Archive for August, 2012

The Ace Cast of Characters

Posted: August 30, 2012 in Uncategorized
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In July, my friend and I took a special visit to a magical land called Palm Springs. The Ace Hotel was our lodging for the two days we were there and it truly did not let us down. Neither did the characters and contraptions we stumbled upon. It made for instant writer fodder. Tales were spun in this fiendish brain. Characters were met and I couldn’t resist logging them down into righteous history.

Allow me to present…

Special Ed

Now I wish I had a photo of this girl because, sweet baby J, she was amazing.

Imagine a cross between Dorothy Hamill, the body of an Olympic swimmer and face of a small planetary moon. This is the only appropriate way to describe her. And I’m sorry if it’s not politcally correct, but I’m not politically correct, and that is my only disclaimer.

Tagging along with a bachelorette party, she was THAT girl. That one girl you just know the bride’s mother had made her invite. The female-version of Zack Galifianakis in The Hangover.

But to her credit this girl hit on every man in the pool. She set her sights on a sweet military kid, stroking his arm (“Are you from Army?”) and flirting until he excused himself and escaped to the bar.

I mean hell. This girl flirted like a pro. A PRO. And good for her. I say, good for Special Ed.

But we haven’t gotten to the best part of her skilled moves. There was the face. The face she’d pull on all the guys. That thousand-yard-let’s-fuck-but-wait-what?-stare.

Allow me to demonstrate ‘the face’. (Yes, I practiced this in the wilderness of my most recent camping trip).

I shit you not.

The girl literally haunts my dreams and waking nightmares. I wonder what Special Ed’s doing right now. I imagine that her name is Molly. And that we’re secretly best friends.

The Sandwich

I dropped my sandwich on the floor of the diner and ate it. Yes. You heard me correctly. I scooped it back up in front of about ten other people and promptly devoured it.

This is the sandwhich in question.

This is the face of a dirty-floor-sandwich-eater.

Big Gay Dance Party

Friday night The Ace held (and we stumbled upon) the most swinging party around. The Big Gay Dance Party –was $45 a head (pun intended), benefitting the Southwest Center for Aids, and we happily ponied up the dough.

And then some.

And all for a good cause, we met amazing drag queens, drank sub-par Chardonnay and danced our gay asses off.

DJ Mike

DJ Mike was simply put a DJ. Sadly, he was no Magic Mike.

But this guy was.

DJ Mike played good tunes.

He was also insanely angry.

The Big Gay Dance Party was in full swing, plastic beach balls being lobbed and bobbed over heads when one bounced over to DJ Mike, hitting his equipment.

Ahem, DJ equipment.

Ahem, his turntables.

In an instant, with the fierce intensity of a stabby person, DJ Mike grabbed up the beach ball and popped it. An audible gasp went through the crowd.

HULK SMASH

But then he played “Call Me Maybe” and we all forgot about it and raved on.

The Record Player

It was the selling point of the room. Yes, the Ace Hotel includes a super sweet record player in every humble abode (Swoon). Jazzed about this, I had dutifully brought along a few choice albums – The Doors, Elton John and Aerosmith.

The first thing I did when entering the room was turn that bad boy on.

Well, tried to at least.

The instructions had me befuddled. SAYWHAAANOW??

The instructions called for attaching wires to rods and all sorts of manual work I am not experienced with nor do I want to be. An hour into it – Michele opening the wine – I finally broke down and rang housekeeping. I was exasperated. I needed help.

Yeah. Thanks a lot, assholes.

But most of all I was frustrated. Vinyl is my one true love and not being able to start record machine was sheer agony.

So they sent someone from tech. A big brutish guy who did not look in the slightest happy to be there. I waited. Waited for him to connect thingies and when he bent over he simply pressed the play button.

It started.

He left and I wailed.

I follow instructions to a goddamn T and they did not make themselves useful.

Mortification set in.

I have a record player at home. I break that thing in half.

I stand by my word – the instructions said to connect wires. CONNECT WIRES PEOPLE.

(someone validate me. someone. somewhere).

Ogre Girl

And the last one on our list is Ogre Girl.

This was another divine delight at the Big Gay Dance Party. Ogre Girl was a six foot tall drink of water with a body like a brick shithouse. She plundered through the dance floor, arms skimming air, mashing people out of the way. Imagine Will Ferrell in Old School, drunkenly shoving co-eds out of the way with brute (AKA drunken) strength.

If I had moves like Ogre Girl accompanied by the rock-solid body, you can bet your ass I’d be hauling a mule-cart in Siberia somewhere.

 

That’s my wrap-up. The breakdown of The Ace hotel. People watching, check. Amazingness, check. Half-naked men, check. It’s a writer’s dream all wrapped up in one lazy weekend.

Camp So Hard.

Posted: August 19, 2012 in Uncategorized
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Get out your bear skins and prepare the Montana Bananas because this blog post is all about a little thing I love to call “camping”.

Ok, so everyone calls it camping. Jerks.

Everything I learned about this great hobby (is this a sport yet Olympics?!) I learned from my dad.

My dad is awesome.

The great father is a cross between Jeff Bridges and a mountain man at its finest. He’s taught me many things in life; probably the best and most important have been (in no particular order): camping, fishing and swearing like a sailor (thanks dad!).

From the time I was a wee child, swigging watered-down apple juice like a baller, I was camping.

Nature is amazing, bitches.

My parents would let me climb on rocks and frolic in the wilderness (probably in the hopes that I’d be carried off by a mountain lion but that’s another story).

“Now drink the juice and just forget…”

Every summer my father would pack up me and my little sister and we’d hit the forest. Out in the Montana wild it’s beauty and awe. Nothing compares to Red Lodge or Cooke City or Forest Lake.

Bask in my beauty.

We would rough it too. I’m a true Montanan – I can go for days without a shower, sleep on the hard ground and chop wood with the best of them.

My dad taught me well. Even today I make him proud (hi dad!). At least in the camping realm. On the “lady-like” front I can’t speak to that.

Exhibit A.

So this weekend, my husband and I packed up our cache and hit the road for Flagstaff, AZ. Arizona may seem un-campable but up north are great little forest areas that could almost, almost, be mistaken for Montana.

Squint hard.

I have three requirements for camping:

-books

I call this the “Blair Witch” pose.

-music

-wine

The dynamic duo.

Sometimes I require a fire, but this being dry Arizona, fires are prohibited so sadly, we were unable to start one. I can make an exception. One other thing I do when camping is I always compare it to camping with my dad – something that I’m sure makes my husband want to throttle me.

“My dad always starts a fire. He doesn’t need gasoline.”

“We always would fish when we camped with my dad.”

“MY DAD IS BETTER THAN YOU. NEENER NEENER.”

So we arrived. And wearing my lucky Outsiders t-shirt…

We set up camp…

From this…

…to this

I had a glass of wine while the husband toiled with pitching a tent. I made a makeshift paper towel holder. Classing up the forest one day at a time.

The time on my hands astounds me.

From there we went on a walk where we stumbled upon the cutest horny toad. I really wanted to pick this little guy up and put him in my pocket.

All together now, “Awwwww…”

Eventually we settled in for the day/night. I discovered a few things in my newest camping attempt. Peeing in the woods is impossible when you’re on the GODDAMN ARIZONA TRAIL.

This is not the correct way to pee in the woods. I repeat IT IS NOT.

Yes. We camped right on the main trail where every 10 minutes hikers and bikers would come traipsing through. This resulted in a Jules, pants down around her ankles, scouring the forest, only in mid-pee have to yank said pants back on.

Now, as mentioned in an earlier post, I can shit/pee in the woods with the best of men. In fact, it was my stepmom who showed me the correct way to do this. I just do the P90X squat, with my back against the tree, and pray to baby Jesus that a spider doesn’t go skittering down my backside.

Tony Horton would be proud.

From there…more wine was poured, the music came on and I whipped up a delicious dinner of blue cheese burgers, beans and creamed corn.

Order up, mofos.

We lounged in chairs like sultans and enjoyed the beauty of the forest. Although I must say, drinking wine and watching mountain bikers drive by and their stares of envy was a bit intimidating since they were working out and I was not. I felt guilty.

I lied. I don’t feel guilty.

Darkness descended. There ensued the bright idea of trying to map the stars and constellations using only my phone and my drunken knowledge. I traipsed through the woods. Walking tipsy in flip flops was probably not the best idea but it worked out for the best. I found the big dipper – a third grade rookie move – and promptly called it quits.

The best part of the trip came at about 10pm. The coyotes started their howling.

LISTEN HERE

It was all sorts of creepy, majestic wonder, making me realize that whenever I’m out in the secluded woods at night is usually the precise moment I start to regret my love of horror movies.

I regret it so hard.

The Sophie’s Choice of Book Posts: The Books are on Fire

Posted: August 12, 2012 in Uncategorized
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Books burn! I weep!

It’s a horrible thought – books burning. Luckily we don’t live in communist China and except for the great Disco Demolition Night of 1979 we don’t have to worry too much about people lighting the objects we love on fire on purpose.

So this got me thinking…what books would I save if it came down to it? Imagine your house is on fire and you can pause time to save five books before fleeing the burning abode as coolly as Kurt Russell in Backdraft.

 

Eeeee, FIRE!

Think of the books you couldn’t part with.

Luckily, most books are replaceable except for the ones that hold a soft spot in your dreary, sentimental soul.

And because I’m a big fan and get hot for odd numbers, let’s put a cap on this to FIVE books. Yes, you heard me. Just five.

THIS IS THE SOPHIE’S CHOICE OF BOOK POSTS.

My choices to save.

 

Book porn right here.

 

All mean something to me. All have an explanation.

 

1. The Very Scary Almanac by Eric Elfman

I SCAAAARED

I remember the moment I got this book with perfect clarity. My dad and I were in a drugstore, it was nearing Halloween and he said I could get a book. Dad knew me well.

The Very Scary Almanac was on a rack as well as another Halloween-themed recipe book. And so I was torn between how to make grapes feel like moist eyeballs or learning about The Bermuda Triangle.

I chose wisely.

11 year-old Jules approves.

I have no doubt this book set me on my path of freakiness, gave me my current love of the odd and paranormal. To this day, I’m still amazed and fascinated by the weird.

Subjects dad did not frown upon.

Every October I still read it.

I’d save this baby from a burning building any day.

With tips like this how could you not?

 

2. The Outsiders by SE Hinton.

 

Let’s do this shit for Johnny.

This book made me a writer. I read this in seventh grade I think and instantly I knew I wanted to write. It’s stuck with me. This copy is my original. Weathered and battered, it’s been mine for a long, long time.

I’ll never loan it out to anyone.

I read this book to my little sister when we lived in our grandmother’s basement (yes, make a story out of that true fact) in North Dakota. Every night I’d read her a chapter, curled up in bed together, and giggling over the dreamy boys on the cover.

nothing says teenage angst like jacket vests and cuffed sleeves

It’s still my favorite book. I’ll probably be buried with it.

clearly vandalizing books is my forte

 

3. American Gods by Neil Gaiman

I realize this is an odd choice since this book is pretty replaceable. However, I got this book on one of my best trips ever. New Orleans. Read the post here.

I loved that trip. I did everything on my own and still get warm fuzzies thinking about it. I visited about three old bookstores and decided to pick up this Gaiman book. It’s the first one I ever read of his and I started reading it in NOLA.

And it smells oh so good. Dear god, I love the smell of books.

Even now – just yesterday in fact – I picked it off the shelf and breathed in its musty scent. Yes, I’m that creeper. Invite me over to your house and you’ll find me sniffing your books.

It smells like my trip. It smells like memories.

It’s $5 to smell me. $20 for the fancy stuff.

 

4. McCall’s Guide to Teenage Beauty by Betsy Keifer

Everything I am not.

This was my mother’s book. I found it in the attic of my grandmother’s house. Originally published in 1959, the edition I have is from 1965. It sold for 50 cents. 50 CENTS.

Is your blood boiling yet?

The McCall’s Guide to Teenage Beauty is a delightful flashback to vintage nostalgia, but it also is a true look at what women’s roles were back then. Sure, we hear the stories, but seeing it in print and literally asking aloud, “Is this for real-real?” is like a punch to the ovaries.

I remember reading it as a 10 or 12-year-old and being unsure as what to make of the beauty and exercise tips. Happily, I didn’t put too much stock in it. Deep down I think I knew it was amusing.

COMMMENCE SELF-ESTEEM PROBLEMS FOR ALL WOMEN

I mean, sure, it did help in some aspects back when I was a kid. Nope, I don’t have scoliosis, yep, my face is definitely oval-shaped, meaning “any coiffure is becoming”.

Now looking through it I realize I break all the rules. I could never be a 50s housewife.

-I do not wear clothes like a model

-I slouch like a mofo

-Elbows on the table is common practice

-Showers are an afterthought

Ahem…so getting off the topic of my slovenliness… it’s just a book I’m proud to have. And again with the whole sentimental factor. Plus it’s awesome vintageness and with pictures like this you can’t get much better than that.

FML.

 

5. Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

The big ‘R’ makes you know it’s serious.

Dear god, I love this book.

Again, this is another of my mother’s book. Found in the attic. As I type this I realize I really need to write a story on all my attic treasures…

This is the 1968 edition, selling for 95 cents.

The spine is ripped and broken but it’s still staying together somehow. I’ve only loaned it out once (to my sister who I threatened repeatedly to get it back) and it smells so lovely.

I love this book because of Levin’s writing style. Sparse, to-the-point, I’m never bored with the description. He paints a clear picture and it makes me want to be there. Well, not frolicking with devil-worshippers but you get the idea.

no really, frolic.

 

I also love it because it was my mother’s and I’ve had it for a long, long time.

Those are my answers to the five books I’d save from a fire. Sorry to the remaining bound wonders in my bookcase but these are my beauties.

 

What are yours? Do tell.

Henry demands it.

 

My Problem with the Olympics or AKA: Why I’m Un-American

Posted: August 5, 2012 in Uncategorized
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As I type this I’ve sequestered myself in my office, hiding from these things you people call the Olympics.

I am not a fan. Like Lady Gaga, I’ve never understood the phenomenon. Frankly put, I don’t care for them. In fact, I heartily dislike them.

And as of this last week I’m beginning to think I’m the only one who feels negatively. It’s like an atrocious crime I’m committing when I admit this. Hell, I’m practically Vietcong. The looks of disdain I get when asked about the Olympics and I tentatively step up with, “I’m not a fan…” should be reserved for serial killers or at the very that neighbor who mows the lawn at five in the morning. In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a communist.

I actually lied to my eye doctor last week. LIED about something I could give two shits about.

This is how the conversation went:

Doctor: “Have you been watching the Olympics?”

Me: “Oh, well I—”

Doc: “My wife and I just love the Olympics. We’ve been glued to them every night. Every goddamn night.”

Stares at me. Judges.

Me: “Oh yes. Yes, I love the Olympics as well. Especially the…uh, twirly sports…”

Doc: “Very good then.”

In the interest of self-preservation, what do I really say? The truth? Say out loud, “I seriously detest the Olympics.”  Do you know what kind of pariah I’d be? To flat out tell a total stranger you dislike an all-American sport is mind boggling.

And I like boggle.

This isn’t a persuasive piece. I don’t mean to woo you to my side.  I just want to tell my side of the Olympics in the hopes there are others so that we may join a support group and eat cookies together.

On Why I Hate the Olympics

1.      They remind me how slothful and talentless I am.

All my sins are virtually NOT validated when I watch the Olympics. Sloth is frowned upon and gluttony definitely won’t cut it.

What the floor of my bedroom looks like on a daily basis.

I’m continually reminded of what I can’t do and what I shouldn’t  do and also probably, maybe, what I won’t do. My list of cant’s and wont’s grows by the day. Granted, I’m a sorry sack of shit when it comes to exercise so it should come as no surprise that I actually don’t want to watch someone else sweat for a living.

This is my Olympics 2012.

Do you think I want to come home after a long day at work and watch some 16 year old perfect a flip she’s been working on since she was crawling? No. I don’t. I’m sorry. I want to come home and drink my wine, and pretend like my gluteus maximus is the shit.

When I see someone accomplish their life goal at age 18, it reminds me that all I’ve perfected in my day-to-day routine is cleaning the cat box and ordering a pizza in less than 30 seconds flat.

2.      My husband bogarts the TV. The Olympics will cause our divorce.

This is another reason why I hate the Olympics. They hijack anything good that’s supposed to be on TV. I mean is it too much to ask that new episodes of Ancient Aliens air? Broadcast and Cable are so scared that the precious Olympics will steal viewers they refuse to air anything new.

But I ask you, History Channel, what about me?  WHATABOUTME?

This also leaves me and my husband in a disastrous fight to the death about who owns the remote control. Eventually, because I’m a woman and have weak combat skills, he’ll claim it and I’ll scurry upstairs to watch DVR’d episodes of Duck Dynasty while consoling myself with a bowl of whip cream and peanut butter.

3.      I am the least competitive person alive.

You want this medal? Take it. My firstborn child? I’ll wrap it up burrito-style and gift it to you.

Unless there is a piece of cake to fight over (and believe me I’ll claw your eyes out for that) why do I want to watch others try to win something in a sport I never even knew existed?

The Box Stacking Competition has gotten out of hand.

Also, I know everyone says that the Olympics are some feel-goodery where entire countries can come together in the sheer pleasure of the sport and band together in harmony but I call bullshit on that.

It’s a competition. It’s bound to foster deep seated feelings (AKA hatred) between countries. Just own it Olympics. Change the tagline to: “Our country will kick your country’s ass. And we’ll like it.”

4. The Commentators. OHDEARGOD.

Sports commentary makes me seize up and want to punch something. Something preferably with teeth and a microphone. I imagine this is how men feel when the View is on (hell, I feel that way). I cannot handle the inane commentary and banter between Ryan what-the-fuck Seacrest and Bob Costas and the Cookie Monster.

Everyone is special. Everyone has a wonderful, glorious story that you just must know about. And hear. Again. And again.

I like to train for the Olympics by searching trash cans for empty Coke cans and then punting them into the air. I’m special. Write a story about me.

So special.

Or there’s the whole obvious but unnecessary narration of monologue: “He [insert your choice of swimmer’s name] has a tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s in the shape of a seal. Some say it symbolizes his deep seated love of water. What a blessing this man is to the aquatic industry…”

Thanks guys. I’ll be sure to log that away for later reference.

Those are my reasons. Maybe not very valid but I stand by them. I don’t love the Olympics.

I love America. I love apple pie and Patrick Swayze and fireworks and peace and love and motherfucking love. After all, what more could you really want?

Cake.

Yes. Cake.