Archive for July, 2009


it’s not a rerun, it’s a classic

While preparing for a yard sale, my significant other* uncovered this little ditty I wrote my junior year of high school. I don’t recall writing this, but my best guess is that when it came time to submit our school activities to the yearbook, this was the list I turned in:

Varsity Wrestling

National Art Honor Society


Jazz Band

Rick James Fan Club (disbanded at semester)

Dead Sea Scrolls Translator Club

Cooking Club

National Fish-Cleaning Honor Society

Water Buffalo Club (runner-up to Fred Flintstone in presidential race, but it’s just a fucking popularity contest anyway)

Secretary, Planning Committee, Seperate-But-Equal Midget Prom

Students Supporting Students With Lice

Leather-Tanning Club

Treasurer, Future Porn-Stars of America

Plano East Organized Militia

Vegeterian-Bashers Club

Organizing Staff, Girl-Haters’ Year-End BBQ

I was fascinated by the insight this thing provided re: my early sense of humor and exactly how little it has evolved since 1994 (although today’s version of me wouldn’t be down with the leather tanning or vegeterian-bashing. or the fish-cleaning or barbecuing, for that matter. jeez, what was the deal with my need to spill the innocent blood of animals back then? i was like a werewolf, except i sucked at basketball, didn’t have a friend with a van that i rode on top of, and nobody wanted to have sex with me). Also, I got a big kick out of the fact that the phrase “Students Supporting Students With Lice”  can be read multiple ways. Sure, the most likely meaning  is that the club was made up of students supporting other students who happened to have lice, but I like to think that the club was dedicating to building human pyramids with the bottom layer made up of trillions of lice.

*don’t worry, ladies; I will still do you**

**pending passage of my impossible and terribly unfair standards of beauty


if i don’t survive, take this key, go into my house, and destroy all my scorpions cassettes

edited 7/5/09. i can’t be publishing no posts with less than 100 words, mang.

Scattershooting while wondering whatever happened to Squeaky Fromme:

1.”For if we’re honest with ourselves, we’ll acknowledge that there are good and decent people in this country who don’t yet fully embrace their gay brothers and sisters — not yet.” -Pres. Obama, June 29

Enough already with the coddling of America’s jerkfaces. At this point in the debate, there are two types of people who are opposed to marriage equality:

        a. people who are 100 years old.

        b. fucking idiots.

These groups share something else in common: they should be given low priority on the organ transplant list.

2. During her resignation speech, did anyone else think we were this close to hearing Sarah Palin actually say the words “the Iraq, and such as”?

3. Dear 101.5FM,

Now that we’re officially halfway through the year 2009, it’s probably okay to maybe not play a Sublime tune every half-hour. I’m sure that if any of Bradley Nowell’s surviving relatives live in Austin, they will understand.  

4. Every time news breaks of an elected official’s illicit affair, the analysis always seems to include some explanation that risk-taking, narcissistic behavior comes from the same personality trait that drives clintonedwardsspitzerensignsanford to success in their chosen field. I don’t buy this, if only because it does little to explain the fact that I routinely engage in self-destructive habits, and I’ve never succeeded at anything.


the bitterness, resentment and passive-aggression are coming from… inside the house!

For all the advances we women have made in the last hundred years, it strikes me as ironic how little control we have over our lives. Though we’ve got a ways to go yet,  I’m nevertheless appreciative of the options I have that generations before me fought for. However, no suffrage or women’s liberation movement, no matter how ambitious, can give us authority over who we fall in love with, and that’s my life’s great tragedy. 

I can’t say I wasn’t warned; as a little girl I sat on my bed, engrossed in Victorian tales of damsels who had fallen for vampires or werewolves. I pitied these girls, feeling that they had fallen into these frustrating relationships because their stations in life offered them so few avenues for more functional love.

Imagine, then, my surprise (and pain) when, after a lifetime governed by prudent decisions and sober logic, I, against my better judgment, fell hopelessly in love with Ralph Johansen, a caring, generous partner who just happened to be a zombie.

It was Ralph’s mystique that drew me in initially. I had just finished an  exhausting relationship with an overly emotional classmate, so having a man in my life whose vocabulary was limited largely to grunting was just what the doctor ordered. My desire to learn more about Ralph, his background, his interests, his dreams, became ever more insatiable the less he offered me.

As I got to know him, however, I discovered something heartbreaking and precious hiding behind that emotional wall he projected toward the world: real pain. We were walking in the park one quiet evening when his arm snapped off at the elbow while we were holding hands. At that moment, Ralph released a haunting moan that came from deep inside him, and I knew at that moment, that I was seeing his very soul. I couldn’t turn away, even though I knew that ours was an impossible love, and that to comsummate it would mean the loneliest kind of death for me.

Not that he didn’t try, of course. My fondest memories of Ralph are of being in the considerable grip of his one remaining hand, while he playfully tried to nibble on my ear. That day he said something that no other man had told me up to that point, they all having obsessed over my taut, youthful body. With sex removed as a possibility, Ralph told me he wanted me for my brains, and I felt appreciated for the very first time with a man.

Ultimately, our love was doomed by outsiders who couldn’t understand Ralph for what he was. The ridicule and isolation were overpowering. A group of hipsters parading downtown dressed as zombies made Ralph question his existence. Thinking he had finally found a place in this world, he joined them, until a Tisch undergrad in Sally Jessy Raphael glasses rolled her eyes and whispered to her friend, “check out Mayor McTryingtoohard”.  

Dejected, he turned to me and his tear-filled eyes were clear in a way I had never seen before. His humanity had reached the surface once again, but I knew it would be brief, as his zombie self would soon wrest control back from the person he once was. He said to me in a soft, contemplative voice, “if they’ve found a way to make being undead ironic, fuck it.” And with that, he blew his head off with a shotgun, spraying gray blood everywhere.

I still think about Ralph every day. And while he is irreplacable in my heart, I can’t say with certainty that there will never be another like him. Last week, when I was bringing flowers to Ralph’s grave, I felt a tug at my ankle. I looked down to see the cutest little green hand poking out of the ground, clawing desperately at my leg. Tell me honestly: how do you like the sound of “Mrs. Phineas Xavier McGillicuddy”?

July 2009