The many things I wish for today.

miscellaneous

“I wish finding likable people with whom I could socialize and build history wasn’t such a Cyclopean feat. That’s right, I said Cyclopean.”

You might be thinking, what does that horse picture have to do with this post? Nothing. It’s just a cheap ploy to get your attention, as often my illustrations are in fact.

Some days, amazingly, I don’t really feel like externalizing my vibrant inner monologue. On these days I just want to blend into the desert scenery, become a part of the landscape, disappear into a gerbil hole. But I am not a cactus or a gerbil, so I resign myself to eating tons of candy (has anyone seen those giant M&M’s called Megas? Incredible) and making lists. Here goes.

I wish my hair would quit growing, cutting it really puts me out.

I wish I could understand the attraction of Twitter & Instagram, but I fear I am falling behind and modernity is no longer in my purview.

I wish I could write plot as well as I can write emotion and dialogue, then I could identify myself as a writer & not just a writer type. But no such luck.

I wish I could mourn less those moments passing or passed, and celebrate more the moments yet to come.

I wish the hint of sadness which resides perennially in my heart would vacate its chambers, and move, preferably out of the country. I hear France is nice this time of year.

I wish people didn’t assume my boobs were fake, it really bothers me, because I really can’t stand breast implants and women who get them. Sorry women, not sorry.

I wish pointed words made themselves readily available when I need them, and not 3 hours later when I don’t.

I wish memory was a trustier, less precarious component of my intellect.

I wish Santa Clause was real and cancer wasn’t. I know that’s a bit reductionist. The heart wants what it wants.

I wish desiring and possessing weren’t mutually exclusive.

I wish finding likable people with whom I could socialize and build history wasn’t such a Cyclopean feat. That’s right, I said Cyclopean.

I wish syrup was a constant table side accompaniment like salt or pepper.

I wish once a month my uterus didn’t have to undergo such tremendous discomfort.

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I am in the middle of NOWHERE…Starbucks is 28 miles away :O

writing

I have a few things worthy of reporting. Right this moment I am perched uncomfortably in an aisle seat of a US Airways plane. I paid 37$ extra dollars to change into this seat while checking in, as the seat that had been assigned to me was in the very tail of the plane. Tails of planes don’t bode well for me, uncontrollable nausea leads to rampant vomiting which leads to awkwardness between me and those hapless few seated near me. But now, in my +37$ seat in the very front of the plane, I am pissed, because the plane is half empty. I could have used my will and my legs to move into it free of charge. This is bullshit, Us Airways. I am done with you. *Shakes fist in air.

So where am I going? I am going to Houston, or rather Wharton, Texas! I had never been to Texas, but I just read that Houston is something like the first major U.S. city to have an openly gay & female mayor. A double whammy. That’s darn amazing to my thinking, and in Texas? Who could have imagined such a thing was possible? Progressive, inclusive thinking and a democratic election process based on merit, free from bigotry and sexism is like my catnip. So even though I have also been told that Houston is an utter shithole filled to the brim with pollution and strip clubs, I am very excited to visit this shining example of the modern age. First thing I discovered while peeing, that Houstoneans are quite a wordy bunch, where paper is lacking they see not an obstacle, but an opportunity. photo 3 copy

I love airports. I love them for a few reasons, but mostly because the people watching is superb. A complete spectrum of humanity is dished up in all of its glorious variety. If ever Aliens needed a good sampling of the human species they could just abduct the contents of one airport and be done with it.

I take airporting very seriously, I spend a dubious amount of time trying to figure out what to wear to the airport and doing something to my hair so that it falls just so atop my head. Most of the times allI can come up with are pajamas and unkempt pixie buns, but whatever I decide on has to fit the mood just right. It’s not so much a vanity thing, as an exercise in disguise. Alas, I am not at all happy with my outfit today. The airplane is very chilly, at least I am glad to be wearing long sleeves, as is my custom. One important rule of airport fashion is to wear things that offer full coverage to skin, as you simply don’t want to be touching anything here. Trust me.

Now for a little racism. 😛 Originally, before everyone dispersed evenly across the half empty plane, I sat in a row with two gentlemen. One very Asian and elderly, quite like Mr. Miyagi, the other very Mexican and somewhat surly.photo 2

The Mexican man is wearing a slightly ornate, pinstriped dress shirt; extra tight, dark navy jeans and a hand tooled brown belt to match his brown, alligator skin, sharp nosed shoes. He has on Prada sunglasses and a Louis Vuitton carry on, the checkered kind not the monogram. He keeps looking at me slyly but obviously, it’s not the slickest operation I’d ever been subjected to. I imagine in Mexico he is quite the stud, the ladies must get slayed by the barrel full.

photo 1

Both have some appearance of FOBishness, and I am not saying this derogatorily, it’s just an observation. To my surprise and thorough amusement, when the Asian man finally spoke to me, I discovered that his is the tongue exactly like that of my Californian compatriots, every bit of his diction and cadence smacked of a Malibu surfer dude. It made my brain giggle uncontrollably. A few minutes later the Mexican man had occasion to utter a few words as well, he needed to use the lavatory, and once again I blinked confusedly as he sounded like my college English lit professor. Perhaps I should quit racially profiling….naaah that’d be no fun. I love surprises. America, the land of so many and so varying, I love thee.

I am ready for this plane to land, I am almost entirely out of sustenance. So far I had eaten 2 bags of chips, a rather hearty sandwich, a bag of M&Ms,one of those hummus snack packs, some grapes and some pretzels. I have Bugles left and Sprees. I am starting to get weird looks from everyone who has me in their sights. I am a bored plane eater. Sorry. Jeesh. Shameful plane behavior, like gratuitous overeating is part of the airporting experience. A part I love.

Back to where I am going. I am going to Wharton to hang out & ride ponies with my friend Radikah at a Polo farm which is currently employing her. Wharton is a very small town as far as I understand, and now that I am driving my little rental car over to it, I have realized that it is 1.5 hours away from Houston and literally in the middle of nowhere! First thing I did was I Googled the nearest Starbucks. T’is 28 miles away, ladies and gents. That noise you just heard piercing the atmosphere, was my screaming. Although Raddy has extended her hospitality to me, I can’t stay with people ever, I can’t even share a hotel room due to my social issues, of which I have plenty. So I booked a motel room in Wharton 2 miles away from the Polo club. It’s one of the fancier options, as far as I could tell, from the overwhelming list of 3 in total. And walking into the lobby, I am not disappointed. Splendor, thy name is Country Hearth Inn.photo 4 copy

I have no plans except to enjoy some nature, to ride crazy Polo ponies to my heart’s content, embarrass myself trying to play Polo, partake in various tomfoolery with Raddy, on and off horse back, & of course try not to melt from excessive humidity that everyone talks about….excessively. I will be reporting every bit of my impressions on here. It’s going to be AWESOME. 😀

P.S. Right as I arrived a foal was born. It was equal part beautiful and disgusting.

IMG_2385

On Hell & other people…

humor, miscellaneous

…in heaven’s clothing. It’s 100 F.

Riding out and amongst people is not exactly a private or modest endeavor. I always shelf my misanthropy for the Greenbelt park, because I am not an asshole. I realize that a giant horse galloping through a people park is a glorious sight, I wave at gawkers, slow down for children and say hello to everyone who says hello, with a big smile.

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But even at this, my most social, most pleasant, I am reminded of how icky people are.

1) There was the requisite dumbass who honked his truck horn, just for the shits and giggles of startling me & spooking my horse. Little did he know we’ve seen it all & are well acquainted with his special & commonly inbred subspecies of human.

2) Whilst quietly walking along the narrow area of the park where only a bikepath offers passage, a jogging prune ran past us & uttered “this is a jogging path”, giving me a decidedly dirty look. To which I said “then keep on jogging”. She stopped whipped around and glared at us intending to make a scene “what was that?”… There was no reason for me to engage further, so we walked on and away, I heard her squawk a few more words at my back. How do you instruct a middle aged woman in the ways of amiability. It’s a losing proposition, can’t force a soul into an old hag. What’s especially ironic is that it’s more a bike path than a jogging path. In short, she can eat horse poo and die. Let’s hope she hadn’t had occasion to procreate, lest my future children have to live amongst her children. 😛 😀

3) Then of course there are these people, shockingly always adults, who will both chase me on foot and pull over in their cars to take video with their phones?! This one is tough, a part of me wonders if, like a celebrity, I have forfeited the right to privacy by climbing on a wildebeest and riding her in civilian areas? Obviously I am not the subject of their awe, she is, and i can’t blame them. Still, we are not a public circus, I am a human being, albeit attached to a horse…and i have the same reaction to people disregarding my humanity & privacy as i would were i on foot. Imagine, you’re jogging, and some guy starts pacing next to you with his camera phone unabashedly extended into your face. It’s kind of infuriating. Thank the god i am not a movie star or a rock star, as i would surely be serving a life sentence behind bars for assaulting some hapless paparazzo. 😛 Conflicted as this situation makes me, I direct all my energy into not letting my middle finger pop up in profane indignation...I don’t want to ruin their video. That’s the kind of person I am. A NICE person, a beacon of hope in a rude, cold world. 😛

Just to clarify when people ask if they can take a picture I usually say yes, but turn away. Like members of some native american tribes, i subscribe to the notion that a poorly angled or otherwise unflattering photograph can steal my soul. 😛

Alas, can I really complain about anything when kisses are so readily received & tolerated.

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On STRIP CLUBS & scallops

humor, writing

I went to my first Strip Club when I was a tender 19 year old. A much older male friend took me, hmmmm, to think of it lots of my education occurred under the caring tutelage of much older male friends. Such is the lot of an ingénue type. I know what you are thinking, you’re thinking that sounds unsafe, nothing for a nice girl like me to get mixed up in. But worry not. I picked my mentors wisely, no lines were ever crossed, not to say that a seldom, feeble attempt wasn’t made here and there. Feeble it was because they were almost always exceedingly decent, albeit somewhat eccentric folk. Anyways, who could blame them, I was a cute young thing, and not entirely unaware of my prowess…I am lying, I was entirely aware. I read lots of serious books, loitered for hours in museums, used big words and was overall a lot more erudite than I am now. Plus, there was also that je ne c’est quoi, commonly abundant in Eastern European girls. That aura of maturity, entirely delusive as it is, which makes older men think that a relationship with a much younger woman is not out of this realm of possibility. What can you do, it’s almost genetic.

That very first strip club was Plan B in Santa Monica, Ca (still operating if you want to pop by) girls kept their panties on, I don’t remember if their tops stayed on too, and nobody seemed to break a sweat doing anything exceedingly taxing or acrobatic. This club is very Santa Monica-ish. If you have ever been to Santa Monica, or caught the numerous references made to it on film and television, you know what I mean. It’s a progressive, pricy, bourgy, yoga infested, melting pot of a beach municipality, with Venice (hippies) to the left of it, and Malibu (seriously rich surfing folks) to the right of it. So Plan B, it’s probably a classier fair as far as strip joints go. I remember that their kitchen was excellent. I ordered a burrata salad and a king scallop entrée served with roasted squash and eggplant pure. Both were top rate, and at 1:30 in the morning no less. The vibe at Plan B was probably more anemic than tantalizing. The men sat around distressingly well-behaved, hands folded placidly in laps, and that entranced look on their faces, like they were so lost they needed a map and a guide dog to find their way to a vagina. My male companion did try to lure me onto a stage and around a pole. I remember an offer of cash was involved, 1k if I recall correctly, although the entire thing was packaged like an innocent dare, and nothing like a wanton scheme of a lecherous old man. I considered it, sure, I mean what’s it to me to twirl around on a pole for a hot second. I never drew parallels between personal choices, be they sexual or financial, and morality. Freedom to do with myself as I please has always been my mantra. But alas, I couldn’t let my scallops get cold, and in reality was probably never quite as freethinking as I estimated myself to be. All in all, I can’t say that Plan B left me with any kind of an impression. The men in there seemed sad and, hmm, flaccid? The dancers appeared bored, save a couple of enthusiastic girls with definite earning ambition, but not the moves. The few couples dining, us included, were exceptionally weird for obvious reasons. Shrug.

Last year however, the strip club industry had a chance to redeem itself. I attended yet another venerable stripping establishment while in Vegas with my girlfriends on a girl trip. Now this was a full on experience. Obviously, as a fully grown woman of undeterminable age ;), I was committed to taking in all the sights. This place was buzzing, there was lots of movement and agitation, girls swarmed patrons without much consideration for each other, like hungry locusts. I could smell the catfights in the air, both past and future. Strippers were dancing their naked butts off. They twirled, leaped, crawled, spread and bent their bodies, working the audience into a bona fide frenzy. Money was everywhere, and it was ripe for the picking. There was no denying the talent or the authenticity of the whole affair.

In the first 5 minutes of being there we found a vial of coke on the floor…yep…then one decidedly used up, older stripper tried to grope me despite my expressed resistance and obvious horror…repeatedly. It was, overall, very illuminating. I learned a lot about myself, like for example that I HATE having my breasts fondled by strangers. Who knew right? In the end a beautifully nimble black girl nuzzled my face in her velvety bosom. Although her assets were, by every definition, lovely, superb natural represen-ta-ta-tives 😛 of the human form, they did nothing for me. Mehh, I thought, I got those too, what’s the big woop. And sure, we partook in the requisite tradition of making it rain. My soul cringed, as I watched 8 dollar bills fly out of my hand and sail away into the ether. I comforted myself with the idea that my money would be spent on something good and necessary, like formula for a hungry infant or college. It’s not unrealistic.

I discerned right there and then that, in all honesty, Strip Clubs just aren’t for me. What’s that noise? Oh that’s my best friend (whom I love so so much) weeping somewhere in the distance. Unlike me, she had both, found her religion and tapped into her inner black man at that noble establishment ;P. But at this ripe old age I got to be honest with myself, even if it makes me a bit of a buzz-kill and a total disappointment to ALL (by all I mean both) my friends. I’ll never say never though, because who knows, if there was a good plate of scallops on the table, I might reconsider.

P.S> Spell check keeps flagging the word “vagina” in the body of my post as incorrect, hmm is Spell check uncomfortable with my rampant use of words that represent female genitalia?

P.P.S>This post was inspired by a very entertaining post at the You People Are Monsters blog, titled A Fond Look Back: Vomit And Strip Clubs. Nostalgia set in. I tumbled down memory lane and Voila, I blogged!

Blogging for affection..or..How to avoid the cat vomit curse!

humor, writing

IMG_7311.PNG if it’s not entirely obvious, I am new to the blogging endeavor. My original intention was to write for myself and for relief. I am afflicted, like many others I’m sure, with the trouble of excess thinking. Blogging presented an attractive avenue for relieving that pressure in my head, which gets built up by thoughts, feverishly multiplying with no regard for the spatial limitations of my dainty, girly cranium. Blogging whatever, whenever, but on a daily basis, seems also like a good writing exercise and a fun distraction not without therapeutic value.

Furthermore, I had devised a theory, that blogging every day could be a gateway mechanism to writing every day. It is simple enough right? To date, my creative process has been exclusively governed by fickle caprices of inspiration. I have been wholly at her frantic whim. What better tactic is there for revolt, than the establishment of a writing routine. If I could only form a daily ritual of writing, develop a habit, then maybe I can be free from inspiration’s mercurial clutches and finally finish that cursed book I’ve been writing for over five years. This was the plan, it was a good plan, until I started receiving the occasional “such & such has followed your blog” email. Those I did not anticipate, neither did I foresee the regrettable effect they would have on me. Suddenly I am confounded with the shameful realization that I want more of those emails. I thought I wouldn’t care about that element of blogging, the audience, but in all honesty, I find that I do. It has come as a surprise. It runs quite contrary to my Misanthropic conformation, presenting with the potential for a full-fledged identity crisis. Oh ok, ok, so I am exaggerating, not a full-fledged crisis, I am not that brittle, but it is very troubling. I now seek the approval of strangers?! Is that a pig soaring through the atmosphere?!

Suddenly I find myself concerned with such things, as whether the randomness of my writing runs counter to my new ambition of having/gaining readers, readers who “Like” “comment” and generally participate. Do I need to pick a lane? What is my ambition exactly anyways? Do I want all the readers I can get my hands on or do I want to reach and resonate with those who are most like myself e.g. the misanthropes, the misfits, the over thinkers, the creatives, the hermits? Trolling around WordPress this past week, I have found that lots of bloggers talk about the importance of a consistent blogging tone and subject, they even apologize to their readers if ever they opt to change their writing style. God knows that won’t and can’t be me. I will always reserve the right to unapologetically rant about whatever, whenever, however. Does that mean that I won’t be successful at finding an audience? Oy. Additionally, I wish bloggers who are about some kind of marketing, SEO or otherwise, would STOP “Following” me. I will not follow them back or subscribe to their services. It is a deceptive and intrusive practice and I completely hate it after just a week of my stay in the Bloggisphere. It is SPAM!

Bottom line is, if you read to this point, then obviously you find my prose irresistible, so you have to “Follow” my blog, OR ELSE….or else your cat will get a serious case of upset stomach and throw up partially digested mouse parts all over your house. A pungent stench of catguts will indelibly permeate your residence, forcing you to move out and decreasing the value of your home by at least 40% from its current market value…..or worse, rendering it entirely unsellable. That would be a real shame wouldn’t it? No one wants that to happen to you, less than I. ;P