The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

This morning I awoke to the sweet clang of the recycling truck. Today is Friday! I am so happy! I thought, singing my old Friday Song in my sleepy head. Or, I sang until I remembered that I had once again forgotten to take the recycling out. Then I started reciting “Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage Out,” and envisioned waste overflowing the confines of my apartment and spilling onto the street below:

At last the garbage reached so high
That it finally touched the sky.
And all the neighbors moved away,
And none of her friends would come out to play.
And finally Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout said,
“OK, I’ll take the garbage out!”
But then, of course, it was to late…

— Shel Silverstein, from Where the Sidewalk Ends

Hrmph. Happy Friday indeed. Anyway, I thought today might be a good day to resurrect the Sassy Sundries, my occasional weekly roundup of things personal, political, and nonsensical. In a blatant ripoff of the Bean Counter in the Weekly Dig, I assign points to each item and then tally them up to reveal just how my week went.

Here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

The unemployment figures for February came out today. I am in good company—651,000 of us lost jobs last month. While personally, unemployment has treated me well, our economy has officially landed in Hell in our handbasket. Minus 651,000

Rush Limbaugh, the ignorant hypocritical prick, misquotes the Constitution he accused President Obama of bastardizing. At the beginning of his speech to the Conservative Political Action Conference, he bellowed, “We believe that the preamble to the Constitution contains an inarguable truth that we are all endowed by our creator with certain inalienable rights, among them life. Liberty. Freedom. And the pursuit of happiness.” In so speaking, he bastardized the Declaration of Independence. By making Rush the de facto leader of the Republican Party, the conservatives have given us an even bigger present than Sarah Palin. Minus Five for Rush, Plus Two for the future of the Democrats.

The International Criminal Court indicted Sudanese president Omar al-Bashir for war crimes. The government there then retaliated by ordering the expulsion of all aid workers. It’s unknown how the Court intends to follow through with the indictment, but right now many people are suffering. An old friend of mine is working there. Not Sure How to Rank

Earlier this week I met Date’s best friends. It went well. Tonight I meet more of his friends at a party. Plus Five

I never thought I’d hear Karl Kassel, of NPR fame, put his gravitas behind the news that a foot of snow fell in New Hampshire. Unless, of course, it happened in August. Less than a foot fell here, and you’d think that the flakes ushered in the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse from all the national attention they received. Minus Two

This week marked fifty years of Barbie. For fifty years, girls have learned that their bodies would never be good enough. Oh, and how to make her get it on with Ken. One of these days, Barbie! Poof! Those boobs are going to sink to your knees. Minus Two

President Obama holds a healthcare summit yesterday to begin to address one of the issues that has gotten us into this catastrophe. Ted Kennedy (now an honorary knight) was able to make an appearance. I’m not sure if Obama will be able to pull off what others have tried and failed to achieve, but I am hopeful. Hope counts for something. Plus Two

Total Plus: 9
Total Minus: 651,009

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -651,000

No Bad Feelings or Regrets . . .

Alpiner Kuntsverlag Hans Huber, Garmisch-Partenkirchen

Nothing warms the cockles of my heart so much as finding a kitschy treasure. I scour flea markets and bazaars for little pieces of tacky delight, and sometimes I find gold. One of my prized possessions is this postcard, sent in 1965 from the Netherlands to a certain Marty Shulman of the Bronx.

I bought the postcard for the sweet, drunken young blonde things in their Alpine splendor, but when I got home, I flipped the card over and realized that the true gem was the message from Joan and Martin to their friend Marty.

It reads as follows:

7/3/65

Dear Marty,

We are having a good time getting drunk every night on wine so that we can hardly get back to the pensione. However, there are no bad feelings or regrets in the morning, as we scourge ourselves of these sins by spending our days looking at everyone’s religious paintings.

Write + come to see us soon.

Joan and Martin

P.S. You can come now as we have rugs on the floor

I can add nothing further except to wish you all no bad feelings or regrets in the morning!

Disney, My Heart’s Devotion! Let It Sink Back in the Ocean!—Another Eavesdropping Story

Last Friday evening, before Fresh Hell played “It’s Fun to Smoke Dust” (see post below), you could have found us at a packed bar in Union Square. There we had discussed, among other things, Florida. Specifically, how much we hate Florida. “See,” Fresh said, “when I think about Florida, I don’t feel so bad about global warming . . . Florida is just going to go away.”

I shook my head. “Ah, Fresh. You really do know how to push buttons, don’t you?”

“Come on, now!”

She had a point, I suppose. Maybe part of a point.

Anyhow, like I said, the bar was crowded. A birthday party had gathered at the end, and the hostess asked Fresh and me if we wouldn’t mind moving down, so we did. We talked some more, and then I had to go off to the loo.

Three women, friends, were already in the stalls when I arrived, and they were gushing about one of the friend’s upcoming vacation.

“Aren’t you excited about going to Disney?”

“Yes! It’s going to be so great. I know I haven’t been there in, like, ten years, but it’s going to be so great!”

“Oh yeah. There’s so much to do there as an adult.”

“Shops, restaurants.”

“It’s just so clean!”

They all flushed at the same time, and came out discussing Magic Mountain. Upstairs, they rejoined the birthday party.

Hmm . . . Maybe Fresh is onto something.

Fundamentalists Are Dope! Queen, Backward Masking, and Sassy’s Warped Education

Friday night while driving me home from an evening out, Fresh Hell played Lobsterdust’s mashup “It’s Fun to Smoke Dust” (Queen vs. Pastor Gary Greenwald vs. Midfield General) from Best of Bootie 2008. Overlaid on Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” is Pastor Gary Greenwald’s passionate sermon about how the song contains an evil “backward masked” message, saying, “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” (Thank you, Freddy, for stating the obvious via satanic technology). I’d heard the mashup before, courtesy of Date, but I hadn’t really listened to it. Now that I was listening, it sounded very familiar.

“Wait a minute! I’ve heard this before! Is this from Hell’s Bells: The Dangers of Rock and Roll? We had to watch this movie in high school!*”

Even though Fresh knows I was raised by fundamentalist Christians and had to go to fundamentalist school, sometimes my knowledge of such things still manages to surprise her. I thought perhaps it might surprise you. Here is a tale of an attempt to inoculate me and my fellow inmates against what fundies call “The World.”**

Sometime during my junior year in high school, our Christian Education teacher, who had also been our eighth and ninth grade history teacher (she had an associates in physical education), decided that my class had grown too worldly and that we needed to be aware of the dangers of backward masking and other messages hidden in rock and roll music (aka “Worldly Music”). To that end she had signed out the school’s VCR (usually reserved for showing anti-premarital sex videos) and told us that we were going to watch a movie during class. That movie was Hell’s Bells.

Oh, Hell’s Bells. Made in 1989 at the height of the satanic cult scare, it saw the Dark Lord’s sooty fingerprints everywhere. The early middle-aged narrator, still sporting a mullet (all the better to appeal to “the youth”), left no stone unturned. From the usual heavy metal suspects to the Bauhaus, XTC, and the Cure, according to him every genre had but one, singular goal. To turn young people into knights in Satan’s service (yeah, Gene Simmons. We’re onto you).

While degenerate rock musicians peddled messages of sex and drugs as a matter of course, far more insidious was the phenomenon known as backward masking. Hidden in certain rock and roll songs, were messages discernable only when the track was played backwards.*** The subject of these messages? Pure evil. Groups like the PMRC blamed backward masking for everything from suicide to Satan worship. Listen to rock? Become a zombie for the devil.

Most of the examples of backward masking in Hell’s Bells had to do with worshipping Satan, but Queen’s “Another One Bites the Dust” announced that it was fun to smoke dope. So I guess when I was bopping my head, skating around the roller rink, I should have been thinking about toking up instead of shooting the duck. Sigh. I’d always misheard lyrics.

Thing was, when mullet guy played the backward masked message to “Another One Bites the Dust,” it didn’t sound a bit like “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” It sounded like this:

Eetssss nnn te kehhh erijNAH!

Excuse me? Don’t you think Satan would make himself a bit clearer? I was trying rather hard not to laugh, but some of my classmates couldn’t help it and started snickering. That pretty much did it for the effectiveness of Hell’s Bells. We weren’t going to be burning our Led Zeppelin albums and replacing them with Steven Cutis Chapman any time soon.

When our teacher left the room to return the video player, Queen was all we talked about. We tried to figure out what the heck was going on. “That didn’t sound anything like marijuana!”

A number of us tried, but the young Smokestack imitated the backward masking best. She’d grunt and yell, and then someone would follow with “Hey hey!” and we’d bop our heads to the tune in our head. At some point, someone (maybe it was me, but I don’t remember) realized that the backward message sounded a heck of a lot like “Another One Bites the Dust” written backward:

TSUDEHTSETIBENOREHTONA

That clears things up. Of course it says, “It’s fun to smoke marijuana!” Hail Satan! Pass the bong!

Among other oddities, Queen’s supposed backward masking has become a symbol of our warped education. So when I got back home after hearing Lobsterdust’s mashup, I immediately sent the following e-mail to Smokestack:

Run. Do not walk. Google directly "Best of Bootie 2008," and download the Queen song. You will laugh yourself peeless.

She replied with the suggestion that we use it as a theme song to our next reunion.


*The particular sermon in the mashup was not drawn from the documentary, but the message is the same.

**“The World”—To fundamentalist Christians, existence can be bifurcated into two groups, Christians (meaning born-again fundamentalists—no Catholics or “mainline” churches welcome) and everyone else. Everyone else = “The World.” The customs and music of the others are viewed by fundamentalists as the slippery slope leading directly to the Bad Place.

***It is indeed possible to add a “backward masked” message to an album track. The new wave band the Waitresses added a backward masked message on “I Could Rule the World if Only I Could Get the Parts,” and then slapped a warning label on it. I’d heard the story, and when I was in college, I convinced my computer science geek friend to feed it through his computer. The message? “Anyone who believes in backward masking is a fool.” Genius.

I Need a Mister

So the other day, I e-mailed a freelancer to see if he wanted some work. He lives in California, and thrives on impossibly hot weather. Yes, he replied, he wanted the work, but he needed a little bit more time, as he and his family were headed off on vacation in Palm Springs. “It’s going to be hot, really hot,” he wrote, “but there are lots of swimming pools and misters.”

The heat here must have gotten to me, because it took me a bit to figure out what he meant. Misters? Men make things cool? I had this picture of Venetian gondolier-like men, in their stripey outfits, rushing hither and fro, fanning the good people of Palm Springs. The image made me laugh. Then I got it. Oh. Mist. Water. It’s not stripey men—it’s water.”

I wrote back the freelancer, granting the extra time. By way of conversation, I added, “It’s hot here, too. I think I’ll need a mister.”

This is what I got back from him:

So when you said you might need a “mister,” I wasn’t sure what you meant. Was that some East Coast way of referring to a date (I need a date)? Then I realized I had said there are “misters” in Palm Springs . So I didn't know if you were saying it would be hot in Boston, too, or you were making a play on words. In any case, it gave me five minutes of amusement, which is always nice.

Yes, amusement is nice.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Well, that’s better. Instead of reporting on six months’ worth of news, I only have to recount seven measly days. I think I can handle that.

Wow! Blogville remembered me! Thanks for the response to my resurrection posts. You all make me feel so loved. It’s been great to read about how you’ve all been faring since I dropped off the face of cyberspace. I’d like to do it more, but I’m afraid I still work for the Interweb Nazis. I can’t visit you all as much as I’d like, but I’m trying.

What a great night. As I type, a beautiful full moon fills the sky outside my window. It rose a beautiful pink (I don’t care what Nick Drake says, it’s not going to get me) and now shines a pale yellow. I grilled me up some veggies earlier this evening and hung out on the patio. This weekend’s shaping up to be filled with Shakespeare on the Common, Somerville’s Art Beat, the beach, a Haymarket adventure, and friends. No complaints here.

Enough blabbing already. It’s time for the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical. It feels good to be doing this again.

The Obama campaign shows a complete lack of humor by trashing the New Yorker’s brilliant satirical cover. Man, we the readership are on your side. Relax already. Minus One

For the first time since the seventh grade, I have short hair. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I’ve received nothing but compliments. It’s done a lot to erase the memory of that old beauty-school student hack job. Plus One

Job hunting. It sucks. Figures I’m finally ready to move on during the worst economy in forever. If anyone has any advice, please e-mail me. Minus Two

The Red Sox scrape their way into first place before the All-Star break. J.D. Drew gets the MVP for the All Star game, and A-Rod is fending off rumors about Madonna. Heh. Plus Three

Dumbass W opens up lands to oil drilling. Will it solve our energy crisis? Nope. Will it give welfare to greedy corporations? Yep. Minus Five

Hardboiled Wonderland at the End of the World. What took me so long to read this? What was I thinking? Genius. Will write more when I’ve read more. Plus Three

Had my boy juju going last weekend. I have no idea what kind of cosmic alignment took place, but I had several young men making a point of letting me know they appreciated me. Must remember to wear sundress more often. Plus One

Total Plus: 8
Total Minus: 8

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: Even Steven

I'm with the Folkie?

I don’t normally pick up Stuff@Night, the “hip” little guide to Boston nightlife (the Dig’s Media Farm usually sums it up nicely), but I grabbed the “Welcome Back” issue on Saturday en route to Chinatown after I realized that I had somehow forgotten my book.

As I perused the contents, I spotted an article on thirty ways to shake up one’s nightlife routine. Being of the never-go-home-the-same-way-twice school of life, I decided to check it out. You can read the tips on how to get arrested and/or die of alcohol poisoning yourself, but I would like to focus on the advice for how to become a groupie for an evening.

Night 28: Become a groupie. Channel Kate Hudson and the Band-Aids in Almost Famous, then choose an up-and-coming local musician as the new object of your obsession. Arrive early to secure your front-row spot, and after the band’s set, flirt, schmooze, or buy your way backstage for a personal meet-and-greet with your new favorite. We suggest starting small at more intimate venues like the Paradise Lounge(969 Comm Ave, Boston, 617.562.8800), Johnny D’s (17 Holland Street, Somerville, 617.776.2004), or Club Passim [Ed: Click on the link] (47 Palmer Street, Cambridge, 617.492.7679); you’ll probably have more luck, and lesser-known artists will be more appreciative of your affection.

Now, I have nothing against getting up close and personal with the band. If that’s on your life-experience checklist, then go for it. As with risqué dancing in public, however, there is a place for everything. Somehow, I suspect that a venerable folk club where nary a word is spoken during a performance and where the strongest drink you are likely to get is a very virginal raspberry lemonade is not the best place unleash your inner Pamela Des Barres.

I realize that Stuff@Night probably did not intend to send its readers to the hospital after they binged on alcohol from brunch to dawn (see Night 17), and that many of these tips were given with toungue planted firmly in cheek. With this little gem, however, I wonder if Stuff@Night had other, more sinister, plans up its sleeve. I know that I for one would certainly pay good money to see befuddled folk musicians fending off throngs of tarted-up young things determined to seduce them.

At least, I hope that Stuff@Night is filming a comedy instead of just demonstrating complete and utter cluelessness.


In other local news, tonight Andraste, Fresh Hell, and I will be meeting up for drinks. Should be a great time.

My First Setup

Poor Dive. His well-meaning relations and friends keep trying to set him up with ugly, American-fat women with “lovely personalities,” and he wishes that they would just stop. His tale of woe reminded me of the first time someone tried to marry me off. It happened when I was barely fifteen.

My mother had a friend named Katherine. Katherine was from the Old Country, and she loved me. She would go on and on about my hair and how beautiful it was. Once for a school project I interviewed her and her husband on tape about how they escaped the Nazis and then the Soviets in Poland before they came to America. In the middle of the interview, she cried, “You haf beauuuuutiful hair. You washen?” When I had to play the tape for the class, pandemonium ensued. Everyone asked me if I washed my hair on a daily basis for the rest of the year.

Well, since I was so beautiful, Katherine was absolutely horrified when she learned that my mother had not yet arranged a marriage for me. Not wanting me to become a spinster (good thing she’s passed on—she’d be horrified to know that I’m still single), she had decided to take matters into her own hands. First, she invited me over to give me cooking lessons. Under her gruff tutelage, I learned to make tea cakes and other niceties for the table. I liked to bake, so these lessons were fun for me. “You haf tu cook to pleaze a man!” she’d say. I giggled, thinking to myself that I had tu cook to pleaze my belly.

Satisfied that I had the proper skills, she decided to start making inquiries (without telling my mother—or me—of course). When she had found an eligible man, she called my mother and asked her to send me to her house for coffee. I tromped on up the hill to her house, and when I got there, I noticed that she’d gotten out the good china and had set a table for two. “Oh! Are we having fancy coffee, Katherine?” I asked. Katherine smiled.

There was a knock on the door, and in walked a man in his late fifties, dressed in a suit and tie. He was also Polish, and he smiled at me approvingly. “Sit! Sit!” Katherine barked at me. I sat. So did the man. Katherine poured the coffee and set out the cakes. “She isth very good cook!” Katherine told the man.

“I didn’t make these,” I explained to the man. After Katherine had set us up, she left for the kitchen. This is weird, I thought, but didn’t make much of it. Apparently she wanted me to have coffee with the guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about college. We had a little chat, drank our coffee, and ate the cakes. The man kept smiling at me in a very strange way, but I just chatted away.

The snack done, I told Katherine that I had to go. “I have dancing lessons in an hour,” I explained. “See!” She said to the man, “She danz. She talented!” The man smiled again, and I said goodbye and tromped back down the hill to my house.

No sooner had I arrived home when the phone rang. My mother answered. It was Katherine. My mother listened to what she had to say, shot me a very quizzical look, and sternly explained to Katherine that she didn’t think it was a good idea. I could hear Katherine saying, “But they talken! They laughen! It ist a good match!” My mom’s face started to wrinkle and she was starting to laugh, but she kept her voice firm. “No, Katherine. I don’t think that she’s ready for that” and hung up the phone. Then she collapsed into peals of laughter.

“Katherine tried to set you up with a geezer!” She gasped. “That man! That man you met wants to marry you! You’re fifteen!” She barely got the words out.

“What????” I said. “Eeeew. She wanted me to marry him? He’s older than Daddy!” I felt funny.

My mom continued to laugh, “Oh my!” she’d say, wiping her eyes. “Oh dear! Oh hee hee hee!”

Katherine, on the other hand, thought my mother was insane and didn’t recover quickly from the slight. My mother decided that I wasn’t to go to Katherine’s without supervision. Eventually, however, Katherine tried again. This time she called my mother.

“I haf another man for yur daughter. He tall. He smart, he handsome, he young. He going to be doktor.”

“No, Katherine,” my mother said gently. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I know you mean well, but we don’t do things like that here.” And with that, Katherine gave up.

Katherine died when I was in college, and I couldn’t make it home for the funeral. My mother called me afterwards, very apologetic. “Oh, Honey. I think I blew it. You know that last guy Katherine wanted to set you up with? Well, I met him. He was young, tall, and handsome. He is in medical school. He’s really nice. He also has a girlfriend. I’m so sorry. Perhaps I should have listened to her.”

Oh well. I guess I shouldn’t complain about being single.

Skunkwater Memories

Two ladies—we call them Skunkwater Lady I and Skunkwater Lady II (sometimes Jr)—habitually bathe in knock-off perfume in the ladies’ toilet where I work. You might think that I use the word “bathe” hyperbolically. I assure you, I’m not. The thick, wafting clouds of Eau de Icky-Sicky-Sweet I and II are deadly. Every day, the Skunkwater Ladies freshen up their scent right around lunchtime, rendering the bathroom a Superfund site for most of the afternoon.

My coworkers and I have thought about posting signs, something, anything to stop it, but we aren’t entirely sure about how to go about putting the kibosh on skunkwater application without creating an international incident. It was during a strategizing session/bitch fest about the Skunkwater ladies last week that I was reminded of this tale from my youth.

Boys of fashion and taste sported Polo for Men by Ralph Lauren when I was in high school. They would strut past me, and my stomach would flip, my heart would beat faster, and my palms would get just a little bit sweaty. I would feel faint and look after the studly juniors and seniors with love and repressed lust (I went to a Christian school). Oh, how I wanted them. When I finally got a boyfriend of my very own, he wore Gucci. It wasn’t the only thing about him that disappointed me, but it was high up on the list. I never realized my dream of falling into the arms of a Polo-wearing senior.

Years passed. Polo had been eclipsed by other scents (beer appealed to me quite a bit at the time), and I had largely forgotten about my obsession with it. I was working in a deli before I went off to graduate school, and one day I was adjusting some containers of potato salad when I caught a whiff of something. My palms got sweaty, my heart fluttered, my head swam; I nearly threw up all over the containers of potato salad. Bleurgh! What is that stench? I couldn’t place it right away, but there was something familiar about the scent. Then, in a flash it came to me. It’s Polo! This realization was quickly followed by the thought, Wait a minute . . . Polo reeks?

As I was puzzling this over, I had an epiphany: Polo makes me sick! It wasn’t love! It was nausea!

Liberated from years of unrequited passion, I shrieked with laughter. That poor customer. He had no idea why I was running away from him at top speed.

Four Out of Five

Time’s up. Please put your pencils down. The Five Things About Me Quiz is finished. The answers are below.

1. I was a cheerleader in high school.

Dive, are you sitting down?

Oh, this is fun. The looks I get when I admit this are priceless. YOU?! YOU WERE A CHEERLEADER?! people shout when I tell them. Yep. I was.

Please stay seated, Dive, as it gets worse.

I was not only a cheerleader; I was also the captain of the squad. In other words, I was a great cheerleader. I have the trophies to prove it (well, they are gathering dust in my parents’ attic, but you get the idea). If Smokestack makes herself known here, she’ll tell ya. I rocked the house.

Just as no one sets out to be a junkie, I didn’t set out to be a cheerleader. Thing is, I needed an activity for college, and dancing wasn’t going to cut it. I needed something I could letter in. I couldn’t play basketball. I wasn’t terribly good at softball (I throw like the girl I am). They didn’t offer volleyball until my junior year (I was pretty good at that).

I might not have possessed great athletic prowess, but boy could I dance, and I could yell loud enough to raise the dead. Hence, cheerleading. Even though I went to a tiny, conservative Christian school, we had real uniforms with short skirts, and we did plenty of jumping (and cartwheels, and flips, and splits). I hated it. I was not a stereotypical cheerleader. I was not popular, nor was I outgoing (Little Sassy Schmoozer took a big long snoozer during my awkward teenage years). I tried to quit my junior year, but my coach wouldn’t let me. Instead I became the captain of the cheerleaders.

So, yes I was a cheerleader in high school. I was also an excellent student. It always amused me when people at school used to put the cheerleaders down for being ditzy and dumb, especially since some of the most intelligent girls in school were on the squad. One of my cheerleading buddies majored in math and went on to earn oodles of money at IBM. Thanks to my AP credits, I was technically a college sophomore half-way through my first semester in college. But you know, I was like, a cheerleader, so I’m, like, totally dumb and stuff. Totally.

2. I worked at McDonald’s for a summer.

Doubly sad, but also true. I started college in the middle of a recession (thank you, Reagan and Bush I). There were no jobs, and so we were all taking what we could get for work. I had to suck up working at Mickey Ds. I was a vegetarian McDonald’s employee who really didn’t care if people got their fries in a hurry. They didn’t like me much.

My first day, I donned my high-water polyester pants (I am all of five feet, three inches tall, and I have never had a problem with high-waters before or since) with the arches emblazoned on the ass, the polyester striped button down complete with bow tie, and the visor. My friend beheld my appearance and nearly died of asphyixiation. In no way did I look like myself. I’m not just saying that. My McDonald's costume would have made the perfect disguise if I had wanted to live a life of crime.

One time I worked at another store, and after my shift I changed my clothes before going back to the counter to get an employee drink. They asked to see my employee ID. I had to show them my mustard-stained uniform before they believed it was me and forked over the Diet Coke. When I brought back my uniform at the end of summer, one guy who hadn't been particularly nice to me took one look at me and exclaimed, “You’re pretty?! Holy Shit!” Ha. Ass.

3. I can roll my tongue.

True. I also have hitchhiker thumbs. My second toe on my right foot is longer than my big toe, and if you believe the story, that makes me a werewolf. My hair’s perfect.

4. I’ve run for public office.

FALSE! Fooled you! I have never run for public office. I’m too much of a rabble-rouser to be interested in running for office. Besides, I was a wild child in my wild days, and there are pictures to prove it. I inhaled. I might get elected dogcatcher, but that’s about it.

5. I’ve been tear gassed at a protest.

True. By Canadian Mounties, no less. In the spring of 2001 my coworkers and I traveled up to Quebec City, Canada, to protest at the Free Trade Area of the Americas meetings. The authorities were stopping people at the border, but we had rented a car and wore decent clothes, so we got a pass. Although I didn’t personally witness any violent activity, the cops did not want thousands of protesters anywhere near the meeting headquarters. So, they repeatedly fired tear gas into a crowd of peaceful demonstrators. The stuff’s awful, and I’m horribly allergic to it. It made me very sick, but my allergist always considered me a hero after that. I’ve been to plenty of other protests in my day, but that was the only time I’ve been tear gassed.

Before Girl is indeed the Smartest Person Alive. She’s the only one who figured it out.

Tacky Gift Party

One of the highlights of my holiday season is the Tacky Gift Party. For years, my friends and I have scoured the world for the most useless, ugliest, most sick and wrong gifts we can find for less than $5. Then we wrap them up nicely and exchange.

In days of old, the Friendly Toast restaurant, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, home to some of the worst art ever created, served as the backdrop to Tacky Gift. Our wait person would judge the contest (we tipped well). Times change, however, and this year Tacky Gift will be held at a friend’s house. The host has instructed guests to bring the items like Twinkies, Tab, spray cheese, cocktail weenies, Boone’s Farm “wine,” Natty Ice, and Devil Dogs for the festivities. We won’t eat or drink, but merry we shall be.

A continual work in progress, there are no hard and fast rules to Tacky Gift. The following guidelines, however, are enforced:

• The lower the cost, the higher the Tackiness Quotient. Tie will go to the cheapest gift. Hence, re-gifting always lends an advantage.
  
• Kitsch is not the same thing as Tacky. Kitsch is too cool to be truly tacky.
  
• In order to qualify, gifts must be something that people can conceivably imagine someone giving as a present.
  
• The Uselessness Factor is always appreciated. A puzzled “What is it?” uttered upon opening is a sign of a truly tacky gift.

Memorable prize-winning gifts have included an orb of undetermined substance and origin; a clear Lucite rose ring holder, with hideous blue perfume in the flower—this thing also lit up and played a tinny, electronic Für Elise; a gigantic portrait of a copule's eldest son; and a two-videotape set of the Left Behind movies, starring ex-child actor Kirk Cameron of Growing Pains fame and badly based on the biblical book of Revelation.

The recipient of the tackiest gift pledges to display the gift in a semi-prominent place for a year (that plastic flower gizmo was an eyesore, but I really feel bad for my friend who had to display Left Behind for an entire year), and the giver of the tackiest gift gets to bring home the plastic drunken Santa wine goblet as a trophy. The trophy is currently in my possession. I’m fairly confident that I will get to keep it, because here is my gift.

I discovered this patriotic Thomas Kinkade, Painter of Light™, bear, clearance price $2.99, while taking one for the team. If you don’t know about him, Thomas Kinkade is a strange bird. He’s an “artist” of the cheesiest order known for some bizarre outbursts. Take this story from his Wikipedia entry.

“In 2006 John Dandois, Media Arts Group executive, recounted a story that on one occasion ("about six years ago") Kinkade became drunk at a Siegfried and Roy magic show in Las Vegas and began shouting ‘Codpiece! Codpiece!’ at the performers. Eventually he was calmed by his mother.”

Like I said, I’m going to win. If a patriotic bear designed by a drunken Siegfried and Roy fan obsessed with codpieces and his mother isn’t tacky, then I don’t know what is.

Random Monday Musings

Holy crap, this story made me laugh. I can see it now. A family brings home their Christmas tree, and the fresh pine scent fills the house. Mugs of hot chocolate all around. Singing along with the Christmas music, the family begins to decorate. Everything is just holiday perfect until… Aieeeeee! The tree has beady little eyes! I can see a horror movie franchise here. Perhaps I should write a screenplay, The Christmas Trees Have Eyes. Whaaa haaa haaaa haa.

So I didn’t go out with Flattering French Guy, as you may have guessed. I just couldn’t go through with it. I called him and wound up having to leave a message saying that I didn’t think it was a good idea for us to meet up. When I hung up I felt nothing but relief. There are other men out there, and I’m sure that Flattering Guy can flatter his way in to some other woman’s heart.

Nothing much went on with me this weekend. I stayed close to home and made some major progress on the holiday knitting. Check out my posts on Punk Rock Knitters (here and here), if you’d like (exception: Ms. Smokestack cannot click on these links, or she will ruin her surprise).

The only other thing of note that happened to me was that I fell in the driveway. Splatted was more like it. Hey, Grace! I turned my foot, and now I’m walking with a limp. I have huge bruises on my elbow and hip. Pretty. And now it’s off to the warehouse.

Christmas Cheer

Hot Chocolate and the Best Yard Sale Find Ever

After I graduated from college I went home to live with my parents for a year before I started graduate school. Two of my high school friends also returned to our hometown, and the three of us divided our time between our lousy part-time jobs (I worked in a supermarket deli, one friend was a waitress, and the other ran a sandwich shop) and the bar. We partied. We had more boys after us than we’ve ever had since. We had no major responsibilities. We were miserable.

When Christmas rolled around that year, we all had to work Christmas Eve until mid-afternoon. It had snowed the day before, but the Christmas Eve broke sunny and not-too-cold, and so we decided to go sledding. All activities in those days required alcohol, of course, and the occasion called for something particularly festive. We decided upon a little concoction we dubbed “Christmas Cheer.”

Christmas Cheer is disgusting. Here’s the recipe:

You'll Need:
2 heaping teaspoons instant hot chocolate per partaker
1 cup hot water per partaker
Peppermint schnapps, I’d say to taste, but it was really more to obliterate
1 candy cane per partaker
Instant whipped cream, if desired

To Assemble:

Boil the water

Add instant hot chocolate to mug

Add boiling water to about three-quarters full, and stir

Add schnapps (or shnappies, as my friends would say), and stir

To Garnish:

Spray whipped cream on top, if desired

Add candy cane---Festive!

Repeat, as often as desired

Poison

I don’t remember much of the sledding trip, but I do remember singing Christmas carols at the top of our lungs and feeling absolutely awful afterwards (but with minty fresh breath!). It was the best Christmas Eve ever. All anyone has to say is “Christmas Cheer, wink wink,” and we’ll sigh and get all misty-eyed with remembrance of our last carefree days.

Last Christmas one of the friends flew in to see her family. I picked her up in Boston, and we hung out for the evening at my place before heading to New Hampshire for the festivities. On a lark I had procured a bottle of peppermint schnapps under the pretence of making Christmas Cheer. We drank red wine and reminisced about it instead. Feeling wise and hangover-free, we left for New Hampshire the next day.

My neighbor, apparently short of booze for the holidays, broke into my apartment while I was away and stole my Christmas Cheer. My guess is that he spent Christmas Day avoiding all things merry and bright.

Quiz Mania

Blame Robyn, Dive, and every other quiz-crazed maniac out there in the blogosphere.

You Are 34% American

America: You don't love it or want to leave it. But you wouldn't mind giving it an extreme make over. On the 4th of July, you'll fly a freak flag instead... And give Uncle Sam a sucker punch!

How American Are You?

Your Language Arts Grade: 100%

Way to go! You know not to trust the MS Grammar Check and you know "no" from "know." Now, go forth and spread the good word (or at least, the proper use of apostrophes).

Are You Gooder at Grammar?
Make a Quiz

What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm You're probably in the final stages of a Ph.D. or otherwise finding a way to make your living out of reading. You are one of the literati. Other people's grammatical mistakes make you insane.
Dedicated Reader
Literate Good Citizen
Book Snob
Non-Reader
Fad Reader
What Kind of Reader Are You? Create Your Own Quiz

You Are A Weeping Willow Tree

You are a dreamer, and you're into almost any kind of escapism. Restless and capricious, you love to travel to exotic places. You are easily influenced by others, as long as they don't pressure you. You tend to suffer in love until you find that one loyal, steadfast partner. An empathetic friend, you love to make others smile and laugh.

What's Your Celtic Horoscope?

Fun with Craigslist Personals

Sometimes when I need a laugh, I head on over to the Craigslist personals section. No, not the nasty “Casual Encounters” section (that place is just frightening), but the regular personals pages. Unlike regular online dating sites, where people tend to put their best dating foot forward, posters to Craigslist personals tend to reveal just what kind of bad shit was going down in their lives.

I suppose it’s sad, but since most of the funny men-seeking-women ads are from unemployed, ugly men who are looking for a woman so perfect that she only exists in the toy isle in a Barbie Doll box, it doesn’t feel wrong to make fun of them. Here’s an interesting one from today. In New England (the NORTH), some guy is complaining that there aren’t any hot women who like country music. Here’s his post, sans his reply-to address, with commentary:

convinced there are no hot women who like country music – 39
You are in New England, you idiot. We women may be hot, but we are not from Dixie, so you’ll just have to settle. I think the best you can hope for is a woman who won’t leave you after she finds you that you like country music.

are you out there?
No. I’m not out there.

Just like Tim McGraw...
Tim McGraw is out there. I’m glad you understand that.

Get it?
Not really. Would you mind explaining?

looking for real women who like country...
Nothing to see here, move along. And learn how to capitalize your sentences, please.

send pic. I aint no weirdo looking for pics.
Phew. At least he “aint no weirdo looking for pics.” He just wants a pic, singular. I’m sure I have one around here someplace.

Me? I am easy on the eyes...and you?
His picture was of a cheesy sunset. I guess that’s what he meant by being easy on the eyes.

There was another one from a business guy who wants to be a rock star and perform interesting acts, but it was really just gross.

My Elton John Story

So late last night at the wino party, when everyone still there was feeling toasty and the conversation was getting confusing, someone put in a documentary that featured a number of live musical performances from the late 70s at a club in England (I should remember what club it was—but I was in my cups last night, so I don’t). People were singing along and talking about the performances, and gradually the entire party wound up sitting around watching the documentary.

I went in the room when I heard “I Will Follow,” and joined in the critique of Bono’s mullet (for the record—I fell in love with U2 at the age of ten after my babysitter played “War” for me, so I can live with the hair. I couldn’t really live with Zoo TV). Countless other acts followed, Bonnie Rait, REM, Bruce Springsteen, Emmylou Harris, Tom Waits (with an unlined face—I always think of him as an ancient man), and then Elton John. Oh oh.

Elton John spelled trouble. The reason's a bit complicated.

As much as I hate the whole “Candle in the Wind” crap, that isn't the reason why Elton John makes me cringe. The man made some beautiful music in the 70s. He’s phenomenally talented. I used to really love listening to him when I was a kid. Until this one evening when I was ten, I thought he was amazing. After that evening, I didn’t listen to him again for nearly twenty years. Now I can listen to him, but I usually have to tell people my Elton John story. So here’s my Elton John story.

When I was a kid, my parents and their friends used to celebrate each other’s birthdays with rowdy dinner parties. The kind with lots of booze and inappropriate humor. We kids would always wind up stuck upstairs (we’d sneak down, but we’d usually be caught and sent back upstairs to bed).

Well, I’d just turned ten when the party was again at my parents’ house. I’d done my sneaking around and had been sent to bed. I must have fallen asleep, because it was really dark when I woke up. Something was wrong, though, because Elton John was being played rather loudly on the stereo. I couldn’t get back to sleep because of the music, so I decided to go downstairs to ask if they could be quiet, or barring that, if I could have some cake.

I padded down the stairs, and discovered that the house was dark. Perhaps the party moved to the porch, I thought. I wandered over to the porch door, and it was dark there too. No one seemed to be here anymore. Huh.

In my family, we didn’t do things like shut doors and such. Things were pretty open, so I didn’t think anything at all about heading to my parents’ room to tell them to turn the music off. I walked toward my parents’ room, and yep, you guessed it.

My parents were having sex.

Now I was ten. I knew what sex was. My parents had given me the basic rundown as to how my sister and I came into the world, and I had watched enough HBO at my friends’ houses to know the other details. What I didn’t get was why in the hell anyone would want to do such a thing. It was so, so… Ick.

Not one to keep things to myself, I decided to make myself heard. I shouted out, “I know what you’re doing, and I think it’s DISGUSTING!!!!”

I’ve never seen my parents move so fast in all my days. My dad was out of that room in about two seconds flat. The music was off a second later.

My mom, realizing that she was going to have to deal with this, gathered up some blankets and tried to soothe her distressed child.

“Come here,” she said, and patted the bed.

I looked at her like she was dangerous. I did not trust her one little bit. “I don’t want to sit down.”

“It’s OK,” she said. “I think we need to have a little talk. Please sit down.”

I sat down. “What did you think we were doing, honey?” my mother asked me.

I stared down at the covers, shame flooding through me. I couldn’t say it at first, but I managed to mumble it, still staring at the pattern of my parents’ quilt, “Humping. You and dad were humping.”

“Well, honey, that isn’t what I call it…” and she went on to explain that when two married people love each other, blah dee blah dee blah… After she finished her explanation, I felt better about things, but I still needed to make something clear. “If I get a little brother or sister out of this, I’m going to be really mad. One’s enough.”

My mother replied, “Well, we’re not trying to have a baby, honey, so don’t worry.”

“Then why were you doing it?” I demanded. This unfortunately led to more conversation about loving people and sex and nonsense like that. I was sorry I’d brought it up. I went back upstairs and tried to sleep. I couldn’t get Elton John music out of my head.

The next month or so was awkward as ass around my parents, especially my dad (there was no eye contact for a good bit), but eventually things returned to normal. And about a year or two later, I had an inkling as to what the fuss was all about.

But I still couldn’t listen to Elton John without wincing. Elton John equaled catching my parents in the sack. Elton John was yucky. People would occasionally play Elton John music, and I’d tell them to turn that shit off. If they wouldn’t turn it off, I’d tell them my story. Problem was, they'd usually laugh, and I'd have to tell it again when other people were around. In the retelling, I’ve realized just what an appalling little shit I was, sounding off like that. My poor, poor parents.

It seems that time has also gone a long way toward mending that moment, because as I watched Elton John perform “Tiny Dancer,” on the TV last night, I once again thought that he was pretty great.

But I still had to tell my Elton John story after the song was over.

Contagious Quiz Mania Continues

It’s not just me. When I checked out Dive’s blog this morning, my initial thought was that I’d created a monster. After I took my dating persona quiz two nights ago, I became obsessed with quiz taking. Last night I took a celebrity quiz (I am apparently like Susan Sarandon), a Sesame Street quiz (I am like Kermit the Frog), a quiz on commonly misused words (I aced it), and a host of other quizzes that I only vaguely remember. I stayed up too late; I felt guilty for wasting all that time.

The guilt was only compounded when I saw that Dive, too, has been taking online quizzes. Oh shit, I thought, I owe him an apology and a link to a 12-step quiz program (you get to take a quiz to find out if you are addicted).

But wait! Who did he ruefully thank for this latest time sucker? He didn’t thank me. He thanked Old Knudsen. I then checked out Old Knudsen’s blog to see if I’d somehow gotten him addicted and that he’d gone and gotten Dive addicted (thereby making my time suckage bad karma much worse than I thought). I held my breath and read.

Phew.

It wasn’t me. Knudsen got the idea from someone else.

Apparently this quiz-taking obsession is just in the air. Rather like this cold I have that my friend in Memphis, Tennessee, also has—we haven’t seen each other in months, and so we couldn't possibly have given it to each other. It's just one of those things.

Greatly relieved and now treating the quizzing thing more like a cold than an addiction, I reached for my tissues and took this new quiz. I'm feeling rather smug about catching a typo in the text. I am this kind of Tarot card (note the secret theme?):

You are The High Priestess

Science, Wisdom, Knowledge, Education.

The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, instinctual, supernatural, secret knowledge. She holds scrolls of arcane information that she might, or might not reveal to you. The moon crown on her head as well as the crescent by her foot indicates her willingness to illuminate what you otherwise might not see, reveal the secrets you need to know. The High Priestess is also associated with the moon however and can also indicate change or fluctuation, particularly when it comes to your moods.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

Sooo . . . Enough Politics

OK, I couldn’t think of the election anymore, so I took some online quizzes instead. This one, courtesy of OK Cupid, killed me. I answered a couple of questions, and they told me that I’m a nice girl . . . kind of.

These quizzes are bullshit (people are far more complicated than this). However, I’ve taken this one a couple of times, in a couple of different moods, and received the same answer, so I guess I'll accept it. At least this profile is more interesting than the one I got from Nerve ("Social Philosopher"). Don’t get any funny ideas, but feel free to take the quiz.

Read My Result
Take the Test

Oh, and I also took their politics test. I'm a socialist. Go figure.

Remember This? Throw the Neocon Bums OUT!

Remember this? Let's not have it happen again, OK? OK.

The time has come. Throw the neocon bums out!

They've bungled the war they launched under cover of deception.
They’ve failed to bring to justice those responsible for September 11.
They’ve dispensed with the foundation of western democracy.
They’ve tortured in our name.
They’ve mortgaged our future to secure the support of the rich.
They’ve sacrificed the environment for industry profits.
They’ve spread hate, distrust, and fear.
They’ve shown no shame after being caught spying on us.

They’ve controlled this country long enough.

Tomorrow we have a responsibility to stand up for democracy. To stand up for freedom. To stand up to those arrogant bastards who have taken everything good this country has ever stood for and tossed it aside for power’s sake.

Vote them out!

Check out Dr. James for information on how to keep your vote secure.

The Shining Drunken Rodents

Rodents, Mean and Drunken

Somehow the comments on my post about the demise of the pink flamingo turned to squirrels and rodents in general (oh, and politics, but I suppose that falls under the “rodents in general” category). Well it just so happens that squirrels (well, specifically one squirrel) and rodents (specifically, mice) have made the news lately. I thought I’d share.

I am from the devil and I will attack anyone
who dares deliver mail on my turf

Mean Squirrel Attacks Pennsylvania Letter Carrier
My favorite quote from this story, “We not issuing a squirrel alert…” What, exactly, is a squirrel alert, and how would one issue it? “Mayday, Mayday, squirrel spotted in Mr. Jones’s yard…Wait, nope, now it’s up the tree… Now it’s down the tree… Oh, damn, it’s just crossed the street and is eating an acorn in Mrs. Smith’s shrubbery. Will someone please get down here ready to run the critter over then next time it makes a break for it?”

Wine Keeps Fat Mice Happy, Healthy
In a new study, fat mice were given extraordinarily high doses of a chemical found in wine. Apparently this allowed the obese mice to stave off the health effects of fat micehood, and doctors think that this might be the magic bullet for fat Americans. Just what we need, super-sized plonk served at McDonalds. In any event, I guess that if all else fails in my life, I’ll just drink massive quantities of wine and take to my snacks. I’ll live to be 150 and laugh wickedly at all you poor saps who died young and svelte.

The Shining

Come type with us

Robyn waxed nostalgic for typewriters in her latest post. While commenting on her blog, I looked over and saw an example of my own typing. Last fall, the Brattle Theater in Cambridge, Massachusetts, showed a revival of The Shining during a Stanley Kubrick retrospective. It was a grand good time, and apparently I was impressed enough by the “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” exercise that I tried one of my own on the office typewriter (which, by the way, is only used for the occasional out-of-date form and doesn’t work terribly well). I think you’ll see why I’m grateful for modern technology (although the soothing bell and clickety-clack are beautiful things).