Things About Which I Am Excited

So a few months ago Neil Gaiman twittered something about Dave McKean designing some stamps. Not just any old stamps, Mythical Creatures stamps. Naturally I knew that I needed to own any such a thing, but somehow just owning them didn’t seem to be enough. What fun is it to have some beautiful miniature artworks created by my favorite artist, and then just stick them on a shelf somewhere? It’s not like I would pull them out periodically for reverential gazing. I thought about ordering two sets and framing one, or displaying them in some other way in my house.

Coincidentally, my friend Jenny twittered something around the same time about a new jewelry technique she was trying out, and like your chocolate getting in my peanut butter, and your peanut butter getting on my chocolate, a great idea was born in my noggin.

See Jenny does these lovely custom jewelry pieces, and has the technology to make me better, faster stronger… wait no, that’s the Bionic Woman. What Jenny has is the talent and know-how to take my lovely, lovely stamps and create a beautiful one-of-a-kind bracelet for me! I talked to her about it, and she knew just where to order the settings she would need for the project. (And she also knew to make the links extra strong since I have a tendency to be tough on my jewelry in general, and bracelets in particular.)

The stamps arrived in early June, and earlier this week I dropped them off with her – and I got to see the setting they will be in! She ended up deciding to make a bracelet and a pendant from the stamps, since there are 6 and the bracelet was the perfect size using only 5.

Here are the stamps, the dragon is the one she’s using for the pendant, the rest will be used on the bracelet.

In case you can't see, it's a unicorn, a dragon, a giant, a mermaid, a fairy queen and a pixie.

She’s working on it now, and I can’t wait to see it finished! Stay tuned and I will post pictures when the pieces are done.

Holy fuck, I hate parties.

Went to a party last night, which reminded me most painfully how I hate fucking parties. A bunch of uncontrolled drunken shirtless strangers, shooting fireworks out of their mouths and cavorting homo-erotically around a stripper pole… excuse me for not seeing the fun there. It probably didn’t help that I only knew about 10% of the people there, less and less as the night went on. And then I am in the corner having a political discussion with a stranger at 4 a.m. and thinking it’s the first interesting conversation I’ve had in the last hour. Everyone else is just rubbing up against each other sweatily and talking about how drunk they are and what a great party it is, and I do not get it at all. I suppose I should have just gone home – but since I have such an strange way of perceiving social events I am never sure if I should force myself to do these horrible-seeming things or not. Most things seem horrible and strange and upsetting to me at first, and then sometimes they get better. In retrospect, this particular thing was never going to become superbadgirl-friendly, and I should have cut my losses and run at 1:30 or 2:00 when most of the people I knew left. But I stuck it out, and learned a lesson.

In other news, I think I am going to have a party for my birthday. Surely I can’t hate a party at my own house, where I control the guest list, like I hate other parties – can I? Stay tuned.

Musings on Maturity

Just thinking tonight that it’s important to distinguish between keeping your heart young, and refusing to grow up.

Since I’ve never had a young heart, even when I was young, I have never worried about retaining any form of youthful exuberance. I don’t think people who ponder and fret the way that I do ever get to really experience the carefree times that we typically equate with youth. Worriers don’t take many chances. We don’t act spontaneously, we plan and we consider and then we do. So I’ve never been what you’d really call young at heart, or in spirit. I can perhaps lay claim to a rather juvenile sense of humor, and that’s about it.

But recently, in interacting with someone who is desperate not to lose this ephemeral “youth” thing I’ve heard tell of, I am coming to understand that – like everything else – you have to find a balance. A balance between feeling young, alive and carefree, and in finding your way to being an actual adult. You can’t give up maturity and consideration for other people in the mistaken belief that refusing to be responsible keeps you youthful. That doesn’t keep you young, that just makes you a middle-aged dipshit.

Being irresponsible, insisting that life is (or should be) a non-stop party, that’s not youth. Refusing to make future plans or consider other people, remaining unable to empathize with emotions that aren’t your own and behave accordingly – that’s not youth. It’s a self-involved perpetual adolescence. People shouldn’t live that way. You have to be able to find your happy in a way that ensures your own future and doesn’t disregard the happiness of the people you care about, and who care for you.

Claiming that the things you do are all in an effort to stay young isn’t some magical cop-out that makes you an exciting, more interesting person. It’s just an excuse to do whatever you want, whenever you want and to remain unable to form mature attachments, or care for yourself. And that’s not at all fun, that’s sad.

So maybe I am not the funnest chick in the world, and maybe I don’t act like I am fifteen. Maybe I don’t think that being irresponsible and doing dangerous things is hilarious. I don’t often act without consideration of the possible outcomes of my decisions, and my ability to experience spontaneity suffers for it, I know.  But then again, I have my shit together, I maintain my own home and care for myself, I pay my bills on time and I try my best to form meaningful relationships with other people. It’s not exciting or glamorous, but it’s got some integrity. Life is not a perpetual party. Maybe it should be. It would be nice to never have to think about anything, or consider consequences. But that’s not reality. My world sucks quite a bit of the time, but refusing to see it the way it is and respond to it on its own level, that’s not the answer.

Accept that you will never have 100% of the benefits of youth and 100% of the benefits of maturity all at the same time. And then go ahead and grow up. It hurts, but you can take it.

My Newest Blog Addiction

I plow through favorite blogs on a never-ending, ADHD-fueled cycle. One week it’s Why Women Hate Men, the next it’s Fuck You, Penguin, and this week it’s Alice and Kev.

A game design student in the UK has created a homeless Sims family, and documents their struggles (with screenshots) on this blog. So what’s it like when you’re chronically exhausted from sleeping on a park bench, hungry and angry with some form of mental illness and no social skills? How are you going to relate to your immediate family members and the world at large when none of your basic needs are met? It’s fascinating.

Make sure you read it from the original post onward, as the story is chronological and shows their character development and aging process.

Alice and her father Kev, sleeping on park benches in the Sims 3

Just Wondering

Why it seems there’s such a strong correlation in my world between the feelings of  “Oh, I really like you!” and “Oh, I would really like to punch you in mouth!”

Perhaps I just have a tendency to like really, really aggravating people.

Or maybe I am mentally 5 years old.

Or both.

This day’s beginning doesn’t bode well for later productivity.

So I had a doctor’s appointment this morning at 8:30. I don’t like to go to the doctor. I didn’t used to mind, back when I didn’t have any health issues. Now I mind. The whole experience fills me with dread and anxiety and a horrible out of control “These people are going to judge me, and they are never going to help me.” panic feeling. So, you know I was really looking forward to it.

In some kind of world record, I totally lost my shit IN THE WAITING ROOM. Yes kids, in a model to capable competent women everywhere, I sat there with a bunch of strangers, weeping most piteously over the forms I had to fill out. Seriously. I didn’t even know until I got there that I was going to freak out so hard. You never can tell.

So anyway, I had to take some calming medications. Then I saw the doctor, and tried to maintain my cool. She was a cool doctor, very matter of fact, which I appreciated. She seems to believe in some concept called… let me think… oh what did she CALL it again…? Oh! The “quality of my life.” Whatever that is.

She thinks mine is not high! I agree! It’s just that no one I’ve seen wants to focus on the fact that my medical issues are making me miserable, and making my life a pit of despair. They just want to focus on the one thing in front of them, not weighing whether treatment of that thing might actually make me feel worse, and if there are other options to consider. Anyway, she did some bloodwork and made me pee in a cup, and she wants to see me back in a month and “assess my mood” (I swore to her that I was not normally hysterical, but she did not believe me, and I can’t blame her.) In the meantime she’s sending me to two other doctors for other stuff.

So anyway I hadn’t eaten anything b/c I thought they might want to do fasting bloodwork. So I was hungry, and I was on calming meds. And then I had blood drawn. So then I was woozy and hungry and on calming meds. Then I was starving, so I went to Jack in the Box. FAIL on the eyes bigger than stomach level. Oh well, at least I am no longer hungry, I am going into a food coma.

Anyway, now I am at my desk, preparing to work. But I am woozy, low on blood, in a food coma AND still with the calming meds. I don’t know that I am going to be super-charged here in the office today, is all I am saying.

What the fuck, chick?

OK. So of course some random shit has to happen to me at the bar last night, when I was just standing there minding my bitchy, bitchy business. Why is it me who is always targeted by the crazies? We don’t know. It’s a mystery.

From time to time we get some random tourists in the bar. By three signs do we know them:

1. They ask for Bud Light. (No AB products at all are available at the bar, and we like it that way because we’re snobs.)
2. They try to pay with a debit card, credit card, or any form of legal tender other than cash money. (That’s when Matt/Eric sends them to the skeevy gas station for cash.)
3. They ask what the drink specials are. (There are no drink specials, everything is fucking cheap, and really strong.)

So two tourist girls walk in last night and sit down next to us at the bar. They’re not wearing all black, which is a strong indicator that something hilarious is going to happen, but not a certain indicator. So we knew to watch carefully. They then asked what the drink specials were. *sigh* and then when they heard there were no drink specials, they both wanted a Bud Light. *sigh again*. Then they finally ordered some PBR or something, and sat there being trampy and talking nonsense. Other than Hotpants and I rolling our eyes a little bit, I mostly ignored them, because they were ridiculous. Hotpants was trying to convince a friend of ours to try to get both of their numbers, I think there might have been some casual betting on that likelihood. But mostly we were busy with our own business. But then after 15 or 20 minutes, brunette tourist grabs my arm. I am not a fan of being grabbed by random strange chicks, as hot as that may sound. “Hey” she slurs at me. “I really need to introduce myself to you by name.”

I think “Whaaa?” and stare at her blankly.

“What’s your name?” she asks. I tell her. “Well, I needed to introduce myself to you, because I am sitting here, and I think you hate me.”

I think “Whaaa?” and stare at her blankly.

I then assure her that I rarely hate people I don’t know and pat her on the arm, hoping she will fuck right off again to hobag land, or wherever she came from. But no such luck. After now being assured that I do not, in fact, hate her, we’re apparently besties. Now she has to explain that she thought I was looking at her funny (maybe I was, but not for long) and that I was talking about her (maybe I was, but not in a very intent way). So she thought that once I got to know her personally this would change? I don’t know. Drunk girls are weird. So she wants to go to the bathroom. I REALLY really want to her to go to the bathroom too. Firstly because she would then be gone from my immediate presence, and secondly because she needs to experience the bathroom at this bar in order to be sure she doesn’t really want to be here. But she won’t go. She just wants more reassurance that I don’t hate her. But at this point I am starting to. Then blonde tourist with the ponytail interrupts us, and urges brunette tourist to go to the bathroom already, because “Jason” is on his way, he called and he’s on his way to pick them up, and it’s rude to keep him waiting. Brunette is all Wah wah you hate me! and blondie is all wah wah, stop making Jason wait for us. Finally the girl fucks off to the bathroom, comes back, slurs at me some more, and then leaves. Well, I think she leaves. No. In 15 minutes or so she’s back. With Jason. Jason is wearing a knee-length white tshirt with, I shit you not, some kind of bedazzling all down the front. Dooooouuche! So he fucks off back outside, and then – for some reason this is the funniest part of the story to me – the brunette is standing there again, talking about how her friend told her that everyone at this bar hated her, and why would her friend do that? I replied something about meh, you know drunk girls. Then she starts lambasting our friend Jeremy for “whispering” about her. Jeremy replies firmly that he was not whispering. She tells him it’s mean to whisper about her, just because she’s not from there. Jeremy replies again, most emphatically, that he was not whispering about her. I am afraid he’s going to start talking some shit right to her face at that point. But then Eric delivers her three shots in plastic glasses, which distracts her. So then she’s standing there talking to me about how that girls is her best friend, no matter what kind of shit she talks, and she loves that girl 4-evah! then she looks down at the three shots, declares “I’m making mine bigger!” and pours some alcohol off the top of each of the other two shots into her own cup!Then she toddles off merrily on her way.

Fucking drunk girls, seriously.

I have extremely useful friends

My friends make me feel like a major underachiever sometimes. Collectively I don’t know that there is much they cannot accomplish. Since my main contribution to any group seems to be snark and a bad attitude, I think I would really be likely to be the first one killed off if we were in a horror movie. I am just saying.

So the lovely and talented Narcise finished my Dave McKean bracelet and pendant set last week, and they could not be more perfect! I love them beyond all reason, and most of all because I know that no one in the world has them. They are mine all mine.

The bracelet is fabulously chunky and makes really satisfying sounds when I flail my arms about. It’s also extra-strong to keep me from breaking it.

See below:

Bracelet. I scanned this, and it came out a little blurry, but I think you get the idea.

Pendant. This was the only warm-toned image of the bunch, and as such it stands alone very well as a pendant.

Bracelet on my arm, to give you an idea of the scale (they're very large stamps)

If you’re interested in your very own Narcise creation, you can get in touch with her via her Etsy shop. She makes many lovely things that you can purchase and (obviously) also does custom work. She worked with me to make sure that my pieces fit my needs exactly, and I am very pleased with them.

You can also see her September 26th and 27th at the Strange Folk festival in O’Fallon, Illinois.

In other news, another friend of mine is doing some landscaping work in the front of my house, and it looks amazing. So neat and tidy! I was totally overwhelmed by the hot mess of dirt and weeds out there, and he was able to sort it out within a matter of days. I think he will finish tomorrow, and totally change the look of the front of my house. And he even put up with a hornet attack, and the random weirdos who wander up and down these city streets pushing lawnmowers.

Still another friend of mine is going to come over and install some ceiling fans for me – another task that seems insurmountable, and yet he considers no big deal. And today MyTodd sorted out a longstanding personal problem of mine in two sentences. Just listened to the story, explained the issue, and there it was. Crystal clear. Why didn’t I think of that? It’s like free therapy, so I bought him lunch.

Honestly, there’s no end to my friends’ utility, and I don’t know what I would do without access to their skillz.

SOTD Erin McKeown – You Were Right About Everything

Erin McKeown – You Were Right About Everything

listen at last.fm

You were never broken by ordinary things
You kept holding out for the big mistake
I was fragile, too scared and delicate
You kept trying, I’m the one that quit
Worn out by the baggage that we bring
You were right about everything

There were times your rage began to show
You were never more dangerous to know
You passed me running, you caught me standing still
You’d do it all again, all for the thrill
I was raised you get out before you sink
You were brave about everything

Nostalgia sweet, hindsight so dear
Objects now are smaller than they appeared
The birds of summer, in winter disappear
In spring return new life, new years
Here I am, humble on my knees
Come back to life, come back to everything

SOTD – Jenny Owen Youngs “Fuck Was I”

Jenny Owen Youngs “Fuck Was I” - listen at blip.fm

Love grows in me like a tumor,
parasite bent on devouring its host.
I’m developing my sense of humor,
til I can laugh at my heart between your teeth,
til I can laugh at my face beneath your feet.

Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,
maybe I’ll be the lucky one that doesn’t get burned.
What the fuck was I thinking?

Love plows through me like a dozer,
I’ve got more give than a bale of hay,
and there’s always a big mess left over.
With a what did you do?
And what did you say?

Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,
maybe I’ll be the special one that doesn’t get burned.
What the fuck was I thinking?

Love tears me up like a demon.
Opens the wounds and fills them with lead,
and I’m having some trouble just breathing.
If we weren’t such good friends I think that I’d hate you.
If we weren’t such good friends I’d wish you were dead.

Skillet on the stove is such a temptation,
maybe I’ll be the lucky one that doesn’t get burned.
What the fuck was I thinking?

Oh it’s so embarrassing
(What the fuck was I thinking?)
I’m this awkward and uncomfortable thing,
and I’m running out of places to hide it
I’m running out of places to hide it

What the fuck was I thinking?
(you know that I’ve got what you need)
What the fuck was I thinking?
(you know that I’ve got what you need)
What the fuck was I thinking?
(you know that I’ve got what you need)

Can we be absent anymore?

Once more Cary Tennis’s advice resonates with me. Not only because this guy is a whiny dipshit (I am hoping he’s young, and hasn’t figured this stuff out yet because he’s young, and not because he’s always going to be this whiny of a bitch.) who violated his wife’s privacy, but because Cary takes such a mundane event and strip mines it for the one true thing it really addresses: the fact that it’s almost impossible to be gone in this world. And while I like that my people cannot often be gone from me, I do sometimes wish to be gone from them. So it’s a conundrum.

My wife doesn’t miss me! | Salon Life

…the very definitions of presence and absence have changed; absence has become contingent; presence has become inescapable. No matter where we are, our virtual selves remain under surveillance.

Until recently, one could actually achieve absence. One could go somewhere and be gone. The traveler would send postcards. The postcards would have pictures of beaches or statues. They would be eagerly awaited and gratefully received. Absence was simple. It was an absolute condition, soon relieved by presence. Presence was also an absolute condition.

No more.

Now absence and presence are contingent and variable, matters of degree and form. A person may cease responding to e-mail and achieve a sort of absence although he or she remains in place. Or a person may go to India and yet be as present as always.

A version of us is always present. We are over-connected. We spy on each other from afar.

The quality of our absence is thus degraded. Absenceness is a precious resource we are fast running out of. Soon there will be nothing but presence. We will wish we could go away but will not be able to. The pain of constant presence will be too much for some to bear; it will be a torture like that of sleep deprivation. There will be a rash of virtual suicides, in which people disconnect themselves and appear to be dead. We will have virtual funerals for them. This will all come in time.

via My wife doesn’t miss me! | Salon Life.

Conspirabust

Headed out to Conspiracy last night – went for a full-on goth whore look, with an impressive display of boob and a thick coating of cosmetics applied around the appropriate facial areas. (Had a weird hair night, but that’s what headbands are for.) Got there, met up with hotpants and her BF and a few other people, was fixing to have myself a nice time. However, apparently someone didn’t remember to pay the light bill, clear it with their mom, invite the cool kids, oh yeah procure a liquor license, so the cops showed up around 1 a.m. and shut the whole thing down.

I have evidence in the form of a typically shitty cell phone pic that I snapped of the proprietress being hassled by the man. Since this event has been going on for what, four or five months now? you’d think these trifling little paperwork technicalities would have been straightened out, but apparently not so much.

You can't pin nothin' on me, coppa!

Anyway, it’s a shame. Not just because I wasted so much cleavage and lipstick, but also because it looked to be shaping up as one of their more successful events so far. They’d moved some of the vendors upstairs, opened the front entrance to the club and they really had a good crowd there. People seemed to be having fun upstairs, and it was the first time I’ve seen the dance floor up there really packed. In the fetish/play room I still think they need some kind of ringleader. You walk in and there’s just a room of gear and some random people tying each other up or looking like they’re getting ready do something. But with no explanation you don’t know who these people are, what they’re doing, or why. You don’t know if there’s going to be some kind of show, if audience participation is encouraged, or what. It’s not a skeevy vibe, it’s more of a confused/unorganized vibe. Just random chicks being tied up by random guys with no rhyme or reason for it. That does need some work. Also, they really need to enforce the “NO PHOTOS” signs they have in that room. The girl taking pictures of the “NO PHOTOS” sign being a case in point.

But on the plus side the bartenders seemed to have everything under control, with no huge lines or people ordering 27 drinks at a time, and that was a huge improvement over last time. Even at $15 instead of the previous $10 (for a girl who’s mostly going to be drinking water) this is not a bad bargain. This has the potential to be a really neat and successful event, it just seems as if they need a professional event planner to advise them*. I’ve heard rumors that there might be a change in venue – and I for one would love something closer to home with actual parking that doesn’t leave my car dropping gravel out of the undercarriage for the next two weeks.

Better luck next month, Conspiracy!

EDIT: Heard a rumor from a reliable source today that there was, in fact, no problem with the licensure of the venue, only something that was not posted that should have been. Apparently the building’s owners showed up with the correct documents after we were all gone. Interesting. There’re also rumors aswirl about who might have called in a tip about this issue and/or caused the booze cops to check into the place.

Apparently St. Louis’ Tired Old Goths aren’t too tired for a little intrigue.

*another case in point, their main website is not developed yet, so their URL currently resolves to their mySpace page. That’s fine, except the profile is set to “private.” Doh! For someone like me who wants more information or to see pictures of what the event looks like, but doesn’t use mySpace, this is nonsensical. You can’t encourage people to attend your event by preventing them getting information about it.

Sunday Evenings

Days like this seem to contain all that same vast emptiness of fall Sundays before school would begin again on the Monday. That loneliness – the hollow, aching sickness of knowing that no matter how beautiful and calm things were just then, something bad was coming. And of course things weren’t beautiful and calm – not really. Sunday evenings were torture in my house, and even if he wasn’t home, or hadn’t started drinking yet, we knew what lay in wait for us. I think now that he must have had the same sickness of knowing that I have on Sundays. That he passed it on to me in lieu of a love of drinking. That he dreaded the work day, the week to come and he drank and destroyed us inadvertently. Just the collateral damage caused by the way we make ourselves live in the world. He was a victim, and we were double victims, and now I victimize myself by falling prey to the doldrums on these beautiful days. The beauty only passing, the week coming sure and slow and steady, creeping up to sink its teeth into my soul.

SOTD Sam Roberts “Waking The Dead”

Sam Roberts “Waking The Dead”

You only miss it when it’s long gone
You only hear it when it’s our song
These are the echoes of the dreamtime
This is a message from another life
This is a haunting of your own mind
These are the echoes of the dreamtime

You only miss it when it’s long gone

I’ve been waking the dead
I’ve been leaning on tradition
Trying to make amends
With the dead
Prayer candles that I burn at both ends
Missed opportunities we won’t share again
I recognized in the touch of a friend
That I am closer to the place I began
And so far from where I want it to end

You only miss it when it’s long gone
You only hear it when it’s our song
Keep looking up, ’cause it’s a long way down
[ Sam Roberts Lyrics are found on www.songlyrics.com ]
Keep looking up, ’cause it’s a long way down

And now I’m walking with the dead
An apparition trying to get ahead
Bleed some pressure from this hole in my heavy head
And there was high water everywhere
Back teeth are swimming and I wished I cared
My teeth are swimming and I wish that I cared

You only miss it when it’s long gone
You only hear it when it’s our song
Keep looking up, ’cause it’s a long way down
Keep looking up, ’cause it’s a long way down

And I feel like making a confession or running for the door
If we could heal a little bit of this broken pride, we might survive

These are the echoes of the dreamtime
This is a message from another life
This is a haunting of your own mind
These are the echoes of the dreamtime

Kharma

Picked up a book at Left Bank this week that is completely rocking my socks. Daniil Kharms’ “Today I Wrote Nothing”

Kharms (1905–1942) is described as the first Russian microfiction writer, and that alone is intriguing. He was part of a group of other artists and writers (the OBERIU) who were fascinated with the mundane and the absurd, and in most cases I do believe they thought those things were the same. His fiction is short, plain and startling. Since starting to read the book I’ve pretty much wanted to buy a copy for everyone I know and force them to sit down and read it while I watch them. It’s one of those books that almost hurts to be read alone, since every other page makes you want to read it out loud to someone. (The dogs don’t care much for absurdist Russian microfiction, it turns out.)

Anyway, since I’ve been all Kharms-infatuated this week, I was trying to find links for some friends so that they could read what I was rhapsodizing about – but it’s no good. The translation in this volume (by Matvei Yankelevich) is vastly superior to anything I could find elsewhere online. The translation in some cases changes the entire tenor of the passages, and I can’t recommend anything I’ve found online. You really have to have the book.

One of my favorite exchanges so far is from his story “The Old Woman” about (you guessed it) an old woman who comes uninvited into the narrator’s apartment and promptly dies. The narrator doesn’t know what to do about this, and leaves the apartment to get drunk with a friend who has no idea what’s going on. Perhaps feeling his friend out about what to do, he has this conversation with him:

“What is your attitude towards dead people?” I asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

“Absolutely negative.” said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. “I’m afraid of them.”

“Yeah I can’t stand dead people either,” I said. “Were I to bump into a dead person, and if he wasn’t a relative, I’d probably kick him.”

“One shouldn’t kick dead people,” said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.

“I would give him a boot right in the muzzle,” I said. “I just can’t stand dead people and children.”

Which is an insane conversation, and yet is also something I feel like I’ve overheard my friends saying at the bar. Anyway, all I can say is that his writing is exhilarating, and inspirational, and it makes me feel fresh and clean in my brains. You probably need to read this.

Make Your Selection

The aisles of the store were wide and bright and it didn’t matter how it was outside, in here it was cool and clean and always the same. She pushed her cart down the wide, bright aisles and looked intently at this and that, wondering if anyone was noticing, judging her for the things she perused. Perhaps someone was judging in a quiet, unobtrusive way. It was hard to say.

“Who does she think she is?”

Maybe she should select something less expensive, so as not to seem pretentious. Or maybe something more expensive, to show them she didn’t care what they thought. Whoever they were.

She wandered over to look at other things, the kinds of things no one really needed, and she selected several of them. It wouldn’t do to go to the checkout with a meagerly stocked cart. Not at all. As she rolled the cart down the aisle she marveled at how large it was. It seemed as if when she was younger, carts were not so large. Perhaps it was a marketing ploy to make her purchases seem smaller, to make herself seem smaller. She wondered if anyone noticed how small she looked in comparison to the giant cart, and whether it was slightly ridiculous.

“There’s lots of room for you on the bandwagon.”

Quietly she smiled to herself, wise to their tricks.

She wondered if anyone noticed her selectivity as she shopped, her style and taste. Did they notice how the things she was buying seemed to flow together into her big red cart? How they painted a picture of her tidy, structured life? Looking at her purchases, anyone could see that everything here was perfectly managed and under control. Her manner of living was obviously one to be emulated. Worthy of their covert attention and grudging respect. She was sure they noticed that, at least.

She wheeled the giant cart to the rows of registers and paid for her things. The cashier seemed unimpressed with the quality of her purchases, ringing them up in a quite haphazard fashion. The cashier seemed sleepy and bored, truthfully. The cashier seemed not to notice anything important.

She went to her car and packed her bags neatly away in the back seat. The orderly way in which she arranged them ensured everything would arrive home safely. Of course it was then that someone finally noticed and appreciated her extremely good style and taste, her attention to detail. He had a knife and some silver tape, and he stood in the shadows where it was quiet and dark.

“It’s wonderful to meet you.”

He wielded the knife with precision. Quite gracefully, in fact. If anyone had noticed they surely would have admired his skill. And it didn’t matter how it was inside, out here it was hot and red and always the same.

The Grand Conspiracy

A few months ago, some of the local St. Louisans I’ve met via Twitter told me about a project of theirs, known as The Grand Conspiracy*. Since they’re almost all artists and writers—and many are both—they wanted a collective place/way to share their work.

The Conspiracy was apparently originally conceived as a one-sheet of short fiction and artwork to be distributed in local bars and shops.  Since then the project has morphed into an electronic one, centered around a collectively updated blog, with a print version to eventually be taken from the best of its posts. The other Conspirators kindly invited me to play along, and I was really happy to accept. It’s much easier to write when you have an intended outlet in mind, and it’s easier to keep to a deadline if you know someone else is depending on you to do so.

Of course, people and their schedules being what they are, the blog has taken quite some time to get off the ground, but I am excited to announce that we’ve got our collective asses in gear, and will begin (hopefully daily) posting at The Grand Conspiracy today!

As luck would have it, Thursdays are my posting day, so there’s a new piece of mine “Make Your Selection” up now. I’d love for you to have a look and let me know what you think of the blog overall, and of course any critiques of my work are always welcome.

(I mean, I am not saying I won’t punch you in the face for daring to dislike my writing, but I certainly welcome the opportunity to punch you in the face.)

Anyway, have a look, add it to your feed reader, check it every day. If I know these people at all, there will be some stellar work there for your edification and delight.

*For those of you who are not St. Louis natives, this name refers to the the street, South Grand, where all our favorite bars are located. Not that this is a group which centers itself on drinking at all. *ahem*

It’s Not

It’s not that there’s nothing going on – it’s just that I don’t, for once, have much to say about it. Silent rumination is my current mode.

Bruiser is doing well, off diuretics and on only the one heart medication. That one’s probably for life.

My house is clean. Mostly.

The yard is tamed. Mostly.

Work is boring, but not soul-scorching.

I’m smiling. But I’m sure it’s only temporary – don’t get alarmed.

The Vial

Sometimes he wished it was just a bit more difficult.

Looking in the mirror he contemplated both the night ahead of him and the head in front of him. It had been a good decision to shave everything off, he thought. The clean-shaven head and goatee made him look meaner, and he’d realized a while back that most girls thought the meaner a man looked, the more protection he offered. Girls’ errors in judgment were not his problem though. In fact, you could say that girls’ errors in judgment were his stock in trade.

He grabbed his toothbrush and set the timer for three minutes. While scrubbing viciously on his teeth he planned his movements. He knew which bars he was hitting first, and he knew where he’d probably end his evening. Any good thing that happened in between was just gravy. Last week had been very special and he was still riding that high.

He’d been nervous at first, the cute little blond looked so far out of his league he’d felt like he was batting for his nephew’s tee ball team. But then she’d seen him looking and she’d looked back, and he’d known he had a shot. He’d left that one crumpled in the last stall on the left in the bar’s dimly-lit bathroom. If she’d been conscious he was sure she’d have been smiling. She wouldn’t remember anything that happened, of course. She certainly wouldn’t remember him. He could probably walk up to her tonight and chat her up all over again. But then again, he doubted she’d be out this weekend. She was probably resting up.

Teeth clean and sparkling white and, according to the toothpaste tube, he was now graced with breath as fresh as an alpine breeze. How fresh was an alpine breeze anyway? Fresher than a mountain spring? Fresher than polar ice? He bet that polar ice got pretty rank from time to time; say if someone had just clubbed a baby seal to death on it, or a penguin took a big shit. That wouldn’t be too fresh.  His breath was as fresh as just-brushed motherfucking teeth, he decided, and wondered if he’d missed his calling for writing ad copy.

He walked to the bedroom and contemplated his wardrobe. Not great. Things were looking a tad sparse. He took a clean black shirt out of its plastic wrapping and threw the bag to the floor of the closet, adding to the growing pile. Maybe he needed to go shopping, buy some new gear. He hated shopping though. What he really needed was a girl to go shopping with him, or maybe for him. He was crap at picking out things to wear, absolute crap. That wasn’t a straight guy’s forte though, was it? Dressing himself? Nah.

Now… wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Abundant cash? Check. Vial of what amounted to pure liquid love? That’s a big fat check right there, hombre.

Life before this little glass vial had been… problematic. Difficult. Never knowing how the night would end. Standing around uncomfortable, awkward, wearing a dorky outfit and a goofy grin as often as not. Now, life was easy, certain, sure. Every weekend he met the most extraordinary women, and they loved him so intensely he thought sometimes he’d die of it. Relaxed, comfortable women who were kind and smelled good and smiled gently at him through bleary, tear-filled eyes. He’d get them away from their pesky friends, he’d get a little privacy and then he’d… well, gentlemen didn’t kiss and tell, did they?

He climbed into his car and thought back to his first clumsy attempt at the routine that was now slick and glossy. Miranda. He pressed the middle syllable of her name against the roof of his mouth. Mi-raaaan-dah. She’d actually pulled a knife on him. Slurring, she called him a fucking creep and had fled behind the bar, where the bartender started giving him nasty looks as he listened to her story. He stayed well clear of that bar now. He stayed well clear of girls like Miranda, who looked like they knew what was up. He targeted the lonely, the out of place, the girls who looked persuadable. The girls whose friends weren’t paying attention, the girls who weren’t sure what bar they were in, or what neighborhood. Adding to their confusion hardly seemed a sin.

Swinging his car into the parking lot he smiled and checked his teeth in the mirror. White and gleaming, breath still minty-fucking-fresh. He was ready for another night out on the town.

The Grand Conspiracy | The Vial

Hey kids, it’s Thursday, which means I have a new post up at The Grand Conspiracy. I’d love to have your thoughts, critique, words of wisdom etc. Teaser below, check it out in its entirety here.

Sometimes he wished it was just a bit more difficult.

Looking in the mirror he contemplated both the night ahead of him and the head in front of him. It had been a good decision to shave everything off, he thought. The clean-shaven head and goatee made him look meaner, and he’d realized a while back that most girls thought the meaner a man looked, the more protection he offered. Girls’ errors in judgment were not his problem though. In fact, you could say that girls’ errors in judgment were his stock in trade.

He grabbed his toothbrush and set the timer for three minutes. While scrubbing viciously on his teeth he planned his movements. He knew which bars he was hitting first, and he knew where he’d probably end his evening. Any good thing that happened in between was just gravy. Last week had been very special and he was still riding that high.

continued at… The Grand Conspiracy | The Vial.