More room in the closet

You know what I find equally impressive as finding one's 'coming out' cajones? Being able to work 'sissy' and 'verboten' in the same sentence.

I've got your number Percy!

Think fluffy is your trusted feline friend? Think again.

But Daddy! I want an Oompa Loompa now!

Yesterday I was waiting by a pay phone for G to come out of the bank. A women walked up to the phone, leaned one of those impossibly huge, curse-inspiring, Louis Vuitton logo-emblazoned umbrellas against the side of the booth, made her call, and walked away...forgetting her umbrella. Before I could call out "Hey, you left your (albeit hideous, dangerous, space-monopolizing) umbrella..." a young girl stepped into to the booth and snatched it up in her hand. I assumed the girl, like me, was intending to call out to the woman, but instead she stood there silent, purposely hiding the umbrella behind her boyfriend's back until the woman was consumed by the crowd. Delighted she'd pulled off the crime, the girl turned to her boyfriend and said, "No I DIDN'T just score a Louis Vuitton!" to which he replied a congratulatory "Damn, girl!". Triumphant, they stepped into the crosswalk, both admiring her new accouterment.

As they reached the middle of the busy intersection the girl raised the umbrella over her head, depressed the lock mechanism and opened the chute. A deluge of filthy water that had been collecting in the cone rained down on her, completely soaking the entire right side of her designer jumpsuit and toppling what must have been a painfully time-consuming up-do. The girl shrieked, which caused about five hundred Memorial Day shoppers to turn and look --just in time to see the side of the umbrella collapse in a dog ear of dirty fabric that immediately encircled and adhered itself (and some an unidentifiable black-brown goo) to her head. Blind and increasingly pissed off, the girl flailed her arms and beat at the air like a kid whacking at a pinata, of course the more she did this the more entangled in her hair the contraption became, until it was hanging off the side of her head by a single matted clump. The boyfriend was doubled over at this point, holding his sides from laughing so hard; the onlookers just smirked. Humiliated by having to stand in traffic like some cyborg from Planet Fashion, she finally lost it and ripped the umbrella, and the clump of hair, right off her head.

I guess I have an evil streak, but nothing delights me more than watching a person get bitch-slapped by instant karma.

Quit yer bitchin and pass the mashed potatoes.

Oh, the Memorial Day sadness. Each year it's the same here in the Northeast. Sour puss's moping around the rented beach house or camp ground, pissed off that they have more use for their Blockbuster card instead of their 40 Block sunscreen. The schleppers of soggy bags of unigniteable briquets. Expanded foam coolers laying to waste. The pouts. The long faces. The goose flesh.

What's crazy is historically in this part of the country it has been either in the upper fifties and overcast, or in the upper fifties, windy, and raining on pretty much each Memorial Day for the past ten years. Yet we persist. We cling to the dream.

This morning while trying to goad my dog outside in the driving rain to relieve herself, something occurred to me. Why don't we just scrap the whole summertime-barbecue-slip-n-slide-beer-drinking-jarts-playing nonsense and simply readjust our MemDay attitude. We'd be better off to view the holiday as the springtime sister to Thanksgiving, like Thanksgiving II, or Maysgiving. Trade in the badminton racket for a baster. It's essentially the same weather in May as it is in November anyway. The same grey windy rainy stuff that just screams indoors, oven-roasted, pop-n-fresh fun. Either way your full, drunk, and napping by three in the afternoon, so who cares what's on the menu? As a matter of fact...I think I'm going to head up to C-Town right now and see if they have any turkeys, and one of those Mrs. Smith's pumpkin pies. My mom isn't around but I can call her for the obligatory drunken argument later.

Mambo Banana

I talk funny. It's true. And because of it people make really odd assumptions about me, which I have to admit I enjoy most of the time. I like to think it happens because I'm so darn mysterious and ineffable, a riddle of a woman; unique. Well, that's what I choose to believe, it just sounds better than 'devoid of genuine character' or 'lacking a distinct personality'.

Get to know them!

Okay kids...a quick recap; here are our choices thus far. What do you say we pick one and vote him/her into office? I know, crazy right? But see, if we agree to vote for JUST ONE of them instead of SPREADING OUR VOTES between the SPOILERS and those who DON'T REALLY HAVE A CHANCE IN HELL OF GETTING ELECTED... we might be able to get our country back.

Are we on the same page here? Good.

All Hail the Yo-Yo King

Walking home from the store I approached three boys, about 15 years old, hanging out on a stoop. Two sat as 'the audience' while the third stood in the middle of the sidewalk doing tricks with a yo-yo. He was really good at it. Every time he would attempt and then successfully execute a trick, he'd squeal loud and long, amazed and delighted it worked.

"Yo dog, why you act like such a retard?" Seated #1 said. The yo-yo kid's face fell.
Seated #2 chucked #1 on the shoulder, "Man, you just jealous that he can do that shit and you can't."
"No I ain't. Look at him...all trifflin' with child's toys, yelling like a girl. Jealous? Please."
"Yeah you is. Admit it." seated #2 began. The kid with the yo-yo had stopped doing tricks. He just stood there nervously winding the cord around the ball. After a quiet beat Seated #2 continued, "You don't gotta be like that dog, it's okay to just admit it. He's really good at something you can't do and you're jealous."

There was a silent pause that made my heart break. I felt the jury go out on the yo-yo kids entire future of cool. The wrong response had him putting the yo-yo deep in the sock drawer and never touching it again, or worse, smashing it against the sidewalk on the way home. I had passed them at the last exchange, and was probably three houses away when seated #1 finally broke the silence with a burst of laughter, "You right man, that shit IS crazy. How'd you learn to do that?..."

I turned around just in time to see the yo-yo king unravel the cord again. "My Pops." he said. "C'mon, I'll show you... it's easy, you could be as good as I am in like a week." Seated #1 took the yo-yo and the murmurs of apprenticeship followed me down to my door.

My faith in humanity has been fully recharged.
Thanks.

Easily amused

Not to be self referential, but ever since I put up the previous post I can't get the phrase "what's around the head" out of my mind. My brain is swarming with "what's around the head" phrases like: What's around the head goes around the head. To be or not to be what's around the head. What's around the head is juxtaposed to the head. The objects around the head may be closer than they appear. Pay no attention to what's around the head. What's around the head is greater than the sum of it's parts. I came, I saw, what's around the head. What's around the head, chicken butt.

I know the last one doesn't make any sense, actually none of them do, but I've been laughing so hard I've reactivated my rib-hernia. God...it's addictive, I mean, if you're simple like me...

Is that a banana in your pocket, or just what's around the head? (hey! my only 'dirty' one so far)

Anyway, give it a try; let me know if you come up with any good ones.

Mr. Stone? ...the President will see you now.

Thank God for George Bush. Without him, would the dapper corporate magnate ever be able to fully embrace 'business casual'?

"On Tuesday, at a speech promoting his economic plan in Indianapolis, White House aides {asked} people in the crowd behind Mr. Bush to take off their ties, WISH-TV in Indianapolis reported, so they would look more like the ordinary folk the president said would benefit from his tax cut."

My favorite line from the article (even better out of context): "They understand that what's around the head is just as important as the head."

Pain Relief

Three sleepless days, pain meds and wine makes Jill a raving loon.

A loon who suddenly finds stupid shit reasonable. Like...today it seems like a totally bitchin' idea to post a questionnaire on my site as an ersatz bio. You know the kind..."If you could have been born at any point in history, when would it be?" I detest questionnaires as a rule, but they are strangely compelling, like tabloid headlines at a checkout. And I don't know about you, but I can't NOT read them. I can't turn my attention away from a page of someone's innermost thoughts any more than I could a story about Lisa Marie's drunken lesbian forays and debaucherous pill-popping adventures, or how her new album was written by her father posthumously -- transmitted to her producer via seances conducted by Billy Ray Cyrus. Like, hello? must- read- that... But compelling or not, posting a hundred questions and answers is kinda gay, but then again, so am I. So there.

So I was rushed to the hospital Monday morning with the symptoms of a heart attack. So there. (Look, I don't know why... the phrase is just stuck.) I had been having severe chest pain for about 24 hours which ruled out gas and ulcerous nonsense and such, so I called my doctor (who was surprisingly friendly for being dragged out of bed at a quarter to seven on Mother's Day). She demanded that I head to an emergency room that instant. "The Golden Rule: never mess with chest pain..." she said in easy to swallow bumper sticker form...she suggested St. Vincent's because they take the poor unwashed masses without health insurance, like me. Now the Good News: It turns out I was not having a heart attack but have somehow wound up with condometroflamaflamadia, or whatever, which is essentially a hernia between your ribs. The severe pain and breathing trouble was not my heart or lungs, but my lungs pressing against herniated rib-muscle tissue. This is better than a heart-attack. But I was kind of hoping that my lungs were messed up somehow. I've been looking for a reason to quit smoking, more like, wondering when some medical problem would force me to quit smoking, but according to the doc's at St. Vinnies my lung X-rays showed airbags as pink and pretty as a damn carnation. I quote, "For a heavy smoker, your lungs are surprisingly healthy". So there. I was sent home with a script for anti-inflammatories and some literature on spousal/partner abuse, the leading cause of this particular malady in women. My partner does not and did not abuse me, but I was very thankful and happy that they asked ("did you suffer a fall, or blow to the ribs recently?") and also provided me, privately, with information, contacts, and phone numbers of how to get help if it were so; all in a nonjudgmental, non-confrontational way. Rock on groovy ER folk.

Speaking of abused spouses, my poor boyfriend has had to try and study for finals during all of this hubbub, in between being awakened from a dead sleep by the screams of the woman laying next to him...all because she simply turned over. And I'm being slowly driven mad by late night/early morning television. And I just want to DO something. Anything. Bend over and pick up a sock. Lower myself into the tub. Do 'The Swim' to the second side of Mesopotamia. Breathe deeply.

So I'm a bit loony and high and pissed and bored. So there.

Life is Beautiful

Maybe I'm just a little cranky and hung-over from getting (I think the term is "snot-hangin'") drunk last night with [friends name's omitted just in case they'd rather not be associated with my stupid drunk ass or my stupid hung-over rants about it] but I am in quite a mood.

And maybe it's because we went to a stand-up comedy show that everything I say today starts with "Did ya ever notice?" or "What's the deal with..." phrases which, by the way, NONE of the comedians were lame enough to utter at any point during their, for the most part, funny and entertaining sets...

Or perhaps I'm just overwhelmed by the fact that my MOTHER HAS MOVED TO BROOKLYN...I repeat, MY MOTHER HAS MOVED TO BROOKLYN.

Those things could be what's wrong with me today.

All I know is this: if one more person says or does another fucked-up stupid thing to my dog, I will kill them. Make no mistake. I will kill them and fry for it and laugh all the way to hell.

Out of the mouths of babes...

It really sucks there's an age restriction for presidental candidates.

Ska'red

I just had the most horrific realization...instead of being the voice of the rude-boy nation-- is Dave Wakeling really just the Vanilla Ice of Ska? I mean, some white guy from ol' Brummy England going on with his Ja'rai'rifiam'bla Oi!...was Ranking Roger cringing?

*shudder*

Edible Rock

I wish I could remember my dream last night. It was a concert, I think, there was a stage of some kind, lots of lights and fireworks. Everyone in attendance was a vegetable. Not disabled, a fruit of the earth. I woke up right after a ten foot zucchini took over the mic and asked the crowd to "Give it up for...Corn On The Cob!!" I didn't get to see Corn On The Cob's performance, but it must have been kick-ass because the crowd went ape.

(non-freudian explanation: The last thing I read before going to sleep was Zeebah's blog. She's been doing a lot of gardening, and going to lots of shows. So there you go.)

The Safety Dance

I need to apologize. If you were one of the cars stranded under water for a half-hour in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel wishing you could ring the neck of whomever was responsible for closing it down...

...well, that'd be me.

But it wasn't my fault. I swear. I'm a pedestrian usually. The BQE has always and will always confuse me with it's whole 'east-west' nonsense when any reasonable person knows it runs all four points, I simply paused (PAUSED MIND YOU) at the booth to ask the kind Toll Person which direction I should head to get to my destination.

She said, "To get there you head west". I thanked her, we said 'have a nice day', and I pulled away. Suddenly she screamed "STOP! WAIT! STOP! STOP!" I looked in the rear-view and found her frantically waving her arms and pointing at my van, I hit the brakes. Before I could put the van in reverse, or even roll down the window to see what the trouble was (had I forgotten to get my change? is my muffler falling off?) I was interrupted by the appearance of a military rifle on the other side of the driver's side window; pointed prejudiciously between my eyes.

Yellow alert my ass.

My reality shifted dramatically, the slow-motion panic you experience at the onset of a catastrophe set in, time ceased to flow in a liner fashion. A second cop appeared on the driver's side, demanding that I "GET OUT OF THE CAR, NOW!" while motioning a third around the to the passenger side door. I was paralyzed, all the noise of the highway disappeared, 'click!' as if a master mute button had been pressed somewhere. I began to suffocate inside the gelatinous substance that had replaced the air.

"I said, GET OUT OF THE CAR!" the thing behind the black barrel screamed.

Amadou Diallo, the first thought that sprang to mind, my only thought, was of Amadou Diallo. "This is how you get shot" I told myself, "This is how it happens, I'm going to reach for the door handle and they're going to shoot me forty some-odd times... they're going to tell the press that I blew through a toll booth in a nondescript van with Jersey plates and then refused to get out of the car, how I suddenly reached for (a gun, a detonator, the pin on the grenade taped to my chest...) FORCING THEM to shoot me, that they were only PROTECTING OUR BORDERS, how I was DANGEROUS and BREAKING THE LAW or, at the very least, SUSPICIOUS...and in these times of terror and war, SUSPICIOUS PEOPLE are all potential TERRORISTS who warrant a IMMEDIATE JUSTICE.

The toll girl, having left her booth, approached the van from behind, strangely unfazed by the sight of a citizen's vehicle being commandeered by an armed mob of police, or even worried about the possible brutal murder of the driver..."Get back to your POST!" the thing behind the black barrel barked at her as she neared.

"Just tell her I was wrong... it's EAST," she yelled through cupped hands held to her mouth, "TELL HER TO HEAD EAST!"

"What?" Cop two said.

"I told her to take the BQE WEST, I was wrong, IT'S EAST!" With this she turned on her heel and stepped back in her booth.

Now you'd think the whole event would be over at this point, right? It was all a big mistake, they would apologize for scaring two years off my life and say something about how you can 'never be too careful these days' and send me on my way; perhaps with a little gift, a 'sorry we pointed a gun at you - here's a coupon for complementary Freedom Fries' for instance. Not so. The Bridge and Tunnel Police (Homeland Security division) don't spring out of action as easily as they spring into it. Guns had been drawn, testosterone levels raised, as well as rancor, adrenaline, and purpose.

Cop One made the universal 'roll down your window' motion with his hand. I did; his expression remained unchanged from the 'don't give me an excuse to kill you' face he'd worn throughout --even though it had become clear the whole event was born out of A MISUNDERSTANDING ABOUT DIRECTIONS-- so I returned my hands to the wheel where they would be in full view.*

"Where are you headed?" he said.
"Home...I mean Williamsburg."
"And where are you coming from?" His eyes bore a hole in my left temple.
"I'm coming from..." I took a peek into the rear view...hundreds and hundreds of cars sat motionless behind me, I realized they had not only shut down my toll lane, but the whole plaza. "...shouldn't I pull over or something?"
"I asked you a question, where are you coming from?"
"...I'm blocking traffic, shouldn't we continue this off to the side?" I grabbed the gear shift momentarily which made the black barrel reappear in the window, confirming my suspicion that this episode was far from over --it had simply transformed into a quest for justification. I took one last peek in the rear-view, saw the faces of the curious, disgruntled masses, and understood a new objective had emerged: showing my fellow stranded Americans that Homeland Security is in Full Effect.

And boy is it ever, in all of its ill-conceived glory. What an utter waste of my, and everyone else's time. The decent on my truck wasn't the waste of time -- On first inspection I was, after all, driving a rented, unmarked, out of state van, was confused about the lay of the land and driving erratically, and had a state employee scream for me to STOP like I had just thrown a Molotov cocktail down her blouse -- I would say those things add up to an understandable reason to check me out...initially -- the following 'investigation' was the ludicrous part; pointless in fact.

Remember it had been made clear that the Toll Girl was just being POLITE and didn't want me to go in the wrong direction...Yet two cops peered into the van (with flashlights, in broad daylight) while the third asked me everything from my country of origin and place of birth, up to a minute-by-minute account of my day before arriving at his post, all at gunpoint. What they DIDN'T ask me were the most simple, pertinent questions, such as my name...they never even asked to see my license or registration. It was demanded, but I was never made to step out of the truck. None of them ever actually entered the van or checked its contents. To the point, if I DID have a bomb or was en route to (or fleeing from) a diabolical deed, I would have gotten away. Essentially all they accomplished was scaring the shit out of me and shutting down lower Manhattan... Oh, and stranding a few hundred people in the tunnel.

I know everyone who travels has had, or has heard tell of similar experiences, so I'll dispense with the usual platitudes. I'm just saying that I, and anyone who was witness to the shouts of STOP and my ensuing detainment didn't drive away thinking "well, it's nice to see they are doing such a good job...I feel so SAFE now..."; we all drove away going "Fucking morons. You stupid fucking morons."

*keeping your hands in full view is a habit I picked up after family friend (and NYS Police officer) Adam and I were pulled over for speeding. As our car and the cruiser rolled to a stop, Adam exhaled "Oh shit... my gun is in the glove compartment". Before I could react, he told me to roll down my window and place my hands on the roof of the car. As the cop approached our car, Adam, who had also extended his hands out his window, yelled, "Officer...I have a registered hand gun in the glove compartment." The cop drew his weapon, instructed us to keep our hands on the roof, which we did, crossed over to the passenger's side, opened the glove compartment, and removed the gun. The cop asked "Do you have any other weapons?" to which Adam replied "No, I don't. Only my service revolver." Proper I.D.'s were displayed, they exchanged pleasantries and we pulled away without incident, ticket-free of course (even though Adam was only a cadet at the time).

The whole thing made no sense to me. "So you TELL him we have a gun in the car, put your hands on the roof, which, c'mon, looks like you're up to something, freak him out, force him to draw his weapon, and this is a good thing?...we could have been shot!"

Adam explained, "No, that was to make sure we DIDN'T get shot. Imagine if I leaned over to get my registration out of the glove compartment and a gun popped out...he would have thought I was reaching for it. He could have shot us both. Legally. Self defense."

Adam said the majority of cop-on-innocent shootings are usually the fault of jerky movements and misinformation. He said (according to his experience) one should always assume the cop is green and trigger-happy, so you should stay as still as possible and keep your hands where they can see them. As a matter of fact don't move at all until they've reached you or your vehicle and you are instructed to do so; no matter what the situation. He added, laughing, that "You can't sue them for police misconduct if you're dead." Our friend, the cop-hating cop.

I've always remembered that when dealing with the police. Amadou Diallo was shot 41 times for reaching for his wallet in the dark.

A quote from my pal Ken, the eternal optimist in love:

"I wouldn't say I'm head over heels, but I'm definitely head over knee-caps."