jingle jangle

best friends. summertime girls. dancing along the edges of the surf.

naming waves. "metapod" "little big one". giggling and giddy.

sitting down in the gathering foam and calling it horses. or maybe it was unicorns. there's a legend about the breaking foam of the sea and the extinction of said creatures.

slim strikes a kitty cat pose in the shallows. bess stands a few feet back.

behind slim a wave swells big. i call to her "stand up." but the ocean's roar fills her ears.

i start to run as it breaks over her. my eyes lock on the space where she went under. i run, but don't feel my feet touching down. or the cold beat of the water against my legs. the jingle jangle of a crowded beach falls silent in my ears.

i'm there now. but she isn't. the water swirling and sandy. foamy and breaking anew. i search with my eyes and hands.
the tide goes out as i find her hair. pull her up. her face and hair caked in wet sand. water pours from her nose.

she says "that was weird." her voice breaking.

i instinctively try to pick her up. she swats my arms away like bothersome flies. she's already walking away. calling to bess.

"let's look for sand crabs."

existential dread

the delicious one (ew)
Originally uploaded by imperialviolet.

the main benefit of being a lower order animal is not knowing that you are going to die.

dogs to not have existential dread. they hump legs. they sniff and chase balls. it's all good.

why do we insist on bestowing human characteristics upon them?

i cried like a baby, in charlotte's web, when wilbur ran around crying 'i don't want to die!'

now we've got that hot dog running for his life, in a blind panic, pursued by the hungry masses.

we, the consumer, are supposed to watch his flight and think 'poor hot dog. he really wants to live. where's them mustard?'

then you've got the chick-fil-a cows selling out their foul bretheren in a vain attempt to prevent their own demise, a la 'eat more chicken.' what do cows know about the subtle art of the double cross?

what i find particularly strange are the 'charming' characters. california raisins. foghorn leghorn for kfc. they seem to be saying 'i sing, i dance, i put seltzer down my pants. now bite my face off.'

i'm no marketeer (or mouseketeer for that matter) but can't they just say, 'it's a hamburger. it's reasonably priced. buy it.' and leave the whole animorph thing out of it?

the only thing worse is when non-meat eaters attempt to force a vegetarian lifestyle on their carnivorous pets.

they're animals. let them eat meat. or pooh. or whatever.

let them live and die and not contemplate the great herafter.

and let them be delicious.

the promised land

bollocks to brigadoon. niet to nirvana. something bitchy with a 'v' to valhalla.

i want ROUGH AND READY ISLAND. it is a real place. saw the green highway sign for it and everything. somewhere in the dead zone of mid-central california, there is an oasis. 'a courtyard of violets in bloom'. pretty sure animals strike curious poses.

but what wonders really await me at ruff'n'ready island? i can only dream.

*leather boys, of-course. (hopefully bi-curious, so i can get in on the action)

*stiletto heeled girls with riding crops and crimson lips

*funnel cake (hope hope)

*lagoons and impossibly clear blue water and love sweet love

*pirates

heres what i think, we all pile in the family car and take ourselves a trip to the promised land.

whose with me?

life lessons from a compassionate dictator

my dad ran a solid dictatorship.

"now, i ain't got nothing against your mother. she's a good woman. but you have to raise a kid. you have to have rules and order. discipline. shit like that. or else they turn out like you."

my willfull, smart alecky attitude had to go. as did my slovenly dress and personal appearance. ditto, my lack of work ethic.

dad developed a 'chore rotation.' i couldn't go play at dana's until all chores were properly conducted. my workmanship checked for shoddiness.

the ping pong table, in the garage heaped with fresh bundles of pot. a separate table held plastic baggies, twist ties, and a scale. i quickly learned how to sort stem and seed, to weigh and bag in proper amounts. it wasn't bad work and dad always provided lots of loud doors music for company.

dad would stop in to check on me, muse about 'on the job training.'

sometimes my smart mouth got me into trouble. i'd wind up mucking out the horses stalls. once, for calling my dad a 'stupid shithead' i earned the job of washing and cleaning the labels off of a thousand beer bottles. dad was also a budding beer brewing magnate.

i'm still mostly willfull and slovenly. but i never leave the house without making my bed, brushing my teeth, and at least taking a half hearted swipe at the cat box.

thanks dad.

(not a) red hooded sweatshirt

i own a certain item:

*black, like my heart
*small, like my mind
*tight, like my (whoa now)

it is, simply, the best tee shirt ever made or worn by any person, foreign or domestic. period.

clash's first album cover emblazoned across the front. i feel super sexxy in it. a boy's medium, it fits tight across the boobs. so the girls look real good.

this shirt makes me feel dangerous.

like a dame what could break your heart. or at the very least, a dame who might not show up with soup when you're sick.

the clash tee is my linus style security blanket. i've even avoided over-wearing so as not to dull it's magic power.

but now, after much love, and several years. it's faded to a dingy grey. lost that tight luster. a pinprick armpit whole, now a gaping wound.

let langston worry about what happens to a dream deferred. i need to know about a tee shirt deferred. how do i do right by joe (r.i.p.) and the boys?

does anyone know of a kind, loving home for past their prime punk rock tees? mention the anaheim hard rock cafe, and i will be forced to deliver a mouth punching.

i'm that dangerous.

jelly roll morton's jelly roll

fie on you, fred 62!

a pox on your comfy booths filled with pointily shod, trucker capped diners.

damn your jukebox. so delicious. creating a world where the new york dolls can live side by side with husker du and hank williams, in harmony. (no, we'll leave the jukebox alone)

it's true, i love your home made pop tarts. warmed and topped with melty ice cream. but i'm through with you, see? because you insist on giving perfectly good menu items ridiculous, kitchy, and ironic names.

*devo'-lution salad?

*thai cobb?

*freddy's five fingered dime bag?

why? why? whimsy? nah. these names are designed to make we, the customer, look and feel like asses. a grown human should not be expected to say the words 'belly buster meltdown'.

i'm checking out of this hipster hotel. moving on down to denny's. where i can point to the simple menu and order that one eggy dish. and the bouffant haired waitress will say-

"'moons over my hammy?"

doh!

joan of bellevue

i could never be a saint, prophet, zealot, or any other sort of spiritual visionary. it goes way beyond my penchant for cock picks and leading priests wayward.

anne tugged on the little medallion around my neck. "a st. christopher medal. the patron saint of travel."

this medal is a gift from my sweet, sweet grandfather. the man who still sings me 'i love you, a bushel and a peck', years after an unfortunate misunderstanding between himself, a car, a locked garage, and copious amounts of carbon monoxide left most of his brain cells inert. i didn't even know st. christopher had anything to do with the travel industry.

anne said "one day, christopher was sailing on choppy seas, when he suddenly saw the baby jesus on his shoulder. baby yahwe guided chris to safety."

history is peopled with and often forged by 'visionaries'. those who flout the persistence of logic and their peers, in the larger belief that god speaks to them, guides them, appears in bushes, and on their shoulders. but i lack the belief in my brain as a steel trap incapable of sending me down the crazy river.

if the day comes when i'm driving down santa monica, relaxing, thinking about cheese. and i look in the rearview to see baby jesus resting gently on my shoulder... i will affirm

"yep. i've finally snapped. too bad for me."

then i will turn on the right turn signal and calmly make my way to a place where conversion involves massive doses of shock therapy.

de-frocking priests

midway through the rehearsal, i began to harbour grave doubts about the rubber chicken.

the church was so, well, churchy and imposing. father mike ran such a tight ship. and he kept stepping to me. i didn't bow right. i screwed up that thing where you cross yourself. i couldn't recall the 'hail mary' thingy. on top of it all, it was my plan to present the bride and groom, tomorrow, on their big fat holy day- a rubber chicken.

it seemed like a good idea at the time i thought of it. several of us were asked to bring 'surprise' symbolic gifts to the wedding, along with a nugget of wisdom for the the newlyweds. my foul was to represent the importance of keeping warm and honest looniness in your life. and it seemed pretty damned valid.

then, father mike cornered me at the rehearsal dinner.

"you are planning on pulling it together for the ceremony. yes, child?"

"oh, yeah. you bet."

"and you did remember to work jesus into your speech?"

right. jesus. now, that girl from gone with the wind might know nothing 'bout birthing no babies, but i know nothing about jesus. except that he has this thing for washing other guy's feet and he really likes wine.

did he enjoy a good fart joke? ever wear the old 'arrow through the head?' boy that jesus, loved the seltzer down the pants.

in the end, i bowed, crossed myself like a real live christian, and delivered up the rubber chicken and a soul stirring speech with equal panache.

my advice ended with the words- "always, always fall for the banana in the tail pipe."

it killed. in the best possible way. even father mike was impressed, his wine flushed face beamed at me, during the reception. he felt i captured the spirit of the day beautifully. score.

later, the groom told me that father mike said- "if i could get a girl as sexy as that, i'd forsake my vows and marry her."

that's me. de-frocking priests throughout the pacific northwest.

hello hell.

checking in (as transcribed by will)

hello again this is will filling in for mona who is still on the road, i promise to not throw in links to cock shots this time.

mona has just called me to let me know she has made it home to los angeles for half a day before heading back out of town. she is well, misses all of you and sends all of you kisses unless you don't miss her, then you get nothing (trust me you are missing out if you are among those who get nothing).

she informs me that she will be back on monday with stories and possibly pictures.

badass tribute

well, my jam tarts, my works of art. you've cast a spell on me (that's why I must steal from auden). I'm going away for a bit to witness the gettin' hitched of two of my favorite people.

so. since he is the badass cowboy from the westside AND since he does his own mom so good (wah?) I've asked a certain boy to write a wicked tribute post for my own mom whose bday is Saturday. Take it away...........

Thanks Mona, I appreciate the chance to say a few words about your mom. Hey do you always post topless, like this? I'm getting of the topic now...where was I?

Wait!

Sorry there was milk shooting out of my nose for a second. I'm ready now.

Hi readers of Imperial Violet, I'm Will. Some of you may know me from this site, while others may know me for my work here or for my environmental activism. How you know me doesn't matter much though because today I am here to pay tribute to one of Americas finest ladies, Miss Colorado Springs 1968, co-star of the classic film Behind The Green Door and voted most likely to not relapse by the Tarzana Treatment Center class of 1982....Mona's mom Joanne.

That Joanne sure is one classy lady...growing up, most kids only had one dad, but not Mona, she had lots of them. Sometimes every week she's get a new one. I was so jealous when we were kids because I only had one dad. Also my mom never played fun games like your mom did, games like, "Drop your child off with strangers and disappear" or "skinny dipping with strangers while the kids are nearby". Mona you were one lucky kid.

Your mom was funny too, remember how she'd come to pick you up from school and she'd stumble around and talk funny like she was pretending she had too much to drink? Oh and remember how we could always eat as much ice cream as we wanted and stay up all night as long as we were quiet and didn't scare off your new dad. I always liked playing at your house better than at mine, and not just because you played spin the bottle so well, or because your mom would sometimes play just me and her after you left the room. What I really liked was the way everyone was accepted there. You didn't need a classy education, or morality of a clean police record, or even to know your mom to spend some time over your mom's place and hang out with us. She let anyone play with us as long as we didn't tell our teachers about her "special cigarettes" and her "massager" that we found. Yeah those were good times.

Ever since she moved away in the middle of the night I've missed her. Joanne wherever you are, come home. We still have some sanity left.

straight, no shooter

olga had potato vodka breath and potato farmer's hands. she was sturdy and oh-so thorough. she rubbed a gal down like we was paying for it (we were actually) some massage therapists tread lightly around the t&a, but not olga. she dug right in. with gusto. and i thanked her for it.

olga was a part of our batchelorette slumber party. for all you boys out there, yes, there were tickle fights and we did spend all night clad in frilly bottomed panties and white tank tops. back to olga. she was to give each of us a proper rub down. saving the bride-to-be for last. we took our turns. massage drunk, rejoining the group for more wine and trampoline jumping and braiding each other's hair.

then it was the bride, stacie's, turn. she went in. we waited and played. she came out. shell shocked. pale faced.

"what happened?" we asked.

"she offered to rub my shooter."

"what's a shooter?" we asked

"I don't know. at the end, she said 'now, somethink special i rub ze shooter for you. da? it feel good. the shooter'"

"you mean, your...?"

stacie nodded. she didn't even like massages. had a fierce personal space issue. "then she said 'or i could just put nice varm cloth on it. feel good.'"

was the shooter rub really a happy ending, as we all thought? a kind offer of sweet release from a sturdy russian?

i'll never know. the offer was validate for brides only.

damn stacie.

she's rich, be-otch

philip van mandal wrote me! philip van mandal! can you believe it? i'm aflush. aflummoxed. i've been warned not to tell anyone, but you'll keep my secret (at least before the media releases it) won't you? check it out-

"I am please to inform you, you have now been entitle for a total sum payment of
USD$750,000.00 (SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND US DOLLARS ONLY) in cash. This is from a total cash prize
of US$2,250,000.00(TWO MILLION,TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND US
DOLLARS ONLY) shared among the three winners in this category.
CONGRATULATIONS!!!

Your funds have already been deposited as a bank bond with a
security/finance firm. All participants were selected as part of a promotional
program, which was conducted to reward the internet users.

Sincerely,
PHILIP VAN MANDAL"

my prize cash is just waiting in a swiss bank account. i must act now to avoid my money automatically reverting to the nazis. all unclaimed lotto money solicited via email goes to the nazis. did you know that?

some of you may call me a hopeless rube. you may say i'm a dreamer. but i'm not the only one. i hope someday you will join us. and the world will live as one. a stinking rich one. ha HA.

cow tippers unite

"just because my dad didn't rape the land and exploit the workers doesn't make me a peasant. and it's not like he didn't want to rape the land and exploit the workers. i'm sure he did. it's just that as a barber he didn't have that much opportunity." this tidbit from an underrated steve martin flick, strikes a chord with me.

how many of us, given space enough and time wouldn't tear up a shot at a little land rapin' and worker exploitin'? or maybe we think, given the opportunity, we'd play for the good guy team? who knows, maybe we would. maybe some of us are good enough and bright enough to overcome all the corrupting power of power and do something worthwhile. not me. i'd blow all my influence strong-arming congress to give me a monopoly on hot dog vending carts.

then again, what if, say dubya had been born the son of a corn farmer in iowa? would he have clawed his way to yale via the local public school system? muddied his own hands digging for texas tea before making a play for public office? nah. i picture him more as the hard drinking, cow tipping, shot gun on the pick up truck kind of dude. gets his high school sweetheart pregnant and goes to work at the mill by age 18.

probably would've killed at least one of us in a drunk driving accident by now. but that's not such a bad trade off. is it?

on the bright side, kerry picked edwards as a running mate. rapers and exploiters? good guys? a little of both? i'm willing to find out.

merriment and machine guns

i've never been crushtastic over the 4th of july. a neurotic kid, i feared and hated fireworks because they might cause a fire or blow your hand off. or a stray ember could singe your eye. then you'd be blind. does that sound like fun. huh? being blind?

the other obstacle towards over the top independence day merriment was my family's lackluster attitude towards the motherland. the only political statement i ever heard my mom say was 'reagan has a rat face.' my pops was an unrepentant outlaw hippie, a cowboy who hated the man in all it's carnations. it didn't help that he was a 'guest' of the state for two non-consecutive terms.

i found myself in a car loaded with friends and a trunk loaded with illegal fireworks. racing towards a rocky beach in southeast asia, on the fourth of july. as mentioned, i loathed the big explodey things, but the teenage boys convinced me it would be fun. they offered me fried chicken and taiwanese beer. i caved. we found a spot and started to rig up a bottlerocket when the 5-0 (asian style) rolled up on us.

in this province the custom was to ride it 7 or 8 officers to a tiny car. hanging out the window with outdated sub-machine guns. they questioned us, firmly, in chinese. but i was clueless. 5 weeks in taiwan had taught me the following-

watermelon. sleep. dead. thank-you. i love you.

i tried to put these words in a pleasing order for the coppers. but it didn't work.

they became agitated. handcuffed two of our boys. we started to get really nervous. a bunch of kids in a foreign country. no u.s. embassy. (america doesn't officially recognize taiwan). i imagined scenes from midnight express. i imagined myself a pawn in some sort of pan asian sex slave trade.

in the end, they just confiscated our chicken, beer, and fireworks. but it was cool.

i hate fireworks anyway.

contenders

dennis miller (the funny one, not the rambling right wing apologist) once said "old stars never die, they just take on more demeaning roles."

i spent a whole childhood watching love boat and fantasy island reruns having no idea of the treasure trove of wasted talent on my screen. debbie reynolds, ben vereen, gene kelly. to me they were just wacky old folks. i did wonder where they came from. nursing home? methadone clinic? the big connection i had came when watching airplane! on video and shouting 'i know her, that's ethel merman, she's from the love boat!"

it took a long time for me to recognize orson wells as a filmatic genuis, rather than the portly dude i saw hawking cheap wine on commercials.

i had to rediscover many of the megawatt stars of hollywood's yesterday. reclaim them from the scrap heap of guest spots and hollywood squares. but not brando. i had no image of him at all, until the bleak summer i spent in my grandparents mobile home trailer. my step-grandma was (not so) fondly known as 'crazy v' by the other trailer park residents. other children were warned to stay away. 'v' also believed in keeping a dark tarp over the windows to discourage the 'people from the mountains' from coming down to kill us.

this gave me lots of free time, in a dark, cavernous space to watch movies. it was the summer of 'on the waterfront' for all the major cable outlets. i must have watched it 600 times. first movie i ever memorized. and brando. a violent, vulnerable open wound. promise turned to naught. i loved him from that point onward. even after 'don juan di marco' and 'the island of dr. moreau'.

you can't ruin brando, for me, anymore than you can make me believe inga swenson was ever anything more than the maid who yelled "i hear you!" on benson.

goodnight, contender.

without getting pregnant or herpes

i was the hottest ticket at the fat farm. which seemed only fair considering a) i'd never before been the hottest ticket anywhere and b) i was supposed to be in europe with my friends, not frollicking at a "weightloss resort, nestled in the heart of the pines and the poconos."

my dad, the bidness man, had a modest proposal. lose 'x' pounds by 'x' date and earn a trip across the seas. several months of x-ercise, x-lax, and foodless fridays later, i lost the weight and gained a ticket. then terry called, night before the trip. her voice was weird.

"dad wants you to get on the scales." i did and reported the weight. could hear her consulting with my dad in the background. her voice was weirder.

"dad says that's too much. you can't go. but keep your bags packed."

and there i was, the only kid without tennis shoes. or work-out gear. i did have a french guide book and a raging crush on mike catrona, from brooklyn. he was my ideal, as culled from countless late night ice cream watchings of 16 candles. he came over to me after i played a 'southern girl' in our talent show rendition of 'california girls.'

'i love southern girls.' i zinged back- 'oh, well, sorry. i live in utah.' and started to walk off before he grabbed my hand and kissed me. at fat camp that makes you an item.

there was some kissing, tongues, and feeling up in the darkened gym. but i was a young 14. i hadn't even really started checking out my own parts yet, and you can bet your sweet ass, i wasn't letting this guy beat me to it. so, while stephie brooks was 'blowing david down by the dock' i was trying to get mike to cuddle.

it came as exactly none surprise when he cut me loose with the line 'you're so young. i don't want to break your heart.' my heart felt pretty much intact and i spent the next 6 weeks flirting and wearing lip gloss and feeling the crackle of boy's crushes in my direction. a minor miracle.

at the camp's 'dating game', the eligible bachelor asked me what kind of car i was and why. i'd always felt a kinship to the vw rabbit. but this was summertime me. the shiny hair and tanned calves me. so i said-

"a ferrari."

and the boy picked me. i later found out that mike had quipped "yeah, she's a ferrari. without the engine."

engines? we don't need no stinkin' engines.