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October 12, 2004
Do You Really Want to Make Me Cry?
I’ve been a traveling fool. Actin’ a fool as well since I do believe in my heart that the world is coming to an end. Very soon. Just open your eyes and look the fuck around.
It's the end of the world, y'all. Don't you see what I see?
Martha Stewart is really in jail! Not that I don’t think she should do some time for being a greedy ass (and getting caught in a straight up lie), but seriously, if you asked me a week ago, a year ago even, if Martha Stewart would ever be in jail, I’d say absolutely not and you’re stupid. But now look. Five months is a long ass time to be away from the amenities. Does she have to grow her underarm hair? Will she start lifting weights?
I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but Lindsay Lohan has a new song out. It’s about rumors and how she doesn’t want the camera pointed her direction and it’s a plea for all of us (the poor people who just want ten percent, okay I’ll take four percent, of her millions for putting up with this tomfoolery) to leave her alone. But if we left her alone and no longer cared about her and Fes, then she wouldn’t be getting all the checks. I mean, if you’re going to be handed the opportunity to make a record, you should be super positive. Why would you publicly complain, in song no less, about the lifestyle that you have because you’re a teenage millionaire? I'm not saying she didn't earn her money. I'm just saying complaining about it is ugly. I don’t understand. Here’s the song I would sing (and say that I co-wrote): I’m so happy all this stuff is free yeaaaaaaaah. I’ve got all the caaaaaaash. And the choreography would simply be the chicken dance and of course, the touchdown dance. I’d be doing all of this in a vault, swimming around in the bills. Rubbing the bills on my breasts, that I would vehemently deny are enhanced, while laughing maniacally to the camera. It doesn’t matter if it’s good. It only matters if it rocks, by the way. But you know what? I can’t even front. As I was driving home from some insane town in the 714 area code, I caught myself doing The Wop to the song and so yes that would make me an asshole.
Britney Spears has a greatest hits album (she’s 14 years old, what the fuck?) that includes Bobby Brown’s My Prerogative. Great vocabulary word in my opinion. They do say she’s crazy, that Britney. All her sisters though? And what is that computer voice she’s using? And that’s a Trim Spa commercial you’re passing off as a video but who am I to judge? I’m sitting in front of my computer wondering why my nail polish has changed to blue. What is this chemical reaction due to and how can I get my money back? This is crazy talk.
I’ve got some other things to say about some notably insane shit that makes me believe the entire land will be set on fucking fire. Hello Republican and/or political hate mail. Nice to meet you.
Did I just say the world is ending? Yes.
Now, I actually know people that agree with making the Native Americans pay taxes on their casinos. Not that I’m Miss Politics, but um, we stole their land in the first place! Let them be. Not to mention, making them pay taxes doesn’t make me feel like my tax burden will be any smaller. Doesn’t mean our teachers are going to get paid what they deserve even though that omnipresent “they” try to put that spin on it. I still get raggedy little checks after the government has snatched all the good parts. (Ahem, but thank you Mr. Government for letting me be myself. You know I love you. You just have to be reminding me…) Then again, those Native American “playa hatas” are voting for Bush so I don’t know why I act surprised. And I say all of this without even really knowing the whole story with this casino business. The whole “you pay, they don’t” thing just feels shady. I have to go with my gut.
And while I’m there, I can’t take it anymore! The “war on terror” is a total oxymoron. Just for the grammar aspect of it, I can’t do this anymore. I get a chill up and down my spine every time I hear it. It’s like hearing “between you and I” and “for all intents and purposes” at the top of a totally stupid thing to say and seeing “definitely” spelled “definately” and seeing apostrophes misused in possessive form like MC Hammer’s God show called “Hammer and Friend’s” – you see, downright infuriating! The war on terror. I’ve been silent long enough. Those. Words. Just. Don’t. Belong. Together. Just like these don’t and this is a quote from our real live president: Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we. This is insane. Ya see what I mean?
And finally, Nelly has a song with Tim McGraw. It sure is freezing in hell right now. Get your Sweat and your Suit ready.
In other news, I vomited ten feet away from Boy George.
I just came back from a long trip that included stops in Tampa, Vegas baby Vegas, NY and San Francisco. The New York part of my trip is where this throwing up shit went down. I can’t believe I’m sharing this.
Lots of dumb stuff went down, and I mean that in the most positive way possible. One of the days that I was in Manhattan, I spent the entire day bouncing from place to place networking slash socializing in an effort to, oh I don’t know, secure a buck or two to keep those Ramen noodles a’crackin! I took a meeting or five, went to some parties where the goal is to network but they keep serving up free drinks and who wants to talk to a business type person all blurry and slurry? When all else fails, you just have to ask fools if they’d like to dance. You’d be surprised at how the stuffy suit-and-tie-wearing people of the world are totally flattered that you’d ask them to dance. And when they dance, no matter how awkward, you just have to keep up. Turkey legs and noodle arms, just keep up.
So at 6 I had to go to a party for a big men’s magazine. I got a free tie and gift certificate to an all men’s spa. Free is free. Take what they give you. Anyway, Chivas was the sponsor and I don’t know about you but whiskey is not really my forte. Whiskey is for people who survived The Great Depression, for Okies and other depressed people who can’t take it anymore. Those who want to throw it all away. For people who pour it from the flask underneath their desks as they process your raggedy little minimum amount due credit card payment in cubicle hell. (Or for those refined individuals who enjoy a nice warm swirl in their chests, and can actually handle their liquor. There are those people too, I guess.) Well, I drank one whiskey drink. I felt fine, great. Like $498,908 just fell from the sky in cold hard cash right onto my lap. Whiskey is a pain killer if I ever felt one, let me tell you. I forgot all about my relatives in jail. Bills? What are those?
Some waters later, I ended up at some party for the WB at Crobar, which everyone in New York touts as the biggest and baddest club ever. Big, it was. Empty too. The networking part of the evening was over so now I could just relax. I was prancing around in these tiny gold Barbie shoes all night, trying to stay upright and maintain my makeup for hours on end. Going from the bathroom to the bar was work. My toes were cursing my name. Well, this party was serving up vodka. I had already gotten my head back together and peer pressure, even as a grown ass woman is a real bitch. So, two cranberry vodkas later, I had to call it a night. I bid my networking friends goodbye and stepped outside to wait for my unborn child’s father to come get me. You'll see why I have to give birth to his babies in a minute.
He said we had to pop into some rocker bar to say hello to some friends. So we did. Sure enough, the drinks were free again. He doesn’t drink so I didn’t really want to drink anymore but they just put it right in front of you and free drinks just taste better. So I had another drink. I felt fine. Good spacing of the drinks, you know. Everybody’s cool. I chatted up some rocker fools, played Metallica’s Master of Puppets and some Jay-Z (much to everyone’s dismay) on the jukebox. People need to have more range in their musical tastes, I think. And I talked to the smokers outside. Watched some fool who was “stuck in a K hole” on the sidewalk. Stuck in a K hole means he took some crazy drug and was really “in it” for right now. And when I say “in it”, I mean this mother fucker was lying on the public ground out of his mind. Sleeping but not sleeping. Children and people who can’t find meaning, don’t do K. Whatever it is, it’s not cool and as a matter of fact, from what I saw, it’s downright terrible.
Just then, we get a call from our wonderful friend. He tells us to come down to this other place. He says everybody goes on Thursdays. Everybody includes Danny and Paul (an encounter that was totally not planned and ended up being both great and bizarre because seeing a RW person out on the town is becoming totally normal as Rachel from Back to NY was one block up at a different club and all this just means the show has been on for 98 years and oh my goodness I’m ancient), Boy George, some famous transvestites and that adorable Heatherette man. Cool run-on.
Keep in mind, I dragged a completely heterosexual man into the gayest club in the universe and I found his nonchalance and genuine absorption of his surroundings totally endearing and ridiculously attractive. I love a non-judgmental dude, whose heterosexuality I would never question, that doesn’t say stupid inappropriate shit. I hug and kiss Danny and Paul who look absolutely wonderful and I’m just so – yes, I'm using this word – flabbergasted that they are there and I am there and you get the point. All of a sudden, my head starts spinning. I’m not drunk. Not even tipsy enough to be saying raw shit to strangers. I just feel lightheaded. I tug on my new favorite person’s arm and say, “Yo, we have to leave.” Stern, firm and with a sense of urgency. He says, “Let’s vamoose…” He’s a New Yorker. I think it’s okay to say that word. I don’t know yet if this is 100% cool or if it should be banned but we’ll let it slide since he speaks three different languages which is also stupid hot.
I make it about ten paces and I start sweating like an underpaid worker in a rose factory slash drug mule being questioned by The Man. I sit down in a chair, and this wonderfully accommodating pea whose babies I must carry sits beside me, in a hovering protective way, as an effort to minimize the sheer and raw embarrassment. I am sweating my ass off. Paying in ill health for those drinks and I didn’t even get to enjoy a buzz. This is bullshit. I keep wiping my the sweat from my brow and my neck and my chest with my most adorable Bob Marley red, gold and green(red, gold and greeeeen, sing it) scarf and suddenly, without warning, I throw the fuck up. And when I say “the fuck up” I mean, it was demoralizing. I threw up in the scarf. The beloved scarf. Seconds later, the P.S. part of the vomiting occurred. What have I done to deserve this?
Without going into too much gore and detail, let’s just say that I wanted to be taken directly to the airport, and I would have totally understood if I got dumped, left, abandoned for good by this wonderful person. I would have even been okay with him stabbing me with an icepick. Who vomits in the cutest black day-to-night dress ever? Who?
Luckily, my friends had the foresight and coolness to build, and I quote, “a wall of gay” around me so that no one would see this. This detail no longer matters as I am sharing this on the world wide web, you see. The real point here is that they came through for me. I really owe them. I don’t think that anyone saw and if they did, they were kind enough not to ask or gawk. I’m talking like I’m Liz Taylor or somebody really cool that you would actually like to see throw up in the club, but you know what I mean.
Whiskey and vodka do not mix no matter what Chumbawumba says. That's a ridiculous word.
I feel terrible about the whole situation, but I am more embarrassed that the circumstances forced me to leave without being able to take care of the really cool doorman and the waiter that brought us a free bottle of whatever it is that I didn’t drink. I really hope someone else in my party took care of them, and if they didn’t, I will just die!
Continuing with my own demise…
I cry all the way to the car. All the way to his house. He’s a homeowner, Focker. Straight up. Crying, crying, crying. And not the prissy little sob here and there. The real crying complete with the “I completely understand if you never want to see me again (hiccup)…” and “I would hug you for being so sweet but I reek of garbage and ass and I’m so sorry to put you through this” talk. He stopped at the store to get me water, hand sanitizer and get this – FLOWERS! He said, “Please don’t cry. I get it if this is some weird girl thing I’ll never understand but don’t be embarrassed in front of me. I really don’t care and as a matter of fact I’m way more disgusting because one time…” and he proceeded to tell me his most vile, unflattering story ever to make me feel better. Who is this person, you ask? I know right! Who does that? That’s some real G shit. Take notes, bitches. This is how you make girls like you. Even girls that throw up on you need some wooing.
It’s so nice to finally crawl of the hole that I wanted to die in just to write this.
Posted by melissah at October 12, 2004 05:16 AM