A List of Reasons to Excuse My Lack of Attention to My Blog.

1. Meh.

2. The snark, it tires me.

3. Also, the blogosphere is riddled with assholes doing and tweeting stupid shit ALL OF THE TIME. It's becoming boring and I despise boredom.

4. Opening a business is very time consuming. My free time is spent scooping the cat box and catching up with my Real Housewives bitches from the ATL.

5. I'm suffering for my art.

6. Nobody reads this blog, anyways.

7. I've been really consumed with baking pumpkin bread.

8. People started "n'at"-ing all over the place and it can has I a sad. (ugh, I can barely type that without wanting to bang my head on something very, very hard.)

9. I've been pretty busy outing all of my compatriots at my local AA meeting via I-Phone.

10. Despite what other people say, it is not as easy to get free shit off of this here Internet. Since I still haven't gotten a new washer or flat screen TV, I'm losing interest. In all of you.

Also? I'm writing a book. Stay tuned.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

Last night, I kicked off the Holiday season with one of my most favorite things ever: It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown!

The kids were not interested, as the time of the showing coincided with "Adventure Time" (please), so I got to watch it snuggled up with my kitties and dog, on my bed, all by myself. BLISS.

Happy Halloweener! What's your song?

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

Listless Mondays: A List of "No-Nos" to Avoid Before Bed.

Last night, I slept through the entire night. Sounds great, doesn't it? It wasn't. It was weird, uncomfortable, anxiety inducing and not restful due to all of the fucked up dreams I was experiencing. In retrospect, there were a few things I could have done to prevent the mess my subconscious bestowed upon me.

-Don't eat garlic before bed. I know, this should be a given, but the Little Honey is traveling and I was hungry mungry.

-Don't fall asleep with Catch a Predator Dateline NBC on the telly. The last place I need Chris Hansen hanging around, waiting to bust someone, is where Bradley Cooper hangs out in my subconscious as my "dude in waiting" for nighttime, fun-time.

-Kick the cat out of the bedroom. I woke up with a face full of hair, while being swatted in the head, in what appeared to be an epic battle for pillow control.

-Don't watch Sister Wives. Ever. That man is an epic toolbag and even though I know that dreams are not real, I would rather have dreams about Freddy Krueger using my spine as a toothpick, than being married off to that bag of douche and his posse of house fraus. His name is "Cody" for chrissakes...... Another reason to never name a poor, innocent child "CODY". Look what happens when they grow up! Nothing but a shame.


I know this list isn't long, but in my own opinion, it is filled with critical and valuable information to insure a splendid night's sleep.

You're welcome.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

It's weekend, baby! MOTRin tonight. Partyin' til the dawn...... Well, not really, but I can pretend like I stay up to all hours and don't get up at 7:00am without an alarm clock.



What's your song today?

LISTLESS MONDAYS! Forever a lady: Jennifer Lynn Petkov!

Have you met this woman yet? I'm assuming everyone with internet access has, but for those losers who spend their free time doing more important things like volunteering at homeless shelters, taking care of the sick, or raising funds for AIDS research, instead of aimlessly perusing the internets and taking Facebook quizzes, please bask in the relentless cuntery of this fine citizen!

I thought I was an asshole!

I'm assuming that this Monday may be a very bleak Monday for the Petkov clan, despite their complete disregard for self awareness and kindness to other human beings, the sting of the internet is conducive to the assault of 8 billion bees. My guess is that Ms. Petkov is praying to the dark lord for a time machine to go back and just keep her fucking trap shut. However, it would probably be a tad, JUST A TAD, more effective to hire a public relations firm to try, TRY, to do some damage control for this family.

So, being a PR professional, I thought I would do my fellow brethren a solid and compile a list of possible damage control techniques to take when in the employ of Petkov family.


YOU'RE WELCOME!


5. Start crafting a fool proof history of bat-shit crazy for this woman. Counterfeit documents illustrating much time spent strapped down to a bed with a cup affixed to her face to catch the drool. Sometimes the only defense is INSANITY.

4. Try to find some solid proof that Ashton Kutcher really did cheat on Demi Moore. Use it as a bargaining chip to blackmail the actor into testifying that this was all a poorly planned revamp of his former hit show, "Punk'd".

3. When in doubt, send her to rehab. She obviously took an overdose of her heinous bitch pills.... There's treatment for that, right?

2. Aliens. She was abducted by aliens and the person who committed these acts, were not people, they were pod people from the Planet Dickhead.

1. Draw a mustache on her, teach her to speak with a German accent, put her in jodhpurs and rinding boots and arm her with a riding crop....Godwin's Law: Everything on the internet will eventually disintegrate into an argument about Nazis.....Why should this fine piece of class be spared the comparison?

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

There is something new on the horizon but I can't really put a finger on what it is or what it means.The only thing that I am sure of is that I am uncomfortably wrapped in a blanket of nostalgia these days.

I have ghosts.

What I do know, is that many things are over, but not finished. That I'm gliding into the future, but still stealing waltzes with the past; dancing with the dead and wondering when it all became so fluid, yet complicated? When did the days start to flow by with nary an acknowledgement nor really a realization that they were over? Instead of looking back at the details, the details have all been lumped into a week of facts and now, I'm old, but it is the same as it ever was?

What the fuck? When did I stop caring? When did I stop being present? How did I get here?

The Fat Lady Sing-ith.

Those little birdies have big mouths and now I know it is truly over. It's been "over" for many years, but after this weekend, it will be over. No going back. Not that we want to.

I remember when Van Halen Jumped and you were my best friend. I remember flying cats, electrocutions from the beyond intended to save the one with an exoskeleton. I remember the weddings and the funerals, oh those funerals! with shots of whiskey at 10:00am. The loud and the laughter and how I broke into tears.

I remember wanting to be the piece that fit into your puzzle and the lengths I went to in order to contort myself to fit... Squeezing into that corner spot, but missing one tiny angle, and though it looked just right, it didn't fit... It wasn't right and it wasn't comfortable. It broke my heart and then it hardened it.

My hardened heart didn't want to accept the truth. My hardened heart put all of the blame on you, when it was me who wasn't being honest. My hardened heart longed to be that girl. The girl who wanted the same things you wanted, but she just didn't exist, not within the confines of my hardened heart. My hardened heart went on a campaign to disregard your tender heart. To destroy the tender heart. To make your heart as hardened as itself.

My hardened heart was a complete asshole.

I'm so sorry.

In a few days, it will truly be over. In a few days the rest of your life begins. In a few days you will know such great joy, that thinking about it, warms my hardened heart. I'm so very happy for you and so very envious of the joy that will be brought into your life, for I always wanted to be that person... but I just wasn't.

May you experience all of the happiness and joy that this life has to offer you. You will always be in my thoughts and prayers and I will always have love for you.

Congratulations, from the bottom of my now softer, heart.

Duties

I'm still here, don't you worry. I have a job, which impedes my ability to blog nonsense for all the live-long day.

In the meantime, my crush on Ralph Macchio has been restored.

Wax On, F*ck Off with Ralph Macchio from Ralph Macchio

We Don't Need Another Hero.

Sure we do!

I only have a minute, but I wanted to jot down a quick list of women who have inspired me this week.

1. My main muse, Crystal Huff.

2. Tonya.

3. KimberLEE

4. TRACKER! YOU GO GIRL!

5. Blue Velvet, as always! LOVE YOU!

6. QUEEN OF CLASS: NeNe LEAKES!


Keep it real, bitches!

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

It is going to be one hell of a weekend in the Nasti! MOTR is open for MPMF, it's my bestie's 35th birthday, the weather is cooling down..... BRING IT!

In the meantime? Office work.

Listless Mondays: Kicking the Bucket List.

Don't you just love fads? Little explosions of popularity, all created to make whoever the evil genius was that thought of them, very wealthy as they drain your pockets of disposable income. Pet rocks, Garbage Pail Kids, those stupid virtual pets, Silly Bandz..... The list is long and extensive. At first glance, one would think that fads were for the amusement of children and adolescents, as adults are way too practical to waste their precious time on such ridiculous endeavors. However, you would be wrong.

The fad du-jour in the "thirty-something" female set is the "life list", or "bucket list". A lengthy inventory of everything you must accomplish before you die, or else suffer eternity as a ghostly haunt in the dance studio you and your husband kept meaning to take Tango lessons in, but could never find the time or justify the expense. DO IT NOW OR DIE A MERE SHELL OF THE WOMAN YOU COULD HAVE BEEN IF YOU JUST WOULD HAVE TAKEN THE TIME TO EMBRACE LIFE, SLACKER. Because what the women of our society really need is added pressure and stress by way of life enhancing marketing schemes.

Not to be left out in the cold merely scrutinizing my contemporaries, I have at long last, compiled my bucket list.


THINGS TO DO BEFORE I INEVITABLY GET CANCER AND CROAK.

1. Harness the power to set things ablaze with my mind.

2. Start a Senior Citizen Break Dancing Troupe called the "Get Stale Crew."

3. Knit a cod-piece for Gene Simmons.

4. Win a three-legged race by cheating... I don't know how yet, but I'm working on it.

5. Compile a book of insults called "Velveeta for the Soul".

6. Teach a child how to pick pocket without getting caught. Just a little something to give back.

7. Short-change a blind counter clerk.

8. See what women and horses really do in Tuijuana.

9. Box a kangaroo.

10. Successfully disguise myself as a very important dignitary and prank call Sarah Palin. That should be easy enough.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

I am so busy right now, that I'm surprised I have the time to post this! I know, I have a life outside of the internet! Who knew?

I kick ass, I then take numbers.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

So, I've had a pretty shitty, rough, awful, very bad week.


That is all.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

Today, 'm going to see my family on Devil's Lake in Michigan! It's my first visit this crazy summer and I have missed the Lake! It's also been a crazy, crazy week trying to get the MOTR Pub ready for opening and work from home.... I just cannot believe it is Friday already! I need some serious skin lotion to combat the dryness from all of the chemicals I've been shoving my hands into. Anyhoodle, I'm stoked to have two Michigan weekends in a row. What's your song?

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

I miss my friend Sheyanne. She lives in LA now and is all fancy and has a beautiful niece. She nad I used to throw this jizam on and roll in my '89 LeBaron like the true gangstas we were... Ahhh, zee 90's.




What are you listening to?

Listless Mondays: TEN WAYS TO ENTERTAIN YOURSELF WHILST COUCH-BOUND WITH SPRAINED/FRACTURED FOOT

This past Thursday, I walked down our walkway while wearing flip flops and took a tumble down one of the steps that was broken (it's fixed, NOW). As a result, I sprained my ankle and suffered a hairline fracture on some weird foot bone, the one of oh so many with more than four syllables in its name that I cannot possibly be expected to remember. Needless to say, my weekend consisted of me sitting on my ass while soaking my foot in the iciest of ice water, then wrapping it in a heating pad.. Rinse. Repeat. It was pretty fucking boring, so I had to come up with clever ways to keep myself entertained.

10. Compile a list as to why the genius behind this piece of crap concept should be tarred and feathered. Seriously, that ALMOST killed me by way of shame by proxy. I wish unfunny people would stick to what they do best, being unfunny and over sharing about their children on their blogs. That was fucking embarrassing.

09. Break out your Lil'Honey's recording devices and prank call people (*67BIOTCHES), asking them if their refrigerator is running while doing your best Usher impression with the AutoTune feature. Don't forget to ask them if "they feelin' you".

08. Abuse the prescription painkillers your doctor prescribed you and try to write some poetry... You won't get past "there once was a man from Nantucket".

07. PORN.

06. Experiment with Kiss makeup.... It's definitely more fun to do all hopped up on painkillers, watching Detroit Rock City than being at a blogger convention all hopped up on vagina fumes and "LIVING YOUR BEST LIFE".

05. Don't watch the Runaways. Listening to Coraline trying to sing Cherie Curie will bruise your soul. It will. A piece of my misspent youth died watching that flaming bag of dog shit. Also, Robin Robins? Give me a fucking break! You cannot mesh the greatness of Micki Steele, Jackie Fox, Vickie Blue and co. into one amalgamated character! Also, who did Lita Ford piss off to be portrayed so viciously? She only wants to rock, y'all.

04. Watch Flashdance instead and sing along with Irene Cara at the top of your lungs.

03. Start writing your manifesto. Begin it with "There once was a man from Nantucket."

02. Paint the dog's toenails.

01. Text your friends during one of the best rock shows of the year at your favorite bar, telling them how lame that band is and watching your Dynasty DvD set is way cooler, and if they were truly your friends, they would leave the rock show event of the year, pick up some to-go sushi, and keep you company on the big comfy couch. Sigh uncontrollably when your friends text you back, laughing in your face.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

So, IT'S FRIDAY!!!!! and I am not excited. Yesterday I was wearing flip flops and walking down our stairs on the walkway outside when I fell and twisted/sprained, fuck, I don't know because I haven't gone to doctor yet, BROKE my ankle/foot. I don't think it's broken, at most a stress fracture, but I am on crutches and mobility is pretty difficult. No walking, no EXERCISING, and most of all, no show tonight. Some old and former friends of mine are reuniting their band tonight, after two of them became rock stars, to play at a bar up the street from me. This is the bar where we all misspent our youths and they worked for. It's going to be chaotic. Too chaotic for crutches. BOOOO.

This is my song. I will not be running anytime soon.



What's yours?

Lines In the Sand.

When I started this blog in 2006, as The Confused Dildo, I had very little knowledge of the world of "blogging", other than reading Rock and Roll Confidential or Dooce. Little did I know of the vast network of bloggers, especially MommyBloggers, on these world wide webz. I don't know if it had to do with the fact that I am a step-parent, not a "MOMMY" and though I adore the children in my life, I really don't find them too interesting. They're my special snowflakes and I really don't think me violating their privacy with a parade of internet TMI is entertaining nor appropriate.

If I may, I will digress.

I hate that we live in a culture so dominated by advertising and marketing, that "they" have deemed the only real profitable blogs for women, as the ones with the "Mom" focus. It sticks in my craw that in this day and age, a woman's value is based on the fruit of her loins and laundry detergent decision making power. Motherhood is grand and all, but it really is not all that interesting. It can be funny sometimes, but I really don't want to read endless prose dedicated to children I don't know, and will never meet. A clever anecdote here and there? Sure, fine. However, the endless blathering about Braizeighton, how your life was meaningless until you birthed the ultimate love, and your deeper understanding of the universe now that your head is cloudy with baby powder and not bong smoke, is BORING. And offensive. Not everybody thinks procreating is the most important activity to engage in during their life time.

Some people find cures for polio: Science.
Other people have hoards of children they can't take care of: MIRACLES OF LIFE.

Back on track.

I was not only completely ignorant to the enormity of the blogosphere, but also the legions of bloggers who align together, against another group of bloggers, in a "socs v. greasers" kind of way; minus the sexy guys, madras plaid and switchblades. There are the A-list bloggers, the desperately needy Almost A's and Barely B's, not to mention the sexually active, geeky bloggers.... Okay, I'm just talking shit now. However, there are a group of people who are the first to head to their homepages, Twitter accounts, Facebooks, iPhones, what have you, to bellow the praises of the "community", "kinship", and "bravery" for taking finger to pad, and making the entire world a fly on their wall. You know what? Fine. More power to you. However, if you're going to leave your garbage on the sidewalk, don't be shocked when people start to dig through it. Yet, when the digging leads to questions and commentary, HOLD THE PHONE! The proverbial shit hits the fan!

How dare this nobody blogger question the ethics, favoritism, elitism, sizism, martyrdom, attention whoring, psychologically fucked-upedness of any of us? We are top tier bloggers! Our sites get over 10,000 hits a day!

God forbid.

Though I've played around with Adsense and other advertising opportunities for this place, I've never even considered this blog a means to make any income what-so-ever, which is a good thing considering that I'm unknown and suck at writing..... However, what I really suck at is kissing ass and not voicing my opinions when I witness acts of random, hypocritical douche-assery. It seems that if one is to piss some people off on this internet, that one will go old and gray waiting for their invitation to the big ball. Luckily, I eat hate like love and am comfortable dancing with myself.

What I find disturbing is not the kinship in the Mommyblogging Community, it is the antipathy that raises its ugly head if anyone looks at a member of the Community of Specialness and Bravery, sideways. God forbid you voice your opinion about a person blogging about extramarital affairs, vaginaplasties, excessive drinking, the fact your boyfriend left his family to move in with you at Christmas time, the vileness and laziness of "fattys", the cruelness of a successful author not wanting to help you secure a book deal because she's a "fatty" and doesn't appreciate your vitriol against she and her compatriots, or even the ethics of an organization violating their own rules in order to assist a charity run by an A-List blogger.

J'Accuse Hating-est of the Haters!

Then in the distance, faint sound turns into a blaring boom as the Twitter Army of the Community of Specialness and Bravery march towards their Twitter posts, rocks and switchblades in hand, to combat the dirty, greasy, and not nearly as widely successful hate bloggers who only "hate" because they want what the COSB have: corvairs and the heart of Cherry Valance.

Many of these soldiers don't even know what they are fighting, erm, TWEETING against; yet they run to their posts in droves to hash tag the Hatingest of Haters. Did you know if someone is really nice in person, that means they're not really an asshole on the internet...They just play asshole there. These soldiers are savvy to the fact that if they align themselves closely enough with the upper echelon of the blogosphere, that success may just trickle their way. It might, though it is all very Republican and we can all look around our society right now and see just how well "trickle-down" has faired for most of us. So, armed with Twitter and a dream of blog stardom, these gangs begin a campaign to overwhelm perceived dissenters in an effort to quell any contrary message that may be out there.

That'll fix 'em.

I'm not saying that there is not a lot of completely cruel and reprehensible vitriol that is thrown at those in the Community of Specialness and Bravery. There is too much, if you ask me. Some of the hate mail received by these writers, I would have a hard time sending to Sadam Hussein, it's so ugly. You know what? That's not okay. However, it seems to be the trend that if you don't lap dog it up with these people and agree with every single step and action they take, you are automatically labeled "TROLL, HATER, MEAN, FAT, UGLY", what have you, without even a blink of an eye; or more importantly, a finishing of a paragraph.

I think it is important to constantly question people, especially those who thrust themselves into the public eye. Do I think these people are all evil assholes? Nope. Not at all. However, I think many of them are incredibly contradictory and biased. Neither of those attributes are a crime, however, when someone calls those attributes to attention, maybe it's time to step back and process what that person is saying for the sake of healthy debate and learning, instead of sending the "OFF WITH THEIR HEADS!" command to your Twitter Army?


Stay gold, Ponyboy.

Ways to Make Everything Sufficiently Awkward at a Russian Orthodox Wedding.

This weekend I had the honor of serving one of my very best friends as her Maid of Honor during her wedding. She and her husband are Eastern Russian Orthodox, in fact, he is about to be ordained as a Priest in the Church. So, this wedding wasn't your typical, "show up hungover and do cute, choreographed dances down the aisle". They take their ceremonies very seriously and thoughtfully.

A PERFECT PLACE FOR A SOUL-LESS ASSHOLE LIKE MYSELF! What could go wrong? I was actually not the rotten apple of the bunch, which, small miracles, you know? However, as with any wedding, hijinks did ensue.
Ways to Make Everything Sufficiently Awkward at a Russian Orthodox Wedding.

10. Cuss.

09. Start to exclaim "JESUS CHRIST" only to choke out "JESIMINEY CRICKETS!"

08. Ask who that little man in the arms of that giant woman is.

07. Sing along with the priest, adding harmony, random "A-MENS!" and "SPEAK IT!"

06. Trip down the aisle, so everyone gets a good look at your BVDs.

05. Because you're holding a bouquet and a candle, the only way to keep your hair from falling into your eyes is by blowing it.... But when you do that, it's loud. And awkward.

04. Mess up the cake on the drive to the wedding.

03. Try to convince the bride that the cake doesn't look "that bad."

02. Open the door to the bride's dressing room without knocking, because you know what the bride wants more on her wedding day? For a bunch of Russian Orthodox Church people seeing her in her skivvies.

01. Begin a toast to the bride and groom by mentioning how jealous the groom's ex is! (I DID NOT DO THIS!)

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

How fantastic is that Fuck You song? This one is just as good.

Theme Song Friday PREVIEW!

I forgot about this song! Club Haus flashbacks, for sure! I see a bunch of really drunk punk rockers puking over the side of a river boat with this playing in the background. I miss 1989.

I would like to dedicate this song to all of the half-wit popular culture writers, stopping by for a peep at someone who thinks they're a bunch of vapid, cum-dumpsters.

Eat all of the dicks! Unicorn dicks, that is!

Only the Strong Will Survive...........This Video Post.

Some are claiming that this may be the worst video ever put on the internet.... I disagree... It may have to do with the fact that I am an insane, perverted, Trekkie, but I think this may be the best thing ever. It's not NSFW, but your co-workers may think very, very differently of you if they catch you watching it.

TOBACCO - Super Gum from TOBACCO on Vimeo.

Listing the List for Monday. I'm Glad I Don't Do Blogher.

This past weekend the infamous Blogher conference took place in New York City. I didn't go and I'm glad.

10. I don't like people.

09. My dancing skills are so great that I would feel badly about out-dancing those so desperate to dance at the dancy-dance parties. I'm seriously fantastic.

08. I've been to several conventions for several different reasons and still wonder why the fuck I went. What a colossal waste of time.

07. I have a stapler phobia.

06. My Honey would totally make fun of me for going.

05. I'm trying to be more positive. Blogher would have sent me into a tailspin of negativity.

04. I'm opposed to wearing take out bags from fast food restaurants on my head. The thought of doing so makes me want stick a nail in my eye.

03. I would rather be cabrewin', so I was.

02. I'm too punk for partyin'.

01. I would not have been able to choose which socially repressed, ironic theme party to attend and the thought of having to choose would have sent me into an anxiety-induced coma.

THEME SONG FRIDAY!

I think this one is pretty self explanatory.

Also, I'm pretty stoked that it is not only Friday, but that Simon is TEN! and the humidity is gone.

Happy weekend, y'all! What's your song today?

Ohm.

Last night, I gathered a couple of candles, a hand-me-down-but-very-dear altar of Mary, and my best attitude and embarked on meditating.

***sidebar: Someone mentioned a new movie out where Julia Roberts starts doing this shit, too. I need to state that I have never, will never, never never never NEVER, be inspired by Julia Roberts. EVER. This experiment is the result of beers with my friend who swears by this. I trust him, so I am trying.

Back on topic.

I lit my candles, turned off the lights and began to concentrate on my breath. I almost said "breasts", which I guess I could trance out thinking about those as well. As I sat there, I actually started to feel anxious, like I was wasting time and could be doing something more productive, like watching South Park. As the anxiety started to infiltrate my Zen, I started thinking about my "lists", my mental compartmentalization of all the shit I need to do: Design Ads, Save the Dates, Call a million people, Follow ups, Birthday Cakes, weddings, JAKE, Gus the cat who began to sing and make biscuits on my back while I was trying to meditate..... RACING BRAIN.

So, I stopped, regrouped and tried again... This time chanting "I am so fucking awesome" over and over again.... Okay, so I wasn't chanting that, but I'm not telling the internet what I chanted. Somethings are just fucking personal. I also found my fundamental frequency and "OHM'd" my ass off.


Wouldn't you know it? Twenty five minutes passed that I was totally not cognizant of. I don't know if I experienced anything "transcendental" and I certainly didn't morph into a Tibetan Monk, but I did feel very relaxed and light. I know that twenty five minutes is not a lot of time, but for this ADD fidgeter, it was pretty substantial.

I felt liberated and fucking spiritual, yo! I felt like I could walk in the Dharma Center and be down with program and find a new circle of friends! I sat there and contemplated my spiritual awakening and celebrated with a cup of blueberry tea, which is fucking delicious, and then embarked on going to sleep.

Wouldn't you know it, I could not sleep for shit last night. I tossed. I turned. The dog paced. The cat was too close to my face. It was hot upstairs. Chris got into bed late and woke me up. The dog KEPT PACING. PACING. PACING. PANTING. PANTING. PACING. I finally went downstairs and made him lay on the vent to feel the AC and popped half a Xanax to knock my shit out, which kind of worked, until 4:30 when Chris decided he couldn't sleep and it was time to wake up and make coffee. LOUDLY.

However, I blame the solar tsunami and the oppressive heat for my insomnia.... AND JAKE. I still love him, though.

I will be meditating again today.

Next on the list: Read a self help book.

Salty

I'm eating too much salt.

I'm also a little too salty.

I've always been more on the grumpy/sarcastic/foul mouth side of the personality spectrum.... I've referred to myself as PPO, or permanently pissed off. I don't trust people who become overly excited about anything or who are too cheery. I can't stand when people are too sentimental or sensitive, yet, when the rubber meets the road, I'm pretty sensitive myself. I just hide it well.

I have a strong dislike for histrionics and hyperbole, unless someone is talking about bodily functions, or making fun of local bands. Young people annoy me.

The crappy graffiti is on the bathroom stall: I AM A FUCKING GRUMP.

So, as of now, I am going to try to be more positive and I am cutting the salt in my diet by half.


Sweet Jesus, fucking help us all.

My plan is to blog everyday about something that I would normally "pish posh", make fun of, or get fucking annoyed about.

Today, I am going to attempt to meditate.


YEP.

I will sit for 30 minutes and I will not mentally review my grocery list, my work itinerary, wonder what LiLo is up to in Rehab, think about my toenails, chocolate cake or how much I hate Ayn Rand.

I will think only of positive, happy, foo-foo thoughts.

I will post a status report tomorrow.

Monday's List: Ways To Get Back On Course When You Have Eaten WAY TOO MUCH Over The Weekend.

This weekend was a banner weekend for eating and drinking. Friday I ate a giant hot dog, covered in kim-chi and spare ribs, split some duck fat fries and had a glass of sauvignon blanc. WOAH. Later that evening, I ate an ice cream cone, soft serve, dipped in chocolate. ACK!

Saturday, I ate some fruit for breakfast. That evening, I dined on beef tenderloin, cucumber salad, red potato salad, salad, Baked Alaska and COPIUS amounts of red wine.

Sunday, I went to a family reunion and ate a hot dog, cheesy potatoes, taco salad, and a brownie. That night, we had people over for dinner and dined on Kobe-Havarti Cheeseburgers on Ciabatta, corn on the cob and pasta salad. For desert, Chocolate cake.

IT HAS BEEN A FUCKING RIDICULOUS WEEKEND!

I had to roll myself into work today, wishing I had suits with elastic waistbands.

I need to get back on track. Here's how:

10. Prayer

09. Take some vacation time and spend the week on the treadmill. Have the Lil'Honey take a week off so he can whip me while on the treadmill.

08. This week, eat only pretend meals.

07. Sneak into the gym after closing and sleep in the sauna.

06. Use "TEH SECRET" and manifest myself to my pre-weekend weight.

05. Hire a group of young ruffians to chase me wherever I go this week.

04. Take this every where with me: https://shakeweight.com/flare/next, ignore all jack off comments.

03. Spontaneous sit ups.

02. Cocaine

01. Bring back the Botticelli and have another hot dog.

Let's Fuck It Up! Theme Song Friday!

So, this will be the truth serum, revealing how many people DON'T read my blog! Friday's new theme will be "Theme Song Friday", where I will post, retrospectively, my theme song for the week. I invite you to comment with your theme song, or comment with a link to your blog with your theme song.

Let your dork flag fly!

Listless Monday: How To Get Rid of Migraines

I woke up at 4am this morning to the sounds of my blood bludgeoning my brain, and the screams, THE SCREAMS! My brain screams like a little bitch. I'm finally starting to feel better (fuck you, imitrex), so I thought I would compile a list on how to deal with a migraine, Katy-style.

10. Shake your significant other out of his peaceful slumber, because if you have to suffer, so does he. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

09. Ease your pain with the soothing, rhythmic, sounds of banging your head against the wall.

08. Cry

07. Whimper

06. Pray and beg the Baby Jebus to have mercy on your cold, dark, soul.

05. When your S.O. starts to fall back asleep, wake him.

04. Tell him you would stay up for him and remind him of all the sacrifices you make for he and the family day to day. Mention the broken milk glass goblet that belonged to your great-grandmother.

03. Cover you face with ice, make sure S.O. is awake to wipe away the condensation.

02. Bargain with God. Promise him the soul of your first born and hope that he doesn't know you plan to remain childless.

01. Stick your head in the toilet and flush. Rinse. Repeat.

OUTTAKES: Them Kids Is Alright

Do you remember the Epilday? They coined it as a "hair removal system" when in reality, it was a device manufactured by the Dark Lord to torture women. It was in essence, a rotating spring that ripped hair out of your legs. YES! And because the healing process takes more than a few days, it kept hair from growing back longer than shaving.

Did you know that you should not use an Epilady to shave your head? Of course you did! It was inherent! Or so one would think.

Not only was I an asshole of epic proportions when I was a teenager, I was also an idiot.

My best friend's older sister was gifted an Epilady for Christmas in 1989 and had declared it unusable because it hurt so bad, yanking out all of the little hairs on your body. My friend and I, under the guise of our self declared "badassery", decided her older sister was a wuss and that the Epilady was no match for our skulls of steel. I went first, of course.

At this time in my life, I was sporting a lovely and sophisticated hair-don't I like to refer to as the "Sumo". On the crown of my head, my hair was all one length to my chin, and underneath the entire perimeter of my head was shaved. This was a hairstyle that I could pull into a ponytail at school, so the public at Kings Junior High could appreciate how fucking hardcore I was, and then at home, I could wear it down in order to suppress the hysterical "YOU LOOK SO UGLY!" sobs emanating from my mother. It was a fetching 'do.

The allure of having a piece of equipment that could not only do the job of the pink, Lady Bic I used to keep the coif in check, but could also keep the sides of my head as bald as a baby's butt for almost a month, was too tempting to resist. According to the directions, the Epilady would work best on hair that was no longer than half an inch long. My friend and I prepped my head by trimming my 8'o'clock skull shadow as close to my scalp as possible.

We were then ready to Epilady my head. The excitement in the air was palpable.

My friend plugged the device into the wall and hit the "On" switch. The hair removing coils started to spin, as she gently leaned my head to the left, because the right side is always first. As the coils of terror made their landing upon my scalp, it felt as if a thousand teeny, tiny, devil babies were grasping the infinitesimal patch of hair as if their lives depended on it! There was a loud "EEEENNNNNNNZZZZZEEEEE" sound as the coils halted their rotation, due to fact that they had already grabbed all of the hair they were going to get and were now working on scalping me like Custer at the Last Stand. I yelped out like the little bitch I was and screamed at my friend to "TUNR THE FUCKING THING OFF!" As she stood there dazed and amazed, she came to and finally yanked the plug out of the wall as I was dancing a jig of pain.

It wasn't over yet.

That fucking thing was caught in my hair. It took 30 minutes to free my hair (which it did NOT pull out at all) and scalp from that device of pain. I finally was freed and realized that the Epilady was not just a hair removal system, but the spirit of a really pissed off Native American, who wanted my DAR legacy scalp on their fucking wall.

How I survived my teens is completely beyond me, as this is not even CLOSE to the stupidest thing I have ever done.

Fight The Power

I cannot be the only who thinks Andrew Breitbart needs to choke to death on his fear of the black man? Fuck that guy, right in the fucking ear.

Them Kids Is Alright, Part Three: Club Soda

These days, I find myself longing for the serenity of being miles away from everyone surrounded by rolling hills, trees and critters. I miss the quiet but most of all, I pine for simplicity. The city gets so complicated and messy. It's funny how things change as you get old. To me, the city is like a relationship I would form in my early 20s. Month one; thrills wrapped in a blanket of lust and mood altering substances. Month two; the dreaded exes and jealousy rear their heads in a fury of lust and mood altering substances. Month three; broken hearts and heads in a fog of lust and mood altering substances.

FIN

However, the anticipation of that first encounter, the first glance, touch, caress, kiss, what have you, would keep me going for far longer than what would be the life span of the relationship. More often than not, the preoccupation of my object of desire would be a hell of a better time than the relationship itself. Healthier, too.

When I was a kid, I would sit on the fence looking towards the northwest corner of our fields to the property line and pretend I could see the very tip tops of the sleek skyscrapers of Columbus Ohio. Granted, Columbus is no New York City, but it is Gotham compared to the six stoplights I hailed from. The only thing in the world I wanted, was to be in the epicenter of the city. I wanted to be where the pulse originated. I wanted to be where the action was and I wasn't even 10 years old.

By the time we had moved to the bourgeois mecca of Landen, twenty miles north of Cincinnati, I was ready to chew my leg in half to free it from the trap of being an adolescent stuck at home with people telling me what to do. Factor in that school sucked being surrounded by a bunch of rednecks, assholes and twats; I was itching to bust out of that hell hole but was lacking the means and number of years of my life ticker to succeed. People frown upon 13 year olds living on their own, so the only choice I had was to be patient. I had run away a handful of times, only to be caught or to puss out before getting too far. I liked having some money and a place free of bed bugs and body lice to crash. Some more hardened and road worthy may deem me a poseur and all I can say is "oh well", if having credibility means sacrificing my health and good smelling armpits, then call me Green Day.

In order to satiate my wanderlust, I was forced to settle for hanging out places I could either walk to or places my Mom would agree to drive me to. Nothing more than 15 minutes and she hated driving on the interstate. Living 20 miles outside of the city center, my options were extremely limited; amusement park, shopping center, shopping malls and the indoor skatepark/ teen dance club, Club Soda. American Heavy Metal Weekends, indeed.

It is not to difficult to be punk rock where ever you go, for there you are....punk as fuck. We were punk as fuck hanging out, smoking cigarettes, at the local Kroger. We were punk as fuck, hanging out, smoking cigarettes and huffing rush, before riding The Beast at Kings Island. We were punk as fuck, smoking cigarettes and hanging out in front of the Music Town at the mall, coveting their only copy of Penis Envy by Crass. Everywhere we went was punk as fuck and smoking cigarettes. Just writing this fills me with crushing shame at the lethal levels of bershon that was clogging my veins in my teens.

Some days, lady luck would totally tongue kiss us and we would end up spending our Friday nights at the mighty Club Soda. Club Soda was an oasis for skate boarders and freaks stranded in the suburbs. It was an indoor skate park equipped with ramps, and all of that stuff that skateboarders like. Skateboarders had a legitimate and productive reason to be there. At night, the staff would clear the floor and someone with a sideways haircut would set up their DJ station in order to spin the songs of the angst ridden and misunderstood; Teenagers. It was far less productive than skateboarding and we would sway our hips to the throaty howls of Peter Murphy and the forlorn prose of Morrissey, without trying to look like we were enjoying ourselves or burning one another with our cigarettes.

One of the most intriguing beings to a teenage girl caught in the throes of rebellion, is the skateboarder. Their hair, their skills, their indifference. To me and my hormone infested friends, the sound of skateboard wheels on the pavement sent our pheromones into maximum overdrive and a billow of estrogen and Love's Baby Soft would fog up our entire perimeter. The crushes were hard and the disappointments that would ensue were Earth shattering. However, I still remember the rush of adrenalin that would practically paralyze me when I would catch a glimpse of their Overkill t-shirt and their Skulls and Dagger deck. I would try to play as aloof as humanly possible, only to have my stare give me away. Not that it mattered, these dudes were used to it and they could have hardly given a fuck. They were there to skate. I was there to stalk while acting like I didn't care, either.

Ah, youth is wasted on the young!

Club Soda was as sporadic as it was coveted. Running a skatepark is a lucrative as running a pineapple farm in Alaska, so the hours were never reliable and eventually, the lack of funds shut it down. However, it was a truly bitchin place while it was open. A lot of great skaters made their way through there, which was completely amazing at the time. However, I will always remember it as a place of refuge for those who were certain they were cooler than everyone else, yet, were not old enough to have a drivers license to get them to the way cooler places.

Here is some G&S footage featuring Club Soda around 5:09..... this guy just oozes asshole.... be still my beating, 13 year old, heart.

From the Vault.

Good times. I had a dream about this the other night.

Ten Reasons to Change Your Blog Name, Even Though It will Mess Up Your Pretend Readership.

10. After reviewing your site meter details, it dawns on you that the hits from Sri Lanka are most likely not people who are interested in your clever reminiscing about groundhogs.

09. The name of your blog makes family reunions a little awkward.

08. It's a ding to your self-esteem when other, unfunny, very poorly named bloggers constantly harp "WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN" when referring to your blog's name. Is it really that confusing? It makes more sense than condiment pastries.

07. You get tired of strangers questioning your AWESOME sex life..... and then you feel forced to naively mention your sex life ON THE INTERNET. GAH!

06. The really clever new name for you blog brings the image of white robes and David Duke to your readership, which then makes you awkwardly defend yourself and how you're not racist and you really DO have black friends.

05. Nobody wants to talk about Dildos at work functions... No matter how many complimentary cocktails have been consumed.

04. Did I mention the "being mistaken for a porn site?"

03. Change comes from within your soul, and my soul is without plastic penetrating party devices.

02. If your name isn't so offensive, you may actually make some money off of this freakin' blog for once... Doubtful, but maybe.

01. My Mom reads this. Lord knows my writing has enough objectionable content for my mom to chew on, let alone having to visit a website with "dildo" in the title. Hi Mom! Love you!

Hula Hoopin' with Tiger Hoops!

When many people think about hula hoops, they think of brightly colored, feather light, pieces of plastic that rattled and were a toy-box staple of many of our childhoods. My hoops were used as a means to lasso pretend unicorns, tie up pirate prisoners and to spin around my arm to build a force field to protect me from Dr. Doom, aka, my brother. I do remember my mother hooping in the kitchen to lose her baby weight after my sister was born (I have a frighteningly long memory), but I was never really able to gain any momentum with spinning it around my waste, I also lacked the attention span to try. Once I was on a two wheeler, I quickly forgot about hula hoops.

Last summer, a couple of my best girlfriends started hooping for fun and exercise. They were extremely enthusiastic and when they would talk about it, the only thing I could think of was how ridiculous they must look spinning those stupid, frosty blue and pink plastic things around their waists.

I was wrong.

These hoops are not the Rite Aid hoops of the 1980s. Stephanie Winters, my pal and the creative brains and braun behind Tiger Hoops uses standard irrigation tubing, with decorative gaffers tape (for grip), which are around 160 pounds per square inch (weight of the plastic/ thickness) and filled with rice or water. These hoops are as handsome as they can be! Though these big mama-jammas were not like any hoop I had ever seen or used before, I was still not convinced that they would be easier to use than the hoops of yesteryear. Which, I have to add, always made me feel like fatty failure when I was unable to swing them around my hips like some 1960's California girl... So I was hesitant at first.

After some cajoling, I finally gave it a whirl, and by Moses! I could do it! It was unlike any other experience I had had with hooping before. It was not only easier to manage, but at first it was a little painful(?), which then faded to feeling like I was getting massaged around my midsection. It was pretty nice! Not to mention, the next day I could totally tell it was giving me a workout! I felt like I had done about 200 crunches from ten minutes of hooping and chatting with my girlfriends.

We all know that the Hula Hoop is nothing new. However, it has been around a lot longer than the 20th century. Though many of us equate the hoops with the birth of rock and roll and kitsch in general, children also played with hoops made of grapevines during Egyptian times, as well as during the Renaissance. In the 1800s, sailors who had traveled to Hawaii began associating the hula dance with the hoops, due to their similar motions. In fact, according to historical medical records, the majority of dislocated backs and heart attacks were attribute to hooping!*

Hooping can burn up to 200 calories a day for every 30 minutes you hoop. You strengthen your core muscles and hips, while improving spinal flexibility while increasing blood flow to the brain and promoting the integral functions of our vital organs.**

It's also a lot of fun.

So, how do you know if you have the right hoop? One vital detail to remember is that the smaller the hoop, the more challenging the exercise. According to Livestrong.com, "you should place the hula hoop on the ground and the top of the hoop should reach anywhere between your stomach and your chest. However, if you are a bigger person, you should choose a larger hoop, which rotates slower. This will make the movements easier to coordinate."

Stephanie sells her high quality hoops for $30- $45 dollars depending on what design, weight, height, etc. you want. She 's so enthusiastic about hooping, that not only will she make an excellent hoop, custom designed for you, but she is also a terrific resource for advice on technique and tricks to try. Many custom hoops can cost up to $100 and there are also many "knock-off" hoops on the internet for $20. Hoops are just like any other piece of equipment, you get what you pay for. However, with Tiger Hoops, you're not getting a cheap, knock off made in China. You're getting a quality crafted piece of equipment that will last for years to come, independently produced in the US. What more can you ask for?

If you would like to inquire about getting your own Tiger Hoop, you can contact Stephanie at swinters@cinci.rr.com




References
* http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/hulahoop.html
**http://www.buzzle.com/articles/health-benefits-of-hula-hooping.html

New Digs.

Hiya!

I renamed my blog. Though there were many good suggestions for a name change, I went with a suggestion from the Little Honey, Sgt. Wiener Hotbuns. His prize is my undying love and devotion. The gift that keeps on giving. Kind of like the Herp.

Stick around. Get cozy. Read loud and proud! People will no longer be under the impression that you're looking at porn! YAY!

New Career Paths For Mel Gibson. "Melicious"

Mel, Mel, Mel, MEL! Love is a battlefield and you are definitely a war, torn soldier of fortune! The affairs of your heart have overtaken your mind and as a result, your position as an "entertainer" is certainly entertaining, yet, methinks not in the way you have intended. Luckily, you're stinking rich, but being that you are as spry as a fox, you may not be in the market for early retirement. I have taken it upon myself to make a few suggestions to guide you into a new profession. You're welcome.

10. Wal-Mart Greeter

09. Guidance Counselor

08. Evangelist

07. Ku Klux Klan Grand Wizard

06. Greeting Card Writer

05. Poet

04. Match-Maker

03. Children's Author

02. Bus Driver

01. Motivational Speaker

The Time Has Come. Re-Name this Blog.

There has been some talk about the name of this blog and what it means... You know, because blogs and their names need to MEAN something. The name of this blog came from a stupid quiz thing I took in school where I had to name a mood and an inanimate object. I felt confused; I thought of how I thought the guy in front of me was such a dilrod; Confused Dildo.

Recently, I decided to not be so damn lazy all of the time, and I installed a site meter. I get a lot of hits form overseas, and something tells me that many of them aren't coming here because I am so darn cute and clever.

So, I think a re-name is in order. What are your suggestions? Fabulous prizes will be made available if I choose your suggestion!

Monday's List. Ways to Keep It Cool During a Heat Emergency.

Well, summah has hit the Queen City, and one of our traditions that is more pervasive than BBQs, swimming pools and domestic violence, is a heat index emergency. A heat emergency is when it is so ridiculously hot outside, everything looks like you didn't quite get all of the sand out of your eyes that morning and the local weather people have something to blather on about for more than their intended five minutes. Oh, and it is so fucking hot outside, it's hard to breath!

Heat emergencies are not awesome, but here are some ways to stay cool and remain awesome, whilst sweating your ballzacks off.

*. Thumbs up. The Fonz was always the picture of calm, cool and collected, because his opposable didgits were always pointed sky high, giving much respect due to JC. Cool is a state of mind. Thumbs Up not only says to the public at large that you are one suave m-effer, but Thumbs Up will distract your mind from the pits stains forming in the underarm area of your Ed Hardy T-Shirt.

*. This hat. If there is a culture of cool in the world, it is definitely the Japanese! They gave us Godzilla, karaoke and excessive bowing while shaking hands! COOL!

*. Keep America working while instilling the importance of a good work ethic in our youth, by hiring a neighborhood kid to follow you around, fanning you! This is a great way for the youth of today to learn about financial independence, and for you to not only stay cool, but look very important. Don't worry about minimum wage, this is a recession. Tell the kid that being paid in good vibes and positive reinforcement, on top of their dollar a day, is an experience that is PRICELESS.

*. Birthday Suit. During times of extreme weather and public duress, the traditional values of society get thrown to the wind and our mores become more flexible. There is no better time for walking around, nude. Your neighbors won't care. It's HOT! They understand. Go ahead, take it off.

*. Ice-pack underpants. These guys will not only keep you cool, but they will also give you a terrific tingling sensation in your nether areas. Don't worry about melting. People will either think your crotch is sweating like a Samoan in a sauna, or that you pissed yourself. No biggie!

This is a short list for today, because I need to get myself into a canoe.

Stay cool!

Them Kids Is Alright, Part Two

Ray, this is 1987. Did you know a girl can be whatever she wants to be?

In 1987, my mother changed careers and embarked our single parent family on a move from the sleepy farm town of London, Ohio, 150 miles away to the new-fangled and unfamiliar suburban landscape of Cincinnati, Ohio. My brother, sister and myself were all born at the Madison County Hospital in London, Ohio; raised within the confines of cornfields of past familial generations, which accorded us a sense of comfort. Upon our arrival to the subdivision of Woodfield, in the Towne Properties monstrous development of Landen within Maineville, Ohio, we were fish out of water.


Landen, Ohio was a intricate web of new construction, lakes, ponds, bike trails, swimming pools and other recreational facilities. It looked more like a social experiment in suburban perfection, than an actual town. It was marketed as the perfect place to raise a family.. It was "safe"... meaning "white" and radically conventional. The neighbors did not greet diversity and adversity with open arms, and god forbid you didn't cut your grass in the careful, diagonal pattern that the Neighborhood Association encouraged.... You'd be better received by lighting a bag of crap on fire in the middle of your cul-de-sac!

My siblings and I embarked on a period of adjustment, which was not easy. Our new residence was completely different. When you live on 32 acres of land with woods, creeks, barns, animals, and a house with maid quarters that the kids are allowed to use as play quarters, you get used to a certain amount of unabashed freedom. It was pretty commonplace for us to walk around outside in just our underpants, as well as take off to the more secluded parts of our property for some alone time. We had gotten used to solitude, and it was nice. Moving into a home a quarter of the size of your farmhouse with neighbors 20 ft (!) away, was completely foreign. We never had to be quiet on the farm, as our closest neighbor was a half mile away. Being so close to our neighbors, who were for the most part, nosy assholes, kind of sucked.

The people of Landen were completely different than the people of London. Don't get me wrong, London had their fair share of assholes and mean girls. (I remember all of you, and I still think you all suck at life....and were ugly children, who more than likely grew up to be ugly adults.) However, the people of Landen were jaded. Jaded in a "I get everything I want and what I really want is to be better than you and I will apply any means necessary to achieve my goals." It was a sentiment held by both adults and children alike... Also, I had no idea what racism was until I moved to Landen. There were less than ten people of color in our entire school, not to mention a card carrying faction of kids whose parents were in the Ku Klux Klan. Keep it classy, y'all!

After a year of contorting our personalities into foreign shapes, my brother tired of trying and just stopped. I was soon to follow. We fell into a crowd of misfits and wanna-be miscreants. We began to shave parts of our hair off, wearing combat boats, listening to music that was never to be played on pop radio, but were lucky enough to live within the listening radius of WOXY, 97X.

It was a whole new world. It was a world of creativity and rebellion. One was free to be as weird as one wanted to be and it was liberating... Sure, in the confines of the classroom and high school halls, it was a different story of harassment, bullying and general meanness... However, when your opinion of the people who are making fun of you is as low as mine was for these mouth-breathing, hillbilly, sister-fucking, rednecks, you tend not to care.. You eat their hate like love and it only makes you stronger.

to be continued........
Next up: Club Soda, 97Xtra-Beats Teen Dances and the Mythical Land of Short Vine.

Ten Ways To Fail At Coming Up With A List For Monday

10. Allowing your kitty to sit on your laptop because you both could use a snuggle.

9. Asking your Lil' Honey his opinion on a list topic, only to have him reply "boobies."

8. Relying on Divine Intervention

7. Fiber-Optics On Demand. They have Clueless! For Free! As IF!

6. Seriously, it will be an act of Maude if I ever get anything done, ever again.

5. TWITTER TARD WARS

4. Consulting Magic Eightball. Magic Eightball has proven itself to be incredibly lazy when it comes to predictions and consistently instructs me to "ask again later." Sloth.

3. Beyonce's Fashion Faux Pas! LOOK AT THAT HAIR! BAD FORM, BEYONCE.

2. Using Beyonce Knowles as an excuse for being distracted during list making and the guilt that ensues. I'm sorry Beyonce. Let's never fight again.

1. Preoccupation with Dick Cheney and the fact that EVIL JUST NEVER FRIGGIN DIES! ARGH!

Them Kids Is Alright, Part One

This topic of this post has been at the forefront of my brain to write about for, I don't know, forever? Yet, when I try to convey my thoughts to words on the matter, I always come up empty handed. I still really don't know what to say about this part of my life. It was such a chaotic and confusing time, but the time of my life that I learned the most about living, friendships, and standing up for who you are and your beliefs.

I spent my adolescence and early adulthood deeply involved in the punkrock counterculture of Cincinnati. This is what makes me who I am today. I marvel at the complete inappropriateness of being 13 years old and sneaking into bars and clubs to see bands like Nirvana (before Nevermind, I thought they blew) Seven Seconds, Circle Jerks, GBH, Exploited, The Ramones (the list goes on and on, and yeah I'm name dropping, lick me) and I feel horribly for what I put my parents through.During these days, I also found myself in the midst of a heavy drug culture and culture of extreme violence. To be perfectly honest, it is quite an act of God that myself and many of my friends are alive to this day. Contrarily, many, and I mean MANY, of my friends are dead. At age 34, I have been to three times as many funerals, as I have weddings. It's very sad, however, a sobering reality of the counterculture.

Just as in the halls of every high school, the scene on Short Vine had several different cliques of misfits who had all found their way to this mile long street, trying to escape the doldrums and bigotry of their suburban homes and high schools. Some were runaways, some were old enough to live on their own, but many were just weekend warriors, myself included. There were the punk rock kids called Crayola Kids, known for their vibrantly dyed hair, who were also part of an older group of veteran punks and skins, known as the Family. Many members of the family were also formerly a part of a loose organization called SHARP, SkinHeads Against Racial Prejudice. There were The Noble Savages, a mixed bag of beefy, martial arts enthusiasts. The Galley punks, named after the SubGalley, the dive bar they resided in to drink and shoot up heroin. The Brothers, which nobody knows if they were really brothers, but they were a bunch of train jumping travelers, who could be found in Cincinnati during the summer months. The 513 Forkburn Crew, which consisted of a bunch of Straightedge Hardcore kids from Cincinnati, Dayton and Toledo, as well as the Queen City Bootboys, a group of skinheads who took no political stance and were basically in it to kick anyone and everyones' ass. The 513 and Bootboys were my friends. There were also a bunch of kids who floated between the few cliques, like walking, talking embodiments of Switzerland.

It was an exciting time, well, for a stupid teenager like myself.

I will never forget during the summer of 1990 after Fugazi played at Bogarts on Short Vine, the riot that all started over a stolen Mag-Lite, an alleged sugar-daddy who used his position as an AA counselor to create same sex affairs with young, desperate kids, as well as teenaged angst and bravado. As bodies swarmed the streets like a drove of irate bees, jaws were broken and a barrage of bar stools were hurled into on-coming traffic. Ian Mackaye, Fugazi/Minor Threat lead singer and Punk Rock Icon, emerged from Subway (the sandwich store), like a Phoenix rising from the chaotic ashes, to appeal to our sense of unity as societal black sheep and cease the senseless violence......then somebody nailed him with a bottle and shouted, "FUCK YOU IAN MACKAYE, YOU DON'T LIVE HERE!"

Good times.


This is the point where my thoughts and memories bog me down into a pit of reminiscent confusion. Next up: How I came to be such an asshole, juvenile delinquent.

Ten Ways To Partay Hartay While High On Life

10. Spin yourself around in circles, as fast as you can, until you fall down. Stuff some pillows down your pants so you not only look fantastic, but you buffer the blow.

09. Greet people and join conversations, speaking only in PigLatin. Everyone loves PigLatin, and you will surely be the life of the party.

08. People are craving more intimacy in their lives. Though most people go about finding this by posting TMI on the internet, you can gain intimacy and long lasting friendships by greeting new people with lots of touching and speaking to them softly, really close to their faces. Bring some tic tacs and let the lifelong seeds of friendship be sewn!

07. No matter what, everyone is always interested in hearing about your Irritable Bowel Syndrome in detail. People are SYMPATHETIC and like LEARNING.

06. Impress new friends by showing them how easy it is for you to drink an entire gallon of vitamin D milk in an hour! If that doesn't work, demonstrate how easy it is for you to whistle "Yankee Doodle" with a mouth full of crackers!

05. Request that the DJ/Band play Miami Sound Machine's classic hit, "Conga". When the music starts, sing along as loudly as you can, while you grab people around their waists to form the Conga line. This will make memories that last a lifetime.

04. Get creative! Sometimes even the best parties can hit a lull in the action. You can save the party and your host's reputation by appealing to the creative side of all the party goers. Every 8 in 10 American kitchens will have a package of kraft singles in their cheese boxes. Grab a pack, peel a slice, hold it to the ceiling and have your friend hold a lighter underneath it. The cheese slice will then affix itself to the ceiling. Repeat until the entire ceiling is covered. Not only will all of the party goers work together to create a masterpiece, you will also add some culinary class to your host's abode. Tasty and beautiful!

03. CORNHOLE!

02. Legendary rock stars, Ted Nugent and Gene Simmons are famous for their lifestyles of partyin' high on life. To stay sober while rocking and rolling all night and partyin' everyday, they focused on sex. These days, due to STDS and teh AIDS! it is safer to stay away from "going all the way" at parties, so I recommend sexually suggestive mad libs for a good, steamy time.

01. Remember, shit DOES NOT happen when you party naked while high on life. Sobriety means it is consensual.

Dion

The Honey's Song to Moi.

Lazy, Sunless, Saturdays

Ok, Mr. Crossley, I will write something. Shaysus!

I really dont have a topic today. The last couple of weeks went from crazy busy, to a full on HALT. Culminating the academic year, we have an event that monopolized my time from December until June 3, not to mention seven other events that I had to organize and execute during that time. They are all quite large, 150- 200 people, but the final event brings in 600 people. I had also volunteered to organize a couple of charity events on the side during this time. Needless to say, I have a few more, well earned, gray hairs on my head.

After June 6, I had NOTHING, ZIP, ZERO on my plate, and 275 vacation hours(!).

Needless to say, I have been taking it easy, well as easy as someone who got herself into a pickle and found herself the apple of an internet crazy's eye. Me and my big ass mouth. It's been getting me into the piss for over 20 years! During this down time, I have achieved very little. Some new web design for work, coordinating some meetings for the end of July, lots of walks with the dog, time by the pool, accounting, spread sheet making, step-parenting, wife-ing, fasting, cleaning, yoga-ing... OH, and internet drama-ing.

Did I mention that some guy accused me, (just me!) of being a vast network of internet trolls after I let him know I thought he was an asshole of epic proportions? YEAH! YAY! He even threatened to have me fired for being on the internet during work hours (though I'm not really working right now, well, at least not on the clock, just wirelessly). Yeah! He then threatened to have me sent to PRISON!! for tweeting things I never twatted! YUP! He has screenshots, y'all! Then Mother Theresa sent him an email about how he is a much better person than me. I am just a sad, ugly, lonely, bully who is "broken" and he needs to take pity on me. What a relief!

The lesson I learned? Some things are better left said behind someone's back, rather than to their face. I also made some new e-pals and e-haterz (thanks for the blog hits!). Also, people are attracted to drama (myself included) like flies on shit, and that it is probably a waste of my time to entertain the mentally imbalanced of the e-world.

So Mr. Crossley, to better spend my time, I want you to give me a topic... Any topic to write about. I feel rusty in the prose area, as my snark muscles are bulging like a steroid ridden, body builder.

Help me Obi-Wan. You are my only hope.

Bitties not Titties

12 Things I Like To Avoid Like the Plague. My List For Tuesday. Rules Are Made To Be Broken.

12. The lady who works in the mail room with the Dora the Explorer mushroom haircut, who smells like soup and wears polyester.

11. Bats. Rats with wings, indeed.

10. People I went to high school with who didn't speak to me, called me a "culture queer" and who now want to apologize and tell me how much they admired me. "Hey asshole, the grating marks that were embedded on my forehead after you smashed my locker into my noggin 16 years ago, fucking disagree."

09. The guy in the wheelchair who begs for money outside of my local grocery store everyday, who has a brand new Blackberry Pearl. My cell phone is held together by duct tape, and NOT because I am so DIY.

08. Cracks in the sidewalk...... and crack in general.

07. Italian Food..... Sorry Real Housewives of New Jersey.

06. My overweight neighbor who always tries to get me to pay his daughter for yard work, so she can go on Christian Missionary Trips.... Not only am I too broke to pay for help, I also love Satan.... He also was too freaked out to clean up the cat he ran over on his driveway, which meant I had to do it before the kids saw it. He sat there and wept.... It wasn't even his cat.

05. Vera Bradley bags.... I think there are hidden messages from Charles Manson in those swirly flowers. Clever devil.

04. I was going to say the Jehovahs Witness ladies that stalk my house on Saturday morning, but I kind of like to make "Yahweh Threeway" jokes, while going in and out of talking in tongues.

03. Disney Channel Teen Idols. Not because they are annoying, they are. But, because I believe that they are zombies created by the militant wing of the Catholic Church who have set out to eat the brains of the public, hiding the evidence of their victims under trendy styled, hair helmets.

02. Too much responsibility.

01. Herpes.

You Just Might Be a Moron If.......

You think there is no such thing as "white privilege" , OR, if you find it offensive when people call you white because of your European ancestry.

Mike: Doing What Mike Did Best.

oxboard drain live at the buzz club jan' 97 from Cincinnati Local Music Scene vid on Vimeo.

I am a ball of nostalgia, wrapped in a blanket of tears, battered and fried.

Done Grown

We done got old! We're reproducing like a virus and dropping like flies!
Last summer, an old friend of mine was involved in a pretty serious car accident that totaled his truck, but apparently only bruised his elbow. A week after the accident, he suffered two massive strokes as a result of his carotid artery being severed by his shoulder belt.

He survived, but will never be the same.

Needless to say, this has been devastating to his fiancé and two very young daughters in a myriad of ways. Their father is incapacitated and a shell of the man he used to be. I say shell, because his soul and conscious are still there, but the ability to operate and control his body is gone. So he's essentially imprisoned. His fiancé now has to be a caretaker to three people in the family, two of which are completely dependent upon her; her infant and her fiancé. To say this is physically exhausting and overwhelming is the understatement of the century. Pile on top of that a bureaucratic system designed to hinder instead of help and social workers whose only advice is to drop the father of your children off at a VA hospital and forget about him.

AMERICA! FUCK YEAH!

His fiancé set up a CarePages profile for him, which she updated often. Many friends and myself were keeping abreast of their struggles and donating what we could, all the while feeling incredibly helpless about their dire situation. Our social group is comprised of artists, punks, do-gooders and liberals...... all of who are not known for their vast financial resources. It was frustrating to continually read about all of the heartbreaking obstacles this family was facing and really not being able to do a fucking thing about it.

One night while sipping some beers around a local bar, owned by some swell friends of mine, we discussed the heartbreaking situation our mutual friend was going through and the dissolution we were feeling with the systematic refusal to help them from the government and how life was unfair, and we wished we had money, and yadda yadda yadda.... When five facts dawned upon our thick, inebriated skulls:

We have friends in popular bands
We have friends who own bars
We have friends who own other types of businesses
We have big mouths, eyes for detail and good organizational skills
We all wanted to help in any way we could.


BENEFIT SHOW!

Duh, dumb-dumbs!

We created a benefit show and tagged it as a reunion of sorts. A reunion for all of the Cincinnati punk rockers, skinheads, rude boys and girls, and straightedge hardcore kids from the late 1980's and 90's, who all hung out on Short Vine Street. As we started to pull it together and raise awareness for the show, it became evident how much time had passed. I know in my rational mind that it has been over 20 years since I have seen some of these people, and the last time we saw each other, we were absurdly young. Much too young to be pulling the kind of shenanigans we were pulling at the time but so be it.

I started going through picture after picture from "back in the day" ( I really fucking hate that phrase, I need to find a new one... I am too lazy) and comparing them with recent shots.

Many thoughts were racing through my wee brain, but the ones that stood out the most were:

WE ARE FUCKING OLD. LIKE "MY PARENTS SUCK!" OLD.

MANY OF US ARE FUCKING DEAD. STONE, COLD, DEAD.

The picture album was eerily similar to an "in memoriam" album and it was quite depressing.

One of the side effects to the alternative, rock and roll lifestyle is early mortality and I have the pics to prove it, Internet. I really cannot believe how many people we have lost and how much we used to take life for granted. Cliche but true: Youth is wasted on the young.

Each and everyone of us who are still here and not imprisoned are fucking lucky ducks, because Xenu knows, I have done my fair share of life risking and crime committing, as many of you.

So come out to the show for Ben Stigar. We'll eat, we'll drink, we will sing, dance and ring in the new! HAIL ATLANTIS!



See you there. RIP Iron Mike.

Mortality Smack in the Face. Again.

I used to have a friend named Mike. Mike towered over many of us with his giant bald head, brilliant smile and congenial manner. He was a real sweet potato.

We were the 90s; playing in bands, being in the scene, putting regretful tattoos on our bodies, blazing trails and taking numbers. Mike played in a band called Oxboard Drain with some of his closest friends. They were metally, hard core fun.

We were all young, we all needed the money, but none of us had started to care quite yet. We were tripping on youth, rebellion and freedom from responsibilities (other than the $350 in rent we scrounged up monthly from wait service jobs).

Time marched on and little by little, we all started to grow up and out of touch. Degrees, jobs, babies, marriages, mortgages, lawyers, guns and money. I would run into Mike from time to time, bask in his fantastic bear hugs, then saunter on back to my life in my world, on the other side of town. Taking life for granted, the ironic juxtaposition of existence, thinking I would see him again real soon.

Sunday morning, Mike finished up his bar-tending shift, went home, and went to bed.

He would never wake up again.

Iron Mike was a son, brother, husband, father and friend. He was a really special person and last night I had to say goodbye to him without his signature, affectionate embrace. I looked around and saw how his absence was affecting the people that had come out in droves to say goodbye. We were all waiting for a bear hug we would never get again. We all cried.

Goodbye Mike.

Guesting

Check me out at Blue Velvet's Sorry For Partyin'.