20 December, 2007
Recently, a friend invited.... encouraged..... actually, he INSISTED that I check out the work his surgeon did. "They feel so real," he gushed.
"No, really, they do," his pal confirmed.
And then he grabbed my hand so that I could touch and admire the realistic nature of the silicone implants.
Oh, totally. No one would ever know.
I didn't have the heart to mention that I've not done enough clothed groping to tell the difference between biology and trouser seams without extensive manipulation.
Now, if he'd offered to show them.....
(Big Balls; AC/DC)
11 December, 2007
It being a fairly well-accepted notion that feeling better mentally leads to feeing better physically, I put on red lace underwear this morning.
And still feel lousy.
So out comes the low-cut sparkly sweater as reinforcement.
Sadly, it's chilly enough that my nipples are indistinguishable from my goosebumps.
(I Wish It Would Rain; The Temptations)
23 November, 2007
As I finish at the gas station, a man approaches.
Accustomed as I am to my 'hood, I assume he is going to ask me for change that he will pretend is for bus fare. I get in my car before he does more than open his mouth. I turn the ignition switch, preparing to exit. He gets into his car, starts the engine, pulls away from the curb. He looks out his open window.
Oh. Maybe he's not a panhandler. Maybe he wanted directions. I unroll my window.
"Oh, miss, I was jus' gonna ax, are you single?"
(What? You have got to be kidding me. I haven't combed my hair today, and I'm not wearing makeup.)
I shake my head.
Not for twenty years.
"Oh. Oh! Cuz I wuz, I wuz, gonna take you to the mooovies."
Were ya now.
Sorry. Thanks, though. I drive away.
I appreciate the straightforward directness. Saves time and confusion.
(One Thing Leads to Another; The Fixx)
07 November, 2007
This weekend, November 9th and 10th, Do Or Die presents Death Warmed Over at Spotlighter's Theatre. See me as someone perky in a bright yellow jacket! Showtimes are 8 PM Friday and Saturday nights.
Next weekend, November 16th and 17th, Death By Turkey comes to the Chesapeake Arts Center. This show is a period piece set in the 1950s, when men wore suits and women vacuumed in pearls. See me as someone perky in a black taffeta skirt! Showtimes are 8 PM Friday and Saturday nights.
You missed out seeing me as the deranged daughter (Sunday at Fabulous Whispers) and the crazy cat lady (Tuesday at Belmont Manor) in The Legend of Creepy Hollow. Well, except for Stephanie. She didn't miss out.
Friday November 30, Saturday December 1 and Sunday December 2, Fuzzy appears in the Baltimore School for the Arts' production of The Nutcracker Ballet, 7 PM Friday and Saturday nights, and Saturday and Sunday matinees at 3 PM. She will not appear in the second weekend's performances, as she and Fluffy are both otherwise committed.
Yes, that's right: Fluff and Fuzz appear onstage together again in the Hack and Slash Christmas Special. I will be there in some capacity, though nobody's yet given me a job description. Other performers include Hack and Slash, Broon and Moonie(actually Moonie and Broon, and requires Flash), the Pickled Punks, a couple of Washing Well Wenches, and The Renaissance Man. Wear your pajamas.This is probably not the pajama set I will wear, but I won't wear anything like this, either.
(This Is It! [Bugs Bunny Overture]; Mack David and Jerry Livingston)
12 October, 2007
"Mama, why did you not throw this away?"
I can't see what 'this' is from here. What have you got?
Fuzzy enters with a light brown orb. I frown at it.
"It's the brain from your alligator head. Why did you leave it on the table?"
Now I know what I'm looking at.
When I cut the avocado open, the pit popped out and rolled away, and I forgot about it. Sorry.
I call them, southern-style, 'alligator pears'. The brain. Of the alligator head. Of course. I snicker as I consign this 'brain' to the trash.
She sighs deeply at my idocy.
It's going to be 'that' sort of a day when dressing goes like this: bra, panties, left shoe, trousers, right shoe. And then, downstairs, noticing that I sort of need a shirt.
Y'all go on and complain about the heat, but Primarily Decorative has been enjoying an extended Naked Season.
She does, however, draw the line at (shudder) white shoes.
If you haven't made it out to the Maryland Renaissance Festival this gorgeous season, you should hurry. Hey, Nunnie, Nunnie has already left the building. This is the final weekend for Hack and Slash. The Mediaeval Baebes will be here next weekend, and both Wolgemut and Puke and Snot have already arrived. This weekend, next weekend, and THAT'S IT, PEOPLE. C'mon.
(Seey You Later, Alligator; Bill Haley and his Comets)
28 September, 2007
Embarrassing: Having the theme to 'Knight Rider' as your ringtone.
More embarrassing: NOT having the theme to 'Knight Rider' as your ringtone, but recognizing it anyway.
Those of you who have not yet had your annual Mimi fix need to hustle your butts. We have four weekends left. Lurk is in China for the next two weekends, but Hilby arrives tomorrow, and Lurk returns for the final two. Rumor has it that Puke and Snot will appear. The Arial Angels have landed, but so far the patrons remain safe.
The weather continues to be spectacular. I'll see you on site. You won't need me to wear a red carnation; I think you'll manage to recognize me.
24 September, 2007
I guess he went quietly.
Any last words?
Let us observe a moment of silence.
He had been looking pale.
Old age: the silent killer.
That's one box he won't escape.
(Sounds of Silence; Simon & Garfunkel)
10 September, 2007
torn Trojans box, empty
carved wooden staff
slightly soiled washcloth
room service card
a single sock
year old Hustler magazine
a dirty diaper
Agatha Christie's Murder In Three Acts in Russian
nine pages of floor plans
white T-shirt, size large
a Google map to Georgetown
three phone numbers with no identifiers
orange stuffed toy
two condom wrappers
catering director's business card
an empty envelope
package of cotton balls
06 September, 2007
More narcissism follows; I suggest quite strongly that you cease viewing this post immediately.
Originally uploaded by wkk_1999
Out of the Box on the grounds, heading to the Wine Garden. (Mmm, wine.)
arm to the sky
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Huge flowers, small children, and a patron.
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Originally uploaded by Morningstar1369
Manoevering through the throng in the Engineering Nightmare.
Originally uploaded by wastrel
Observe the hugeness.
Again, major props to the photogs who visit Faire and shoot us, posting colorful carnage on Flickr. The Engineering Nightmare has been captured. Reactions welcome.
(She's A Rainbow; The Rolling Stones)
30 August, 2007
So these photo mini-posts.
(Also this photo, from 2004, titled 'Tall Mysterious Fairie', and this one, currently the favorite of all photos ever taken of me, unless it's the one by Nelson Steele, taken in 1997, of me blowing a bubble through the bubble and I can't FIND you, Nelson, I've Googled you every way I can think of, and can't find you for permission or a negative of that GORGEOUS shot which I may scan and download, come on, find me, sue me for copywrite infringement, do you hear me? Mimi is loooooking for yooooouu....)
Believe it or not, this is not just vanity, though I've plenty of that, I admit. (I've in fact been admired for it- "I love your vainity", a crunchy granola earthmother acquaintance of mine responded when I said I wore my hair up in the convertible to avoid a white streak on my neck. What? Wouldn't you?) No, I have a purpose, a quest, a mission.
The reason I've been scouring the 'net, haunting Flickr like a deranged talent agent, is because this weekend, Mimic and I debut a new look. A look that I thought would be fabulous, but which proved an engineering nightmare. Is it worth putting more effort into it, or am I throwing good labor after bad? Literally, the only way I can tell if a costume is working for me or not is to see a photograph of it. And I don't have one yet.
So, I'm looking. If any of you have photos that you're waiting to upload.....
(Pictures Of You; Cure)
29 August, 2007
Originally uploaded by globalevan
Thank you, Young Evan.
White & Gold
Originally uploaded by autumncat
Autumncat is Awsomecat.
Originally uploaded by sigsegv
"Where'd Gigi get all those roses?"
MDRF 2006 Opening Weekend Mime gets a baby
Originally uploaded by sestree
Why, thank you. "EXTREMELY capable".
Originally uploaded by Patty Boh
Not so creepy?
Mimes on stilts
Originally uploaded by immortalityofthought
27 August, 2007
Fruit fragranced disposable shavers
Twelve year old Elvis impersonator
First day brilliance
A one-handed construction worker
Cancer in the family
The Spanish Inquisition
Letter from a dead man
Elvis suit made in 48 hours
Cream puff on a stick
Life vest on an expressway on-ramp
(Undercover Angel; Alan O'Day)
15 August, 2007
You may not share my passion for punctuation or language.
You may not appreciate my favorite LOLcat image:
or like my favorite joke:
Descartes walks into a bar. "What'll you have, Rene?" asks the bartender, "Gin and tonic?"
Descartes shakes his head and says, "I think not," and disappears.
or others of that ilk. Indeed, you may not care for any any sort of word-play.
You may disagree while I applaud CityPaper's sound chastisment of the shabby submissions to last year's fiction contest:
Now, we're not saying that these observations are false nor that they don't deserve creative treatment, but if all you know of them is what you see on TV, your readers are going to see right through you. Conversely, if you are reporting from the front of your life, remember to put some of yourself into it. In the maxim "write what you know," it is always true to mine extensively what you know, but such truth means nothing if you don't put any effort into the writing part.
Consider this year's contest intro some friendly words of constructive criticism, some hard/fast rules we'd like to share with the aspiring young scribes of today. Poets, wacky formatting doesn't make up for the fact that you have nothing to say; fiction writers, everyone has, at some point, written or thought of writing a story that takes place around last call at the bar. Everybody, big words don't make you sound smart if you don't know how to use them. Don't use "u" for "you" or "2" for "to" or "too." If your piece is supposed to be a metaphor for something, don't overplay it. Spell out the swear words; we're an alt-weekly, for fuck's sake. Eerily specific pro-drive-by shooting stories tend to make your readers uneasy. Far be it from the half-assed neologism-prone writers over here to cast stones, but if you're Frankensteining a word as if English were German, please let the context of the sentence offer some suggestions as to what it might mean. Writing Black American English isn't merely dropping the final g's off gerundives; for the love of anything resembling self-respect, don't assume you can write a variety of American English if you've never actually spent time with the people who speak it.
And, once and for all, just because you don't know--or choose to ignore--the customs of grammar or spelling, that doesn't mean they can't do your writing any favors. Don't care how gifted and smart and cute you think you are--you have to know the rules to break the rules, and by some estimates the English language is more than 1,000 years old: Who the hell are you to change it?
plus I luuuurve the word 'Frankensteining', which, when I use it, I often (strangely) need to explain. Whut?
(We will let pass the superfluous apostrophe in 'final g's off gerundives', though the phrase could easily have been restructured to avoid it.)
You may not believe in evolution as anything other than a theory. That's fine. Myself, I'm not a big fan of the theory of gravity, in either context.
Possibly you wouldn't believe that all babies, regardless of culture, come pre-programed with rudimentary language, or that they lose it if no one responds appropriately within their first three monts.
Maybe you don't care that relatively few people have any conscious awareness of the body language they broadcast, or receive, and therefore would not be astounded by the levels of communication in the face alone. This may be of no interest to you.
Since 'abstraction' and 'syntax' are distinguishing factors of true 'language', perhaps the 'words' spoken by prarie dogs do not constitute language. This may not even be a thing that makes you go 'hmmm.'
The idea that other animals also has a grammar may be less entertaining to you than idle chat at bus stops or on elevators.
You may find it inexplicable that Ms. Primarily Decorative Grammarian is intensely interested in the language of LOLcats, and when communicating via text message has given up perfectly spelled and structured sentences, instead sending this sort of thing:
O hai i ar with ur juglr, drinkin margaritaz.
O hai I not b steelin ur bedz 2nite.
It may not interest you to know that this is different from engrish, poorly phrased instructions or assertions that are both public and accidental. Done deliberately, it ceases to be engrish; LOLcat is never engrish, but engrish might sometimes be LOLcat, though this is actually difficult.
A well-known quote
All your base are belong to us
seems halfway to LOLcat already. However, if you try to adjust it as it stands and come up with
All ur base ar belong to we
you see that this is unacceptable, even if you don't care. To fit the format/syntax, the whole sentence must be rearranged, added to and subtracted from, as in
O hai, I stoled ur bases
Ur bases, we has tehm.
(note the restoration of the pluralizing 's'. I know. Esoteric and uninteresting. How does she do it?)
So you may not appreciate this article about writing computer code in LOLcat- (in fact, the term 'LOLcat' to indicate this dialect was never a foregone conclusion. At least one writer used the term 'kitty pidgin' -a phrase that's akin to naming a dog 'Bear', in my opinion- or alternately, 'LOL-kitteh'.)
You may now be yawning and dozing to the point of dropping your laptop on the floor (logic board repair: $600.), but I find this man's in-depth analysis of the LOLcat phenomena and its relationship to the evolution of internet language pretty intense, insightful stuff.
But if you're bored, skip all this geekiness to drool over nice boobies.
(What a Wonderful World; Sam Cooke)
11 August, 2007
No. I don't. Probably I never will.
It was my special thing with Bill. Mimi played the game with the king, but not any king, just THAT one.
This weekend, August 11th and 12th, is Opening Weekend at the Pennsylvania Renaissance Festival. Mimi will perform her Silent Stories show:
Mimi the Mime - The child within understands exactly what Mimi is telling us as we wonder in amazement at the hysterical antics of this marvelous wordless storyteller! Avalon Hill Kid's Kyngdom at 12:30, 2:00 and 3:30.
(For the record, I did NOT write that copy.)
Special bonus, around the Shire:
(Test shot from early makeup session.)
(Shot on the occasion of Zizi's debut.)
Our beloved Gigi
has gone travelling, and so Zizi has joined us. Everyone will love her. I demand it.
The entire troupe, Mimi & Max, Lili, and now Zizi
will perform at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which opens on the 25th of August. See you then!
(I will not be wearing a red carnation. I will, however, be wearing- you guessed it- Mimi Pink.)
* My thanks to all of the fabulous photographers who make us look so good.
08 August, 2007
If your period is due anytime this week or next, it will make itself known the day you wear pastel panties.
So, how to cap off a week filled with upsetting family news, dangerous heat, teen-level skin eruptions, pollen-induced sinus headaches, and the Midol Blues?
Naturally, dental surgery.
Upside to all this? Prescription for Codine. There is a God.
(Let It Bleed; Rolling Stones)
31 July, 2007
Sky that melted into water with no seam
Unreasonably sized video screens
A bar that was empty when I walked into it
A near miss while driving
The inside of an automobile elevator
Dramatic streaks of lightning
A near miss as a passenger
An asshole on a riceburner, popping a wheelie
Half of Frost/Nixon
Cookie Monster walking down the street
A studly and polite police officer
Shoes that I did not covet
Vincent Price playing a prettyboy
A doodle of a villain on a paper tablecloth
A near miss as a pedestrian
(We Are the Champions; Queen)
It's Tuesday. I know. Shaddap.
24 July, 2007
Mama’s beer is empty.
He goes to the cooler, brings a Natty Boh. I pull my best pout.
"What’s wrong now?"
It’s not open.
He rolls his eyes.
"Can you say ‘high maintenance’?"
I look around. I recognize exactly no one.
"Where should we sit?"
With the fun people.
"Where are they?"
I sigh. The table by the curtain has only two guests. I approach at high speed, fueled by half a glass of cranberry and vodka.
Hi. We’re looking for the fun people and we think you’re it.
He looks up and grins.
"Yeah? You can tell I’m fun just by looking at me?
We’ve got the right table, honey.
Hawk sits. I’ve already sat. I look at my new friend’s fresh-faced companion.
And you, you didn’t graduate with us. What are you, a sophmore here?
"Her? This’s my daughter."
Her jaw drops in outraged amusement.
Now I KNOW we’ve got the right table.
"Did you have fun at the reunion?" he calls from his topless gold Sebring.
Yes!! Did you? I answer from my topless red one.
This is the best, though, right now, in my car.
"You got THAT right!"
People in Jaguars, do you think they’re having...
"...twenty thousand dollars’ worth more fun..."
...than we are right now, are they?
We part company when the light changes.
Fuzzy eyes me critically.
"What is that?"
New bikini top. Like it?
"No, I mean, what IS it? Bra or swimsuit?"
Swimsuit. I’ve wanted a white bikini for awhile, makes me feel all Barbarella.
"What is THAT?"
Oh, this? Removable push-up pad. It looks horrible, doesn’t it?
Good thing it’s removable.
It's about halfway when he joins me.
"So, how is it?"
I’m not sure what the fuss was about.
"It’s not good?"
The story’s great, and she’s fantastic, but I hate the lighting- it’s shadowy and contrived, and they keep having these extended close-ups of his face, which never does anything.
Well, it doesn’t. And it’s not like this is a Dirty Harry flick. How many Academy Awards did this win?
And look at that- who’s that woman, the mother, she was in Edward Scissorhands, she’s fabulous, that scene was wonderful, he got a great performance out of them in that sequence- and now, now we go to a long shot, of him, doing what? Nothing! Won’t someone please tell him that he’s a great director, but he needs to just quit acting, because he’s dreadful.
What? Somebody should tell him, that's all.
"I am not going to fool around with you in your mother’s house."
She’s not home; why not?
"We’re just not, got it?"
But at our house, there are kids, which you claim are a major flaccid-inducer.
"They are, but we’re still not going to."
"You got laid once this weekend. Isn’t that enough?"
I snap a shot of Fuzzy getting caught, and one of Fluff flying in the air.
The White Diamond asks me, "Oh, will you take pictures of my son? Once more, I forgot to bring my camera."
Will I! How old is he, again?
“Oh, he’s legal."
Yes, but how long has he been that way?
She laughs. "He’s twenty-four."
I could do twenty-four.
"Mmm, so could I."
"Not HIM! Some other twenty-four."
I snap a shot.
"Didja get it?"
I got something. I may have been too late to catch his layout. My finger forgot to move fast because my mouth was hanging open. I think I drooled on my foot.
He rolls out of the net, biceps bulging, thighs rippling.
"I’m pimpin’ you, buddy. Cybele’s checking you out."
"Oh yeah? How much?" He lifts a water bottle carelessly. A drop rolls down his cheek, throat. Ahem.
She turns to me. "Whaddaya offering?"
Head tilted, I consider.
I’m not sure. Don’t I get a free sample?
The world shimmers with sunlit laughter.
(Hey, Bulldog; The Beatles)
18 July, 2007
Blackberry, in your hand, pulled from the bush so tenderly as to neither bruise nor break it, avoiding stains on flesh and clothing. From the bush, in the sunshine, dark and shiny where you've rubbed it carefully on your shirt. In your mouth, smooth and warm, slightly gritty where dust from the gravel road collected in its crevices, squirting heavy juice behind your teeth. In your throat, a little lumpy, the flesh inadequately chewed to defend against molar-grabbing seeds, slippery and sweet sliding down down to join the previous one, to be followed quickly with another. Blackberry bush, found beside the sunny dusty road, next to the field of fragrant young corn, bearing fruit so rare and precious you hate to leave any for the birds, and fill the hem of your shirt with the rest of the berries, knowing the shirt will be ruined, not caring. Holding the hem of your shirt in one hand, with the other reach for the last bright jewel on the bush, holding it delicately in your fingers before popping it in your mouth to crush, gently, bit by bit, between soft palate and tongue, dark juice filling your mouth with whispers of wine and moonlight and music, blackberry, freshly plucked.
(Cannonball; Damien Rice)
05 July, 2007
Update from the Dead Zone: We will be performing Murder At The Oh No! Corral on Friday night and Saturday night at Spotlighters in Baltimore.
I will not wear a carnation, but you may, if you like.
(Wild, Wild West; The Escape Club)
04 July, 2007
I have a special fondness for this holiday, being as it is the first one I ever celebrated. Not that I remember much about that first celebration, and no, not because I was drunk.
Plus, it's got excellent historical value, that whole giving the finger to The Man deal, and the writing of the Declaration, and Thomas Jefferson, recently coolified with interracial scandal. By the way, the Star Spangled Banner was not written during the Revolutionary War, but during the War of 1812, some years later. (Shaddap. YOU do the math.)
Also, Independence Day has significant peeve value as well, since many many many people identify it by its date rather than its title. Seriously, how often have you seen
Happy 4th Of July!
Happy Fourth Of July!
(which is not much of an improvement)?
Since when does a holiday identify by its date? Do we say, Happy 1st of January or Happy 25th of December? Do we say Happy Third Thursday In November, or Happy Six Weeks Past Ash Wednesday (or whatever that works out to be)?
We do not.
It would be stupid.
Also stupid: Redwhiteandblue themed food, clothing and beer. Especially the beer. Okay, green on St.Patrick's, if you're Irish, or if you're a poseur. Hallowe'en vests? Gah. Christmas sweaters? Only if you're in the Ugly Christmas Sweater Pub Crawl. But flag shirts hats trousers jewelry (especially jewelry) socks tights (Unless you're Captain America) neckerchiefs armbands leis bustiers (unless you're Wonder Woman) or boxer shorts, let me say this: Please. Our flag as outer or underwear? Please.
[Aside: flag-themed boxer shorts have business only in the striptease number performed by G. Gordon Liddy to the song "Goodbye, Mrs. Liddy" from Watergate! the Musical, and nowhere else, please, thankyouverymuch.]
So, sensibly clad in my usual black, I implore you, greet each other correctly on this the celebration of our nation's cussedness, and dress in a way that will cause embarrassment to neither your children nor your parents, or inspire snickering among natives of other, better dressed, countries.
From the bottoms of her white kitten-heeled sandals to the thong of her lacy blue panties to the demi-cups of her red satin bra, Primarily Decorative wishes you a Happy Independence Day.
(Ragged Old Flag; Johnny Cash)
*This post dedicated to my friend Tim Kreider.
26 June, 2007
If money were not an object, would you wish to sit one season out at MDRF and just go as a patron to be entertained? or would you miss being Mimi just too much to be able to do that?
((I have a second one as well - has any parent ever gotten upset when Mimi swipes a baby? The babies always seem quite happy to be soaring above the crowd.))
Gut response: No.
Intellectual response: Heyaaall no!
Considered response: Are you KIDDING? Mimi is probably the most entertained person in the village, possibly the entire Baltimore/Washington area, and perhaps all of the Eastern Seaboard.
I’ve been a visitor for a whole day and that was plenty, thanks. After I was broken, in 2003, Sparky brought me out to the Faire. I mostly was parked outside the White Hart tavern, and ended the day with a lap full of roses. Having that level of lovingkindness bestowed upon me was wonderful, but honestly, I'd rather had been working.
I have so much fun, and so much to do when I'm working that I'm not sure I could be adequately entertained as a patron for a weekend, never mind a whole season.
Plus, Mimi would never tolerate being sidelined.
I mean, there we are at HonFest, my girl and I, [hairsprayed updo by a transvestite who says ‘hang on, honey, we’re going to God': $20; funnel cake rechristened ‘hun’nle cake: $4.00; flamingo-shaped earrings: $12.00; hula-hooping at the Houlihan’s booth in hot pink platform sandals: well, you know.], stopping frequently to be the subject of photo ops and I say to my girl, “This is almost like RenFest- we wear bright clothes and get our picture done.”
“Better,” she answers. “because we can talk.”
“Worse,” I refute, “because we’re not getting a paycheck.”
“Worse,” she giggles, “because in whiteface, when someone asks stupid questions, we don’t have to answer.”
Honfest? good fun. RenFest? even better.
And our view from above is better than most.
Keep in mind, I’ve been working this fair a loooong time. he mudpit used to be in front of the iced tea booth, near the ring where Court’s Court would happen each afternoon. The storyteller’s chair spent its first season nearby. All of those things were moved when Center Stage was built. Center Stage no longer exists, either.
I wrote plays performed by Dragons By the Tale on Castle Stage. Now, in that space, and in the space previously occupied by a zip-line based joust game, stands the giant pirate ship playground.
I often know storylines ahead of time, and I’ve seen one Queen Elizabeth and two Henry VIIIs preside, and I’ve lost count of how many wives. I have loved four joust troupes, and two ex-partners. I’ve eaten things that are no longer on any menu (though none that contained avocado) and embraced several vendors who have gone to the great beyond.
The faire I see is different from the one patrons see, because mine is comprised of everything I see on stage, everything I see going on behind it, and everything I remember about both from the past two decades. I see the where the food comes from, who camps next to whom in the campground, when the privies are pumped, which booths have been sold, and how many people have needed the First Aid staff each day. I know how many patrons came in last year, and the year before, and how many we anticipate this season.
My Faire is bigger than any patron experience could encompass. I couldn’t be a Designated Patron in Maryland. I know too much. There’s no illusion, no fantasy for me to indulge.
Why would I want to? As a patron in a plain face, I wouldn’t be invited to have sips of beer or oyster shooters by perfect strangers. No one would permit me to swipe a baby from parental arms.
Has any parent ever gotten upset? Absolutely- usually the spouse of the one who handed the baby to me. The babies themselves could be a crapshoot, but I try to choose ones who look interested. I ask, and the person holding the child agrees, but when permission-asking is non-verbal, it takes only a miniscule amount of time, so it does look as though I’ve snatched the child away. Once, when a lady handed me a baby, a bystander objected. She said, “How could you just hand your baby to that performer?” Christine shrugged and said, “It’s her baby,” and snapped a photo.
Mimi gets so much of a show working that I very nearly feel fraudulent collecting a paycheck. (Please do not tell the Management.) I truly am more entertained performing than I would be watching.
And I, satisfied with less? People, please.
(Entertain Me; Soft Cell)
25 June, 2007
18 June, 2007
2 Bratz dolls
orange electrical cord
bottle of Perrier
sock full of coins
pink silk skirt
small bottle of Bayer asprin
4 empty canvas totes
CD of The Matrix
silver serving tray
Apple iBook G4
bottle of AdvilMigrane
recorder flute, blue
2 banana peels
The Twits by Roald Dahl
tall rectangular Christmas tin
glass vase of fake roses
3 left gloves
a broken iron
Spongebob Gameboy game
a black bra
(Seven Days, Sting)
13 June, 2007
I'll get back to answering questions in a minute, but first: these headlines.
What's wrong with this link? Tigers' Verlander No-Hits Brewers*
From BoingBoing, news of Ninjas Invading Italy.**
Oh, and here we go: Living Large And Loving It.***
Because Internet A Frightening Place.****
And from the shameless self-promotion department, Fluffy and Fuzzy and I will all be in a show called Vaudeville 2.0. We will not be in white-face.
Announcing: Vaudeville 2.0!
V2.0: A most superlative show!
Def: “Vau-de-ville 2.0”
1: theatrical entertainment consisting of a number of individual performances, acts, or mixed numbers, as by comedians, singers, dancers, acrobats, and magicians. 2. entertainment that will amaze (awe) and stupefy (duh) the village (ville) of Frederick.
1. a whole number, with no fractional portions. 2. the common vernacular way to refer to the second version of anything.
Originally French: chanson du vau de Vire ,1730-40, eventually shortened. Vaudeville is a genre of variety entertainment prevalent in the United States and Canada from the early 1880s until the early 1930s . Each evening's bill of performance was made up of a series of separate, unrelated acts. Types of acts included (among others) musicians, dancers, comedians, trained animals, magicians, impersonators, acrobats.
Vaudeville 2.0 as produced by Mark Lohr and Tim Marrone, of the recently revitalized Theatricks troupe, is a smorgasboard of variety acts for the whole family to enjoy. Acts include- but are not limited to-
• the magic of Michael Rosman
• Contortion by Shelly Guy
• fabulous clown routines
• the poetic musical stylings of Joe Thompson
• The piano prowess of Scott Morrow
• And NO costume malfunctions
Cream pies not included.
At the Frederick Cultural Arts Center, 15 W. Patrick Street, Frederick, Maryland. 301-662-4190
Friday, June 15, 7 PM
Saturday, June 16, 10 AM, 2 PM and 7 PM
Tickets: $12 adults, $7 youth 14 and under
Naturally, I've been rehearsing lately, and most of my writing has been script or copy or programme or press release or flyer or poster for the show, which is why Stephanie is still waiting.
The rest of you perhaps, not so much.
*Where's the verb?
****Has this happened already?
(A Day In The Life; Beatles)
06 June, 2007
Peach asked: Where would I find your first aid supplies?
First response: Dunno.
Second response: With the avacados.
Informed response: In my bathroom closet, ostensibly on the middle shelf, but actually mixed at random with manicure products, clean towels, shampoo and lightbulbs.
Well, that was quick and stupid. Speaking of which, it's Wednesday! Time for Wednesday Links!
This week's theme is cats and bees.
One parent believes that bees are unfair.
Are bees simple? Find out.
Vanishing bees? Not really.
Yes, you too can enjoy the benefits of bee pollen.
And Lulu Eightball on bees.
For the one or two of you who may have missed it, LOLcats.
Scary cat news from BoingBoing; is this crazy or what?
Finally, check out these crazy cats. I don’t know whether to be pleased or frightened.
And, just to tie everything together, both cats and bees can cause injuries, requiring first aid.
(Lovecats; The Cure)
03 June, 2007
Mike asked: What's for dinner?
Beef. It's what's for dinner.
At least according to the meat marketing agency, and I don't mean an escort service.
According to me? Dunno.
I spend a significant portion of time thinking of ways to weasel out of cooking. There are several establishments that I'm happy to pay to feed me. I've taught the children to cook. Leftovers are a blessing. I am Queen of Cans: beans, cream of mushroom soup, and chicken broth are foundations of crazy hasty meals. My freezer is stocked with fishsticks and chicken tenders. My pantry contains an assortment of noodles and tomato sauces in jars. Eggs, scrambled, fried, or hard boiled. Can of chicken noodle soup and crackers. Cheese rolled up in a tortilla. Tuna salad on toast. Chunk of meat in the crockpot with dry onion dip mix and cream of celery soup. This sort of cooking-without-cooking is probably going to cost the children thousands in therapy.
The problem is, as chief caretaker of growing humans, I ought to be cooking two or three times a day. However, I only LIKE to cook two or three times a YEAR.
I don't have a huge interest in food. Left to myself, I'll eat hummus and olives and endive and apples. In no particular order, and sometimes all together. I'm fond salmon and avacado and bleu cheese, and there is a salad I enjoy- I forget what it's called- with romaine, pears, bleu cheese and candied walnuts, but I only have it when I see it listed on a plastic-coated menu.
I bake brownies once in awhile, have been known to make melon ball fruit dish, and I'll mix drinks for any occasion.
But if you're asking me to dinner, I'll have sashimi, seaweed salad and edamame, thanks.
(Alice's Restaurant; Arlo Guthrie)
18 May, 2007
...because no one asked anything. I'll repeat my offer to answer questions from the
(Primarily Decorative does realize that some of you are tempted to point out that here at CrushWorld, chances of actual meaningful posts are always slim. She thanks you for not doing so.)
If your question is RenFest related, please indicate whether you'd like Cybele's perspective or Mimi's, because they're different. Usually.
I'll answer most anything, including questions about laden and unladen swallows. I'm a writer AND an improv artist.
Obviously, making up shit is my specialty.
(Question; Moody Blues)
11 May, 2007
"Hope you're ready to put out."
"Sorry, that wasn't really romantic, was it?"
Oh, are you kidding? I bought the T-shirt.
Seriously. My T-shirt? Says 'Ready To Put Out' right across my chest.
Not that I'll be wearing it long.
Check out this lovely shirt. Sigh. So true.
"What time is it?"
You mean now?
"Fuck. I gotta go."
Kids, don't say 'fuck' in front of your father.
(The Bad Touch; Bloodhound Gang)
09 May, 2007
Life is like a box of metaphors. A pile of used auto parts from different eras. A timeline that folds back upon itself. The medical chart of a vampire zombie.
I think the word abbreviate is too long. It should be shorter.
I have decided to call words that function as both nouns and verbs 'action nouns'. It is in all ways preferable to the suggested sniglet 'nerbs'.
Also, palindrome is wrong. I suggest 'palinodonilap' as an upgrade. Plus it's got an audio that brings a creepy visual of two celebrities who NEVER should even be in the same sentence engaging in a sex act.
It's kind of surreal to listen to Apollo 18 on Random. The 'Fingertips' track was recorded as a handful of separate tracks. Twenty-one, actually. That's, what? four handfuls? (If you're Count Rueger.)
I might be up to doing Wednesday Links by next week. Maybe.
In the meantime, I will create an Answers Post, if anyone has Questions.
For those of you who prefer actual content, please read The Political Animal. Because he loves me, there's a Nixon reference. I mean, a Nixin reference.
(I Palindrome I; TMBG)
04 May, 2007
Don't ask. Just go.
"Hey! Weren't you, didn't you, I saw you at Spotlighter's!"
Oh. In the...
"The murder mystery, the Do Or Die. You were the, the, the..."
The stammering lawyer?
"Yeah! You were a riot!"
I go as a patron, and am pegged for a player.
New comic, Dirt Farm.
Not so comic: There was a very funny image of Our Current Leader with some lights shining behind his head, looking like an empty thought balloon. It was a thumbnail of this photo. You see what I mean.
It's not socks on a rooster. It's shoes on a guide horse.
And a big thank you to Jon, for sharing LOLTrek.
(Tosca; Giacomo Puccini)
03 May, 2007
I was guest poet/lecturer in a high school Creative Writing class today, and quite enjoyed it. We wrote poetry from the point of view of a pair of terrariumed frogs, and on the theme of velvet jackhammer. Not simultaneously. We believe we may have invented the word "dupioniance".
A billboard for ING reads: "We promise our high interest won't sneak off to Indianapolis."**
*Literally. She's doing better than a lot of folk I know who began life with the full complement.
**Only in Baltimore, where none of the Ravens players have any past or current affiliation with the city, where none of the players on either team ever played for the Baltimore Colts, or in fact, were even born in 1984, but where the inhabitants have memories huger than their hairstyles and hold grudges as naturally as crab mallets, could this quip have any sort of relevance whatever.
25 April, 2007
"You're extremely pretty, Dr. Sattler," he said. "I could look at your legs all day. But no, as a matter of fact, black is an excellent color for heat. If you remeber your black-body radiation, black is actually best in heat. Efficient radiation. In any case, I wear only two colors, black and gray."
Ellie was staring at him, her mouth open.
"These colors are appropriate for any occasion," Malcolm continued, "and they go well together, should I mistakenly put on a pair of gray socks with my black trousers."
"But don't you find it boring to wear only two colors?"
"Not at all. I find it liberating. I believe my life has value, and I don't want to waste it thinking about clothing," Malcolm said. "I don't want to think about what I will wear in the morning. Truly, can you imagine anything more boring than fashion? Professional sports, perhaps. Grown men swatting little balls, while the rest of the world pays money to applaud. But, on the whole, I find fashion even more tedious than sports."
-Michael Crichton, from Jurrasic Park
You did not!
"Mmm hmmm. For about a year. We lived together, actually. Then I found out he had cheated on me, and I just never could get past that."
I guess I was part of that chain. I ran around with him the summer before college. He had a girlfriend I never met.
"So there it is. Unfaithful from puberty."
Evidently. Please tell me he was lousy in bed.
Her face contorts into an 'oh, this is gonna hurt' expression.
"Actually he was pretty good."
So much for the past.
Let's look ahead, shall we?
One of my favorite futurists, Orson Scott Card, is holding writing workshops in the future: this summer. One day in the future, I might have time to myself again... hope I'm not dead by the time that happens.
The Animal's column features that once and future evil, Fuckin' Diebold.
He spoke at JHU on bioethics yesterday, so that's in the past, but I predict more Michael Crichton in my future. I mean, please, a quote from Ian Malcolm changed my entire wardrobe, forever.
I hate to think that 'l33t' might be the language of the future, because OMFG, it suxr0xz.
Laughter in your future? A very special comedy tour.
Finally,Tim Kreider wonders why future generations will hate us.
In my future: cooking breakfast. Shopping for things I don't want. Bemoaning my fate. Driving topless.
The future looks good after all.
...got a crazy teacher, he wears dark glasses/ things are going great, and they're only getting better...
(The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades; Timbuk 3)
23 April, 2007
of a woman who walked away
after I had responded sharply
to her stupid question.
to her with apology on my face
and explained I hadn't been
feeling myself lately.
from her the cup she handed
to me, half full of coffee
all pale with cream and cooling.
as she smiled in sympathy, patted
my hand and walked away again, gentleness
in her stride.
at the creamy sweetness, marvelling
that it changed in my mouth
from lukewarm to icy cold, dark and bitter
just the way I like it.
(Black Coffee In Bed; Squeeze)
20 April, 2007
It seems I'm going to be a mystery surprise guest at MWA's Annual Conference. [Aside: website mysteriously down at this very moment.]I found out on Sunday, finalized on Wednesday, and thought to post it...oh, just about twenty minutes ago.
Now, I don't think I alone am worth the $120.00 ticket, (well, maybe I do, but not for this) but if this tips anyone over to the 'sure, why not' point, I thought it was worth a mention.
My blurb and bio are not on the website (as indeed practically everyone who is speaking are also not) so for your edification, I present them here.
The Poet's Toolbox
Have you ever thought "Oh, I could never write poetry"? Cybele says it isn't so! Every writer has all the tools necessary to create poetry. Come learn what you don't know you already know, participate in guided exercises, and create a poem in class. The scheduled Q&A segment may have to make way for open mike!
Cybele Pomeroy writes poetry because writing plays earned her too much money to qualify as a starving artist. Cybele has been teaching literature, drama and performance art for ten years, and has been employed as a costumer, makeup artist, editor, waitress, stiltwalker, lead writer, Tupperware lady, sign painter, and shadow dancer. She admits to being rabid about punctuation.
Cybele appears frequently in Do Or Die Productions interactive murder mysteries (dodmystery.com) and she took third place in the 2005 poetry contest, with her poem "Love Is...", which was about coffee. Her poem "City Plows, Broken Or Not" appeared in the literary magazine Scribble, Volume Five, Issue 2 1/2.
Cybele's future goals include spending time as a limousine driver, bartender, archaeologist and golf caddie, though not simultaneously.
If you check the schedule, I am the first 'TBD' on the left at 9:45.
The sun, naturally, will come out, while I am indoors. With writers of such brilliance that I will need sunglasses anyhow.
I mean, Moira Egan, people!
(I Write The Songs; Barry Manilow? no. Frank Sinatra? no. Bruce Johnston.)
19 April, 2007
I walk into one of my usual haunts. J is talking to J, in the middle of a sentence, but she looks up, nods, smiles to acknowledge me.
"....should've locked the whole place down after the first shots were fired at 7 am. That would've been the thing to do. Cybele agrees with me, don't you, Cybele?"
Meh. Those damn kids prob'ly needed killing.
J and J stare at me, open mouthed, for two whole beats.
And then simultaneously burst into laughter.
Such is my world.
(Politically Correct; SR-71)
17 April, 2007
I was told by a third party that he claims to be the father of my second child. Well, until it was evident that she was a terror, and at that point he was happy to renounce her.
Why would you start a rumor like that?
She said that you did, you started the rumor. And I wondered what purpose it served, how saying that would benefit you.
"I didn't! I never said I was the father of your child!"
I sip my beer, gaze at him. Herb begins to squirm.
Chin goes up, and eyebrows. Head tilted to one side, just slightly. Beer glass rotates slowly on bar top.
"I, I, I, well, I may have said, said something to the EFFECT, of, of, but I never..."
The eyebrows ratchet another notch.
"Okay. What I SAID was, and this is totally true, was that I was living with you for awhile, and your husband kind of wasn't, and nine months later you had a baby. Which was true."
Agreed. All but the 'kind of wasn't', except, no, I guess that was when he was travelling with the IT job he had at the time. So while Herb's responsible for a certain level of culpability in regards to the rumor mill, to himself he can pretend complete innocence.
Later, we argue about what qualifies as an adverb.
Later still, he e-mails me with a definition to prove his point.
(Hello, pot? This is the kettle.)
A giant banner grabs my attention:
Stroke Targets By Color
and then, in smaller letters,
Know Where You Stand.
It's good to be aware that you're nearest the blue targets, in case you need to walk around and pet all the yellow ones first.
You'd think that the folk writing for billboards, or the folk paying for writing on billboards, would realize that a message has fewer than five seconds to imprint upon the viewer, and would tailor messages for maximum clarity. Two words in a row that function both as nouns and verbs (and why can I not find a word for that?)is a mistake anywhere but comedy; e.g.:
Doctor Cuts With Bandages.
(De Do Do Do De Da Da Da; The Police)
14 April, 2007
Motion catches the eye: bright balloons tied to the gates of a cemetery, bouncing in April's breezes.
Me, I wonder whose birthday we're celebrating.
(Remains Of The Day; Danny Elfman, from The Corpse Bride)
11 April, 2007
Once upon a time, 'hump' was a noun, used to describe a mound, a tiny hill, a large lump, or the thing on the back of a camel. Or a dromedary. Which is what most people think of when they think of a camel. Yes, that camel you're thinking of? It's actually a dromedary.
I don't know when young attractive humans began to have humps, which were in the past reserved for old crones and hunchbacks, but pretty whatsername seems to be enjoying hers.
I am a self-employed artist, so 'hump day' bears little relevance for me, though I understand the concept. A sign outside a bar advertises "Hump Day Specials", so apparantly 'hump' is now an adjective, as Satur- or Senior Hook are adjectives that modify 'day'.
Some other artists display their works here, in a Washington Post contest that expected only 'a dozen or so' entries. Yes, it's little humps of sugar-covered marshmallow in improbable colors, Ladies and Gentlemen, The Peeps Show!
As the Political Animal points out (WITH a Nixon/Watergate reference, thank you very much!)in today's column, The Post used to publish real news. Now it's all fluff.
From the Well, Duh! Department, this surprisingly late decision by the African medical community.
On the other hand, there's certainly no shortage of humans. Why do anything about AIDS at all? (So says the woman who makes her living pretending to kill and die.)
Emily Flake's cartoon is also ghoulish today, though she makes no reference to a hump of any sort.
I was early on aware of the verb form of the word, which is now so deeply ingrained that whenever I pass a roadside sign emblazoned with the words 'Speed Hump', I take it for a directive- appealing but impractical, as obviously, I'm driving.
And here is all hump, all the time.
In Taro Gomi's fun book, Everyone Poops, the claim is made that "a one- hump camel makes a one-hump poop. A two-hump camel makes a two-hump poop. Just kidding!" Since it's a translation, I don't know whether the original Japanese was 'dromedary', 'camel', or 'fabulous imaginary creature', since I don't know Japanese for any of those words, and neither camels nor dromedaries are native to Japan anyhow.
I also don't know Japanese for 'hump'. In any sense.
(My Humps; Black Eyed Peas)
10 April, 2007
The continuing cold enrages me to a fit of shopping: lowcut sweaters to augment outrageous tiny tops that have burst from my closets, demanding to be worn.
Because it is April, the sweaters are on sale.
(.....still waiting for Naked Season.)
(Centerfold; The J. Geils Band)
06 April, 2007
I serve breakfast, fried eggs on matzoh. "Mama, could I have some wine?" Fluffy asks.
You want wine?
He means the pear/grape fruit juice the kids drank at Seder, while Mama, Coco and Muzzy got the good stuff.
"Stop whining!" Fuzzy orders, scowling.
"It was just a yolk."
(Hot Cha; They Might Be Giants)
04 April, 2007
The words 'special females here now' ricochet inside my skull without benefit of punctuation or context. I must have read a sign that registered just after I drove past it, and I wonder: crab house or strip joint? The neighborhood I'm in, it could be either one.
As the sky goes from blood-orange to mango to melon, fades from peach to lemon, the air cools. I turn on the heat to warm my feet, but do not pull up my top. Time enough for that when lemon pales to biscuit and smoke deepens to full dark.
It is past four in the morning when I hear the grumbling of distant thunder, only now realizing why I am still awake.
CrushWorld Irregular Featurette Wednesday Linkage: If you've missed 'em, here they are.
For the three or four of you who haven't heard: Rock Star Discovers Unique Family Closeness.
And, speaking of cremains, ashes of the former James Doohan, formerly Scotty on the Starship Enterprise, are about to be blasted into space.
While we're at it, that thirty-year old five-year mission? New 'original' episodes.
(This by way of the Artist's Statement of today's The Pain-When Will It End?, by that fabulous Mr. Kreider, a link especially for meeeee, because Tim loves me.)
Hey, shut up. It's MY fantasy world. Yes, that's you I'm telling to shut up, Mr. De-Bunker of All My Illusions, yes, YOU, Mr. Political Animal, writing this week about weather reports. Well, it WAS a particularly newsless week. Even Primarily Decorative noticed that. All the headlines were Congress Promises To Bring Troops Home, Bush Vows To Fight Congress, and the occasional Hundreds Die In... (fill in the blank). By the way, I recognize that final quote.
She's news, all right. I'm no Hilary-basher, but can't resist leaving you with this scary image.
(Photograph; Def Leppard)
02 April, 2007
I recently finished Stephen King's Cell, which, for Stephen King, was somewhat sub-standard. It reminded me a bit of The Stand, and I felt as though the characters were shallow. However, I do love King's ability to take something innocuous and turn it into an object of horror. Snarling dog? Check. Poster of Rita Hayworth? Check. Pet graveyard? Check. High school prom? Check. Still, reading sub-par King provides better entertainment than reading the top-notch efforts of many other current fiction authors. Good ones, such as Orson Scott Card, CJ Cherryh and Christopher Moore don't write quickly enough to satisfy me.
Here's a puzzle: Is this art?
(from my NetZero homepage.)
I am wending my way through David Frost's I Gave Them A Sword, which is a behind-the scenes account of the famous Frost/Nixon interviews. These interviews have been made into a successful stage show, which played to sold-out crowds in West End, and is now coming to the Jacobs Theater on Broadway. Ron Howard has already secured the movie rights. Keep me away? Not likely.
I Gave Them A Sword has the honor of being the most hook-y Watergate read I've picked up since Tony Ulasewicz's The President's Private Eye. Now, Tony, by all accounts, was quite the character during the hearings, and his voice was nicely preserved with the help of Stuart McKeever, and so this was an entertaining read in a way that John Dean's Blind Ambition was not.
Maureen Dean's book, Mo, was an annoying piece of fluff, and Judge Sirica's book, while well-written, was not terribly engaging. I picked up Jim McCord's OOP book, A Piece Of Tape, (great title) from Half.com at a real bargain. (I think I got it for under fifty bucks, while dealers who knew what they had were selling it at over $100.00.) After repeated attempts at reading it, I've given up for the time being.
Liddy's Will was fun, if you can laugh at the G-Man's pompous, bombastic style, but I did wonder how much factual information was included. Tricia's book on Pat, again, not bad, but again, not engaging. And okay, yes, All The President's Men was a compelling read, partly because of its immediacy and intimate involvement, but the readablity was Bernstein's doing, I'm convinced, since I haven't made it through a single one of Woodward's solo offerings.
Silent Coup, by Len Colodny, was a dense piece of highly-contested propaganda, but it had a great bibliography, which led me to the incredibly fun- and questionable- Secret Agenda, by Jim Hougan. [Aside: Oliver Stone's film, Nixon is wonderful to watch, but hardly a documentary or even dramatization. 'Heavily slanted' is what I'll call it, for lack of something stronger.]
I Gave Them A Sword , writing-wise, leaves all my Watergate reads in the dust.
...we would make annual requests for the President to appear on the program. The annual White House response had an almost ritual quality to it. It would be signed by Mr. Nixon's press secretary, Ronald Ziegler. Always Ziegler would begin by saying, "I accept your invitation for the President to appear on a show with you." And, always, after "accepting" the invitation, Ziegler would state that the question of if and when to actually make the appearnace on the show would be taken up with the President, with further information to be provided should Mr. Nixon actually agreee to be interviewed.
This touching little habit of accepting pieces of paper on which invitations were written without responding affirmatively to the invitations themselves, I came to accept as wholly innocent indications of Ziegler's ability to render the English language inoperative, even in matters not involving alleged presidential culpability.
I'm not saying you should run out and get this book from the dusty shelf of your local used bookstore. I'm not saying you need to bid on one from eBay, that massive commercial monster who seduces me on a near-daily basis. I'm not saying you should ever read David Frost, watch the interviews, or hear his name ever again. As you know, I'm not so big on 'shoulds.'
But that's some damned fine writing. That's what I'm saying.
I think I know a bunch of kids who (once I forward this link) will clamor to adopt a new religion.
(Thank you to Wil Wheaton.)
I picked up a copy of Stumbling on Happiness, by "renowned Harvard psychologist" Daniel Gilbert(so says the cover flap) because the front cover said this:
"If you have even the slightest curiosity about the human condition, you ought to read it. Trust me."
Usually, I do not find the words 'trust me' remotely reassuring, unlike the words Don't Panic, which always make me smile. In fact, 'trust me' often raises the same kind of red flag that 'you've got to believe me!' does, the red flag of dishonesty, deception, and overacting.
The quote, however, was attributed to Malcolm Gladwell, which changes everything.
And an update: gallery turns chickenshit; no surprise there, really. Exactly where does the Christian doctrine endorse death threats?
Finally, something so silly it stretches credibility.
Find out your peculiar aristocratic title.
This premise is so absurd that it of necessity must become a theme for an upcoming event.
(Bicycle Race; Queen)
30 March, 2007
(Or, How To Go On Your First Date.)
1. Meet people of the gender you prefer.
2. Work on mutual projects once or twice.
She sits on the sofa, squashed between the arm and a cute blonde girl, who is squashed between a brunette and her own mother. He approaches, sits on the arm of the sofa.
3. Make sure your mother knows who you like.
4. Make sure your mother likes the other kid's mother.
She turns her face up to look at him, and says, "Hey! We should see a movie sometime!"
5. Casually say, "we should see a movie sometime," in the hearing of at least one of the mothers.
"TMNT?" he responds. "Totally!" she agrees, holding out a fist. He bumps it with his own fist in a gesture that Michael assures us is known as a "dap."
6. Hope that the mothers will take the hint.
I look at the brunette's mother and we waggle eyebrows at one another. We coordinate our calanders in the kitchen a short time later.
7. Rejoyce and have a fabulous time when they come through.
(Punk Rock Girl; Dead Milkmen)
28 March, 2007
Sun pours into my open convertible, and music streams from the cassette deck. The gorgeous blonde beside me turns and squeezes my hand as she sings along, smiling. I smile and squeeze back.
I am dreaming. I close my eyes.
I open them again. Still dreaming. Life is wonderful.
25 March, 2007
Enough with heavy stuff. Judging by the stultifying silence, this sort of post will happen again, oh, probably never.
Fortunately, I do have a stash of emergency fluff for occasions such as this.
Depeche Mode plus Soft Cell plus The Human League plus Cure plus Adam Ant and multiplier/reverb with a pinch of Queen and a dash of Styxx equals my favorite new album.
Excuse me, showing my years: of course I meant CD.
Those of you of a certain age will know what I'm talking about and if you have any idea what I'm talking about, well then, you'll know what I mean. I like that this band was initiated in 2001 as a recording project by a high school student creating synthesized power pop songs on his computer. Which means, ladies and gentlemen, that the PARENTS of said student were listening to the same things I liked during this kid's formative years.
Do NOT critique my happy upbeat danceable taste in retro-new-wave-punk-pop.
It has already been established that I am Primarily Decorative.
(Here (In Your Arms); HelloGoodbye)
(before the stylist who floofed them up for Leno/Conan got ahold of them)
(Check out me, checking out the guns on that drummer.)
Wrong (funny) version:
In other news, DanTobinDanTobin is back in blog.
22 March, 2007
It seems as though it's Gift Week here in the Blogosphere: note that on Tuesday,Totsie posted some fabulouskittie porn for me. Tuesday night,Evil Science Chick(occasionally referred to as Bunsen, like the burner) revamped Random Aimee's blog AND posted pictures of a lovely pair of socks she made for Sloth, so I thought I'd create a post especially for Michael, who asked a question that doesn't have a flip and snappy answer.
Three nights. Three men. Three beverages.
Beers with the Prince were good. Margaritas with Genius were better. The Cosmos I made weren't that good, in my opinion, but I got laid that night, so maybe they were.
As you regulars know, I would ordinarily leave it at that and move on. However, because this is for Michael, and that isn't an answer, there's more.
"Look at you, sitting under that moon! You're trying to seduce me!" --Harlan Williams to Conan O'Brien on Late Night With Conan O'Brien
Hawk is an unusual specimen. Consider.
"Well, I don't know. Do you think there's some sexual tension between you?"
I stare at him a moment. This conversation should be wrong wronger and wrongest, but it's just normal for us. Lately I've begun to venture out among 'normal' people, attempting to fit in, but then I come home to what is normal for me, and everything's off kilter until I readjust.
I hadn't thought so, but anything's possible. Maybe.
"Well, how old is he?"
Oh, thirty-something, two, three, four....
"And so maybe sees you as a peer instead of falling comfortably into the role."
I shrug. My husband is asking whether there is sexual tension between me and another actor. I said that our scenes are going well, but that I think this guy is uncomfortable with me. I realize that I make people uncomfortable. It happens.
"Oh, are you kidding?" the Prince said once. "Cybbie scared the SHIT out of me when I first met her."
I find this disturbing, but let it go. Mostly. I'd like to make the other actors comfortable, but there are limits to my control. And my husband asks if there's sexual tension.
I mention the Prince.
"Oh, yeah, at first, sure there was. A LOT."
It is Hawk's turn to shrug.
"You should ask him if he feels comfortable, and if he doesn't, ask him what he thinks you should do about it."
I've been accused of putting out "signals", but since I have only the barest concept of "normal" behavior, I rarely notice. Also, I have trouble receiving these signals. A man once apologized for having made moves on me.
Ah. Had you? I hadn't noticed. When was this?
So when a man stays a little later than strictly necessary, picks lint or strings from my clothes, is this an indication of sexual interest? When I pick lint from someone's clothes, I'm just picking lint. I regularly put hands on my pals, and vice versa, with zero ambiguity. My friends cuddle me a bit, because they know I like it, and if I don't dispense hugs when I leave them, they wonder what's wrong. I lean against people I know, and occasionally kiss strangers because they've worn a T-shirt with that directive. I've been Mimi a long time. It bleeds over. My gauge is skewed. My Gaydar works great, but I can't even calibrate my Seduct-O-Meter.
I guess there could be. I hadn't thought about it. I suppose I felt that he was reserved, not demonstrative, sort of thing?
"Right, but it could be, because, you're, well, you know, you're not, I mean, you're still fairly hot."
He's sweet. He's been looking at me so long, I don't think he even sees me anymore. I do try to be something other than his old ball-and-chain of mmmlllpphffrgr years, though I hardly qualify as a trophy wife. He teases me about my "boyfriends," the Prince, BuddaPat, Genius, BirthdayBoy, Frisco, Young Evan, the Apostle, OddRob, the Animal, Martin, Hilby, and whoever Hilby brings along with him- last time, it was Karl. The time before, it was Keith the Leaf. Hawk barely bats an eye anymore when I tell him some man is staying at the house.
I forget that this is not normal.
Because it is normal at our house.
I guess I never think about that, that anybody... well. I mean, playing, sure, goofing off, but not, you know, seriously.
He smiles gently and pats my cheek. "I know you don't, honey. It just never occurs to you." He shakes his head.
As far as my posts go, their content, tone, color, style....well, he knows what my blog is for.
I think that was an answer.
(Question Song; The Moody Blues)
21 March, 2007
2 cups ice
1 cup limeade
1 cup tequila
1/2 cup triple sec
1/2 cup lime juice
1 cup lime juice
1 cup tequila
1 cup triple sec
1 cup water
1 teaspoon sugar
(Margaritaville; Jimmy Buffett)
19 March, 2007
I turn from the phone to my gaggle of friends. The Animal seems the likeliest candidate.
From which season was 'I, Mudd'?
Star Trek. 'I, Mudd.' Which season?
"Honey, I don't even know how many seasons Star Trek ran. I'm not that much of a geek."
Three seasons. DUH. Seventy-two episodes. DU-UH.
"Geek," he replies.
"What?" asks DesdemonaOne from the other end of the table.
"Why are you asking this, anyway?" the Animal wants to know.
My son just called, and he said "Hey, you know that episode where Spock says, 'I love you' to one girl and then 'but I hate you' to the other and the other says 'but I'm exactly like Whoeveritwas' and Spock says 'that's why I hate you' and the two girls go 'blelbeeeeblalbella'? What episode was that, and do we have it?" and of course that's 'I, Mudd,' and what we've got is Season One, with 'Mudd's Women', so I know it's got to be one of the other seasons, but which? I thought you'd know.
I take a breath and a sip of the Animal's beer. Mine has disappeared.
BuddaPat has gone home to rest, in order be better prepared in the morning to make the world safe for craneocracy, protecting it from the evils of forkliftism. BuddaPat would know. He's geekier than I am, at least StarTrekly.
None of the geeks at the table with me know.
"Riiight, Harry Mudd, he was on 'The Trouble With Tribbles', I remember him," says DesdemonaOne.
"Okay, I'm geeky enough to not only know the title 'The Trouble With Tribbles', but to also know who wrote it," says the Animal.
We say the name 'David Gerrold' together.
"Geek," whispers Lifter, on my right, out for the first time with my gang of freaks.
The conversation drifts into which elderly Hollywood celebrities we'd sleep with, a conversation in which 'Shatner' is used as a verb to describe men who've gone all pinkish and puffy.
I arrive home later and realize I let DesdemonaOne's gaffe slip. That wasn't Harry Mudd in 'The Trouble With Tribbles', it was another character a lot like him, by the name of Cyrano Jones.
Go on, all together now:
(Pretty Fly (For A White Guy); Offspring)
16 March, 2007
I said I wouldn't read it. But there's no reason you shouldn't:
Mary Johnson's review of The Glass Menagerie at Chesapeake Arts Center's Studio Theater
Tickets still available at the Chesapeake Arts Center.
I am available to have beers both tonight and Saturday night, post-show, if you ask. No carnation necessary.
(Mary's A Grand Old Name; George M. Cohen, 1906)
15 March, 2007
Someone finally moved into the house at the top of my street, the one that stood vacant for a year and a half after the silent little crone moved away/died, then it burned, then stood vacant and untouched for another six months, then was gutted and rehabbed, then was put up for sale, then stood vacant for another nine months.
The yard no longer holds the red-and-white realtor's sign. It sports instead a large cage containing a Rottweiler and a Pit Bull. There is a Harley chained to the back porch, and a filthy Ford pickup out front.
I think I don't have to wonder about the gender of the inhabitant.
Or the size of his penis.
(Macho Man; The Village People)
12 March, 2007
Head cocked to one side, assessing: "I don't think purple underwear suits you."
Hmf. The man who bought it for me seemed to like it.
I finger a wool coat of which I have no real need: "You don't have to buy it just because it's Mimi-pink."
That's true. Also, I switched to leather because wool coats are such pet-hair magnets.
I grumble that when I asked a friend how he liked the show, he mentions technical difficulties of filming it rather than commenting on my performance.
"People aren't vending machines, Mom. You can't push a button and get what you want."
The kettle whistles: "Mama! I'm going to tea you!" Then suddenly he shouts,
(You Are My Sunshine; Ray Charles)
11 March, 2007
10 March, 2007
Hot pink pashmina wrap (gift from That Girl) over black leather trenchcoat (Burlington Coat Factory, 8+ years ago, astoundingly reasonable) atop black trousers (?) with pointy hot pink ankle boots (eBay) with hot pink Matt & Nat handbag (IBID, less than half retail) in the grocery, looking for Marischino cherries, nearly as difficult to find as to spell.
I find myself on the receiving end of a furtive but approving glance from a very stylish black lady.
My inner grin lasts the rest of the night.
(Get The Party Started; Pink)