earlier words...
january 1, 2007
They're Always Bassists, Aren't They?
"They're always bassists, aren't they?"
That's it. That's my blog. That's all I got.
I know it's weak. You know it's weak.
It does happen to be very true though.
In my defense, my entire plans for the New Year's weekend fell apart
about 2 days earlier. I'm starting a 10 day juice fast tomorrow
consisting of nothing but lemon juice and maple syrup for the all of my
future meals. I had pages and pages written out about said "Master
Cleanse" and how "Bad New Year's" = Good 2007. Then I realized no one
wants to read that shit especially when it's not that funny. Instead, I
leave you with the aforementioned porfound thought.
Even sweeter is the fact that at least 3 bassists are going to read
this!
Happy Year of the Snap Dragon!
january 22, 2007
Namaste
On the subway this morning, the gentleman sitting next to me began to roll
a cigarette complete with rolling papers and tobacco. Good Times! This
brought me back to high school where my inner circle of 10 engaged in
similar antics.
After leaving the train, I was approached by a Ziyi Zhang look alike in
full Chinese regalia pushing tickets for a Chinese New Year show at Radio
City. Only in New York kids. Only in New York.
For those wondering, the Master Cleanse was much more like a Master
Failure. Within 19 hours of the juice fast, I became so violently ill
from the lemon juice concoction that I made quite the spectacle on 23rd
Street that fateful night. The lesson learned is that food is good. Don't
deprive yourself of food.
My inner hippie will not give up. This weekend I'm off to Lenox, MA for a
fun filled detoxifying yoga retreat at Kripalu. I'm taking a seminar
called "Containment & Freedom" taught by Super Yogi Rodney Yee. That
really translates to Janet Jackson style abs in 48 hours.
One may know Rodney Yee from his many yoga videos like "Yoga for Abs" or
"AM/PM Yoga". My fond memory of Rodney Yee comes from my trip to Jamaica 2
years ago. I stayed at a bare-bones retreat the specialized in realigning
the negative energy and candling my ears. Past life readings too! Clearly,
this means I'm a flake, but I digress.
Every morning while in Jamaica, I arose to a freshly made cappucino and a
half-assed yoga class taught by the proprietor Miss Jackie. Two sisters
from Boston joined me torwards the tail end of my stay. Let's say they
didn't exactly feel the spiritual vibe, but totally loved the
all-inclusive $125 nightly fee.
Before each yoga class, the younger sister and yoga novice would show her
love of learning yoga by bellowing "Rodney Yee! Rodney Yee! Rodney Yee"
much like how the marines shout "USA! USA! USA!" For some reason this
chant has been permanently burned into my memory and I can never say or
think "Rodney Yee" without thrusting a victorious fist in the air and
shouting "Rodney Yee" in the deepest voice I can muster.
Other than the joy of seeing Rodney in the flesh, it will be good to get
away. Hopefully, the forced peacefulness will open my creativity and
brighten my spirit. I'm sure a massage will help too.
The world needs quality blogs on a regular basis once again!
Namaste
january 29, 2007
rape crisis awareness day
My name is Julie and I am a rape survivor.
Today, January 29, 2007 marks the 3 year anniversary of the day that I
was drugged and gang raped.
I make this statement not because I want sympathy. Today seems fitting
to make a statement about rape and lend support all the rape survivors
in the world. Rape Survivors are mothers, daughters, sisters, and
possibly that anonymous woman sitting next to you on the train this
morning. I say this because rape isn't always front page news, and so
many women suffer alone and never receive the help and support they so
desperately need in order to go back to leading productive lives once
again. I want those women to realize that they are not alone. Help is
out there. Support, awareness, and compassion is out there
Rape happens everyday whether you're in New York, Costa Rica, or South
Africa. Rape is a crime that is a big fucking deal. The rape itself is
brutal enough, but the long road of recovery never ends and is
suffering you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy. You just don't "get
over it".
I wish I had something more eloquent to say on the topic, but my entry
from last year says it all. READ ME
Support and Services are out there
www.survivingtothriving.org
www.nycagainstrape.org
www.rainn.org
www.rapehelp.com
www.rapecrisis.org.uk
www.walking-wounded.net
www.hopeforhealing.org
St Vincent's Rape Crisis Program 212-604-8068
AWARE 907-586-1090
1800 656 HOPE (National Sex Abuse Hotline)
febuary 7, 2006
Van Nay Nay
As usual, all my defects can be blamed on one person and one person
only. My mother. Recently, it's been pointed out to me on more than
one occasion that I seem to have a nickname for everybody.
Predictably, this idiosyncracy can be traced back to my childhood as
my mother constantly referred to me as "Raul". There's no logical
explanation for how "Raul" came about, but it stuck. It took years of
constant complaining for my mother to move on. Like 10 years. These
days I've been reannointed as "Mouth". What can you do?
The seeds of the nickname phenomena were planted when I was a wee tot,
but it's roots were firmly grounded upon my budding freindship with
the"Neo-Floridian" at age 15. A life-long friendship based on gossip
and cattiness. We quickly discovered the best way to openly discuss
the flaws and defects of others was to re-name them. It was like our
own secret language. With names like "Highwater", "Teeter", "Dorian",
"John P. Squeak", "The Funky Bunch", and "Squido" the love affair
began. Oddly enough, we never came up with nicknames for each other.
The college years were simple years. The times were accurately
reflected in the simple names of that period. My passing crushes and
boys who should be avoided at all costs were simply named "Shop Rite
Boy", "Radio Shack Boy", "Crazy Boy", and countless others who were so
unmemorable I have long forgotten. Yes, I did work in a strip mall at
the time.
My personal favorite nickname has to be "Deadbeat Rob". An acute
assessment as he left the "Neo-Floridian" one afternoon to fetch a
pack of cigarettes and was never heard from again. Just like a
deadbeat dad.
Paramours, potential paramours, and the never-will be suitors also are
bestowed some of the best names too. As of late, the list now includes
"Frito Bandito", "The Sweaty Guy", "Tiny Head", "The Rodent", "Pasty &
Lumpy", "Male Tracey" (to be distinguished from Female Tracey), "The
One I Poisoned", and "Richard". Admittedly, some names are better
than others, but there are fantastic stories behind the names.
It's interesting to note that with the exception of my beloved "Van
Nay Nay", the ones I love dearly are nicknameless. What does that
mean? I have no idea. You be the judge.
february 8, 2007
Lesbians Don't Hit on Me
A philosophical friend inquired about any sapphic experiences I may
have had on the side. Sadly, I admitted that there had not been a
single one. I tried to compensate by sheepishly admitting about an
innocent girlhood experience, but it was much more cringe inducing
than Penthouse Forum. Philosophical as always, he could not believe
that I wasn't experimental in my college years, or had some tequila
filled tits and clits night in Tijuana. Most of all, he could not
believe that not one woman has ever hit on me in my life. He pressed
and prodded on a quest for answers. The simple truth is lesbians don't
like me.
It's not for lack of trying. I mean I've met Meg Ryan's hairdresser
Sally Hershberger twice. And nothing! Seriously, she hits on
everything in a skirt. I was wearing a skirt on one occasion too. All
I got was "nice to meet you".
This crisis has reached epic proportions as it was formally discussed
Donald Trump style at the office boardroom meeting. The CEO, National
Sales Director, Creative Consultant (aka the Gay Ineterior Designer),
and myself engaged in a long drawn out meeting where it was
unanimously decided that I "reek of heterosexuality". Although the CEO
was sure that all I needed was some black nail polish for the ladies
to love me, the Creative Consultant flatly stated that I could not
pull off flannel. I will no longer be representing at the Gay &
Lesbian Expo next month.
It's hard enough to attract a member of the opposite sex that you
would think it might be a little easier with the same sex. I mean I'm
not asking for much. I just want a little flirt. I'm decent looking
and employed. I've been told I have great hair and I have excellent
taste in high end footwear. I've climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro for crying
out loud! And the ladies still look the other way.Sure, I may be of
the lipstick variety. But we need love too!
What gives?
february 14, 2007
Valentine-less
Valentine-less on Valentine's Day. I hurried home to lock myself in
my apartment and re-enact a tearful rendition of "On My Own" from
"Les Miserables". Choking back sobs, I clutched my Swiffer as if it
was a microphone and belted the ballad out as if I was Eponine
accepting that her love for Marius will continue to be unrequited as
he prefers the boring and spoiled Cosette. Too bad, I only knew every
other word. I threw in a pirouette or two, but the tears and pain
part were completely fabricated. It was quite a performance! I've
come to the realization that perhaps my fondness for the dramatic and
show tunes could possibly be the reason why lesbians don't hit on me.
Honestly, Eponine is on to something. The fantasy boyfriend is a
fantastic idea. It's so much better than the real life variety. In
fact, I think I prefer it that way.
Even though I am missing that special sort of Valentine that you
smooch, this Valentine's day has been pretty terrific. As always, my
mother is my Valentine and bestowed me with a giant box of chocolate.
The philosophical one sent flowers a day early. The marketing genius
gave out roses, and my relative neighbor and I are going out for
drinks later. Best of all, I was showered with V-Day love from
friends and family. The little things really do count.
I caught a bit of the domestic bug, and a lucky few recipients
received Valentine brownie-grams from me today. Let me tell you that
these brownies were hard work. First, I forgot to look at the recipe
before I went to the market, so I had to wing it. Chocolate, nuts,
and flour...what else could there be?
Well, I forgot about the vanilla extract. I thought for sure that I
would have some left over from when I attempted this recipe 4 years
ago. I didn't. I called my mother in a blind panic.
"Vanilla extract!" I screamed into the phone to a woman who had a new
oven installed and only 6 months later turned it on to discover it
was defective. That day was Thanksgiving. Needless to say, the turkey
was a bit underwhelming that year. I somehow expect my mother, who's
contribution to the culinary arts is "smish", to have a fully stocked
pantry with quality vanilla extract.
Miracle of miracles, she has vanilla extract, but there's a hitch!
The vanilla extract in question expired in 2003.
Good enough for me. It's a condiment, those expiration dates mean
nothing. I say that about the toothpaste all the time. Anyway, the
recipe only calls a for a teaspoon. How bad could it be? Besides, I
already have a reputation for poisoning others. It's just gravy if it
happens again.
Happy Valentine's Day!
january 24, 2007
Serious Inquiries Only
I am currently accepting applications for a "Faux Valentine" This
newly created position for a prickly female anomaly is perfect for an
eager to please, motivated self-starter.
Qualified applicants must be reasonably attractive (i.e. at least one
of your friends would like to sleep with you), must be able to
punctuate properly, and know the distinction between "there",
"their", and "they're". Applicants need not be metrosexual but should
express a semi-regular interest in GQ magazine's "Style Guy" column,
and be able to quote freely from "The Alchemist" and "Whoreson - the
Story of a Ghetto Pimp". Knowledge of tantric yoga is a plus. Bonus
points for Sirasana.
Applicants considering this position understand that they are
applying for the "Faux Valentine" position not to be mistaken for the
highly coveted position of "Valentine". Responsibilities include gift
giving, candy making, and supervising the careful selection and
delivery of numerous floral arrangements. Correspondence for Hallmark
is mandatory. The frugal need not apply.
Faux Valentine applicants accept that there will be non-reciprocative
behavior from senior management. Senior management is in no way
obligated to respond, replicate, or even acknowledge actions of the
Faux Valentine. The job is strictly on an "as need" basis and
generous benefit package does not apply.
Prickly female anamoly is an equal opportunity establishment that
does not discrimante on the basis of gender, race, creed, etc.
Serious Inquiries Only.
february 26, 2007
The Conversation
The real-life conversation of a mother and daughter...slightly
paraphrased, but not really.
Scene: My mother's apartment. Daughter is sprawled upside down on the
recliner while Mother lazily reclines on the couch snuggled in
blankets. Barbara Walter's Pre-Oscar Special blares in the background.
Julie (earnestly): Are you disappointed with the fact that I'm a
spinster?
Mama Patty: (confused): A spinster? Where'd you get that from?
Julie: Well, I'm almost 30 and never married. Isn't that what they're
called?
Mama Patty (still a bit flabbergasted): Isn't that....Let's use your
words "A bit of an antiquated notion?" Lots of women wait to get
married these days.
Julie (trying another tactic): Are you disappointed that you'll never
have grandkids?
Mama Patty (sighs): I've resigned myself of that fact a long time ago.
Mama Patty (continues): You know it would be ok if you were gay. Maybe
you could find yourself a nice girlfirend.
Julie (shocked yet curious if someone has been reading her blogs): Do
you think I'm gay? Is this what you discuss with your friends?
Mama Patty: Well, if you are it's ok. I just want you to be happy.
Julie (clipped and prickly): Why are you being so free-spirited and
open minded all of the sudden?
Mama Patty: I'm just saying whatever you do is ok. Just make sure she's
pretty. Don't bring home a real bull dyke.
Julie (incredulously): Really?
Mama Patty: Yeah
Julie (challenging): Ok. What if I bring home Deborah?
Mama Patty (laughing): Who's Deborah?
Julie (gesturing wildly): Biiiiiiggggg
Mama Patty (sighs): Big Deb! Figures!
Mama Patty (animatedly): Why does it have to be Dykey Deb?
Julie (flatly): Because
Mama Patty (mirthfully): Why can't it be Dainty Deb? Let her at least
be dainty.
Julie (offhandedly changing the topic): Fine. What if I brought home a
sheep instead?
Mama Patty (inquisitively): A sheep?
Julie: Yeah.
Mama Patty: Do you want to smoke a joint?
Julie: Sure.
Scene: Resume watching Eddie Murphy being grilled by Barbara Walters.
FADE TO BLACK
The End
