Bang It Out Banging Forward

Top 10 signs your Mideast Crisis reporter doesn't have a clue:

10. He’s reporting from Lebanon, Pennsylvania
9. Keeps confusing Al Aqsa with Al Bundy
8. Calls Hezbollah “freedom fighters”
7. Thought the MidEast was just a tough college basketball conference
6. Starts interview with insane Syrian ambassador: “For the record, I loved Syriana”
5. Signature sign off: ”Stay Classy, Osama”
4. Wears a shaitel, full modest dress in order to “fit in” when interviewing Israelis on Tel Aviv beach
3. Concludes Israeli bomb shelter report with, “No sign of Baby Suri here, Bob”
2. He’s wearing a ”Bull-Shiite” t-shirt
1. Sees a clear difference between Hezbollah & Al Quaeda


For all your banging needs, visit bangitout.com

You Go, Girl!

Many thank to the gorgeousest Canadienne, Glo, for this link:

In which a woman takes on Islam on Arabic TV, no doubt risking her and her entire family's lives in the process. She has some very brave things to say and I sure hope her message gets through.

In other news: Was there someone out there that didn't know Mel Gibson was an asshat?

Related: Pat Kennedy, Pete Coors, and now Mel Gibson. Is DUI the newest celebrity fad/hobby?

All Good Things Must End

Ren faire pirate by day, KJ by night: Star (his real name) is truly a one man party. Long has he held sway at the Lodge; cracking wise, flirting with the pretty ladies, and regularly being "fired" from his ("I get paid for this?") job.

Star is moving on to better and brighter things, friends. I'm sure you join me in wishing him all the best in his future endeavors. Feel free to do so in the comments here, or check out his blog.

For his final appearance at the Lodge, Star requested a theme night: Student/Teacher night, wherein attendees would dress up as either naughty school girls or teachers/coaches. My crew was totally down for this, of course.

Bobulah was extremely fetching in his pink wig, plaid jumper, and prim white shirt-- hairy calves and all. When I showed up in my Saucy French Teacher outfit Bobulah said, "I think I just turned straight!" K$ was resplendent in his Drama Teacher flouncy shirt and blazer, and absolutely no one else in the crowd dressed up. Did we care? No sir, we did not. We soldiered on, sang our brains out, and a good time was had by all.

The only thing missing was Superfly. In his honor, I sang "La Vie en Rose"--it was a hit.

Bon Vogage, Star and bring your dirty pirate self up to NYC for a visit sometime.

Peeved

My space at Myspace was invaded and now I cannot login. Feh.

Where is everybody? All the click-over blogs on my blogroll are update-less and no new comments here. Clearly, everyone is having fun without me. Even Gawker.com has a lackluster gossip rollcall.

Fine, then. I'll just drink my Turkey Hill Iced Tea and eat FunYuns until I dehydrate and die. That'll teach ya!

WOT Favorites: Paul Weller

Paul Weller

Summer doesn't actual begin for me until I break out my Style Council CD or cassette or LP and play "Long Hot Summer". Everyone has a song or two that evokes their fondest summertime memories, and that's mine. At this point in a story like this, the author usually tells you how cool they were back in the day and how they knew such-and-such band before anyone else. To that I say, "Meh."

Thirty years of incredible talent and prolific genius. That's Paul Weller, folks. From The Jam to The Style Council to his solo work. You'll be hard-pressed to find a more consistently fascinating artist, never straying far from his socio-political message while staying true to his musicianship. He's still turning out relevant and kick-ass music, more than thirty years after his debut. In fact, his newest album, Catch-Flame! is available at your local record store.

My favorites are All Mod Cons, Absolute Beginners, and all The Style Council records, but you can pretty much pick any piece of music with Paul Weller's name on it and be guaranteed a fine piece of music.

His Modness is still a fine piece of man, too, which is why he's the first subject of my new blog feature: World of Trouble Favorites.

A Gift From Jan Deland

And for this, I thank you profusely. By this I mean I laughed so hard I spewed hot coffee everywhere.

My new hero writes this blog. Go! Read it! You won't be sorry!

Trip Recap

Trouble at Graceland

Touched down in the home of the Delta Blues with my sweetie and drove straight to my lil' sister's house. Superfly crossed the final hurdle to joining the Trouble family by making instant friends with the sis, the NASCAR-lovin' bro-in-law, the boy, and the dog. His 2-year old mind completely tweaked by the sudden appearance of his mom's "twin", the boy took some time warming to Auntie Trouble.

We hit Beale Street, alright, and even found karaoke! You bet we visited Graceland, and it was far and away the most surprisingly fabulous tourist trap we've ever visited. What strikes you is that this is Elvis' home, not a "Cribs"-ready house or a kitschy museum of some celebrity, and it's perfectly frozen in time. Super efficient management of the unholy hordes of fans who pour in by the thousands, daily.

Being that Superfly is a vegetarian, we didn't worry too much about barbeque, Memphis' official cuisine. We did eat fabulous Thai food and something called the "World Famous Huey Burger", and brought back BBQ sauce from Corky's, Memphis #1.

I think for both of us the highlight of the trip was Sun Studios. We took the fantastic tour, bought souvenirs, and get this: we each recorded a song at the studio, with Sun studio sound guys, a skip away from the "X"-marked spot where Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, and scores more, recorded their songs. I have a CD-single with a Sun label reading "Fever" TROUBLE. Superfly's is "Ring of Fire," natch. You can hear us grinning idiotically, on the CDs.

Only one tiny little thing kept this from being the Greatest Vacation of All Time: I managed to slog through some grass in my flip-flops and incurred the wrath of about a billion fire ants. My feet are swollen, blistered in two dozen places, red, and causing me unendurable misery. Now swathed in cortisone balm and soft socks, I bid you all a southern-fried adieu.

Walking in Memphis

That'll be Superfly and I, with our feet ten feet off of Beale. Going to visit one of my sisters and her family in Memphis. You damn well better know we're going to Graceland (and I said ooooo-ooooo-oooooh) and taking a side trip to Nashville so we can sing our gorgeous duet of "Jackson," right there on Music Row.

Jealous much? The only possible drawback is the 106 degree and suffocating humidity, but that's why we invented air conditioning. And cold beer.

Have a fantastic weekend, one and all. I'll blog a-plenty when we return next week about the stuff we kinda sorta accidentally lift from down in the Jungle Room.

Outstanding. Bye, y'all!

That Smell

Hopefully, you're now humming Lynrd Skynrd.

Ever catch a whiff of something that made you want to hurl? (Besides the obvious trash/toilet/B.O stench, of course.) You looked around, trying to locate and identify the offending scent, and notice no one else was pale and gagging? I know a couple of people who cannot tolerate the smell of roasted chestnuts, for example. Some can't stand smelling gasoline, cut grass, or cigarette smoke. The smell of melons, any kind of melon, will send me fleeing and retching, and many common chemicals cause me to break out in dazzling hives.

Wonder where it comes from? According to this health reporter, it's not all in your head and it may not be an allergy.

Does this mean the next time we're trapped somewhere with someone who's been marinating in White Shoulders or Old Spice for two solid weeks, we can brain them with our umbrella? "Excuse me, Sir/Madam, your cologne is negatively affecting my chemical sensitivities. I must clobber you and drag you off to the East River for dunking. THAT smell I can abide."

Memoirs

When a writer produces a story that's actually a thinly-veiled and somewhat embellished retelling of their own life's story, their agent will often suggest they rewrite it as a memoir. Your story is so compelling, so real! People will see themselves in your struggles, you'll inspire them! The result is a memoir. Purportedly non-fiction, unless you're James Frey.

Other times, the writer goes ahead with the fiction-that-is-really-fact story and no one is the wiser. To my mind, this is the better option.

Why? Because people who are not skilled writers can poop out a memoir in no time and ride whatever curiousity train stopped at their weirdo depot. Honestly, just because someone is in the news or on TV doesn't mean they are actually interesting, and it for sure doesn't warrant an instant memoir from that person.

Memoirs are for marginal celebrities and crackpots. An important person, whose views or actions or life's work have changed the world, writes an autobiography or has a biography written about them by a writer.

A 20-year old writing a memoir is absurd and repellent. Talk about the height of narcissism! I'd no sooner read that book than read the grocery story book based on the OC.

People aren't reading books as much as they used to. Publishing houses react by putting out books that'll move at Barnes & Noble and Amazon.com. As much as I love literature and books and reading, this trend sickens me more than seeing Ann Coulter and Paris Hilton grind against each other in a karaoke version of "I Touch Myself" would. It's that bad.

Forget blogger books and celebrity memoirs. Go check out the Biography section, or reread some Classics or your favorite fiction at your bookstore or library, instead.

[Disclaimer: Yes, I am a published writer. No, I don't have/don't want a blogger book deal. Yes I am writing a book, but I'm taking time to write it, rather than to fabricate it or to market it.]

Forget This Blog---Go to T2K!

Our man Todd had a brief and hilariously retold experience with the kind of eye-twitching rage I've been complaining about forever. Never mind my description, just go!

Reunion, Revisited

Thought you might get a chuckle out of this one.

Did you all have Continuation? A dance to commemorate moving from jr. high to high school? We did, and group-dated to the Country Dinner Playhouse. I can't remember the play, but I do remember the hideous embarassment of having parents chauffeur us and generally say mortifying things.

The brace-face with devil eyes and a pirate blouse is me. Behind me is my former boyfriend, on-and-off, from 8th grade to age 27. He's a doctor now, and married to Kristi-the-Tongue. Go figure. Jan Deland, remember him as "the pizza boy"?.

Our 20th High School Reunion. Last weekend, the jocks, geeks, spirit kids, stoners, punks, theatre geeks, band geeks, and hopeless loners all converged on Denver, Colorado to try and place names to adult faces of people they haven't seen in 20 years. And I missed it! Bah!

A very handsome man named Breck (whom I've known since about 7th grade)sent me a link to pictures from our graduating year and from the 10- and 20-year reunions. He's a mensch. Jan, there are acres of pictures of you, in all three links--check it out! I won't post it here unless Breck says it's ok.

Impertinent Questionnaire

1. What was your first "R" movie?
2. What was your first concert?
3. First name of your first kiss
4. Truth, or Dare?
5. Location of your losin' it
6. Your high school clique
7. When you were 13, you wanted to grow up to be a ...
8. Favorite "Charlie's Angels" character
9. What secret did you keep in high school?
10. Most disgusting thing you've ever eaten

Progress in Baby Steps

I have an anger problem. When I observe people doing and/or saying stupid things, I get disproportionally angry with them. Also, I hold massive, rock-solid grudges. Until Superfly pointed it out to me, I was oblivious to having this problem. It's an unhealthy way to live and, since I suck all that anger inside through my gritted teeth rather than unleash it, it really only hurts me. I want to change, to resolve all this anger and be free of it. My therapist is super nice and helpful, my boyfriend has one eye on me and one eye on the nearest exit.

So last night, my friend K-Money and I went out to karaoke. Same place we always go, same people we always see. Except Bobulah was feeling blue and stayed in.

In walks the trio of girls I made fun of in an earlier post for being young, dumb, and on a slippery slope towards slut. Hugs and air kisses ensue, allowing me a good view of a necklace one of them had on. It was a Star of David pendant, only with a cross in the center.

I didn't know Jews for Jesus were in Lancaster! "Where did you get that?" I asked, fury mounting. "Oh, isn't it cute? My friend got it in Israel for me." And she sashayed away.

Am I a spokesmodel for Judaism? Absolutely not. Yet righteous indignation was threatening to overpower my reason and sense of decorum and strangle the girl with her own necklace. This is a perfect example of my problem: it's no business of mine if people wear dumb things and I have no right or reason to get angry.

When you're angry, of course, you don't care much about all that. I fumed silently for a few minutes, discussed the situation with K-money, and decided to try a different tact.

I approached the girl, smiling, and asked if I could speak with her privately. Then, I complimented her on the necklace before launching into a delicately-worded explanation about why some people might be offended by it, as an F.Y.I. Clearly not comprehending the words coming out of my mouth, she smiled and nodded. Then she said, "Gosh, I just think it's cute. See, I'm Christian and my friend is Jewish, and...it's like one of those 'Best Friends' necklaces, you know?"

Yeah, I know. And when you put it like that my anger vaporizes. So what if she wears that thing, or a pink glitter swastika pendant? It has nothing to with me.

Folks, that's what we call a "breakthrough". Pretty soon, I'll be so gentle and peace-loving, I'll have to get a new nickname!

Adult Swim

No, not the Cartoon Network program (although I am a fan).

Remember being, let's say, twelve years old? It's summertime and you and your pals are down at the neighborhood pool. Everyone is happily doing cannonballs, playing "chicken", and performing underwater acrobatics. Right in the middle of a rousing game of Marco Polo, the zinc-nosed lifeguard blows his whistle and orders everyone out of the pool.

Adult Swim. 15 minutes of standing around, sighing dramatically, giving your friend a little towel whip, and glaring at the one or two adults swimming lazy laps in the pool. This practice should be outlawed, you think to yourself. How dare these saggy, swim cap-festooned grown-ups infringe upon our summertime fun?

After a grueling hour of ellipical blah blah and recumbant bicycling, all I wanted was a couple of laps in the gym's gorgeous, olympic-sized swimming pool. I changed into my darling new swimsuit, rinsed, and chugged my soggy flip-flops into the pool area.

It's crammed with kids. I look...and look...and look. No roped-off lane for laps. There's tot swimming lessons here, kids in day camp there, mom and babies over there. Petulant on the inside, polite on the outside, I ask the teenager with the whistle about lap swimming.

"5:00 - 8:00am weekdays, 7:00-9:00am weekends," she says, in between gum snaps. "You can't give up one lane for lap swimming? It's a big pool," I counter. She stops snapping her gum and fixes me with a weary sneer. "[Sigh]You can try in between aqua classes. Oh, and the camp." She catches sight of a little boy preparing to dive in the shallow end and takes off running, yelling and blowing her whistle.

Damn kids.

Clarification

Enough questions about my blog and my profile arose to warrant an explanation of terms. By calling myself "fashionably disabled", I'm not trying either to be cute or to assert that other disabled people are unfashionable.

I am indeed disabled, according to Social Security. A terrifyingly thorough investigation into my background, character, and medical history was conducted in order to make this determination. The process was tedious and ego-shattering. My lifestyle is pretty damn far from glamorous or fashionable, now that I am disabled.

The other disabled people I know feel more or less the same about their journey and changed way of life. We're happy to be alive, we're making the best of it, we're grateful to be living as normally as we can.

Normal for me just involves a lot of bedazzling, really fantastic shoes, and dirty gossip.

Hope this clears it up for ya.

Vive La Revolution!

In honor of Bastille Day and with a fond wave to ma famille en France, I give you the French national anthem, in English. See if reading it doesn't give you visions of guillotines dancing in your head:

La Marseillaise

Arise children of the fatherland
The day of glory has arrived
Against us tyranny's
Bloody standard is raised
Listen to the sound in the fields
The howling of these fearsome soldiers
They are coming into our midst
To cut the throats of your sons and consorts

To arms citizens Form your battalions
March, march
Let impure blood
Water our furrows

What do they want this horde of slaves
Of traitors and conspiratorial kings?
For whom these vile chains
These long-prepared irons?
Frenchmen, for us, ah! What outrage
What methods must be taken?
It is us they dare plan
To return to the old slavery!

What! These foreign cohorts!
They would make laws in our courts!
What! These mercenary phalanxes
Would cut down our warrior sons
Good Lord! By chained hands
Our brow would yield under the yoke
The vile despots would have themselves be
The masters of destiny

Tremble, tyrants and traitors
The shame of all good men
Tremble! Your parricidal schemes
Will receive their just reward
Against you we are all soldiers
If they fall, our young heros
France will bear new ones
Ready to join the fight against you

Frenchmen, as magnanimous warriors
Bear or hold back your blows
Spare these sad victims
That they regret taking up arms against us
But not these bloody despots
These accomplices of Bouillé
All these tigers who pitilessly
Ripped out their mothers' wombs

We too shall enlist
When our elders' time has come
To add to the list of deeds
Inscribed upon their tombs
We are much less jealous of surviving them
Than of sharing their coffins
We shall have the sublime pride
Of avenging or joining them

Drive on sacred patriotism
Support our avenging arms
Liberty, cherished liberty
Join the struggle with your defenders
Under our flags, let victory
Hurry to your manly tone
So that in death your enemies
See your triumph and our glory!

[with thanks and due credit to marseillaise.org]

*Warning!* Political Rant Ahoy!

Tuesday night, my sweet-cheeked friend Bobulah and I went to the local gay bar Tallyho ("The Ho" to us in the know) for a night of karaoke. I whined and sighed exaggeratedly, knowing it to be a smoky deathtrap and I allergic to cigarette smoke in such oppressive quantities. In any case, the object of Bobulah's desire eventually turned up, as expected. They are teeth-shatteringly adorable together.

Somehow, the subject of religion comes up in our conversation. Bobulah said something to the object of his affection about me being Jewish. "Really?" He said, and turned his whole body on his barstool to face me. "Can you tell me about this Palestine thing? Why won't Israel give up some land for them?"

If he's reading this, Superfly just said, "Oh shit." He knows that tempting Trouble into political debate is always a bad idea for everyone involved, especially Superfly, who never is involved but always suffers the fallout.

Let's review:

First, there is no such thing as "Palestine" or "Palestinians". When the Jewish state was re-established in the Middle East after several centuries of diaspora, the people living there were Jews and various tribes from various neighboring countries. None of them were "Palestinians".

Once Israel kicked the crap out of Egypt it became an enemy of Islam. Since then, Islamic nations have called for the destruction of Israel. Instead of absorbing the Arab and Persian people living in Israel (who didn't wish to live in a Jewish state) into their vast Arab and Persian countries and cultures, the leaders of the Arab and Persian countries rejected them, telling the homeless refugees that the land of Israel was actually their ancestral home, and that they ought to destroy Israel and take "their" land back. This meshugas started over fifty years ago.

Nowadays, you have Islamic Militants training and brainwashing generations of Israeli Arabs into believing this lie of "Palestine" and Israel's "occupation" thereof. I'll tell you what: Israel will stop blowing up "Palestinians" when "Palestinians" stop suicide bombing and plotting to destroy Israel. I feel bad for the Israeli Arabs too: foreign militants are using them as decoys and human shields and lying through their turbans about their rights and roles.

If these Arabs need a homeland, there are gigantic neighboring countries rich with oil that can reasonably assimilate them, if it didn't serve their political purposes to refuse them. They are pawns of Militant Islam, not victims of Israel. Israel has every right to defend and protect her citizens from terrorism.

Looking at a map of the Middle East, you have to be surprised at the tiny piece of real estate responsible for so much war. And for what? Israel maintains its right to exist; the rest of the Middle East badly wants to wipe it from the map. Put in such simple terms, it all seems ridiculous. Yet more people die on both sides everyday towards one side's agenda or the other.

My solution? Offer the "Palestinians" a deal: become Israeli citizens or find asylum in another country. Reaffirm Israel's borders and offer to bomb Iran, Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, and Saudia Arabia back to the stone age if they even look crossways at Israel. Allow Israeli Arabs every opportunity to practice their religion and culture within the fabric of Israeli society--up to the point they run around with M-16s and blow themselves up in nightclubs.

Do I hate Arabs? No. I have only one Muslim friend, and he's a pretty low-key guy. I'm friendly to the many Arabs in my neighborhood. I don't actively hate a whole populace. That takes more commitment and lots more lunacy than I'm willing to put forth.

I do specifically hate Ann Coulter and Paris Hilton, though. Oh, yes.

Lesson learned: Don't ask me about politics unless you really want to know what I think.

Hot Damn!

So, this fine lady left a comment on my last post, making it nigh impossible for me not to check out her blog.

You gotta! I'll be adding her to my blogroll fo sho. The tiny font is a bit of a headache that's well worth the eye strain--she is smart, funny, offers right-on observations, and clearly gots excellent taste.

First one that yells "girl crush!" gets punched in the nose.

Thoughts From the Couch

Had my therapy appointment today. I really do like Dr. F, he's young, hip, funny, and way too smart for his own good. I especially like that he won't hesitate to call "Bullshit" on his clients, in this case: me.

These days we are discussing anger. It may surprise you to learn I have a bit of a temper and some problems controlling it. Sometimes it means I frown and cross my arms, sometimes I go wild-eyed apeshit all over your ass. Dr. F. and I both wish to discover the root of this rage so we might work on relieving me of it.

Today's lightbulb moment: Ridiculous Standards

In which I hold myself and everyone around me to impossible standards of behavior and punish the offender with unholy rage. Sometimes, I do this pre-emptively, as in, "I fucking know so-and-so is going to do..." [Urge to kill, rising, Rising!] Often, people don't even know that I wish to stab them in the eye.

Where my infernal rage and desire to act right and be polite merge is the place you want to avoid. Therein lies the smoking carcasses of well-meaning or foolish people willing to take on a whirling, expletive-screaming, plate-hurling dervish of enraged she-devil. Of course, once the dust settles, I grab the broom and some Febreeze.

Dr. F. specializes in Anger management. He is a little afraid of me.

I Am So Smart

First, let it be known that I RULE the World Series of Pop Culture on VH1. Seriously, I would mop them up.


Second, I am now a metroblogger. Please take the time to support me in my new endeavor by visiting the site!


MMMMMwah!

SOaP

That's supposedly upcoming movie release Snakes on a Plane for you cave-dwellers who were watching "American Inventor" while this internet phenomenom made news all of the blogosphere and beyond.

You'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger Samuel L. Jackson fan than me, but I'm still not buying this movie concept. I get that they're aiming for instant cult status with the guerilla marketing campaign, but the preciously clever "is it a real movie or ain't it?" bullshit sure is grating.

Try this: at a completely inappropriate moment among co-workers or fellow restaurant diners, say, "Snakes on a Plane," loudly. I promise you'll get at least one double-take, or chortle, or stare. Because this is how buzz is manufactured, don't you know.

If and when this movie comes out, we'll all go see it--lest we not be "cool".

In the meantime, enjoy this video of an impressionist taking on SOaP.

Don't Call Me a Slacker, Bobulah!

I'll wreck ya!

Superfly boyfriend paid me and greater Lancaster County a visit this past weekend, so ex-cuuuuuuuuse me if I had better things to do than blog. Hmph! Besides, I have another periodontal abscess and I'm quite cranky.

We did have several fun nights of karaoke goodness, didn't we? K-Money's triumphant return from the wastelands of a family holiday in Virginia Beach and Superfly in town: what more can you want, eh?

If you haven't yet checked out Bobulah's blog, you're missing some real coffee-spewing reading, fantastic songwriting, and the odd touching moment. Plus, he posted the Karaoke Kommandments, alone worth the click-over.

Rumors abound that the Lodge will soon close, depriving us of the many characters and experiences that warped us into the drooling addicts we are today. If I could buy the Lodge, oh, the changes I would make:

1. Update the decor. [File this under "massive understatement"]
2. Keep bar staff and entertainment staff separate.
3. Post Bobulah's Karaoke Kommandments near the KJ booth and in all the songbooks.
4. Utilize the security staff I'd hire to enforce said Kommandments.
5. Hold giveaways and contests regularly.
6. Advertise cautiously.
7. No fucking "dance music" or poker. Karaoke 7 nights/week, bar none.
8. If regulars refuse door charges or table minimums, there'll be a per-song charge. This will also cut down on karaoke-hogging.
9. Institute Guest KJ and Guest Bartender night.
10. Install a gong on-stage and make one person the official gong-er of the night.

What beautiful ideas, no? Sadly, even if I had that kind of money, I'd probably just spend it at Bendel.

P.S. Good potential for few posts this week as I have urgent need of an oral surgeon. [insert raunchy joke here]

Wingman

Friday nights at the Lodge are substantially less fun than weeknights. After paying a cover (are ya kidding me? This is a dive bar in Lancaster, PA!) and searching for a decent table, you must suffer an interminable roster of horrible bachelorette and birthday party singers before getting a chance to sing. The smoke is unendurable, the noise grating, the service abyssmal.

Last Friday night Bobulah and I went to the Lodge, thinking the July 4th weekend would thin the herd a little. We were right! After settling in to our table we each filled out a pile of song slips and presented them to our pirate friend, Captain DJ Star. Arrrgh.

Because we both were in mopey and cranky moods, Bobulah and I sat and drank our Miller Lite and Lager (respectively) and took in the hideous performances silently.

A foursome of the Trying-Too-Hard club of dumb bitches came in, giggling and thrusting out their bosoms. "Hi, Trouble,honey!" they called out, I grunted in return. I hadn't met the fourth before, she was a very shy and very overweight girl whose well-fitting and modest clothes clashed dramatically with the hootchies she was with. Spent less than a second pondering that curiousity, as a some guy promptly came over and sat down beside me.

"Don't mind me," he said, grinning, "I was set up to meet that girl (pointing at the heavy girl with the skeezes) and, well, I'm looking for a way out."

I thought about braining him with my cellphone, but was truly too disinterested to protest much. "What did you have in mind, exactly?" I asked him, and he did his best to backpedal and offer assurances of not trying to hit on me. He just wanted to pretend he was with our group so he wouldn't have to talk to the unfortunate girl.

"Whatever." So he sat with us, occasionally trying to start conversations by overplaying what little charm a 22-year holds for [ahem] more mature people. We sat and watched. We sang. Once again, the smoke and hot lights melted my mascara in the middle of my performance, further ruining my mood.

The shrill skanks were in a hot lather about the fat girl's "date" with Mr. Dude, who was sitting with [gasp!] Trouble. They intercepted the poor sap on his way to the bar and the men's room, haranguing him about how badly he was treating their friend. They cast death glares in my direction. I continued not to care.

We left at closing and Mr. Dude followed us up the stairs and into the parking lot.

One week later: The girls put their gossiping into overdrive, and I received impertinent questions from people who ought to know better about my personal life. I have four new enemies. Whoopee.

Is there any benefit at all to being a Wingman?

Mazel Tov!

My gorgeous and wonderful friend (the world famous) Jan Deland just had a baby, her second daughter. Oceans of love to you and Israel's newest (and most fabulous) citizen!

MySpace

I'm on MySpace, finally, after much haranguing from "friends" in my "network" who still haven't added me. Feh!

Better still, here is a groovy video of a song I know you love:


Get this video and more at MySpace.com

Whine

What am I doing wrong? Is it a matter of luck? The right connections?

I am a reasonably talented writer with an excellent education and considerable (published in magazines, newspapers, online, and in a real book!) experience. I take writing classes and network at every opportunity. I scour editorial want-ads and apply myself like cheap wallpaper. We'll call this the "+" column.

The "-" column: I don't have rich or influential parents. I went to the University of Denver, a school known mainly for it's excellent hockey program and for churning out tax attorneys. Instead of interning, like all the cool kids, I alienated helpful mainstream media contacts by writing for underground, subversive 'zines and websites. Even three years with "alternative media" Borg New Times, Inc. in the absolute eye of the editorial hurricane, helped my writing career not one whit.

Pimpin' ain't easy, that's fo sho. My lovely book proposal--shopped around using bona fide tips, not blindly feeding the slush pile--is ignored more than Kathy Griffin.

Which brings me to my whine. This The Devil Wears Prada book? And, especially, Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing? Piece of shit books, made into piece of shit movies, making piece of shit writers millionaires. Any bookstore offers acres more shit books. Every magazine and newspaper you pick up reveals horrible writing, a dearth of interesting story ideas, and zero creativity.

Clearly, this is not a difficult job to do, just a difficult one to obtain.

Petulantly, I shall keep doing what I'm doing and keep fingers crossed that luck still plays some small part in becoming a successful writer, and that I'll trip over a pile of luck soon.

Reunion

In case anyone out there was wondering about my upcoming reunion: I can't go for financial reasons. It would have been fun, I certainly would have blogged about the whole experience for your edification.

In preparation for the reunion, Supe and I watched "Grosse Pointe Blank". Sure wish they'd done a follow-up for the 20th reunion of the class of '86! I didn't really buy Minnie Driver in the role of Debbie, but it didn't matter: Cusack, Cusack, and Dan Ackroyd. Brilliant!

I'm bummed about missing the reunion, but I did have an amazing experience I'll share with you:

Tonight, as I was driving home from a rather mundane night on the town, I caught a flash of light out of the corner of my eye and pulled off the road. I shut off the car lights and sat, enraptured.

A row of trees, backlit by starry sky. Hundreds of fireflies flashing in the dark, like tiny fairies at a woodland creature jamboree. It was, I assure you, breathtaking.