22 March 2006

Tippy Solvidol Solves It All

Armand Van Helden makes me feel like a whore. Fuck yeah!

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.


When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,
I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

When I look into your eyes,

I could love you to forever.

21 March 2006

No Escape

Stopped at a light on my way to the grocery, I flip on the stereo to whatever CD is in current rotation. After only a few minutes, though, an overwhelming urge to switch to the radio comes over me. It's an odd urge. Normally I don't listen to the radio, seeing as how most of it is crap. But today I must. My soul requires it.

I click on the presets, but I get no satisfaction. What am I looking for? I click on the auto-seek button. It goes through the local stations, stopping for a moment on each one. Do you like this? No? Okay... Do you like this? No? Okay...

Then, after a while, I hear it. It is the Sirens' call. It is Escape (The Piña Colada Song). My soul is soothed.

The Piña Colada Song has long played a role in my life. A friend and I used it for many years in a series of psychological experiments on my sister. We'd find it - no matter how well hidden among her CDs - on a compilation disc. (Thankfully, I've forgotten which one.) We'd stick it in the stereo, press endless repeat and wait. Her reaction would range from disgust to humor, depending on her mood. There was one time, however, when the situation got violent.

My sister, eight months pregnant with her first child and very hormonal, was asleep on a chair. Beads of sweat dripped down her face from the lack of air-conditioning on this very hot July day. Gristle from the large steak she had just eaten lingered on the corner of her gaping mouth. We should have known. We should have... We put the CD in the stereo and out came the first fateful notes of The Piña Colada Song.

I've blocked out much of that day, but every now and then I'll wake up screaming from a nightmare of blood, tears and arrests. Needless to say, that was the last time we ever did it.

Today I'm not screaming. I'm realizing that I've never actually listened to the words. So here, at the light, on my way to the grocery, I finally do.

What a stupid song.

The guy was "tired" of his "lady" (and really, who says that?), so he starts reading the personals as she's asleep right next to him. Whatever. Then he responds to one. No surprise. Then they meet, and guess what? It's his lady! Yay! They laugh. They drink (Piña Coladas, no doubt). They escape.

I don't, however. The Piña Colada Song is in my head and it won't go away. I remember now why I should never heed the Sirens' call. I am drowning in a swirling blender of 3 oz light rum, 3 tbsp coconut milk, 3 tbsp crushed pineapples and ice. I'm sorry, sweet sister, for all those years. Please, please, just pour me into a Collins glass and let me die. And thank drinksmixer.com for the recipe. Thank you.

13 March 2006

I Could Play With My Words

What is this noxious odor called New Orleans? The streetcars and their sparks flying about ready to strike an unsuspecting fool such as myself... Or perhaps the stench of beer from too many fuckin' frat parties on one block? A plastic bag from a cab.

A red truck, car, van, whatever the hell kind of vehicle that is, sits idling on my front lawn. Yet it's not my front lawn. It is, in fact, an amazing replica of an English garden in the Spring.

11 March 2006

Coffee and the Single Girl

Just today I was sitting at a café in Hollywood. I stared at the traffic while sipping my black coffee when, suddenly, Mr. Joaquin Phoenix came into my line of sight.

We had met a few months before at a poetry slam in Albuquerque. I was trying to lay low, but a friend insisted I get up on stage. Not surprisingly, the impromptu performance of my environmental impact study of a new cell tower in the historic neighborhood of Hyder Park made the crowd go wild. Joaquin was there, and he noticed me. We talked. We laughed. We drove around and beat up treasure hunters at a nearby archaeological dig. Finally, we parted. Though we spoke on the phone, I didn't see him again until now.

"I missed you the other night."

"The other night?"

"At Elton John's party."

"Ah. It completely slipped by me."

Mr. Elton John (excuse me, Sir) had thrown a post-Oscar bash/AIDS fundraising event at some famous Los Angeles eatery. Naturally, I had been invited. But I didn't go. I couldn't. And I didn't have the heart to tell Joaquin - sensitive that he is - that I had recently decided to protest sprawl. Therefore, I would not attend any function I couldn't get to by public transportation. Now I know that in the scheme of causes AIDS probably ranks higher than sprawl, but a girl's got to pick her battles.

Anyway.

Joaquin sat and grabbed my hands in his. (I'll admit that I went quite tingly when he did this.) He tried staring into my eyes, but, well, I'm just not into that. Very disconcerting. I stared at my coffee and lost all brain activity.

"I wanted to see you again. You know, when they announced my name at the Oscars I looked right into the camera and said 'I Love You.' That was for you. Did you see it? Why won't you look at me?"

"Yes."

"What? Is there a problem? Why won't you look at me? Why are you making that face?"

"Yes, you, uh, no problems."

"I don't understand. You have such a way with words. The Carver Court Housing Project MOA Implementation brought such tears to my eyes that I couldn't help but drive to it a number of times to stare at its beauty. The cops were called on me twice. M. Night is turning it into a film."

"Just stop staring at me, please. I don't like it."

"Oh."

So he looked away, thankfully, and I came back to reality. I remembered that report - a survey I did in Orlando. It was a good one. I squeezed his hands, sincerity oozing from my fingers, and told him it could never be. I kissed him chastely. He bowed his head and sighed. As I walked away I realized that I hadn't finished my coffee. It was damn good coffee, too. Oh well.

22 February 2006

U2 as Satan's Minions

Much like Ferris Bueller and Wayne Campbell, there are times when I must break through the fourth dimension to address the audience. And so I step away from the fiction, however briefly, to give you this 8 minute video of truth. Rock On!

21 February 2006

Selwyn: The Barbara Walters Special (A Transcript of the Unedited Interview)

BW = Barbara Walters
VO = Barbara Walters Voice Over
A = Aileen
E = Erica

BW: Selwyn, a word that became a household name for a time in the latter half of the Twentieth century. It conjures mental images of sex, blood, exceptional advances in the field of city planning and, of course, broccoli.

[Image of Selwyn during the 1989 tour, performing "Choppin' Broccoli."]

BW: Even a desperate lawsuit from Dana Carvey and other Saturday Night Live writers over the rights to that now infamous song could not deter Aileen and Erica from their light-speed jump to superstardom. From the bowels of the BBMS, a high school in Cuyahoga Falls, to the pinnacle of success by the age of seventeen - to all appearances a legend in the making. When I spoke with them in the summer of 1989, they were in the early stages of recording a new album, and there was even talk of a starring role in The Silence of the Lambs for Aileen. But one month later, Selwyn had ceased to be. The album was shelved, perhaps permanently. There were no more tours. No more impromptu guest appearances on Letterman. No one even heard from Erica for more than a year. And now, one week after their triumphant comeback concert in Cuyahoga Falls, they have graciously agreed to meet with me here in Cleveland, Ohio. Erica, you are now platinum blonde. Has it changed your personality?

E: Absolutely. And please, call me Dolores.

BW: Dolores?

A: (discreetly, entre nous) Yes, it uh, goes along with the personality change.

BW: Do blondes have more fun, Dolores?

E: It depends on what your idea of fun is, Barbara. And I was joking about calling me Dolores. There you have an excellent example of what fun is for me, making others look foolish. So yes, to answer your question, I'm having a blast.

A: (laughing obnoxiously, ending with a wet belch)

E: For Aileen, fun is being obnoxious and attending rodeo events with Karl Marx impersonators.

A: And whittling. I'm proud to say I've won the Ohio State Whittling Championship three years running.

BW: The last time we talked, you were at the peak of your respective careers. There was Aileen's impending movie deal, the plans for the new album, Erica's romance with rocker, Sting –

E: He's really much more than just a "rocker," Barbara.

BW: Agreed. He's something of a pop icon, an arrogant Machiavellian poet, able to blend subtle jazz hues in with fresh French rap jams, Egyptian melodies and old-fashioned gospel rhythms, topped off with a boasted ability to sustain intercourse for seven hours... But you were a couple in 1989, were you not?

E: I'm afraid I signed a non-disclosure agreement prior to the initial coupling, as I was quite illegally below the age of consent, even for the state of Georgia. But to some extent, yes we were a couple.

BW: After your joint appearance with Sting in Cuyahoga Falls last week, during which Aileen parachuted from a Huey directly into the audience – and may I just take a moment to congratulate both of you on what was surely the finest performance of your career to date, excluding perhaps the "top of the building" concert, which was quite good, considering it had already been done by the Beatles, U2, and even parodied on The Simpsons -

[Metallic click of a switchblade.]

A: Hey! We didn’t come here to be insulted!

E: Aileen, put that thing away...thank you. It's true, Barbara, it had been done before. As you were so kind to point out, even the cartoon image of George Harrison on that Simpsons episode shrugged and said, "It's been done." But I ask you: did the Beatles, or U2, or even Homer Simpson's B-Sharps have the brass onions to shove officers of the law OFF that roof when they tried to break it up? No. Selwyn pioneered that frontier.

BW: And remarkably, you were never convicted of abuse against the badge.

A: Never convicted.

BW: Well, to return to my original line of questioning – having been on-stage with Sting, seeing him for the first time in over ten years, did that rekindle any flames for you, Erica?

E: Absolutely none. The only flames I saw were in the parking lot of the Blossom Music Center, as that charter bus from Akron was doused with kerosene and ignited.

BW: That was truly tragic. I understand there are some victims still in the Burn Unit of the ICU over at Cuyahoga Falls General.

E: I'm afraid I have to disagree with you there, Barbara. It might be tragic for those victims, and their families, and maybe the people who were counting on those victims to show up for work the following Monday, but is it really so tragic for you? Or for me? Had you honestly given it a moment's thought before now? Will you next be asking me what sort of tree I think I should be?

BW: There's no need to be hostile. And besides, you've never answered my question about Sting. No feelings whatsoever, eh?

[Once again, the switchblade is flicked open.]

A: She already told you NO! Damn!

E: Will you give me that thing...thank you. You can't just go waving a knife around when people are watching.

VO: Clearly, the subject of Sting is a sensitive one for both Erica and Aileen.

[Footage of Sting snarling at an intrusive camera man as he and Erica leave Philpott's All-Nite Grocery Pit in Cuyahoga Falls. Mandy Candy Sandy is thrusting a microphone at him.

MCS: Sting, you've been quoted as saying that your "seven hours of Tantric sex" includes dinner and a movie. Are you in the middle of such a date right now?

Sting: Fuck off!

MCS: Can I quote you on that?]

BW: Ladies, are there any plans to blow the dust off the practice session recording of that unfinished album, and possibly share it with the world?

A: No. We're in the middle of recording a brand new album at Pink Confusion Studios, in the Falls. It's scheduled for release later this year. We previewed some of the new material at the show with Sting.

BW: The new material you're referring to would be two songs not previously heard, "Flogging the Carny" and "Intestinal Duress."

E: Yes, we're actually here on location in Cleveland to shoot the video for "Intestinal Duress," for which we've had to import a gigantic pit of ordure.

A: Humongous.

E: The good folks over at Big Dutchman Wholesale Poulterers have been instrumental in turning our dreams of such a pit into a reality.

BW: Overlooking this transparent plug, I shall proceed. Aileen, were you disappointed that Jodie Foster was cast in the lead role for The Silence of the Lambs instead of you?

A: Had you done your research, Barbara, you'd know that I was up for the part of Hannibal Lecter. Jonathan Demme felt the role was made for me. I remained in character for weeks after my audition, but the studio was unconvinced. Whatever. I needed a rest from the tour anyway.

BW: Everyone knows that you were incommunicado for over a year after the breakup of Selwyn, Erica. I realize this is a delicate subject for you. Can you shed a little light on that year for us?

E: The year was 1990. I was obviously devastated over the breakup of the band. The tour had been going so well until that date in Atlanta.

BW: You're referring to the incident –

E: - Yes. Well, I knew right then that we couldn't go on. That all we had accomplished was now bitter ashes in my mouth. There were never any charges brought about, but I just...

[Erica is unable to continue.]

A: I vividly remember Erica coming into my hotel room because I was so angry that she'd intrude –

E: - There were all those young boys she'd picked up earlier in the day. Scott –

A: - Ah, Scott. I heard later the incident left him so scarred that he joined the Navy, but anyway, Erica was in floods of tears and Sting was unconscious in the next room, and there was all the blood –

E: - Blood everywhere -

A: - Just everywhere. And all those magazines with page 53 torn out. It was a definite turning point in the tour, Barbara.

BW: It was, in fact, the ending point for the tour.

VO: The next day, the equipment was packed up and shipped back to Ohio. The crocodiles were returned to the zoo in Paraguay. Sting awoke alone in a cheap motel room, in a puddle of vomit.

[Clip of a 1991 Sting interview from Entertainment Tonight:

Sting: I never found out whose it was...]

VO: And Aileen and Erica boarded separate planes – one going to Los Angeles, the other bound for destinations unknown.

BW: So, Erica, where were you for that entire year?

E: I was backpacking around Eastern Europe.

BW: Sounds dangerous.

E: Oh it was, Barbara, it was. As a matter of fact, during my stay at a disreputable Greek bordello, I was drugged and sold into white slavery in Pakistan.

BW: Pakistani flesh peddlers, the scourge of civilized Eastern society. However did you escape?

E: After about three weeks, some Christian fundamentalists raided our camp as we were making our way to the Afghan border. They 'rescued' me. I spent the next six months trying to escape their prison camp in Wichita Falls, finally gnawing my way out of the particle-board box they kept me in and hitch-hiking my way back home. As you might imagine, being in a culture which was so foreign to me certainly gave me the creative impetus I needed to get back to business.

BW: And you went on to publish The Selwyn Diaries, a collection of your memories from that monumental last world tour. But the book ends the day after the last show in Atlanta. Why is that?

A: Well, that's where the tour ended. Was she supposed to make shit up?

BW: Yes, but readers were left wondering about those last fateful hours.

E: Barbara, to quote Hall and Oates, "some things are better left unsaid."

BW: Another point many people have made about The Selwyn Diaries is how much more complete a picture we would have about that tour if Aileen's portion of the diaries had been included in the publication.

E: Perhaps.

[An uncomfortable pause.]

BW: Okay, do you deliberately try to be controversial?

E: I believe it was the great director François Truffaut who said that one never finishes a film, rather, one must give it up. And I believe this is true in all walks of life.

BW: And by quoting the oft-pretentious Sting just then, you are deliberately trying to be difficult. There I have my answer.

A: I'm not sure how paraphrasing the pretentious intelli-babble of a pop star is 'being difficult,' but if that's how you see it, our work is done.

BW: Aileen, you have been linked romantically with a wide spectrum of men, including Matthew Perry, Billy Corgan, the Montreal Expos and the young donut pseudo-philosopher of Cuyahoga Falls. But we really want to know if there is any truth behind the rumors that Rod Steiger was more than just a friend to you?

A: Well, there were some intimate dinners at Spago, but that's about it. I’d wanted to meet Rod since the day I saw him on late night TV. I thought his Napoleon was excellent. He showed up at a difficult time for me, but we had some problems and now I don’t need him anymore.

VO: Brazil. 1990.

[A montage of Aileen and Rod running naked on the beach, getting drunk at bars and attending high society events in Rio.]

VO: What was rumored to be a storybook romance between Rod Steiger and Aileen quickly turned sour as their differences came to light.

[Footage of Rod looking on incredulously as Aileen crosses a picket line of political prisoners' wives and mothers, over and over again.]

VO: Soon Aileen was slumming, as she called it, alone, picking up boys that were barely of age just to watch them exercise and get into street fights late at night.

A: Rod ended up being something I wasn't expecting. I mean, he was all right at first, but when it turned out that he hated me showing off how much better I was as a rich American, well, that was it. I care for things, but that was crossing the line.

BW: In the year following the breakup, you did a lot of charity work for children.

A: Is that what my PR office is saying?

BW: Yes. Is it all a pack of lies?

A: Hell yeah! The tour took a lot out of me, what with my fish dependency and all. I was tired of giving. I took some time off, wrote a few poems, did a little city planning.

BW: It's true that you transformed the notoriously horrid borough of Brooklyn into a teeming intellectual community, a haven where artists the world over could gather and create beautiful, soaring...things. You were on the cover of Newsweek above the caption "The Most Brilliant City Planner of the Late Twentieth Century." Pretty heady stuff for someone who never even graduated from high school.

A: (to Erica) Give me the knife.

E: No! Just calm down... Take a cleansing breath.

[After a moment.]

BW: My comment has upset you.

A: Whatever! For your information, Barbara, and that of your drooling legions of The View-watching housewives, I have a high school diploma. I also have two college degrees.

BW: But you never attended the graduation at the BBMS. You never returned to that school after the tour ended. According to Erica's account of the tour, she alone reaped the benefit of Sting's tutelage while you spent your free time in the company of filthy and dangerous young men.

A: Sting’s 'tutelage' included bondage, spackle, Slim Whitman and only a little Shakespeare. You'll notice that Erica is the one without a college education, while I bear the scars of his damned spackling knife!

E: Calm down...deep breath...stop picking at that scab, people will see you.

BW: Have you ever thought of what you wanted on your tombstone?

A and E: No.

[Cut to shot of Barbara, alone in an elegantly appointed drawing room.]

BW: Like so many things in their lives, the interview with Aileen and Erica concluded abruptly at that point. They returned to the set of the video, and have declined to return ABC's many subsequent phone calls. Since then, Erica has been repeatedly seen in Sting's company around the country, giving fuel to the rumors that they are back "on" once again. Aileen has reportedly been busy enhancing and completing her half of The Selwyn Diaries, to be released concurrent with the new album this fall. A miniseries adaptation of the Diaries is in negotiation, to feature Vanessa Redgrave and Ice Cube. Selwyn has no plans to continue the tour this summer. The appearance with Sting in Cuyahoga Falls was nothing more than a comeback show, a testing of the waters, so to speak. With the acclaim they received for that one show, there's no doubt that Selwyn will be taking the world by storm during next summer's concert season. I’m Barbara Walters.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

19 February 2006

Emmett Colquitt, Again

A simple dose of reality was all that Emmett Colquitt needed to get his imagination jump-started, and certainly the thought of Doug penning idiotic ideas and selling them to the masses from a donut shop was a huge jolt. Emmett sat among fellow intellectuals at the weekly meeting of the Cuyahoga Valley Philo Club - of which, he always smugly noted, Doug was not a member - discussing various subjects of interest, when his face suddenly brightened.

"The world is round," he said to himself, "and oranges are round and the face of a clock, and yes, even donuts..." Slowly, the restaurant in which they all sat, The Pearl Tree, turned silent as people began to realize that Emmett was creating. Suddenly, he jumped up on the table to command the attention of all.

"Perhaps the reason why history repeats itself is not because we don't learn, but because everything is round!" Following a collective gasp of approval, everyone applauded. And then someone piped up.

"Everything?"

Emmett, still distracted by his revelation, turned to face Dick Liggin, anal-retentive treasurer of the Philo Club and the scourge of the WNRDSNM Radio morning show.

"Excuse me?"


"What I said was, 'Everything?' Meaning, is everything round, as you say?" asked Dick, absently scratching his buttocks with a fork, to the dismay of his fellow diners.

"I mean, is this fork round?" He held up the offending implement, then pointed it at the four-sided table on which Emmett was standing, speechless. "is this table round? Or would you have us believe that time itself, an intangible concept, is round? That history repeats itself because time is round?"

Emmett stood on the table, which was indeed square, fuming. He had an almost uncontrollable urge to grab the fork out of Dick's hand and spear the fat slob's testicles upon it, to further emphasize the roundness of all things. But he was a generally passive man, and managed to restrain his temper.

"Time? Time is only an intangible concept to those of you who limit your thoughts, Dick..." this last word he pronounced with the slur of an accomplished wit, "perhaps I was too literal, but yes, I will say that time is round. You can see it in the cyclical seasons, or in the way a child is born, grows and gives birth to begin again...Dick...Time may never end, as some people are wont to believe, but it is certainly round."

All heads swivelled from Emmett to where Dick sat, contemplating. Now he was the one fighting a compulsion to jam the fork into Emmett's person. A violent man by nature, he was only able to prevent himself by savagely biting his own hand until he was forced to drop the fork onto the table.

"But Emmett, the tangible concept of 'round' cannot be applied to an intangible concept such as time!" Dick winced as he pounded his injured fist on the table to emphasize his point.

"It is physically impossible, Emmett, to attribute any shape, be it round, triangular or even rhomboid, to something such as time. So maybe I do limit my thoughts, Emmett, but I limit them within the boundaries of what can be witnessed, felt, sensed or otherwise experienced. Besides, Emmett, you are still faced with that little matter of proving your theory of the roundness of all things by explaining to all of us just how round this fork is!" Dick almost screeched, spearing the fork at Emmett. It flew past him and hit the wall, tines first, accusingly flat.

Everyone's attention abruptly shifted back to Emmett. This debate between the two was even better than their legendary argument over pasteurized processed cheese products back at Cuyahoga Falls Community College. Back then, more than ten years ago now, Emmett had been president of the Debate Club, as he was currently the president of the Philo Club. And back then, as now, Dick had been a perpetually disgruntled member, convinced that he, a hard-line realist, could be a more effective governor.

Dick maintained that the problem in Cuyahoga Falls 'these days' was that people were too wrapped up in such vegan principles as equality for animals, socialized medicine and even, he shuddered, nuclear disarmament. Chronically paranoid, he was of the opinion that "Mo Nukes" was infinitely preferable to "No Nukes."

Emmett casually jumped off the table and began to walk in slow circles around Dick, knowing that he had a slight problem with having people stand within 5 feet of him. He clasped his hands behind his back. Dick began to twitch.

"Well, I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that something else had caught your attention when I apologized for being so literal. I'll say it again, I'm sorry that your fork is not round." There was a chuckle from somewhere in the back of the restaurant.

"You know, it must be easy to be so black and white; to know for sure that time is intangible. It must be such an amazing feeling to believe in only that which you have - what was it? - witnessed, felt, sensed or otherwise experienced. But for those of us who live in greys your idea of time isn't so certain. To use your criteria, though, I can definitely say that I have experienced time. In fact, everyone here has experienced time. I know that even you yourself, Dick, have commented on how the time can pass so quickly...but if time is intangible how can you apply a verb to it? I've heard you say to 'friends' you haven't seen since college how time ravaged they look...but again, if time is intangible how can it do something? You can't be so selective. If you can attribute it with speed or ability then why can you not attribute it with a shape? Far greater minds than ours have put properties on time."

Now it was Emmett's turn to flail and pound as his temper rose. Dick Liggin was probably the only person in the world who could make him want to inflict deep, serious pain on people - a role of which Dick was aware and quite proud. But Emmett held back on physical violence, focusing instead on the personal hatred between them that had been going on for so long.

"What drags you through your day, Dick? When your radio show is over and you're walking home, what fills your sick, twisted brain? Did you join the club to satisfy some sense of inadequacy or was it just to annoy me?" There was no stopping Emmett now. He knew that Dick's reason for coming to Philo Club meetings was not to engage in serious discussion, but to feel superior to 'silly' idealists.

"You know, if I look at you any longer I'm going to have to bash your face in!" Emmett shouted. The gathered crowd gasped.

"And you know I can do it too. Just because I turn the other cheek doesn't mean I won't make an exeption about non-violent solutions. Oh yeah, Dick, I'll take you on! And don't think the people of this town have forgotten that day three years ago when I kicked your ass!" Another gasp. Yes, they did remember, and they all quietly agreed that it was a fine beating. Emmett slinked down onto a nearby chair and slicked back his hair with his hands.

"Just go," he hissed. "Just go and I'll see you at the next meeting. But if I see you anytime before that, and I don't care if it's even at Philpott's while you're out running an errand, I will hurt you. Now go."

So Dick left, somewhat embarrassed at the turn of events. As always, Emmett had managed to turn the tables to make him look wrong. As always, Dick slithered away concocting scenarios for the next meeting, where he would really get Emmett.

(With many thanks to Mopeychick for her part)

25 January 2006

I Am Not Richard Moe

At the Johnny Rockets in Baywalk, St. Petersburg F-L-A, I sit writing the latest in a series of reports designed to promote newly designated historic buildings in Miami. While not a glamourous job, it nonetheless has made me famous. Why just the other day I was stopped on an L.A. street by Mr. Matthew Perry, who praised my technical writing skills.

"You're her, aren't you?"

"If by her you mean me, then I suppose I am."

"I absolutely love your reports! I mean, the local register nomination for Magic City Tourist Court was sublime. I spit on those who denied its designation!"

"Thanks for the support, but really I'm not surprised. Long gone are the days of Tin Can Tourists pulling into vacation cabins for the summer. Magic City's now a trailer park and preservationists just aren't going to go for that. Besides, I'm not sure if the property owners were keen on the idea either... Hey, how did you get a hold of that report anyway?"

"It's a hobby."

"Ah."

And so on. Of course, Mr. Matthew McConaughey was very nearby listening to all of this, making Mr. Matthew Perry very jealous indeed. Such is the life of a girl like me. Seriously! Jay Leno has been positively aching to get me on his show to go over the comical rendering of the Secretary's Standards for Rehabilitation I wrote for a graduate class once, but I'm holding out for Larry King.

If this report gets spotty, by the way, it's because I'm wiping my onion-greased, french fry fingers all over it. The bacon on my BLT was perfect. It would be fun to work at Johnny Rockets, I think. The ketchup smiley faces, dancing in the middle of the restaurant to "Staying Alive" - although there is always that one person, you know what I mean. However, I think I would prefer working at the one at Pentagon City Mall in Washington D.C. There they dance to Frank Sinatra singing "Chicago," and Chicago is my kind of town, after all.

But I write reports. Damn good ones. And soon I will be all power, all control. Happy because life is just like that, though the delicious sting of heartbreak has been mine as well. And isn't that a wonderful thing?

20 December 2005

Intelligent Design

It's such a beautiful day today with nary a cloud in the sky. It's as blue as the day I was born. But elsewhere the skies are black. And everyone is dying. And it feels so wrong to be sitting at a desk listening to Uncle Tupelo while staring at the blue, blue sky.

If I could play the banjo I would pick my sorrows away. No such luck, though. I suppose I could do an interpretive dance in my front yard. There's really nothing that can't be solved with an interpretive dance. So Kevin Bacon.

17 December 2005

In the Beginning: The Selwyn Diaries Part Two

Still waiting for the release of the Selwyn diaries, The Cuyahoga Falls Intelligencer has decided to release a few more excerpts. We begin at the beginning:

Thursday, 27 March -
It was the evening before our world tour when I decided to take a walk around the city. Take a last look, you know, at all the wonders of town before leaving for Toulouse and Nice and all those other places. As I was passing Erica's humble abode (yeah, right), I noticed a dark figure in the bushes and called out to see who it was. Not surprisingly, it turned out to be Mandy Candy Sandy, who proceeded to tell me all the titillating details of Erica's encounter with Sting. I was unimpressed.

Well, it's not that I was unimpressed, I was just reeling from earlier this evening. Erica had come screaming to my door to tell me that our journals - the ones that spelled out our every fantasy (which for me was 50 dramatic ways of killing myself if I didn't meet Bono - were sitting in a display case at the Cuyahoga Falls Popular Museum. They had been donated by an anonymous source and were available for check-out by all. We went running to the BBMS and confronted Mayoress Reputa with a few choice words until we realized for the time being there was nothing we could do. Erica slipped away intending to make a "phone call" to Disinformation and I went home. Oh well, I'm sure Mandy was the first to read them and if so, everyone's going to know what's in them anyway. Still, I'm plotting my revenge.

Anyway, Erica was up in her place with Sting and the whole incident left me with a craving for fish. Fish with tails, yum! It's that same craving I get any time I go on a long trip...something about the Omega 3 Fatty acids, I guess. Good brain food. On my way to Philpott's All-Nite Grocery Pit I ran into Chris Jackson smelling faintly of potted meat byproducts. Whatever. I bought some kippers and went home to get ready and now here I am diary, writing to you before I sleep. And now I'm going to sleep. Night night.

Friday, 28 March -
Today's plane ride to France wasn't too interesting. Erica proceeded to tell me what I already knew about her night with Sting and that he would be joining us on parts of our tour to whip her into submission...um...I mean, into a high school graduate. I kept saying that I'd probably need some tutoring if I wanted to graduate, but she kept conveniently not hearing that part of our conversation. But the trip did have fresh fish. I was glad that I had put that into our rider right before we left, stalling our takeoff while Raynelle - the queen of all private assistants - ran to buy some at Philpott's, but making me very, very happy.

I am glad that Erica's dream man has come into her life, but I can't help but wonder how someone can be with one person. I myself prefer variety even though I never do anything. Really. I just like to hang out in seedy parts of town, picking up dangerous boys and turning them into my pets. Europe is great for that 'cause no one seems to care that I'm only 16. Just call me Lolita, baby!

Really the thing is that I'm waiting for my very own dream man to realize I exist. And the only one for me is Doug. I know everyone says he's a loser, but if they would only hang out at the donut shop they would see that there is so much more to him. I always know when he's going to be there (all the time), so I make sure I get a choice seat right near him to hear his voice while he deals and makes up poems about Jim Morrison. But what am I going to do? If being a world famous rock star with a hit record and a 3.7 GPA isn't enough then what is????? Alas, I'm off diary. I need to get ready for tonight's show.

Saturday, 29 March -
The show was okay last night, Erica seeming a bit distracted the whole time, but the boys on the main rue were magnifique! I did actually meet one young stud that night that gave Doug a run for his money. He was tall, lanky and aching to touch me through his unwashed jeans, but I held out. God it felt good! I picked him up with a glance and took him back to my hotel room, passing Erica's on the way. Out of curiosity, since Sting was supposedly "tutoring" her, I put my ear to the door to see if I could hear anything. All I could make out was something that sounded like a combination of barking dogs and someone stirring a bucket of plaster. Who knows.

Anyway, I brought Michel into my room and undresses myself. No words necessary. I made him sit on the bed while I Jazzercized into a good sweat (he was noticeably sweating as well) and then, right when I was about to go into my famously high leg kicks, I kicked him right out of the room. Yeah!!! He banged on the door for at least half an hour until I called security, which promptly shoved him along his way. Ah, Toulouse!

Today we were in Nice. I convinced Erica to go to the topless beaches with me to help me film my trip to France. It was a great feeling to be topless in public. I flimed this one 14/15 year old boy who had an enormous penis. Mmmm, it's nice in Nice. Out of the side of my lens I noticed a dark figure laying right in Erica's way, but I guess Erica didn't. I chose not to tell her since, you know, it's much funnier not to, so she tripped right over the figure and gave me the perfect ending for my entry to "Cuyahoga Falls' Sleaziest Home Videos."

Tonight's show was much better than the last. Erica seemed to have an energy and passion that was lacking earlier. Maybe she was over the jetlag...or maybe last night's lesson was particularly stimulating. I asked her if she had learned anything and she mumbled something about Thomas Campion. Whatever. Tonight there are no boys for me. I need to sleep to prepare myself for España, home of the Latin lover...which I will conquer with much style and ease. Night night.

Monday, 31 March -
Yet another eventful trip for Cuyahoga Falls' greatest export. We took a train to Barcelona and arrived with much to do by the locals. I felt so like The Beatles that I just had to mention that we were bigger than Jesus (they, of course, were bigger than God, and I can't be that presumptuous). Anyway, this nearly caused a riot in the crowd that had been placid and adoring moments earlier. Alas.

We had to leave early yesterday, so when we got settled on the train everyone fell asleep but me. I had to walk around drinking in the sights and smells of this creaky ride. And what a smell it was! Tasty hake coming from the dinner car, to which I was heading when I saw someone sneak out of another compartment. It was Sting. Naturally. He looked a little flustered as we exchanged pleasantries and then went inching away as if I hadn't already seen him. Whatever. He's a good looking man, but he seems like he'd be a real dick even after you get to know him...or maybe because you get to know him. I was staring out the dinner car window gnawing on my fish when I saw him leap off the train onto a silver Aston Martin that had been stealthily driving alongside. Damn...

I did manage to fall asleep for a few hours in the afternoon after we arrived. Good. I needed to be shiny and cute for this evening's events. I went to this newfangled thing called a technobar, which is like a mindless beat fuck. Nothing but hours and hours of drums and synthesizers and the occasional vocal. Sweet! I took home two boys that night because nothing has ever, ever, ever made me feel the way this does. Never...never, never, never. I still maintained the upper hand, though. I think. Maybe. Whatever. Since we're playing tonight here in lovely Barcelona, I've given Jorge and Manuel backstage passes. No doubt the three of us will be having much more fun tonight.

I feel sorry for Erica because she never gets to see anything lately with all her "lessons." She was always one to take the English seriously.

Tuesday, 1 April -
It's Tuesday now, something like 5 in the afternoon. I'm writing from the train to Pamplona, where they do the running of the bulls. I may have to jump on in and join the fun.

This is actually the first conscious moment I've had since about 12:30 this morning. What I remember from last night is Jorge and Manuel being backstage with us, noticeably greasier than the night before (yum!), and Erica flashing me a concerned look as I led them away by their belts. We were at a technobar no less than an hour when I felt those...feelings again. Next thing I know I'm sitting on this train...

I'm wearing a dog collar and there are random words written all over my body in Spanish, which with my rudimentary skills in this language I've managed to translate. "IT'S TEATIME FOR THE THREE MUSKETEERS," "COME TO MY LAIR," "I LIKE YOUR MEATBALLS" and on my right arm the cryptic "BIG CHEESE GETS HIS TONIGHT" with an arrow pointing to a star on my pinky. I can hear the roadies saying something about having to pry me off the bed with industrial strength WD-40 and a spatula...and yet I feel so fresh and rejuvenated. Erica keeps asking me when I got the tattoo of Dan Fogleberg on my shoulder. I keep telling her it's a birthmark, but she won't believe me. I'm changing the subject now.

I wonder if Disinformation has gotten in touch with Erica regarding the notebook situation. I would love to find out so I can plan what horrible things I'm going to do to this anonymous source.

I hope Pamplona has technobars.