Goths on TV: Castle

Ah, Halloween time, the time when shows that your mom would watch do Halloween-themed episodes. In years past, I was blissfully unaware of these things since I don’t watch said shows. Now, such things are snagged by my well-meaning Tivo and its “vampire” and “goth” playlists. In short, every episode with either of those two words gets recorded, for better or worse.

On a recent episode of “Castle,” which appears to be some sort of even-more-questionable version of CSI, Mr. Castle finds a body. In a cemetery. With a stake through its heart. Quick, everybody! To the Mockmobile!

The episode starts with Castle talking to some girl who apparently lives with him. She’s sitting on the couch reading a thick book prominently displaying the title “The Pit and the Pendulum.” Was “Twilight” to obvious, or not public domain enough? At any rate, that sucker has to be the longest version of Pit and the Pendulum to ever be published.

In order to track down the vampire stake killer, Castle and his partner go to a goth store to speak with the man who “made Brad Pitt’s veneers for Interview with the Vampire.” The informant gives them the name of the staking victim. Anyone care to hazard a guess at the victim’s “vampire name”? Give you three guesses. Vlad? Nope. Raven? Nope. Crow? Jackpot!

Crow’s name turns out to be Matthew, which Castle and his partner find out when the speak to his ladylady, who’s showing them around his apartment. Three guesses on decor. If you guessed “velvet, crosses and candles,” you win. Apparently, Crow learned everything he knew about vampirism from some InstaGoth web site…which may help explain his name.

The landlady says Crow’s girlfriend had “long, black hair to her tush.” Castle’s partner responds as though this is the most unpredictable description of a goth chick she’s ever heard. “Long black hair??” I’m envisioning a scene where Castle and partner arrive to the goth club, only to realize that description fits 80% of the girls in the room.

Surprise! The girlfriend (her name is Vixen) has a website called the Den of Iniquity. While checking out the web site, a policeman states that he used to date a vampire girl. They broke up because she wanted to have sex in a coffin.

Naturally, the guy gets the goth club info from this old girlfriend. Within the first 5 seconds of being in the club Castle and partner are hissed at (you heard me) by a guy in full Crow makeup. I’m not saying Crow makeup doesn’t happen…I’m just saying that it wouldn’t happen at a club exclusive enough to have a secret location.

Rule 1: Friends don’t let friends dress like The Crow.

Rule 2: Boots before corset.

As Castle and partner walk through the club, Castle is groped by several females. He’s a good-looking dude, but I’m betting those chicks are trashed. Goth chicks do not grope normal-looking strangers. Goth chicks stand in the corner and wonder why the frat boy is in their club, whether he’s going to pull out a camera and whether they’ll have to kick his ass.

Castle and partner go into the VIP room and meet Vixen, who is busily sucking on some girl’s wrist. The presence of that guy who looks like The Crow gets explained when we find that even VIP Vixen has shit drawn on her face.

Rule 3: Don’t draw shit on your face.

Castle and partner ask “do you know somebody named Crow?” As realistic response: “uh…which one?” or maybe “oh, that douche?” Vixen’s response: “sure.”

Castle, partner, and “Used to Date a Vampire Chick” Guy go to the home of a suspect. Do they find him sleeping in a coffin? But of course. Does he start smoking when sunlight hits him? Yep. Wait, what?

Forensic Lady ends up telling us that Suspect Guy (who bears a striking resemblance to Rob Zombie) has an allergy to sunlight…which apparently causes him to SMOKE when sun hits him? Don’t nitpick, internets.

We have a second victim! A werewolf! Looks light Allergic to Sunlight guy is innocent, since werewolf and Crow were killed by the same person during the day.

Turns out that Crow witnessed his mother’s murder and werewolf guy knew about it or his family knew or…oh, what the fuck.

Turns out it was Crow’s dad’s second wife who killed the first wife. Then, she killed Crow and werewolf guy because they were going to find out.

Castle (who may or may not be attempting a British accent) ends up going to a Halloween party as Edgar Allan Poe. Maybe people from Baltimore sounded British in the 19th century?

Guest Post: Nick Valentino, author of Thomas Riley

It’s not just some crazy guy with a helium tank strapped on his back.

The purpose of a blog tour is for me, AKA new author trying to get in front of new people, to have little celebrity hosted, AKA (evil)amy, stops on blogs. My job is to tell you something witty or interesting about whatever it is I’m promoting or selling then give you a selling point at the end. No, I didn’t learn this in a marketing class.

So I’m going to get it over with right now and you can decide later if any of this interests you. I have a new book, just released on Echelon Press. It happens to be a Steampunk novel chocked full of alchemy, sky pirates, and goggles a plenty. It sounds contrived when I put it like that, but the truth is I wrote this a year ago when I was free to let my mind wander and create something well, new to me. While that doesn’t make me a grizzled veteran of the culture by any means, I do have to say the increased popularity of the culture in the last two years is striking. (And beware; you will be inundated with it in the near future.) All the big publishing houses are just now signing up Steampunk writers… So you have a year or two before you’re hit over the head with it. Then the monstrous abominations, yet probably very pretty looking movies will come.

Aside from the possibility of this (like anything) becoming mainstream and watered down, I’m sure you’re aware of the fun part of the culture as well. I guess it’s different for everyone, but for me, it’s the spirit of DIY that I most enjoy about Steampunk. There are varying degrees of creativity that go along with it. Some people go for “just a touch” by bringing their painted Nerf guns to cons, but some people go all out for the “demi-cog” status. These people are the ones that have literally hand crafted entire backpacks, jetpacks, and light up weaponry out of just about any mechanical gee-jaw they can find. And let me tell you some of this stuff is uber impressive. In San Diego and Atlanta the upper echelon of steampunkery could be seen with full on liquid tanked backpacks complete with working steam ejection hoses. It’s not just some crazy guy with a helium tank strapped on his back. This guy spent months on his wardrobe and I have to tell you it’s pretty amazing.

Interested? If so, keep reading.

My book, Thomas Riley, is out and here’s the blurb.

For more than twenty years West Canvia and Lemuria have been at war. From the safety of his laboratory, weapons designer Thomas Riley has cleverly and proudly empowered the West Canvian forces. But when a risky alchemy experiment goes horribly wrong, Thomas and his wily assistant Cynthia Bassett are thrust onto the front lines of battle and forced into shaky alliances with murderous sky pirates in a deadly race to kidnap the only man who can undo the damage: the mad genius behind Lemuria’s cunning armaments.

If you’re still reading then these links should interest you:

If you would like to find out more about the book, go to:
www.sirthomasriley.com

You can purchase a copy of the book at:
www.echelonpress.com

or buy directly at:
thomasriley.bigcartel.com

Children of Nowhere

I have learned two things from radio this summer:

1. I shouldn’t be getting Cobra Starshop and 3oh!3 confused with each other. 3oh!3 are a watered-down poor man’s Mindless Self Indulgence (spaghetti misogyny) and Cobra Starship are pop pixy stix tastiness.

2. Leighton Meester (as heard on Cobra Starship’s “Good Girls Go Bad”) scares the shit out of me.

OK, so it’s not just Leighton Meester. It’s all of them, the whole genre of emo kids from America’s suburbs. They hail from Nevada, Chicago, Michigan and Tennessee, but they all sound like they’re from exactly the same place. Like they were taught by voice coaches who told them, “you’re never going to make it in this business with an accent.” They speak perfect suburban white kid English; it’s like they come from some strange stepford-like planet where people have flat irons in place of left hands. (How do they play guitar with that flat iron hand?)

Exhibit A being Paramore. I have no problem with Paramore in theory; their first album was beautifully produced and it’s great fun for a sing along. However, I know that those kids are from Tennessee, giving them an inborn right to be ornery, grungy, and generally cantankerous. (And to use words like “ornery” and “cantankerous.”) We helped invent the blues! We helped invent rock! We’re marginalized! Granted, we stole most of those things from the even-more-marginalized African-American population, but let’s not nit-pick.

Then again, Paramore aren’t from the south, per se.* They are from Brentwood. Brentwood is not the south so much as it is The Suburbs. Everything looks the same in the suburbs, no matter the state. In the words of Christian Slater in Heathers, “no matter what city you’re in, there’s always a Snappy Snack Shack just around the corner.” The suburbs are the same. Brown brick, short signs, and people who don’t have accents but do tend to enjoy Volvo products.

The Leighton Meesters of the world are unsettling because they’re hard to pin down. They are everywhere, coming from nowhere. They have taken on the image of America: non-regional, homogenized, and a little unsettling.

*When you see the phrase “per se,” does it remind you of the “goths vs. vampires” episode of South Park? Me too.

Pop to English Translation: Pitbull – “Hotel Room Service”

If it had an equal, the subtle poetic nuance of Pitbull’s “Hotel Room Service” could only be approached by Sharpie scrawlings in an elementary school bathroom stall. (Translation first, followed by original lyrics in italics.)

[Intro]
Hello, everyone. If I may be so bold, I would appreciate your attention. If you find yourself dancing with someone with whom you’d like to have commitment-free sex later in the evening, please show your intentions by clapping and yelling.

I want everybody to stop what they’re doing. Now if you know you’re with somebody you’re gonna take the hotel room tonight, make some noise…

[Chorus]
Please don’t be concerned about the monogamous relationship in which you are involved. Get together a group of your best female friends and join me in my temporary residence.

Forget about your boyfriend and meet me at the hotel room, you can bring your girlfriends and meet me at the hotel room. [x2]
We at the hotel, motel, holiday inn. [x4]

[Verse]
I favor women who enjoy double penetration, anal sex, and/or “the shocker.” I’m available for pretty much any sort of sexual escapade. I would like to inspect your fallopian tubes and, if they are free of sexually transmitted disease, I would like to ejaculate in their direction.

She like that freaky stuff, 2 in the oh! and 1 in the ah!, that kinky stuff, you nasty, but I like your type and like TI its whatever you like. Bring your girls its whatever tonight, your man just left, i’m the plumber tonight, i’ll check your pipes, oh, you the healthy type. Well, here goes some egg whites.

[PreChorus]
I would like for your nether regions to become well-lubricated, as I would like very much to remove your clothing. I would also enjoy it if you would then remove my clothing so as to facilitate intercourse.

Now gimme that sweet, that nasty that gushy stuff, let me tell you what we gon do. 2 + 2, i’m gon undress you. Then we’re gonna go 3 and 3 you gon’ undress me. Then we’re gon’ go 4 and 4, we gon’ freak some more, but first!

[Bridge]
After my musical performance, we will proceed to my place of lodging. Once there, I would appreciate it if you would place your digits in your foodhole, unbutton your shirt and lower your scant undergarment. Again, I would like to point out that you are welcome to bring any female friends you may have. In the event that none of your female friends would like to participate in group sex, I can call one of my female friends who would definitely be interested.

after party in the hotel lobby,
then we off to the room like vroom! put them fingers in your mouth uh open up yout blouse and pull that g-string down south oooo! OK shawty, 1’s company, 2’s a crowd, and 3’s a party. your girl ain’t with it, I got somebody, and by nature she’s naughty.

It’s the End of the World As We Know It (and I feel fine)

It was about five days ago. I was poking around on Twitter, looking for info on the floods in Atlanta, when I clicked someone’s tinyurl link, assuming the link would take me to some news site or something. Upon clicking the link, my Avast on-demand scanner popped up it’s DANGER! yellow bar and I aborted the connection with the link.

Too late.

The next time I restarted my computer, Avast wouldn’t launch. SpyBot wouldn’t launch. After a couple more restarts, Windows wouldn’t launch. Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the b.exe virus.

It shuts down your antivirus software, it blocks your access to any web site that might help you, it disallows installation of new antivirus software, and then slowly corrupts every executable file on your computer.

Yadda yadda yadda, Evil Jason eventually stepped in, backed up my files, reformatted my hard drive, and saved my pasty white ass.

It’s for the best, really. Loki is almost five years old and half the crap in my Program Files was stuff I didn’t need anymore. Now, stuff that had been broken for years is working again and I’ve learned an important lesson about being more anal about backing up my files instead of just waiting until I have enough stuff to burn a disk.

Loki feels like a kid again. A hulking, 17-inch, bestickered kid.

Mac friends, let me stop you before you start: no, this has not convinced me to get a Mac. Nothing, short of lower costing computers, a ton of free software, and a promise to never again make a “mac vs. pc” commercial will convince me to switch to a Mac. I don’t deal with Mac geniuses, I don’t pay extra for AppleCare, I don’t care about Snow Leopard, and I don’t believe in the theory that viruses don’t exist for Macs. There just aren’t as many. Yet. Wait for it.

Twittorial

When I was first told about Twitter, I thought it was the most self-indulgent, dumbass thing I’d ever heard of. Condensing blogs down to 140 characters? Could Western civilization BE a little more a.d.d.? Why would I give a rat’s ass about what so-and-so thinks about anything?

In my defense, that was back in 2007, when Twitter really WAS just a handful of douchebags running programs that would auto-post every song they listened to in iTunes. It’s not good tv, and it’s terribly self-indulgent.

Here in 2009, Twitter is still terribly self-indulgent, but it’s gotten a lot more entertaining. I’ve found it pretty darn useful for everything from keeping track of random thoughts for future blogs and stand-up acts, but also for getting quick advice, hearing about events, and having random chuckles. I’ve even badgered more than one friend onto Twitter and, as a result, had to teach more than one friend how to get tweets sent to his/her phone. I’ve done this so many times that I thought a tutorial might be in order. Shall we?

Sending Tweets To Your Phone

Step 1:
Go to settings > devices and set up Twitter to work with your phone.

Step 2:
Go to the page of each person you want to be sent to your phone and turn “device updates” on.

Who can and can’t hear you.

Unless you’ve set your updates to “private,” everybody on Earth can hear everything you say, and Google will hear you, too. Beware.

@ replies

If you @ reply someone who IS following you, that person will see your @ reply in their stream. If said person is having you sent to their phone, your @ reply will come to their phone.

If you @ reply someone who ISN’T following you, your @ reply will still appear in said person’s stream.

Master class:
If I @ reply Jen (aka @wiltedrose23), anyone who is following BOTH of us will also see the conversation Jen and I are having. For example, if Jen and I are tweeting at each other at goth night, Abbey will hear us, even if she stayed home, because Abbey follows both Jen AND me.

If I @ reply something personal to Jen, it won’t get broadcast to everyone who follows me. BUT, if someone makes the effort to go to my profile page, those @ replies WILL show up. Again, beware.

Widgets
There are a number of applications out there that allow people to monitor two different Twitter accounts at once (for example, a personal account and a work account). I like Twhirl, but beware: there’s a limit on how many times per hour Twhirl will check for tweets. If the limit is 60 per hour and I’m logged in to 2 accounts, Twhirl will check one account 40 times and the other account 20 times. Or 30/30. Or 50/10, depending on the preferences that I specify. I’ve found desktop applications to be a bit spotty and unreliable, as they frequently resulted in a time lag or other weirdy-beardy behavior.

LoudTwitter.com
LoudTwitter will either blog your tweets or email them to you, with or without @ replies, at intervals you specify. I use it to have my tweets emailed to me for further “would this be useful as a stand-up routine?” screening. Dave from The Strand has his tweets posted to his LiveJournal.

TinyUrl.com
Takes long web addresses and converts them to smaller addresses that use up fewer characters.

Twitpic.com
Allows you to post pictures on Twitter. You can’t send a picture message yet, but if you have email on your phone you CAN email a picture from your phone.

blip.fm and songza
Allow you to post links to songs on Twitter.

Random Tips:
1. be interesting or funny. I don’t care if you’re at the grocery store, but I DO care if you think Germaine is the most ironically-named Jackson.

2. Pick a name that’s easy to spell. If I’m @ replying you from my phone, it’d much easier to type @tim86 than @timlivesforfeta4evr.

3. If you install a widget to broadcast your tweets elsewhere (MySpace, Facebook, your blog), DON’T forget that you did it. Also, the “post all of my tweets on Facebook” application should be used with caution as it may piss off your followers/friends if it’s overused.

4. Do NOT accidentally Tweet from your phone when you mean to send a text message to one person.

5. Beware of drunk tweeting.

See also: Twitter Content Help Blog

(e)tv: Summer Brings a Lack of Wookies

I’m a bad goth chick, as I have never had the time/money/will to commit to going down to Atlanta for 4 days for Dragon Con. I don’t travel well, and I work a lot. In truth, had the recession not hit me this year, I probably would have made it because my sis lives in Atlanta now, which would at least allow me to save on hotel money. Instead of actually going to Dragon Con, I went down to hang out, do whatever, and do a little people-watching.

Despite Atlanta being only 4 hours away, I hadn’t driven there in my 13 years of living in Nashville. I didn’t realize it was so close, and my fear of driving over Mont Eagle was based mainly on childhood memories. In reality, the drama and slope of Mont Eagle only lasts four miles and isn’t really that bad, unless it’s raining or snowing.

I got to Atlanta late Saturday afternoon, and my sister, her friend, Elizabeth, and I took a cab over to the Marriott Marquis (chosen for it’s easy lobby-viewing) to scope out the array of storm troopers, anime characters, and Princess Leias. There was a strong Wolverine representation, which is fine by me on account of the “sideburns” factor. While I stood around saying, “is that a guy? if that’s a guy, he’s hot….if not, never mind,” my sister developed a crush on a gaggle of dudes dressed as Halo characters. Maybe it was Gears of War. I suck at first-person shooters.

This would be a good time to mention that, in addition to Dragon Con, Atlanta was also hosting a Black Gay Pride gathering, an Alabama/Virginia Tech game, and a NASCAR function of some sort. Where else can you witness dudes in burgundy visors (backward, of course) posing for pictures with Predator or a four-foot-ten Gene Simmons?

After the Marriott, we went to a sushi/Thai place, hit a random book store, a bar called The Graveyard (hearse out front? check.), and my sister’s regular bar. I had a couple random blue drinks, which is my fallback whenever a bartender doesn’t know how to make a Blue Valium.

The next day, we had brunch and then went over to little five points. I know, I know. It’s touristy and cheesy, but I had never been and I needed to witness Junkman’s Daughter at least once. We also went to a couple of “thrift stores,” which were mere like vintage stores. For those of you saying, “what’s the difference?” I say, “about 40 bucks.”

After confirming that I was, in fact, mentally prepared to witness Ikea on a Sunday, we went over to witness the seething humanity at the local Ikea. It was fabulous, but in a sort of “I don’t need to do this for at least another year” sort of way, as Ikea is a lot like Disney world, but with crazy Swedish names instead of rides.

Everybody was pretty worn out at that point, so I headed on back to Nashville to put together some video:

Click here if you can’t see the embed.

It’s all fun and games…

until somebody gets dismembered and stuffed in a suitcase.

You all know by now that I’m a huge fan of Vh-1’s reality shows. Oh, the fun of watching a bevy of skanks vie for the opportunity to contract “famous herpes,” instead of the same “regular people herpes.” It’s all good, crazy fun watching women who have postponed their careers in stripping to fly to L.A. for some camera time in hopes of crossing over into actual stardom. Nobody on any of those shows ever become legitimately famous, but you have to milk what you can milk while you can milk it, I guess. Besides, if you do really well, you may get your very own Vh-1 show. Perhaps one where Vh-1 provides you with what you most desire: rich men who will buy you things.

Then again, there could always be a clerical error. You could end up with a future murderer amongst the suitors. You could make him a finalist. Then, purely hypothetically, after you don’t pick the would-be murderer, he could go on ANOTHER Vh-1 show and win the grand prize.

Megan goes on Rock of Love 2. She “loses,” but her penchant for bikini wearing and bitchy behavior lands her a role on…

I Love Money, where she loses, but makes a bitchy enough impression to end up on…

Rock of Love Charm School, where she continues to carry a chihuahua and state her career goal as “Trophy Wife.” At the reunion show, Megan flings her bitchiness at Sharon Osbourne. Sharon yanks out a chunk of Megan’s hair, prompting a lawsuit and putting Megan’s next show in peril. Vh-1 (allegedly) says they’ll continue on with the show if Megan drops the lawsuit. The lawsuit disappears, and in its place we find…

Megan Wants A Millionaire, where Megan is given a selection of suitors from which to choose. One of the more attractive (yet manipulative and douchey) contestants is Ryan. He reportedly ends up becoming a finalist but “losing.” He then gets cast on I Love Money 3 and wins the grand prize.

You’re never going to see it, though.

Sometime in between filming Vh-1 shows, Ryan had time to meet a swimsuit model, marry her, kill her and multilate her body in hopes of making her unidentifiable. He forgot one little detail: breast implants have serial numbers.

The body is found in a suitcase, Ryan becomes a “person of interest,” flees to Canada and then hangs himself in a hotel room.

Vh-1 is denying responsibility because, while they bought the show, they didn’t make the show. The 51 Minds production company made the show, just as they made many show for Vh-1. As for how the production company could have missed Ryan’s history of domestic violence charges, I’m guessing that was the “clerical error.” If, by “clerical error,” you mean “our intern played Pet Society instead of actually running the background checks.” As for the concept of 51 Minds being a company that just licensed a show to Vh-1, perhaps we should run down their portfolio which consists of (and ONLY of) Vh-1 reality shows:

Charm School
I Love Money
I Love New York
Flavor of Love
Rock of Love
Real Chance of Love
For the Love of Ray J
The Surreal Life

This may be the event that makes Vh-1 say “hey, the train is derailed…we can’t do this anymore.” This may be the event that puts the 51 Minds production company out of business. Then again, this may be a hiccup that will be forgotten as quickly as “Back Flip Mike” from Daisy of Love. Nobody knows, but 51 Minds’ casting company, Iconic Casting, is looking for people for For The Love of Ray J 2 and “The Entertainer” of Love just in case.

Hot Santas In The Summertime

“Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I was kind of indisposed yesterday. Goth funerals are kind of an all-day thing.”

I know goth folk have a rep for being, how do you say, a bit catty and high-drama. We also have a rep for being shallow, allegedly basing entire relationships on clothes and hair. Thus, I suspect I am being a bit naive in this post, but you’ll have to bear with me. All cynical pessimists are just disappointed naive optimists in disguise.

The thesis statement of the day was that Bristow always enjoyed getting seemingly bizarre groups of people together, so I’m guessing that he was really enjoying the hell out of yesterday. There were an array of goth folk, dressed in their “real-life funeral” clothes (understated, as opposed to over-the-top), but there were also pirates, Santas, clowns, gypsies and someone (one of TWO people in attendance named Elf**) dressed in full battle regalia, complete with full-size sword. Standing in and among these people were traditional-looking grandmas, wearing those polyester blouses that tie at the neck.

There was some bizarre Jesusy stuff that never fails to make me feel weird. It only made sense at my grandpa’s funeral, because he was a deacon. Oh, also at Obadiah’s funeral, cause he was totally Jesusy. With everybody else, it’s like “dude, what does this Bible passage have to do with anything?” I hate the “hire a stranger to talk about your friend” thing. Oh well. Grandmas like that sort of thing. For the rest of us, one of Kris’s buddies got up and spoke to wash out the icky feeling that I had from the first guy.

I didn’t see much during the service because somebody sprang an open casket on us. Again, some people need an open casket for closure. That’s fine for them and none of my business, but I chose to remove my glasses. From the third row, said open casket was just a blurry white thing, and I won’t have to live the rest of my life with that picture in my head. I prefer the picture where Kris is dancing, or wielding two plastic guns and wearing elf ears. Isn’t this way more kick-ass?

Like my mom, I don’t much get down with traditional funerals. The CD playing Amazing Grace, the pink light bulbs, flowers attempting to cover the smell of a funeral home…we understand it, but we don’t “get” it. Again, we’ll have to let this go, as grandma wants what she wants. It’s fine for people who want that, but if you do it to me, I will personally track you down and haunt you until the fun wears off. If Kris had had time to plan an Irish band and fire breathers, he might have. As it was, you accept what’s there and don’t over-think it. Over-thinking and being pissed doesn’t change anything. (Holy crap, did I just say that? WHO AM I?)

The post-funeral gathering at Mulligan’s was nice, as everybody finally got to just get trashed and have a release for a while. I suck at funerals; nobody wants to know what I think about heaven or funeral directors, but I do know how to drink vodka and get giggly. My friends have apparently taken a vote and decided that I’m much more fun when tipsy. (“She’s not complaining about ANYTHING!”)

I naively hope that the goth hatchets that were buried this last week can stay buried. I’m glad that everybody was able to get over their feelings about who slept with who or who did some stupid crap to who or we think is kind of a skank and just get together and be nice for a while. It was nice to see some faces that I haven’t seen in years. Hopefully, we can keep it up. I’m fairly certain this is what Kris would have wanted to see.

I remember Sundays playing “gothic volleyball” (badly). I remember sewing things with Jen while Kevin and Kris watched Red Dwarf. I remember dancing, Guitar Hero, and Cinco de Mayo. I remember someone who always treated me like a kid sister, even though he only had three years on me. (I know, it’s hard to take someone seriously when they’re two heads shorter than you and have a taste for pigtails.) I remember climbing that 9-foot chain link fence because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I remember Kris worrying that I might pass out for the rest of the walk because of the profusely bleeding cut from said chain link fence. I remember Hollie photographing us for her school project, taking the “we are a bad goth band” picture. You can tell the picture’s old because my accessories are tiny. My jewelry gets bigger and bigger, like I develop a tolerance over time. Bracelets are my heroin.

**I secretly wish that the two people named Elf would get together and date, just cause it would be awesome.

Playing Pollyanna

I’ve been whining at you a lot lately. Hell, from the last four months of blogs, you’d think that all I do is give up on boys, clog my drains, and look for freelance work on Craigslist. While all of those things are true, there are some things that make me NOT want to shoot myself in the face. Shall we?

My Mom
While this particular shit sandwichy time of my life could have been mom’s opportunity to inform me that I should have known better than to go into graphic design, she has been behaving in a really supportive fashion. I’m not just talking about her offer to help me out with money, either. During last week’s phone call, she referred to certain unfortunate circumstances as though they were things that just HAPPENED, not things that happened because I took a wrong turn years ago. Maybe she knows that I’ve pretty much got “guilt and blame” covered pretty well by myself.

My Cat
While there are some decisions that I have lived to regret, Murphy (alias Mr. Puss) has never been one of them. There hasn’t been one millisecond in the nine years we’ve been together that I have questioned that decision. Not when he needed 600 bucks of dental work, not when he peed on my sewing fabric, not when he clawed my chairs, and not when I realized that my life is now dedicated to fighting “cat hair tumbleweeds.” Why? Because, when I lie down to watch tv at night, he is always next to me for snuggle times. Because, when I wake up, there’s 50% chance of him still being next to me. On a nightly basis, I’m prompted to wonder how many times someone has tweeted “I have the best cat ever.” Jen and I have both had this impulse, but held ourselves back because that’s “not good tv.”

My Friends
All of y’all. Everybody needs some cheerleading every now and then, and both online people and analog people have been getting me through this with encouragement. Thanks for listening to me bitch. Even though I know you’re not keeping score, I’m keeping track of every drink you buy me and every dinner you host, for when I can repay them. Three years from now, I’ll be making twice as much money, and you’re all getting a bottle of good vodka. (Jack Daniels for Katy and Jim Beam for Lindsey.)

My House
How’s it going a year after closing? You’d think that having a dish washer would get old after a while, but it hasn’t. Every time I use it, I think, “damn, I’m glad this is here.” I love the big-ass spider who lives in my porch light (he’s goth as fuck and keeps buggs from flying in when I open the door). I love my comically large closet. I love the OCD-type organization of the closet in the hall. I love how the purple in the kitchen turned out. I even secretly love the comically small bathroom door opening, which makes me wish I knew more large dudes so I could invite them over and alienate them. “How’s that bathroom door workin’ for ya? Welcome to my world, where nothing fits YOU! This is payback for the huge Xbox controllers! MWAHAHA!”

One day, the big wall in my living room really will have a 60-inch flat screen. Today, I am still standing next to it, arms in the air, proclaiming “I am a 60-inch flat screen!” for visitors. Oh, and full-house Bose speakers, solid cherry doors (with etched glass cutouts), and a 6-foot white vinyl privacy fence with lattice work trim. Hell, long as we’re dreaming, custom-mixed “Mary Kaye Pink” vinyl siding, cutesy millwork, and a Hybrid Cadillac Hearse that gets 50mpg. I can’t drive a car that big, but that’s no problem; it shall be chauffered by my live-in houseboy, Jack White.