come on sisters, clap your hands

The sun was in my eyes.


The day I was first submerged in the disaster known as the Texas public school system, Natasha singled me out. "God you are a scrappy, ugly creature!" Pat, pat on my head. "Not to worry, I’ll feed you. Do ya like frog legs?"

A lithe, barbaric 6-foot presence that came with a family of misfits and scholars, we couldn't be further apart. I had a strict military upbringing. She was encouraged to challenge her parents. But we both danced with flowers in our hair. Essentially, tantamount spirits.

I snuck out every night to visit her. Walls covered in 60’s magazine pictures, painted visions of fantasy, and random poetry proclaimed that a goddess lived here. Melted candles adorned her black n' white TV while musty costumes from 4th grade violin concerts and made-up productions stretched across the ceiling. Her garage was filled to the brim with theatre sets and posters, impossible to reach or comprehend. This was a magical world.

Her father was a playwright and her mother a theologian. Her younger brothers were foul-mouthed wretches that existed to enact imaginative torture. The youngest of the clan seemed to be apart from the rest a la "one of these things is not like the others", a delicate flower who hardly spoke. And trust me, there was never a silent moment in that house.

Anger was their trademark, for a house of drama requires it. "Bitch!" "Shut up!" "Fuck you!" "Up yours!" "I didn’t!" "You did!" "Dad!" "Mom!" "Make him stop or I’ll kill him!" "I was reading that you little prick!"

Exclamation Pointsville.

I watched in amazement and horror at the things those kids got away with, things that would have put me in my grave. I didn’t laugh or cover my mouth in shock; I sat back and took it all in. I could also be an unwilling participant, like the time Natasha struggled with her father for the remote control, which finally broke free and struck me square in the head. "Dad, you asshole! You murdered my friend!"

When she announced to me several years later that she was a lesbian – "Well sorta. I don’t know. What do you think?" – I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Not that I thought she was up to that point, however nothing about Natasha surprised me. She was the girl who kicked the ass of anyone who dared to mess with me. She was the woman-child who proclaimed her self Ah Satan. She brought unto us the primordial "rock out with your cock out or get lost" attitude. She was hated, feared, and absolutely gorgeous.

Where was I? Oh yes...the sun was in my eyes. The Sunday her father’s final showing of Ruth the Musical clapped it last gasp we held each other tight. Bow, curtsey, smile, and wave. The moment the stage went dark we ran to the dressing room to change, raced to my car, shot across town to the airport, and quickly said our goodbyes. The clouds broke as she drifted out of my life forever - gone to Africa, to the Philippines, to Peru. I put my hand against my brow to filter out the light. "See ya, Pussy Licker!"

Her sneaky grin spoke back, "Not if I don’t see ya first, Father Fucker!"

Natasha, this one’s for you.

how green i am

I was thoroughly chastised by K this morning for my previous statement regarding the woman who sued over a coffee spill at McDonald's. He explained in detail the ignorance of my assumptions regarding trial lawyers, and illustrated to me the importance they represent to the individual.

I did not know the extent of that case: the injured woman attempted to settle out of court for the mere amount of 20K, and McDonald's refused, stating she would have to sue their corporation to obtain any compensation. So she did. I would have done the same.

I apologize for my prejudice.

as was the beginning, a triumphant end

hearth

we started a fire
the red devil paid a visit
come closer, he spit
and witness my madstone


I'm sick with your self-centered,
verbal diarrhea
where is its place, its purpose?
a pathetic cathartic release
all together reeks of bullshit

may I interest you in
this amazing
new pill?
salty on the tongue
mmm, watch the sharp edges
just the prescription
for troubled humans
in sad search of panacea

do you doubt
I, the root of repugnance,
have the solution?
the snake oil
the truth
to your ailments
your complete lack of peace

why waste away
with each bite of indulgence
shaking
needing
more
begging, where is salvation?

I have it

but you don't want it
do you?
for despite your protest
I still cough up discord
a tickle of fancy
that drives you ever forward
to that place
of incongruous purpose

Is comfortable to remain
in all you have ever known?

the fire died down
as did the warmth of our faces
and the moment before
we forgot
a company of voices
rose up
and cried out for salvation

starfucker

bj and the blob

Our house waxes ethereal in the early morning. Patterns undulate across the wood floor as the trees dance on a sharp breeze. I'm in love with this life.

Last night K decided to tickle me until I proclaimed that very love. I would have none of it, groaning every time he reached under the covers for another attack. I threw him off, whining like a four year-old, "Unnnnn, leave me alone!"

He proceeded to mimic me. "You sound like that blob of clay from the Gigglesnort Hotel." He made an obnoxiously loud moan. A long lost memory surfaced from the abyss.

For half an hour he kept me in stitches on that noise alone, which eventually spawned more whining. "Stop! My stomach hurts."

He rolled over in mock dejection. "You're so mean to me. BUUUUURROOOOOOOHH!"

I couldn't help myself, I laughed again. "You suck!"

WWWOOOORRRRRUUUUUUBBOOOOOOOOORRAAAHH!"

This morning, on the way out the door, he kissed me. "Don't be sad today, OK. See you later, baby."

The door closed behind him. "UUUUURRUUUUUBBUUURRAAHHH!"

I'm a lucky girl. I think....

when it rains, it drops a glob of shit in your eye

I had just entered the anger stage of my grief, when the events of today, in some weird fashion, sped that process along quite nicely. I skipped right past bargaining and depression to flat out acceptance.

First, I woke up in agony. Second, I received a phone call from the corporate office about my leave of absence form. “We still do not have the required documentation, and it is imperative that you get it to our California division within two hours.”

Certainly.

I contacted my OB’s office. The nurse answered. "Hmm, it says on the form: FAXED 9/13/05 - we faxed it. Must be a problem on their end. I suppose I’ll have to resend it."

Swell.

I received another phone call on the way to see my family doctor regarding the afore mentioned misery. A robotic woman barked in my ear, “Your OB neglected to alter the dates reflecting the extension requested. We understand that your leave is within the legally allotted 3 months, however due to the lack of subsequent approval, you are officially terminated. A letter stating such will be in the mail forthwith.”

Okey-dokey.

At the doctor’s office I sat in a cubicle steeped in Mr. Clean. "You have a pretty nasty bladder infection. Let me check your temperature.” He nodded in affirmation. “Yep, that's high. Go directly to the pharmacy for this antibiotic. Then get in bed."

Right.

Onward to Walgreens. 2 hours and 5 bottles of water later, I was about to drop to the floor when my name came over the loud speaker. "Prescription ready for Sunshine."

Cool.

After 45 minutes of shuffling my feet in a line rivaling the DMV, I reached the pick-up counter. "I can't find it, " the 14 year-old behind the counter apologized. "I think I may have put it in the bag of the lady before you."

I grinned. "That's okay, I don't think I need it anymore. I can no longer feel my legs."

She looked at me like I was an alien. "The orders are really backed up. Can you wait over there again?"

Sure.

Din Ho

I worship that fleur-de-lis wallpaper.


This Cantonese restaurant kicks some serious ass. K and I frequent it for their Peking duck (listed as Beijing) and reasonable prices.

Most consumer reviews maintain that Din Ho serves quality food with fresh ingredients, and then pound them on their service. You know, for the pleasure of authentic Chinese cuisine, I think I could forgo the usual kiss-asseteria.

If you find yourself in Austin, definitely check it out. The dining room sports a big screen TV, perfect for Sunday brunch and football - this is Texas after all. Click here for more recommendatons.

MJ

Baby, can you listen to my audio post and tell me what you think? I can’t get a handle on it.

Sure. *he listens quietly, sits in contemplation* You lost me at the beginning, but tied it together nicely at the end. It’s good...a bit romance novel-y.

Fucking Christ, are you serious? Ugh, I’m taking it down.

Now, that’s what you need - fucking Christ taking it down.

Well done. Burnt, even.

I got you a present on the way home.

*she follows him down the hall* Sweet! Is it bigger than a baby’s arm?

Not really.

Is it food?

Nope.

Um, is it edible panties?

I just said it wasn’t food.

Whatever...is it a whoopee cushion?

Getting warmer.

Really. Is it plastic dog shit?

Uh, colder. Out of the ballpark, honey. *finally opens his overnight bag* I thought you might like this.

Mmm, a plastic coochie warmer...hey, with clit and anal stimulation. I don’t care what they say, you're a romantic.

*pulling her in for a kiss* I am, huh? It has straps, so you can wear it while you do the dishes.

How very domestic.

Wanna try it out?

Now? I was hopin’ for a hot shot of you instead.

Come on, you know you want to. I picked up batteries and everything.

You sound like a bad after-school special. *picks up a DVD* Let’s watch Reefer Madness and fuck.

No, let’s fuck and then watch Reefer Madness.

You got it.

--INTERLUDE --
(n’ a couple of cigarettes later…you know, the special kind from PARIS)

*movie starts* A musical reefer movie. Brilliant! Can you pass the wine?

Sure. Is that...

Shhh! I want to see this part.

*ten minutes pass* Hey, I know what we need.

Shhh! This is brilliant!!

*she brings back a bag of chips* Here ya go.

What, no ice cream?

There might be some...

Shhhh! God, this fucking brilliant!!! Romeo, and Juliet. *laughs*

*musical number breaks out* I’ll be right back.

Shhhh!

Goddamn, already. *opens her package* I don’t see any batteries in here.

While you’re over there can you bring me a beer?

Yeah, yeah. *takes the batteries out of her camera and grabs a Heinie*

*movie movie movie...drugs n’ guys with guns...Jesus sings at the Copacabana...yadda yadda yadda*

Man, these straps suck.

Are you putting it on? Let me see.

Watch your movie. *she struggles with the thing-a-ma-jig* Ouch!

Do you need some help?

*irritated* Watch your movie!

Perhap you should stand up.

Look, you don’t wanna miss this part. *she stands up and adjusts the straps* There, that’s better. But I don’t feel much.

Is it too small?

Maybe. *whispers dirty things in his ear* How ‘bout it?

Okay, definitely okay. But after the movie...do you mind?

Oh, not at all, please finish watching the marijuana zombies eat people first.

*movie drags on...she sighs...more songs and dancing...credits roll...she jumps on him*

--INTERLUDE --
(hum a little ditty or something)

Well done. Burnt, even. *he gets up to get another beer*

Har-de-har-har. *slaps his ass* Hey, can we watch it again? I missed some parts.

Let’s not.

But it’s “brilliant”! *she jumps up and dances around the room*

Yeah, well...I was high.

art has a way of knowing

I purchased two paintings at the Art from the Streets exhibit last Sunday, in addition to chatting up some pretty cool cats.

First, John Monbelly, originally from the Caribbean, who started painting fifteen years ago when he moved to Houston. He's been in Austin for eight, and wouldn't consider living anywhere else. What can I say about John? He penetrates with his attentiveness; dark eyes never straying with a random thought or sideways glance. Possessing a strangely seductive quality, my snake was thoroughly charmed. His person intrigued me more than his art, and had I not been pressed for time, our parting glance may have lingered. If you missed the show you can check his paintings out at Lara's on South 1st Street.

Next up was another John, the famous Curran, who resembles our own Jim Swift. Mr. Curran's work expressly caught my eye, for he, like myself, enjoys contrasting tones amid color. Simple in its form, almost childlike, but encompassing such depth. I had my heart set on a cryptically cartoonish impression of Dia de los Muertos, but another artist had prior claim.

Zebra. She placed an image of Fruit Stripe gum in my head and challenged me to chew it. Paint was not paint, but a straightforward message, a Post-it with purpose.

In the courtyard, I stumbled upon a different soft of artist: Jason. I was in the process of extending my reach further than its...reach, when I fell on him. Jason is young, eager, and like the other artists, homeless. He manically explained his purpose, his meaning, his ideal, with hesitant passion. Question after question was put to me rhetorically in order to elevate the pace of what he wanted to convey. I opened and closed my mouth several times before surrendering to his gorgeous exposition.

Some of the artists came to the program without prior experience, others are attempting to live their dream. All of them inspired me. The Austin Chronicle has a nice piece on the show and its changing perceptions of souls that exist within and without.

every good thing in life starts with a bratwurst

What would Francesca say?

Mick's Goddess says it all, darlin'. It says it all, except this - I'm sorry.

Done is done and never the two shall meet, but for what it's worth, it just makes me frown and smile.

And dance in the starlight.

curtain call

Sss-plosions

There's nothing hotter than watching the bad guy light his cigarette when everything around him is exploding.

A mutherfuckin’ highwayman holding a guitar case with thick fingers, streaked black nail polish. Typical slept-in, dragged-though, single-breasted black suit, faded. Leaning on his lime green Dart with a serious look of homicidal contemplation. Yours.

Looks like that get me off. I'm thinking about it right now, too, as I type this, his saliva against the softest folds of my skin. K is gone for the week again, and I'm left to my own pleasurable devices.

Dildos? Nah. Water jets? Un-uh. Movies? Books? Websites? Nope, nada, and not the last time I checked. All I need is an active imagination and strong thigh muscles. I can cum without actually touching myself.


Quite by accident, when I was about thirteen, half asleep with such dirty indulgences, I climaxed with a ferocity not matched to this day. My eyes grew wide and I gasped for air. It took me months to figure out what I did to reach that colossal peak. Think hard, then harder. A mental cock slipped through me.

How horny are most girls? I dare say a damn sight better than men. For all the talk and jacking off, they ain’t got nothin’ on us heavy-hittin’ women. Go on now, say it, it’s true…in a masturbation match-off, we’d get off more than you.

Nastiness depends on the mind - what’s hot to you may be soft core for me. I find that my daydreams, like their comatose counterparts, can’t live up to the real light of day. There are situations I concoct that a lover might be pressed to play. But a consummate diversion, those epicurean sacraments which mount our desire, singularly creates the mysterious woman. Her veiled sigh, her explicit duplicity, pulls relentlessly, drawing in like fire to scorch your wings.

It burns both ways, doesn’t it? In, and out.

Pics from Komen's Race for the Cure

What a great turn out! (pics) The support surrounding the dedication to end the suffering of breast cancer was palpable, as well as the memorials to those lost and the strength and determination of survivors.

The majority of the over 20,000 participants walked the 3 mile course, and the weather was perfect for it. Can you believe it was 87 degrees in November?! In Texas? Yep.


There was local music along the way; scads of cheering, both in and out of uniform. Many of the sponsors were out in force, especially Dell, and each business involved has their own merchandising campaign to continuously add to the proceeds. You can check out current and future fundraising news here, and don’t forget the deadline to enter the College Scholarship Contest is November 11, 2005 (pdf).

If you didn't make it out this year volunteers are already needed for next year’s event, and spring races begin worldwide as soon as April 2006. If you don't feel like getting up at 7AM on a Sunday, then check out Sleep In for the Cure. Believe or not, you can do this as a team.

Basically, the Komen Foundation makes it easy to contribute all year long, to pass the word on cancer prevention, and to make a difference in the lives of your family and friends. I walked for my friend Jan this year, who is now in remission, for this race is about the celebration of life - our cherished memories and all the new ones to be made.

Hill and Dale

Lift every voice and Sing

A sectioned off protest is kind of pointless, no? No.

For every Clan member, or other supporter of Proposition 2, there must have been 200 people present to protest them. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to see, a two-block radius around City Hall was guarded by our friendly Austin Police Department for their safety. We couldn’t even hear them.

I hiked to the rear of the perimeter, put my boogie shoes on, turned my reggae music up and jammed out. At a loss of white sheets to document, almost every camera holder that passed my way took a picture of me instead. I received thumbs up, blatant stares, requests to film me, etc. The fact that I wasn’t doing anything all that interesting made this attention all the more hilarious. But important. To many people.

In my eyes, this piece of legislation is abominable. It is yet another restriction of our civil liberties, and although some may not condone gay marriage, why would anyone support the abdication of our collective rights? The ones being denied us and taken from us, only to further cement the idea that these rights are WRONG. If those who hate are protected by our legal system, why not those who love?

The hullabaloo surrounding this event gave both sides publicity. There was a mass turnout on Congress Bridge, and the message will be evening news. It will be heard, discussed, but possibly forgotten by most once the election has been held. Because it is our minorities that suffer, the few fighting for their voice to be respected when the din of judgment drowns them out. We cannot allow this to happen.

My peaceful presence wasn’t in protest of the Clan. I am, and always will be, in favor of the freedom of speech, even if those words are caustic. It pains me to listen, it breaks my heart to exist among it, but its toleration exists as an example of what we ALL should have - the ability to live the life given us without governmental interference.

This is a subjective subject, for at what point to we concede to government protection? And from what, others or ourselves? Basic belief systems give birth to law, but few agree on generic morality. Someone who finds child abuse unconscionable may view gay marriage likewise – as a perversion of the normal human experience. How would we convince him/her otherwise? Are we as individuals brainwashed by culture, by heritage, by fear? These are hard questions that require open discussion, that must be given the utmost platform of understanding, to work toward true freedom, and not what is force fed to us and our future generations.

I dance for our voice. I display symbols of support for a lifestyle that is not my own. I play the music of humanity, and I will do it again tomorrow for this community, a various and distinctly unique strum we all should hear.

Read up, really talk it over, and Vote.

Parties

I'm off like a dirty shirt in all my rainbow painted glory to vigorously dance to rap music at City Hall in demonstration of my right to get down in flashy attire.

Oh, and those goofy Klan pod people will be there too.

the land of milk n' honey

I run, I ran, I will run.

I long for sanctuary. That is my one true fear, you see, that I may not escape. That is why I fly like the wind when leaving home and lag terribly on the return trip. I'm no longer going somewhere else.

As a child my nightmares featured eyes that would always find me, whether in the closet, under the bed, or encased in lead – garlic hanging from my neck, a cross between white knuckles. Dark open spaces hiding skeleton faces. Although these intricate images played convincingly, they did not manifest well in my waking mind, I could never recount them in a sensible way for there was no set pattern, no linear translation. And in a matter of hours, my delicate inner child locked the stories deep within my subconscious, never to resurface; only hints of discomfort remained. Eyes, for example.

Perhaps this explains my irrational reaction to certain forms of nocturnal tales. Most horror books and movies are disappointingly obtuse, promising at the start only to cop out at the end. Stephen King is notorious for that shit. Great character development and suspense fall victim to lengthy descriptions of every day life before vomiting out a death rattle. But no matter the improbability, disregarding inane dialogue worthy of the porn industry, moving past slapstick gore and a lack of genuine tension, if it includes freaky, large-ass, demonic eyes I’m bound to come close to crapping my corduroys.

The scene from The Grudge, where her sister flees the office park, left me paralyzed on the couch, head in my lap, fingers in my ears. That banshee croak alone sent a gazillion shivers up my spine. The last episode of Twin Peaks...fuck! Laura Palmer walks up to Agent Cooper displaying a sensuous smile, her fingers spread out toward his face, and then breaks the (too silent) silence with a blood-curdling scream, her eyes wide in ultimate insanity. I happened to be alone in my room when it aired, and within seconds was out the door, across the street, up three flights of stairs to my friend's apartment, where she greeted a woman on the verge of mental collapse.

Terror is how I deal with an attacker I cannot honestly face. My body breaking down without warning produces that effect. Anger is often how I deal with that fear when I am cornered. It astounds people how I, such an affable girl, can unleash that kind of fury.

It stems from prior abuse. Any unwelcome advance, however innocent, sends me into a fight pose. Those who cannot offer a sense of freedom, which takes my position of power, set of my alarm. I think this is why I love K so much, he gives space and needs his own. I’ve never felt threatened by him, still once or twice he has seen that dark side of me. We love to playfully spank one another, the harder the better, and one day, overcome in that fervor, K grabbed a belt and made at me. I turned to meet him with an unholy anger. My eyes fixed upon his to clarify my conviction. I believe the exact words I used were, "Hit me with that belt and I will fuck you up."

But how do I fight an obdurate object? It leaves me incapacitated, at times apathetic, or running down the same old twisted roads.

bumper stickers = world peace

Make one today!

=you'll need java to create world peace...if you don't have it, get it here=

Another Sign of the Approaching Apocalypse