at least not today

she spat the words. "you are a movie snob!"

she was angry. that trembly ragey angry you get just before you deck somebody, pow, right in the kisser. but, we're girls of the non-decking variety, so she contented herself with redfaced yelling.

"hating "titanic" doesn't make me a movie snob. i find it grossly manipulative. it has no heart or soul to speak of, the dialogue is terrible, the characters one dimensional. but it is pretty. and the boat is real big."

we've had this argument countless times. carbon copies. in triplicate. "mr. holland's opus." "ghost." "beaches." stacie loves accusing me of being the type who only likes movies about 'gay cowboys eating pudding'

that's not entirely true (although i do love gays and cowboys and pudding). what moves me (in film, music, books) is the feeling that something alive and human is going on. something real or messy or profound or sexy or sublimely dorky. it doesn't have to be deep. it doesn't have to have a point. i just have to believe there is a heart beating within the work.

unless.... you catch me on a day when my heart is leaky. then, i'll weep at general foods international coffee commercials and listen to lionel ritchie all day.

or a snippet of pop fluff from a six year old's cd will waft into my ears and strike a chord so deep i have to pull the car over.

"YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR HAIR. YOU CAN CHANGE YOUR CLOTHES. IF YOU CHANGE YOUR MIND. THAT'S THE WAY IT GOES. BUT I'M GONNA KEEP YOUR JEANS. AND YOUR OLD BLACK HAT. YOU'RE NEVER GONNA GET THEM BACK. AT LEAST NOT TODAY."

It strikes me that sometimes, today, you need those old jeans. you need their comfort and their scent. you need to wear them while your shaky hands pour the coffee that feels bitter in your gut. you wear the hat because washing your hair is too much effort. you need those things today.

and one murky afternoon, you'll look down and be wearing new jeans, or maybe a skirt. and you won't even remember having made the choice to change. and you'll realize that your hair is silky and smells like rain and you want to wear it down. and you'll know that you're healing.

and the journey from here to there isn't so terribly long. but it doesn't have to be today.

bollywood or bust

walking into an open air mall in hollywood today, i encountered a tidy white honda civic. a clean, efficient little vehicle. nothing shmancy, nothing spicy. with indiana plates.

one window painted in bright yellow letters-
CALIFORNIA HERE I COME!

ok. little odd. i keep walking and come around the back. where the entire rear windshield screams-
PRICE IS RIGHT OR HEAVEN!

I'm sorry, come again? Turning towards the passenger window, i spy-
BOB BARKER OR BUST!!!!!!

some optimistic soul, with full coverage insurance and an intrepid spirit braved the journey from indianapolis to the city of angels. he/she washed their car up real pretty and festooned it with rah rah sentiments and came.

for the love of bob barker. i truly hope they got what thir wish. i hope they made it on that show and old man barker kissed their check and they won an amana gas grill. i hope they put their hands in the prints of the stars and felt the california sun warm their faces.

the sweet hopefulness of it makes my my tired heart squiggle a little.

speak my language

i love it when strangers make a comment which leaves me with absolutely no idea how to respond. case in point.

i'm at the coffee shop this morning, wearing a shirt depicting a very cute pig holding a bouquet of flowers. caption-

PLEASE DON'T EAT ME. I LOVE YOU.

a woman looks over at me, glances at the shirt. says:

"i've read that." and smiles politely, waiting for a reply.

um, er..wha'? i got nuthin'.

life is like that sometimes. even with people i know. we fall out of sync. they seem to be talking in apples; while i'm speaking in dryer lint. we hear the words but can't make the connection. it's an odd sort of disconnect. it may be amusing with strangers, but with loved ones i prefer the comfort and security of knowing that we speak the same language.

at least most of the time.

heartbreaker, breadmaker

my faith in my soul mate had been gently shaken, not stirred, as of late. yes, all the plus side checkmarks were in place.

*we spend all our free time together
*i platonically stay over night at his house
*he never, ever dates any other girls or even talks about them
*he is terribly smart and funny and good looking and has very tidy fingernails
*i love him and my heart aches sweetly

the fact that we aren't 'dating' is a trifle really. when you meet your soul mate in high school, there are bound to be roadblocks.

but then his older brother threw that party. and ugly dumb face jenny dalton started talking smack about my beloved. (beloved was already in bed, with cooling gel mask on his eyes to avoid puffiness) jenny spouts off to me and about 20 other party guests that she has deduced, based on incontrovertible evidence that-

he is gay. why? "because", says jenny dumb face "i was over here the other night, sleeping with cameron (his brother) and he came upstairs IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT to bake bread. that's gay."

i looked around the crowd and they seemed to nod, yes, this makes sense. but i didn't think it made sense at all. lots of guys bake bread. it isn't necessarily unmanly. right?

the next day, i warned him of the accusations. at our small town, narrow minded, whitey white, mormon high school, being gay was foreign and scary and not a place any of the kids wanted to be. this was before will and grace. he denied it. i told him that i would be his best friend gay or no, that i didn't care about all that stuff. he said that he definitely wasn't. and did i want to stay over tonight?

did i? does a submissive bottom love a good top?

i layed in his bed, wearing boxers and a tee shirt, flipping through his spanish journal. the page fell open to a check, that practiced writing in spanish. it was for 1 million dollars, pay to the order of my first name with his last name. mrs. mona beloved.

i never felt so sexy or happy in my whole life. i took off my shirt to surprise him when he came in....

the rest is too sad and embarrassing to recount.

but i have an absolutely fabulous friend.

servo? crow? joel? mike? come back!

i thought i was getting by okay without new installments of the wonderful, amazing, sublime mystery science theater 3000. after all, i have my dvds, cd songfests, and my memories of the bots and the boys. and gypsy, of-course. but then i saw a dvd so bad. so awful, that it became tasty beyond the words to describe it. THE BROTHERHOOD calls out for the kind of dissing only mst3k can provide.

we tried valiantly to mock it ourselves. did a fair to midling job. there was so much to work with. pseudo homo erotic frat boys who are really vampires? a thriller with no thrills? no sex? no real nudity? idiotic, slow paced dialogue? and production values that showcase someone's ability to get vast amounts of dry ice at cost?

my only hope is that you will watch it, revel in the joy of truely horrific filmaking. and mock it with someone you love. then rent 'brotherhood II' and brotherhood III' and invite me over.

boozy sluts and mistletoe

here's why you don't let me drink. i am a boozy slut. it's sad, really. kind of gimmicky. like the whole 'not getting gremlins wet' thing. it sounds lame and made up. like a quirk you'd give yourself in an effort to seem more interesting.

yet it's true. i can't hold my liquor. it makes me all sexxed up and wanton and prone to make mistakes and be indiscreet.

he invites me to a christmas party. we're not an item, just a couple of good friends who are growing increasingly tingly around one another. immediately, there are jello shots. i don't really drink, but it's jello and almost yuletide, so i partake. he looks so damn cute tonight. i'm remembering laughing in his car until 4 a.m. the other morning. and how i couldn't think of a way to kiss him.

i spy the mistletoe and say (oh so subtle, oh so smooth) "you should go stand under it and see if anyone kisses you."

he does and i do. the rest of the party is a haze of booze and smooching and people inviting us to 'come back tuesday night and make out in the hallway again.' sure, we'll come back tuesday!

then, we're back at his place with a few friends. they smoke out, i don't. he rests a hand, nice and easy on my bare leg and i lay my head on his shoulder. everyone chatters around us. but we are still. finally, i get up and say that i should go, but (ready, here's another smooth line) "hey, i've never seen your bedroom, you should show me"

he tumbles me onto the bed. we don't go for the whole show, but i drop my blue ribbon 'butterly' move on him. and he's real happy. we cuddle. but i start to feel sober. in both senses of the word. i say "i have to go." he wraps his arms tight around me.

"don't leave" he holds me and looks full into my face. "stay"

but i go.

policeman + rubber + picture + sex

when a person has a very special love for the wired world, she and the wired world may choose to start a weblog together. and it is a beautiful thing. but if that person has a narcissistic nature, she may soon feel the nasty tendrils of envy wrapping around her burnt cookie heart. this may happen when other webfriends flaunt all the racy/sexy/deamening ways people google to find their site.

licking homo soap. making homemade vaginas. getting straight friends into bed. being a rubber panty pisser or submissive bottom boy. "wow!" this person may think. "i love those sites. i'm so happy for them. but, i wish people found my little home by entering "butt fuck sluts go nuts."

then, that person will cry. and she will reflect on the wonderful velvet underground lyric "if you're looking for a good time charlie, that's not really who i am. good times seem to pass me by."

then, she'll decide she likes her homely little site. with it's glasses and faded granny wallpaper.

then, she'll check her sitemeter and read that she was found by-

POLICEMAN + RUBBER + PICTURE + SEX... and she'll say a silent 'thank you' to the internet gods for such bounty.

then, she'll go back to daydreaming about tattoos and confessions and trips to mexico in fast cars with sweet boys.

everything i needed to learn i learned from winona ryder

my standard response to a friend or loved one in need is a) offer a shoulder (or supple breast) to cry on and b) offer this sage advice- "what you need is six inches of bod and a great summer" (sixteen candles)

i never learned none of them 'idle hands are the devil's work' type axioms for a life well lived from my folks. and i never read good books until high school (when it was too late) instead, i culled my philosophical type knowledge from exhaustive movie and t.v. watching.

this is why i am retarded. but these are the words i live my life by.

different strokes- 'never mix wine and ice cream, when in the presence of a pedophile.'

ferris buehler's day off- "you never respect anyone who kisses your ass." i never kiss ass. except under very special circumstances, mmm.

the heathers- "i love my dead, gay son." i do love me the gays, always have.

say anything- "i don't want to sell anything bought, sold, or processed." words to live by. and stay impoverished by. and cherish, while eating 19 cent ramen.

the jerk- "i'm picking out a thermos for you. not an ordinary thermos will do. but the extra best thermos money can buy, with vinyl and stripes and a cup built right in." my paradigm for true love.

if he won't pick you out a thermos, he ain't worth the trouble.

thanks, pop culture!

gimme freebird or gimme death!

i finish teaching my spinning (not in circles, noy whirling dervishes) class. it's bleakly so cal hot. i rode into the wall of heat, poured sweat, and assaulted it with my baddest ass cd mix. now, i'm spent, headachy, hungry. the mona cranky-meter is set to 11. but then, a ray of moonlight sunshine, dressed in tight biking shorts and a u.s. postal service jersey pulls me aside.

moonlight sunshine man- "i didn't want to do this in front of the class, because i'm respectful.'

me- "oh, what is it?"

m.s.m.- "you know the phrase 'music makes the class?' yours ruins it. nobody wants that head banger or rap stuff. people want music with a beat, something uplifting."

me- "mmm?"

m.s.m.- "something like 93.3 classic rock. or maybe 95.7 the beat. contemporary music. have you heard of the internet? you could download wonderful music and have a nice little class. one day. are you hearing me?"

me- "mmm-hmmm."

m.s.m.- but when you get that new mix. with some skynnard. it'll be great. sure you'll lose the 18 year olds. but who wants them?"

with that, moonlight sunshine man vanishes back into hell's oven night.

gimme all the bad, unsolicited advice you have to offer. come on, you've got some. or maybe you'd just like a copy of my malformed 'head banging/rap' cd? don't think i won't send it over. i will.

or maybe you're looking for a date. i'm pretty sure mr. sunshine's single.

try tv/vcr repair... please?

do you want to make more money? sure, we all do.

i took a break from the crushing my heart's been taking this week for some frozen yogurt. it was frosty, fat free, and lent me the opportunity to peruse my other favorite junk food, the l.a. weekly. for those not in the know- it's an uber liberal free paper funded mostly by ads for breast augmentation and botox.

found myself unwittingly fascinated by the 'adult massage' ads.

your basic- "very erotic nude massage with ultimate hapy ending." direct. to the point. fine.

your icky trying-for-porno style- "'i'm wet just thinking about you, cum feel my x-rated ways." whatevah.

then, this new breed. a striving, faux creative, orverworked metaphor kind of thing.

"my chocolate pudding is so sweet, so intensely warm and deep, that plunging into it will be like driving a brand new range rover into a hot fudge sundae." OR

"my love hole is filled with exciting gifts. 1 hour spent inside will be like being thrown out of a car going 400 miles an hour."

wahh? is that, uh, good? who are these girls? creative writing foreign exchange students gone bad? thwarted romance novelists? and why are they trying so damn hard? it makes me sad to see all that energy and misplaced work ethic wasted on ads for $27 massages with release.

i know. what's a 22 yr old trinadadian hottie with DD bust, who is 'tight all over' supposed to do for a living?

two words. sally struthers.