“They Don’t Call it Hero-lose”

A while ago Saturday Night Live aired a sketch about the growing heroin problem in America. The trouble was America was not laughing. Heroin use, abuse, and deaths have been steadily on the rise for the last 15 years and increasing at an alarming rate since 2010*. The politicians are calling it an epidemic. The headlines are calling it an epidemic. It kind of seems like heroin is everywhere. But it’s not….not really, is it? As close to home as this has reached for so many Americans to many other Americans it still feels like “someone else’s problem”; someone who’s poor, or not white, or not living in “my neighborhood”, or someone who’s a criminal or a street person.

But here’s the thing; heroin is a suburban problem. It’s an urban problem. It’s a rural problem. It’s an everywhere and everyone problem. In a report released last July the CDC found that “significant increases in heroin use were found in groups with historically low rates of heroin use, including women and people with private insurance and higher incomes. The gaps between men and women, low and higher incomes, and people with Medicaid and private insurance have narrowed in the past decade.” The fact is that 90% (yes 90%) of first time heroin users are white. Many are middle class or “wealthy” and 75% of new users have had previous addiction issues with prescription painkillers.

But that’s just where the story starts this time around. The fact is that heroin has been in my life for over a dozen years. I have seen what it can do and what it does to people first hand at an uncomfortably close range. And I use that phrase with great intention. Talking about this makes people wildly uncomfortable. Most of the people who are outside that small circle of folks in my life who know exactly how devastating heroin addiction can be, just kind of cannot believe that someone, in real life, in their life, knows anything about heroin addiction. It’s like people don’t believe it’s real. That it’s something that only happens in the movies. But it happens in real life.

I have heretofore refrained from talking much about Bo’s dad because I have tried to be respectful of his privacy. His story never felt like it was mine to tell. But it is also my story.

I was 24. It was December. It was always December. I knew something was wrong with Zach. I just didn’t know what. I would, in time, grow very familiar with all the signs and symptoms of his drug abuse. At some point all the relapses blur together. Other moments, the really bad ones, stick out. It wasn’t until 2 months later, when he was fired from the restaurant at which we both worked for leaving a needle in the manager’s office that I knew something else had to be done. He was using heroin…again. I had caught him, eventually, back in December. He tearfully admitted it, said it wasn’t that bad, that he didn’t need to go to rehab or anything and that he could take care of it on his own. I trusted that he was being truthful because I didn’t know any better.

After he got fired in February even he had to admit that the problem was more serious than he had been letting on. He agreed to get clean. His best friend and former girlfriend, Sagan, who had been through this with him many times before, offered her help. She was not working at the time and offered to be the babysitter for the better part of the ordeal. When I was at work someone had to watch him while he was going through the difficult and painful process of detoxing.

We gathered his things and went over to Sagan’s apartment where we would be staying for about a week. At that time, in Seattle, there was a doctor on Beacon Hill called Dr. Si whose specialty was helping ease heroin users through the detox process with a combination of several non-narcotic prescription drugs. A lot of muscle relaxers, sleep aids, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety medications, taken all at once so that the patient is basically an anthropomorphous blob of relaxed, sleeping, human skin who occasionally wakes up to pee and drink gatorade. Through this detox process the patient does not experience as much or as intensely the classic symptoms of detoxification such as vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable shaking, sweating, cramping, anxiety, or excessive screaming if you are junkie being played by Leonardo Dicaprio.

Sagan and I had to go fill his prescriptions and gather the necessary supplies (e.g. gatorade, consume, saltines etc). Before we left him in her apartment alone, we took the phone (kids, this is when people still had land lines) which was not a cordless so we just unplugged the receiver from the phone and took it with us, along with his wallet, his keys, his pants and his shoes. We figured those measures would at least be a deterrent; if he wanted heroin he would literally have to run down the street with bare feet in his underpants begging for money in order to get it. We thought we were so clever.

The rest of the week was, for me, going back and forth from my apartment to feed our new kitten, to work and then to Sagan’s apartment. At work, everyone knew why he’d been fired. No one even asked me if I was okay, or what I was going to do about it. It’s like they just assumed that I was going to dump him because of his drug use. Truth is, I don’t know what I would have told them had they asked. I was just doing the one thing that made sense to me; helping my friend, whom I loved, with his problem. I didn’t know what the future held, but I knew that he would still be in it with me.

The trouble with being a junkie is that even when you’re not on heroin you’re probably on something else. Maybe it’s alcohol or cocaine or the program or yoga or guilt or self loathing or whatever it is, the hole that heroin left inside of you is going to get filled with something. He always filled it with alcohol, guilt, depression and hatred.

I cannot remember how long it was until the next relapse. He got his job back after some time. And then lost it again after refusing to take a drug test that he knew he would not pass. He said it was too hard to stay clean working downtown, right next to the blade. The drugs were unavoidable. And every time he started using again and started lying to me about it a little bit more of my confidence would erode, not just in him, but in myself. Finding out about it each time was like finding out I was being cheated on and effectively I was; his mistress was heroin. It would always be.

There was the time I found the make-up he had hidden; foundation that he used to cover up his bruises and track marks. When I confronted him with it he said it was old, from the last time he relapsed and he had just forgotten about it. I told him I did not believe him and that he’d have better luck with concealer than with foundation. He used that excuse all the time; “I haven’t been using I just forgot about (insert whatever piece of incriminating evidence I found) since the last time!”

After losing his job, again, and kicking heroin again, in the midst of his job search I encouraged him to take some time off. I worked two jobs and we could get by on that for a while. He took a year off work. He wrote and drank and cried for a year, but he did not use heroin. For that I was thankful. When he started to look for work again I was scared. I didn’t want to start the same thing all over again.

But it was okay. For a long while it was okay. He got back in touch with his son from his first marriage. Things were going well. Then some shit happened as shit tends to do. His longtime friend, who also struggled with heroin abuse, came back into town. That was hard. They would continually flip this coin wherein its landing on one side they would try to lift one another up but the other side of that coin was their dragging one another down. His friend, Ronnie, was about to have a baby with his girlfriend, who also used. Ronnie was trying really hard to get away from heroin but heroin is a mad goddamn dog and it does not stop coming after you. I watched over Ronnie as detoxed on an air mattress on our living room floor. I watched him as he writhed and cried and begged for drugs. I watched him get clean. I watched him relapse. I watched him get clean again and it all felt like a microcosm of what I was going through.

One morning, a watery grey dawn, I woke to find that I was the only one in bed, save for my cats. The dog, Ronnie’s dog actually, who had been living with us while Ronnie was homeless, was gone and so was Zach. I did not even have time to lean into the full froth of my panic when the door of the apartment rattled. It was Zach, dogless and bandaged about the neck and wearing a hospital bracelet and a shirt that did not belong to him.

He had waited until I went to sleep, took the dog out for a walk and while out, decided to stop on a side street and shoot up. The paramedics found him lying in some bushes near the sidewalk, a needle hanging out of his neck…with no dog. The depth of what happened, the overwhelming weight of the situation was completely overshadowed by the lack of the dog. Ratchet was not just a dog, he was Ronnie’s child, his partner of over a decade. That dog meant everything to him and he was missing.

I pulled on clothes. It had grown lighter out now, it was around 6:30 in the morning. We walked the whole neighborhood, looking and calling for Ratchet. I walked until my feet were sore and my throat was raw from calling Ratchet’s name. I cried. Out of despair for the loss of the dog, despair for the whole situation. I wanted to scream.

Ratchet, as it turned out, upon Zach’s passing out in the bushes, ran back to our apartment building where he dutifully stood outside, leash dangling on the ground and barked, and barked and barked, presumably in an effort to wake me, but to no avail. When he finally gave up on barking and returned to find Zach no longer where he had left him, Ratchet went to the local drugstore up the road which was open 24 hours. There he sought shelter and companionship for the rest of the evening. He was returned to us around 10 am. I was so exhausted from worry, hopelessness and relief that I collapsed into bed with Ratchet and my two cats and slept all day, until I had to go to work that night. I was simply trying to run away from the thought that there would be another detox, another “starting over”, another broken promise, more fighting, more anger, more exhaustion, more pain, more pain, more goddamn pain, more consuming and unfaltering and inescapable fucking pain. Pain….for poppies. Just poppies.

I was completely alone to deal with this, too. How could I expect anyone to understand what I was going through? I didn’t even understand it. I was just trying to survive it. I remember confiding in a friend, at the time, about what was happening with me, with him, with us. She seemed bewildered. She did not know what to say or do…so she just stopped talking to me. What I was going through was too much for her to handle. I wish I could say she was the only one. She was not. After a certain point I learned  my lesson and just didn’t talk about it anymore.

That was 2006. In 2010 our son was born. In the intervening years, after the last “getting clean” was all over, there were no more incidence of heroin use, at least none that I knew about.

It wasn’t Zach’s heroin abuse that (directly) lead to my ending the relationship after 11 years when our son was just 3 years old. It was a decade worth of things. A decade’s worth of my corrupted sense of self, a decade’s worth of alcoholism, a decade’s worth of mistrust, a decade’s worth of codependency. It was a death by a thousand cuts and I was quickly running out of unmarred skin. I felt like I couldn’t breathe under the weight of his hatred and judgement of me. After all HE had done it was ME who was never going to be good enough, never going to be able to repent enough for the past. He was always like that. He could never find the fault in himself but was a surgeon about finding it in others.

Of course I worried that the break-up would send him back into heroin’s sedative and tranquil embrace. But for a while he was okay. Then, at preschool orientation, he showed up high as fuck! He denied it when I confronted him about it because of course he did. I had no proof. I did not know what to do. I think that I secretly, and quite stupidly, thought that Bo would keep him on track. That the presence of this bright, coruscant, and breathlessly beautiful creature would somehow keep him out of the darkness.

One day, I went to pick Bo up for preschool at the apartment I had moved out of in favor of living in the back of my bookstore. At this point Zach and I were splitting the weeks with Bo. He was with me 4 days and 5 nights of the week and with Zach on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. This was one of the days that Bo had stayed with him and it was a work day for us parents at our Co-op preschool. I approached the door, opting to knock out of some sense of decorum despite my having a key. No answer. They should have been up and ready to go. I did not hear Bo inside. I did not knock again. I opened the door and it was quiet. Bo was still in bed. I looked at the couch and there was Zach, passed out with his sock rolled down and his foot and the needle still in his hands, his works spread out on the coffee table. I chocked on my own horror. I could not believe that he would do this…with our son asleep just feet away in his bedroom.

I did not scream. I woke him up. He tried to play it off like what I had just witnessed was, in fact, not at all what it looked like. I still did not scream. He scooped up his things from the coffee table, finally regaining his wits. I calmly assured him that I knew it was EXACTLY what it looked like. He tried to make more excuses. Then, finally, I screamed; “WHAT IF I HAD NOT FOUND YOU?!?!!! WHAT IF IT HAD BEEN HIM?!?!” I screamed, gesturing toward the hall down which my son’s bedroom lie. He started to cry. He was out of excuses and out of heroin and the reality of what he had done and what he had narrowly avoided began to hit him.

I told him that he would never see his son again unless he got help. I also told him that, this time, I could not be the one to give it to him. After all, I had a child to raise and a business to run. I woke Bo, gathered his things and we left. We did not go to school that day.

It took Zach a little while, and after exploring other programs, he got on methadone. I was not particularly pleased with this course of action. As far as I was concerned it was really no better than being on heroin. While it was not illegal, there was virtually no chance of overdose and it was free he was still going to “be on drugs” and quite dependent upon them too. And that is what eventually lead to his getting fired from yet another job. Even on methadone he could not hide the fact that he was a junkie. His decline was just too obvious, to me, to his employer and to everyone else around him. And of course, his losing his job meant his losing his home (when he realized he could no longer afford the apartment without my income, although he, ironically, always insisted that I did not contribute to the household financially as I was a business owner and did not “bring home a paycheck”, he was forced to take up at an “hotel” that rented rooms by the week).

After getting fired, just about a year after our split, he could not even maintain his room at the hotel and was forced to move out, seeking the succor and infinite patience of Sagan, once again. She was compliant with his presence in her home for as long and longer than anyone could expect. He had started using again, street drugs. It was too difficult to get to the methadone clinic each day, apparently, but not too difficult to steal money (or whatever could be sold in exchange for money) in order to buy heroin. It becomes really difficult for me to recall the timeline of events with much accuracy at this point. I had gotten a new job and in lieu of putting Bo in daycare, a step I was very reluctant to take as he had never been in any sort of childcare previously, Zach would take him during the day. At this point I thought he was still on methadone. He was, however, pretty much homeless, staying with friends when he could.

It was September when I was cleaning out my car, which I would leave for Zach and Bo to use while I was at work, that I found something under the diver’s seat. It was the small metal dish, the kind you get from the needle exchange, that is used to cook the heroin, an unfolded paper clip for stirring the drug while it cooks, the lot of which were charred and stained with the drug’s sticky, black residue. I was enraged but not surprised. I immediately made arrangements to put Bo into a school near my work. That Monday when it would usually be time to meet up with Zach before I went to work, Bo and I went to his new school/daycare. Bo was so excited to be in school, with other kids, it was like he didn’t even know he was supposed to be upset about my leaving him. The next day, however, was a different story. When it was time for me to leave him at school he cried and then I cried and I hated every decision I had ever made as a parent.

Zach actually had the fucking nerve to not only be indignant that I made the unilateral decision to put Bo into daycare and remove him from his care but he also fucking denied that what I found was his!!!! THE FUCK!!! Even if it were not his (which, DUH, it totally fucking was) the best case scenario is that he let one of his junkie friends use my car, drive my car, whilst on drugs and/ or use drugs in my car, and where was my son when all this was happening? Who the fuck knows? I could not let shit like this continue. I was pulling absolutely no punches this time after a fucking lifetime of giving him the benefit of the doubt, he was decidedly out of benefits.

It was November, the first time he was arrested. In between then and the first of the year he would be arrested and jailed more than 5 separate times. He would get released and then go right back to using and stealing to support his use. At his age it’s a damn miracle he hasn’t died from the physical stress of detoxing in jail. He was arrested for the last time in mid March. He’s been in jail ever since. It’s the best place for him. At least in jail there is a roof over his head and no heroin. We’ve spoken a few times. I still don’t think he realizes how much everyone around him hurts because of what he’s done. He’s never been good at looking at himself with a critical or even realistic eye.

He will get released soon. He sounds hopeful about his future. I want to be too, so that Bo might have his dad back someday. But I am not optimistic, for I’ve far too much sense and too much experience to have much room left for optimism.

That’s it for now. I realize the strokes, although measuring nearly 3,500 words, were indeed quite broad, this is all I have the mind to put to print at this point. There’s more, so much more, and maybe someday I will get around to writing it all down. For now…XOXO.

*what had been a steady increase in overdose rates, 6% a year, from 1999 to 2008 took a HUGE leap as overdose rates skyrocketed with a 37% increase in 2010.

P.S. As for the title, I have always said that if you cannot laugh about it, it WILL definitely kill you.

Here is your Owl, Now Please Oversee my Nuptials

As some of you may know (if you’re my mom perhaps) I am planning a wedding. It is a small wedding but a wedding nonetheless. Did I mention that it’s my wedding? It is. Someone has not only actually agreed to marry me but it was HIS idea. I mean, he totally asked and everything! Weird, right? In any case, he has found that my special brand of being annoying is the kind of annoying he wants to tolerate for the rest of forever so a wedding must be planned to celebrate our mutual tolerance of one another’s annoying-ness ….and the fact that we love each other….and to make my mother happy.

As a graphic designer (which I still think is kind of a silly thing to call myself…we should go with “as a person who likes to make pretty pictures and sometimes silly pictures of otters and barbarian teddy bears and extra fancy hamsters”) I was really excited about making the invitations. And I got them back last Thursday and I was super pleased. The next step was collecting everyone’s addresses.

I messaged my friend Jon to get his address and the conversation that we had about how OUT OF FUCKING HAND wedding invitations had gotten was kind of funny:

Me:
Need your address…for I plan to stalk you….or send you a wedding invitation. One of those.
Jon:
B) I thought you already got married. Life is gonna suck if I start having FB hallucinations.
A) was supposed to be “congratulations” but, thumbs.
Congratulations!
Me:
Thanks, no…I got engaged about a year ago. Marrying comes next.
Jon:
C?D?) [ADDRESS REDACTED]
Conformist.
Me:
I deserve that.
Jon:
Is there a date what to save?
Me:
June 25th, I chose not to send save the date cards and am just sending you an invitation. Because I did not need one MORE thing to do.
Jon:
Also, it is the goddam 21st century. You can use the internets.
People may call it lazy, I call it saving the fucking planet.
Me:
There are certain protocols that I (read my mother) will not see shirked.
Jon:
A friend got married a few years ago & there was a fucking sheaf of paper & also glossy photos involved. It hurt me so to have to recycle all that.
Understood.
Me:
Yeah, people’s invitations are totally out of control. They send them in boxes and shit! Some have live butterflies in them that fly out when you open the aforementioned box.
Frankly, I wouldn’t really want a box of mostly dead butterflies and their poop. 
Jon:
Oh! And ribbons!
Me:
SO MANY FUCKING RIBBONS!!!!
Jon:
You should tie ribbons on the necks of condors & ship them with every invite.
Do not forget to punch holes in the lids.
Me:
So you would go with condors? Because I had planned on doves but I see your point….
Jon:
Compromise= barn owls. The recipients can use them for pest control.
Me:
BRILLIANT!
Jon:
We have solved wedding invites!
Me:
And controlling pests!
Jon:
The world really should thank us by sending money.
Me:
I wouldn’t say “no” to a Nobel prize.
Jon:
You have my permission to blog about this. I will be your silent (read 50%) partner.
Me:
Noted.
Jon:
This was probably the most productive meeting I never attended.
Me:
You’re welcome!
I, on the other hand, opted out of all that craziness. There’s enough outlandish shit on which we are expected to spend money where weddings are concerned. I was not about to spring for the postage to send people an invitation that had to be housed in a goddamn box that plays music upon their opening it and also contains a legit, goddamn bird’s nest!
wedding invitation craziness

Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t like anyone enough to want to make them feel this important. 

My invitations were a very simple, 5 by 7, single-sided card with instructions to RSVP via email or phone call. I was determined NOT to have to pay more than 47 cents per envelope to send those bitches. Here’s a copy because I think they’re pretty!

invitation_redacted

I left out the address, because I know the types of folks who hang around here and I don’t want you miscreants crashing my wedding. Also, I try to avoid being embroiled in assassination plots whenever possible. And yes, I am JUST DELUSIONAL ENOUGH to consider my murder, which will probably be the result of the ill-timed use of sarcasm on my part, an assassination! I am not going to say that I have never wondered exactly how important one must be in order for their murder to be considered an assassination but I feel that I, somehow or another, pass the muster. Also, refer back to previous statements about my delusions.

I did, however, include the registry information, just in case anyone is feeling generous, or drunk or both of those things.

Also, in case you’re drunk, and/or had no idea just how out of fucking hand wedding invitations had gotten, here are some pics of some ridiculous shit! Enjoy!

IT IS A GODDAMN BOARD GAME!!!! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME!!!

It’s a Viewmaster, and the little slide wheel has pictures of the happy couple! If you legitimately think anyone cares about you enough to think that you and your fiancee deserve this much fanfare your delusions of grandeur are like, Kanye epic.

are you fucking kidding me

What the shit is this? I bet this cost more than my wedding dress!

not sure whats going on here but it looks foreboding

Does anyone else think that including a tiny noose in your wedding invitation is just a little too dark…even if it is in cyrillic?

pastel-boxed-wedding-invitation-set__full

I am so done with making people work for the information you’ve included in your wedding invitation. If I have to use a key or a decoder ring or a map to figure out to what I have been invited, you can bet your ass that I will expend no further energy on your ridiculousness and will probably boycott your wedding on general principle.

awesome-3d-decoder-wedding-invitation__full

I forgot to include special glasses in the list of shit that I want no part of. Consider them added now.

rustic-wood-wedding-save-the-date-in-mossy-box__full

Go fuck yourself.

XOXO!!!!

 

Otter Von Bismark!

The other night, well after my son had been put to bed but long before we stopped hearing the sounds of what I can only assume are the 17 pygmy hippos he lets climb into his bedroom window shortly after I bid him goodnight and shut his bedroom door we heard the sounds of Bo’s door opening and the thunderous rush of his footfalls as he bounded down the stairs to our room. When he arrived he was holding a heretofore anonymous stuffed otter and wanted to tell us very much that he had thought of the perfect name for the otter! At which point Josh popped up and said “Is it Otter Von Bismark?” which is basically the MOST PERFECT NAME FOR AN OTTER EVER!!! Sadly is was not Otter Von Bismark and honestly we kind of let the steam out of Bo’s enthusiasm with our uncontrollable tittering.

Bo had decided to name the Otter Sammy…which is a perfectly fine name for an otter. It’s just not Otter Von Bismark. I fully plan on purchasing a taxidermy Otter now, just so I can dress him up in a little white Franco-Prussian military uniform and a gold sash. I will even get Otter Von Bismark his own miniature Pickelhaube! Until then, I made a picture of Otter Von Bismark.

otter von bismark 3

And Here’a another one. Although the World War One era plane is an anachronism as Bismark died in 1898…but he was also not really an otter.

otter von bismark

I think his scarf makes him look regal! Totally fucking majestic! XOXO

Another Day, Another Death Threat…also UNICORNS!

So, on Tuesday I wrote about how I was upset about a gruesome murder that took the life of a woman from my city over the weekend….and people lost their damn minds! It was probably because I said “fuck” a lot, like even for me, and in the title. I may have suggested that some people could go fuck themselves. But if I had only known that all I had to do was use the word “fuck” in the title of a post to get over 5,000 views in the matter of a few hours I would have been doing it…much more often than I currently do.

But, of course, the more people who actually read your blog the more people you are likely to piss off….which is what I love most about being a writer. On Tuesday I wrote a post that addressed the idea that a social “safe space” is kind of a fucking joke. I also said some  things about people’s attempts to “regulate hate speech” within these “safe spaces”. People were very unhappy with this. Which is kind of ironic, someone getting all freaked out about one stupid person’s opinion (yes, you read that correctly) when aren’t what we are all (when I say “we all” I am kind of confused as to who is lumped into that anymore but let’s go with a vague outline of peaceful, progressive, intelligent humans who want to work toward a just and ultimately free world where all lives are valued and respected equally under the eyes of the law…now, doesn’t that sound nice?) working for is a place where ideas and ideals can be expressed freely without fear of legal or custodial retribution? But here’s the thing, about regulating speech, any kind of speech; it’s a slippery motherfucking slope!

Do I wish people were not dicks? Yes. Do I wish everyone knew that some shit, you just don’t fucking say? Of course, naturally. It would be nice if all us folks could get together in our collective unconscious and have a meeting where we hand out leaflets telling everyone all over the world that we don’t hate on women or homosexuals or transgendered or poor people or people that happen to have a different skin tone or religion than we do. That would be super, and I get that there are people who ARE out there doing this work every day and they deserve credit and probably a trip to Dairy Queen for a delicious Blizzard treat because that is goddamn hard, unending and merciless work, but to not address that the liberal ideal (and, yes, I am a liberal…like a motherfucker) might be a two-edged sword is just willfully ignorant. Sometimes when you’ve been fighting so hard for so long for what you feel is right, the rhetoric of battle can become skewed along the way.

Basically, what I have realized about some people who favor the official or legal regulation of speech is that they are kind of narrow-minded. Several of the people who told me they favored things like “safe spaces” were the same people saying that they “would want to kill me” for saying that I thought “safe spaces” were kind of bullshit. Does that seem a little counterintuitive to anyone else? The same person who thinks that we should all be able to go through life without ever having to be offended or uncomfortable or feel threatened or ever having to hear anything with which we might disagree is the same person saying they want to “kill me”!?!?! I mean, WTF? Seriously, WHAT. THE. FUCK.

But you know what, while threats do not fall under the guise of “protected speech” I think that the person who said those things was angry about their beliefs being called to the carpet and I respect their passion. I realize not everyone would view things as diplomatically. That’s probably why we have “safe spaces” but let me elaborate on that; if we are never made to feel uncomfortable, never made to confront what is different, never made to argue for what we believe is right, never forced to face adversity of any kind then why would we work to change anything? If every space is a safe space, what would motivate us to progress? Do you really want everyone in the room to agree with you 100% of the time about everything? I sure as hell don’t…but then again I rarely have to worry about that’s happening.

Thanks for reading, and, in the interest of making people feel safe and happy and just as precious as the special little snowflakes that you all are HERE are 29 pictures of majestic fucking unicorns! Also, in my safe space, everyone will have a sense of fucking humor and not take themselves so goddamn seriously! XOXO

Last_Unicorn16

Hey kids, it’s the “Last Unicorn” Unicorn! 

pegacorn18

Yes, it has wings but it also has a horn and therefor, technically, still a Unicorn….Pegacorn? 

pink-unicorn26

This one is galloping straight into your heart…and not at all in a stabby way. 

unicorn3

So majestic! 

unicorn6

So fucking majestic! 

unicorn7

The only thing I resent my son for (other than the obvious things all parents resent their children for) is that he said he did not like this movie….we’re working through it. 

unicorn8

Majesty like a motherfucker! 

unicorn9

This one was taken in my backyard

unicorn11

This speaks to me on deep, personal and emotional levels that only Batman riding a robotic unicorn amongst a pod of dolphins could ever reach. 

unicorn14

This one too, also taken in my backyard…to be fair I might be a pathological liar. 

unicorn15

MERMAID!!! 

unicorn19

Ooooh! Purdy! 

unicorn20

Don’t anyone say that I failed to represent diversity among unicorns.

unicorn22

So Fancy! 

unicorn23

Okay, this one is legit, kind of creepy.

unicorn24

Like Jell-O and patriarchy, there is always room for Lisa Frank! 

unicorn25

Is that a rainbow samurai sheep riding a rainbow maned unicorn into sparkly battle? Why yes, friends, that is exactly what that is! 

unicorn27

Old School unicorn action

unicorn49

This one is off the charts with majesty! 

unicorns

Raibow? Check! Sunset? Check! Unicorn? check! Majestic? You bet your ass!

unicorns4

I, no joke, had this as a huge poster-size framed print on my wall in my childhood bedroom. Did I mention that my walls were painted pink? At my request, nay, may insistence!

Unicorns10

There is nothing that I could say that add the this perfection! 

unicorns12

I WANT IT!!! 

unicorns13

I think the best part of this one is the eagle. 

unicorns21

This pony is all full of lightning!

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Majestic-ing so fucking hard! 

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Damnit! Now I have to go buy felt! 

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D’aw! 

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Hey! How’d that get in here? 

 

Fuck Your “Safe Space”

No seriously! Fuck your fucking trigger warnings and your fucking “safe spaces” because they are a fucking illusion! Your safe space, ANY safe space does not fucking exist!

Last weekend a woman from my neighborhood, a single mother of three, went on a date with man she met online. They went to a baseball game and then later that night she ended up hacked into pieces and thrown into someone’s recycle bin in the fucking Central District. How ’bout you stick that in your fucking safe space!

THIS, This, this is the reality of being a woman, being a human, that there REALLY is no safe space. There is no escape from the darkness. No escape from reality, not really, because even if you’ve created the perfect physical space where no one uses bad words, no one ever says anything offensive, no one treats anyone with disrespect, no one is violent, no one even talks about violence, no one has to do, see, say or experience anything that makes them uncomfortable, well, you could still get swallowed up by an earthquake or mowed down by a hail of bullets in yet another random, mass shooting.

Safety is just an idea, an illusion, a concept that exists in our heads so that we can still have hope. Hope, however, is the only honest thing left in this world. It’s when hope is gone that none of us will be safe.

You can spend your time trying to get people to use the right words so that no one is ever “offended” or “made to feel uncomfortable” but at the end of the day none of us can protect anyone from reality, from evil, from each other. All we can do is hope….and love one another as much as possible because you never know when you won’t wake up, when the earth will reach up an take you where you stand, when you’ll end up in pieces in a fucking garbage can.

Can we stop all trying to be social justice warriors and just start being good to each other? Listen kids, you’re gonna see some shit and hear some shit and experience some shit in this life that is going to offend you, make you sad, make you angry, make you fall, make you scared, make you uncomfortable, make you cry, make you want to scream, make you want to change things but life cannot be censored*. It just is.

I tell this story sometimes when people talk about not wanting to be “offended” (which by the way, go fuck yourself….oh, sorry, was that offensive? Just kidding, I totally know it was and I also don’t give a fat shit!) because life does not care about your delicate sensibilities; one time I parked downtown on Second Ave. and was getting out of my car to go to the record store when I looked down the street and saw a man, a clearly mentally handicapped man, standing next to a building where its corner met a parking lot, looking out towards the street while violently masturbating. Would I have preferred not to have seen that? Abso-fucking-lutely! Was I offended by this? Yes. Did it make me feel uncomfortable? Definitely. But no amount of “safe spaces” or “trigger warnings” or “regulating hate speech” could have saved me from having to see that. It just was. Here was a man, who probably did not know any better (or did and just didn’t give a shit), just doing what felt good to him…and no amount of telling him that people would be “offended” by his behavior was going to change his behavior.

But hey, I consider myself very lucky. I am still here. I am not chopped into pieces and tossed into the trash like this man, this monster, who carried out this horrible act would have Ingrid Lyne believe she was. She was not trash. She was a human, a mother, a woman and now she is not here anymore. And I am extremely uncomfortable with this story, this narrative offends me so much, it is beyond the telling. But if we shy away from telling these stories because they are horrible, violent, sad and they make us feel like we will never be safe, then we can just forget about hope. Hope in the face of nightmares is the only thing that will wake us. Hope is truth. Hope is what will carry us forward.

Here’s a link to the fundraising page for Ingrid Lyne’s daughters who are now without their mother. It’s official, the real deal, I checked it out. I wouldn’t steer you wrong. XOXO
Also, I did not edit this so if you want to point out typos feel free, just know that I will tell you to go fuck yourself….just try not to do it in the middle of Second Ave. Cool?

Here’s this in case you weren’t already bummed out enough:

*and don’t think for one second that’s not what everyone out there who is trying to “regulate hate speech” is doing. It’s just censorship that got too far up its own ass to be seen for what it really is.

Dear Santa, THESE!!!

So, a few weeks back I was at Target, in the toy section because I have a 5 year old boy and taking him to Target to look at toys is basically what we do for entertainment and a lot cheaper than taking him to the zoo or Tutta Bella or the bookstore…until we start buying things, that is. Even then, we can usually get out of Target for under $30.00 (in toys anyway) and when’s the last time anyone could say that about the zoo. In any case I was wandering the toy aisles when I stopped at an end-cap display and was nearly…okay, actually moved to tears by what I saw!

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This is not the actual display I saw but nearly identical. I was too busy weeping to snap a pic.

That’s right folks! It was an entire line of DC Superhero (yeah, we’ll talk about how we are using that term loosely when applying it to characters like Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy) dolls, costumes, toy weapons and play sets featuring all female comic book characters!!!! Where was this when I was a child (granted I did have my She-ra, Princess of Power doll) …or even like 5 years ago because I would have been all over this shit! I wanted to buy every single one of them, skip all the way home, gleefully tear open their packages and spend hours playing with them, imagining and acting out all the scenarios in which they would kick ass, rescue Batman, Robin and Superman, I would swap their clothes, beat up the bad guys with their weapons, and find them each the perfect Breyer Horse on which to off ride into the sunset…but I did not do that. Not only did I get rid of my Breyer Horse collection like 15 years ago but I am an adult (or at least attempting to masquerade as one) and when adults spend $150.00 on dolls their spouses are usually not pleased and even less pleased when you spend hours on the floor playing with the aforementioned dolls that were formerly the money that was going to pay the car payment when you are supposed to making dinner or doing your taxes or replacing the car tabs or whatever bullshit adult task you were avoiding while you were playing with your AWESOME NEW DOLLS!!!dolls

Fuck being an adult…who never gets to play with dolls! And no, playing with my son’s action figures, while they are totally awesome and fun, does NOT count. Plus, having to share things with him is a total fucking bummer. He commandeers all my favorite stuffies too! The nerve of that kid….I swear!

Perhaps the most encouraging thing about the display, that I noticed through my tears, was that it was not in the “Girl” section. I wasn’t even near the “Girl” section whose pink you can practically feel radiating off it when you walk by. It was an end-cap display right off the aisle where you find the seasonal and outdoor toys and the last aisle of what would be considered “Boy” toys that housed a bunch of Star Wars toys, Transformers, and some Batman V. Superman movie themed toys. It was just there, waiting to be noticed. And it was noticed. While I stood there, once again, crying in the middle of Target I saw two other moms come up to the display and snap pictures. One of them even turned to me, with a look of understanding that basically said she wanted to come stand next to me and shake her angry, white fist at the patriarchy while singing Helen Reddy songs. We totally shared a moment.

shared moment

The other really encouraging thing about the display is that when I went back to Target, like a week and half later, they were nearly all gone! The display was practically empty! I even checked the “Girl” aisle in case they were moving them or something….not because I was totally going to buy myself Poison Ivy or Batgirl and/or maybe Harley Quinn, I was definitely NOT going to do that with part of the grocery money, because that would be totally irresponsible! The only doll left was Bumblebee, 3 lonely Bumblebees, just hanging out, waiting to inspire some young woman to greatness! And no, I don’t think the reason only Bumblebee was left has anything to do with the color of her skin (although it could be that I am just choosing to be willfully ignorant in this particular case because I am already too bummed from not getting a doll to think about the systemic and endemic racism in our country and would rather just put this whole experience in the feminist win column). I think it has more to do with the fact that Doom Patrol and Teen Titans just weren’t that popular and Bumblebee has never has her own series of books….until, of course, the introduction of the DC Superhero Girls at New York City Comic Con last October!

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Now, all these cool chicks have their own books, web series, app, games, dolls, action figures (yes, there is a difference) and are basically taking the world by storm! This almost makes up for DC Comics saying, back in 2011, that “no one would watch a Wonder Woman movie”. And sadly, if they still let Zack Snyder direct it, they’ll probably be right. But alas, Zack Snyder can’t hit the mark every time….it’s not like Christopher Nolan or something, but I digress…no, I really do…because usually after saying that people keep on talking. I’m not going to do that. Okay?

Alright, I lied. I am going to keep talking about how badly I want one of these dolls and how they are much cooler than DC and Mattel’s previous pairing back in 2008.

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While there’s nothing really wrong with these DC Barbies, other than the fact that they are Barbies, they seem like more collector’s items to me than something that would inspire adventurous and imaginative play for young girls. Don’t get me wrong. If I saw these on the shelf at Target today I would totally buy every last one (because how HOT is Black Canary over there?) but I would take them home, take them out of their boxes and then put them up on the shelf in my office (which at this point is imaginary…both the shelf and the office…because my “office” is just a room full of boxes that I have been too lazy to unpack for 6 months) and look at them, because they are cool and pretty to look at but not much good for anything beyond that.

I think we should all try to inspire young women to be more and do more and if seeing someone like Harley Quinn (who I guess now gets a “Superhero” pass because of Suicide Squad) who is mentally and emotionally unstable and in an abusive relationship with a criminally insane thug get her own doll, well, then I think that means any of us can do anything she wants!!! Yay for Democracy! But, sincerely, thanks to DC and Mattel for putting out these dolls, books, games and videos; they’re just really, really cool!

And thank you guys for hanging out with me, you mean the world to me! XOXO

 

Comic Book Geekery…

…in case you’re into that sort of thing.

I’ve been writing this one for a while but finally finished it last night. Enjoy…or don’t. Whatever.

I did not grow up reading comic books. But like anything else, if you are a big enough research nerd, it won’t take you long to become a self-proclaimed expert, or at least know enough to not completely embarrass yourself when in the company of the truly knowledgeable…at least about the subject in question. You’ll still have plenty of opportunities to embarrass yourself with your abhorrent behavior….if you’re anything at all like me. How I became a comic book nerd was kind of a roundabout journey.

When I was little I loved books. I always knew that there was this deeply important and incredibly powerful thing inside all books. Knowledge. Whether I was sneaking my Mom’s copies of “Lace” or “The Cider House Rules” off her bookshelf or leafing through the children’s books at my Grandmother’s house I felt as though what I were really doing was searching for that ONE really and truly astonishing something, that fact or artifact that no one else knew about or that the knowledge of had long since been forgotten. In my time flipping through books, pouring over pages, looking for things, information, stories, I also grew to love the pictures.

I think I may have been an artist long before I was a writer. I took my drawing pads and pens with me EVERYWHERE! I held onto books that were “too young for me” for far too long because I could not let go of the artwork contained in them. There was one book by Ruth Heller called “A Cache of Jewels” that I pored over long after I had memorized the information within.

ruth heller

The illustrations were so precise, so jewel-bright, so beautifully realistic, but also completely whimsical. I remember trying to recreate this cover image on many occasions with my unsure, eight-year-old, artist’s hands. It was, of course, never quite right, but I never stopped trying.

Like most 8 and 9 year old girls who loved to draw and loved to draw characters, another huge inspiration was Walt Disney or at least the Disney movies that were being released at that time. I would spend countless hours drawing and redrawing Ariel and Belle until I got them to look EXACTLY like the images I saw on the screen. You see kids, the internet did not exist back then, at least not for civilians, and we had to make our own fun. When I wasn’t drawing a character study of Belle from a wobbly and striated paused VHS on the TV screen I was probably playing outside with a stick or something. They were dark times.

Comics and the incredible art contained within, started to become more relevant once I started working in a bookstore. And when I wasn’t working in a bookstore I was literally across town, hanging out in a different bookstore. This shop was much cooler than the one where I worked and had the owner been able to hire someone I totally would have worked there instead. Something Wicked was the name of the shop and it focused mostly on Science Fiction and Mysteries. The owner, Jon, and I became friends and still are to this day. Because his shop was Science Fiction-y he would occasionally go to Cons. Jon knew of my fondness for pinup art, Olivia art, and drawings of beautiful if scantily clad females and from one Con he brought me back a book of Joseph Michael Linsner’s “Cry for Dawn”.

dreams of dawn

This is not the book. I could not find a picture of the book on the internet and while I totally still have the actual book it is more than likely buried in a box somewhere in my office that I still haven’t unpacked from moving back in October because I am a terrible person.

It was lovely! It was page after page of this wonderful, powerful, and uniquely sexy character and I was hopelessly in love!

From there I got into Jim Lee for obvious reasons….reason #1, however, is that he’s a total BADASS!

 

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And then there were the other artists like Robert McGinnis who did book covers (and so much more) for cheesy pulp novels in the 50s, 60s and 70s….

…that led me to find other comic artists like Jim Silke who were constantly straddling that line between storyteller and pornographer.

And yes, Jim Silke is a HUGE fan of Bettie Page!

And his work, strangely enough led to my falling in love with Al Williamson and his rich, elaborate, story-boarded scenes from “Flash Gordon”.

Then there were the connections made randomly, organically, like my love of Ralph Steadman spurring my affection for Frank Miller (at least his artwork because the dude is an ACTUAL hot fucking mess in real life). I don’t think one can critically speak of Frank Miller without mentioning Steadman. It would be remiss.

frank miller for real do

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All in all it was my love of pictures, of art, of strong, beautiful women that led me to comics. They are at the heart of who I am in that regard. And it was Jack Kirby’s faces, that I found so fascinatingly simple and jarringly emotive, that found me, falling in love with Marvel comics. For a long while, when asked to pick a side, which one occasionally is asked when frequently in the company of comic book nerds, I would proudly declare myself a “Marvel Girl”. And since we are looking at pretty pictures here’s some of my favorite Jack Kirby characters and some other random Marvel highlights.

Above is all Kirby (or inked over Kirby’s sketches). His Odin blows my Goddamn mind!

Other Marvel stuff and in case you couldn’t tell I am moderately obsessed with Hellcat right now! I also want Thor to cup my ass just like that….Dazzler is one lucky gal! Also, also….WENDIGO!

Marvel is a universe crafted at the hands of two brilliant men with unfathomable minds and luminous artistry and it is responsible for launching some of the most brilliant artistic careers of the Silver Age of comics; Buscema, Steranko, Romita (or as I like to call them the Three Juan-itos…because all three of them are named John) to name just a few. Marvel was and is awesome in every sense of the word…but they were always missing one thing….The Bat.

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Bob Kane’s Batman first appeared in Detective comics (later DC) #27

The Batman, the Caped Crusader, Bats, the World’s Greatest Detective, the Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne; whatever you called him, Batman was and remains an incurable badass (except maybe when George Clooney played him, but that wasn’t really Clooney’s fault. I mostly blame Joel Schumacher for putting nipples on the Batsuit. Way to go, Joel! That’s what Batman had been missing all those years…nipples). Batman was a symbol that any man (who was a billionaire with infinite resources) who was tired of corruption, of looking the other way, of the status quo, could rise up and become someone else….something else (and is that sounds familiar to you it’s supposed and I am totally getting there) in order to protect the things and people he holds dear. And this became the template off of which so many other DC characters were built.

I would be a liar if I said that it was not the more recent additions to popular culture that has fueled my enthusiasm for DC’s universe and characters but certainly they were not the only things….I do have a five year old boy after all and little boys love Batman. They just do. They cannot help it. I think it’s in their blood, woven into their biology by 70 years worth of human evolution.

I wanted to touch briefly on the Christopher Nolan “Dark Knight” movies as “the thing that made Batman cool again” after a decade or so of cinematic embarrassments. “Batman Begins”, being the first installment in the Dark Knight Trilogy, was a re-creation of the character for a modern age; gritty, complex, stoic, strong, even romantic at times. Christian Bale brought to Batman a depth that he had previously lacked outside the comic books and he brought it to a national audience and national acclaim. You cannot talk about the Dark Knight Trilogy without at least mentioning the haunting and even disturbing portrayal of Batman’s longtime nemesis, The Joker by a doomed Heath Ledger. The impact of that performance and what it has done to and for the evolution of that character is astounding in its depth. I feel like it raised the bar for the portrayal of villains in general.

I know that everyone is climbing the goddamn walls right now and shouting that the DC conversation HAS TO begin with Superman and to you I would say, this is my blog and I do what I want! So there! You wanna talk about Superman get your own blog….although we are going to talk about Superman in so much that he is kind of an outlier as far as the major heroes go in the DC universe.

Superman is an alien (albeit an alien whose life basically mirrors the biblical story of Moses). And while he has an interesting life story and abilities he is not a man…he is a super man. I personally feel that the evolution of Superman as a character and the trajectory of his life story are much more lackluster than a lot of the other characters in the DC universe (and I will admit that I have not seen “Man of Steel” so sue me, okay). But it is continually argued (and not incorrectly, even in my opinion) that Superman is one of the greatest, if not THE greatest, comic book superheroes in history. He is certainly the most iconic. But, in my humble (lol) opinion he’s also one of the most boring. Superman is unerring in his goodness. What makes modern takes on characters like Batman and Green Arrow so compelling is that they constantly struggle between doing the RIGHT THING and doing what feels right at the time (although no one ever said that vigilante justice was an easy business to be in). Superman never falters…because he’s fucking SUPERMAN! Although, in the very first Superman stories told by his creators Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster it is said that Superman was “…rough and aggressive. The character often attacks and terrorizes wife beaters, profiteers, lynch mobs, and gangsters in a rough manner and with a looser moral code than audiences today might be used to”. I say we need a little more of the Old School Superman. You can definitely picture Old School Superman hanging out with Oliver Queen, drinking vodka stolen from the Bratva and giving each other homemade tattoos (you totally thought I was gonna say blowjobs, didn’t you, you sick fuck….and now you’re picturing it….it’s kind of hot, huh).

Speaking of Oliver Queen, I’m just gonna leave this here……

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I could watch that ALL DAY!

If it weren’t for Stephen Amell’s abs  I would probably not be as enthusiastic about the DC Universe as I am today. I think I was home sick one day and I started watching “Arrow” on the CW shortly after it came out with its first season. I may have been there, initially, because of Stephen Amell’s body…and eyes…and ass (yes, I am aware that too is a body part but I think it bears repeating)…his soft gravelly voice….his ferocity…his workout routine, but I stayed for interesting character development, largely believable motivations and kick ass fights with bows and arrows because, DUH! “Arrow” definitely sent me down the “looking things up rabbit hole” and got me excited about the larger DC Universe in general.

Along came Barry Allen and with him came a particle accelerator, which promptly exploded, making all kinds of crazy things happen! Like turning a normal dude into the “fastest man alive”! The CW’s “The Flash” was (finally) released on Netflix in October of 2015 and it was ripe for the binge watching. And it was binge watched, rapidly and with extreme prejudice….I actually don’t even know what that means, it just sounded cool. But our hasty binge watching has left us twiddling our thumbs waiting for the Netflix release of season two, which, of course, is already playing on TV’s CW Network

There are so many cool and interesting characters and stories in DC Comics, Aquaman not withstanding (although, as was recently pointed out to me by my fiance’s 6 year old nephew, he can talk to sharks and that’s pretty damn cool), that it’s kind of like this former “Marvel Girl” gets to get into comics all over again…with a whole new (to me) UNIVERSE!  And I cannot wait to start digging deeper into the lives and people contained within!

My son and I read about Batman, the Justice League, Superman, Wonder Woman et al. nearly every night. We watch Batman and Justice League cartoons together (because cartoons are art too, goddamnit, and even though we don’t own a TV and I once used to own a bookstore I am not prepared to be one of “those” people who look down their nose at everything that has been touched by pop culture, those people who are like, “I don’t know what “Dr. Who” is because we don’t have a television, we just sit around listening to symphonies, reading books, sipping port and judging people.”) so my interest and knowledge are constantly being bolstered. Even if “Batman v. Superman” sucks, and sadly, I have heard nothing up to this point that would have me believe that it doesn’t, I am still going to love it because it’s mine. Comic book characters feel like friends. They’re these people we all know or at least all us nerds and frankly I cannot think of a better “we” to be a part of. The characters don’t always do the right things but it kind of makes us love them even a little more. We feel as though the choices they make have an impact and not just on their lives but our lives because their effects will be felt…across their Universe.

I am super tired from staying up too late last night to finish season 2 of “Daredevil” which just came out last week. I have no shame regarding this matter nor do I think it is owed. “Daredevil” kicks fucking ass and I will totally be writing a blog about how much it does that very soon but right now I need to get to bed. XOXO

And here’s a ton more pretty pictures to look at featuring the artists and characters of the DC Universe, highlighting the work of Gil Kane, Carmine Infantino, Neal Adams, George Perez, Frank Miller and many others!

 

 

 

 

 

The Trump Blog All 5 of You Have Been Waiting For

So there’s this election coming up and while in my real life I am anything but A-political when I am here, sitting in my awesome blogging throne* from which I do all my totally awesome blogging I tend to keep politics as an aside although I am relatively certain that most people can guess which way I lean. It’s not that I don’t have strong opinions or even that I have nothing to say on the political matters that are important to me, it’s just that I prefer that if people are going to hate me, it be for good reasons like I got drunk and pooped on your front porch and then videotaped your stepping in it the next morning when you left the house….hypothetically, or because I called you cuntrag in front of your small child because you cut in line at the zoo, or I ate the last of the Cocoa Krispies and left the empty box in the cupboard so that you thought there were actually Cocoa Krispies left so you totally got your hopes up for some delicious Cocoa Krispies but when you felt how light the box was your hopes, while diminished, were not completely crushed until you upended the box over your bowl and were met with only a feeble sprinkling of Cocoa Krispy dust. Frankly I cannot think of better reason to hate someone than that last one. Except maybe if they were a psychotic, racist, sexist, violent, misogynistic, bloated, homophobic, orange, narcissistic, delusion, mono-maniacal, smarmy, creepy, lying, repugnant, xenophobic, greasy, vomit-swelling, little fuckstain of a shriveled up oompa loompa, that might also be a good reason to hate someone. But, alas, hate only breeds more hate, just like anything else that powerful…like love, for instance. So let’s maybe not talk about why we “hate” that oompa loompa and talk about why he’s such an incapable, dangerous, and downright idiotic choice for a leader.

Of course I’m talking about Donald Trump and just like John Oliver said, I am kind of loathe to even write out his name because I am positive he has a tiny orgasm every time it is written…..or spoken….or read, not even aloud, just in your head, but he still knows because he once made a wish with a genie from a magic lamp and now he can sense it whenever bile rises in someone’s throat after simply hearing his name or seeing his picture.

 

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It seems like an oddly impractical thing to wish for if you ask me, but let’s be honest people, we are not dealing with a Rhodes Scholar here. Sometimes, after the Donald feels the need to reassure the American public that there are “no problems” with his dick (I find this highly doubtful coming from a man who repeatedly and in earnest talked about wanting to bang his own daughter), when I am done throwing up, I try to figure out if this is actually happening, like for real, actually happening. It’s kind of like watching Trapped in the ClosetR. Kelly’s much beloved/maligned “hip hopera” that is still puzzling stoned people everywhere as to whether or not its creator was entirely serious in the making of what the writer, producer, director and actor of the “films” would call his masterwork.

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Have I mentioned that in R. Kelly’s Trapped in the Closet he is legit trapped in a literal closet?

There is simply no way to watch Trapped in the Closet and not think to yourself, “NO FUCKING WAY THEY ARE TAKING THIS SHIT SERIOUSLY!” And that sentiment is pretty much echoed whenever I hear about the next, ridiculous, offensive, stupid and/or (usually and) appalling thing the Trump campaign has done. I can just imagine the Donald sitting around the frat house with his other white, be-polo-ed frat buddies (only because that’s where I assume he lives), high-fiving one another, drinking their way through case after case of unsold Trump brand vodka (which was absolutely a thing….just not a thing anyone wanted), and trying to think of the next absurd thing that Trump is going to say or do that will inevitably get him more headlines, more recognition and possibly, more votes.

“Dude! You know what you should totally do tomorrow, bro? You should totally talk about murdering innocent women and children. Betcha no one will call you out on it!” *shouts of bro-ly agreement* *high fives all around*

“BRO! Then you should totally talk about how big your dick is at the debates! That would totally fuckin’ crush it!” *smashes empty beer can into forehead, swigs Trump brand vodka, casually rapes coed while high-fiving his bros, posts it all the Twitter*

“Fuck yeah! You should threaten to walk out onto 5th Avenue in downtown NYC and shoot someone! Fuckin’ EPIC, Bro!” *Tweets about how he’s gonna retweet the tweet that Trump will tweet after he is forced to go on Twitter and defend his saying that he could shoot someone and no one would care…oddly enough, no one cares*

The Trump candidacy has been the most collectively head-scratching theater that the American public has ever seen. I mean this guy has Andy Kaufman beat by a country mile…unless he’s actually serious….OH GOD! You don’t think he’s actually serious about this, do you? I mean, if he is actually serious about his campaign, which, of course, is a possibility, he might be some kind of publicity savant and he genuinely and truly thinks that the hardest part of being President of the United States is getting elected….while simultaneously proving himself wrong at every turn! GENIUS!

But in reality I don’t think Trump has given much, if any, thought to what would happen after getting elected. I honestly don’t think he thinks things out much at all; what he’s going to say, how he’s going to “run a business (into the ground?)”, how or where his money is spent, what bullshit thing/building/failed casino/piece of steak he puts his name on, or to whom he might be liable if elected. I think the most dangerous thing about Trump is that Trump only cares about Trump. He is not interested in the welfare of the American People at all. The only reason he is even running for President is because it was the biggest popularity contest he could get himself into and he NEEDS validation, adulation and attention like normal, non-psychotic, non-narcissistic people need air or water. And let me tell you one thing, the leaders that are only in it for themselves and to further their personal agendas, their own need for power, worship, veneration, awe, devotion, glorification, praise, flattery, blandishments…those are the men (and I say “men” because I fucking mean MEN) who are truly dangerous because at the end of the day they are only beholden to their own emptiness at NOT having those things. And like a toddler, he will resort to any means necessary to get them. Unlike a toddler instead of throwing a tantrum, the leader of the free world can just decide to send a nuclear missile strike to….*throws dart at globe, comes up with country I cannot pronounce, picks France instead because I totally bet the Donald hates France for no reason at all*….FRANCE!

Trump may or may not be a psychopath (my money is on the former) but he is definitely dangerous. He is definitely not a leader. I wouldn’t let Trump lead a goddamn girl scout troop…mostly because he would try to sleep with all the girls and when they refused he would call them “cows” or “lesbians” and threaten to sue them and then he would rename all the cookies “Trump-mints” and “Trump-moas” and “Trumpalongs” or “Shortbread Tre-ump-foils” and then he would convince the girls that are just commodities and that if they wanted to achieve anything in life they’d better do it in a 24 karat gold-flake Trump brand string bikini while stripping in Atlantic City because that is the only way those stupid cows are going to find a rich husband, but it may already be too late for Trisha because she’s going to be 14 in a month an a half and the only thing you little bitches really have to offer a “successful” man is your youth and beauty. And don’t you forget it….MAKE ‘MERICA GREAT AGAIN!

Also, globe darts is the best sport I have ever just invented! XOXO

*”blogging throne” may or may not refer to any chair, bed, toilet, yurt, park bench (where I was totally NOT sleeping), carpet, patch of mostly dry grass, blankie, tuffet or really any flat surface available for sitting within reach of the writer.

P.S. I decided that when I run for president (because that is what wildly under-qualified lunatics are doing these days) my campaign slogan will be “Make America Pie Again” because who doesn’t love pie?!!!! BOOM! That’s at least 26 delegates right there! Also, I am suddenly feeling the need to make “Biblio Diva for President” T-shirts and bumperstickers. It’s gonna be a long night. XOXO yet again!

Just Filling the void

This is not a real post.

I totally keep thinking of awesome things about which to write but I am usually in the shower or driving or lying in bed when I should be sleeping and nowhere near a computer when these nuggets of brilliance seep up to the surface. I think I need to get one of those chalk boards that I where around my neck like Anthony Hopkins in “Legends of the Fall” after he has his stroke and can’t talk anymore.

hopkins

Dude! He also has a pipe on a string around his neck. This idea could revolutionize EVERYTHING!

 

Except for that brings up the whole issue of having to learn to write upside down and frankly, I am totally done learning new skills.

happy hopkins

If you did not cry during this scene you obviously have no soul….or no tear ducts which is a totally real thing!

Or, and I am just spit-balling here, in lieu of the bulky chest chalkboard (chestboard?) I could carry around a note pad. OOOOH! Or one of those little hand-held tape recorders (I know all the millennials are just shaking their heads at me and saying to themselves in voices full of thinly veiled pity and condescension “Yeah, there’s an app for that on your smart phone.” And to them I say “You are talking to a woman with a typewriter collection who grew up idolizing Hunter S. Thompson and for whom outmoded and anachronistic means of communication will never be anything short of wildly romantic and awesome…so suck it!”). C’mon, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about having one of those pocket tape recorders wherein you store all your sagacious, enlightened, little tidbits of brilliance that pop into your head from time to time. I think the bummer part of that whole process would be sitting down at your desk at the end of the day or, even worse, the end of the week, to record all your noteworthy opining and unprecedented epiphanies and all you have is a note to buy more grapefruits and then two hours of continuous recording of the noises that occur inside your purse. GENIUS! Except for not really.

You know what WOULD be genius? If you had the idea to combine a few great things into one AMAZING like hash browns and masturbation and watching  Daredevil into….I don’t know, but those the the “few great things” I came up with on the fly and, frankly, that seems like a pretty damn solid list to me.

I totally forgot where I was going with this, but I think that kind of drives the point home about my needing a chestboard or at the very least a tape recorder and that’s good enough for me. I think I will quit while I am ahead-ish or at least ish.

XOXO

Let’s Be Friends*!

*no seriously!

So (drink) (and someday I will repost all the rules to the Biblio Diva drinking game so that those of you who are new to us, I’m talking to YOU Canadians, can play along at home because I have faith in you and your livers and their ability to withstand anything because they have already withstood decades worth of Tim Horton’s coffee, Molson, Justin Beiber and Nickleback) (Also, Dear Canadians, please stop telling your talentless musicians where the US border is, because we REALLY don’t need another Avril Lavigne or Celine Dion or Alanis Morisette. We already have a Kanye to deal with and he’s kind of a handful. Just point them in the other direction and they will all end up in the North Pole. Although if 3 Inches of Blood or Death From Above 1979 or DOA are asking you can give them directions…and I know you will because you are Canadian and, by nature, very polite and helpful. I feel like this is the most peaceful and humane solution for everyone) (and at this point I should just start over because even I have lost track of what’s going on with all these parentheses).

Starting over….So (you still have to drink), I super have NO friends, and I know what you’re thinking; “How is that possible?” you shriek, outraged. “You are so charming and erudite and generous and beautiful and intelligent and you know how to get free booze, like, anywhere you go and you are great at outrunning the police! Those are all tremendously attractive qualities in a human being!” except I can totally hear that you are saying it sarcastically, even if it is all true, so it kind of loses some impact…although the sentiment is appreciated even if you could not get through the delivery without laughing.

The fact is that when you COMPLETELY dismantle your life or it just falls apart in one way or another, whether by choice or by happenstance, it can make it difficult to keep people around. Not everyone is going to understand what’s going on, also, not everyone is going to care. It was easy for me at first to blame my lack of a social life on closing my bookstore or having to move far away from Renton, which was the admitted center of most of my social interactions, or never having any money (because unemployment often results in being poor). But I think it runs deeper than that. I think some people were really uncomfortable with the choices I made and it was easier for them to just fade away than to try to understand why I was making them. Now admittedly, whenever my life goes through sweeping changes it always seems to be more of a scorched earth kind of scenario than I ever intend when starting out. My chronic misbehavior is probably to blame for my instability but the thing is, I’ve always been this way. Y’all knew that when you first came along for the ride! But that’s the thing about people like me; people gravitate towards us because we are fun, irreverent, risky, a little scary, a lot crazy….and we know how to get free booze, like anywhere. We are very good at making friends but not very good at convincing them to stay.

That being said I am currently accepting applications for besties right now (I am sort of imagining people just losing their shit like when bitches find out that the episode of Oprah they are attending the taping of is the ‘favorite things’ episode)! And it’s crunch time, motherfuckers! I am getting married in 4 months (HOLY SHIT! FOUR FUCKING MONTHS!) and I need someone to stand up there with me and pretend to care about my getting married because, Goddamnit, I am already down one person who was supposed to walk me down the aisle. So, if you’re interested in being my Maid of (questionable) Honor read on.

  • You get to wear whatever you want. Within reason. No white. No blue seersucker because that’s what I’ll be wearing. No pants, it’s a wedding for godsakes! No florals, no feather boas, no tiaras, no fishnets (unless they’re like nude, then I support that move), no latex, no denim, NO corduroy, none of that 1990’s flouncy crushed velvet bullshit, in fact you can’t even come if you’re gonna wear that shit, I am already ashamed of knowing you.
  • You will literally be the only person up there with me so it’s impossible for you to be the “fat bridesmaid” because you will be the ONLY bridesmaid! Plus, I am pretty fat so there’s even a chance that you will be the “skinny bridesmaid”!
  • I won’t make you throw me any ridiculous parties because I have been to enough wedding showers to know that no one has any fun at them because who gives a fat shit about your monogrammed bath towels or your stupid fucking china pattern…let’s go get wasted and rip off a limousine! (It’s really a wonder that I have a dearth of compatible humans in my life…)
  • You must be female (sorry Sojin). While I am totally always in search of my new gay best friend (ISOGBF) I feel like my maid of honor should be an actual maid….not like a housekeeper….although if you are, that would certainly not rule you out….I am fine with whatever you do for a living…I am NO classist! I guess if you euthanized baby otters or worked on the Trump campaign for a living that might sour our potential relationship just a little.
  • Must tolerate or better yet celebrate excessive cussing, excessive drinking, excessive sarcasm, excessive laughing at my own jokes, excessive inappropriate exposure of my bare ass in public, excessive always being the person in the bar who is saying something REALLY offensive when the music dies down, excessive air concertina, excessive insistence that you “haven’t lived until you have woken up with vomit in your ears”, excessive talking of and enthusiasm for nearly all things related to Marvel or DC comics (this one’s really important), excessive squealing at pictures of baby miniature ponies,  excessive belief in Bigfoot, excessive excesses, unicorns, and children because I have one of those and it’s probably best that you learn to like him…or I will cut you.
  • Must be Catholic….not because I am Catholic or even religious but I figure if you’re Catholic you might have at least a fighting chance at keeping up with me where alcoholism is concerned. I will also consider Godless heathens of all stripes and lapsed Mormons because you guys totally kick ass to drink with!
  • You totally don’t have to make a toast or write a speech because you will probably have nothing to say about me because we will have just met and your cover will totally be blown if you get up there and start talking about what a good person I am because EVERYONE knows that’s not true.
  • I won’t make you pose for cheesy “bridesmaid” photos with your panties exposed because apparently that’s a thing. As a matter of fact I won’t make you pose for any photos, not because I don’t want pictures of you and our beautiful (and completely manufactured) friendship but because I am too poor to hire a photographer.
  • You must be my Bartlett. That is to say it is required that you will carry my flask and it will be your job to know and even anticipate when the dispensation of said flask is required.
  • Must be awesome at providing cover for someone who frequently feels the need to urinate in public, also, how are your holding-back-hair skills?
  • Must protect my secret identities.
  • Must already be able fit into the sidekick costume of your now deceased predecessor.

If this sounds like you, please submit your application to become best friends and eventual Maid of (dis)Honor in the comment section. And just so you know how serious I am about this, this whole post was supposed to be how I wanted to throw a Funko party where we all order a bunch of those blank Funko Pop characters and then decorate them, presumably while drinking wine and chatting and, with any luck, having a nice time.

Blank-Female-e-Male-DIY-Pop-Vinyl-Figure-01

So when I couldn’t think of anyone to invite (that might actually show up) to my imaginary Funko party that I may or may not have I started to get a little freaked out. That’s when I realized I have NO friends. If I can’t even get people to come decorate vinyl dolls with me even when I offer them free booze how can I expect anyone to want to be my Maid of Honor? How can I even consider asking someone at this point without feeling like a complete ass? The answer is I can’t….and I do. I am going to have to stand up there alone and I am going to have to be okay with it.

Maybe someday I will learn how to hang onto to people. Maybe someday I will learn how to be the kind of person worth hanging onto. For now….I hope I made you laugh. XOXO

Also, wouldn’t a Funko decorating party be super fun?! I would totally go to that even if I were (not a typo) the one throwing it!