|
|
Monday, July 19th, 2004
| |
2:40 am - Milk milk lemonade!
|
Whitesnake
Ben Kweller
Stevie Wonder
PJ Harvey
Def Leppard
The Smiths
The Cars
Poison
Michael Jackson
Ad Frank
Lil' Kim
***
These are just SOME of the people showing up (in spirit, or at least through their music) at River Gods TONIGHT, 8:00 PM - midnight.
Boogie your ass off or make-out to my fine musical selections.
|
|
(7 comments | comment on this)
|
| Thursday, July 15th, 2004
| |
7:42 pm - RIVER GODS UPDATE
|
Event starts at 8:00 P.M. I'm not sure if Baldino goes on first or me, but both sets will melt your face off.
(Check out The Weekly Dig Din listings for Monday, July 19!)
|
|
(comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, July 13th, 2004
| |
11:07 pm - A quick note
|
I don't live in San Francisco anymore.
I now reside (temporarily) in Cambridge, MA.
I will be DJ-ing on Monday, July 19th (that's next week) at River Gods, 125 River St. in Cambridgeport. I will be playing with my fantastical ex-boyfriend, but there will be no soap operaean drama because he is, well, a really swell guy.
All I request is your presence so that we can show him that he's short and can't bring the amount of people that I can.
Short people must be weeded out! With music! And I will be playing the good stuff...dare I say, the BETTER STUFF.
Time is TBA, but probably starts around 9:30 P.M. Be there or be square.
|
|
(16 comments | comment on this)
|
| Monday, May 24th, 2004
| |
2:08 pm - I've committed myself
|
|
| Sunday, May 9th, 2004
| |
2:38 pm - Putting the 'abled' in disabled
|
Don’t read David Sedaris on a plane.
Reading Sedaris is equivalent to strolling up and down the aisles with a sandwich board proclaiming, "Talk to me! I’m edgy yet approachable!" Similarly edgy and approachable people will most likely want to discuss his writings with you, which may work wonders if you’re single but otherwise may disturb your Weekly Dig crossword puzzle, incessant but thoughtful cuticle chewing, or internal dialogue regarding your shameful yet impervious desire for breast implants. These are the kind of books you conspicuously lay out on your plane tray table, or place on your lap on the T, or put in that see-through net pocket on the front of your backpack. (And if you didn’t do that with your copy of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, then you’re either lying or you don’t know who Jeff Tweedy or David Cross are.)
Mr. Sedaris has received plenty of accolades, including topping the New York Times bestseller list and acquiring heaps of literary praise from little unknown papers like the Los Angeles Times or trivial websites such as Salon.com. But what you don’t know is that he, in fact, is about to achieve something truly astonishing: he inspired a LiveJournal entry from Polkadotpanties. (Now put that on the back of Naked’s book jacket!)
And so, I awaken from a deep slumber, a hibernation from all things lyric and prose. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, gently push away those pesky Parisian bear cubs named "Languor" and "Ennui," and purposefully emerge from my damp cave in the land of Writer’s Block. Though I do not slouch toward Bethlehem, I do drool toward an eventual ending to this sordid tale of a penniless college student, a wheelchair-bound paraplegic girl, a secreted webcam, a passionate affair, an episode of perilous masturbation, and the broken leg that ensued.
( Grab a cold beer or two, put your feet up, and then read this. )
|
|
(3 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, February 18th, 2004
| |
12:41 pm - A scientific examination of our cultural/social mores in regards to women of high stature.
|
UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE!
Vomited in public (three times), saw the worst movie ever made at the San Francisco Indie Film Fest, roomed with Christians, drove around in a Benz, peered into tide pools, fell in love with a shirt with extra-long sleeves for my extra-long limbs, baked pumpkin-oatmeal muffins, experienced the O.C., purchased unfortunately inedible figs and leaves soap at the heavenly Lush, danced around to Ad Frank's newest release, partied at happy hour with the sweetest gay boys at Badlands, and got me some happy yellow roses on Valentine's Day. *sigh*
Among other things.
Lots of stuff happened, lots of stuff didn't happen, boredom occurred, boredom did not occur, yaddayaddayadda, meowmeowmeow.
When you see a fat person, do you go up to them and say, "Hey, you're really fat!" (Nice segue, huh?)
Maybe you do. I don't know, but my guess is that you probably don't. That's considered rude by most people, save drunken frat boys and small children, both of whom cannot control their impulse to comment on the obvious.
This all has to do with today's topic, which is a study called WHY DO PEOPLE FEEL THE NEED TO COMMENT ON MY HEIGHT ALL THE TIME.
Example A: 7-11, Fisherman's Wharf, San Francisco. 12:30 AM. I am being followed by a morbidly obese man who has a penchant for rearranging the coffee stirrers despite the fact that he is not an employee of 7-11. Transporting my desired cup of hazelnut coffee to the cashier for purchase, said man leans on to the counter next to me.
"Has anyone ever told you you look like Nicole Kidman?"
My roommate and I laugh politely, if not uncomfortably.
"I mean, you look just like Nicole Kidman in that movie 'Cold Mountain.'"
The cashier pounces on his robust friend, who obviously hangs out at the 7-11 on his late-night shift for lack of better things to do. "Yeah, dude, and you look like Tom Cruise!" We all laugh uproariously.
Until I realize the cashier said I look as much like Nicole Kidman as a 400-lb. obese man looks like Tom Cruise.
Hmm.
Misconception #1: Tall woman = Nicole Kidman.
Example B: Security check-point, Long Beach Airport, Long Beach. 9:45 AM. I am passing through the metal detectors on my way home to San Francisco after a long weekend in San Juan Capistrano and surrounding areas. Happy to know that my underwire bra has not set off any alarm systems this time around, I pick up what little baggage I have at the end of the conveyor belt.
"Hey! Are you really that tall or are you just wearing really high heels?"
Startled (because I thought I was free to plop my ass down in the waiting area after being deemed a non-terrorist threat), I turn to see a young red-headed security officer smiling at me while going through some poor sap's duffel bag. (FYI, all italicized text following is what is going through my head, as opposed to what I actually say, which is in quotation marks.)
Me: "Nope, I'm really this tall."
White, Red-Headed Security Guy: "No way. No you're not."
Fuck you.
Me: "I swear to God, I'm really this tall." (I raise my leg up above the table so he can see my retro, non-heeled, blue-and-gold Sauconys.) "See?"
WRHSG: "Jesus! You are tall! How tall are you?"
Do the curtains match the carpet?
Me: "Six feet even."
Suddenly, an Older African American Security Guy has joined our conversation.
OAASG: "You're not six feet tall. I'M six feet tall, and you're taller than me!"
You're way friggin' shorter than six feet, my friend. I can take one look at you and see you're 5'10" at best. Of course, all men who are 5'10" believe they are actually 6'0". Must I break this down for you? Okay.
Me: "You're not six feet tall."
OAASG and WRHSG, in unison: "You're 6'2"!"
As usual, assholes, you have fallen into the typical male response at having your manhood insulted by meeting a woman who is taller than you. First reaction? Deny, deny, deny that you are indeed short. Add two inches to her height and suddenly she's the freak. Makes you feel so much better, doesn't it?
Me: "You're both under six feet. Sorry."
WRHSG: "Hey, nothing wrong with being tall. I like tall women. Heh-heh-heh." *wink* *smirk* *wink*
And now we've finally met our Man With A Tall Fetish. They love to hide out and attack you when you least expect it.
Misconception #2: Tall woman + Red-Headed Security Guy With A Tall Fetish Who's Actually Shorter Than He Thinks He Is = let-me-delay-my-flight-so-we-can-have-a-quickie-in-the-airport-restroom.
I'm sure.
Example C: Dairy aisle, Safeway Supermarket, San Francisco. 6:00 PM. I only allow myself one handbasket around any supermarket, knowing that a full shopping cart will entice me to buy items I could not possibly carry home with my two hands. As is the custom, I have packed this handbasket to within an inch of its life (if shopping baskets were actually alive, of course), and I'm heading for the heavy items last: milk and OJ. I approach the generic brand skim milk shelf with caution. I have been spotted.
"Excuse me, young lady. Can you reach that carton of milk for me?"
An elderly lady is pointing her shriveled, knotty little hand toward the far back of the upper shelf, where the most-desired milk is stored: expiration date Feb. 28, as opposed to Feb. 24. A-HA! Here is a woman after my own heart. The old woman looks nervous, as if, in defiance of her request, I may suddenly display to her that I'm packing heat and she's about to eat some bullets.
I gladly procure her a Feb. 28th carton of cow juice.
However, as I reach up, I listen for any variation of "My, you sure are a tall drink of water!" One little utterance of this phrase and she can kiss that milk goodbye. Old people love to say that. This old person, thank the Lord, has refrained. Enjoy that milk, Grandma.
Misconception #3: Tall women are crusty, bitter lifeforms who would not help out the vertically-challenged elderly in need of dairy sustenance.
Now to clear up all those macro misconceptions on a more micro level...
1. We actually all look like Chyna.
2. Tall women never get with redheads. If we did, the ice caps would melt. Besides, sleeping with us is like sticking your weenis into the Grand Canyon.
3. Hey, we have grandmas, too.
current mood:  grumpy
|
|
(8 comments | comment on this)
|
| Friday, January 16th, 2004
| |
12:55 pm - Sing the song of the DDT springboard from the top rope
|
I have a real problem with motivation.
Back when I moved here (oh so long ago), I was motivated to go for really long walks! Yeah, walks! With an exclamation point!
"Hey, I'm in this crazy new city. What does it have to offer? Let's find out!" And then I'd head out on a really long journey all over San Francisco with my headphones and my flip-flops. I loved it. I had seemingly endless energy for these types of activities.
'Course, that's when the weather was better.
Oh, CRY ME A FUCKING RIVER, right?!? All you peeps in Boston are trying to survive 80-degree-below-zero temps and I'm saying I have a problem with motivating myself to go out when it's 45-degrees. Dudes, let me 'splain: once you're here, it's like you've known nothing else. Suddenly, 40-degree weather is bone-chilling. "Jesus Christ, I can't go out in that!" And you seriously mean it.
Sometimes I go home and I'm I'll like, "Yeaaaaah, I'm about to have myself a glass of water and then I'm going to go walk to such-and-such neighborhood and buy myself a big slice of sacripantina" or some such thing. But that bottle of red on top of the fridge sure looks enticing and just one glass won't hurt me, right? Maybe with some of the cheese I bought the other day, and few Wheatables to go along with it? You know, to wash down the wine? Then I'll certainly go for that walk and find out that this street leads to this street and that this neighborhzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
I'm out for the night.
That's what my 9-to-5 workweek usually looks like, and it can all be gathered up under the heading "UNMOTIVATED." Maybe even "UNMOTIVATED AND DRUNK, ALONE." (Sounds a bit more artistic, like my life is a painting. "Still-life with girl and wine glass in front of TV asleep, alone.")
However, despite all these efforts to the contrary, sometimes I actually DO things! Why, just the other week I did many things, which are handily outlined below:
Thursday, January 8: Suicide Girls Burlesque Show at the Great American Music Hall, San Francisco. Ooh, those Suicide Girls really get my goat. See here, I was expecting some titillating song-and-dance routine with some major ta-tas thrown in, but instead I got some half-assed high school production of what they call "burlesque." Terrible. Don't see it. In fact, you CAN'T see it because they do 3/4 of the act lying down on the stage, completely out of anyone's line of sight. The best part was all the punks getting pissed off and screaming "THIS IS BULLSHIT!" throughout the act. Punks [sic] not dead; it's alive and well and it's screaming all the right profanities when you're too much of a lameass to do it yourself.
Highly suggested alternatives: this, this, this, and this.
Saturday, January 10: Urban Ore, Berkeley; "Soul Poetry Night," Freight and Salvage, Berkeley. You know when you have one of those days that is so much like an out-of-body experience that when you attempt to explain it to someone later, you just get frustrated that no matter what you say, it just doesn't do the experience justice? There are no words -- no words -- to relate the experience of Soul Poetry Night at the Freight and Salvage, a coffeehouse (think Club Passim, Cambridge) in the East Bay. I'm going to give it the ol' college try, but it will inevitably end with me banging my head on the desk and pulling my hair out, knowing full-well that my fair readers won't comprehend the gravity of the situation I was in.
The day began with Urban Ore, which is basically a huge well-organized junkyard (as junkyards go). People dump off unwanted crapola, these people put prices on this crapola, and they resell it in their big, grungy warehouse. Doors, windows, sinks, tables, chairs, dressers, lamps, church pews, organs (the kind you play music on, not the kind preserved in formaldehyde), vases, and, um, toilets. Like, a ton of toilets. Toilets in every color of the rainbow. A virtual mountain of toilets that reaches skyward, a statement to man's ingenuity, his steadfastness, and his peepees and poopoos. (And I do mean man, because we all know that God takes girls' turdlettes up to heaven.)
Now, here comes the hard part: explaining how I ended up floating above my body, surveying a land of crushed velvet, linen tunics, and white men dressed as Indians. I mean, I could see my body sitting there in its folding chair... but was I really there? That may be a little too existential for my readers, so I don't expect you to answer it. Instead, I expect Roger Housden to answer it. Who the fuck is Roger Housden, you ask? Well, who the fuck knows! I certainly didn't, but I wasn't one of the aging hippies didgeridoo-ing their life away at a coffeehouse/folk venue in Berkeley. Let me educate you little corporate-bowing, commerical product-using, non-hemp-wearing, Tom Clancy-reading urbanites out there: Roger Housden compliles books of other people's poems and then goes around and reads them aloud for moist-between-the-legs AARP hippie women. He's the sex symbol of the new agey over-the-hill set, and somehow I got involved in their incestuous world of lutes and tablas and sitars and guttural screeches one dark and stormy Saturday night. I think we may have even been forced to hold strangers' hands and sway back and forth singing Rumi poems, but maybe that was patchouli-induced hallucinations?
Highly suggested alternatives: this, this, this, and this.
Sunday, January 11: Incredibly Strange Wrestling, DNA Lounge, San Francisco. Ah, yes, Incredibly Strange Wrestling. (No, seriously, click that fucking link and go to the Gallery of Wrestlers.) After Saturday's crushed velvet blanket of peace and love, a gal needs a heaping helping of suplexes, clotheslines, piledrivers, and dragon screw leg whips put on by wrestlers with the names "El Homo Loco," "Macho Sasquatcho," "The Poontangler," and "El Hijo de Carne Asada." Probably the best night of my friggin' life. I was a proud card-carrying WWF freak in fourth grade, and this was better than ringside seats at a classic Hulk Hogan vs. Jake the Snake Roberts match. There was all the aluminum-chair-over-the-head moves, the taking-the-fight-out-of-the-ring moves, the throwing-down-on-the-folding-table-holy-shit-it-just-broke-in-half moves, and even the baby-powder-blinding-you-in-the-eyes move. On top of all this violent debauchery, everyone brought corn tortillas to throw. In fact, you just chuck them at the audience as soon as you get into the club -- nevermind saving them for the wrestlers. It was a gigantic four-hour foodfight to a punkabilly soundtrack, provided by some tough native bands. (Tough because they kept getting corn tortillas whipped at their heads and still managed to play.) Who knew that some truly hilarious wrestling and tortilla-dodging would provide me with the joy of a thousand orgasms?
Highly suggested alternatives: NOTHING. This is as good as it gets, folks. The fall of the Berlin Wall was not as momentous as this. I weep knowing that every other experience in my life will never equal even half the blinding righteousness of this night.
|
|
(5 comments | comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, January 13th, 2004
| |
12:58 pm - My solemn word (for what it's worth).
|
|
| Wednesday, December 17th, 2003
| |
4:05 pm - Get your voyeurism on!
|
|
| Monday, December 15th, 2003
| |
10:50 am - Crossing my fingers for purgatory and hoping for the very best.
|
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder" is one cheezy saying that is actually the goddamn truth. I have been living this new life now for several months, which is very different from my "old" life back in Boston, which is something I miss on a daily basis, which sometimes makes me sad but sometimes makes me realize I had to get away from it for awhile, which sometimes makes me believe I could recreate that life on the West Coast, which kinda makes me think I'm stupid -- after all, how can you "recreate" the people you miss most? You can't. And going home over Thanksgiving really drove this point home. So there's the sappy side of Polka Dot Panties -- the gal whose flight was cancelled due to the blizzard but who didn't really care all that much because she didn't want to leave all that much. My friends (and other important people who shall go unmentioned) rock out with their collective cocks out. \m/\m/ <---throwing horns (Yeah, this is copied, too. All the cool stuff I've ever done and ever will do is thanks to BALDINO. You happy now, dork? Go eat a pillowful of dicks.)
Whew.
Confession time. What evil things have I been up to? It's not quite time for New Year's resolutions, but I've never really stuck to any sort of timetable as you can tell from my extremely intermittent LJ posts. Okay -- it's not like I regret anything, it's more like you all are the Catholic priests today and I'm the churchgoer going to confession. I was not raised to be religious, so excuse me if I do this all wrong.
Picture: me (without a wig, but can you even picture that?), in a dress (this is near to impossible), maybe some nude-colored hose, a nice classic pump, and one of those rhinestone barrettes in my hair that they sell in carts in the hallways of malls. Earth-tone make-up. A dab of perfume behind each earlobe. Pearls. Lots of pearls. Clutching a rosary in my hand. Hail Mary. Don your liturgical vestments and let's get started!
CONFESSION #1: Drinking and driving... on a schoolbus.
Come on. We've all been in friggin' fourth grade here, right? (If you're still in fourth grade, I commend you for finding my website.) We've all dreamed of sneaking dad's tall boy on to the schoolbus one morning and throwing it back like it ain't a thang. Well, I know I have. Talk about being the coolest kid on the block -- swigging beer on the bus while all the other kids were swilling cow juice out of paper cartons and talking about how George the Animal Steele ate the stuffing out of the posts last night and how Hacksaw Jim Duggan took his 4x4 to Paul Bearer's head. What the fuck!?? I would've been a totally different person if I had been drinking since the fourth grade. I suppose I am happy that I had a childhood, though.
The moral (or not-so-moral) of this story is that I let this fantasy come true. Yes, I drank on a schoolbus. No, it was not populated by fourth graders; rather, it was a bus full of twenty-somethings, but if I closed my eyes real tight and hummed the themesong to "Greatest American Hero," it was just like I was transported back to Garvin Elementary circa 1980-whatever. This schoolbus experience was courtesy of my dear friend [ Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<a [...] <a>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] "Absence makes the heart grow fonder" is one cheezy saying that is actually the goddamn truth. I have been living this new life now for several months, which is very different from my "old" life back in Boston, which is something I miss on a daily basis, which sometimes makes me sad but sometimes makes me realize I had to get away from it for awhile, which sometimes makes me believe I could recreate that life on the West Coast, which kinda makes me think I'm stupid -- after all, how can you "recreate" the people you miss most? You can't. And going home over Thanksgiving really drove this point home. So there's the sappy side of Polka Dot Panties -- the gal whose flight was cancelled due to the blizzard but who didn't really care all that much because she didn't want to leave all that much. My friends (and other important people who shall go unmentioned) rock out with their collective cocks out. \m/\m/ <---throwing horns (Yeah, this is copied, too. All the cool stuff I've ever done and ever will do is thanks to <a href="http://photos.friendster.com/photos/95/50/1200559/1496260368220l.jpg/"><u>BALDINO</u></a>. You happy now, dork? Go eat a pillowful of dicks.) Whew. Confession time. What evil things have I been up to? It's not quite time for New Year's resolutions, but I've never really stuck to any sort of timetable as you can tell from my extremely intermittent LJ posts. Okay -- it's not like I <i>regret</i> anything, it's more like you all are the Catholic priests today and I'm the churchgoer going to confession. I was not raised to be religious, so excuse me if I do this all wrong. Picture: me (without a wig, but can you even picture that?), in a dress (this is near to impossible), maybe some nude-colored hose, a nice classic pump, and one of those rhinestone barrettes in my hair that they sell in carts in the hallways of malls. Earth-tone make-up. A dab of perfume behind each earlobe. Pearls. Lots of pearls. Clutching a rosary in my hand. Hail Mary. Don your liturgical vestments and let's get started! <b>CONFESSION #1: Drinking and driving... on a schoolbus.</b> Come on. We've all been in friggin' fourth grade here, right? (If you're still in fourth grade, I commend you for finding my website.) We've all dreamed of sneaking dad's tall boy on to the schoolbus one morning and throwing it back like it ain't a thang. Well, I know I have. Talk about being the coolest kid on the block -- swigging beer on the bus while all the other kids were swilling cow juice out of paper cartons and talking about how <a href="http://www.thewrestlingview.com/animal.jpg/"><u>George the Animal Steele</u></a> ate the stuffing out of the posts last night and how <a href="http://www.shreve.net/rrlimo/hacksaw.jpg/"><u>Hacksaw Jim Duggan</u></a> took his 4x4 to <a href="http://www.losrudos.com/apaulb3.jpg/"><u>Paul Bearer's</u></a> head. What the fuck!?? I would've been a <i>totally</i> different person if I had been drinking since the fourth grade. I suppose I am happy that I had a childhood, though. The moral (or not-so-moral) of this story is that I let this fantasy come true. Yes, I drank on a schoolbus. No, it was not populated by fourth graders; rather, it was a bus full of twenty-somethings, but if I closed my eyes real tight and hummed the themesong to "Greatest American Hero," it was just like I was transported back to Garvin Elementary circa 1980-whatever. This schoolbus experience was courtesy of my dear friend <a href="http://photos.friendster.com/photos/67/54/1714576/747515537062l.jpg/"<a><u>Carla</u></a>, who visited me in late November. This is such a long story that I'm not even going to go into all the details, but basically I found myself on a hippie 1970s schoolbus with the back seats knocked out, which were all replaced by a bar to serve its riders; this bus then crashed a birthday soiree, partied until the wee hours, was kicked out, picked up more passengers and headed to a warehouse party in rough West Oakland, partied and danced into the <i>wee, wee</i> hours, and dropped me, myself, and I (and the lovely Carla) back off at my apartment. What did I get out of this? An honest-to-God missed connection posted on Craig's List (do I get an award for that?), a terrible hangover, a run-in with my first transgender, a terrible hangover, further insight into the wild and crazy world of those odd <a href="http://www.burningman.com/"><u>Burning Man</u></a> folks, and a terrible hangove--- err, dehydration. Who knew one of <a href="http://www.suffolksecurity.com/assets/images/schoolbus.jpg/"><u>these</u></a> could be such a harbinger of sin? Forgive me, Father. <b>CONFESSION #2: Rang dang diggity dang di-dang.</b> I ain't touching this one, but I will let you read into it as you will, learning a lesson along the way: <a href="http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/White-Lines-Don't-Don't-Do-It-U-S-12-Street-Mix-lyrics-Grandmaster-Flash/43965F8ACC2E595548256D8A002F4B90/"><u>click here and scroll slightly down</u></a>. "Rich baby, interesting." Pay attention to the Grandmaster. Forgive me, Father. <b>CONFESSION #3: I lied to Bob and Eileen.</b> Bob, Eileen -- I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I was a bad daughter and told you I was staying with Hillary when I was visiting Boston. I know it's comforting to think that I slept at the home of that innocent-looking pigment-deprived pale blond girl from North Dakota whom you think is an angel fallen from heaven to protect me while I'm on this earth. I know, I know -- why can't I have more friends like her? Why is she the only seemingly "normal" one? (The "normal" ones are almost the freakiest, though, aren't they? Don't tell B&A, ok?) You caught me. You tried calling her and I wasn't there. I was with, um, not with a BOY or any BOYS, or <i>anything at all with a penis</i> -- I fucking SWEAR TO GOD I'm still a friggin' VIRGIN there is no way I'd be with any kind of boy or anything at all that even <i>resembles</i> a boy (I can't even be around hotdogs or cucumbers without getting douche chills)-- I mean UGH THEY HAVE COOTIES and they get you PREGNANT just by LOOKING at you you must be crazy nevermind I was <i><b>definitely</b></i> with Hillary so forget I even said this wow I think I'm really losing it. Boys. Disgust. Me. I'm <i>so</i> waiting for marriage. Forgive me, Father. <b>CONFESSION #4: I just lied in my third confession.</b> Forgive me, Father. <b>CONFESSION #5: It wasn't my fault I saw the Paris Hilton sex tape.</b> I think I may have asked someone to locate the Paris Hilton sex tape on the internet, download it, save it to his laptop, bring the laptop to his apartment, plug it in, rev it up, and push play. The details are hazy. Either way, forgive me, Father. ****************** That's the end of confession time. Thank you for being Priest For A Day and listening to my acts against God. I will be back on the suh-<i>weet</i> East Coast between Tuesday, December 23 - Sunday, January 4. Until then, happy holidays y'all. <i>*It seems as though very few of my links are working for me today. You're just going to have to remember your WWF wrestlers and use your imagination in other instances. You can do it!</i>
current mood:  accomplished
|
|
(10 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, December 10th, 2003
| |
11:54 am - When wigs attack.
|
|
| Friday, November 7th, 2003
| |
11:51 am - I'm the six-foot tall Shirley Temple of your nightmares.
|
Thank you Moustache Cup for asking me where the hell I have been, which got the juices flowing and the blood up there to the good ol' brain, where I suddenly remembered, "Hey! I have a LiveJournal! And I'm supposed to write about porn!" I never thought I'd say this, but...
I'm all porn'd out.
These days, porn to me is eating a muffin. Jesus Christ, I love muffins. Muffins are the perfect breakfast food, especially when they are all sweet and sticky on top and leave a little grease on your fingertips. (I'm sorry, muffins are definitely pornographic.) There are many fantastic little Italian bakeries lining the sidewalks of my neighborhood, and sometimes I stop at the delicious Stella Pastry and Cafe on Columbus Avenue and purchase myself a large coffee and homemade blueberry muffin. It's a good, airy, not-too-sweet-but-still-sweet muffin, with real honest-to-God blueberries. (I am a bit of a muffin connoisseur as you can see.) I should be happy with this muffin, lovingly made by a cafe owned and operated by several generations of real Eye-talians, but, well, I'm not.
I like to get my muffins at Safeway.
Yeah, Safeway has damn good muffins. I don't know how a chain supermarket outdoes every single bakery in North Beach, but it succeeds to do so. I feel like a cheap floozy going into Safeway and buying muffins when I'm surrounded by some of the best little cafes this side of the Rocky Mountains. I don't know; I think I just had to confess to this in a public forum. I do feel shame. On the other hand, I have developed a real addiction to a dessert called sacripantina, which I believe consists of pastry cream, sponge cake soaked in rum, crumbled Savoy biscuits, and traces of heroin.
On with the show, right?
Rather than bore you with a narrative-like entry of recent goings-on through the eyes and ears of Polka Dot Panties, I'm going to list it in a nice, organized manner. (You know I love lists!) Now, in absolutely no chronological order, I offer you the true-and-true story of where the hell I've been and what the hell I've been up to.
( BRING IT! )
current mood:  peaceful
|
|
(9 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, October 22nd, 2003
| |
9:56 am - Bye, bye Elliott.
|
|
| Friday, October 17th, 2003
| |
12:48 pm - A blank, open space in the day for an entry.
|
Yesterday evening was truly inspirational, which is a word I do not use often. You wouldn't think seeing Dan Savage, author of the infamous sex-advice column Savage Love, speak at A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books would be, well, inspirational, but it was. (And don't you think naming your bookstore "A Clean Well-Lighted Place for Books" is so dorky that it's cool? My childhood best friend Sarah and I used to joke about opening a restaurant and calling it "Restaurant." Now I'm thinking more like, "A Place to Eat Operated by a Six-Foot-Tall Girl and her Homosexual Best Friend.") So, I went to see Mr. Savage talk about his new book, Skipping Towards Gomorrah. I sat in a little folding chair in the middle of the very intimate children's book section (really) with about thirty other people and listened to one of the greatest liberal minds talk about anything and everything. This man knows his politics, is extremely well-informed, clearly intelligent and articulate, and devastatingly sharp, clever, and funny. The entire time I was listening to him, I kept thinking how much of an idiot I am for not bringing along a notepad and jotting down his major points. I will try to list a few of the things I thought amusing or interesting or just controversial, and omit much of the deeper political stuff (although it's surely more important, so go purchase the book):
*Dump anyone who won't give you head. If a man won't give a woman cunnilingus, he is a misogynist. If a woman won't give a man a blowjob, she's is displaying archaic behavior and should be gotten rid of immediately. These days, one should rightfully expect oral sex from a relationship. If you continue on with an individual adverse to the practice of going down on you, that is your "price of admission." (A phrase Dan uses for giving in and accepting 'negatives' because, basically, you think you can't do any better.) One of the best quotes of the night: "I hate it when a woman says, 'Giving head is disgusting. It feels like my boyfriend is fucking my throat!'" And Dan responds, "Because that's what he is doing!!" (Interesting sidenote: Dan went on to say that he feels women who do not enjoy giving blowjobs probably had a bad experience with a guy that basically shoved it in their face and was too, well...violent in this thrusting. He wanted to remind the audience that having sex with a person's face is completely different than having sex with a person's genitalia, and men have to remember this.)
*Dan, in fact, does not lust after Ashton Kutcher. ("I thought he was cute until he moved.") He does not like tighty-whities. The whole thing was a big joke that he is playing along with because he finds it hilarious. Anything personal he "reveals" about himself in the column is always a lie. Period. (Although he did say he would definitely want to see Brad Pitt naked, "even if he was cumming on my mother's face.")
*Gay men need to have less sex. Straight men need to have more sex. He feels sympathy towards straight men because it is so hard for them to get laid compared to everyone else. Women won't ever need to pay for it, and the homosexual world is overflowing with it. It's the straight man who is always the loser, and his advice to them is always to just "go for it" with a woman, because the fact of the matter is, it probably just won't happen. Hey, but at least you gave it a shot, right?
*No one should have voted for Nader during the last election and he endorses Howard Dean for President for this election.
*During Q&A, one woman asked (following the "oral-sex-is-necessary" conversation) what Dan thought about a man who refused to let his girlfriend go down on him. "I let him go a looong time ago," she added with a smirk. His response was fantastic -- why is it that men are faulted for their sexual hang-ups? A woman's sexual boundaries are always respected, even deemed "holy" or "sacred." But when a man says no -- especially to head, which is held up among men as pretty much the ultimate way to get off -- he is thought of as a freak, that there is something wrong, that he must've been abused as a child. What about this: he just doesn't like it? He's right.
There were so many other great and wonderful things said, but I won't go into any further details. (Another reason to buy the book: when 9/11 happened, Dan decided to take Bush's advice to "pump money back into the NYC economy" by using his publisher's money to hire some New York City prostitutes over the course of a few nights. A hilarious scenario ensues, where he takes out a breathtakingly gorgeous female escort for $500/hour -- a "more beautiful Cameron Diaz" -- only to find out her 6'6" muscle-laden boyfriend, who is straight, is also an escort -- for gay men. He rents him the following night. Needless to say, it's an engaging tale.)
I have typed all this and wonder if anyone will actually read it because it's not a typical Polka Dot Panties entry. To make up for it, though, I plan my next piece to be entirely about porn -- my views on it, other people's view on it, and why it's okay. Yay! Until then: click here immediately!
current mood:  hungry
|
|
(6 comments | comment on this)
|
| Tuesday, October 14th, 2003
| |
6:58 pm - San Francisco to Monterey for only $38 and a heaping slice of your sanity!
|
I am taking this time to report that my brother, Greg, did not ditch me this weekend (the trend has been otherwise) and I went to and came back from Disneyland/Universal Studios over the Columbus Day weekend.
I took a Greyhound bus from San Francisco to Monterey, where Greg and his two Army buddies were planning on driving overnight from the base to Anaheim, approximately seven hours away. The Greyhound ride alone added another three to four hours to the trip, so needless to say my ass hurts like a bitch. My bumcheeks are all crampy and acting up. Is there such thing as an ass massage? I need one. I bet I could get one in San Francisco, somewhere...
Anyway, I have a problem that I knew would surface on this Greyhound bus ride. This problem is that strangers like to talk to me, even if I've got my headphones on, I'm reading a book, and I've got a pillow on my lap. I don't welcome the human interaction -- it just finds its way to me. I knew the bus ride would be one for the history books as soon as I arrived at the station. I walked right up to the ticket counter to a smiling Greyhound representative.
"Good mooooooooooooorning!" she greeted me warmly, with a thick, indistinguishable foreign accent.
"Hi, I'm going to Monterey this afternoon," I informed said representative.
"Ahhhh, lovely! Let me see your ticket there and your ID, darling."
"Oh, okay, here is is," I replied.
"Are you a mother?"
EH, WHAT? Random! I knew I felt a bit haggard this morning, but this was a little much. A mother? So, I looked like I just escaped from my Coors Light-drinkin' beer-bellied husband and six rugrat kids to take a four hour bus ride to Monterey, just like when I was a swingin' single gal back in the day. Gonna go sit on the docks and smell the sea lions while I wistfully remember how I always wanted to backpack the world and sleep with lots of muscular foreign men but instead I got knocked up straight outta high school and have become an expert at making quick and satisfying cream of mushroom casseroles. Fantastic. Great. That made me feel real good. I looked down at my outfit -- a mother? I felt my face -- do I look tired? Did I put on my make-up this morning? What the fuck? I started rationalizing all this to make myself feel better. Maybe she meant I looked ma-ter-nal. You know, a generous, friendly, mother-of-the-Earth-type. Yeah, that's it. I don't look like a mother, I look like a gregarious motherfucker. Ah, life is good again. Thank you for your compliment, Greyhound representative.
"You know," she gleefully says to me as I come to terms with the forty-year-old stretchmarked woman inside me, "you can tell you are one from your lips, your hair, your look."
Now, I'm more confused. I look like a hot mom? I'm a hot mama? I'm a MILF? I'm Stiffler's mom? I guess that is an improvement. She continues on a bit more until I realize she is saying "model." I look like a model, she's telling me. I breathe a big sigh of relief, knowing that I've still got a few more years before people start accusing me of making fuck-trophies. Yay for me. Onward ho.
So, I'm on the bus, I'm doing my thing, cursing myself that I didn't bring more CDs and that I left Love in the Time of Cholera (with all of the last twenty pages or so remaining) on a park bench in Monterey. We stop at Santa Cruz, and a few passengers board and take their seats. I do not notice them or even bother to look up to acknowledge their presence, but one gentleman takes a seat a row behind me and very loudly begins to serenade the entire bus. How do all the crazies manage to purchase bus tickets? And why always Greyhound? Why not Peter Pan Bus Lines? Why not an underground system of tunnels? A raft made out of scrap wood? Why not hobo it on a freight train? Anyway, I did not look back to check him out -- I just thanked the Lord for the few CDs I did have and listened to my own soundtrack instead of his.
About fifteen minutes before Monterey, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Shit.
Of course.
Of course the nutso-crazy-o Santa Cruz guy has decided to strike up a conversation with moi. Not only am I a model, but I'm a social worker for those with mental illness and rank breath.
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey, where you gooooooooooooooing?" he asks in a low, very SoCal voice. I am surprised to see that he's not a stanky homeless dude, but what most girls would consider a very attractive (which means not my type*) tanned, blond surfer dude with the whitest, straightest teeth I have ever seen and deep, bluest-blue eyes.
"Monterey."
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Monterey. Yeaaaaaaaaah, riiiiight."
His eyes begin to roll all around in their sockets, and he begins to giggle to himself. Uh-oh.
"What did you study, in, like, um, college or something?"
"Public relations." I start to act very interested in the highway traffic as if my life depended on it.
"Err, uhhh... Public? Relations? Public? Relations? Uhhhhhhh...errr... how is that related?"
Fuck me.
I can't remember what I said, but it must have satiated him because there was silence in response, so I turned back to the absolutely engrossing view of speeding cars and asphalt.
Tap, tap.
"Heyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, um, do you like Norman Rockwell?"
EH, WHAT? What kind of oddball question is that? Even for a Greyhound nutcase, this was pretty weird. Norman Rockwell? Was he president of the Norman Rockwell fan club, Santa Cruz tripped-out surfer-dude chapter? Of course, the President of the Norman Rockwell Fan Club would be on my bus, and want to talk to me about Norman Rockwell. Clearly.
"No, actually, I don't like Norman Rockwell. I think his art is a little cheezy."
I think I mortally wounded him, because he looked absolutely fucking SHOCKED that I've said this. It's like I twisted a knife into his back, or maybe like I took his surfboard over my knee and gave it a nice crack right down the middle, or that I took a heaping dallop of Sex Wax and flung it at him, stinging, burning and blinding his eyes.
"DO YOU EVEN LIKE ART!?!!?" he exclaims.
Oh, Jesus. Jesus, please. Are you listening to me? Polka Dot Panties here. I know I bought that sacreligious plastic framed portrait of you at the strip mall in Watertown at Christmas (on sale two for $20, with a battery pack in the back that, when switched on, caused pulsating droplets of blood to rain from His enlarged heart). I know that I don't go to church, and when I do, I go to one of those fake Unitarian Universalist services. And that's only on the holidays. And I don't eat turkey on Thanksgiving, I eat Tofurkey, and that's not very American of me. I also can be a bit gluttonous, and I covet things and people and, occasionally, I have been known to have sex outside of marriage. I repent. And, I digress.
Why me? Why -- always -- me?
"I like art, but I like modern art," I begin to chew relentlessly and nervously on my cuticles.
I had to explain modern art to him, because he was utterly dumbfounded by this concept. He then proceeded to let me in on a little secret -- he doesn't just like Norman Rockwell, he also likes modern art -- modern art that was made in the 1400s.
Ugh.
Well, there wasn't much to say after that. I kinda just let that one fall there in the ethos, hovering between those Greyhound seats. Monterey did not come fast enough, and with a furtive glance and a slight raise of the hand towards the President of the Norman Rockwell Fan Club, Santa Cruz tripped-out surfer-dude chapter, I was off.
There isn't much to say about the rest of the trip -- Disneyland is small, and Universal Studios closes too early. Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is still the best, a psychological masterpiece truly unrivaled in the commercial amusement park world. My brother wouldn't let me get a chocolate-covered frozen banana, because it would have been too embarrassing for him. I saw Kill Bill at some luscious move theater on park property. Go see it, it's good.
Now I must go pee, and catch up on my beauty sleep. (Necessarily in that order.) I leave you with this: what is everyone dressing up as for Halloween?
*For any exes out there, I don't mean you're ugly. You know what I mean, you silly bastards. Haha! Ha?
current mood:  working
|
|
(2 comments | comment on this)
|
| Saturday, October 4th, 2003
| |
4:12 pm - Such is my lot in life...
|
I feel an update coming on, so I'm going for it. I want to let everyone know that I am slowly adjusting to my San Franciscan lifestyle. I do have my moments of despair and "what-the-fuck-have-I-done" head-slapping "I'm-such-an-idiot" episodes, but, overall, I've come to realize I will be here for awhile. Like, I can't just pick up and leave (can't afford it), so I might as well just get over myself. Right? Right! Now, that does not mean I have the balls to walk into a bar by myself yet, but I am working on it.
Last weekend, I decided to delve into the flaming BDSM gay man that lives inside me and attended the famous Folsom Street Fair. For a mere $4 (a steal, if you ask me), I was pushed through a wee opening at one end of Folsom Street and immediately immersed into the makings of a homosexual man's candyland. (A sexually-deviant, kinky, ball-gag-type of gay man, anyway.) I wandered the fair alone, experiencing an amazing sense of fulfillment as I spotted many a barenaked gentleman, rubbing his companion's penis or stroking his very own. I saw an amazing latex-clad young woman dragging her gimp, dressed in full-on gorilla costume, by his collar. I saw another individual with a life-like horse-head, being tied and flogged on a pole. If you felt like parting with another $4 or so, a vivacious lesbian offered to spit or walk on you with her heavy boots to your heart's content. I saw the amazing "fuck machine" -- in use -- which is basically a dildo attached to a motorized harness. The crowd cheered and saluted the two young ladies riding it, tied to its massive cannon and screaming with delight, heads thrown back. Well, as you can imagine, this whole thing made me very proud to be an American.
This weekend was supposed to be all F-U-N, too, but I've been doubly-ditched. First, by a lovely girl I met through eight degrees of separation also coincidentally named Jill. She said she was sick, and I believe her, but I was looking forward to drinking the night away at The Fairmont Hotel's tikki kitsch [ Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<a [...] <u>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] I feel an update coming on, so I'm going for it. I want to let everyone know that I am <i>slowly</i> adjusting to my San Franciscan lifestyle. I do have my moments of despair and "what-the-fuck-have-I-done" head-slapping "I'm-such-an-idiot" episodes, but, overall, I've come to realize I will be here for awhile. Like, I can't just pick up and leave (can't afford it), so I might as well just get over myself. Right? Right! Now, that does <i>not</i> mean I have the balls to walk into a bar by myself yet, but I am working on it. Last weekend, I decided to delve into the flaming BDSM gay man that lives inside me and attended the famous <a href="http://www.folsomstreetfair.com/"><u>Folsom Street Fair</u></a>. For a mere $4 (a steal, if you ask me), I was pushed through a wee opening at one end of Folsom Street and immediately immersed into the makings of a homosexual man's candyland. (A sexually-deviant, kinky, ball-gag-type of gay man, anyway.) I wandered the fair alone, experiencing an amazing sense of fulfillment as I spotted many a barenaked gentleman, rubbing his companion's penis or stroking his very own. I saw an amazing latex-clad young woman dragging her gimp, dressed in full-on gorilla costume, by his collar. I saw another individual with a life-like horse-head, being tied and flogged on a pole. If you felt like parting with another $4 or so, a vivacious lesbian offered to spit or walk on you with her heavy boots to your heart's content. I saw the amazing "fuck machine" -- <i>in use</i> -- which is basically a dildo attached to a motorized harness. The crowd cheered and saluted the two young ladies riding it, tied to its massive cannon and screaming with delight, heads thrown back. Well, as you can imagine, this whole thing made me very proud to be an American. This weekend was supposed to be all F-U-N, too, but I've been doubly-ditched. First, by a lovely girl I met through eight degrees of separation also coincidentally named Jill. She said she was sick, and I believe her, but I was looking forward to drinking the night away at The Fairmont Hotel's tikki kitsch <a href="http://concierge.fairmont.com/localDetails.process/OID_8C536BEE/OLID_8859/LID_139/CG_1/BID_820/"<u>Tonga Room</u></a>. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Then, today, one of the Friendster men that has been e-mailing me wanted to hang out. (That would be the punkish one with bad grammar, for those interested.) I called him to firm up plans, but he said he forgot he was supposed to attend a friend's party this evening. Another night of drinking dashed. Things with him were rescheduled for Monday. Should I be insulted that I've been dumped twice? Maybe. But, right now, all I want is a burrito and beer. Later, perhaps I will get upset about it, but I've got burrito on the brain. Columbus Day weekend looks promising, and that's only because I'm taking the bus to Monterey and driving overnight with my long-lost brother and his Army friends to Disneyland. (My brother said this to me: "Yo, you better be FUN!" Gosh darn it, I will sure try.) The thing that is so promising about this whole trip is that my brother is <i>blood</i>, so he can't really ditch me because there would be a tremendous amount of guilt involved, along with my mother's wrath. Excuse me while I locate a burrito now.
current mood:  frustrated
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, September 24th, 2003
| |
5:49 pm - I don't like yoga and I never will. Oh, and this is about Friendster.
|
Lately, that oft-lamented Friendster (distraction number 8,201 in the list of my favorite online distractions, lying somewhere between Suicide Girls, Craig's List Missed Connections, Girlshop, Nerve, and Vice Magazine), has become somewhat of a practical device. The purpose of Friendster being, of course, to make friends (although I prefer the voyeurism of just clicking on random suspects), I decided to change my profile recently to really showcase the feelings of abandonment I've been experiencing in my new home on the West Coast. In other words, I blatantly stated that I wished to "meet people in San Francisco." As in, friends and the delightfully vague activity partners. I did not think for once that I would be a recipient of any personal messages in response.
Oh, but I was wrong. So, so wrong.
Not that I mind. Necessarily.
You see, I did make the mistake of labeling myself "single." I am not wholly single, though. (At least, I don't feel like I am. But that's something I've put upon myself.) Anyways, I didn't want to put "in a relationship," thinking that this would deter friendly guys who just wanted to partner in some activities with me. To make a long story short, in the last two weeks I've had a bunch of random San Francisco men e-mail me on Friendster; they almost always start off by commenting on my profile and eventually drop some ultra-cheezy pick-up line or let me know that they are quite financially stable and are more than willing to show me a good time. (Whatever that means. To each our own definition of activity partners, right?) The funny thing is that I've come to realize how shallow I am through these men's kindly efforts at getting me out of my San Francisco funk. I mean, there's no pick-up line necessary because I already make a decision on their personality or their ability to get along with me on some level simply by their picture. That's very superficial, is it not? For instance, I've eliminated the following random Friendster e-mailer as incompatible with Polka Dot Panties, judging on photos alone:
Hello, can you say "New Age?" Can you say "Yanni?" Well, can you? I don't like ze hippies.* I don't like.
(*By the way, he told me he's recently retired despite being -- I am guesstimating here -- around 30-something. One of those dot-commers who made their million and left the game, I suppose. Best line: "I live in New York City and San Francisco, but I'll be traveling extensively in Asia for the next two weeks. Here's my phone number...")
Any drumming circle-type activity is a definite no:
This one had potential, but his grammar is like fingernails on a chalkboard:
Kevin plays hard-to-get. He showed promise:
That's just a smattering of the men that have been contacting me. There have been ones much worse (white rapper dude from Allston comes to mind, whose occupation was "thoroughbred"), and some just mediocre (subject line: "Hi;" message text, "What's up?"). I have yet to meet any of them face-to-face. I know that beggars can't be choosers, so I might as well meet all of them and learn not to judge a book by its cover, or a Friendster by his photos, or a man by his spelling and his ability to structure a declarative sentence. (That's going to be a tough one.)
So, y'all need to wish me luck -- none of their testimonials said "axe murderer," so I think I'm safe. I guess...?
current mood:  indescribable
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, September 17th, 2003
| |
4:34 pm - Being alone forces you...
|
...to become more independent.
...to become less fearful.
...to go places by yourself.
...to live like a monk.
I am working on the first two, but I have become an expert at the last two. For instance, I saw two movies by myself in the last two weeks: American Wedding (I was in a sour mood, and I needed not to think; it worked) and Swimming Pool (please tell me what the hell happened at the end). I certainly walk around everywere by myself -- Haight Ashbury, North Beach, Cow Hollow, Fillmore St., Polk St., Berkeley, the Embarcadero... you name it, I've walked it. By myself. Also, I go to bookstores by myself and drink lots of coffee. I go shopping, both grocery and clothing, by myself. Yesterday, I made a huge step and went to a show by myself. More specifically, I saw clever, uber-trendy NYC electroclash art-school hooligans Fischerspooner at the Fillmore. I took public transportation by myself, and even walked several blocks at night by myself when I realized the directions I got off the San Francisco MUNI site were incorrect. I listened to an opening band that I could not decide were good or not, but I didn't have anyone to discuss this with because I was by myself. (Rocco, where are you?) Fischerspooner, on the other hand, definitively tore it up. I didn't know quite what to expect with the cloud of hype and off-putting, syrupy critical praise that surrounds them, but they were seriously something to be seen. It was like Mad Max, bad 80s dance movies, Cirque du Soleil, ecstacy-saturated techno raves, and Mardi Gras all wrapped up into a deliciously odd package of thumping bass and theatrics. The costuming and choreography alone were mind-blowing, and the whole tongue-in-cheek effect of the performance (everyone lip-synchs, and they love to stop the tape in the middle and banter with the audience -- plus, crowd-surfacing and moshing that I haven't seen since the early days of Pearl Jam) made me very, very pleased that I blew $30 on the night. (Not counting my $5 plastic cup of Stella Artois and $10 hellish cab ride back to Water Street. Ugh.)
As for living like a monk, well... that's more a statement to Polka Dot Panties' decline in decadence. No more sex. No more hard-drinking. No more smoky clubs. No more late nights. No more guilty delving into Mary Jane. No more binging on carbs. No more television. No more microwave. (How does one live without a microwave?? Apparently, my roommates find this type of backward country living acceptable.) Now it's all about studying for the GRE, reading books for pleasure, walking aimlessly until my calves are burning and sore, going to museums and art galleries, and generally looking for ways to occupy myself. I simply cannot muster up the courage to go to a bar alone quite yet, although everyone back home in Boston has been egging me on. I did, however, come to the realization that if I stand on the sidewalk in my neighborhood of North Beach (like the North End, but significantly bigger and -- dare I say -- better) that I will get all kinds of invitations from various men to join whatever good time they're having. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely convinced that these are the types of characters I want to be hanging out with (I am near the strip club circuit, after all), but desperate times call for desperate measures. Next week I'll be writing about my night out with Guido Santucci and his eight greasy Euro friends at the Hungry I Club.
Needless to say, I'm counting down the days until I get my first visitors. (FYI, that's approximately a month away, and the time cannot go fast enough for your LJ hostess. So, please, if you ever have the desire, visit moi and pay it forward. For my mental health.)
Now, what to do by myself tonight?
current mood:  complacent
|
|
(4 comments | comment on this)
|
| Monday, September 8th, 2003
| |
9:05 am
|
HELLO!!
Yes, it's me -- alive and (not) well after a couple of weeks in my new hometown, San Francisco. It has taken me all of 0.2 seconds to realize I am not California material, although I'm glad I moved in general. It certainly has made me appreciate things more -- especially Boston and my fabulous friends that I miss every second of the day.
Yes, I am homesick. But, I am not lying when I say I think it'll be back to Boston or on to Seattle after a year here. Life is crazy, huh?
current mood:  distressed
|
|
(7 comments | comment on this)
|
| Wednesday, August 27th, 2003
| |
2:22 am - I guess it's a case of katzenjammer.
|
I want to use this post to publicly state that I am a big stupid idiot-head.
Lately, I have been so exhausted and stressed and forgetful and manic and selfish that I completely forgot that Ad Frank played TT the Bear's last night.
I told Ad (via Friendster, of course -- my newest obsession) that I was planning on going to the show before I head off to San Francisco tomorrow morning.
When I awoke today, I received a message from Mr. Frank, saying his set was incredible and he had planned on playing songs just for me. Where was I?
I was asleep at 9:00 p.m.
Why?
Because I'm a retard. After I type this, I'm going to go purchase a helmet and mouthguard around the corner at Bicycle Bill's.
I want to say this: if any of you want to hear some absolutely wonderful music (as well you should), you must must MUST check out Ad's website and go to one of his gigs. He is -- by far -- one of most talented songwriters I have ever had the pleasure of hearing. Simply put, his music is perfection. (He is also easy on the eyes, a gentleman, and a kind soul.) Do yourself a favor and go buy In Girl Trouble by Ad Frank at your local Newbury Comics. I guarantee that it will become one of your favorite CDs. I do not know why Ad is not famous. He is like some hidden secret that, thankfully, I uncovered awhile ago through an article I read in the Globe when Mr. Fancypants was released.
Hey, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? Go, go, go, go, go! Make this boy some money, and then e-mail him and tell him how fabulous he is. The Dresden Dolls ain't got nuthin' on Ad Frank, who should've won The Rumble a thousand times over.
P.S.: Speaking of recommendations, you should also all patronize Poor Little Rich Girl on Highland Ave. in Davis Square. Meredith is the best diva/consignment store propreitress this side of the Mississippi, and you have my solemn promise that this store seriously kicks out the clothing and housewares jams. Go witness the next Heavy Stud spectacle at the Abbey in Somerville as well. Cheap beer, cheap cover, hot ladies with nice ta-tas. You can thank me later.
current mood:  blah
|
|
(1 comment | comment on this)
|
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2){kind=small}
polkadotpanties's journal
bored
sad
