May 232008
 

VI: The After Show

Corey and I couldn’t think of a better way to cap off such an amazing concert than by returning to our luxury motel. Pulling into the lot at 11:30, we were greeted by several shifty denizen who chose to congregate outside their rooms with beer and cigarettes. Corey wanted to get a picture of the Pennant Night Club next door, because it was country night and this amused him to no end, but he made me go with him. It was at this point that I realized I was probably more suspicious than anyone else in that lot, what with the way I stopped dead in my tracks, hunkered over to suppress giggles, to stare at a couple across the lot.

Corey gave me this look that screamed, “What the fuck, are you crazy? You can’t just stop and STARE at the crazy townies having sex around their clothes out front of their room!”

I snapped out of it and followed him to the street.

“This place has wi-fi?” Corey asked in amazement after we reached the front of the motel. “How does a place like this have wi-fi?”

“They probably steal it,” I said, shrugging, and then we both laughed and couldn’t stop because the Giddy Sibling Bug had bit us.

Back inside our room, I called Christina to tell her that the state she was born in sucks. She was really hurt by it, and Corey shouting things like, “New Jersey is gay!” in the background only wrenched the knife further, because she actually is gay. I mean, she has a tattoo of New Jersey on her leg, that’s how proud of it she is.

“Where exactly in New Jersey are you?” she asked. I couldn’t remember the name of the town, other than the fact we got lost and ate at Pat’s Pizzeria in Gloucester, and that we saw a lot of signs for Camden.

“Um, no wonder you hate it. Camden??” That’s when I learned that Camden had replaced Detroit as the most dangerous city in the nation. “You should be OK as long as you’re not in a gang, though,” she reassured.

Meanwhile, Corey was debating whether or not he wanted to take a shower. “I mean, did you see the shower curtain? It has burn holes in it,” he whined. But he finally manned up and conquered the shower stall. He came out of the bathroom a walking cautionary tale.

“I don’t even want to think about all the dirty New Jersey sex that was in that shower before me,” he spat with disgust.

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“And just so you know, the water smells like fish. Have fun with that in the morning.”

We got comfortable in our respective knife-slashed beds with the local Gloucester channel on TV. Backed with all the best soft rock hits were still-ads for the local cemetery, a middle school talent show, and a list of the honor roll students. It was a sweet surprise when the ads were pre-empted with some small-scale recording of a youth fishing competition. It was awesomely terrible and we couldn’t stop watching.

“This almost makes me want to live here,” I said. Then we laughed.

“I’m so afraid to close my eyes and sleep. This place scares me. Have you ever seen No Vacancy?” Thanks, Corey. Thanks for making that the last thought in my head before I fall asleep.

Around 1:30am, a nearby door slammed. “Oh goodie, our neighbor’s home!” Corey facetiously enthused. Then he got up and put his face up to the peep hole.

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I was paranoid he was going to get shot, so with the covers pulled up to my chin, I hissed for him to get away from the door.

I woke up in the middle of the night, thinking I heard a car alarm. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not, but I remember thinking I should probably check to see if my car was still in the lot but I was too afraid to go out there. (The window of our room overlooked the back of the property, not the lot.)

The next morning, we gladly turned in our key and Corey snatched a covert picture of the miserable desk clerk who hated us.

VII: Cereality

Aside from seeing the Cure (and eating at Pat’s Pizzeria), the only other thing I refused to leave before doing was getting breakfast at Cereality, located on U Penn’s campus in Philly. I was proud that I finally forwent using Henry as an atlas and tapped into my Blackberry’s resources to find the place, nary a wrong turn. But first, we filled up the gas tank in Gloucester. I tried to get it myself, thinking I could get away with it, but an older Mexican swooped in and grabbed the nozzle off me. Foiled.

As soon as we crossed the threshhold, I was in my happy place. “Rock Me Amadeus” was playing when we got there and Corey, who is in AP Euro and should maybe try acting like it, said, “Huh. We had to listen to this song in my history class.  I think it’s supposed to be about someone historical?”

Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Kiss Them For Me” came on just in time to aid me in tuning out the disgusting trucker-caliber sniffling and snot-suckering taking place behind me. Mmm, yummy — just what I want to hear while I’m trying to decide what I want to EAT. A nice bowl of bubbly snot? A mucous smoothie? There’s not enough froth on my coffee, would you mind blowing your nose in it?

Fucker.

At home, I have a healthy bowl of oatmeal every day, with a hearty handful of flax seed sprinkled in for good measure; so I decided to live large and ordered a bowl (it’s actually served in an over-sized Chinese take-out container) of The Devil Made Me Do It. Basically it was the most disgusting, stomach-turning house-blend on the menu and I was entirely too overwhelmed to come up with my own concoction without at least six months prior planning. Cereal is some serious shit.

One of the people working there was this awesome Goth chick with spiky blond hair and black lipstick. Corey and I simultaneously fanned ourselves.

“She’s like, so cool,” I enthused, and Corey concurred. It doesn’t take much to impress us. Evidently, just some bleach and a faceful of kohl.

After I paid for my container of diabetic shock, I went to the milk counter and, as if to apologize to my body for what I was about to funnel into it, I squirted skim milk onto the cavity-making mound.

Joining me at a small outside table, Corey blurted, “Guess what that Goth girl talked to me!

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“Oh my God, LUCKY! What did she say??” Sadly, I really was jealous.

“She said, ‘Did you pay for that already?'” We squealed over that for a few seconds, and then he added, “And her name is SIMONE!”

My cereal consisted of Cocoa Puffs, Lucky Charms, malt balls, and chocolate syrup. I don’t even like malt balls, but goddamn all cereal should have them. It was the best ever, but after five spoonfuls, my belly tried to reject it. Of course I forced down almost the entire thing and got sick as soon as we hit the turnpike. Corey was smart (and boring) and got something healthy that was made of Life, strawberries and honey or some shit.

While we ate our cereal, “Just Like Heaven” played and we were like, “What the fuck, best breakfast ever.”

Five hours later, we were standing in my living room, blabbering on to Henry about our motel and the people we saw there, Pat’s Pizzeria, all the strip clubs, being lost, not understanding how to get gas.

“I feel like there should be a movie about this: When Well-To-Do Kids are Forced to Fend for Themselves.”

[Part 1][Part 2][Part 3]

May 022008
 

Urgent. Will die without reading.

  • 13:19 Didn’t even realize I have a bloody knuckle. What’s up, adrenaline. #
  • 14:22 I think I’ve outgrown the Cure. #
  • 17:09 I think by the time I complete my tenure at MSA, I’ll be handing them one of my lungs. #
  • 17:27 Versus the Mirror dares Eleanore’s scissors to pierce their sonic wall. #
  • 18:27 Per Eleanore: If you can’t speak English you should just go back where you came from. #
  • 20:15 Just spent 10 minutes praising the merits of Blackberry Curve w/ one of the security guards. Hers is silver mine is red. #
  • 20:56 Trying to unlearn the need to sling "retarded" around so freely and derogatively. Hard mountain to climb. Help me. #
  • 23:07 Just remembered why I stopped watching hockey all those yrs ago. #
  • 01:56 Stereotypes make the world go ’round. #
  • 10:40 I forgot how much fun it is to play with cars. I want to buy some dolls to turn into crash victims. Henry will object I bet. #
  • 12:06 Need a constant loop of Chooch saying ‘girl’ so I’ll never be in a bad mood again. #
  • 12:17 I’m trading it all in to be a milk maid. Please call me Gertie. #

Automatically shipped by LoudTwitter Now you can rest easy, knowing my inner most thoughts and movements.


 

Now you too can poop in your hands.

Mar 222008
 
  • We had some time to kill before the first band came on, so I was telling Henry about this guy Chuck who answered my ad for the photo shoot, and how he has his own project that he invited me to work on with him because he needs a photographer. His project revolves around people doing every day activities like taking groceries from the car, except that they’re nude. How could I say no to a project involving nakedness? One of sets he wanted to use is a seedy motel. Henry looked horrified and asked, "You didn’t say yes, did you?" My hesitation was his answer. He looked out into the crowd and murmured, "Well, that’s one way to get rid of you."
  • My Blackberry never left my side the whole night. In between bands, I even posted to my blog. I mused that one of the merits was that it enabled me to fit in better with the kids because I can stand around lifelessly and text all the livelong night. After briefly scanning the crowd, Henry said, "No. You’re the only one doing that."
  • I was relieved to discover that I didn’t know anyone there. Henry miserably grumbled, "The only way I’d know anyone here would be if they were friends with my kids." I laughed.
  • The first band was International Giant or International Drive or Internationoonegivesa Fuck. I found myself creating a wish list during their set:
    • I wished the singer would stop doing that thing with his voice.
      • I think that thing is called "singing" in some parts.
    • I wished the singer’s t-shirt would stop v-necking all the way past his nipples.
    • I wished the drummer had not been wearing a head band and a 1970s inspired spandex wrestling tank in aquamarine stripes.
    • I wished they weren’t singing so many songs.
    • I wished I was there with someone cooler.
    • I wished the singer would stop wagging his tongue and thrusting his balls at us.
    • I wished I had a pony. With wings. A unicorn pony with a skull and crossbones tattoo on its ass that would gallop across the stage and spear the singer’s nads with its serrated horn made of steak knives bound together with barbed wire.
  • At one point, two really fucking annoying teenage girls stood in front of me and the one with teased black hair leaned over and shouted, "I made out with a girl last weekend!" into the other girl’s ear and I really wanted to punch her.
  •  I’m glad that my contacts arrived yesterday afternoon, else I wouldn’t have been able to see that the singer of Automatic Loveletter looked just like Kira from the Dark Crystal.
  • Automatic Loveletter was better than I thought they would be, because I usually find affliction with female-fronted bands.
  • During their set, Henry nudged me and very seriously whisper-yelled into my ear that the singer from Armor For Sleep (Ben) was standing next to him. He acted like it was no big thang, but I know that his inner fan girl was squealing and wetting herself. I noticed Henry stood up a little straighter after seeing him, crossing his arm menacingly, probably hoping all the little girls would think Henry was Ben’s bodyguard. I bet he was kicking himself for not wearing his bandannas anymore.
  • When Automatic Loveletter was over, all the guys in the audience rushed the merch table to have their pictures taken with the singer, Juliet. Henry scoffed at that, but I could tell he was longing to have a memento of his own.
  • The third band was A Cursive Memory and I was very bored during their set. The one singer had the most obnoxious front teeth, like he had just stepped out of a comic strip. About beavers. I couldn’t bear to look at him because they made me feel so nervous. I just wanted him to close his mouth.
  • Right before their last song, Teeth shouted, "This song is about bread in spheres!" and I was like, "Wow, that’s pretty cool" but then Henry was all, "They said Britney Spears, you dumb ass."
  • I pretty much wanted to kill myself all throughout Armor For Sleep’s set. Which is to say: They were really fucking fantastic.
  • Henry and I got along THE ENTIRE NIGHT. He wouldn’t put his arm around me when I requested it, though.
Feb 222008
 

 

I don’t know why I was so intent on finding contacts for my Blackberry messenger. I mean, I never even use AIM. I sign on once a month, maybe three times for the hell of it, but then I walk away and people send me messages saying things like "omg ur on??!?!!?!?!!" and "hi" with no punctuation and when something doesn’t have punctuation, I’m unsure how to read it. At least cap it off with an emoticon so I know what I’m dealing with.

If I sign on, my mom sends me YouTube links and spells lots of words wrong.

People have already taken me off their Blackberry contact list. For being a bad contact, I guess. A fair-weathered contact. I had this one guy, Brackett. He asked for a pic. "Got a pic?" he asked. I sent him one. He said I was hottt. Three t’s is flattering. That means he’s hoping I’ll ask about his cock-size. Or that he’s fifteen. I know these things lead to cybering, so I choose my words wisely. My cybering verve is rusty. He said he would send me a picture when he got home. He didn’t, not ever. We chatted semi-consistently for a week. Maybe two. The morning after game night, he hit me up and said, "Hey, how was the party?" A nice personal touch, I felt.

He has a friend who lives a few towns over from me. Said he felt like he should visit her sometime soon, she just had a baby. Maybe he could visit me too. I giggled and sent him a smiley, then laughed about it with my co-workers.

But then the week I was sick, I didn’t meet his needs, I suppose. Didn’t respond to his salutations with suitable speed and before I knew it, I was off his list. Blacklisted. Defriended. Banned.

Another one of my contacts goes by Renegade. He sends me daily jokes. I LOL so he knows I read them. They’re not funny though. I mean, I don’t even smile when I read them. Lately, Renegade has been trying to converse with me. "Mornin’ beautiful" he’ll say and I snicker because he doesn’t know what I look like. Mostly it takes me a day to reply.

Today he told me he’s a trucker and my thoughts on Renegade changed. He went from being That Lame Joke Guy to Awww, A Trucker. I like truckers. (Real ones, not posers like Henry.) Maybe it’s because my biological father was one. Maybe I like their hats and their rugged flannels flanked by padded vests. Maybe I like that whole sleazy stereotype of  truckers with pork rind crumbs in their beards getting sucked off in the shadows of highway rest stops. They’re like warriors. Wheeled warriors trekking through an American wasteland, bandanna flapping in their wake, pile of Slim-Jims on the dash.

My grandparents had this Cadillac when I was a kid. It came attached with a CB. Mostly, none of the truckers would ever respond to me on it, but this one night,  this one promising night on the way home from dinner at Blue Flame, I sat in the passenger seat, bogged down with frustration. I repeated all the things my Pappap told me to say that supposedly bait truckers, things that would make them think I was one of them. Lots of things like "10-4" and "I got your back door" and "plain wrapper up ahead" and other things I don’t remember because I was only five so back the fuck off. But on that night, someone finally took my bait. He was an old trucker named Sloppy Joe. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I bragged about it for days. OK, years.

When I’m on the road, on big scary highways, I panic when tractor trailers sandwich me. I panic when their large bulk forces my tiny car to sway and rock. But as I pass them, I look up into their window and with skilled determination I pull down on m invisible chain and then smile and squeal when they reward me with an air horn symphony.

I like flirting them when I’m in the passenger seat. It’s the creamy center of road trips. You know who doesn’t like it when I flirt with truckers? Henry. Oh Lord, it pisses him off. He wised up after our first road trip and now tries to maintain a constant spot in the far right lane, so the only thing for me to flash my boobs at is the guard rail. Not that I partake in much flashing now that I have that kid. That might be kind of sick. Maybe in France it would be OK.

My friend Sergio once told me that if you treat truckers with respect, maybe you might let them slide on over into your lane when all the other four-wheelers are pointedly ignoring the turn signal, then that trucker will have your back and he might radio ahead to his other trucker friends sharing your stretch of the big road. They might just sandwich you when the bears are around. This has happened to me before, I’ve been taken under the wings of a convoy and it’s a proud feeling. Me, my Eagle Talon, and a fleet of 18-wheelers. Almost makes me want to bite off a hunk of jerky just thinking about it.

When we’re on our way to Columbus tomorrow, I’ll wave to all of the truckers, maybe offer them warm compresses at the Pickle Park[1], and then I’ll salute my friend Renegade, who just now told me that it’s OK that I don’t reply him to him right away, to take my time and that he’ll be there. Just like a true trucker.

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.