You Won a What? Is That a Thing?

I was recently honored with a Liebster Award by ChickenFried Vogue.  Yeah, I thought the same thing – a ‘what the what’ award? I hadn’t heard of it either.  Chicken Fried Vogue sent me to a link to explain the whole thing.  The Liebster award is given to up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers. What is a Liebster? The meaning: Liebster is German and means sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome. She further describes this award in the following fashion: “one mark up from a participation ribbon, it’s one part chain letter mixed with equal parts fraternity hazing and bragging rights, with a generous heaping of exposure.” Basically, it’s a means of saying “good work and welcome to the blogging community – we like you.”   In my mind, I went back to those panty exchange chain letters we used to get as kids.  Does anyone else remember these?  I think you have to be a female over the age of thirty.  I mailed out panties, too, and never got a single fucking pair back – you bitches!  So, this award better follow through with its promise of more exposure or I’m holding onto my panties pretty tightly this time – no shares! 

So, here are the rules to this thing:

1.       Each recipient must post 11 random facts about themselves.

2.       Each recipient must answer the 11 questions the awarder has given to you, the awardee.

3.       You, now the awarder, create 11 questions for your nominees, who are now the awardees.

4.       Choose 11 awardees, link to their website, and notify them.

5.       No award-backs.

Well, this eleven thing was stressing me the fuck out because I’ve had super high levels of anxiety all week, so I’m changing that shit to ten because I do what I want these days, as anyone who knows me in real life would tell you.  For example, when I called my husband to tell him I recently discussed the illuminati with hard-core (now washed up) rapper DMX, he said, “Okay.  Sounds good.  The kids and are I snuggling,” later adding, “I don’t put anything past you these days.”  So – ten it is because I need some evenness to my life right now.  I’m the bitch you can blame later for changing the rules, but please don’t kick me out of the club.  Feel free to return to eleven if you, unlike me, are sane and odd numbers don’t strangely stress you out. 

Part One: TEN Things All About Me

1.       I suffer from bipolar disorder (also referred to as manic-depression), and I am not ashamed to admit to my illness.  I wish more folks who suffer from mental illness would speak up so that we can end the awful stigma associated with such diseases.  Mental illness is real; no one pretends to be bipolar for funsies.  Also, I can’t just snap out of it, but thanks for totally not getting it and wasting your useless words on me.  I should also mention that as I write this I have missed the last three days of work due to severe anxiety and depression, so it’s going to be a little evident here. 

2.       As it’s October, I should share that my favorite holiday is Halloween! I love this holiday because there’s so many fun ways to celebrate.  I love dressing up my adorable little babies, and this year my daughter will be Little Bo Peep and my three month old son her little lost lamb.  Adorable!

3.       I once worked as a professional cake decorator.  I decorated my own three tiered wedding cake for the second, much improved, marriage.  However, I also got carpal tunnel from squeezing icing bags all day long.  The random benefit to this is that I get out of giving hand jobs now because my spouse understands it agitates my illness too much.

4.       After my first marriage ended, I was sitting on the patio glider at my parent’s house with one of my brother’s best friends.  He said, “So, you living here for a while after getting divorced?”  I affirmed his question and he continued, “Well, that’s what you get for marrying a homo.  Everyone knew that guy was gay.”  I returned, “Apparently, I didn’t or I wouldn’t have married him.”  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh well.  You wanna fuck around a little? It might make you feel better.”  So, we went to my dad’s pole barn to make out, but that was very brief after I sat on a wrench and decided it wasn’t worth it.

5.       My favorite book is The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck.  You should read it.  It’s truly touching.

6.       I’m going to plug some more quality art here by saying that Aimee Mann is my favorite musical artist, and the most enjoyable concert I have ever been to.  I’ve been listening to her new album Charmer, and loving it.  However, The Forgotten Arm is a musical masterpiece.  It’s a concept album with incredible story-telling, and you should also take a listen to that (after you’ve read The Good Earth). 

7.       Now sticking with music, if I were to ever go gay for someone, it would be Tori Amos – hands down.  If you have ever seen her in concert and been witness to the way that woman plays the piano, you understand this choice. Hot damn! That woman is a magical, sexual beast.

8.       I am still totally in love with the movie Labyrinth starring David Bowie.  I cannot wait until my children are old enough to share this treasured movie with.  It’s the greatest – and Bowie’s package is pretty stellar in the film too.  You remind me of the babe! What babe?  The babe with the power! Don’t know what I’m talking about? Rent this classic TODAY!

9.       I have learned more Spanish from Dora the Explorer than I did from my cranky old high school foreign language teacher.

10.   I was once legally blind.  I had a rare eye disease called Keretaconus, which basically means that your corneas become conical and the disease is degenerative, so I would now be completely blind had I not had two corneal transplants a few years back.  It is amazing what modern medicine can do.  I feel so blessed to have full sight.

Part Two: The Questions of Chicken Fried Vogue

1.       Do you smile a lot? Yes, all the time.  I’m like Will Ferrell in Elf: “I like smiling.”  I also think I have a very lovely smile.  My mother would say, “You better fucking have a nice smile because I spent a shit ton of money on that smile.”  I had a lot of orthodontic issues as a child.  I also have huge dimples, which barely ever go away.  As a teacher, my students often didn’t believe that I was mad because my dimples were still showing.

2.       Blondes, Brunettes, Redheads, or Baldies? As a brunette myself, that is easily my answer.  May I also add though that I HATE the term “ginger.”  South Park is to blame for so much that is currently wrong with our world.

3.       Can you tell me how to raise any kind of farm animal? No, but I can tell you how to kill a mini-goat by feeding it shit tons of Dairy Queen wrappers and a whole pumpkin.  Poor goat.

4.       Ever steal anything?  Yes, a few times – but I will defend every one of them.  The first time it was an accident.  I was a teenager at the local Ben Franklin store and I put a plastic star ring that cost all of a quarter on my finger for fun, and then I just forgot to take it off.  I know; I should be locked up.  The second time it was a Mylar balloon.  The line was too long, so I got pissed and just walked out of the store.  The third time was just last year.  I had two cases of soda under my cart at Wal-Mart and a lot of grocery purchases.  I picked the worst line in the world.  Every single time the old man working the check-out counter rang an item up, he announced it. “Romaine Lettuce: $1.80.  Two Red Onions: $1.29. One Loaf of French Bread: $2.19.”  Every god-damn item.  So, I figured – what the fuck? I am not lifting this soda up.  That’s my reward for putting up with this shit. 

5.       What was your favorite toy as a child? Boxes.  Always boxes. My dad worked at a paper mill when we were kids, so he would bring home large boxes all the time and we would make homes, cars, space shuttles, castles. I loved “toys” that weren’t intended to be toys and required creativity.

6.       How does it make you feel when someone corrects your spelling or grammar?  Like an idiot, but it rarely happens.  I’m usually the asshole making the corrections because I’m an English teacher, though currently unemployed. 

7.       Have you ever run away from home? Holy shit! All the fucking time! This would require its own separate page post.  Basically, I was an angry little girl.  Whenever I felt hurt or neglected, I would “run away.”  Usually this meant I hid under the log pile for an hour or so.  Then I came back in the house and declared, “No one even looked for me! No one in this house loves me! I hate you all!” Yeah.

8.       Have you ever won a real prize in a real contest? Yes. I won the “Essayist Award” at my undergraduate alma mater. As a debate coach for the past five years, my team also won many, many awards. It would be way too much bragging to list them all.

9.       What activities do you enjoy during your favorite season of the year? Play in the leaves, carve pumpkins, and go for walks in the cool crisp fall weather.  Enjoy the changing colors of the trees.

10.   Do you always begin at the beginning? No. I’m a fan of “in media res.” Oh yeah – dropping some literary terminology on your asses!

11.   I’m skipping 11! The stress! The stress!

Part Three: Questions You All Must Answer – with Pleasure! If I find out any of my nominees bitched about my questions, I will sic Rick Ross on your ass … or you know, do nothing.

1.       As I love books, you probably could have predicted this one, what’s your favorite book and why?

2.       What other bloggers (if any) do you currently follow? Please leave links.

3.       What are three reasons that you think my blog is super fucking awesome (because of course you do)?

4.       Do you believe in love at first sight?  If so, would you also be willing to admit that you are highly delusional?

5.       If you won the lottery, what is the first thing you would spend your money on?

6.       Have you ever had a cool celebrity encounter? Please describe.

7.       Okay: What’s your porn star name?  – Name of First Pet + The Road You Grew Up On =

8.       List three to five songs that have been in heavy rotation on your (iPod/CD player/cassette tape) lately.

9.       Do you believe in miracles?

10.   If I sent you my address, would you please mail me a pair of underwear to make up for those disappointing chain letters?

Part Four: Announcing the Lucky Recipients of the Liebster Award!

Okay, so as of today, here’s the deal folks: There are only two recipients so far.  The Liebster Award is meant to go to those who are new to the world of blogging. It’s a way of accepting them into the community and saying their work is valued and appreciated.  It’s kind of a gold star.  I want to give out gold stars.  However, I have yet to encounter any blog newer than mine (less than three months).  If you know of a new blogger, please send them on over here.  Have them check out my blog, and leave a comment.  I’ll head on over and do some reviewing.  Be warned that this process will probably take a while for me.  Any of my former students could assure you that I have high expectations.  But, also, the more newbies you send my way, that also grows my readership, and I will love you for that too.  Your help is appreciated. 

And many thanks to Chicken Fried Vogue for nominating me! Be sure to check her out today!

 -------------------

1. My first Liebster was awarded during National Blog Post Month to Azara at the Tesseract. Azara is an amazing blogger, who is funny, genuine, and insightful.  Her blog has brought me to tears ... both from laughter and sympathy.  She is definitely worth checking out.  Read about her reaction to the "Lobster" award and learn such wonderful facts such as the time she bought so many boxes of ice cream bars (because they were on sale), that she couldn't fit them all in the freezer, and had to bury some in the snow. Too funny!

2. And my second liebster was also given out during NaBloPoMo to another wonderful woman I encountered via yeah write.  This liebster was awarded to Gem at Disorderly Wanderlust.  I love how she describes her blog: "the musings of an oddball woman who is surprised her hubby married her, who questions the world and feels like an alien on earth- sans tin foil hat."  Through the blog-o-sphere, we have come to realize we share much in common and sometimes reading one another's stories is just like hearing our own voices.   So, if you love me (which, naturally you do), you'll also enjoy this blog.

3.  I could not possibly describe Larks over at Maybe I Should Blog better than she describes herself: "I blog about politics and civil discourse, parenting, and food. I know, right? Because all those things naturally bundle themselves together. Like, 'Why wouldn't you buy an engagement ring while you're picking up a George Foreman grill and tube socks?'" Larks is funny and intelligent.  One day, a post will be about Oscar Wilde and the next all about Zombie Jesus.  I am 100% certain that we would be besties in real life.  This has easily become one of my most visited blogs.  Her daughter, like mine, is also super, duper cute and clever. 

4. I am amazed -- truly amazed -- by Emma at Restraint Unfettered.  Emma is an incredibly strong woman, and a great writer.  Her stories give me strength.  Emma's former spouse developed schizophrenia later into his life, just as they were pregnant with her now four-year-old daughter.  Her posts about her trials and triumphs are truly beautiful and inspiring.  This is a woman both worth reading and admiring.  Emma just started her blog this October, 2012, urged so by a friend as a way to restructure her life.  I am thankful for that friend and thankful for Emma's words.  Much love to you, Emma!

5. My fifth liebster proudly goes to Bee over at Living Off Script.  By the way, I fucking love this blog title and have filed it under "Things I Wish I Came Up With."   Bee is another brave soul that I have come to admire immensely.  I feel quite determined that, together, Bee and I are going to eliminate the shame and stigma of mental illness.  As a fellow woman with bipolar illness, she writes bravely about her struggles -- with humor and heart that makes readers fall easily and quickly in love with her.  Bee, please be my wonder twin in the battle against ignorance of mental illness.  Stay brave, my friend, stay brave!

6. Clearly, it has taken me some time to dole out these awards.  You would think I'm the fucking academy the way I'm hoarding these things, but my next honoree is highly, highly deserving.  My sixth liebster was recently presented to Anna of Muddy River Muse.  I am in love with Anna's writing, as it helps to keep me grounded and remind me what I love about the world -- the flapping of butterfly wings, the sound of the wind, the warmth of the sun, and time to reflect on our past, present, and future while surrounded with such beauty.  Anna is also a former English teacher and great lover of books.  I find myself often drawn to others who love reading as I do.  Anna's words are thoughtful and timeless, and I'm glad to have them reminding me to sometimes just be still and be grateful.

7. I am super, super stoked (hmmm ... I think this may actually be the first time I used the word "stoked") to hand out my seventh liebster award.  As you're aware, I have been really hasty with these things, awarding them only to the most worthy of individuals.  Therefore, to know me IRL is not enough to earn you a liebster.  However, here is a blog that is legitimately worthy on the quality of the writing, and is written by someone I know and adore.  How cool is that?  Lots of teachers will tell you that they don't have favorites, but I don't believe that. While my favoritism didn't impact his grades (he can tell you things were looking quite rough at times), Cooper always was and always will be my favorite student, even when he's an old man.  Beyond that, he also addresses really important issues in his blog, and speaks honestly about mental illness and anxiety.  I was especially impressed with his most recent post "In Case of Emergency," which you can find along with his other great work at Stardate Soliloquy: The Lost, Weary Space Traveler's Story.  I hope his writing dreams, and mine, both come true and we may travel together some day.

 

Keeping it Real with DMX

Recently, a student and I had a discussion about DMX and the illuminati.  I later discovered that DMX was performing at an event I was attending.  The organizers must have desired an artist whose career was “dead” to headline the Zombie Pub Crawl.  Oddly, I was excited to see this hard-core rapper. One would have thought I was DMX’s biggest fan, hands in the air “like I just don’t care,” singing “y’all can suck my dick.” 

But, DMX disappointed a lot of folks.  Many were ready to tell DMX to suck their undead dicks for showing up 90 minutes late and performing only a 30 minute set. 

Screw DMX.

TOTAL BULL-SHIT.

WTF?

Fuck DMX – that washed –up drug addict.

Who does he think he is?

The above is  a sampling of hundreds of irate comments from the zpc stream.  Yes --someone asked, “Who does he think he is?”  I would reply with another question, “Who do you think he is?  He’s mother fucking DMX; he’s not exactly the most upstanding citizen in the world.    Are you not aware of his reputation?“

Here’s a quick lesson: DMX was charged with animal cruelty, disorderly conduct, and possession, after officers found a loaded pistol, 13 pit bulls, and six crack pipes in his home.  Later, he was arrested for stealing a vehicle, and identifying himself as an FBI agent.  So, really, you’re surprised? 

DMX lacked proper manners on stage; there’s another shocker.  He announced, “Boy – you all  a bunch of ugly mother fuckers.  I wouldn’t fuck her, I wouldn’t fuck her, oooh … I definitely wouldn’t fuck you girl.”  In his defense, we were all dressed like zombies so it probably would have been fucked up if he did have a hard-on.

I pulled my friends closer to the stage. “C’mon, guys,” I yelled, “Let’s get  up in there! DMX wants to see me!”  At that point in the evening, I fully believed this with all my heart. 
 

Then someone in the crowd threw something on stage. To this, DMX stated, “Another one of you fuckers wants to throw something  and I’m gonna come down there and kick your ass, faggot.”  My friend and I looked at one another, shaking our heads in disapproval of this homophobic slur.

His performance soon ended, but my time with DMX was not over. “I gotta go talk to DMX,” I announced to my friend.  “No, no, you don’t,” she adamantly tried to convince me otherwise.  I snuck past the gates and approached the back of the stage.  A large security guard stopped me and told me to turn around.  I told him DMX wanted to talk to me.  I was so sincere in this and honestly believed what I was saying.

DMX made his way off the stage, and I winked and pointed at him,  “Hey, DMX, you wanna see me, right?” 

The guard was shaking his head negatively and trying to push me back, but DMX said, “Get on over here honey.”  I don’t know why this made me immensely happy, but I beamed and bounced over in my red tutu, visible black panties, and “Zombie Bitch from Hell” tee. This apparel probably helped because truth is I have an ass that is quite popular with the African American male community.

So, DMX invited me over and embraced me in a warm hug. 

“Hey DMX," I said, “I gotta tell you why we need to talk.  See, I lost my teaching job due to fucking Scott Walker.”

“Scott Walker? Who’s Scott Walker?” DMX questioned.  I know you’re wildly surprised that DMX is not educated enough in politics to recognize this name.

One of the security guards answered,  “He’s the governor of Wisconsin.  He’s an ass."

I gave that guy a high-five, and  continued, “Yeah, he’s the governor, but he didn’t even graduate from college.”

“Dude didn’t graduate from college and he wants to run a state?” questioned DMX in genuine disbelief and disgust.

“He is running it,” I replied, “He even won a recall election.”

“Well, that shit ain’t right,” DMX said, shaking his head.  I had underestimated DMX, judging him on his reputation, but even DMX knew that education should be valued.

“Anyway, we’re gonna get off track here, DMX,” I continued, “So, you see, because I lost my job I work part-time now as a para and my new students told me you never committed any of those crimes you’ve been convicted of, and the illuminati is framing you.”

Fuck. I have big balls.  Also – what is wrong with me?

“Oh, I don’t know nothing about no illuminati.  I don’t want to talk about no illuminati.”

I did, so I went on to tell DMX everything I had recently learned. He endured this for a while, and then interrupted,  “You want a hug, sweetie?  You a sweet girl.”  He gave me another big hug, and kissed me on the cheek.

Then, DMX asked me if I loved the Lord.  I said I surely do.  He showed me the “Jesus Saves” tattoo on his wrist.  Then I got to it – the reason I felt most compelled to talk to DMX .  “This brings me to the point I wanted to make.  I  need to tell you one more thing. You're telling me you love Jesus, and Jesus wants you to love everyone, and we shouldn't judge others, so it’s not cool to use the word ‘faggot.’”

“Well, see, now you judging me!” he said, his voice slightly rising in anger.  “I don’t mean ‘faggot’ like you gay; I mean ‘faggot’ like you an asshole.  You know? I got no problem with the gays! I got an uncle that’s straight gay!”

After this, there was more hugging before I returned to my friends.  I got high-fives from everyone we met as my friend bragged about my exchange with DMX, but the police officer we spoke with asked, “Why did you  talk to that dude? He’s an egotistical prick.”  Again, he’s mother fucking DMX.  What did you expect?  

 

 

<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/79-open"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/challenge79.png"></a>

 

Resources: http://crime.about.com/od/famousdiduno/ig/mugshots_rap_hip_rb/DMX-Mugshot.htm

Zombie Bitch From Hell

On Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and dragged my ass into the bathroom.  My head hurt and I was dog tired.  I walked with a slow gait from wearing heeled boots the evening before.  As I made my way down the hall, dully moaning to myself, I realized that even though most of the zombie flesh paint and fake blood had rubbed off on the pillow case, I probably looked more like a zombie now than I had the night before for the Zombie Pub Crawl in Minneapolis.  I undoubtedly felt more like one. 

When I washed my hands after using the toilet, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized another interesting irony to the evening.  Although I was tired, most of my own skin was now visible as opposed to being masked with applied scars and flaking skin.  This is when I realized that for some folks this event might lead to one of the only times when the random bed fellow you took home with you  actually looks better in the morning. 

This was my first official zombie pub crawl, and I had an amazing time.  As I recently perused some of the other comments on the official zpc facebook page, it seemed that not everyone had the same kind of fun I did.  Folks were leaving posts bitching about the shuttles, bitching about the security, bitching about the cost, bitching about the entertainment, and everything else under the fucking sun.  To this, I have to say: who invited all the whiny bitches?  People – if you did not have fun, it is your own fucking fault.  It is not the event organizer’s fault; it is not even DMX’s fault (expect a whole separate post about this). It is your fault for being an asshole.  We are not threatened that you said you’re going to stay home next time.  Please do.  I could find a way to have fun in the middle of a cornfield.  It’s all about how you choose to live your life, and your perspective clearly just sucks so shut the fuck up you douche-bags.  Okay, that is all.  Moving on …..

Is it weird that I thought some of the people I saw out on Saturday night were really fucking hot?  That’s probably not right to think that someone is dead sexy (PUNS!) when they are covered in blood and their clothes are all tattered and torn.  But, if we’re being honest here, which clearly I cannot help but do today, my inappropriate tendencies (aka – my “Bitch Tourette’s”) is the primary reason most of you all follow this blog.  So, yeah, I felt myself a little bit turned on by all these blood-soaked bodies, but as you might imagine, I also had a lot of damn alcohol.

 

I was not, however, even remotely attracted to the completely random man wearing a long leather trench coat, who was not “zombified” (I am making this a word because I do what I want now) at all, walking down the street juggling glow sticks.  That shit was straight creepy – far scarier than all the walking dead.  When I saw my friend’s faces in response to this creepy mother fucker, I straight up lost my shit.  I tried holding it in, but sometimes when I laugh real hard, a little bit of pee comes out.  (I’ve had two children; I need to “sneeze and squeeze”; mothers, you know what I mean, right?)  So, I tried stopping the leakage while I was laughing hysterically in the middle of the street.  Some zombies on the sidewalk began screaming, “That girl’s shitting in the street!  Look at her! She’s shitting in the street!” 

Instead of getting embarrassed and trying to look real nondescript, I stood up and brazenly defended myself for everyone in a five to ten mile radius to hear, “Dude! I’m just pissing! I’m just pissing!”  No big deal.  The whole night was a lot like this – me being completely shameless.  Later, I told DMX it was so not fucking cool of him to use the word “faggot.”  I also straddled the intestines of Phil, the giant inflatable zombie and did a little pantomime like it was actually a giant something else.  Shameless.  But, if you’re going to act this way, what a better place to do it?  Family reunion: not a good idea.  Courtroom: also a bad idea.  Funeral: Terrible, terrible idea.  You’re going straight to hell. Pub Crawl: Who gives a shit?  Go for it!

For today, the last thing I’m going to say is a message to one specific man I met Saturday night.  So, to the short Asian man that gave me a great big bloody bear hug:  It was fun at the time, but fuck you now.  Did you have real fucking blood on you?  What the hell?  That shit straight stained my bra, and I own very few decent bras.  Further, it stained right through to my skin, and took about twenty minutes to scrub off my rib cage in the morning.  That was more work than cleaning period stains out of my panties.  Not cool, dude, not cool. 

Expect more on this event later in the week.  Stay tuned by heading over to the sidebar and pressing that facebook “like” button.  If you don’t, I will eat your bbbrrrraaaiiinnsss.

Who Wants to "Smash" Virginia Woolf?

Books are not lame.  Books are not for “losers.”  This is what I have been desperately trying to convince my study hall students the whole year.  Many of them often waste their time in study hall, and tell me that they have “nothing” to do.  The school I’m currently employed at does this truly wonderful thing; every Wednesday they spend the last half hour of the day doing recreational reading.  Even the staff is expected to just sit and read a book of choice during this time.  It’s part of the district’s effort to promote literacy in youth.  So, when the students claim they have absolutely nothing to do during study hall, I suggest that they bring their “Wednesday Books” with them.  I typically get the same response: “Books are lame.  Only losers read books.” 

When I hear this, I die a little bit inside.  But, while doing that, I also try fervently to convince the students otherwise – that books are incredible, amazing, compelling – and, furthermore, being well-read makes you really sexy.  So far, they are not buying into my beliefs.  I try to convert them by spouting out multiple quotes about the wonders of reading, which I have committed to memory.  One of my most repeated quotations is as follows: “A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies; the man who never reads lives only one.”

I shared this quote with two male freshmen students today.  One returned, “What the hell? That doesn’t even make sense.”  The other just looked at me, confusion clearly written all over his face.  I explained that a well-written book possesses the ability to make you feel transported to the same time and place of the characters – from Puritan Salem with Arthur Miller to St. Petersburg, Missouri in the 1840s with Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, and Mr. Mark Twain, and then all the way to the magical, mystical Middle-earth of Tolkien. 

“Yeah, I’m not buying that,” repeated the same male who initially spoke, while the other remained dumbfounded.  “They’re just stupid pieces of paper.” 

“No, no,” I continued with unqualified determination.  “Why, last week I was able to travel to Mumbai, India with the author Shilpi Somaya Gowda.  Earlier this week, I felt like I was right there with the young character Rennie when her small Colorado town became the home of a Japanese internment camp in Sandra Dallas’ novel Tallgrass.  And currently, I’m getting to travel to the past and spend a little bit of time hanging out with the author Virginia Woolf and her artist sister Vanessa Bell in a book by Susan Sellers.”

I  was hoping I had them with this.  Instead, the boy who had previously been mute, offered this: “Hey. I know a chick named Vanessa.”  Then he nudged his buddy in the side and said, “Dude, you know her too.”

“Oh, that Vanessa,” the friend offered, “She’s hot.  I’d smash that.” 

With that, I simply turned and walked away.  I would have to save my raving recommendation of reading for another day.  But you should all know this: Books kick ass!  Winners read.

Trickin' Bitches with a Bad-Ass Beat

My mother confuses the songs “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen and “Broken Hearted” by Karmin.  Yeah, I know you probably don’t recognize the second song either.  I had to type some of the lyrics into Google in order to figure out the name of the song and artist.  Basically, I would say she’s a Katy Perry wannabe.  Regardless, any time that either one of these songs comes on, my mom says, “Sick. Sick.  This song is so dirty.”  She’s talking about the second song.  I always correct her when it’s really Carly, but she still continues, “Do you hear her?  Anything you want to do, I’ll be on it too.  Business in the front, party in the back.  Do you know what she’s singing about?”  Then she has to tell me, as if I’ve forgotten since two days ago when she said the same damn thing, “Anal sex.  That’s dirty.” 

“Yeah, mom, there’s a lot of dirty songs on the radio now,” I told her today.  For whatever reason, I actually decided to engage in this conversation with her this time.  Then I asked her if she remembered when my niece, and her granddaughter, was walking around a few years ago singing Ke$ha, “I don’t need your Mercedes Benz or your drunk-ass friends.  Get sleazy. Get sleazy.”  She was six.  Then I said that she probably should not be allowed to listen to Rihanna either as last summer she was in the kiddie pool in my back yard, singing out “Sex in the air baby, I love the smell of it” from Rihanna’s hit song “S&M.”

 

My sister said, “Oh, she doesn’t know the lyrics. You’re lying.” But, oh, yes, she does – and that girl is bound to be a fucking nightmare as a teenager.  So, this was my initial thought.  But then I considered it a little more, (you know – because that’s how I do) and then told my mother, “You know.  We worry about these songs having a negative impact on youth.  But, can lyrics really affect your individual character?  I mean, I remember being fourteen years old and singing loudly along to my Nine Inch Nails CD and the song ‘Closer.’ I screeched ‘I wanna fuck you like an animal,’ but that didn’t make me want to be a whore.  I was still a virgin.  It’s just a song.”

I had gone all contemplative on her ass (because – you know – that’s how I do), but she just said, “Yeah, but that’s a fucking good song, Angela.”  I agreed with her, and then she continued, “And you know, at least Trent Reznor was just honest with that shit, and said it like it is.  He wasn’t trying to disguise something dirty with ‘party in the back.’” 

Alright.  I’ll give her that much.  Then, she continued, “Have you heard this new whistling song on the radio?”  I knew what she meant, because we get each other, so I said, “Oh yeah. ‘Whistle’ by Flo Rida.  I actually like that song.  It’s funny and it has a catchy beat.” 

“It’s not funny,” she returned, “it’s filthy.”  To this complaint, she added, “And the problem is that you’re right – it is super catchy.  It has a great beat, but it fools you.  The other day I was just whistling along to that song in the kitchen while the radio was on, and then I realized – ‘Oh My God!  I’m whistling along and bobbing my head to a song about blow jobs.’  They shouldn’t try to trick you like that.” 

Do you hear that Flo Rida?  Please change the title of your song from “Whistle” to “Suck my Dick.”  Keep that shit real, Flo Rida.  Don’t be trying to trick bitches with a bad-ass beat.

 

 

Oh Flo Rida -- Quit Foolin' My Mom!

Hank Speaks of Hunter

Greetings friends and followers! It's time for another round of Blogger Idol. This week's challenge was to pair up with another blogger playing from home and conduct an interview of one another.  You will find my results below. Enjoy!

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We arranged a meeting at a small bar on the south side of town.  He told me one of his friends had recommended the place – said the bartender was quite the character and told really interesting tales.  I walked in and wondered just where the hell I had agreed to meet.  The bar was far seedier than either of us expected – dirty old wood paneling, dim lighting, the odor of stale cigarettes lingering in the air.  I took a seat as I waited for him.  I asked the man behind the bar if he had any wine.  He opened the cooler to reveal a cardboard box with a spigot on it.  I passed and settled for a bottle of beer – nothing on tap here. 

Then he walked in.  I knew it was him because the bar was otherwise empty and I couldn’t imagine who else would be coming here of all the places.  His physical appearance is not important, because it was his words and compelling outpouring of real, raw emotion that had intrigued me and led to my request for an interview.

I introduced myself.  He shook my hand and said hello, and quickly began scanning the back of the bar, disappointment appearing on his face as well.  He would have to settle for the rail, and so he ordered a glass of Kessler’s on the rocks. 

I indicated my bottle of beer in a show of commiseration regarding the lack of any quality alcohol.  He sipped at his whiskey, and I asked what drink he had been looking for.  He appreciated my astute observational skills.  All good writers must possess the ability to read emotion and pay attention to details.

“Jameson’s,” he replied.  “But, this will have to do. You can’t always get what you want.”

What great truth was held in these last lines reminiscent of Jagger’s lyrics of lamentation.  We both had known such truths – that life isn’t sunshine and rainbows.  I felt akin to him knowing that we both suffered from diagnosed mental illness, and I applauded his ability to write about his pain with such abandon.  One of the most powerful phrases I had encountered while researching his blog in advance of our interview was “unless you can describe the flavor of the barrel of a gun, you cannot possibly understand.”  Shit. That got me.  He had me hooked right there; I trembled in my seat as I read this post because I could relate to all too many of the terrible emotions he had artfully transcribed. 

I skipped a light, congenial beginning to our interview.  “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?”  “How many siblings do you have?”  Who gives a shit.  I wanted to get to the heart of this man – to reveal a bit more beyond what he had already bravely exposed on his blog. I asked him to talk a bit about his depression.  When had he been first diagnosed? How did he attempt to manage his illness? 

He replied, “I was officially diagnosed about four years ago.  Now I know that it’s really there, but I suspect it was always there.  When I was a kid, nobody medicated their children, so I was never diagnosed.  I’ve been seeing therapists since I was a child for one reason or another.  I don’t trust them, and I am usually able to find their personal line of ulterior bullshit within a couple visits.  You know what I mean?”

Having myself been diagnosed with bipolar disorder approximately fifteen years ago and rotating through a myriad of therapists in that time, I did know what he meant. 

He continued, “I don’t see therapists anymore, and I never will again.  Now that I am writing, I am never going to give it away for free again.”

This statement quite naturally led into an easy and rich discussion about the cathartic power of writing.  Many authors have used their texts as a means of moving beyond their misery.  He admitted that he had undoubtedly had his own cathartic writing moments.  But to this admission, he added, “Having said that, I find there are definitely times where no matter how much I need or want to work through something, it just is not going to happen.  Those sessions are usually heavily edited and hopefully turned into something useful later.  If not, they become hate mail.  They are then stamped and sent out.  It is just one of the ways I can be old fashioned.  I use our postal system to deliver my hate mail.”

He took another large gulp of his whiskey and crunched on a few ice cubes that had also drifted in his mouth along with the liquid.  I could tell that as his teeth mashed down heavy upon the ice cubes he was silently ruing some other wrong that had been done to him, probably crafting sentences most definitely designed to have a sting.  If you hold any doubt about his words becoming hate mail, you should rush to his site right now and read “Go Fuck Yourself.”  This post was sent to a former employer as a resignation letter.  This guy definitely has some big balls. I think there’s another post discussing his testicles too.

As we sat in momentary silence, it suddenly occurred to me that I had yet to learn this man’s name.  I asked, and he replied, “Call me Hank.”  I can’t tell you if this is actually his name, or just what he wanted to be called.  He spoke these three words with an odd little smirk, but the interview carried on nonetheless.

Being as he seemed relatively private in the way he presented himself, I then questioned what it was that initially prompted him to begin sharing his writing with a public audience via his blog. 

“I’ve been maintaining blogs for years,” he quickly offered.  “I wrote for a blog in law school, which allowed me to work out my personal shit with the school in a public ways.  I want to be a writer, and the only way to do that is to write, so I write. I will never get better without feedback, so the internet seemed like the best place to get brutal and honest advice from strangers who are also writers.”

Hank mentioned his time at law school, and his profession is also noted at many points in his blog posts.  As a practicing lawyer, there is a certain level of professionalism typically associated with said occupation.  Therefore, I prodded him to find out if he had any fears or concerns about the language and content of his blog. 

“I’ve been through this over and over again in my head,” he said.  It was easy to believe those words as it was immediately evident that his mind was constantly running laps, thinking, tottering with theory, contemplating life and literature.  He continued, “over and over trying to find a hole in my security.  Very few people know I maintain that blog, and there is nothing that can lead back to me. It takes a high level of vigilance and editing, but I think I am pretty good about redacting any information that could point to me.”

This was indeed true.  It was a level of vigilance and editing that I lacked.  My own blog, full of similar “inappropriate” language and content could be linked to me with minimal effort.  As an educator, this did concern me.  But, I have grown a great love for sharing my writing through my blog, and said love has only been enriched by the opportunity to share my written expression with such intelligent and insightful individuals as the man who I currently shared drinks with.

He had written many posts that intrigued me as I perused through them prior to our meeting, but I wanted to know which of his posts was his personal favorite.  His answer was a bit of a surprise, but a very sweet and endearing one.

“It’s a post about playing Candyland with my daughter.  I am a cynical, bitter asshole about most things.  But that piece reminds me of her, and thinking of her makes me keep my cynicism, anger, and hate in check.  I can’t let her be me; she’s too perfect.” 

As the focus shifted more exclusively to discussion of blogs, I asked if there were any other bloggers that he followed and admired. He informed me that he once was a follower of Palaniuk before he became a pay site.  He confessed that he rarely read blogs, rather devoting his time to literature.  We both came to the conclusion that blogs get a bad reputation, but bloggers are truly writers at heart and that stigma should be abolished. Being a literature lover myself and literary teacher, we discussed some of our favorites.  It can be immediately concluded from perusing his blog that Hunter S. Thompson has influenced Hank. He shared, “I feel a certain kinship with misunderstood outcasts.”  Hank further praised his literary idol, continuing, “The man was brilliant on so many different levels.  Most people just know him for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, but he was so much more than that.  He was a keen political analyst, and had a highly successful prediction rate. He learned to write by typing Hemingway books over and over.”  There was far more to the conversation as he applauded Thompson on many different levels. 

Hank allowed me to praise my own literary idols like Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen.  This conversation digressed for three more bottles of Miller Lite and I don’t know how many more whiskeys he had ordered.  I wasn’t really keeping track of that when the conversation was so interesting and sincere.

Finally, we returned to the primary focus of this interview – to build a bigger audience for our respective blogs.  I concluded with one last question: why should new readers bother with your blog?

Hank thought a bit and then offered, “I think I have a decent perspective on life, in an unhinged and damaged sort of way.  I think I have the ability to write decent fiction, and some of that is mixed into my blog.  I want criticism.  I think other writers visiting my page will be able to provide a level of criticism the general public will not.  Honestly, no writer celebrates the success of another writer without internally hating them.  Or is that just me?”

I left his final question lingering, paid my bar tab, and thanked Hank for his time, assuring him that I would be a returning reader of his work. If you want to answer this question for Hank, or offer his invited concrit, please visit him at ibloggedyourmom.  Yeah, that’s the title.  That tells you all you really need to know about the guy.