Oh, yeah, this is a serious long holiday weekend for me. I get to start out with Halloween and finish up with Dia de Muertos. Nothing could be finer. Except maybe to be in Caroliner. Not really, Caroliner sucks rocks. But these two holidays totally rock in my opinion.
Halloween. Ah, candy from strangers. As a small gay child I thought this was the most awesome thing in the world. It was a concept that still serves me very well to this day. When I was young, if you were a stranger I was more than happy to take your candy. Now that I am old (and strange) I get to give you candy. Especially if you are dressed up funny. Or if I'm dressed up funny. And that seems to happen a lot so I keep LOTS of candy on hand. It's a win-win in my world... I've been known to give out so much candy that two dentists actually sent me thank-you notes for their new Mercedes. What can I say, I'm a giver.
But Dia de Muertos holds a place in my heart that is so special it hurts. It's an amazing Mexican holiday when the dead get to come back into the physical world and do a little living again. And enjoy a feast of comfort foods. The whole family spends a week cleaning, weeding and painting the graves of their dead relatives in preparation for a two day long tail gate party up in the cemetery. They light enough candles to be seen from space, they build alters, they bring in enough marigolds to fill a stadium and cover the grave with all of grandma's favorite food and drink. And then they start cooking. Oh lord, do they cook. Stereo's are blasting everywhere, cigars are being smoked and fresh decks of cards are broken open for poker games that give a whole new meaning to a "dead mans hand". It's a party of amazing proportion that goes on for two days, 24/7 and in their minds grandma REALLY is there. That is the most single healthy concept of death I have ever heard in my life. And the best part is this wonderful delicacy known as Pan de Muerto. The Bread of the Dead. In Mexico this is apparently like heroin to dead people. Or crack. Doesn't matter, this stuff totally rocks!!!
Pan de Muerto is a dense, SWEET bread, full of butter, Mexican vanilla, a touch of cinnamon and so totally glazed in egg yolks and sugar that it will stop your heart just by being near it. It also has two "secret ingredients" that until last week I had no idea about. A wonderful Mexican ex-pat who runs a local pasteleria not too far from here took me into his confidence after seeing my Chiva's key ring and my Virgin de Guadalupe t-shirt as I stocked up on Pan de Muerto and skull candies like a sex addict in the red light district. And I have to say, the two ingredients blew me away. One I hate and the other I have never heard of. The first is star anise (think the taste of black licorice---YUCK!!!) and the other is something called agua de azahar (orange blossom water) which according to him is totally unavailable in the States. Even he smuggles it in. From him I learned that when you mix those two things together you get something so totally different it confuses the hell out of your taste buds and you get the essence of Pan de Muerto. A subtle yet multi-layered melange of things that is both smell and taste. In a word: Heaven!!! It's fat, it's carbs, it's sugar, hell, it's everything but chocolate. But... if you dip this stuff in hot chocolate... Well, let's just say it's like the highway to hell. In a Hemi. Naked. In reverse. At 3 AM. In the wrong lane. Need I say more???
Here's to ghosts and goblins. Here's to dead folks coming back for a night and having a tail gate party. But most importantly, here's to PASTRY!!! Can it get ANY better than that??? Pass the butter...
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Monday, October 25, 2010
Poor cousin Bruce....
Oh yeah, that was a fateful day. One that was to scar cousin Bruce for the rest of his life, both physically and psychologically. I was all of five years old and he was three. We we're all at grandma and grandpa's house for another one of our ever frightening family reunions. Lord, those things were scary. Grandpa and my uncles would raid the chicken house, capture about a dozen hens and systematically wring their heads off by hand while most of me and my cousins would have fun kicking their flopping bodies up and down the driveway until they finally went lifeless. Then my aunts would gather around a large vat of boiling water that my grandma had put by the glider, throw them into it and then happily begin to pluck them before grandma began to gut them. Oh yeah, lots of happy child hood memories in my past... Now you know why I'm the way I am.
While all of this mayhem was going on cousin Bruce and I went down to the barn to pet the horses. I took my new set of water color paints that grandma had bought me from Jesse George's General Store with me. (Can you say Mayberry???) Well, being the free spirited, Isadora Duncan kind of five year old that I was, I decided to create my first Impressionistic masterpiece. On cousin Bruce's private parts. Lord knows how I talked him into dropping his trousers but the next thing you know I was going all Monet on his nether regions. I was mixing those colors like a man possessed. I remember some vibrant yellows, some stunning greens but most of all, what I can only describe as a wonderfully brilliant cerulean blue of unimaginable beauty. All on his little three year old tally-wacker. As I recall, I went all out with that blue. Yes, I really am that gay...
When I was done I was truly impressed. To me it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And I didn't even know what the freaking Sistine Chapel was then. To this day, I still remember cousin Bruce, shorts around his ankles, horrid little plaid shirt held high above his head as he stood on the hay wagon, covered in water colors and me washing out my brushes in the watering trough. A masterpiece if I do say so myself!!! Worthy of the Lourve at least.
OK, so he hops off the hay wagon and wanders off as I put my water color set away. And then I hear a scream from up the hill. Quickly followed by an other scream. It was aunt Betty and my mom. I knew no good could come from this. I poked my head out from around the door and saw Aunt Betty running down the hill. With cousin Bruce, shorts around his ankles, hanging two feet in the air off of her arm being shaken wildly. With my mother in equal pace. All headed toward the barn. Fucking shit, I thought to myself, I'm SO totally boned!!!
Needless to say, this drew a very large crowd of family members. Cousins. Grandparents. And a large contingent of aunts and uncles, all with chickens in various state of disarray clutched in their inbred hands. Oh my god, it was so not pretty. Aunt Betty was shaking poor Bruce like a rag doll (today that would so get her a serious prison term), mom was screaming about as wildly as she always did, Bruce was turning even bluer than I had painted him and I was quickly throwing everything in my hands up into the hayloft. All to no avail, I might add. I was so busted it hurt.
Now, in all honesty, I got off easy. Mom just went totally full blown bat shit crazy on me but I was used to that. Bruce, on the other hand, got the worst of the deal. After Aunt Betty finally got finished hosing him off in the front yard Uncle Calvin actually made him go cut his own switch to be whipped with. That's so fucking cold it just sucks rocks. Who in their right mind gives a three year old a knife to go cut off tree branch so you can cane him with it??? Apparently just about everyone in my family... Ah, the South. I love it.
Now, let's jump ahead about 15 years to cousin Ann's wedding. Bruce is in the wedding party and looking all spiffy in his tuxedo. So, I walk up to him and say, "Hey, Bruce... BLUE!!!". And he collapses to the floor, breaks into tears, pisses his pants and doesn't have a clue in the world why. Wow, some shit just sticks with you forever...
While all of this mayhem was going on cousin Bruce and I went down to the barn to pet the horses. I took my new set of water color paints that grandma had bought me from Jesse George's General Store with me. (Can you say Mayberry???) Well, being the free spirited, Isadora Duncan kind of five year old that I was, I decided to create my first Impressionistic masterpiece. On cousin Bruce's private parts. Lord knows how I talked him into dropping his trousers but the next thing you know I was going all Monet on his nether regions. I was mixing those colors like a man possessed. I remember some vibrant yellows, some stunning greens but most of all, what I can only describe as a wonderfully brilliant cerulean blue of unimaginable beauty. All on his little three year old tally-wacker. As I recall, I went all out with that blue. Yes, I really am that gay...
When I was done I was truly impressed. To me it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. And I didn't even know what the freaking Sistine Chapel was then. To this day, I still remember cousin Bruce, shorts around his ankles, horrid little plaid shirt held high above his head as he stood on the hay wagon, covered in water colors and me washing out my brushes in the watering trough. A masterpiece if I do say so myself!!! Worthy of the Lourve at least.
OK, so he hops off the hay wagon and wanders off as I put my water color set away. And then I hear a scream from up the hill. Quickly followed by an other scream. It was aunt Betty and my mom. I knew no good could come from this. I poked my head out from around the door and saw Aunt Betty running down the hill. With cousin Bruce, shorts around his ankles, hanging two feet in the air off of her arm being shaken wildly. With my mother in equal pace. All headed toward the barn. Fucking shit, I thought to myself, I'm SO totally boned!!!
Needless to say, this drew a very large crowd of family members. Cousins. Grandparents. And a large contingent of aunts and uncles, all with chickens in various state of disarray clutched in their inbred hands. Oh my god, it was so not pretty. Aunt Betty was shaking poor Bruce like a rag doll (today that would so get her a serious prison term), mom was screaming about as wildly as she always did, Bruce was turning even bluer than I had painted him and I was quickly throwing everything in my hands up into the hayloft. All to no avail, I might add. I was so busted it hurt.
Now, in all honesty, I got off easy. Mom just went totally full blown bat shit crazy on me but I was used to that. Bruce, on the other hand, got the worst of the deal. After Aunt Betty finally got finished hosing him off in the front yard Uncle Calvin actually made him go cut his own switch to be whipped with. That's so fucking cold it just sucks rocks. Who in their right mind gives a three year old a knife to go cut off tree branch so you can cane him with it??? Apparently just about everyone in my family... Ah, the South. I love it.
Now, let's jump ahead about 15 years to cousin Ann's wedding. Bruce is in the wedding party and looking all spiffy in his tuxedo. So, I walk up to him and say, "Hey, Bruce... BLUE!!!". And he collapses to the floor, breaks into tears, pisses his pants and doesn't have a clue in the world why. Wow, some shit just sticks with you forever...
Monday, October 18, 2010
Just exactly how far up our asses do we have our heads???
In the name of string!!! This one pisses me off so badly I want to spit fire and shit nails. Yes, I actually said that. Apparently America has a new "enemy" to piss, moan and pull our hair out over. You ready for this one? Soup. From Canada. Campbell's soup to be exact. Yes, soup. From Canada for christ's sake. Canada!!! I thought we actually liked them. Maybe it was just us Democrats that liked Canada. It seems the rest of that rabid bunch of loonies down here doesn't anymore. Y'know why? It seems that Canada offers a selection of Campbell's soups up there that are god forbid (or should I say Allah forbid) Islamic halal dietary certified. Which in my opinion is no different than Kosher or Hindu correct. Like we have down here in the ethnic aisle in Woodman's. Only this is Islamic. And in Canada. My god, kill them all. The Muslims and the Canadians. How dare they do this to us!!! You ice hockey loving beaver worshiping bastards!!!
How fucking reactionary are we??? It's a damned dietary restriction for christ's sake. It's not a bomb on a jet. It's not more than 3 ounces of liquid in my carry on. IT'S FUCKING SOUP! SOUP!!!
I remember the cute little Campbell's soup twins. I remember the four note catch tune for Campbell's soup... "Soup is good food." Now it is apparently some sort of rallying cry for nutty extremists. And apparently ours more than theirs. Whoever "theirs" is... Again, it's soup. And not even soup that is marketed down here. But of course some of "us" have to get our undies in a knot and get overheated. I'm sure that the TSA is all over this one. Why wouldn't they be, they seem so be all over everything else!!! This makes me want to fly up to Toronto for a short weekend just to stock up on Campbell's soup, labeled in Farsi, fill my luggage full of it and try to make it through U.S. Customs on the way back home. In a berka.
I am ashamed of the religious intolerance that we are exhibiting. And our paranoia. And especially our ignorance as a society. When did we descend into this kind of insanity??? And make it a political agenda??? Yes, planes flew into buildings and thousands died. Shit happened. Extremists did unimaginable things. But haven't "religious extremists" of ALL beliefs done that sort of things for centuries? Including ours. Remember the Crusades??? Oh yeah, that was two centuries of fun and games... Right up there with being burnt at the stake for simply speaking your mind.
In the name of whatever god you do, or don't believe in (and we seem to have a shit load of them), America, get your head out of your ass and realize we truly are a nation of mutts, disenfranchised souls and religious malcontents that just came here for a better life and a little less persecution. It's soup. Just soup!!! And remember when that was something that fed the soul and not a political debate???
How fucking reactionary are we??? It's a damned dietary restriction for christ's sake. It's not a bomb on a jet. It's not more than 3 ounces of liquid in my carry on. IT'S FUCKING SOUP! SOUP!!!
I remember the cute little Campbell's soup twins. I remember the four note catch tune for Campbell's soup... "Soup is good food." Now it is apparently some sort of rallying cry for nutty extremists. And apparently ours more than theirs. Whoever "theirs" is... Again, it's soup. And not even soup that is marketed down here. But of course some of "us" have to get our undies in a knot and get overheated. I'm sure that the TSA is all over this one. Why wouldn't they be, they seem so be all over everything else!!! This makes me want to fly up to Toronto for a short weekend just to stock up on Campbell's soup, labeled in Farsi, fill my luggage full of it and try to make it through U.S. Customs on the way back home. In a berka.
I am ashamed of the religious intolerance that we are exhibiting. And our paranoia. And especially our ignorance as a society. When did we descend into this kind of insanity??? And make it a political agenda??? Yes, planes flew into buildings and thousands died. Shit happened. Extremists did unimaginable things. But haven't "religious extremists" of ALL beliefs done that sort of things for centuries? Including ours. Remember the Crusades??? Oh yeah, that was two centuries of fun and games... Right up there with being burnt at the stake for simply speaking your mind.
In the name of whatever god you do, or don't believe in (and we seem to have a shit load of them), America, get your head out of your ass and realize we truly are a nation of mutts, disenfranchised souls and religious malcontents that just came here for a better life and a little less persecution. It's soup. Just soup!!! And remember when that was something that fed the soul and not a political debate???
Friday, October 15, 2010
The end is nye...
To borrow a phrase from G. W. Nethercott, "I'm in Hell...". Seriously. Why? Easy... I've actually run out of things to buy at Kohl's. I'm not kidding. You all know me, I'm a shopaholic. It's my one true legal addiction. The high of asking "How many colors does this come in?" is borderline narcotic to me. Oh hell, I admit it, I will actually buy something just to keep someone else from having it. It's not greed. It's not hoarding. It's just that I have it and YOU don't!!! Yes, I am the queen of single-use kitchen appliances. I have three citrus squeezers for christ's sake. One for Key Limes, one for lemons and one for those ridiculous things gringos call limes...
I swear that half of the stuff I own is from Kohl's. Bedding. Pillows. Towels. Rugs. More than half of my kitchen. THIRTY-EIGHT FREAKING POLO SHIRTS!!! So many pair of cargo shorts I refuse to count them. My luggage (three sets. four if you count the set I bought for my other half.). Enough flip-flops to supply a cruise ship (some casual, some capable of attending a funeral. I've done that.) Personally, I don't actually care for Bobby Flay, Rachael Ray or Paula Dean (OK, I actually have a lot of respect for Paula for learning how to bread and deep fry macaroni and cheese) but when their products go on sale at Kohl's my ass is SO there!!! Especially when it's 50 percent off and I have a 30 percent off store coupon in my pocket to add to the buzz. And all of that Food Network stuff is like my own personal heroin. I love that stuff. If most of it weren't anodized I'm sure I'd be free basing it as I type.
So, today Kohl's has one of those "Early Bird" special sales going on. Big sale. Let me rephrase that, BIG FUCKING SALE!!! Like up to 75 percent off. And I have my 30 percent off coupon locked and loaded. Most Valued Customer charge card and store coupon in hand I walk in ready to shop. Totally ready to do some damage if you get my drift. I didn't care if I wanted it, needed it, had a use for it or even if I had a place to put it I was not about to walk out empty handed. Guess what? Almost two hours later I'm still wandering around without a single thing in my hands. Housewares. Small kitchen electrics. Linens. Bedroom. Bathroom. Shoes. Menswear. Seasonal. Clearance (and that one is almost always a score). Hell, I even found myself in Misses for awhile. Nothing. Absolutely NOTHING! OK, there was a really cute pair of taupe suede open-toed six inch spike high hells with a 3/4 inch cheater sole that caught my eye BIG time but they didn't have them in my size. I even had the salesperson check the stock room. I could have had those puppies for less than $20 with the coupon. Lord knows what I would have done with them. Perhaps a funeral. Perhaps a floral centerpiece. Who cares, they could have been MINE!!!
I have just realized that my other half (Ricky, as I call him) has been looking over my shoulder (Lucy, as he calls me) as I have been writing this and has just threatened to shut off my "Charge-a-Card." Has he been looking in the storage locker? Under the bed? Digging through the back of cupboards? Looking under that pile of shoes I don't wear? Has he actually managed to find stuff I have bought that even I have forgotten about??? Oh shit, he has discovered that we have three more panini makers than we can ever use!!! Or have ever used. Hell, I'm not even sure I know what a panini is but push come to shove I'm sure I could make a ton of them if I had to... Hell, I bet I could cater a wedding full of them if I needed to.
At any rate, I left Kohl's empty handed. Dejected and a bit cold turkey'd if there is such a thing in the retail world.. God damn it, I wanted something. Anything. Even if if was another garlic press. Hell, it was on sale and I had a coupon!!!
I swear that half of the stuff I own is from Kohl's. Bedding. Pillows. Towels. Rugs. More than half of my kitchen. THIRTY-EIGHT FREAKING POLO SHIRTS!!! So many pair of cargo shorts I refuse to count them. My luggage (three sets. four if you count the set I bought for my other half.). Enough flip-flops to supply a cruise ship (some casual, some capable of attending a funeral. I've done that.) Personally, I don't actually care for Bobby Flay, Rachael Ray or Paula Dean (OK, I actually have a lot of respect for Paula for learning how to bread and deep fry macaroni and cheese) but when their products go on sale at Kohl's my ass is SO there!!! Especially when it's 50 percent off and I have a 30 percent off store coupon in my pocket to add to the buzz. And all of that Food Network stuff is like my own personal heroin. I love that stuff. If most of it weren't anodized I'm sure I'd be free basing it as I type.
So, today Kohl's has one of those "Early Bird" special sales going on. Big sale. Let me rephrase that, BIG FUCKING SALE!!! Like up to 75 percent off. And I have my 30 percent off coupon locked and loaded. Most Valued Customer charge card and store coupon in hand I walk in ready to shop. Totally ready to do some damage if you get my drift. I didn't care if I wanted it, needed it, had a use for it or even if I had a place to put it I was not about to walk out empty handed. Guess what? Almost two hours later I'm still wandering around without a single thing in my hands. Housewares. Small kitchen electrics. Linens. Bedroom. Bathroom. Shoes. Menswear. Seasonal. Clearance (and that one is almost always a score). Hell, I even found myself in Misses for awhile. Nothing. Absolutely NOTHING! OK, there was a really cute pair of taupe suede open-toed six inch spike high hells with a 3/4 inch cheater sole that caught my eye BIG time but they didn't have them in my size. I even had the salesperson check the stock room. I could have had those puppies for less than $20 with the coupon. Lord knows what I would have done with them. Perhaps a funeral. Perhaps a floral centerpiece. Who cares, they could have been MINE!!!
I have just realized that my other half (Ricky, as I call him) has been looking over my shoulder (Lucy, as he calls me) as I have been writing this and has just threatened to shut off my "Charge-a-Card." Has he been looking in the storage locker? Under the bed? Digging through the back of cupboards? Looking under that pile of shoes I don't wear? Has he actually managed to find stuff I have bought that even I have forgotten about??? Oh shit, he has discovered that we have three more panini makers than we can ever use!!! Or have ever used. Hell, I'm not even sure I know what a panini is but push come to shove I'm sure I could make a ton of them if I had to... Hell, I bet I could cater a wedding full of them if I needed to.
At any rate, I left Kohl's empty handed. Dejected and a bit cold turkey'd if there is such a thing in the retail world.. God damn it, I wanted something. Anything. Even if if was another garlic press. Hell, it was on sale and I had a coupon!!!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
I'm so gay even my pubes have highlights!
I knew that would get your attention. Seems to have the same effect when I say it in a crowded elevator as well. If anyone questions me I just tell them that I have Tourette's Syndrome and bark at them a couple of times. Voila! Elevator all to myself....
So, back to me being the biggest gay in the village. Oh yeah, BIG time!!! Once, as a young child at summer camp, I spent an entire weekend rearranging the rocks in the river so the water fall was prettier. I just thought it needed to be done. Trust me, it looked a whole hell of a lot better!!! No merit badge for that accomplishment but at least I slept a bit easier in that tick infested thing they called Cabin Wannaseemypeehole. Lord that was a hellish two weeks. But at least the water fall was a bit more acceptable in my opinion... Had I been able to boost the keys to one of the broken down vans in that nightmarish place I would have driven into town and gotten some water lilies and a koi or two and made that polluted little stream shine!!! I was never really appreciated...
As a child I was so gay it hurt. By the time I was in Junior High School I wanted to be a cheerleader. By the time I was in Senior High School I WAS a cheerleader. Head cheerleader as a matter of fact and I looked totally rocking hot in that little pleated skirt. I put those other bitches to shame. Wasn't any of them that could do the splits like I could. And that ability served me very well up until my 40's. Right up until my first hip replacement as I recall. I remember teaching the rest of the squad all of those wonderful cheers. Things like, "We're gonna rub your dingies in the dirt, make them squirt! U-Rah-Rah! BEAT OFF!" and "Try to make a touchdown, you gravy sucking pigs!". OK, it was a short career but a very colorful one in my opinion ...
From there I was on to college. Oh lord, what a waste of time and money!!! I did learn how to party though. Saw my first drag show when I was eighteen and I never looked back after that. I even did a short stint as a cashier at Pure Pleasure, the local dirty book store, in my Junior year. In less than a week I knew every queen within a 60 mile radius whether I wanted to or not. Holy Moly, there was some stuff going on back in those movie booths!!! It was amazing what a dollars worth of quarters could buy you back then...
After college I became one of the original Castro Street Clones in San Francisco. I cringe at that legacy today but I'm sure I must have been TOTALLY smoking hot at the time. Hell, I had a full head of hair, a fu manchu mustache, a flannel shirt, aviator sunglasses and skin tight jeans. And an ass that didn't need to be tucked into my socks like it does today. Ah, the good old daze...
From there I was into my 30's. OK, let's not go there. I honestly don't remember them and you truly don't want to hear about them... I vaguely remember a pool table and a standing ovation at some point.
Ah, my 40's... I genuinely hit my stride that decade. I also hit on everything with three legs that decade too. Let's just say a whole lot of leather, uniforms and someone calling me "Daddy" for the first time. Don't ask, don't tell...
Less than a month before I turned 50 my apartment building damned near burnt to the ground and I found myself living in a hotel for awhile. I showed up at my 50th birthday party dressed as Sponge Bob Squarepants. With a pineapple under my arm. In saddle shoes. How gay is that??? Thank god there was large drag queen in a dress made out of a shower curtain in attendance to distract attention from me or I may have caused a scene. OK, I caused a scene anyway. But nowhere near as big as I could have...
Now, I'm pushing 60. Fast. REALLY fast. Holy shit, where did the time go??? I'm not sure where to go from here... A one woman show like Elaine Stritch (a wonderfully bitchy alcoholic), a cabaret act like Marlene Dietrich (so blind she fell off stage in Vegas one night and damned near killed herself) or just write my memoirs (all lies), move to Belize (not even sure where that is exactly) and take an imaginary mulatto lover named Twon (hung like a horse and less than half my age)??? These decisions can be so vexing. Maybe I should email my BFF Cher and ask for her advice. She always seems to know what to do in this kind of situation. Hell, I figure if you can survive being married to Sonny and finding out that your only daughter is really a man then you must have some sort of insight!!!
So, back to me being the biggest gay in the village. Oh yeah, BIG time!!! Once, as a young child at summer camp, I spent an entire weekend rearranging the rocks in the river so the water fall was prettier. I just thought it needed to be done. Trust me, it looked a whole hell of a lot better!!! No merit badge for that accomplishment but at least I slept a bit easier in that tick infested thing they called Cabin Wannaseemypeehole. Lord that was a hellish two weeks. But at least the water fall was a bit more acceptable in my opinion... Had I been able to boost the keys to one of the broken down vans in that nightmarish place I would have driven into town and gotten some water lilies and a koi or two and made that polluted little stream shine!!! I was never really appreciated...
As a child I was so gay it hurt. By the time I was in Junior High School I wanted to be a cheerleader. By the time I was in Senior High School I WAS a cheerleader. Head cheerleader as a matter of fact and I looked totally rocking hot in that little pleated skirt. I put those other bitches to shame. Wasn't any of them that could do the splits like I could. And that ability served me very well up until my 40's. Right up until my first hip replacement as I recall. I remember teaching the rest of the squad all of those wonderful cheers. Things like, "We're gonna rub your dingies in the dirt, make them squirt! U-Rah-Rah! BEAT OFF!" and "Try to make a touchdown, you gravy sucking pigs!". OK, it was a short career but a very colorful one in my opinion ...
From there I was on to college. Oh lord, what a waste of time and money!!! I did learn how to party though. Saw my first drag show when I was eighteen and I never looked back after that. I even did a short stint as a cashier at Pure Pleasure, the local dirty book store, in my Junior year. In less than a week I knew every queen within a 60 mile radius whether I wanted to or not. Holy Moly, there was some stuff going on back in those movie booths!!! It was amazing what a dollars worth of quarters could buy you back then...
After college I became one of the original Castro Street Clones in San Francisco. I cringe at that legacy today but I'm sure I must have been TOTALLY smoking hot at the time. Hell, I had a full head of hair, a fu manchu mustache, a flannel shirt, aviator sunglasses and skin tight jeans. And an ass that didn't need to be tucked into my socks like it does today. Ah, the good old daze...
From there I was into my 30's. OK, let's not go there. I honestly don't remember them and you truly don't want to hear about them... I vaguely remember a pool table and a standing ovation at some point.
Ah, my 40's... I genuinely hit my stride that decade. I also hit on everything with three legs that decade too. Let's just say a whole lot of leather, uniforms and someone calling me "Daddy" for the first time. Don't ask, don't tell...
Less than a month before I turned 50 my apartment building damned near burnt to the ground and I found myself living in a hotel for awhile. I showed up at my 50th birthday party dressed as Sponge Bob Squarepants. With a pineapple under my arm. In saddle shoes. How gay is that??? Thank god there was large drag queen in a dress made out of a shower curtain in attendance to distract attention from me or I may have caused a scene. OK, I caused a scene anyway. But nowhere near as big as I could have...
Now, I'm pushing 60. Fast. REALLY fast. Holy shit, where did the time go??? I'm not sure where to go from here... A one woman show like Elaine Stritch (a wonderfully bitchy alcoholic), a cabaret act like Marlene Dietrich (so blind she fell off stage in Vegas one night and damned near killed herself) or just write my memoirs (all lies), move to Belize (not even sure where that is exactly) and take an imaginary mulatto lover named Twon (hung like a horse and less than half my age)??? These decisions can be so vexing. Maybe I should email my BFF Cher and ask for her advice. She always seems to know what to do in this kind of situation. Hell, I figure if you can survive being married to Sonny and finding out that your only daughter is really a man then you must have some sort of insight!!!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Why the bloody hell is there an expiration date on a bottle of vinegar???
This one just riles the hell out of me. I mean, it's vinegar. VINEGAR!!! It's like one of the world's best known preservatives If you see vinegar listed as any of the first three ingredients on a bottle or can of anything that means it's good forever if you store it properly, refrigerated or not. Hell, I have a bottle of Italian dressing in my fridge that expired during the Reagan administration. I'm still using it and it hasn't killed me. So why does a bottle of pure vinegar go "bad" in less than a year???
It's like that bottled water scam. Expiration dates on bottled water pisses the shit out of me. It's water for christ's sake. There's a finite amount of it on this planet and we keep recycling it. We always have. By now I figure that at least half of the humans who have ever lived have managed to pee into my ice cube trays when I think about it. It's like saying rain has an expiration date. Or Lake Michigan. It's water!!! I just accept the fact that everytime I take a shower I'm doing it in my own waste. And yours too. ICK!!!
I once found a Twinkie under the front seat of a used car I bought when I was in college. I ate it. My ass is still here. If those things have an expiration date it has to be measured in some sort of atomic half life scale. Like strontium 90...
Then there's that "germ" thing. Apparently we are surrounded by them. They're everywhere from what I hear. Especially in our bathrooms. Then why is it that I could not pay my last two dogs enough to stop drinking out of my toilet? And the only side effects they suffered was to get fatter??? My last dog was such a slave to that blue water that he almost drowned himself one day to get at it. He'd even learned how to get the seat and the lid open to do it too. And this was a dog that only had six inch legs!!! I found him, head completely submerged, back legs totally off the ground like a teeter-totter and still drinking!!! I'd have slapped the ears off of him were it not for the fact that it had the added benefit of making his breath ocean-y fresh for a couple of hours.
Don't even get me started on salt content. I love salt. No, really, I LOVE salt. I figure the more the merrier. Hell, look what it did for the Pharaoh's. Put a dead Pharaoh under a couple of hundred pounds of table salt, close the door for few months, wrap him in a sheet and 5,000 years later we can still look at him in a museum. That, my friends, is testimony to the power of salt!!! I put salt on everything. Watermelon, oranges, apples and even on chocolate ice cream. Yeah, I'm kind of hard core... My other half is on a "sodium free diet". What the bloody hell is up with that shit? How can you possibly be on dietary restrictions like that? It's unfathomable to me. Really. But I figure that just leaves more for me to wallow in. And lord knows, I surely do. I've been known to pull over on the side of the road and steal salt licks out of fields. Fuck the deer. I want that damned salt!!!
As for added "preservatives" I'm still open to debate. As a Baby Boomer I have been up to my eyeballs in those things since before I was born. While she was pregnant with me my mother consumed things that glowed in the dark. I'm surprised I wasn't born with two heads. Or at the very least a conjoined twin. Aspartame and BHT have always been two of my favorites. One is an outlawed artificial sweetener and the other one is supposed to keep stuff from caking. Neither of them has seemed to work. I'm no sweeter and I'm caking faster than lead based paint. Ask any one who knows me. I look like Bette Davis. After the stroke. And on a double dose of the brown acid in REALLY bad lighting. Guess what, those fuckers just don't seem to work worth a shit in my opinion. If they did I would have been free basing them for decades... And looking a hell of a lot younger and prettier than I do now.
Personally, I don't care if there's chemicals in it. I just want my freaking lettuce to be crisp!!!
It's like that bottled water scam. Expiration dates on bottled water pisses the shit out of me. It's water for christ's sake. There's a finite amount of it on this planet and we keep recycling it. We always have. By now I figure that at least half of the humans who have ever lived have managed to pee into my ice cube trays when I think about it. It's like saying rain has an expiration date. Or Lake Michigan. It's water!!! I just accept the fact that everytime I take a shower I'm doing it in my own waste. And yours too. ICK!!!
I once found a Twinkie under the front seat of a used car I bought when I was in college. I ate it. My ass is still here. If those things have an expiration date it has to be measured in some sort of atomic half life scale. Like strontium 90...
Then there's that "germ" thing. Apparently we are surrounded by them. They're everywhere from what I hear. Especially in our bathrooms. Then why is it that I could not pay my last two dogs enough to stop drinking out of my toilet? And the only side effects they suffered was to get fatter??? My last dog was such a slave to that blue water that he almost drowned himself one day to get at it. He'd even learned how to get the seat and the lid open to do it too. And this was a dog that only had six inch legs!!! I found him, head completely submerged, back legs totally off the ground like a teeter-totter and still drinking!!! I'd have slapped the ears off of him were it not for the fact that it had the added benefit of making his breath ocean-y fresh for a couple of hours.
Don't even get me started on salt content. I love salt. No, really, I LOVE salt. I figure the more the merrier. Hell, look what it did for the Pharaoh's. Put a dead Pharaoh under a couple of hundred pounds of table salt, close the door for few months, wrap him in a sheet and 5,000 years later we can still look at him in a museum. That, my friends, is testimony to the power of salt!!! I put salt on everything. Watermelon, oranges, apples and even on chocolate ice cream. Yeah, I'm kind of hard core... My other half is on a "sodium free diet". What the bloody hell is up with that shit? How can you possibly be on dietary restrictions like that? It's unfathomable to me. Really. But I figure that just leaves more for me to wallow in. And lord knows, I surely do. I've been known to pull over on the side of the road and steal salt licks out of fields. Fuck the deer. I want that damned salt!!!
As for added "preservatives" I'm still open to debate. As a Baby Boomer I have been up to my eyeballs in those things since before I was born. While she was pregnant with me my mother consumed things that glowed in the dark. I'm surprised I wasn't born with two heads. Or at the very least a conjoined twin. Aspartame and BHT have always been two of my favorites. One is an outlawed artificial sweetener and the other one is supposed to keep stuff from caking. Neither of them has seemed to work. I'm no sweeter and I'm caking faster than lead based paint. Ask any one who knows me. I look like Bette Davis. After the stroke. And on a double dose of the brown acid in REALLY bad lighting. Guess what, those fuckers just don't seem to work worth a shit in my opinion. If they did I would have been free basing them for decades... And looking a hell of a lot younger and prettier than I do now.
Personally, I don't care if there's chemicals in it. I just want my freaking lettuce to be crisp!!!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Oh god, I hope you dance...
There's a song out there called "I Hope You Dance". It came out a couple of years ago and it totally blew me away when I first heard it. It's one of those almost sappy country western things about being drop kicked, shut out, beat up and totally thrown to the floor. And then picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, spitting the dirt and grass out of your mouth and going on. To me though, it meant a lot more. It was about learning to do all of those things before you got your teeth knocked out, t-boned and thrown out of the window. The song has wonderful lines like "Whenever one door closes, I hope one door opens", "I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean" and "When you get the chance to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance." That last line struck a particular chord in me.
My life sucks. Your life sucks. Life just sucks in general. But as much as I have been tempted, I have never given up on it. Even when it sucked so motherfucking bad I ended up putting my fists through walls and cursing a god I don't even believe in. Through all of the shit, the emotional toxic waste, the assholes, the psychic vampires and all of the crap I can't even begin to comprehend I still somehow managed to never quite give up. I count myself incredibly lucky. Or, at the very least, properly medicated for the task.
I have been blessed with a universe of loonies in my life. Some sane, some not so sane. But all of them were welcomed with open arms. I have been to more funerals than I care to recount. Some were old, some were way too young. Some by chance, some by choice. Either way it was a funeral and they all sucked ass. I have had humor, love, craziness and laughter breeze into my life with no warning and be taken away so quickly that it took my breath away. I have thrown shovels full of dirt, flowers and coins into so many holes in the ground I could scream. And I have. Too many times.
Yet, I have found myself in the middle of the night, holding new borns in my hand, no bigger than baked potatoes, with tears in my eyes. And happy as hell to see a new life come into the world. To be their babysitter of choice and to hear them call me Auntie Donn has made my heart swell much more than the Grinch could ever hope to achieve. Watching Sponge Bob videos, reading bed time stories, playing with crayons and coloring books and tucking them into bed is my equivalent of a Nobel Prize. Let's not talk about that diaper changing thing....
Through all of this I have cursed, fought and broken things. I have lost things, people, friends and some of my sanity. But I have never lost that spark. That spark that makes me feel alive. That spark that makes me human. That precious spark that keeps me wanting to keep breathing and waking up in the morning. I will keep dancing until the cows come home, until the ship breaks in half and goes to the bottom and at least until they announce last call. How about you??? Care to join me? Naked? In a busy intersection? At rush hour? C'mon, LET"S GO DANCE LIKE NOBODY'S WATCHING!!!
My life sucks. Your life sucks. Life just sucks in general. But as much as I have been tempted, I have never given up on it. Even when it sucked so motherfucking bad I ended up putting my fists through walls and cursing a god I don't even believe in. Through all of the shit, the emotional toxic waste, the assholes, the psychic vampires and all of the crap I can't even begin to comprehend I still somehow managed to never quite give up. I count myself incredibly lucky. Or, at the very least, properly medicated for the task.
I have been blessed with a universe of loonies in my life. Some sane, some not so sane. But all of them were welcomed with open arms. I have been to more funerals than I care to recount. Some were old, some were way too young. Some by chance, some by choice. Either way it was a funeral and they all sucked ass. I have had humor, love, craziness and laughter breeze into my life with no warning and be taken away so quickly that it took my breath away. I have thrown shovels full of dirt, flowers and coins into so many holes in the ground I could scream. And I have. Too many times.
Yet, I have found myself in the middle of the night, holding new borns in my hand, no bigger than baked potatoes, with tears in my eyes. And happy as hell to see a new life come into the world. To be their babysitter of choice and to hear them call me Auntie Donn has made my heart swell much more than the Grinch could ever hope to achieve. Watching Sponge Bob videos, reading bed time stories, playing with crayons and coloring books and tucking them into bed is my equivalent of a Nobel Prize. Let's not talk about that diaper changing thing....
Through all of this I have cursed, fought and broken things. I have lost things, people, friends and some of my sanity. But I have never lost that spark. That spark that makes me feel alive. That spark that makes me human. That precious spark that keeps me wanting to keep breathing and waking up in the morning. I will keep dancing until the cows come home, until the ship breaks in half and goes to the bottom and at least until they announce last call. How about you??? Care to join me? Naked? In a busy intersection? At rush hour? C'mon, LET"S GO DANCE LIKE NOBODY'S WATCHING!!!
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
My Great-Great Aunt Betty was the world's first lipstick lesbian...
OMG, great-great aunt Betty was a piece of work. She and her older sister, my great-grandma Emma, were only two years apart in age but worlds apart in personality. Emma was a farm girl by birth and stayed that way her whole life. She had a face like a morel mushroom but made the best homemade noodles I have ever tasted. Betty, on the other hand, got her ass off of that farm as fast as she could. She was an early suffragette. With enough attitude to cut through titanium like it was warm butter on a hot day. Betty took no shit whatsoever. Her and Emma were night and day. As I recall, they hated each other. Rather openly at most encounters as I remember.
Betty put herself through trade school and became a "typewriter". That's apparently what they called secretary's back then. She ended up becoming a private secretary to someone in the Illinois state government and made a small fortune in the process. Betty dressed in designer clothes, wore the most amazing hats I have ever seen and bought herself a new Buick every two years. She also owned her own home which she "shared" with her "roommate" for decades. BTW, her roommate's name was Lillian. Together they traveled extensively, kept at least one beauty shop happily in business for decades, wore acres of silk and managed to send all of a Buick dealers kids through college. She smelled like an Avon Lady and smoked Lucky Strikes like a fiend, both much to Emma's distain.
I remember the last time I saw Betty. We were all at great-grandma Emma and great-grandpa Henry's farm for a family reunion one summer. I was out in the yard throwing apples at the sheep when I watched a truly enormous car turn off of the hard road, come down the gravel road and turn up into Emma and Henry's driveway. Oh my, Betty had arrived!!! In her brand new 1959 Buick Invicta convertable. It was two-tone cobalt and cream with a matching two-tone leather interior. It was the size of a battleship and had fins on the back that could do some serious damage to any living thing that was stupid enough to get in the way of them. Betty flowed out of that car like a Mozart sonata. Awash in matching cobalt and cream with a hat that rivaled the rings of Saturn. Oh yeah, Betty had definitely arrived!!! She fired up a cigarette and as she walked past me she asked if I had managed to hit any of Emma's sheep yet. I told her only two so far. She said "You keep trying honey, you can only get better with practice." She was like having my very own personal steel magnolia on tap. I loved her with all of my heart.
Sadly, a little over a year later Betty was gone. She died in her sleep while her and Lillian were vacationing in New York City the next summer. She was 68 and spry and cantankerous to the very end. She left $100,000 to several of her favorite causes and everything else to Lillian. The house, the stocks, the bonds, tons of cash and her beloved Buick Invicta. Needless to say great-grandma Emma was not amused at that. To say that she had a full blown bat shit crazy melt down would be an understatement by any stretch. Verbally, she deteriorated into a drunken long shore man. That was the only time I ever heard Emma cuss. And boy did she cuss. She called Betty everything in the book. And then she called Lillian everything in the second volume. How dare this, how dare that, how dare she, how dare you, what the $%*&@(! and on and on. It was not a pretty funeral I must say. Quite typical for a funeral in my family though. But just not a pretty sight in general. At the grave sight she even called Lillian "a dirty bitch from Hell"! As a 7-year old I was truly impressed. Taken back a bit but still truly impressed. I had no idea Emma had it in her. And all of this coming out of a 5-foot 2-inch morel. And solely because Betty didn't have the decency to leave her anything!!! Yeah, we Colee's are strange. Very, VERY strange. Think I hate you with all of my heart but your sorry ass better leave me something once you die and you get the picture...
I have never let great-great aunt Betty leave my memory. She was a force to be reckoned with. Oh hell, she was a tsunami of lipstick, silk, heels and hats. And Buick's. To this day, every time I see some sheep I want to toss apples at them and start screaming "Hey, these are from Betty!!!". Trust me, I really do. Oh fuck 'em, they're just sheep...
I think I may have spent most my life channeling her... How else could I have become this much of a rancid old queen??? Betty, you taught me well and I thank you more than you can possibly imagine!!!
Betty put herself through trade school and became a "typewriter". That's apparently what they called secretary's back then. She ended up becoming a private secretary to someone in the Illinois state government and made a small fortune in the process. Betty dressed in designer clothes, wore the most amazing hats I have ever seen and bought herself a new Buick every two years. She also owned her own home which she "shared" with her "roommate" for decades. BTW, her roommate's name was Lillian. Together they traveled extensively, kept at least one beauty shop happily in business for decades, wore acres of silk and managed to send all of a Buick dealers kids through college. She smelled like an Avon Lady and smoked Lucky Strikes like a fiend, both much to Emma's distain.
I remember the last time I saw Betty. We were all at great-grandma Emma and great-grandpa Henry's farm for a family reunion one summer. I was out in the yard throwing apples at the sheep when I watched a truly enormous car turn off of the hard road, come down the gravel road and turn up into Emma and Henry's driveway. Oh my, Betty had arrived!!! In her brand new 1959 Buick Invicta convertable. It was two-tone cobalt and cream with a matching two-tone leather interior. It was the size of a battleship and had fins on the back that could do some serious damage to any living thing that was stupid enough to get in the way of them. Betty flowed out of that car like a Mozart sonata. Awash in matching cobalt and cream with a hat that rivaled the rings of Saturn. Oh yeah, Betty had definitely arrived!!! She fired up a cigarette and as she walked past me she asked if I had managed to hit any of Emma's sheep yet. I told her only two so far. She said "You keep trying honey, you can only get better with practice." She was like having my very own personal steel magnolia on tap. I loved her with all of my heart.
Sadly, a little over a year later Betty was gone. She died in her sleep while her and Lillian were vacationing in New York City the next summer. She was 68 and spry and cantankerous to the very end. She left $100,000 to several of her favorite causes and everything else to Lillian. The house, the stocks, the bonds, tons of cash and her beloved Buick Invicta. Needless to say great-grandma Emma was not amused at that. To say that she had a full blown bat shit crazy melt down would be an understatement by any stretch. Verbally, she deteriorated into a drunken long shore man. That was the only time I ever heard Emma cuss. And boy did she cuss. She called Betty everything in the book. And then she called Lillian everything in the second volume. How dare this, how dare that, how dare she, how dare you, what the $%*&@(! and on and on. It was not a pretty funeral I must say. Quite typical for a funeral in my family though. But just not a pretty sight in general. At the grave sight she even called Lillian "a dirty bitch from Hell"! As a 7-year old I was truly impressed. Taken back a bit but still truly impressed. I had no idea Emma had it in her. And all of this coming out of a 5-foot 2-inch morel. And solely because Betty didn't have the decency to leave her anything!!! Yeah, we Colee's are strange. Very, VERY strange. Think I hate you with all of my heart but your sorry ass better leave me something once you die and you get the picture...
I have never let great-great aunt Betty leave my memory. She was a force to be reckoned with. Oh hell, she was a tsunami of lipstick, silk, heels and hats. And Buick's. To this day, every time I see some sheep I want to toss apples at them and start screaming "Hey, these are from Betty!!!". Trust me, I really do. Oh fuck 'em, they're just sheep...
I think I may have spent most my life channeling her... How else could I have become this much of a rancid old queen??? Betty, you taught me well and I thank you more than you can possibly imagine!!!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
I Married a Colicy Baby
Yes, that is what my other half (who BTW I love like I love my luggage) has decided to title his memoir after I am either run over by a bus, abducted by aliens or at the very least fatally gored by bulls in Spain. Or perhaps pummeled into submission by tomatoes in that same country. I have to hand it to the Spanish, they just love weird spectacles, whether it involves livestock on the loose or produce at high speed in an alley. Now THAT is my kind of culture!!!
Yes, I was a colicy baby. So much so that by the time I was 9 months old I had had two surgeries for hernias. Seems I was one of those lactose intolerant infants that was allergic to milk. Of any kind. Cow and breast. Yes, I was actually allergic to my mother!!! Which by the way, was a policy that stood for decades. Grandma had a good solution to that though when she got fed up with me screaming in pain as an infant. A couple of tablespoons of warm honey, lemon juice and whiskey. Yep, you actually heard me say that. My first "dealer" was my beloved grandma Flossie. Times were so much simpler back then... Do that kind of shit today and you have Family Services on your front yard with a fleet of M-1 tanks, grenade launchers and a couple of circling helicopters with search lights that could light up a stadium!!!
Being a colicy baby sent me down my very own private Yellow Brick Road at a young age. If I got "fussy", as they called it back then, I got what I wanted. Medicated. Very medicated. Thank you grandma for making me a nine month old lush. It's a precedent I hold dear to my heart to this day. And this from a woman who never touched a "drop of drink" in her almost 74 years. But it did teach me a very valuable lesson: if I don't get what I want (NOW!!!) I just scream. Loud. Really loud. And for a VERY long time. You have one of two options available, you either give me what I want (again, NOW) or you medicate me (once again, NOW). RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!
My other half has seen me go through melt downs that I swear to god would have rivaled the end of the last ice age. He's seen me break things, he's dodged stuff I've thrown and he's actually seen me take out an entire shelf at the grocery store and then lay down in the aisle, kicking and screaming like a three year old. You know why? Because I REALLY want those god damned frosted animal crackers!!! And I better get at least three boxes of those motherfuckers or I'm going down to the end of the aisle and I'm so TOTALLY taking out that end-cap display of canned soup!!!
Once he finally gets this thing published please feel free to come to the autograph signing tour. I'll be signing at the banquet table next to Sarah Palin's signing. Did you know that you can see Russia from her table???
Yes, I was a colicy baby. So much so that by the time I was 9 months old I had had two surgeries for hernias. Seems I was one of those lactose intolerant infants that was allergic to milk. Of any kind. Cow and breast. Yes, I was actually allergic to my mother!!! Which by the way, was a policy that stood for decades. Grandma had a good solution to that though when she got fed up with me screaming in pain as an infant. A couple of tablespoons of warm honey, lemon juice and whiskey. Yep, you actually heard me say that. My first "dealer" was my beloved grandma Flossie. Times were so much simpler back then... Do that kind of shit today and you have Family Services on your front yard with a fleet of M-1 tanks, grenade launchers and a couple of circling helicopters with search lights that could light up a stadium!!!
Being a colicy baby sent me down my very own private Yellow Brick Road at a young age. If I got "fussy", as they called it back then, I got what I wanted. Medicated. Very medicated. Thank you grandma for making me a nine month old lush. It's a precedent I hold dear to my heart to this day. And this from a woman who never touched a "drop of drink" in her almost 74 years. But it did teach me a very valuable lesson: if I don't get what I want (NOW!!!) I just scream. Loud. Really loud. And for a VERY long time. You have one of two options available, you either give me what I want (again, NOW) or you medicate me (once again, NOW). RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!
My other half has seen me go through melt downs that I swear to god would have rivaled the end of the last ice age. He's seen me break things, he's dodged stuff I've thrown and he's actually seen me take out an entire shelf at the grocery store and then lay down in the aisle, kicking and screaming like a three year old. You know why? Because I REALLY want those god damned frosted animal crackers!!! And I better get at least three boxes of those motherfuckers or I'm going down to the end of the aisle and I'm so TOTALLY taking out that end-cap display of canned soup!!!
Once he finally gets this thing published please feel free to come to the autograph signing tour. I'll be signing at the banquet table next to Sarah Palin's signing. Did you know that you can see Russia from her table???
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Oh, just sit on my FaceBook!!!
You know what I like about France? It ain't FaceBook!!! And for those of you out there that know me and my "affection" for France that statement should speak volumes. When did this unholy, wretched aberration take over the hearts, minds and souls of most of my friends? And most of the known world as well?
I don't get emails anymore. You know why? Because you posted it on FaceBook. I don't get phone calls anymore. You know why? You're too busy posting crap on FaceBook. Crazy shit, like you're doing the laundry. Or having a bad hair day. Or having a pickle. Or mowing the lawn. I'm curious... just how the bloody hell do you manage to mow the lawn AND put something on FaceBook, for christ's sake??? Do you realize that you're driving and texting at the same time when you do that??? Watch out, you may be about to shred the neighbors cock-a-poo...
Way back in the Dark Ages (the 1960's) we had an earlier version of FaceBook. It was called a party-line. And we had the civility to hang the phone up because we didn't want to listen to you talk about all of the dandelions in your front yard. Or that you were ironing your hair. Or how good that freaking pickle was!!! Back then we called it eave's dropping. NOT "social networking"!!! To be social don't you really have to be face to face??? Or at least in the same room??? A REAL room, with walls, not one of those virtual "room" things.
Hell, I got fed up with instant messaging about a nano-second after I got my first computer. What a complete annoyance. Everyone and their dead mother was sending me those damned things, including that prince from Nigeria and that hot chick that happened to see me at the bar last night. Sorry, honey, but I wasn't at a bar last night. Or at least not a bar that you would have been in. DELETE!!! And it's not just FaceBook that has me riled either. It's that Twitter thing as well. What the hell is up with that? Do not text me. Do not tweet me. Do not try my patience. I have purged every electronic device in my apartment of its ability to receive those things. Including the toaster and the battery charger!!! I have also wrapped my head in aluminum foil to stop them from getting to me over the cable box!!! Telephones are for talking on, not typing on. If you have your cell phone in your hand and want to talk to me, then hit speed dial. Do not send me a typed message. If you want to send me a typed message then use the United States Postal Service!!! They would love to have your business from what I hear.
Yes, I am old and stuck in the past. I want my cell phone to have those REALLY big number buttons on it that only old people need. With no keyboards or cameras included. Hell, I'd be ecstatic if I could find one with a rotary dial on it. And a cord!!! I'll be honest, I barely made it through the era of CD's. I just couldn't figure out how to make the needle stay on the damned thing after I put it on the turntable... Maybe this is why I use my iPod as a paper weight. Much like Julia Sugarbaker I long for the days when people actually wrote letters, on stationary, with a real pen. In their own handwriting. It was a process that involved envelopes and postage stamps as I recall. In my day you actually had to lick the stamp to make it stick to the envelope. Hell, if you do that today you get infected with something from the Third World and your freaking tongue falls off!!! Or at the very least you get pink eye...
OMG!!! I have become great-grandma Emma!!! Minus the blue hair. She had more to tint than I do now as I recall...
I don't get emails anymore. You know why? Because you posted it on FaceBook. I don't get phone calls anymore. You know why? You're too busy posting crap on FaceBook. Crazy shit, like you're doing the laundry. Or having a bad hair day. Or having a pickle. Or mowing the lawn. I'm curious... just how the bloody hell do you manage to mow the lawn AND put something on FaceBook, for christ's sake??? Do you realize that you're driving and texting at the same time when you do that??? Watch out, you may be about to shred the neighbors cock-a-poo...
Way back in the Dark Ages (the 1960's) we had an earlier version of FaceBook. It was called a party-line. And we had the civility to hang the phone up because we didn't want to listen to you talk about all of the dandelions in your front yard. Or that you were ironing your hair. Or how good that freaking pickle was!!! Back then we called it eave's dropping. NOT "social networking"!!! To be social don't you really have to be face to face??? Or at least in the same room??? A REAL room, with walls, not one of those virtual "room" things.
Hell, I got fed up with instant messaging about a nano-second after I got my first computer. What a complete annoyance. Everyone and their dead mother was sending me those damned things, including that prince from Nigeria and that hot chick that happened to see me at the bar last night. Sorry, honey, but I wasn't at a bar last night. Or at least not a bar that you would have been in. DELETE!!! And it's not just FaceBook that has me riled either. It's that Twitter thing as well. What the hell is up with that? Do not text me. Do not tweet me. Do not try my patience. I have purged every electronic device in my apartment of its ability to receive those things. Including the toaster and the battery charger!!! I have also wrapped my head in aluminum foil to stop them from getting to me over the cable box!!! Telephones are for talking on, not typing on. If you have your cell phone in your hand and want to talk to me, then hit speed dial. Do not send me a typed message. If you want to send me a typed message then use the United States Postal Service!!! They would love to have your business from what I hear.
Yes, I am old and stuck in the past. I want my cell phone to have those REALLY big number buttons on it that only old people need. With no keyboards or cameras included. Hell, I'd be ecstatic if I could find one with a rotary dial on it. And a cord!!! I'll be honest, I barely made it through the era of CD's. I just couldn't figure out how to make the needle stay on the damned thing after I put it on the turntable... Maybe this is why I use my iPod as a paper weight. Much like Julia Sugarbaker I long for the days when people actually wrote letters, on stationary, with a real pen. In their own handwriting. It was a process that involved envelopes and postage stamps as I recall. In my day you actually had to lick the stamp to make it stick to the envelope. Hell, if you do that today you get infected with something from the Third World and your freaking tongue falls off!!! Or at the very least you get pink eye...
OMG!!! I have become great-grandma Emma!!! Minus the blue hair. She had more to tint than I do now as I recall...
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