Nocturnal Emissions

Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.

Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.

Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.

1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.

Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!

2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.

3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.

4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.

5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”

6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.

7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.

8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.

9) OJ did it.

10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.

11) My god–I love peonies.

12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.

13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.

Is that a cat?

14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.

15) Everyone should own this album.

For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.

One of my fave songs ever–

You’re welcome.

16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.

 

 

 

My Uh-Duh! Moment

Remember Oprah? You know, the one-woman media magnate who revitalized Chicago’s West Loop, gave audience members cars, did Stedman and maybe Gayle, got people reading again, is responsible for unleashing the hackfests that are Drs. Phil & Oz and Suze Orman, and who empowered millions of upper-middle class women the world over? Yep, that Oprah–the one and only.

During her media tenure, Oprah had several positive, love thyself phrases that were seen as avenues her fans could travel in order to live better lives. (Nothing wrong with trying to better one’s life, of course.) One was the whole “Remembering Your Spirit” vignettes that were popular in the early aughts, and one of the last ones was “Aha! Moments.” Basically, Aha! Moments are similar to “Come to Jesus” moments or EPIPHANIES as they are known to us non-religious folks. Some person (usually a woman) figures out somewhere along the line that her life is more than a dress size, her baby-making abilities and by being a dutiful daughter/sister/niece/wife/aunt, etc.

Oprah’s magazine and tee vee show featured mainly the Aha! Moments of famous folks, who have all the money ever but decided it’s necessary to give back to us serfs. Most efforts are to be applauded because, dammit, they should be giving back. Some of these moments are just famous folks engaging in navel gazing and that’s just boring as all hell.

I’ve had a few Aha! Moments in my life. (this ain’t one, but the vid still works)

One moment urged me to go to school in Southern California, then another brought me back to finish my studies in Madison. Oh, then there was the engagement that ended badly in my 20s…then the switching of careers and moving back to the Midwest….yeah.

What else? Yes, getting a master’s degree which lead to me getting my ass kicked in a new, but fab, career. Super fun!

Most of my Aha! Moments have been good for my soul, but then there are those that kicked the ever-lovin’ crap outta me, watched me crumble, then came back and kicked me AGAIN just for shits and giggles. I’ve realized since that life is one, big, fat, steaming pile of chunk-filled Aha! Moments. The trick is learning how to handle them with grace, humor and a pair of handwraps, boxing gloves and a heavy bag.

Now that I’ve got THAT figured out, onto what Uh-Duh! Moments are. Simply, Uh-Duh! Moments are “what the hell did I just do?” moments. I’ve had a shitload of them in my life and it’s safe to say that MOST of those moments have occurred in the past couple of years. I’m not exactly proud of these “oops” either, but I figured I’d share them here so y’all can either point & mock, or nod your heads, sigh and utter ‘Yeah, I’ve done that too, Julia.”

The first one involves honey.

This particular Uh-Duh! Moment made me realize that I truly hate honey. Loathe it actually. I think it’s disgusting and tastes like what I imagine rancid bee sweat mixed with bee urine tastes like. I’ve given it my all–tried to develop a taste for it by serving it on toast, in my tea, my oatmeal, and I even used it in my hair–what the fuck for–I don’t know. Well, I thought I’d be the bigger person and give it one more shot.

This time, I used it on my face because the woman who waxes me (shut UP) said it made a great facial mask because it was all natural and has some sort of healing qualities. Ok, ok, I said to her as she was putting wax on places that don’t normally need wax (ahem), I’ll give it a try. Again.

So, a couple of nights ago, I had a couple of gals over for a semi-nude slumber party and we decided to try the honey facial mask treatment. We each put our hair in pigtails, giggled A LOT, slipped into our silk camis, Hello Kitty! tap pants, and our Uggs, and then slathered our mugs in warm honey.

Then, we left it there for about 15 minutes and during that time, chose teams for the midnight pillow fight (my team won, natch). After rinsing the golden ooze from my face and hair, I kept waiting for the healing qualities to happen. Five minutes went by–nothing. Fifteen, 20, 25–still nothing. At thirty minutes, my skin was starting to tighten and darken like the skin on one of Ed Gein’s lampshades. Feeling the anger starting to rise and my feet starting to sweat in my Uggs, I slathered my face in uber-hydrating moisturizer, and kicked my Uggs off. After a brief tickle fight with the gals, I tossed the bottle of honey in the trash.

The following morning while I was cleaning up post-semi nude slumber party, I wondered why I had given honey another chance–I hated it years ago–how was that going to change now?

Hmm…maybe it’s not only a Ah-Duh! Moment, it’s an I’m frickin’ stupid moment too.

2012 — Your Year in Choads

2012 will be noted in the record books as one of the choadiest years ever. Why oh why would you make such a proclamation, Julia? Not only did we have one of the oddest years in human behavior, but the election shenanigans put the ‘crap’ in craptastic choadiness.

2012 was ugly from day one and it just got uglier and uglier as the year progressed– especially in the political arena. Needless to say, the folks on the following list not only embarrassed us the world over, but they sure did a bang-up job of making the human race look like a big pile of chunk-filled dung. (Note: John Boehner, Rush Limbaugh, Eric Cantor, Mitch McConnell, Bill O’Reilly, Hannity, Newt and the NRA are already in the Choad Hall of Fame, so mentioning them here would be redundant.) The vetting process was brutal and I know I’m missing some choads, but I’m sure they’ll be on my 2013 list.

So, without further adieu and in no particular order, I present to you–my loyal three readers–Your Year in Choads.

The Donald.

(courtesy of examiner.com)

The thrice-married Trump never ceases to amaze me. He inherited millions from his father, then felt the need to continue to dumb down society with his tee vee shows and tomes. He has even sullied my city with a multi-floor steel phallus with great views, and overpriced units. That was a Trump I could live with–out of my league financially and matrimonily–but I never bought into his bullshit so ignoring him wasn’t a chore at all. However, he had to go and ruin it for me and everyone else by opening his fat yap about how the President isn’t a citizen and how the country was robbed during the election (even though Obama won the popular vote) with a series of ill-timed and uber-choady Tweets–which he promptly deleted. Oh and early in the campaign, he was actually a candidate. But, never fear, Trump will be back in 2013, and will be a bigger choad than Donald Trump. Notice how I didn’t even mention his hair?

Sheldon Adelson.

If Citizens United had a dick, Sheldon Adelson should be giving it blowies all the live long day as a thank-you gift. Yeah, I know. I have that image in my mental Rolodex too and I have no idea how to get it out of there. A brain transplant may turn out to be the way to go, and I’d be happy with an Abby Normal-esque brain at this point. The good thing is, Adelson’s attempts to buy the election failed the way the uterus supposedly does when raped legitimately. Ahem. Imagine the good Adelson coulda done with that money had he done something useful, like for instance, help his beloved Israel build a better defense system.

And speaking of legitimate rape, there’s Todd Akin.

I’ll let the magical combo of video and the Internets speak for Mr. Akin (who lost in November–big time–by the way). Akin’s advisers, the “doctors” who told him about how the female body “works”, anyone who has ever hung out with or believed in Akin, well, y’all are choads too.

Nikki Haley

Choads are not limited to men, my friends. Nooo…never. Not only did Gov. Haley NOT consider Stephen Colbert for Jim DeMint’s now-vacate Senate seat, she doesn’t want nuthin’ to do with Obamacare even though her state, South Carolina, is desperate for the help. Like Haley’s fellow GOP governors, she’d prefer to pout and eat worms in the garden because the smart, black guy won AGAIN, and now his monumental, life-saving legislation is truly the law of the land. Basically, she’d rather fuck over her constituents to make a point than help them. That horrid attitude makes her one of the Choads of the Year.

Richard Mourdock.

“Even if life begins in that horrible situation of rape, that is something that God intended to happen.”

(courtesy HuffPo)

He’s rape’s champion and for that, he almost beat Rep. Joe Donnelly in the Indiana race for the Senate.

What’s even more amazing is some woman finds him fuckable.

Personhood Amendments/He-Man Woman Hater’s Club.

It’s safe to say the today’s GOP don’t like us ladyfolk very much. That hatred was evident in the candidates they nominated and the legislation/ballot initiatives that so many states tried to pass, or get on the ballots. Then, there was the kerfuffle over the transnatch ultrasound bill requiring all women in Virginia who wanted an abortion to have this lubed-up wand stuck up their hoo-hahs so they can see what’s dancing on their bladders. The best part? Women have to pay for this humiliation out of their own pockets because Lord knows the GOP doesn’t want to pay for it–hell, they’d rather protect guns than people, see. There are so many anti-woman stories that happened this year that writing about them would cause me to start biting my face again.

But, I’ll give you one more to chew on.   It’s the creme-de-la-creme of choady anti-woman fucked-in-the-head laws that some states in this great country–you know the one that is the most powerful & most advanced in the entire world–seem to love to pass. All of us ladies who still experience menses are pregnant whether we like it or not. That kinda sucks out loud.

Mike Huckabee

Gosh, there is so much that can be spewed about the good Rev. Mike. He’s besties with Chuck Norris, his son likes to kill dogs, he’s has a love/hate relationship with weight loss, he blames gays for all of society’s ills, and a bunch of other assorted treats that are too many to mention.

But, this vidya demonstrates just how choad-a-rrific this man of god really is.

Jan Brewer

(courtesy ABC News)

The weathered, ridden-hard-and-put-away-wet governor of Arizona is the greatest of all lady choads. She loathes people of color, has a pointy-anointy claw that she likes to point at the POTUS; loves guns; probably has nudie pix of Sheriff Joe Arpaio; allegedly shits Coppertone; kicks puppies; has a law that says all bleeding women are pregnant; is considering running for a third term; more than likely believes in Henrietta Pussycat but not climate change; and finally, contrary to popular belief, did NOT star in “There’s Something About Mary.”

We Need a New Plague

Apparently, the last vestiges of a particular plague are finished with Congress.

Jim DeMint (R-SC)

I’m not here to write about politics because I just got out of my padded cell due to good behavior, and writing about the cacophony that is our Legislative Branch would send me right back to face-biting territory.

Who knew that Newton Minow‘s words he uttered back in the 60s would still resonate today? Was Minow clairvoyant enough to realize that reality tee vee would be the beginning of the end for society? Is he in cahoots with those wascally Mayans?

I believe he is and I present to you a few examples of the modern-day “vast wasteland.”

“Neat Freaks” coming soon to TLC. I watched an episode of this show and it made me want to never, ever clean anything ever again. Ever. Nope. Not gonna. What it did make me was very sad. The people featured have serious issues with, well, everything. My fave was the personal trainer who told a prospective love interest that he would spray her body with hydrogen peroxide before they got “intimate.” Seriously–I’d leave both kinds of skid marks getting away from that loon.

“Amish Mafia” hasn’t aired yet, but will debut on Dec. 12th, and I can’t wait.

Hmm..something about having a Don named “Lebanon Levi” doesn’t exactly strike the fear of God into me. The Moses beard and woolen socks aren’t the same as lizard skin loafers, pinky rings stacked on stubby digits and having several severed heads in bowling bags. To me, he’s the farm community tough you call when you discover that the shady farrier didn’t put enough nails in Stumblebum’s shoes and he needs to be taught a lesson with a rasp. There’s Levi’s right hand guy, Alvin the Chipmunk who’s the muscle. Oh and the Henry Hill (not Sicilian) of the group, Jolin (Mennonite) carries about punishments willy-nilly since he’s not pure Amish and therefore, not subject to their laws.

I’ll be tuning in to see just how tough this Mafia is, but if there isn’t at least one killing over some barn raising shenanigans then I’m done.

I’ve watched about 3 episodes of this show, and all I’ve got is: Imagine the smell.

What the entire fuck? I couldn’t get past the beards and the idea that they smell like a combo platter of animal guts, chew, dirty/diseased pussy, moonshine and wood smoke.

Shows like “Duck Dynasty” tell me that tee vee development execs have given up on ever producing anything worthwhile because the American public learned years ago to eat the shit we’re given politely with a knife and fork. All of the good stuff is on cable anyway … hey… wait .. a damn..minute…

I remember reading something once upon a time as to why shows like the ones listed above are so popular–people can relate to the folks featured. Really? You can relate to people who are third-rate philosophers, sex tape producers and are afraid of what happens when you mix soap and water together? Oh Moses smell the duck-gut soaked roses folks, it’s reprogramming time!

Oh and these shows are super cheap to produce, plus there are some folks walking among the intelligent who believe the whole 15 Minutes of Fame rumor. Sadly, these folks are tee vee execs who have the creativity of a car battery.

Finally, for those of you who are mourning the impending doom of “The Jersey Shore”, you have this to look forward to.

Basically, MTV took the spooge/cheap liquor/tanning oil-soaked cast and rednecked ‘em up a scosch and plopped them down in the middle of the set of Deliverance 2.0. but this time with inbreeding, moonshine, ATVs, dorks and illiteracy. Talk about a huge shit sandwich. Perhaps MTV should changed its name to Shit TV since they no longer play music vidyas. Knowing how the viewing public is, “Buck Wild” is sure to be a huge hit.

The slide down crap mountain continues.

 

 

 

 

Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?

Target as a target

I got this the other day.

“Julia -

In the last week, over 230,000 people have signed my petition asking my employer, Target, to change its Black Friday shopping hours to let employees have Thanksgiving dinner with our families.

The response from media has been incredible, too — I was interviewed on the Today Show, and my story has been covered by CNN, the Wall Street Journal, Good Morning America, NBC, and major newspapers across the country!

When I started my petition, I didn’t expect it to get this much attention. Shortly after my petition took off, Target employees in others stores across the country were inspired to take action as well by starting their own petitions. The response from both employees and customers alike has been unanimous — Target should set an example by stopping the trend of retailers opening earlier and earlier for Black Friday deals. 

We have real momentum, and this Monday, I’ll be delivering my petition with over 230,000 signatures to Target Headquarters – click here to join us and add your name.

After I was on TV, my manager offered me Thanksgiving day off. But I declined. This isn’t about just me — it’s about respecting one of the few days retail workers have a year to spend time with loved ones. 

I know that Target is feeling the heat, and the more signatures we have to show them on Monday, the more they’ll feel pressured to change their Thanksgiving hours. Sign my petition now.

Thanks for your help — and Happy Thanksgiving. 

Casey St. Clair
Corona, California”

Let me get this straight–in this shitty shitty piss piss fuck fuck economy, you actually have a job and while it might not be your ideal job, it’s more than a lot of us have. Also, Ms. St. Clair has worked at Target for a while, you know, BY CHOICE, see.

Target decides they want to open on Thanksgiving night because, well, they are kinda choady but hey, they’re not here to be all PC n’ shit–they’re here to make a big, ass buck or two. In order to open on Thanksgiving night to deal with the throngs of shoppers who have some sick desire to get away from their alcohol-fueled, overstuffed gobs and feuding holiday family fun time to load up on gifts to give to their ungrateful, spoiled spawn, Target needs its employees to work. I know, I know, that’s crazy talk!

Target employees got wind of this and the whining wah wah wah starts. And since online petitions are the latest “It” Girl, someone decided to start one protesting big old mean Target. Then, the media gets wind of it as does Change.org, and now we’re being bombarded with online bitch and moan sessions.

Give me a break.

Here’s an idea: If you don’t want to work holidays, don’t get a job in retail.

In other words… SHUTTIE.

The Choad Menagerie

You’re probably hoping that this particular post is the McCrabass version of Tennessee Williams’s classic “The Glass Menagerie”, but it isn’t.

Simply put–I am here to crush your dreams once again.

The nice thing is that once I get going on this post, you’ll see why it has been awarded this particular hed.

Who here has heard of Kerry Bentivolio? Anyone? His grand plan is to be the Republican rep in Congress for Michigan’s 11th district which was left vacant after former-Rep. Thaddeus McCotter abruptly resigned in July. He’s not your run-of-the-mill-Republican (whatever that means) either, he’s much more fun. (fun in a herpes-outbreak kinda way)

Kerry Bentivolio (courtesy liberty-candidates.org)

From DetroitYes.com:

On the first day of school last year, Kerry Bentivolio told students in his English class at Fowlerville High School that he had one goal: to make each one of them cry at least once.
……..
Nine months later, school administrators reprimanded him for intimidating and threatening students by grabbing their desks and yelling in their faces or for slamming his fists on their desks.

Oh it gets so much better. Yeah, um…. I’ll just let youse guys read it. From Politico.com

The brother of Kerry Bentivolio says the Michigan congressional candidate, who’s favored to win on Tuesday, is “mentally unbalanced” and could end up in jail.

“I’ve never met anyone in my life who is conniving and dishonest as this guy,” Phillip Bentivoliosaid, according to the Michigan Information and Research Service   (subscription required). “He’s my brother so it’s hard to talk about this, but I believe that if he gets elected, he’ll eventually serve time in prison.”

Kerry Bentivolio is the Republican candidate in Michigan’s 11th district, running to replace Rep. Thaddeus McCotter, who failed to secure enough valid signatures to qualify for the ballot.

Kerry Bentivolio is a Santa Claus impersonator and reindeer farmer. He made headlines after old court documents surfaced quoting him saying he had a “problem figuring out which one I really am, Santa Claus or Kerry Bentivolio.”  He’s running against Democrat Syad Taj.

Philip Bentivolio said that in 1992, he helped his brother build houses in Arkansas and Kerry owed him $20,000. This month he told Kerry he would go to the media with the story if he did not get paid, and Kerry then said he called the FBI and the Little Rock Police Department.

“He told them that I told them that if he didn’t send me money, I was going to kill myself,” Phillip Bentivolio said. “I couldn’t believe it.”

Kerry Bentivolio said that his brother has “serious mental issues” and that the FBI was looking into his brother’s request for repayment 20 years after the fact.

Kerry Bentivolio reminds me of the crazy uncle you see once a year at family gatherings. And, because of your strong sense of family coupled with WASP guilt, you’re forced to spend “quality time” with him which will ensure that the karma train doesn’t mow you over during a future run. Watching him pound Jack & Cokes would be similar to watching cement harden. He also strikes me as the type of uncle who gives the female relatives WET KISSES, but not on the cheek, oh no! Them smooches are bound for your beak, hon, and it’s best just to let it happen then start pounding French 75s to help douse the image of his maw careening toward your pucker out of your mental Rolodex. Um, I speak from experience as a matter of fact.

Back to the feud de Bentivolio Brothers. Holidays are probably rough at the Bentivolio manse. Also, I’m quite verklempt on the whole “I don’t know if I’m Kerry Bentivolio or Santa Claus” bit. It’s .. it’s … it’s just …. yep.

I’m gonna go on the record and say that if Obama was a white dude, this shit wouldn’t be spewing forth from the Mayor of 9/11 and his ilk. I’m waiting for Rudy to take credit for the clean-up of NYC post-Sandy. You know it’s gonna happen and here’s a pre-emptive ‘shuttie’ to him.

“Get in the ring”

It’s no secret that I follow politics. Why do I torture myself you ask? Oh, because I’m an emotional cutter.

But, seriously, I follow politics because I love studying human behavior– especially the magic knickers, Kenyan birth certificates, dressage horses, videos from 1998 that have nothing to do with nothing, et al. It’s all fascinating to me.

Each presidential election cycle is more whacked-out than the previous one, and as we draw closer to Election Day, I find myself saying on an almost hourly basis “Well, just when I thought it couldn’t get any whackier, ______ happens.”

In this particular case, ______ is our favorite pearl clutcher, Ann Romney. Take a listen to the clip below from an interview Mrs. Romney gave to an Iowa radio station yesterday. The fun starts about 1:23 in.

http://www.radioiowa.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/AnnRomneyInterview.mp3

So, this got me thinking (I know, there I go, working without tools again)….Hmmm…

Sure, I can go into the usual talking points about how her husband is basically a spineless chump who is shaking his campaign Etch-A-Sketch on a daily basis, or how he’s pandering to a particularly dangerous segment of his base who believes that Obama wasn’t born here, but that’s just too easy. Plus, it’s been done.

Instead, I’ve decided to have some fun with “Stop it. This is hard” and Mr. Romney’s recent 47 percent gaffe. You’ll see and please, feel free to join in on the fun.

“Stop it. This is hard. Sometimes I have to drive one of my many Cadillacs through neighborhoods inhabited by 47 percenters in order to get to one of my mansions. I don’t like white-knuckling it.”

“Stop it. This is hard. I had a horse in the Olympics and it was so difficult making sure he had the correct hoof polish.”

“Stop it. This is hard. I didn’t know what to do with the tax write-off Rafalca  awarded us, so I bought some fur-lined mom jeans for Mitt.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You try having conversations with some of your husband’s 47 percenter campaign staffers! I LOATHE talking to serfs!”

“Stop it. This is hard. I have to pretend I like people who aren’t exactly like me.”

“Stop it. This is hard. We had to sell stock to get to this place.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You try being married to a man who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“Stop it. This is hard. You know how difficult it is to get John Boehner to cry about someone he doesn’t give a red rat’s ass about?”

“Stop it. This is hard. Why didn’t those bitches at the RNC 2012 believe my insincere “I love you” during my duller-than-paste speech?”

“Stop it. This is hard. I just learned that some LGBT folks have families. They’re ruining my America.”

If I had a nickel for every time the Romneys said something stupid, I’d be in their tax bracket.

Aaaand SCENE.

What a difference a year makes

On July 6, 2011, I started this blog. I had no idea how it would turn out or if it would even last more than a few posts. There was always the chance that I’d grow bored and dump it like a bad boyfriend. Hell — that could still happen, but I doubt it because this is just too damn much fun. It’s my own creation that hails from the most mysterious, silliest, contemplative parts of my soul.

With the exception of a few posts where I find inspiration in another news story or in normal everyday human behavior, I never truly know what I’m going to write about until I click on “new post” and start typing.

It’s that very moment when I feel the most creative and free. I feel fortunate to have this innate ability (some might argue with my word choice) to create and write, and I’ve learned that the more I do it, the (hopefully) better I get. To me, writing is a release, a comfort and a source of nourishment. It’s what I long to do for a living.

When I started this blog, I was unemployed and uncertain of my future. Sadly, that’s today’s theme too. It’s been 17 months since I was laid off from my job at Modern Healthcare magazine, and very little has changed. I’ve had a few, brief freelance assignments, sent out countless resumes and went on a bunch of interviews. Southern California was my home for roughly 6 months — and I long to make it my permanent home, dog willing. I do believe that will happen but it’s just a matter of when. While I love Chicago, Southern California just suits me better. There’s a comfort level I’ve never been able to achieve in Chicago — a concept that is lost on so many folks, but not on those with whom I am closely yoked.

A year moves quite fast these days. Time moves faster when you’re not working, by the way. It wasn’t unusual for me to experience a myriad of emotions within a 24-hour span. Brutal, yes, but I learned a great deal about myself, and have realized it’ll all work out — life has a way of making things just so. Sure, the path is riddled with crap and more crap, but it’s worth it all in the long run.

So, thanks for your support. I do plan on writing more political posts since we’re smack-dab in one of the biggest political pig fucks of all time. What’s happening in this presidential election season breaks my heart, makes me laugh and gives me hope.

Odd, yes, but it’s not unlike what I’ve personally experienced during the past year.

A Saturday in June with David

David is one of my dearest friends. He’s highly intelligent, has a quick wit that’s matched by no one, and is kind and caring. I met him in Los Angeles right after a horrible break-up and we became fast friends.

We’ve known each other for almost 20 years.

Since I’ve been back in LA, we’ve spent a great deal of time together and have fallen back into some of our old routines from when I previously inhabited this city. We’ve sipped coffee at two of the best coffee places on the planet, had a mini-Oscar viewing party and had long discussions about both of our pasts, our presents and futures. Those are the conversations I treasure the most.

Then, there are the ones that aren’t particularly earth-shattering, but are memorable.

Julia: David, we both need jobs.

David: Yes, but we’re too old to be whores.

*****

While watching “Aliens”(spoiler alert — really?) & Michael Biehn acting through his body armor and the colony dirt his bod was covered in – David: I just wanna sleep with his forearms, is that so bad?

… the part after Newt, Bishop and Ripley escape, and colony goes nuke-cu-lar.

David: They didn’t cut Newt’s hair — what is that about?

*****

Reminiscing in his mind about a White Trash 4th of July party a friend had back in the late-1990s in Hollywood, David blurted out:

“Hey Jules, remember when I crawled naked across Mitch’s apartment floor and licked his cute friend, Manhung?”

Of course I remember. How could I forget? Some memories you need to expunge from your mental rolodex, but I knew that this particular one would be useful someday. Also, who in their right mind would want to do away with such a gem? I’d gladly take some of that fancy book learnin’ I did in college that isn’t helping me right now (statistics-*ahem*), and replace it with David memories.

I was dressed like a trailer park princess (shut UP) and oh so glad those pics have been destroyed. This particular party was a low-point for David — drinking-wise. Soon after, he dried out and has been sober now for 12 years and 5 months. The party was on the roof of Mitch’s apartment building that was on the edge of Runyan Canyon, and David wandered down to the apartment to use the loo, and chill out.

Oh and lick Manhung. Yes, there’s more to this yarn. So much more. Delving into that particular memory might toss me back into therapy — circa 1997. I remember driving someone to the ER because they had stabbed themselves with a Spork or a tin can, or got a fish hook to the eye. I don’t remember the specifics.

After the naked crawl down memory lane, David decided he needs to find a hairy Chinese guy with a big dick.

Charming.

He still hasn’t found what he’s looking for.

*****

David: Julia, you know what a theremin is, don’t you?

Julia: Yes, dear, I do. What is the purpose of the question? 

David: Just curious. 

*****

We have one of those friendships where, if we don’t talk for a couple of weeks — or months — we can pick up where we left off as if only a few hours have passed since the last time we chatted. When we were roommates at the appropriately dubbed Palazzo (credit: David) on Beverly Glen, just north of Olympic in West LA, we would spend many a-weekend with our other roommate and great friend, Kim, not doing a damn thing, just keeping the couches down. We all had stressful jobs at the time — I was working in animation at the Mouse, David worked (& still does) in PR and Kim worked as a producer for home video — so we treated our apartment and each other’s company as a sanctuary of sorts. This was a time when we were still finding our way — in that fearless manner that’s de riguer of late-20s/early 30-somethings.

Oh, how the times have changed.

As I was getting ready to leave, David was just finishing up a phone call with an acquaintance. He was mumbling about how he’ll help some folks, if they’ll help themselves. I nodded along since his logic makes sense to me.
I looked up at him just as he said, “But for you, dear Julia, I’d walk on hot coals.” 

I’ve known this to be true for years, but hearing it always feels good.

Next up: Camping with David in Kings Canyon.