Tag Archives: fun

Some Things

28 Mar

image

One 

You can’t blog everything all of the time.  Sometimes FB lack of anonymity kills it for you.  Even though everywhere else on the interwebs, I could be the chick sitting next to you on the bus, for all you know. (I’m not, but what if I was???)

…Which is weird. 

…Cuz the line boundary of what you can and cannot share has nothing to do with politeness and decency, but usually everything to do with who you don’t wanna stir shit up with cuz you might be working/running into/hanging out with them, later.  This makes a strange gray area in the land of blogging.  It means, (cuz of my strange and random “ehh” to personal privacy),  I can tell you all about my periods and BMs, sexual escapades and mental deficiencies…but not about the dick move that whats-his-name did the other day, or how incompetent ya-de-ya-da is.  So long as whats-his-name and ya-de-ya-da are one of the 400 FB people in my stream or other people’s I know.

…This cuts out on considerable amounts of venting, I’ll have you know.  Which is one of the reasons this blog was created to begin with.  It means drafting up poser-posts that stay in draft form as I light up the keyboard with flames of fury and bitch-snap, then immediately delete upon completion, because…well…it has to be done.

…But the point I’m trying to make here is that, sometimes the best material is left lying there like an open-ended set-up to a joke.  You REALLY want to pick it up and finish it…you REALLY want the rim shot of tasteless joy one gets from completing a really good zing…but you can’t…because you’re in the internet equivalent of a church pew, and if you go there right now, you’ll be totally excommunicated. Dieing a social-death forever in a pit of hellfire and damnation of your own lighting.

…So instead, you try and think of something else to write about, to keep your mind else wise occupied.

…Which is how prob’ly 30% of these posts exist to begin with.

…Including this one.

The end.

Two

A Toy For When You’re Bored At Work Cuz It’s Raining Again And Sales Are For-Shit.

…It’s just a working title, but pretty much nails the idea. So go to here. Cuz I did. And it’s mesmerizing. Good for background or just to watch and zone out on. The real-time musical journey of sharing information from around the world. Right there. Broken down by specific sound registers on Listen Wikipedia, by topic. Bells are additions, string plucks are subtractions, pitch change according to size of edit, color circles by editors, new users by string swells. Click on any that pops up and it’ll take you to it’s update, so you can read as the page plays on. It’s a strange little symphony, in 32 languages…of people teaching other people about the world. And it’s hypnotically awesome.

Three

Apparently there’s an anti-Valentines day movement by dudes pissed about how for some reason it turns out to be all about their ladies, and they get nothing outta the deal. There’s a shit-ton of crotchless edible underwear and flavored lube sales that’ll tell yuh different, but whatthefuckever . Point is… They say there is (and should be) this whole other observance day of joy just for the dudes, and I just found out about it. I also immediately spouted, “Well fuck that! What about the single ladies with no significant other to get them shit on February 14th?!”

…Which is when I invented “Whiskalingus Day.”

…It should be celebrated closely adjacent to the dude-prescribed “Steak, Beer & Blowjob Day”…for general fairness purposes…but with a re-booking option freebee, in case Mrs. Johnson is in town.

…You may be happy to know, I’m already in talks with my development team, and we’ve decided to offer Jameson and Red Breast, first option as our sponsors (why fuck with lesser…we deserve the very best)…and International Chapter Chairwomen positions are open for nomination.

…I will, of course, be credited as originator and CEO. I will also be the deciding vote on who our Grand Marshall each year will be. This will depend largely on who I am currently obsessing over at the time, and thus, almost always some kind of acting celebrity. The Board of Directors will discuss advertising options, and inevitable underwear product lines (which will contain no lace or crotchless shit, yet still manage to be sexy and comfortable…with enough room on the butt for our slogan.)

…So stay tuned. Also, if interested to join our team: apply here.

Four

It is Friday. What more do you want from me.

~D

Advertisements

Beavering Away

29 Oct

image

So, I’m popping my Beaver cherry. 

…And with that, as many gauche and explicitly  inappropriate  references to the subject that I can make (or anyone else can, for that matter) will follow.

Children’s theatre.  For the Holidays.

…Friends I know run it. Friends I know do it. So I thought, “Whelp, at least there will be friends…that I know…in it.” Thus began my first venture into the world of children’s theatre.

…Not that I haven’t done theatre WITH children (for, I have), or performed FOR them in the past (Hello, ridiculous 9 am student matinees)…but this would be the first time I had ever began a show whose goal audience IS, “children.”

As one of a handful of actual adults in the upcoming “Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe,” I’ll be attempting to embrace the wholesome atmos being a good and wise example, (whilst little people are watching)…and making fun of it as wrongly as possible, when they are not. 

Why? 

…BECAUSE I’M PLAYING A FUCKING BEAVER.

(Totally different from a Beaver fucking, P.S. You can tell, because I’m a “Mrs.”  That means there is a “Mr.”  We already have two beaver kids, and everyone knows…sex after that for married mammals is non-existent.  Which is prob’ly why they bicker so much in the script.  Sex antagonism.)

…First off, the “Mr.” is out, TOTALLY ignoring them all by working on his damn dam all day.  (A useful excuse if I ever heard one.)  I mean, it’s been ice and snow in Narnia for like what…five generations or something?  Am I right?  What the hell is he daming up?  There’s no stream flowing through there.  There’s no mud to pack.  Shit is FROZEN, bro.  Has been forever.  Prob’ly always WILL be.  But yeah, you go out and keep “working” on that dam, dude.

…Meanwhile, the “Mrs” is stuck inside that frozen hut all day, dealing with never-hibernating children.  Constantly hungry.  Constantly cold. And housebound. Everyone’s all freaky-deaky about the White Witch and all her secret followers, so even sending the kids outside to play and get the hell outta your fur for five minutes is basically just inviting the Child Protective Services to come knocking on your hut, being all:

CPS Rep (prob’ly a Kangaroo): “Uh, yes, Ma’am…we have report of child neglect from a few of your neighboring Oak Trees and local Ground Covers. They feel very concerned that you aren’t taking proper precautions to the White Witch Warnings.”

Me: “Oh, really?”

Kangaroo: “Yes, Ma’am.”

Me: “Well, let me ask you this, Mr. Roo …or-whatever-the-hell-your-name-is…have you ever been in constant fucking demand in an ice-bound hut, with no ventilation for three decades, going on four…while early onset beavopause, hot flashes night and day…running off and on like a sunofabitch, as your body keeps packing on winter weight you’ll never lose the whole of your fucking life, non-stop, while your children scream at you all day long about how bored they are of eating twigs and frozen bark, and your husband is out, every day, futzing with some goddamn dam, useless as a tick on a dog, without so much as a stream trickle to keep at bay, as even his PISS freezes before it reaches the ice-packed ground?!”

Kangaroo: “Well…no. I can’t say that I have.”

Me: “Alright then!”

…So begins the character motivation work.

Now that we know the dynamics of “home life,” we can begin to delve into the curious fact of there being but TWO Beavers (and corresponding children) in all of Narnia to begin with…which begs answers to questions like, “where did we even come from?” And, “If it’s so shitty in there, why don’t we just leave? Cuz clearly everyone else did.”

…Not to mention the supremely convenient, total-rip-off-of-entire-character-existence, by J.K. Rowling, in this whole business.

Seriously.

Make us human and call us “Weasley.”

Think about it for a hot second.

We’re Bohemian, country bumpkins with weird accents . (Check.)

We are the natural defenders and protectors of the “Chosen One(s).” (Check.)

We are responsible for explaining all the main plot, concepts, and obstacles, to the completely ignorant main characters. (Check.)

Our home is demolished by evil bastards in vengeance. (Check)

Our kids are almost killed by a total mentally evil and fucked-up Witch. (Check.)

…Only real difference is, the Weasleys have super-awesome magical powers…while, as Beavers, we have…

…Buck teeth.

And…

Yep. I got nothin.’

Wow.

Did we get the shaft on that one, or what?

So…to round things up:

We are the only surviving animals in our class, left in this place of total frozen devastation, waiting indefinitely for a prophecy to come true, which if/when it DOES, will mean CERTAIN war…which we will fight, with the use of nothing.

Good plan.

Totally logical.

Don’t see how it could POSSIBLY fail.

…I mean, it’s like work here at the office, really, when you think about it.

Frozen wasteland of crap, surrounded in devastation.

…And look how well THAT turned out for us!

~D

Much Ado About Whedon

23 Jun

image

Or…

“A Quietly Lovely Study Of The Bard, By Some Friends.”

Listen.

…I’ve only been waiting to see this freakin’ movie for over a year is all.  Ever since the first whispers started to gather about the “maybe perhaps” possibility that, “one of the many informal script reads at the Whedon house,” frequented by what has come to be known as his “company,” was at some point, going to be “put on film.”

Then: we were told it was Shakespeare, and who was playing whom, and the torture of the wait really began.

Tonight, after matinees and friend times, it was finally seen. 

It did not disappoint. 

…And not because of gimmicks, explosions, sex scenes, or technical wonders.

It was a quiet film, with focus on the text and relationships, in a very contemporary reality. The script was adapted and directed by Whedon, trimmed by one-third from Shakespeare’s original, filmed in twelve days, in the Whedon household, between wrap of “Avengers” and the beginning of it’s editing.

Branagh’s “Much Ado,” it ain’t. 

It isn’t suppose to be. 

Do yourself a favor and DON’T go to compare.

…There is plenty of room in your home library for both.  And you should want them.  Side-by-side. To show the range and possibility that can be lent to a text that needs but a cast of dedicated actors to make it work. This sounds simple, but is very rarely the norm.

It’s the argument I will always back, that though not EVERY classical piece of theatre lends itself to changes of theme and period, Shakespeare does. Because unlike all classical pieces of theatre, Shakespeare wrote of universal truths: Humanity, at cross purposes of love, hate, jealousy, sex, politics, and war.

…This is why his writing will ALWAYS be releveant. And why his words will work today, tomorrow, three hundred years from now, or even in three hundred centuries. So long as you place it with purpose, and invest your emotions in the text, it can take place in Messina, 1612, or Joss Whedon’s kitchen, last year.

…THAT, my friend, is good fucking writing.

…And Joss’ friends, are good fucking actors.

…These things go well together…and while on Holiday, they made a simply lovely baby, in a labor of love.

As an Actor, I adored watching seasoned family-friends, working together in new capacities, with undeniable joy spilling out all over the screen.

…As a film lover, I adored the simplicity where the story seemed to unfold as if by accident, with no worries of magnificents in technical prowess, just as if the camera were another character cast within the play, who happened to be there at the time, overhearing and seeing whatever conversations seemed to be happening.

I loved the new Benedict and Beatrice history add, and how Acker used it to deepen her work in a new direction of a character rarely seen in such vulnerable light.

…I loved the simple shock and awe of a boy come home a man, seeing a girl now turned to woman, without heaps of dramatics, concentrating more on the wonder of love’s slap across an unsuspecting face, as shown by Kratz.

…Gregg, as Leonato: a delight…that always adorable smiling face, infused with so much trust and affection, such a doting papa, a loving uncle, turned betrayed man of sorrow, but never quite losing the faith in humanity, which infuses the final act of sorrow with an underlying friction of hope despite all.

Diamond: a worthy Prince with a sparkle for mischief played exceedingly well with the text, and in building a delightful kinship with Gregg and Franz, was nicely counterbalanced by Maher as villian Don John.

…And Fillion, of course, was a comedic delight as Dogberry, having a lark making fun of his “Castle” world, as well as reunting with Buffy alumni along the way.

…In fact every role, (down to the smallest speaking feature), was placed in loving hands, surrounded by trusting family members, and simultaneously made the most of, while playing it with a soft touch so as not to break the delicately simple world as created.

…There was only one exception, for me.

…A mountainous surprise of one, in fact.

This Benedict, a long-time alumni of the Whedon tribe, (and proven chemistry-maker with Acker), seemed to be playing at a different sport than his fellow castmates.

There was no question of his understanding the text, or delivering it to a purpose, but the emotional connection with the words and his fellows, seemed lost in translation somehow. Most noticibly (oddly enough) when with Acker…whose alernate emotional working of Beatrice’s usually constant joviality, ached for deeper stuff than surface matters, when in banter.

…It was a surprise to watch her do the emotional lifting for two, not because she wasn’t good for it (tiny though she may be, she is fierce with her intent), but merely because…I know I can’t be the only one who has been so very much anticipating this “Wesley” and “Fred” reuniting on screen once again. It’s been a long, long ache of a wait. And though the final coupling manages to deliver the goods, the road to get there had missed opportunities of intimate wonder, which where certainly set up by Sir Joss, and Acker but never seemed to get picked up along the way…hungry though his co-actor seemed to be to coax, tempt, poke and play with it.

…Analytical much on this one? YES! You. Fucking. Bet.

The Whedon team is Master-class time, you guys. Even in a twelve-day shoot. Even when it (rarely) falls short of the actual spike-mark. These people are artists…they LOVE what they do, they LOVE their fearless leader, they LOVE their extended and ever-growing family.

They LOVE making movies.

And it shows. Pure and simple. On all of their faces. Total, absolute, childlike, joy.

…These are the kids that played with super-8’s filming action figures, and lip synced to records, and made faces in mirrors just for practice. These were the kids who read comic books, and then drew their own, and wrote stories, and did theatre, and doctored other people’s scripts just so they could work somehow, somewhere, in the business. These are the Indie film nerds, who though now juggling multi-million dollar budgets in film and TV shows, managed to still keep their souls and not forget why they started doing this in the first place.

They love what they do. And they love it even more when doing it with friends.

It’s deliciously infectious.

…And I’m not overselling it a bit. I promise you.

Find it. See it. Smile. The end.

~D

Diary Of A School Marm

9 Jan

image

I’ve lived in Martha Dobie’s head for so many weeks now, that it is starting to become weary.  Have decided to bust her out a bit, to explore a more unedited version of her psyche, by doing a little exercise…taking a look at what her “diary” must have looked like, at the beginning of the first year of their lives at the school.

…Because, lets be real…she wants to be here about as much as Aunt Lily.  It’s not HER fault the woman she loves is all obsessed with children and crap.  She’s only really come along for the ride, cuz that’s what you DO when you love someone, but can’t admit how much, so feel bad about it, and can’t tell them, so instead forge an unhealthy codependency with them, until you both grow old and die…or the “other” thing.

…Anyway: here is a sampling. (As a warning, I’ve found she’s not really consistent with her entries.)  Words from a plain, poorly-bound, book…kept in the bottom of her knicker drawer…next to a secret fifth of off-label whiskey.  And a pack of Lucky Strikes.

Pg. 3

May 5th, 1931

Signed lease on the Farmhouse today. K was overjoyed, I was…relieved? Anxious? Enthralled? 

…Skip it.

We split a bottle of warm beer on the porch to celebrate, giggling like school girls.  And speaking of  — The place is a disaster and it’ll take every waking hour to have it ready in time for Fall term.  But K is determined we begin at once, and already has a short list of promissory pupils, c/o her debutant days.  Connections with the “well-to-dos” come in handy every once in a while, I suppose.

…Another wire from Aunt L:

“Dress allowance: impossible. Opening: Boston on 15th.  Cannot possibly attend without top trends. Send funds c/o Rodchester Hotel, etc.”

~M

Pg. 10

June 18th, 1931

Dear God, will this place ever start to come together??? 

It’s been well over a month, up before the sun: to bed long after its gone down. Every time we tear up a floor board or into a wall, some NEW horror awaits us. 

Put bluntly: the plumbing is shit. 

…The kitchen stove is something out of ancient prairie days and smokes incessantly, no matter what you feed it as fuel…needing constant tending…so I’ve taken the back “Servant’s Quarters” for my own rooms, while K (mercifully) claimed “Housemother” from her roost on the second floor… and is busily fussing and fretting on what will be the dormitory.

Managed to finally finish the canning of the sparse orchard crop and get it put into the cellars, which will save a bit on breakfast and dessert bills, but not for long.  K is sewing all the home linens and curtains by hand, and we’ve two handymen about, rehanging doors,  settling up the stables, reworking the framing and tiling the roof.

K teasing me incessantly about the fat one.

…Apparently, she thinks he’s keen on me.

As if I need more goddamn nonsense to deal with…

~M

Pg. 12

June 25th, 1931

Did the accounts last week.

Not good.

Had to let one of the workmen go.

I picked it be the fat one.

At least new walls have been completed, and the stable nearly-just.

…As for the roof: an entirely different story.

Have done my fair share of quick fixes in dressing rooms and hotels on the road, so am not completely useless with a hammer. Unfortunately, K is. And a bit of a klutz…(darling, that she is.) She took a nasty tumble off the lean-to roof while working on the tiles, Saturday, and sprained her ankle pretty badly. Had to call up into town to have the doctor in. Nice enough man, I suppose…very attentive. Helpful to know, with a soon house-full of girls about the place.

…Incidentally, his aunt is something of a Grand Dame about the town…knew her name by reputation, just from shop visits and such. He’s invited us to her 4th of July picnic next week. K accepted before I had a chance to decline. Hate party’s, and so much still to do here at home. She knows that. But it would do her good (I suppose) to get a rest from this place. We’ve been shut up for weeks and weeks.

Off to whip up a bit of something to eat and take it in to her. She’s propped up just now, like the Queen of Seba, on the chaise in the drawing room, foot on a pillow…and should be resting…but more likely making more lists of “things that need tending.” She has of ceaseless appetite for “to dos.” Nice, for once, to see her stay put and have it done for her.

~M

Pg. 23

July 18th, 1931

K out with Cardin again.

Smoked three fags, openly on the porch. Put them out in the potting soil.

Must remember to sneak in another pack from the grocers.

I promised her I’d cut back, but all these damn nights alone in the house make me fidgety and nervous.

~M

Pg. 38

August 1, 1931

K: “…Joe, this. Joe, that. Joe, such-and-such. Joe, here. Joe, there. Joe–”

Me: “–Can we please have perhaps a five minute discussion about the school or weather, or anything, without Joe Cardin being brought into it???”

K: “I don’t know what you mean?”

Me: “…Forget it.”

~M

Pg. 40

August 9th, 1931

…damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, shit, shit, damn, damn, damn–etc.

Pg. 46

August 15th, 1931

Aunt L phoned from the station today, without notice.

…Seems her show got cancelled and she needs a place to stay until another set of auditions can be made. K took the news as she always does everything unpleasant, with a reserve calm smile and an instant move into nesting. No idea how long Aunt L is to stay, but with us now at the end of our last moments to prepare the school, it could not possibly have come at a worse time.

~M

Pg. 47 – 52

August 17th -23rd

…I want to kill her, I want to kill her, I want to kill her, I want to kill her, I want to kill her, I want to kill her…etc.

Pg. 56

August 25th, 1931

Aunt L: So when will THAT be settled, then?

Me: What?

Aunt L: Don’t give me that “what?” Karen and that nice looking Dr. Cardin.

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about. They like to spend time together.

Aunt L: They’d like to do a great deal more than THAT.

Me: Why do you have to be so ugly about everything? Not everyone is so oversexed as you are, you know.

Aunt L: Not everyone is as UNDERsexed as YOU.

Me: I have a headache. I’m going to bed.

Aunt L: They’ll be married within a year. I bet my best hat on it!

…Dear god, I don’t know how much more of it I can take…

~M

Pg. 58

August 27th, 1931

Miracles DO happen. Aunt L’s agent called today, with a supporting lead in Detroit. Glory Hallelujah!!!

Train leaves at 4.

~ M

Pg. 62

September 5th, 1931

First day of school.

Girls have been arriving since last Tuesday, and I’ve not had a moments rest since the first chauffeur arrived at the door. Children, children everywhere. But I far prefer them to Doctors. So we begin:

First Term Syllabus

Languages – K
Fine Arts – K
Elocution & Literature – K
Needlepoint & Sewing – K
Music & Voice – K
Riding Academy – K

Math – Me
Sciences – Me
History -Me
Culinary Arts – Me
Horitculture -Me
Physical Education – Me

~M

Pg. 83

November 19th, 1931

Nearly Thanksgiving, and the bulk of the girls have been sent home for their Holidays. Only three remain.

…So tired, I can hardly see straight.

Calluses on my fingers from incessant grading of term papers, awake before dawn, to bed nearly every night after ten. Hardly see K at all, except in passing ‘tween classes in the hall. Every moment free of the children, she is with Him.

…Smoking habit, too rich for the pocketbook, I’ve taken to a nip now and then of a horrifying home-brew of whiskey provided by one of our old workmen. Tastes of paint thinner, but calms the nerves, a bit. Which is needed even more than ever. Another disturbing development: a letter from Aunt L. Show ends with the Holidays, and her agent has been unable to secure her an, “acceptable replacement.”

Hate to have to break it to K again.

…She has the patience of Job about it all, but I know Aunt L’s extended visits disturb her so.

~M

Pg. 89

November 29th, 1931

Thank God the Holiday is over. I dread Christmas, but thankfully it is nearly a month yet, away.

J had come with an express invitation from his Aunt at The Big House, for drinks after Thanksgiving supper. I tried to decline, using the girls as an excuse to stay, but J had already thought of that, and had brought Mrs. H with him in the car when he came to collect us, insisting that we BOTH needed a break for a while…with some adult conversation.

Had nothing proper to wear of course, but we pulled on our Sunday best and were pushed out the door never-the-less, by a rosy cheeked Mrs. H, on the way to tucking the girls into bed.

The house if far grander than I thought.

J certainly never acted like he came from that kind of money…but then, I haven’t had a chance to talk much to him really…even when he comes over after shifts to visit for a bit. So busy with grading papers, and such…he understands. Its not me he wants to talk to anyway.

Mrs. T, his Aunt, would make Aunt L drool with delight. She’s very en-fashion and “old money”…proper baring, proper household of attendance, proper this, proper that. Felt like having drinks in a museum. Didn’t talk much. Too many people. Though K made a great collection of admirers across the evening. Could hear them whispering about her while I stood back by the palm plant in the corner.

“Isn’t she lovely…even in that poor, thin dress? Isn’t she a delight of conversation? Isn’t she elegant with her walk, for a little school marm that is? Wasn’t she ‘Finished’ though…I thought Mrs. Tilford had said? Where is the money she must have come from? Lost in The Crash, I bet. Such a waste, for such a pretty thing. Our boy Joe seems very devoted though, doesn’t he? Has he asked her yet? Wedding bells will be the answer to that piece, I bet…”

…On, and on, and on.

K promised we’d return at Christmas.

…Rather be home, beside the fire, the girls snuggled in their beds…and just talk. Talk for hours and hours…lazily…about a thousand nothings…the way we always used to.

Would rather one EVENING of that, than all the posh champagne and crystal glasses and beaded dresses in the world.

~M

***

…End of exercise. Hm. Even learned some stuff. Now to runs some lines, then go and sign my loan paperwork.

Harriet, even now, in the shop as we speak.

~D

Marty Starts A Blog

30 Oct

image

Shut up, you guys…Marty started a blog today.  I was so excited I almost spit. 

…Not only for her, but for the us’s…so I can share her mind-parts with you directly. For reasons I never understand, people tend to think I exaggerate things all the time, so this will be my way to PROVE TRUE in all that is in the department of the artist formally known as “M.”

Subscribe to it, and show the new kid some love, why don’t yuh?  I did! You’re life will only be richer for it.  I promise.

Also: Happy Halloween Eve. This is the day I would be doing my “dress rehearsal” round (with all makeup and effects)…to make sure I would look bonafide badass, on the big day. Like this:
image

…Since infancy, Ma’s gone all out on the building of these things. Because it is HER art, and because I respect it so much, I contract her from time to time to keep it up. My Cruella De Ville year was particularly magnificent…you only WISH you knew me then. But such it not to be for tonight and tomorrow. Instead, we rehearse like mad, dressed in rehearsal skirts, lace-up boots and corsets over our t-shirts, as we recklessly wave swords through the air, and make merry with love and revenge.

…It is really hard to complain when we basically get to play at dress-up every single day. So I won’t. I will just enjoy our strange little world for what it is and keep in mind that everyone ELSE gets but ONE night a year…and I get 365 of them, to dress up in shit!

…I don’t get candy for my efforts, but bucks and the people I hang with are better anyway…so I win, in the end.

I. Win.

Me.

…Write that down, cuz I don’t want you to go forgetting it and things.

…Meanwhile: as you all begin your Hallows Eve festivities…be careful, have fun, and stay wherever the hell you plan on drinking. Don’t make me go all slap-a-bitch on yuh!

~D

A Letter To The BFF, As She Moves To L.A.

22 Sep

image

The BFF is leaving tomorrow.

…Not forever, just a few months…but I still don’t like it.  I know she’s coming back no matter what, because I’m holding The Fella and all my booze for ransom, but she’s kinda getting in the habit of ditching us…and that isn’t cool. 

…This one time, she did it for a whole semester in Dublin, and had WAY more fun than me, then decided to travel the whole fucking continent of Europe, before she ever came back home again. And where I’m way more jealous of her doing that, I still don’t totally agree with the whole “plan” she has mapped out right now. But, I guess she’s going anyway.

…Because she secretly hates us.

The flip side of this is that she’s moving to L.A., where NO ONE has more fun. Because they’re too busy being starving-hungry on purpose all the time.  And they have to get everything waxed so they look like hairless rats.  And always bleach their teeth and eye whites.  And get injections into their faces, of juice toxins they make bombs out of. And meat (outside of the porn biz) is totally outlawed there. 

…I heard this one time? A girl gained .002 of an ounce, just by accidentally breathing in beef spores from the lunch meat on the Kraft Service table, and she was totally kicked off the movie set. On breach of contract.  That’s when they first passed the law, I think.  It’s one of those lesser-known ones that people don’t really talk about, just inherently “know.” Like the one where your boobs have to be bigger than your butt cheeks…and brunettes can only play “evil”, or “the girl-next-door”…and everyone spends two hours applying makeup before they drive into the studio to get their makeup done for “real”, in case of paparazzi.*

(* That last one isn’t a real law, just a good idea in general.  Have you SEEN the covers of The Star and National Enquirer? Okay, then…)

…BTdubs…best get used to the rash of arrant-misinformation-factoid-news-stories NOW, cuz they sure as hell ain’t gonna get any better.

…But I digress. 

This was all supposed to be a letter. A letter of wise words to send my non-blood sister out into the wide-wide world with. Even though she’s already seen ten times more of it than I have.  However, she also almost died that one time…in that Romanian hostel pit from hell, (that she saw fit to spend a night in once and somehow live to tell about.)  And it’s because of things like this, that I feel obligated to list out a few “do’s” and “don’ts” for her.  You know…just in case she gets the feeling to check into a Bates Motel, or work at a strip joint, or shack up with some roomies that turn out to be Colombian Drug Lords.

I only say these things, because I love her.

…Which I wish she would keep in mind.

***

Dear The BFF,

I bought a tiny jar of dill pickles today, and it was tragic. I couldn’t do the big Costco one this time…know why? You won’t be here to help eat them. And after three months or whatever in L.A., you’ll prob’ly never eat dill pickles, ever again. “Too much salt and food content,” you’ll say.

…And you won’t fry things in butter anymore. Or bake cakes. And you’ll go back to eating tofu sandwiches – minus the bread – which is just tofu really, only you’ll still call it a sandwich…because clearly it is made of at least two foods: “to” and “fu”…so that’s a full meal right there…on the occasion that you still even eat food, that is.

(P.S. I hear they have a new surgery now, where they take out your taste buds so you can just totally give up and not even care about food at all, anymore.)

…When you come home again, I will ultimately just disgust you, with my buttersauce ways, and fat-pudge. And you’ll take out an ad to hold Open Casting for a new BFF…one with less evil chub, who doesn’t smell like meat products all the time. Possibly a blond. With a single syllable name…which doesn’t require spelling and pronunciation lessons every time it is given.

(P.S.S. I heard they have this service where you can just order friends off a menu, on Sunset. But if you get the wrong “package deal,” they’ll send you themed strippers instead. This one chick I know, ended up with a Latina in lederhosen holding a Heineken, on her doorstep…when all she wanted was someone to go shopping with.)

…You’ll also be buddies with all the famous people, after this, and have free designer clothes…and know all the new “in” words, so I won’t have any idea what in the hell you’re even talking about anymore…

“Those shoes are just ralsh of viv for the rycalm of it all. I bet Mila and Natalie have ’em. I was at this dinner once, hashing with Reese, Russell & Amy and they were all: ‘you are monster jade, you know that?’ And, O-M-G…did you SEE what Amanda was wearing at that one award show? What a drosh…it was sooooo last season.”

“…The hell?” I will sadly respond.

“Seriously. I cannot even believe I once thought you were Ivan in the sweet and we were all xadish. What a fucking Kevlar I was,” you will reply.

(P.S.S.S. Someone told me this one time that the real reason it’s so hard to break it into Hollywood, is because of the language barrier. Tons of people just never pick it up. Which is prob’ly why almost all the major stars are Foreign. Cuz they already speak nine or ten other languages, so it’s easier for them to pick it up somehow.)

…Of course, I am just panicking and jumping to conclusions here…(which, hello, is totally what I do)…but the innermost “me” knows this is all ridiculous, because you would NEVER betray food like that. Or me. (And I’m totally fine that that is the order we come in.) But I still worry ’bout things.

…Just…you know what? Do me a favor. Maybe find out where ever Winslet, Fey, Pitt, Clooney, Hathaway…the cast of “How I Met your Mother,” or the Whedonites are hanging out…and go be with them. Cuz they’re “real.” I’m told they still have all their original bone structure and skin, even. It would really make me feel better…just “in general.”

Also:

* Don’t ever “borrow” someone’s office couch to crash on…it’s prob’ly got enough generations of movie-starlette spunk on it, to disgust even a garbage man.

* Don’t walk Hollywood Blvd after dusk…especially after a party…people will stop their cars and offer you money to turn a trick.

* Don’t take money from people, while agreeing to “turn a trick.” It isn’t what you think it is. There are no magic doves, disappearing acts, or decks of cards involved in the kind they want. And if there are, you’re even MORE screwed. (Pun intended.)

* If you HAVE to shop lift, (in total emergency situations), wait until you see which store Winona Ryder is going into. When the alarm goes off, point at her. They will totally believe you. Then, when the security guards start to frisk her: run.

* “Organic” special nature California foods, are just a giant trick. ALL produce grows in or from dirt. The end. So don’t pay extra just because they tell you different. (I know I’ve already been having this same argument with you for two years, but it’s not gonna stop now. Isn’t constancy nice?)

* If you go shopping on Rodeo Drive, keep your sunglasses on the whole time, and sneer at the saleswomen like Patsy in “Ab-Fab.” In the words of Meg Ryan from “French Kiss”: “If you’re nice to them, they will treat you like shit, treat THEM like shit, and they’ll love you.”

* Don’t catch any wild ideas about future children’s names and weird charities you wanna sponsor. There are plenty of real ones in both cases, so use/support them. Just for the record: I absolutely refuse to call your kid “Cumquat” or “Pumernickle” or “Spring Rain” or “Ra-$h8-tra.” And I won’t run twenty miles to support the Pygmy Marmoset Dwarf Monkeys of Ecuador. So don’t ask.

* If you run into any of the list of men I gave you before you left, give them my number and tell them to call me.

…And…

* If you accidentally find yourself rich, bring me back something from Tiffany’s.

…For now, that should do it. I feel like I took care of all the really important stuff. Except to say: “I love you…and don’t forget me.”

…And also, I fucking miss you already.

Sincerely,

~ Your BFF

Foreign Travel & Foreign Ways

13 Sep

image

Here is a secret: Traveling to a foreign country is exciting no matter where you go. Even if its Canada. Even if they talk more or less like we do. Even if they still deal in “dollars” that are somehow worth more than yours.

…It could be because they have things like Darth Vader playing a violin with a lightsaber. (Even Buddhist Monks think that shit is dope):
image

…Maybe its cuz they pastry-pipe your potatoes:
image

…And doodle all their art on sidewalks:
image

…And light their government buildings up like the St. Louis Fair of 19-ought-four.
image

Everybody seems to be much more polite…(even after they find out we’re Americans.) People go outta their way to give good service (like whoever ran my coat from the hotel to the ferry, and got it on board, just before launching.) Store owners don’t haunt and bother you while you shop (I was left unmolested in Munro’s books for two hours after the initial smile “hello.”) And, they are willing to help you break some small laws, as needed (“Uh, yes…would you suggest a rolled-up sock, or poster tube art, to get this Cuban cigar home?”)

…In the end, we went with a Hemingway and couple Macanudos instead…but they totally had our back, if we needed them.

No question.

…And I like that in a hosting country.

It solidifies trade and tourism.

…Also, did you know that calories consumed outside of your national country do not count against you? It has to do with the metric system and how its all secret and magical. I try my best not to understand it on purpose. It’s one of those things that if you break the code, it won’t work for you anymore…like that one time I decided there was no mathematical way Santa could do his gig. I haven’t gotten a damn thing outta that dude, ever since. (And I even pleaded math-stupidity, and tried to take it back ten or twenty thousand times.)

Other awesome things about foreign travel include:

* Funny Money
Not since Monopoly have you had this much fun with colored buckage. Also they name their coinage like cartoons.
Me: …And…you’re never gunna b’lieve it, but this is a loonie, and this is a toonie…
Puff: Nuh uh.
Me: I swear to you, on a Canadian Mountie…

* Everyone Has An Accent
You know how I go weak in the knees when people start throwing dialects around? Well, I haven’t walked upright in 48 hours, and have asked questions I don’t given a shit about, just to milk a little more Aussie, Scots and French out of a store clerk.
Me: Um, yes…can you please list out — in detail — all the reasons I should or should not buy this one item versus the other one. And can you tell me slower, please.

* Not My Room, Not My Problem
Traveling is the only time my OCD living-space order can go take a flying leap. Guess what? I didn’t make my bed today. I didn’t fold my towel or wipe down the sink. I never put the top back on the shampoo or cleaned out the coffee maker either. Cuz I am a disgusting mess of a human being, when on vacation…and you know what? That’s okay!

* You Can Justify Almost Anything
Me: I’m gonna get those truffles, and the caramel apple, cuz I may never come here again. I will have two beers, thank you…and I’ll prob’ly not eat anything green today…unless they find a way to cover it in this chocolate sauce. Know what? I deserve this journal I know I’ll never write in: because I want it and this isn’t just a regular “run to Barnes and Nobles” kinda thing. Yes, I have an entire shelf of tea, but I need three more because it’s foreign tea, therefore tests smarter and is prob’ly less toxic. I HAVE to buy that thing, because I have all this fake money left over, and it’s either that or give it to the street mime over there…but I’m a selfish asshole, so I’d rather spend it on me, instead.

…These are just a few reasons that you too should venture out into the big wide world of poshness and foreign travel.

…’Specially if you’ve got a kick ass bed and five pillows waiting when you come back home again, to swallow you up whole.

~D

%d bloggers like this: