For some bizarre reason, this new club in San Antone wants me to be the Wildly Costumed, Fabulous Beyond All Reason hostess/EmCee...

great.

and of course by "great" naturally I mean "fuck."

I'm not afraid of public speaking or appearance or anything I just simply don't know where to begin. Any hints, tricks etc?

So I have been asked to particpate in this plus size beauty pageant and subsequent charity auction (auctioning ME off...ah, good old fashion white slavery).

I cannot help but thinking this is a very, very bad idea.

Well I have the plague, and I wish I didn't.
Sure, if it was good enough for 25 million 14th Century Europeans; it's good enough for me, but still; being plaguey is no way to spend a Wednesday.

*****

Two weeks ago I had the Stuffed Trout at Moonshine, and declared it delicious. Last week Laura Bush had the same thing. I declare her a copy cat.

*****

I am going to a Trading Faces party tomorrow, that involved taking someone elses's make-up looks and trying them on yourself. I am not sure if you BYOBeauty Products, but I hope not. Not only is it unhygienic, I'm not especially eager to swap my complete line of Chanel for a Dr Pepper lipsmacker. Hawks defend their chicks, Bears defend their cubs and I defend my Limited Edition glossimers.

*****
I used to think the song "Green Door" was:
(in chronological order of misconception)

a) really "Green Card"
b) written by Uva as a commentary on immigration to the US
c) was a Flametrick Subs original written for the Green Door in OKC
d) was a Cramps original

I now I know it was a #1 hit in 1956 for Jim Lowe, but still don't know what's behind the Green Door.

******
Our security guard gave me a set of honeydews. People have been commenting on my "nice melons" all day. People are a "laff riot" just ask them.

******

I had a dream last night involving a hula hoop, "The Night Owl" (my grandfather's racing yacht), and the regular Beerland gang (Subs and Cheerleaders inclusive...also the Blue Flames and The Silvermen). I believe I was sailing down to Acapulco bay. How strange is that? I think I was making pretty good time, though. Great Wind.

******

I have this bizarre urge to cook and be domestic. I feel like inflicting domesticity upon Soren, because he's got a house with the best kitchen in the history of best kitchens; but he's probably busy and I saw him on both Friday and Saturday, which is quite enough thank you.

Got shanghai'd on Saturday night.

It was Sarah's birthday on Saturday so I was to meet Sarah and Kristin at Dave and Busters. Although I'd never technically been inside; I don't like the place. I am a grown person and as such I enjoy my gin and tonics without a side of whack-a-mole thank-you-very-much.

So I arrive at 8:45 dressed like a schlub. As I enter both girls who are dolled up in government-issue rockabilly dresses tell me:

"Hey, we're leaving. We're going to San Antonio, Kris and I are going to Nathan's house to get directions. Go get dressed, we'll meet you at your place"

oh.

nice.

Didn't know why we were going to San Antonio, nor did they particularly ask me if I wanted to go. It was just assumed. I hate the breaking-in period of new friendships.

As it transpired, the Subs were playing. Now, I had seen them on Thursday, and broke my shoe. I have a finite amount of footwear, and wasn't really planning to do anything on Saturday other than watch the Preakness with my grandparents, per familial tradition.

Anyway, I arrive home to be greeted by a note on my door and about a dozen increasingly frantic and drunk (?) sounding voicemails. "Werse going to shanamonio!"

I barely had a chance to stick on my big fake pigtails, when I get a call from the girls (and now Nathan) they're outside.

I drove (and got no gas money, bastards!)

After they got over the notion I was going to kill them before they got to San Antonio (I am an excellent driver, although I drive the Volvo the same way I drive my muscular turbo-powered 80's sports car, which ocassionally causes some concern "AHHH We're All Going to DIE") They played this game wherein someone would turn on the radio and sing to the worst song they could find. This was an interesting foray into pop culture for me. Did you know there is a song with the lyrics "I know you'd like to think your shit don't stink, but come a little closer. Your roses smell like poo-poo-poo"

There IS!

We got to the show, enjoyed the Necrotonz and High School Ceasar. The Subs put on a good show, but the San Antonio gang girls scared me. Plus I think Kris and Sarah got into a kerfuffle.

Speaking of Kerfuffle, there seemed to be one between the Cheerleaders and the Band, from which I very wisely stayed far away. More later.

Some roadies are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. I don't know which of those three fits Chuque and I don't especially care but he's got to fit one of them because last night he was the glorious hero of my very own damsel-in-distress style footwear catastrophe.

Because I am not at all bright, and don't learn from my mistakes, I decided to go out to a Thursday night in weather better suited to an ark (although, the Volvo is about as close a substitute as you could want). For some bizarre reason there was no parking to be found, and as I am fairly destitute (or as close to it as I care to be), I was not about to pay $5.00 to park on a Thursday night. So I finally found a spot, about six blocks away.

At this point it was wrath-of-God flooding, and I was expecting frogs to drop from the sky, Magnolia-style. So I set out in my brand new shoes, a pair of recycled rubber flip flops with a 2 inch heel. I can't stand to wear flats, and after breaking both my feet a few years ago; flip flops are a necessity, since I can't have anything touching the top of my feet.

Walking/wading down Red River with my head down (I'm made of sugar, so if I get wet, I'll melt) I negotiate the cracked pavement and get ready to cross 8th street when the flip portion of my shoe seperated itself from the flop portion, and I skidded into the road.

Damn.

So I take off my shoes, horrifying I know, especially on Red River and slosh my way to Beerland. I am wet. I am tired. I am seven dollars closer to the poorhouse (seven dollar cover on a Thursday!) and now, my shoe is broken.

Sympathy all around but it's Chuque who had plenty of other things to do who provided me with enough duct tape (roadie tape) to temporarily fix my sandal and save the day. It was even black, to match my shoe.

Los Angeles, May 13- Lip synching songstress Britney Spears was s-c-r-e-w-e-d when she realized being guest judge of the Orange County Elementary School Spelling Bee Finals was more than she bargained for.

A source close to Ms Spears reports no one told the poptart that she and several other celebrity guests including Alex Trebek and Oscar winner Jodie Foster were also to compete in a spelling bee, the winner being awarded $10,000 for their favorite charity. Ms Spears made a valiant attempt until the third round, when she was asked to spell the word "integrity."

"It was totally weird, she like, started squirming around and looking really frightened" said Kim Na Wen, winner of the "8 and under" division, "she started moving her mouth, but no sound was coming out. It was if she was expecting someone else to make the sound for her" Sources say she was furious with her handler, who had gone to procure some Diet Pepsi and a quickie divorce for the blonde bombshell.

Ms Spears eventually resorted to taking off her top and writhing around with a garter snake that had escaped from a Science Fair which had taken place in the same auditorium earlier that week.

"It was awesome!" reported ninth grader Kevin Schouberg, who had expected a boring evening cheering on his "geekwad little brother" Jacob, a 5th grader who took home first prize and a $1,000 scholarship. "The guys in my world studies class are never going to believe this!" who is reported to have never seen a topless woman, even though he said he briefly with Madison O'Conner who is reported to be "a total skank."

Despite Ms Spears academic failings, Kevin assures us the he indeed "would hit that."

I'm bored, who wants to make out?

Want to know how much I wanted to see the Necromantix at Emo's last night? Okay. Hold your fingers together, tight. No, tighter. Okay, you probably can't see it, but there is some space, on the atomic level, between those two fingers. That teeny, tiny, microscopic distance is about seven times as much as I wanted to see the Necromantix.

and, though I have deep and abiding affection for both Destin and Ryan of Concombre Zombie...I would rather have been at the dentist.

I went because a) I didn't have to pay and b) to cheer on the new cheerleaders, who were fantastic. Of course, I wouldn't ever put myself in the position to choose the best new cheerleader of the crop, but I did overhear two people who used to "see these guys at the Black Cat all the time, man" debating over one Miss Scarlett Fury, if she was really "that blonde one" they used to see "back in the day." I'm assuming they meant Shayne, and that's a huge compliment.

So while the Subs benefited from a nice sound system and the cheerleaders were fab, I really and truly have to lay off the middle-of-the-week rockshows. Seriously. NO more.

you know, until the next one.

Emo's is not my favorite venue for reasons forthcoming.

I wrote some poetry (I don't consider myself a poet). I told my grandparents, and my grandfather's response was "not much money in poetry."

******
Also, interesting to notice. Men seem quite keen on women with long full hair worn in pigtails. Soren as well. I'm not sure if it's the long hair or the pigtails part that turn men into doting fools (as opposed to the regular, non doting variety) but, like with everything else about sex I don't understand, I just write it off as some Catholic quirk. (It is of course helpful, but by no means required for the man in question to actually be Catholic.)
******
Very strange night with Soren on Saturday. Actually, very strange night in general with the highlight being the triumphant debut of the New Satan's Cheerleaders who were fantastic and fit right in.

Strange night with Soren as we both spent the morning in various states of undress trying to convince the other one (alternately, and in unison)that we weren't romantically involved and moreover, really really really shouldn't be. I understand, but I'm still pretty sure he's convinced I've got a unicorn-laden trapper-keeper somewhere with his name written a thousand times in hearts. My thoughts: Why mess up a good thing? I like my lower-case R relationship, and a capital R one would cause me nothing but heartache. The more I think about it, the more I realize that while I really and truly love and admire Soren in a very friendly sort of way, I would be miserable in a romantic relationship with him, and would probably end up jumping off a bridge.

This would be bad, because I'm lazy, so I would most likely end up jumping off the Congress Avenue Bridge, since it's closest to my apartment. Now, for those of you who don't know, that particular bridge is home to 2.6 million Mexican freetail bats. Million. Now I don't know the effects of one cinder-blocked woman plummeting off the bridge 2.6 million bats choose to call their home, but believe me when I tell you I don't want to find out.

When I asked you to undress me
You said it would hurt
I said do it
You ripped off my skin
I wasn't using it anyway
_____

A boy drowned when he tried to kiss the moon
that he saw reflected in a pool.
a reflection of a reflection.
I will be killed by the sun
with Your name on my lips.
_____

I look, but cannot get lost enough to find You.
I call, but all your names obscure Your face
I fear I will go insane from knocking on doors
asking for mustard seeds.

Abortion?: Is not a form of birth control. It should, however be legal.
Death Penalty?: Against it, I don't like the idea of a government that can kill it's own people. Of course, I understand people who are pro death penalty.
Prostitution?: Ought to be legal, if only for health reasons, also it would a lot safer for the women.
Alcohol?: why yes, thank you.
Marijuana?: ought to be legal, however since in my experience, the average American has the self-control of a autistic gopher, it never will be. Same thing with a lower drinking age. Plus there's a quality control issue.
Other drugs?: See above, ESPECIALLY the quality control. I watched my mom OD when I was a kid on some bad drugs. If they had been purer, maybe she wouldn't have OD'd.
Gay marriage?: Whole-heartedly support it. What God has brought together, let no man put asunder.
Smoking?: Is a pretty dumb thing to do, but I don't think it ought to be illegal. While I'd prefer, for my own selfish wants, to have no smoking in clubs, but I don't think it's right to outlaw it.
Drunk driving?: Should be punished severely.
Cloning?: individual organs, okay, people and animals? no, no thank you.
Racism?: Pathetic
Premarital sex?: well, I'm a little tired right now...but wait, let me shave my legs.
Religion?: Let a thousand flowers bloom
The war in Iraq?: Support it, though it could have been handled better.
Bush?: Very good president, all things considered. Getting a bum rap.
Downloading music?: I used to do it, but I don't anymore. I wouldn't mind paying for a service, though.
The legal drinking age?: See autistic gopher comment, above.
Porn?: Is only degrading to women if they allow themselves to be degraded.
Suicide?: selfish, but understandable.

What is your stand on..... brought to you by BZOINK!

The best thing about being in a relationship that's not a capital-R Relationship is you get the good stuff (friendship, activity partner, meaningful conversation, and even rumor has it, sex) without any of the rotten stuff (bills, fights, jealousies, getting sick of each other's faces).

There is something glorious about having a friend with whom you can share wonderful, intimate conversation and experiences and, providing you don't fall asleep in the middle of a tete a tete (which I did last night), and, when it's all said and done you can go home.


It's lovely to be a woman.

Overall lovely weekend. Taught my citizenship class and Heather observed. I only had two students so I let class out 15 minutes early.

Dawn, a swell gal from work, met us outside the building, and I let them borrow a silk sari each for the Indian Fair at the Barsana Dham temple. Heather choose a lavender wedding sari, my first and most expensive one, which I ended up giving her gave it to her, which sounds generous, although it's really not, since I stopped wearing it after I went swimming in it for a photo shoot and it got all splotchy. She was radiant in it, like a little silk wrapped kewpie doll.

Dawn chose my favorite sari, a dove grey one with a raja scene complete with elephants on the pallu (the big decorative border). She looked smashing, since she's got one of those faces that somehow manages to be simultaneously All American and exotic without cracking.

I wore my magenta wedding sari with peacock goldwork on it. Pretty, but nothing special. Of course, I feel like a spoiled memsahib for saying that.

I bought a mess of jewelry at the festival, and made out like a bandit. Maybe because it's because I was born with a bindi-shaped birthmark on my forehead, or maybe it's just part of my charm but the Indian men, they love me. I ended up paying $12.00 each for five earring/necklace/tika sets for which Dawn paid $20.00, and others paid $35.00.

Yeah, I know my neck will turn green but for the time being, Score.

Also, save the date for the May 29th. It's the triumphant return of The Blue Flames at Headhunters featuring Soren as the new drummer! Everyone must come. It's the first time he's played with a band in almost 20 years, and the Blue Flames are better than ever!

I'm counting on the faithful Subs gang to all show up and support the biggest Flametrick Groupie in the known universe.

Have an article due on my road trip for the next issue of Hatch Magazine. Haven't begun to write it. ARGH!!!!

As one of my literary pals said "No one likes writing, we like being writers."

Amen.

Saturday is the Mela (Indian Festival) at Barsana Dham temple. Heather, Dawn and I are all going. I went last year and it was glorious. Well, the volvo was mauled by a band of vigilante peacocks which caused me to take a slight vehicular foray into the temple's "sacred pond" (if they didn't want me to drive into it, they shouldn't have put it so close to the...er...sidewalk. Also, in my defense, the sidewalks and the "streets" looked the exact same, and there was a giant fuck-all peacock on my windshield, obscuring my view and cawing mightly)

Speaking of Saris.

Last night I realized I should never have kiddos.

I needed to wash my saris, and couldn't use the apartment complexes' laundry room (while I do not live in a creepy neighborhood, I am creepy neighborhood-adjacent, and would just as well rather not spend any time in an unlocked laundry room in the middle of the night). So, improvising, I found myself washing 12 yards of brightly colored, heavily embroidered Indian silk in my kitchen sink, using a plastic cup as a stopper and empty bottles of vodka (well, one empty bottle of vodka and one empty bottle of a very nice Australian sparkling white)to mush the laundry about, because the water was too hot for my delicate digits.

These are not the laundry habits of a woman who should be trusted with small people.

I was down all weekend and very frustrated with myself, because I cannot for love, money, or the Great State of Texas, talk to people.

It's shameful that I should be able to express myself when I write, but flail around like a circus geek with an amputated tounge when it comes to actually talking to people. A writer who can't talk; such a cliche. Frankly, I find it very off-putting.

The only people who should have that sort of crippling inability to speak should be those whose literary or artistic genius is so profound that to funnel any bit of expression through any means but their particular talent would be a crime against humanity.

This is probably why Michelangelo didn't tap dance.

But I am not one of those talents. I am a good writer, not a profound one. Not once have I been confused with John Donne or Soren Keirkegaard in a dark alley, not even with my hair is up. So I think one's social disability should be proportionate to one's talent. If DaVinci, the master of all masters, was a social cripple; then the guy who painted Dogs Playing Poker probably just stuttered.

Following this reason, since I do not have a huge talent, my social malfunction should be limited. I should stand too close to everyone, use "good" where "well" ought to go and "axe" in place of "ask." That's it. No ridiculous babbling followed by a dead fish-eyed stare. Oof.

It's a pain to suffer for an art I'll never master.

Heather and I went to Moonshine for happy hour. I haven't been to happy hour anywhere since I worked as a Big Hotshot Financial Advisor back when the earth had not yet cooled and the tech bubble had not yet burst.

It was one of those spring days in Texas that makes you forget what you're in for come June. We sat in the garden, surrounded by antique rosebushes. Heather and I split two marinated steak kabobs that were grilled to perfection and flavorful, with grape tomatoes and pearl onions on a bed of bleu cheese and grilled corn salsa. It was the first time I had seen pearl onions outside their natural environment, the bottom of my grandmother's glass of gin.

Heather had some sort of fancy long island iced tea and I had a mojito sort of creation, but made with lemon and limoncello followed by a delicious cranberry juice, vodka and champagne cocktail. Very light, very lovely. We also split a huge plate of perfectly fried calamari that were tender beyond belief.

Except for drinking my first cocktail too quickly, which made me lose feeling in my arms for a few minutes (as per usual) and being introduced to a baby possum named, I believe, Louie; our happy hour experience.

Total price, excluding tip was well under 20 bucks.

Excellent.

It has come to my attention that I am not an Amblyopsis rosae.

The Amblyopsis rosae, aka the Ozark Cave Fish is one of those strange species of swimmything that after millions of years living in the cold, dark water has gone completely blind. Apparently it is thoroughly happy, swimming blindly in the near-freezing cave water for hours on end.

This is how I know I am not a Cave Fish.

My best pal Cassie has been on a health kick, and has lost a mess of weight. She went to a dietician, and eats like 1200 calories a day supplemented by some protein powder drink that comes in giant plastic urns. It's very commendable in a stay-away-from-me-with-that-stuff sort of way. She even works out.

So recently she's started swimming, which sounds lovely, and very much like something I would do.

At 5:30 a.m., in a 68 degree spring-fed pool. Which does not.

I have known myself for almost my whole life. People who have known me for a little over a day could tell you with certainty that I am not the sort of girl who likes to be doing anything in the morning other than sleeping, or other domestic tranquilities. They could probably have told you that being blind, wet, and freezing on a pre-dawn morning is not my idea idea of a good time.

They are a lot smarter than I am.

Foolishly, in a show of friendly solidarity, I agreed to go swimming with Cassie on Monday morning, bright and early. Only it was 5:30, so it wasn't bright. Of course, one might venture to say there is nothing bright about the whole idea. Of course, I got home about 3:00 a.m. from Michael's and was in no mood to do anything but sleep. I called Cass, said "uh...I can't make it, I just got home" she was a good sport, because that's probably the only sort of sport she knows how to be, and let me slumber.

Yesterday, figuring I would be well rested this morning, I agreed to give it one more try. I woke up and even donned my stylish blue swimsuit with tiny white polkadots. I stepped outside. I stepped right back inside. While looking for my nipples, which had fallen off in the brief second I was outside, the phone rang. It was, of course, Cassie.

"Cass, it's ridiculously cold out"
"You don't have to go if you don't want to"
"Seriously, have you been outside?"
"Ellie, you really don't have to go"
"I can't find my nipples, I think they're cowering under the couch in fear"
"I can go by myself"
"I'll go if you want me to, really. I'm even in my swimmysuit"
"really...you don't have to go"
"...Okay, havefunbye!"
*click*

Later this morning I saw my redheaded duckling, and said with all sincerity"well, maybe some time in the summer I can go...when it's hot."

Ladies and gentlemen...please place your bets.

Dear Westlake Farmers Market Bastards,

Listen, don't call it a "Strawberry Jubilee" unless there is in fact, something about which to be jubilant. Also, a "Strawberry Jubilee" ought to have more then one stand selling strawberries. A Strawberry Jubilee ought to have strawberry pie, strawberry shortcake, strawberry salsa and by God it should have a Strawberry Queen.


I had fully planned on being the strawberry queen, and had decided that if I was going to have to go to this Jubilee that I would be its monarch. So I donned my sweet red sundress with the little white polkadots, I constructed strawberry hair ornaments and a strawberry leaf bracelet. I even dug up a red and white dotted scarf to put in my armadillo basket. After 10 minutes parallel parking (Cassie's first, I'm so proud) Cassie and I walked across the high school parking lot to the Jubilee.

I was all dolled up as Strawberry Queen but Cassie, despite my pleading, would simply not wear my red vinyl devilgirl dress and specially constructed strawberry-leaf hat. Damn good thing too because...

We were surrounded by Yuppies.

They were everywhere. In unflattering capris and 200 dollar highlights, screaming to their children "Madison/Taylor/Hannah, You stop picking your nose/kicking that lady/eating all mommy's valium!" They dialed their cellphones with porn-star french-tip nails and parked their SUVs crooked.


Panicked, I turned to Cassie and whispered "We're not in South Austin anymore, Toto"

I was glad we took Cassie's truck because I would have been ashamed to take the Volvo. I had wondered about the quality of Jubilee available in Westlake, but Cassie seemed excited (she had some sort of sweet corn festival in her Colorado hometown, and is vehemently in the pro produce-inspired festival camp). Of course, this farmer's market was about a dozen stands in total. About a third were selling "Artisinal Cheeses" and seven-dollar loaves of bread, another third offered pickled okra for 12 dollars a jar (hot sauce was a bargain at 8.50) the remainder displayed soy candles, cruelty-free soaps and, tucked in almost to the back was the one stand with any sign of strawberry-al leanings. A cappuccino stand, with a tray of individually boxed wedges of storebought spongecake topped with "whipped topping" and one, lonely, gelatinous strawberry.

After being ankle-bitten by what must have been the third Eddie Bauer stroller in a span of 30 seconds, Cassie, clearly disappointed, decided to blow that proverbial popsicle stand and I followed like a puppy on a string.

I looked at her and smiled. "You know what Cass? You are too cool for this mess" I think she smiled and told me that it was the first time that had ever been said to her, about anything.

We jumped into the truck and as Cassie started it, her red hair curling wet on her forehead like a frustrated angel, she said "Let's get back south to the river, where we belong."