Drag Queens are NOT to be Messed With!

This is for those times when I need to call upon my inner "Mimi Plastique." This is apparently a response to a man on the bus making homophobic comments to her.

Oh Muffy, They're Playing Our Song!

Am I the only one who is incredibly DISTURBED when being forced to listen to pop music about sex when shopping at the PETSMART? I was thinking about Pickles and cute and fuzzy she was, as I was picking up another hair brush (shedding season), and the music blaring over the speakers was:

"If it’s true don’t leave me
All alone out here
Wondering if you’re ever
Gonna take me there
Tell me what you’re feeling
‘Cause I need to know
Girl you gotta let me know
Which way to go
‘Cause I need to know
I need to know
Tell me baby girl
‘Cause I need to know"

I suddenly found myself thinking about sex and my cat in the same moment, and was greatly disturbed. There's all these people in there with the DOGS for god's sake. There's no reason for that! Is this a family establishment or Bazooka's??? You know?

I'm not saying that sex doesn't have its place, but I have to draw the line at the pet store.

The Eternal Wisdom of Tina Turner

"I don't really wanna fight no more. This is time for letting go."

(I'm thinking of it more in general-life "zen" terms. Sometimes, the only way we can not be part of something we don't want to be part of is to simply let it go and not do it. Does that make sense? Anyways, it's easier said than done.)

Woe Is Me

I am sooooo sick right now, all I can do is lie in bed, hug my laptop, and stare at the ceiling. Every once in a while, I leap up and run to the bathroom. It's the bad kind of sick where you can't even watch tv, because it requires too much effort. :( :( :( :(

I Have Pigeons

I spend every meal in my dining room, looking out the dining room window which yields a view of the side of my next door neighbor's house. The sole and all-encompassing source of entertainment is watching the pigeons on the neighbor's roof ledge.

Usually they sit there, doing nothing. They are very FAT AND LAZY. Pickles sits on the buffet in front of the window and cackles about them; it's a very specific noise that she only makes when she sees pigeons. I have, over time, learned to translate this speech to mean, "I hate pigeons, they are fat and lazy, and I wish I could eat their heads off!" I feel like pigeon-watching with her is spending quality time, sharing in HER interests instead of always forcing her to share in mine.

A couple of weekends ago, Steven and I were eating pancakes with Chris, and we actually saw the pigeons fucking! I mean, it was almost gross and I almost wanted to stop eating my pancakes. They were GOIN' TO TOWN, let me tell you. They totally do it doggy-style, but she likes it kind of rough.

Today, I saw a gnarly sumo wrestling match. Another male flew in and was fighting the male that normally sits there. They were visciously biting each other's faces, grabbing flesh and pulling on their faces while trying to push each other's fat butts off the ledge, just like in sumo wrestling (well except for the biting part). They did it for about 30 minutes. I grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the window to watch. It finally occurred to me that I should be photographing this momentous occasion. As soon as I turned it on and focused in, they stopped fighting. BASTARDS.

Here's a silhouetted view of them, in a rare moment in which they've left their perch.


Here's the ledge perch where they live. You can see that my neighbor has unsuccessfully attempted to thwart them with chicken wire. The pigeons have completely re-molded the chicken wire to benefit them. Today they finally got back in behind the chicken wire, where I'm sure they'll start to build a nest. Instead of being a barrier, the chicken wire is now a fortress to protect their nest.


You can see the female better in this one. She's identified by the white tail feathers. The male has all dark gray tail feathers. I should name them, shouldn't I??


Here they are again. You can see the female a little better, up front there.

Wolf Parade

And I could take another hit for you
And I could take away the trips from you
And I could take away the salt from your eyes
Take away skin and salt in you
And I could give you my apologies
By handing over my neologies
And I could take away your shaky knees
And I could give you all the olive trees
And look at the trees and look at my face
And look at a place far away from here

So give me your eyes, I need sunshine
Give me your eyes, I need sunshine
Your blood, your bones, your voice, and your ghost
We’ve both been very brave
Walk around with both legs
Fight the, the scary day
We both pulled the tricks out of our sleeves
But I’ll believe in anything and
You’ll believe in anything

When others ask "Why?", I say "Why not?"

In today's local news:

Sheriff: Woman spent 2 years sitting on boyfriend’s toilet

The Associated Press

NESS CITY, Kan. Law officers in western Kansas are investigating the bizarre case of a woman they say sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years.

Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple said the boyfriend called his office late last month to report that something was wrong with his girlfriend.

The sheriff said the woman’s muscles had atrophied and that medical personnel had to remove her from the toilet because she was bound to it by “natural means.”

Whipple said the woman at first refused ambulance service and “didn’t want to leave.” She’s hospitalized in Wichita, but is refusing to talk with authorities. The boyfriend claims she stayed in the bathroom of her own free will.

Whipple said his office may charge the boyfriend with mistreatment of a dependent adult.

"impossible to function at this high a level without limiting the amount of introspection you can do"

This is what I've always thought of politicians, but haven't been able to put it into words quite so succinctly. There's a total inability to a) act in all ways that you know within yourself to be moral, true, & right and b) worry about the consequences of every action you take. And thus I have taken the position that they're all full of crap.

Excerpt from this article:
----------------------------

One psychologist who has studied and worked with politicians and their families thinks there is indeed something different about people who reach positions of such prominence.

"In order to be in such a high-profile position, you have to believe that what you are doing is innately right," said Renana Brooks, of Washington, D.C. "Anything that isn't right, you may blot out. You can't be tortured by guilt or indifference. It's just virtually impossible to function at this high a level without limiting the amount of introspection you can do."

Spitzer, who has not been charged and has not resigned, was caught on a federal wiretap arranging to meet with a prostitute, according to a law enforcement official who spoke to The Associated Press on condition of anonymity because the investigation is still going on.

Parks are pretty

My specific goal for today was to go out and do an activity that didn't cost any money. So, I drove to Blue River park fishing lake to take pictures. Then I locked my purse in the car, had to borrow a stranger's phone to call a locksmith, and spent $50 getting back into my car. This is a good example of "irony." At least I didn't have to hike five miles to the nearest gas station, and at least I didn't get kidnapped. I had plenty of time to take a lot of pictures!

Ahhhh

Reflections and textures

Stripes

Curiosity

Teeth marks

Fuzzy

Happy Easter

Funkytown (pictures at the end)

I went to Funkytown with Sarah last night. This post is long; I’ve been reading a lot of memoirs lately, and obviously I’m working on mine.

When we arrived, the gigantic parking lot was full. “What!?! Are you kidding me?” We had to park as far away as you would at some place like Worlds of Fun, seriously. Sarah and I sat in the car and pondered the safety factor of two women walking alone in the darkness of night across the vast expanse of a not-very-well-lit parking lot of doom. I had a vision of us exiting Funkytown later on that night and not being able to locate our car, roaming the aisles up-and-down for hours, eventually having to call someone for help, “Stranded at Funkytown, was it the 37^th or the 73^rd row we parked in, I can’t remember!” I tried to find a visual cue of the wooded area surrounding the lot, a tree to remember. That worked.

When we entered the club, “YMCA” was playing, and the large, crowded dance floor was line dancing and making Y.M.C.A. letter-body gestures in unison. The entire dance floor continued to line dance for the next four songs.

First of all, I’ve never been any place in my life where line dancing actually occurred. I thought people only did it on TV. Back when we lived on Gillham years ago, Steven and I would get reallly stoned and watch this particular country music channel line dancing show. I couldn’t possibly imagine anything more bizarre other than a circus freak show, because also the line-dancing couples would wear matching outfits. I’m TOTALLY ANTI- LINE-DANCING and ANTI-MATCHING-OUTFITS! If I were a politician, I’d ban both. Mandatory 20 year sentencing for any minor offense without possibility of parole. Surely, I thought, that doesn’t happen in REAL life. Oh, but it does. At Funkytown. I saw a grotesque, flagrant display of colossal mass conformity. My little inner anarchist rose up and shouted, “This must be stopped! This cannot go on!” I leaned over to Sarah and said, “Oh no, we HAVE to bust this up. I need a drink first.”

We got a drink and started walking around. The music changed. The line dancing seemed to die down on its own right around the time I discovered the “requests mailbox.” People write requests on a little slip of paper and place them in the mailbox for the DJ to take. Tone Loc was playing, I think “Wild Thing” (is that his song?). Earlier in the evening, I had been to a small party at Scott’s where Tone Loc came up in conversation. We also talked about Cyndi Lauper, my personal favorite, so in honor of that party I wrote “Cyndi Lauper, Girls Just Want to Have Fun” on a little slip of paper and used my long arm to strategically place the note in the back of the box, where the DJ could grab it first. Sure enough, the next song was mine, so Sarah and I hit the dance floor.

I would like to point out that NOBODY line danced to Cyndi Lauder, which was a beautiful thing. I’m singin’, “That's all they really want, Some fun, When the working day is done, Oh,girls they wanna have fu-un, Oh,girls just wanna have fun.” Cyndi’s techno-island-digital-xylophone-sounding instrumental solo is always awesome. I watched a man pretending to play whatever instrument that is, which amused me (air-xylophone?).

The next song I danced to was MJ, “Beat It.” That’s when I noticed an immense video screen on one side of the room showing the 1980’s music video, with a darker, jerry-curled MJ wearing his cute, little tight, white t-shirt that had a keyboard on it. HAWT! Who doesn’t love pre-molester-creepy-pedophile MJ? The next song was Prince “When the Doves Cry.” Who doesn’t love pre-baptised-Jehova’s-Witness Prince?

The type of people there were varied and multi-cultural for what you’d expect in Raytown, with a lot of overweight suburban-looking bleached-blonde women in their 30’-40’s. My favorite person to watch was an old guy (i.e. clearly over retirement age) who was wearing cowboy boots, skinny jeans, and a tucked in shirt that revealed a large belt buckle, dancing up on a platform with a stripper. He reminded me exactly of Jim, this guy my grandmother lived with when I was in high school.

I was living with my grandmother at the time, and Jim was out of work on disability due to chronic emphysema from smoking two packs a day his whole life. So during my summer vacations from school, I had to endure his daily routine of practicing chair dances in the dining room to Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love.” He’d begin blaring that damned song around 10 am, which pissed me off, because I couldn’t sleep in. He used a dining room chair to dance around and stand up on, wiggling all around like he was some kind of Elvis. He talked about how he went to a bar every night, got drunk, and performed his special Robert Palmer dance. He thought he was a local celebrity. My teenaged self thought he was beyond repulsive. He’d also sunbathe all summer long by lying on a back patio lawn chair on his stomach with his shorts rolled up in his ass crack so that his butt cheeks would tan. Who did he think was looking at his 65 year-old butt? I was personally traumatized by the vision, and used to argue with my grandmother about him.

Going back to Funkytown, I witnessed numerous three-way-sandwiches, usually consisting of a drunk woman being humped-on by two guys, one in the front and one in back. I told Sarah, “Some swingers are definitely swingin’ tonight!” Speaking of which, I was repeatedly hit on by an aggressive, busty, blonde, wearing a clinging skin-tight, white tank top, which in black light contrasted strongly with her overly tanned skin. I was convinced she was a swinger. I’m always convinced that swingers are hitting on me.

When I first arrived at Funkytown, I was standing to the side drinking a beverage, watching the line dancers, and the blonde came up to me. She was RIGHT UP ON ME rubbing her arm on my arm, and said, “That dance floor is SO crowded. I’m like you; I want to dance over here where it’s less crowded.” That’s SUCH A TOTAL stereotypical pick-up line. But this was from a woman? I nodded at her and said, “Yeah.” I didn’t rub on her back, so she resumed dancing on the crowded dance floor. She was very enthusiastic, and thus I believed she was on cocaine. I’m also always convinced that swingers who hit on me are on cocaine.

A song or two later, she came back and positioned herself so her back was to me, and started rubbing her ass on mine, like we were dancing that way and leaning in opposite directions, so that we could each look over our shoulders at each other while rubbing butts, swaying back-and-forth. I’m certain I’ve never had that much ass-to-ass contact with another human being other than maybe Steven? But then Steven and I don’t stand around rubbing our butts together; apparently that maneuver hasn’t occurred to me. Anyways, she “encountered” me several times through the evening, but would primarily dance with one male partner, which is what cued me that she was a swinger trying to get me in a three-way, like we’d be a woman sandwich for this guy.

I told Sarah that I wonder if this is what Menages is like? She said she was sure that Menages is more sophisticated than Funkytown. She’s probably right.

The pinnacle of the evening was when they played the song “Car Wash.” The dance floor had extra-big, rotating automatic car wash brushes on either side. They were probably a good ten feet tall, five feet diameter; they could easily wash a semi-truck. They started spinning like crazy, the lights were strobing, and soap bubbles suddenly filled the room. There’s no way I could properly describe or photograph the moment. It was classic. That was maybe kind of our cue to leave. I finally got home around 3:30 am.

Funkytown

General view of dance floor

Check out the carpet - its pattern was intergalactic planetary systems

Feet dancing in a glowing cage

THREE-WAY sandwich!!

Three shots of my favorite dancing old dude. Disappointingly didn't get a pic of him break-dancing on the ground.





Sarah's arm tattoo glowed purple on the "Stairway to Heaven"

General view of dance floor, disco balls

Funkytown bathroom

Woman standing in front of the fake, blue trash can was dressed up like a sexy librarian, glasses, hair in a bun.

Funkytown bathroom, the real trash can

Funkytown bathroom, communal toilet paper