Quickie

The Erudite Bouncer posted a spectacular rant on his blog today.

Check it!

I Need A Vacation

Out of my mind today, please call back later or leave a message.

Celebrity Crushes

Don't even play, I know you got at least one. Spill!

Some famous personage for whom you would, in the hell-bound snowball's chance of it actually happening, swoon at meeting in person. Naturally, this millionaire will see past your normalness to the rare and wonderful person they've been searching for the world over. You'll dump your boring job and homely studio for the bright lights of Hollywood and a gorgeous house in Bel-Air!

Just read that Joaquin Phoenix is thinking of quitting Hollywood to find true love. I'm thinking Superfly would probably give Joaquin $5 to take me off his hands, and then ask Joaquin if he knew Gwen Stefani's number.

*sigh*

Thanksgiving

Safe travels everyone, wherever you go, and have a pleasant holiday.

The 10 Things thing

10. I cannot sew. Many have tried to teach me. As a result, I flunked Home Ec and throw stuff out that needs new buttons or hems.

9. I am afraid of clowns, bridges, and dolls/stuffed animals. I recently had to flee a child's birthday party that was held in a puppet theatre. All those creepy puppets and their shiny eyes! [shudder]

8. I was in the Gifted/Talented program up until high school. We were separated from our stupider classmates all day. Can you say, "Beat Up Every Day on the Way Home from School?"

7. I can play the flute, the piccolo, and the air guitar and air drums. I still play the last two. I went to band camp.

6. I learned gourmet cooking in junior high, for my mom's dinner parties. Still a pretty good cook, somewhat limited to certain people's vegetarianism. I do make a banging vegetarian matzoh ball soup, though, so there.

5. I owned and operated a successful wedding planning company in Denver. Feel free to ask me anything about weddings, I am the all-knowing, all-seeing bridal maven. Seriously.

4. The name of my dear departed 'zine was Hootchie Mama Magazine. It got so popular, stupid-ass trophy wives started calling themselves "Hootchie Mamas" as they drank their apple martinis and cackled. That part sucked.

3. Speaking of martinis, I'm a total snob about them. Chilled glass, good booze, a whiff of Vermouth, that's it. Cosmopolitans, anything fruity or chocolate, those aren't martinis. They're cocktails. I am similarly obnoxious about beer, wine, and other classic cocktails. Six years of bartending; in sportsbars, martini bars, and old-skool dives, made me so.

2. I have an unhealthy love for butter, and everything else that will surely kill me.

1. Drumroll, please! Number one thing you probably don't know about your friend Trouble is this: If I told you my IQ, you'd not only be impressed, you might try to sell me to the circus as a sideshow freak. Only, don't make me be near clowns, ok?

Now, what was I saying?

Huh, it looks like I was mad about something. Can't remember, really, so mea culpa. My friends are wonderful and beloved.

Just back from Atlantic City, where Superfly and I went to celebrate a friend's birthday, and I am hungover like a sumbitch. Haven't tied one on like that in years! Back when I was bartending, I could hold my own on tequila shots or Irish Car Bomb festivals, often hustling bar patrons who couldn't believe a wee girl could polish off a bottle of Herradura and remain standing and drinking.

These days, I hardly imbibe, outside of Lager during my Eagles games or Corona during karaoke, and the occasional draining of Dancing Bull Zinfandel. Saturday night, as I ordered the first round of shots, I tried to remember the last time I boozed it up:

It was three years ago, in the summer. My friends Jaymie and Katie and I were trying to outdrink one another. Kegstands were involved. Someone famously woke up naked, with her thong whirling around on the ceiling fan, and a heavily-tattoed Irish thug nakedly beside her.

After the boozing and karaoke and gambling of Atlantic City, I feel like death that's not been warmed over, just left out on the counter all night to fester. I feel 104. Superfly has zero sympathy; he drank Coke all night.

Speaking of the AC karaoke, I got 86'd! After singing a few tunes the crowd loved, I brought up another song slip and was told by the jackass DJ, "You aren't singing any more tonight." Stunned, I replied, "Huh?" He explained that, since the microphone was plucked out of my hand by some drunken douchebag and not returned by me, I was cut off.

I thought about jumping over the counter and ramming the microphone down his throat, but I sulked off to pout over my beer, instead.

Ow, my aching noggin.

So Long, Friends

Normally, I let this kind of petty bullshit roll right into the Who Gives a Fuck? file upstairs, but those involved are people I think are wonderful individuals, people I genuinely care about and consider friends. We've been there for each other with unconditional support, advice, and good times, for a long time.

Color me surprised and disappointed to learn that in all my obliviousness, these "friends" decided to turn on me, for imagined slights on blogs, of all things. I had no idea they were inclined to be so ridiculous. Especially the not calling me on it, if their feelings were genuinely hurt; why would you go sulk somewhere and complain to other people? How very Jr. high.

Like most of you, probably, I have a few close friends who can get away with murder (figuratively speaking) and get only a severe mocking from me. However, those good friends are unlikely to get into a snit over something I wrote on my blog. I posed this question to one of them, and they called me a friggin' moron. Because they are real, true, honest (mostly), and loyal, these close friends are family and can do no wrong.

Acquaintances, however, often do wrong. They're sometimes thin-skinned, paranoid, needy, delusional, mean, and/or plain stupid. Only acquaintances feel ok thrusting their high-maintance crap on other people. And because I have a full life and really no time or interest in dealing with petty bullshit, I have a few less acquaintances than I did yesterday.

Right You Are, Ken

I don't know if anyone ever reads blogger profiles, but reading mine will reveal my favorite TV show: MXC: Most Extreme Elimination Challenge, on Spike TV. A thing of beauty, it is. A bizarre and humiliating Japanese game show creatively dubbed in English, e.g., "Vic, up next is Farooz Babaganoush, who owns Happy Jihad One-Way Tours company, attempting the Rotating Surfboard of Death. He's going with the patented knob-gobbler maneuver and, Oh! He really burst his spleen on that one, Vic." "Right you are, Ken."

Another thing I get to do when I zip down to Amishville is get my karaoke fix. Went down to my favorite place, the Lucky Dog, for Chuck Colson's Wednesday night show. He's the awesomest karakoe DJ, I tell you. Plus, the Lucky Dog makes the world's best chicken wings. It was great to see old friends and rip out a few karaoke tunes.

Right across the road, next to the Dairy Queen, is the Three Crowns Lodge, another karaoke joint (7 days/week!) I frequent when I'm in town and jonesing for mic time. As soon as I came down the stairs, Adam, the guy who runs this karaoke, buttonholes me to see if I'll judge the Final in their karaoke contest. Seems a judge didn't show, and they needed one more...I was just thrilled to say, "yeah, sure, you betcha!"

First up, a chubby guy with glasses who sang his Bon Jovi-lovin' heart out in the general direction of his wife. Then, a turgid, but well-sung ballad sung by a man with a grey mullet, followed by Lady Camel-Toe, who scrunched up her face and sang some country song. RP took on A-Ha's "Take On Me" and killed it. Gracie sang another Bon Jovi song, "Blaze of Glory", dispirtedly. A shame, because Gracie is a great karaoke singer. A hipster guy got up and sang some Creed. I hate Creed. A Lot. Adam threatened me with a pen to the eye if I fled, so I just doodled during that song. The same guy who sings Alice Cooper every week sang Alice Cooper. Finally, my friend Marty McFly got up and tore through Bad Company's "Feel Like Making Love". He walked around, humping girls' legs and licking his lips, never missing a note or a lyric. He won, and RP took a close second.

My reward for judging was a Lager and a So-Co Kami. I didn't say no, and greatly regretted it the following morning.

Something in the karaoke water down there in PA, because check out all these new engagements: Top Jimmy & Nancy, RP & Gracie, Marty McFly and his girl, and Bill and Jolene. The last three weddings are all skedded for next October. Ay Chihuahua!

Superfly and I are going to Atlantic City cette weekend, so neener neener. He gambles, I'll go off with whatever girls I can convince to join me in seeking out mischief. Upon our return, I'm going to learn how to steal cable, so I can watch MXC!

"Up Next, Dope on a Rope!"

Football

It's hard to be a Philadelphia Eagles fan. T.O., McNabb's cracked sternum and sports hernia, Hank Fraley, Michael Lewis, and LJ Smith all IR. Oh, and the team is a distant last in the NFC East standings. One humiliating loss after another this season...it's like being a Jets fan.

I was an Eagles fan last season too, when the team dominated game after game, punishing all comers with a ferocious defense and a QB who throws astoundingly fast and accurate passes, sometimes right through the legs of oncoming opponents. It was thrilling! The legions of Eagles fans looked around to see no one was watching and hoped and prayed to the Gridiron Gods that this Super Bowl would silence the critics.

I was a fan before Andy Reid, Donovan McNabb, and the greatest Defensive Coordinator, Jim Johnson. I remember the "other" Super Bowl.

Some blame T.O. for the disaster. He likes to grandstand and isn't much of a team player, you know. In the NFL, even superstar receivers are still on a team. Anyway! Others say, "Look, McNabb is sweating, weak---he's sick!" And he sure did stink in that game, throwing wobbly passes to non-existant receivers. Pats fans, and other jerks, will say simply that New England had the better team. On that day, in that game, they won, that's it.

This was to be the Eagles Avenging Season. NE got their damn "dynasty", blah blah, but they're done. Colts look great this year, don't they? And how about them Giants? Eagles have had their ass handed to them in almost every game.

Doesn't matter, I'm sticking with my birds. Philadelphia has the most obnoxious fans in the League, and I'm proud to be one of them, win or lose.

E-A-G-L-E-S!

Because You're Dying to Know

With apologies to LB and Superfly, who would rather I not discuss things of a political nature; Herewith, a wee rant on the current Administration, and then an homage to Dad:

It's not so much Mr. Bush, whom I deem borderline retarded, it's his handlers. Mr. Cheney, Mr. Rove, etc., and the ultra-anything (-religious, -right, -sociopathic, what-have-you). What I despise about all of dem is their utter contempt for ordinary American citizens. Is this reserved for Republicans? No, of course not. Is it the first administration to behave thusly? Nope. But this particular administration displays it with such blatancy, such sneering nobless oblige, it makes me want to empty out the bars and organize a guillotine-pushing angry mob toward Washington.

Now they are under political siege, victims of their own carelessness. Cheney will likely take the fall, but Rove is immoveable. He's like the ugly old china cabinet you inherited from a relative that you'd like to get rid of, but it's so heavy, and this relative still comes over for Thanksgiving.

Does Mr. Bush issue a contrite apology, a mea culpa for the meshuggas around Plame and leaks and the gestapo-like tactics of his advisors? Well, no. He takes to the airwaves, denouncing "Libbrals" for questioning his integrity and sending toadies onto Sunday news shows (he himself could not withstand the probing questions of, say, Charlie Gibson) to red-facedly reassert the existence of WMDs.

If it walks like a lame duck, and quacks like a lame duck...but, then again. Some point out the Supreme Court Justice Alito, who has the 'Religious Right' in a foamy froth of delight, is poised to sail into the HEAD seat on the Court. Oil pipelines are quietly and speedily being built in Alaska, Afghanistan, the Middle East, with the Bush family and friends ecstatically profiteering, and the CIA is still mucking around the Middle East (without, of course, disturbing the Saudis) fomenting unrest, as they have since the 1940s. And there's that war thing in Iraq, with soldiers being told, "get comfortable--next stop Iran!".

Do I think GWB will go down in history as the worst President, ever? Yes, for now. There are more Bush generations, you know.

Oh, and I am a Conservative, by the way. Unaffiliated, politically, but I tend to vote for people who remind me of my father. Integrity, vision, leadership, both feet on the ground, eye-rolling sense of humor. Whenever a Democrat or Liberal candidate displays an overabundance of cynicism or sarcasm, that's it for me. Those aren't what I call good leadership qualities--instead, they are feelings we all have in moments of weakness. Republican candidates seem to all be cut from the same bad haircut and self-righteous mold, so that's no better. Unfortunately, there aren't many men like my dear old Dad.

The only political issue Dad and I have ever disagreed on is GWB! In fact, for all his Republicanism, my Dad sure acts like a Democrat: He doesn't allow his personal beliefs to carryover onto his voting on topics that affect other people besides himself. He doesn't just donate money to Habitat for the Homeless, he donates his time and skill as an architect and builder. He's volunteered for the Salvation Army since before I was born, and now travels around the state, organizing chapters for disaster relief. I'm pretty sure the only thing he gets out of all this is satisfaction. If he ran for office in our little PA town, he'd probably win. Not interested. He was, however, pleased to receive a "World's Best Dad" coffee mug, and a sweatshirt (now a favorite) that reads "Front" on the front, and "Bach" on the reverse. He's fond of both puns and classical music (he wouldn't know Eminem from Auntie Em), y'know.

GWB is a Dad, too. I just hope he's a better Dad than he is a President, for the Twin Twinkies' sake.

You, You Light up My Life...heh

My very own Superfly, in a moment of inspired joshing around, popped a Swarovski crystal-encrusted and thusly rainbow disco-ball twinkling light bulb over my red head.

So clever, so timely, and so damn appropriate. From these auspicious beginnings soon will arise a children's book so cool, it'll be on every elementary-aged kid's Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, Festivus, and Ramadan wishlist.

Trouble E. Coyote, Super Genius. With a FAT lot of help from Superfly!

Stay tuned, and, eh, if you know anyone in the children's publishing world, drop me a line?

Oh, and please tell me what your favorite children's book were (when you were little, dummies). Mine were all the Roald Dahl books, Eloise, and, especially, Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile.

Sweet Relief and the Promise of Justice

Ahhhhhh, that's better.

My attorney concurred with me and likewise went apeshit. This is going to end badly for my ex and his trollie.

Fortunately, Colorado courts are friendlier to non-custodial parents than other states are, especially when the custodial parent is a dangerous nincompoop. I've been right all along about my rights! Things will get better for my children, and better for me.

My original attorney withdrew for family reasons and I was left to deal with the ex and his various girlfriends/wives on my own. Normally this would be challenging but doable. Instead, I was dealing with my illness and all the bs that goes along with it, and allowed him too much freedom.

It isn't that he is abusive to the children, by any means. More that he neglects them, and allows other people to do the parenting for him. That'll change, shortly!

And I am sleeping again and not overly anxious to go on any killing sprees.

Alternate-street parking really pisses me off, though. Feh!

How's it going for you?

...You Won't Like Me When I'm Angry...

That's right, folks, Mother Trouble is about to go HULK.


The rage has seethed inside me for weeks now, amped up by panic and PMS, and it's all I can do to not go flaming apeshit on everybody.

Urge to kill, rising...Rising...RISING

So I do my cleansing breaths and scream "SERENITY NOW!" in my head, I force myself to look on the bright side, or acknowledge things could be worse.

Problem is, my Rice Krispies instruct me to "KILL! KILL!" and no amount of new age crapola or country platitudes quells the hot lava surging through my veins.

This is how I went to Colorado, to visit my children and deal with certain !%#!$%!#$!#%#%!%!suckers. My mother, who is both evil and stupid, went to the wrong pickup lane at the airport and kept calling me on my cellphone. This wouldn't have been SO bad, but the 3.5 hour flight from LaGuardia was a nightmare.

After being dragged all over Denver by my mother, I finally got to pick up my precious spawn. What's this? Two of them are no-kidding skin and bones, their faces look like the faces of prisoners of war. The other one was fine, displaying her staggering gift for manipulation for a 7-year old. I ask them if they are sick, and the two skele-kids say, "No, it's just our medicine for ADD."

WHA-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-A-AT?

Turns out the stepmonster, who is an expert on all things despite having the intelligence and charm of mountain troll, diagnosed my children with ADD, then set about getting appointments with doctors and prescriptions.

All without a word to me, their mother.

Now, I don't know much about ADD, but I know a lot about psychiatric medication. A five-year old boy has no business being on Adderall, in my opinion. And since they both look like child zombies, I'd say it's high time they get another opinion about this diagnosis and prescription, don't you?

Well, my bastard %!%$@%$%@% ex-husband and their father, cunt that he is, defers to to the Step-troll. They refuse to consider my differing opinion. They refuse to include me (even though our contract stipulates it)in important medical decisions with regard to my children. And they refuse to acknowledge the terrible state of my children.

Know what all this means, kids? Right! Mother Trouble, the Incredibly tiny Hulk, has a cause, a channel for the unending river of rage. After firing off a carefully-worded email to His Travesty (Superfly, I couldn't wait for you to help me, but I promise I deleted all expletives and scathing insults) I got my lawyer on the horn.

Suddenly, I'm smiling. Suddenly, after getting a grand total of 5 hours sleep this weekend, I feel like crashing.

Urge to kill, Fading...fading....

Leavin' on a Jet Plane

Hope you blog readers are well, and thank you for your kind words and thoughts. Going to Denver always fills me with such dread, such angst and depression. Which, in turn, pisses me right the Hell off. Where does a low-rent cowtown in the middle of Buttfuck, Nowhere have the right to upset me? Hmm?

Thusly inclined to make perfectly innocent counter people and service industry personnel pay for 25 years of my misery, my bags are packed and my schedule attuned.

If I'm not back by next week, check the papers for stories about my arraignment on murder charges.

Ciao!

P.S. New links, for your amusement!