Keep your weird crap off my body

And another thing, BUST: I don't think it compromises either my feminist cred or my environmental mojo that I find this whole idea completely fucking disgusting. 

Yay technology, yay progress, yay disposability! 

PS: Anybody out there who uses the above-linked product: Bully for you, if you can handle it. I'm just saying, I sure as hell can't. That's one big giant leap over my personal eeeeegh! line. 

All bitch, no stitch

So, I am a subscriber to BUST, a fine read every other month (even if it is a little too in love with itself and its relentlessly conformist nonconformity). They always have page upon page of "DIY" and crafty shit for you to do, with instructions and whatnot, and always feature something you can sew (plus ads for sewing machines, patterns, and assorted paraphernalia). It always makes me wish, vaguely, that I could actually sew, because that would be kewl. 

The thing is, I've discovered that for me, sewing is juuuust that little step too far over the line into the category Mechanical; Creative and/or Crafty, I can do, but Mechanical eludes me. You know what I mean? There is a machine involved, which you have to know how to work; there are specialized tools, which you can't just select at random; there are patterns that you actually have to follow, like for real; there is measurement, which you can't just freehand, as is my wont; and even the fabric has to be right for the job. 

Now, my grandmother was a union seamstress for most of her adult life. She sewed like the wind. I'd see some pretty fabric in a store when I went shopping with her, and by that evening, I'd have a new dress (with a matching one for my GD ugly-ass waste-of-money peer-pressure-token Cabbage Patch doll, if it's my fourth grade year we're talking about here). She was so patient and so good at it, and she tried so hard to teach me (at my urgent request), but I never got beyond running a so-called straight seam that went nowhere and was attached to no garment. 

And in 8th grade,  I took the sewing semester of Home Ec, because the cooking semester wouldn't fit my schedule, and all I remember from that (besides getting yelled at a lot by the bitchface teacher) was this unbelievable flaming tragedy of a pair of Jams-type shorts I made as my final project. People ... they were made of, like, a canvas sailcloth material about a quarter inch thick, they were about eight sizes too big, and the inside of the seams looked like a thread factory threw up all over them -- snarls, backtracking, psychotic meanderings, strange wads of fabric and thread that I'd actually had to cut my way out of. I came closer to failing that class than I ever have before or since in my life (thank Shatner for extra credit!). These things were all my fault, and were, sadly, the result of my serious, earnest best effort at the task. 

More recently, my Starbuck costume for last Halloween involved hemming shorter the sleeves of a dark tee; I did it by hand, in about three hours, with the aid of some of that tape shit that you iron on, while Mr. Gleemonex merrily zipped together his older-bro-in-The Goonies outfit on his sister's sewing machine in about 40 seconds, damn him. 

I guess this type of ineptitude is why Shatner invented the glue gun, no? 

Usage notes

So we're watching Silver Streak the other day for like the mobillionth time, and it occurs to me -- alongside the realization that nobody as funny-looking as Gene Wilder could become a major star today, which definitely leaves us all the poorer -- that nobody uses the word "terrific" anymore. I mean, nobody. It's a word beyond ironic hipster revival, a word irretrievably locked in the '70s, chugging along bearing the weight of twin panniers full of naive enthusiasm and stone-deep unkillable whiteness, and it blows my mind that this once was a world in which it could be used at face value. 

"Terrific" is dead! Long live "terrific!"

Ain't nothing keeping them from their appointed rounds

All hail the United States Postal Service!

My love for this quasi-governmental agency goes long and deep (that's what she said), and despite a rough time when first we moved to Halfassburg (i.e. the fuckers lost our first rent check and put me on a bad footing with my landlord, whom I even now refuse to speak to, three and a half years later), I'm feeling the love once again. 

Think about it: You put a stamp on a piece of paper, and within a couple of days, it goes wherever you want it to in the whole entire country. You can mail anything, to anyone. It's awesome! They don't even need a full address -- today, we got a gift for the baby from friends in Atlanta, addressed to "The Gleemonexes, 1138 Our Street." No town, no state, no ZIP code. Shatner knows when they sent it, but hey -- it's here! Kickass, huh? 

And now that I'm at home on leave, the mail is the highlight of my day, the way it was back in Texass, way before email. Do we have a Netflix? Perhaps it's time for the new issue of BUST? Is there a postcard from somebody traveling the globe, or Ohio? Ooooooh, Crate & Barrel ... WANT. IT. Whaaat, burial plots? What kind of grim mailing lists did my father-in-law get us on, anyway? Heh, alumni mag -- who's douching it up these days? Ugh, bills. Hey, my Michel-Schlumberger Wine Bench wines! awww yeah! 

And sending mail is rawktacular also. Baby and I go to the post office every day, to drop off bills, Netflixes, birthday cards, and -- of course -- handwritten thank-you notes. 

So, in conclusion: Get with the mail, y'all! 

And happy Thanksgiving to all the Damn Kids near and far. Shatner bless us, every one. 

Roll this up and smoke it, Raffi

Baby Gleemonex, inconsolably fussy like she'd been since sunup, was sitting in my lap gritching to herself while I surfed the Internets (a series of tubes) today. And bless 'er, when I hit play on that clip of Radiohead playing the Smiths' "Headmaster Ritual," she quieted immediately, her eyes went wide, and -- I swear -- she started bopping in time to the music. Her head control isn't the greatest, being as how she's only five weeks old, but she definitely had the beat. 

Ain't nobody can say I ain't raised my baby right.

Just want [to be] a girl/ as cool as Kim Deal

A Selection of Music-Related Triumphs From My Past

--Bought and learned to play bass guitar at age 31. 

--Saw Jesus and Mary Chain a mere 2 weeks after I had a baby.

--The first concert I remember going to: Men At Work, at age 8. Get that "Wiggles" shit away from me, fool.

--First CD purchase: Bob Dylan Bootleg Series, Vol. 1 (this in a year when Color Me Badd was allowed to run free in the world). 

--Saw Tenacious D's first road gig (Maritime Hall, 1999). Also D-related: At their Halloween show at the Warfield a few years later (I was dressed as Florna, complete with baby-doll-face brassiere), KG came down off the stage to hand me his setlist, and was rewarded with lipsticky kiss sandwich between me and my friend K. 

--Bought that stupid 2 Live Crew CD as an act of political protest because it was banned. Never took it out of its shrinkwrap.

--Had a bit of a brush with the law after a Guns N Roses show in 1991; telling the cop we were about half of the National Honor Society didn't keep us out of cuffs either, yo. 

--Snagged Kim's setlist and Frank's pick at the Pixies double show two years ago.

--Got into the Beatles, on my own (without parental guidance, I mean), when I was in 6th grade; obsession continues still, but at least I'm past the point of trying to call Paul McCartney from a payphone in the middle of the night anymore like I did in 1987 (Hi, Jessica! Ahh, remember the days?). 

--At Lenny Kravitz show in NYC in 1993, found All-Access Backstage Pass, gave it to Mr. Gleemonex (who viewed the man as a minor god); Mr. G actually ended up meeting his hero and I was officially the Best Girlfriend Ever. 

Alice Cooper? Yeah, she's great!

A Selection of the Music-Related Tragedies of My Past

--Playing the flute in junior-high band. The flute can never, ever be cool. There's a reason only hippies and 11-year-old girls like it, you know? Tweeeedly toooodly tweet.

--Owning an Extreme CD. Sorry man, I was sixteen, and I had a thing for the hott super-long-haired one. Incidentally, was there ever a band that was LESS "extreme"? I am inclined to say not.

--Getting my dad to take me to this super-hip record store in Dallas after my (ultimately fruitless) Harvard interview. I looked like a dork in my interview clothes, among all those be-pierced and be-styled record store people, and my dad got all mad at how unhelpful and surly the kids all were. Better we should've gone bra shopping together. Ugh.

--Buying the 5-LP Eric Clapton Crossroads set for two songs: "Wonderful Tonight," which I now hate with a fiery loathing, and "Cocaine," which still is teh awesome. Clapton, for Shatner's sake. O how I hate that douchebag Clapton* -- but I didn't know any better in 8th grade, people. Forgive?

--Hating on [Appetite/Lies era] Guns N Roses for no reason. Somehow in my mind they got mixed up with all the stupid hair bands I legitimately hated at the time, and I could brook no GNR. I can't even remember how or why I came around, but I did, and I made molto amends for my initial off-target assessment. Amends that included jail! JAIL! (Story for another day.)

--Recording a Paula Abdul video on purpose. I taped the "Cold-Hearted" vid on a compilation for a friend who had no MTV, a compilation I promised would have only the good stuff. I ... dunno. Maybe I was in a hurry, or something.

[*Whom Mr Gleemonex believes is not just a hack and a douchey fool, but also a murderer -- he maintains that Clapton put Stevie Ray Vaughn on that plane cause he knew it was going to go down, and Clapton was jealous of SRV's skillz and wanted to remove the competish. I can't say I disagree, even though I personally am "meh" on SRV myself, not being a huge fan of guitar noodling in any form.]

{corrrex to above: it was actually a helicopter, which Mr.G says Clapton loosened the bolts on, and adds to that the charge that Clapton pushed his own kid out the high-rise window for purposes sinister.}

Buck up, campers!

Why is it the thing now to talk about "surviving" the holidays, like it's this forced death march, a huge drag, a mainline bummer of the worst kind? There's nothing but cocktail parties and food fests between now and January 1, so I don't see the huge goddamn problem. Yeah, OK, sometimes people have crappy families, or somebody close to them has lumbago or something, but on the whole, without a personal and specific reason to be bummed and cynical, why is it kewl now for the default mode to be all "waaah, the holidays suck! booooo hooooo!"

Fuck that noise. Bring on the Bailey's and the GIANT ROASTED TURKEYS!

Not having a look is my look

Internets, this is the biggest and best time-suck I've come across in forever (at least since Go Fug Yourself and lolcats): Courtesy of Mr. Gleemonex, I give you Viceland's Do's & Don'ts -- hipster doofuses of all kinds, with brilliant and brief clop-in-the-chops commentary. Word to the wise: Don't bother to read the user comments; they'll make you lose whatever faith you have left in humanity.

One thing I've got going for me these days is, I'll never end up in any Do's & Don'ts feature anywhere, as either a Do or a Don't; people who mainly wear Gap and Banana Republic, with an occasional dash of awesome T-shirts and beloved weird-brand footwear, rarely draw that kind of attention. But back in the day, I put WAAAY more energy into dressing myself. I actually was named "Most Creative Dresser" in my high school (it wasn't really that tough -- I was an even bigger loudmouth attention-hog back then than I am now, so people hardly had a choice); to illustrate my cred and the reason I won this prestigious award, there is a photo in the yearbook of me wearing my kickass red 1960s Louisiana marching band jacket, with tails, all this braided piping and frog button closures, which jacket I bought at a thrift store in Fort Worth and which weighed about twelve pounds.

Of course, you DHS alums might remember who won this award on the boys' side, and I must ask you all: What the hell? Why Mister Smartypants? I'm sure he's a fine fella, but was there a more orthodox clothes-wearer in our entire school? Like, ever? By the way, ten points to any of you who find this picture of which I speak, scan it, and send it to me; I'll post it asap.

In which I turn off the many, and offend the few

Contrary to what a lot of people whom I otherwise respect would have me believe, I don't think it compromises my feminist cred in the least to say that I'm not automatically for Hillary Clinton as the Democratic presidential nominee. What, because we both have hooters, we're naturally BFFs? Discuss.

I don't hate her -- that's an equally stupid and asinine position, IMO -- but I can't really get a handle on what she thinks, she is a TERRIBLE public speaker (I cringe when I have to hear her), and I think if she gets the nomination, we're all coming under the jackbooted rule of President Giuliani come next January. She just has too much baggage, and not all of it is even her fault, but there you go. Unfortunate things are not always your fault, eh wot?

For the record, my first choice, for many well-considered reasons, is Barack Obama; I think Edwards would be a fine President, but I just don't think he has the traction to get the nomination, and Gore, well ... that's a pipe dream I can't even afford to indulge in my wildest, happiest fantasies. Ain't. Gonna. Happen.

Now, I want it understood that if Hillary gets the nomination, I'm behind her 100 percent. No question. And but under any circumstances, my main reason to be for her at all (as opposed to "for the Democratic nominee, period") is: BIIIIIILLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!! Goddamn, what I wouldn't give to have him back in the White House, in any capacity.

A frozen elk heart left on yr doorstep wouldn't be enough

Can we please declare a permanent total moratorium on Jack Nicholson impressions, with the death penalty (via staking to a fire ant hill on a hot noonday in July at the Reunion grounds, with, of course, beer concessions, fireworks and carny games concurrent) imposed for first offenses? Please? I hate them so very

very

very

very fucking much. They've been stale and insufferably asinine for two decades now, and they're starting to make me hate Jacky-boy himself -- even Batman Jack, even Mars Attacks! Jack, even friend-of-Hunter-S.-Thompson Jack -- just for existing to be impressioned [new coinage, go with it]. Impressions suck the big wet scaly one anyway, just as a rule, but Jack Fucking Nicholson impressions have GOT TO FUCKING GO.

[This post brought to you by that stupid motherfuckin "frank TV" thing, whose commercials run every 43 seconds on TBS. Kill me now. But let me kill the person responsible with a ballpeen hammer first.]

Snooze-o-ween

Is it just me, or was last night the deadest-assed Halloween in memory?

I mean, I wasn't gonna go to some Natoma St. warehouse party till five in the morning like I did a couple of years ago (what with the newborn and all), but seriously -- the PO-leece shut the Castro right the fuck down (some sad, sad photos on sfgate, even if in recent years it's become more of a place for shootings, stabbings, and tubby homophobic un-costumed gawkers from Hayward to come and holler about all the fay-gits and dudes that totally look like CHICKS, man!, and it's probably a good thing for just one year, to give it a rest), and so on, and even on our quiet little street, full of little 1950s houses with neat lawns and jack-o-lanterns on every patio, instead of the usual steady stream of wee Spidermans and Bratz dolls, we got exactly two (2) groups of trick-or-treaters: our neighbors from down the street with their two little girls, and a bunch of about 5 young kids with one teen chaperone. We have enough leftover candy to last through Valentine's Day. I saw no costumes out in the town yesterday, no decorations in stores -- what happened? Is it just because it was a Wednesday, or are there more sinister forces (i.e. the killjoys of the world) at work here?