the little dwarfs sang songs to you? Any witch with shoes that hot is moving in the right direction in my book.

  As a little girl, I developed an early and perhaps odd sense of perversion. Which one is she going to end up with? The scarecrow, the tin man, that lion. Oh, god, I hope not the lion. The lion was annoying and weak and scared and he hid behind her skirts once. Then with the curled hair and the bow. Blech. Where were the MEN? Yes, at age 5, I had these thoughts. You see where it took me.

  So, then the end comes and I'm waiting for a kiss and a wedding dress (I did not know she was only 16 or whatever, okay?) and they were her uncles and cousins and stuff? GOD DAMN.

  "If I only had a brain....."


   If you only saw my face!

   Ever since then I've been like fuck the Wizard of Oz.


   ANYWAYS....so that's what I hate Mariah Care's face. And the Wizard of Oz.



...the fuck?


    You know there wasn't a damn woman engineer less than 20 cubicle walls over on the design floor of Italian based aviation interior design company, Avioninteriors, when this fuckery went past the blue print stage straight into conceptual model building. This contraption is a byproduct of genius Italian male engineering for airlines to do--what else? Pack as many of our fat asses into an airplane for what else? A profit. 

  But WAIT!

  "They" say that due to the maximized airplane passenger capacity that this concept will achieve, that ticket prices will go down. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just like all the airlines were temporarily charging extra checked baggage fees while gas prices were high. And it's still $50.00 if a penny to travel with one checked bag. So let me ask....

  What would be the point of creating more overhead by purchasing these new seats from the Italian manufacturer, paying to rip out and dispose of the old ones to LOWER passenger costs? Especially with so many airlines nosediving (pun most certainly intended) into bankruptcy. More passengers=more money.The bottom line is, your ass will be giving up the same amount of Franklin in this seat as in the current design. True.

  But, I've gone and digressed. The real meat of the issue is that just looking at this photo makes my feet swell up to the size of watermelons. Try putting my watermelon feet into a cute pair of 4 inch peeptoe slingbacks like Becky up there and the pressure will probably give me a traveling blood clot to which only amputation can cure. If you're a woman and you have yet to experience the joys of fat feet from flying, then hear me now and believe me later. You are on your way to it.  There isn't a bitch this side of age 30 whose gone past 15,000 feet of altitude in that pressurized tin can for ten minutes who wouldn't join in a pitchfork and torch mob after the MEN, obviously MEN, that took part in that creation.




but god wants you to be beautiful

            There's a new brand of Must See TV on your tube these days. And if you're one of those people who's too busy exercising or running around mountain tops or riding planks of wood in the water to get sucked into an hour or three of , TLC's Hoarders: Buried Alive , then I truly pity you. Because there isn't anything out there in the great outdoors that can make you feel better about the state of your own affairs than watching other people wade around in the pestilence of their own. 

   Tracy doesn't want to get rid of that empty bag of dog food because she's sure she could use it for something. Like putting trash in it. You see, she's keeping trash in the name of trash for the sake of having something to throw trash in. 

   Mike keeps the dead hawk that broke his neck flying into his window because hey, no one else has ever had a winged creature fly into their windows before. So it must be an omen.

    Back in 1995, my mom and I were sitting in her bar in Beluga, Alaska. This is the wilderness to you lower 48 folk and "the bush" to Alaskans. Her building is an A frame large cabin, all glass windows in the front. One summery day, we were sitting there looking out the window together and suddenly the cat, Keeda, appears. With a winged creature flapping it's wings around in her jaw. Keeda is tense, taking slow steps towards us-- but not too many for fear of having her tasty vittle taken from her.  My mom flew off her barstool (my mom has a bar in her house, don't judge. Okay, go ahead and judge), and demanded that Keeda "put it down". Unbelievably, she did, and my mom and I picked up the little bird, covered it with a kitchen towel, and placed it in a bowl. It was somewhat hurt and bleeding but it would make a full recovery. We just knew it. It was in a paniced state, having just been ganked from the jaws of it's certain death.

   After an hour or so of recovery, we put the bird in it's little bowl on the front deck and went inside and shut the door. We cheered it on for 15 minutes to come out and fly away and the little bird put put puttered itself into going on with life on the porch. Keeda, the calico cat just stared intensely, wishing we'd just sliiiiiide open that door for her. My mom scolded her to behave and we continued urging the bird on with our silent whispers, holding hands and fretting the way women do. The little bird finally got up and started hopping and flapping it's wings until it finally spanned them fully to take onto glorious flight. We cheered. We clapped. And then as it flew away, it turned on it's wing and did a 180 straight back to the house, flying full straight. Right into the window. At eye level. In front of our faces. Our happiness fell from our throats as the little bird's beak smacked headlong into the double paned glass, snapped it's little neck, and flopped down to the deck. Right at the feet of Keeda. Who promptly looked up at us with a Cheshire grin. The bird twitched a few times and then expired it's last great breath. 

  My mother and I slid open the glass door, Keeda picked up the bird, and disappeared off into the woods.

  So Mike--the world is not this tiny bubble you think it is. Maybe in the city, a bird flying into your window is a rare enough occurrence that you would call it an omen. I WISH he explained exactly what kind of omen he believes a dead hawk doing a kamikaze into his back door represents. The point of the story is, I guess, that this shit happens all the time to everyone everywhere. No one is that special and nothing means anything anymore.God is dead and we're all alone. So clean up for fuck's sake, like a big boy.




Taylor Swift Assumes we're still interested



So Taylor Swift decided to jump on her own poor wittle baby bandwagon and bring back the Hennessey drenched memories of a drunk ass Kanye West stealing her thunder. Forget that the world moved on a long time ago NOT TO MENTION that the mic-snatchin future crying on the couch Oprah Winfrey guest stamped the final seal of public approval on the girl next door's career in less than 10 seconds.

  To be subjected to ever so touching raw and barefoot Ms. Swift keepin' it real singing her little heartfelt diddy telling a 32 year old grown ass man he is still growing and innocent. 

  THANK YOU, Taylor. Thank you for baring your soul letting us all know it's okay to forgive a millionaire for being a sore loser....forrr a category in which he wasn't even nominated. Let us all choke on the meat of the dead, bloody, beaten horses Bill K. Publicity keeps feeding to us in the name of music and award shows. 



Hack. cough. Gaga.

      "Does this outfit make me look desperate for attention?"


    Below you will find some untoward comments regarding Lady Gaga's person, career, talent and general intentions towards music, people, life, and art--compliments of  bitter ass social critic Camille Paglia in Sunday Times Magazine. All Camille really needs is a good man to slap her around a bit. Some women just need to get hit. Am I right or am I right, fellas?

"She constantly touts her symbiotic bond with her fans, the “little monsters”, who she inspires to “love themselves” as if they are damaged goods in need of her therapeutic repair. “You’re a superstar, no matter who you are!” She earnestly tells them from the stage, while their cash ends up in her pockets. She told a magazine with messianic fervour: “I love my fans more than any artist who has ever lived.” She claims to have changed the lives of the disabled, thrilled by her jewelled parody crutches in the Paparazzi video.

Furthermore, despite showing acres of pallid flesh in the fetish-bondage garb of urban prostitution, Gaga isn’t sexy at all – she’s like a gangly marionette or plasticised android. How could a figure so calculated and artificial, so clinical and strangely antiseptic, so stripped of genuine eroticism have become the icon of her generation? Can it be that Gaga represents the exhausted end of the sexual revolution? In Gaga’s manic miming of persona after persona, over-conceptualised and claustrophobic, we may have reached the limit of an era…"


Now, believe you me, I don't believe that EVERYONE'S a superstar no matter who they are. Anyone who makes a statement like that hasn't met 3 out of 4 of my ex boyfriends. Decidedly NOT superstars. And as a matter of fact, I think the majority of people that I meet are NOT superstars. The people who are superstars are, indeed, superstars, no? Spend one night in some ghetto ass bedroom on the wrong side of any tracks in America with people smashing cockroaches with their barehands and then reaching in a bag for a cheesy pouff and Gaga would be running to the nearest Waldorf-Astoria to wash the "Little Monsters" right outta her wig.

 At the end of my days, when I look at Gaga, I only see a girl making millions of dollars in a manner that doesn't seem to offend me, any way I look at it. I find her pretty easy to ignore and I think Paglia's reaching here--and ultimately, using Gaga's coattails as a way to get published. Yesterday, I'd never even heard of this bitch.

Plus, what is there to hate about your best gay squealing in delight at this woman strapping machine guns to her tits? Shine on wichyo crazy ass, Gaga!