A-W-E! S-O-M-E! We're awesome! We're awesome! Like to-tal-ly!

So after Kid Gleemonex's first day of first grade yesterday (she LOVED it and is thrilled to death with her classroom, her teacher, and the one friend from last year who's in the same class, yaaaaaaaaaay!), we are driving past her future high school on the way to get some ice cream for a first-day treat. There's a large knot of San Dimas High School cheerleaders ambling up the road, in uniform (which of course is how we know what their deal is). Kid Gleemonex has a slight interest in cheerleaders, I think because she likes costumes. She says to me, "I think those are cheerleaders."

I say, "Yeah, looks like it."

She says, "Huh." Considering. "Were you a cheerleader?"

"Noooooo! My mom and sister were, though. I never wanted to -- well, no, in 6th grade, I tried out for 7th grade cheerleader [ten-minute digression on tryouts, which are like auditions, but in front of the whole school in this case] -- anyway, I tried out, mostly because everybody else seemed to be doing it, and then I didn't make the team, and I was disappointed for like that one day, but then after I was SO GLAD I didn't -- my gosh, it takes up SO MUCH TIME. And besides, it's -- at least these days, it's a legit sport, it's very very athletic, but I still don't like that it's mostly girls cheering on a bunch of boys who actually play the sports."

Kid G. nods, thoughtful. (The traffic is horrendous, we've gone like a hundred yards in 15 minutes, remind me never to go past a high school at 3:30 in the p.m.)

"I don't want to do it, either."

Me, doing what I always do, qualifying and overexplaining everything, in this instance mostly because I fear her, ten years from now, doing a thing I loathe just to rebel against me: "Well -- you know, if it's something you really, really want to do when you're older, we'll talk about it then ..."

Definitively: "No, I don't want to. It's OK."

That's my girl, y'all. That's my girl.

Upon reflection, I'd have to give this one a pass.

23/40

One of the fun things about being my age and having small kids is getting to revisit a lot of the stuff you knew about three or three and a half decades ago. There's a lot of WTF involved.

The Revisit: Peter Pan (Disney, 1953)

We watched this over the xmas break on family movie night, figuring it'd be OK for both kids (ages 6 and 2) and the grandparents. Well ... yes and no. There was no cursing, sex or violence, but yikes, that thing was NOT what I remembered from the once or twice I saw it as a kid.

The story itself is pretty thin -- it'd be about 30 minutes if they told it straight. But then they go and add all this crap about the whole family tiptoeing around this blustery clumsterfoot of a domineering dad, which makes me not like the Darling family much. And then and THEN they have this really long (like 15 minute) super crazy racist scene at a "powwow" with what Kid Gleemonex, bless 'er, called "Native Americans" -- big old red hook-nosed Injun "braves" and nasty "squaws" and one suspiciously pale young princess (because only light-skinned people can be pretty), all this "How!" and "Big Chief smoke-um pipe" business that just went on for god.damned.EVER. Plus there is this longer-than-necessary scene with the deliberately pre-pubescent/latent Peter Pan and these clearly adult and super, SUPER-cunty mermaids who get their mer-vajays all stretched sideways over the amount of attention he pays to young miss Wendy -- it's pretty fucked up, honestly. Not Judy-Garland-as-Dorothy-Gale fucked-up, but close.

Well, get on with it, motherf*****!

16/40

Another thing is, you are generally way past the years of infatuation with what my Analysis of Film Language professor James Schamus once called the "piece-of-chicken teenage hunk" -- although of course as a Grown-Ass Woman you will forever own your right to ogle inappropriately-aged youthful beauty, it's just that the really young ones look like unformed little baby proto-human otters or something, and furthermore unlike what I gather 40-year-old men get out of ogling very very young women, a 40-year-old woman ogling a very very young man would probably just ... feel old by comparison. Anyway, that's my reaction -- you go right ahead being you, as ever, dig?

And but so, my point: You've moved on, crushwise, and you can have all of the feelings about Idris Elba, instead.

As I skulked around the airport, I realized that I was still wearing my police identification badge.

My sister-in-law posted on the facebooks that she can't bring a balloon kittycat home on the plane from a convention she is attending. I love her, but I think she is just not giving the required level of effort here. And so: 

Things Which I Have Transported With Me In the Coach Cabin of Commercial Aircraft

--My wedding dress, DFW - SFO via Las Vegas (fog-related emergency landing), Burbank (carried by another airline entirely) and a seven-hour drive up California in a rental car with 2 strangers also stranded in Burbank 

--Twelve vegetable samosas from Indian Cafe, EWR - DFW

--Two children under the age of five, solo, SJC - DFW / DFW - SJC

--Forty oz., total, in 5-oz packets, frozen expressed breastmilk, SFO - DFW

--Six packages of Morrison's Corn-Kits (cornbread mix), DFW - SFO

--Eight onion bagels with scallion cream cheese from Columbia Bagels, LGA - DFW

--A set of hot rollers, still hot from the morning's hairdo, which disturbed and alarmed the security peoples but was in the end allowed to travel with me, DFW - LGW

--A tennis racket and the entirety of my CD collection (~125 units), MIA - DFW

I'll hit the ceiling / or else I'll tear up this town

Internets -- am I wrong in believing that my iPhone goddamn well ought to auto-complete "Loggins"? I mean, if I'm referring to the the man, the myth, the legend, I should not have to get further than "Logg" for it to automatically render the Name of the Anointed [Possibly Some Sort of Religio-Crazy These Days But I'm Too Lazy Even to Google This Vague Unsubstantiated Impression I Picked Up Somewhere] One.

I just. I feel pretty strongly about this.

Loggins. Fuck yeah.

Also, Rayland Givens

Things That Are Impeding My Ability To Blog: A List In No Particular Order

--Starting P90X (all workouts commence 5:15 a.m.)
--Advanced extended failure-riddled neverending potty training of Kid Gleemonex
--Day job = kicking me in the lady business more or less 24/7
--Holiday weekend + a little PTO
--What feels like adult-onset ADD
--Cold + fog = sucking creative impulse out of brain
--A to-do list that grows with every item I scratch off
--Lack of sparkle motion

College chicks are totally different, bro. They're all serious and shit. They all talk about world issues and "ecolomological" crap.

Internets: Hey, Gleemonex! Keepin it real, I see -- how're them potato chips for breakfast?

Gleemonex: Pretty good, actually. Shut up. How you doin?

Internets: Awesome as always, what else, DUHHHH.

Gleemonex: Mkay ... so what brings you here?

Internets: Heh. You.

Gleemonex: Me?

Internets: Yeah, I totally saw what you did there, and it made me laugh more than it really deserved.

Gleemonex: Huh?

Internets: In the Olde Hometowne newspaper -- the Bugle-Noisemaker?

Gleemonex: Oh, thaaat. Heh. Yeah. I kill me. It's just that this half-smart numbnuts was going on and on about stuff --

Internets: I know! He's all "led by the most dangerous man to our freedoms that ever occupied the White House" this, and "slip it under the table and backdoor it in" that --

Gleemonex: And besides laughing at the mixed and unintentionally suggestive metaphors, I had to respond.

Internets: You always do, don't you?

Gleemonex: Hell yes. Compulsive sassmouth here. But it was so stupid, what he was saying, that I couldn't do like a point-by-point critique, so I focused in on one of his stupider rote little sayings --

Internets: "'Drunk sailors on shore leave', eh? Why must you insult our troops?" Ha!!!

Gleemonex: Thanks, man. Just doin my part.

Internets: Much appreciated.

Beers & Weirs

Anybody else ever get the feeling that the Olympic Village is just this enormous, seething pit of nonstop 24-hour anything-goes bangin?

I mean, it's not something I give a huge amount of thought to, but -- srsly. Dontcha think?

Someday I'll do a post that's not sex-related, I promise. Probably once I'm done reading last week's NYT magazine cover story about the Texas schoolbook commission and how they're openly working to force Jesus down our collective national host-hole. It's horrifying, but I could not possibly be less surprised. Unfortunately.

C'mon, wolf out. Wolf it. Wolf it up.

OK, so can we please talk about this Lautner kid? I mean, I don't really want to talk about him either, but his cheese-eating teenage mug cannot be avoided by sighted persons in today's America, so -- it is to you, Internets, that I turn with this issue.

The issue is: His face looks like it is made of WAX. Poreless, smooth, solid-seeming though the folds be fleshy and the eyes too-deeply set. And not poreless like preteen supermodel girls, either, in that way that can just break your heart -- poreless like, he was born with linoleum skin, which has been buffed to a high sheen. It's fucking bizarre and unsettling, and I find it impossible to believe that anyone, no matter how naive and inexperienced, could find that attractive. And more to the point: I just ... what is the fucking DEAL with this guy? Why the wax face? WHY?

Oh dear, and I just told the whole Internets to grow the fuck up.

Y'all.

We watched the new Star Trek movie (the JJ Abrams joint), and despite the fact that I CANNOT STAND the whole Trekiverse, from TOS to whatever iteration it's in lately, with or without Wil Wheaton, I really liked the movie. Cool story, looked great, love to see Harold (of Harold & Kumar) gettin work, tripped out on how the Romulan ships looked so ... biological, like nasty burrs and filoviruses (hantavirus, Ebola Marburg, all the good ones).

But the thing is -- and I was really, really surprised, and kept having to, like, step out of the story and ask myself in my head if I was for real or what, on this -- the thing is: That new Spock was hot. As in, strangely but undeniably ... attractive.

You just never know, do ya?

And then, of course,

there are the days you wish she'd settle down, quit walking into walls with exhaustion and for the love of Shatner and your own sanity take a
GOD.
DAMN.
NAP ALREADY.

Better double-bag it. I don't know where that girl been.

You all know I’m never one to judge (oh nooo, never never), but seriously, sincerely: Doesn’t it seem like you could catch the herpe just by looking at David Duchovny? Best not to meet his eyes. I’ve seen Clash of the Titans a few (dozen) times. I know how it works.

Completely unrelated, the results of a strange trip down an Internets rabbit-hole doing research for a thing I’m writing: HEY LAB PARTNER AND BERWIE: Isn’t this what we did through Lab Partner’s church that time in seventh grade?

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green

A fact of which I am extraordinarily proud: Kid Gleemonex, not yet two years old, can recognize the Beatles in any of their incarnations, from the half-lit 1962 Kirchherr photos to the “OMG I hate all three of the rest of you guys and your ASS FACES! I’m going to hide from you behind a ridiculous growth of hair, like a shrub I carry around with me 24/7!” phase near the end, and including Sgt. Pepper jackets, India, Sullivan, the whole bit. She’ll cheerfully volunteer that “they play guitar,” then point to Ringo and say “drums.”

It’s like I’ve said before: We don’t go to church, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have values.

Also: Please, please stop with the backyard tanning. Your poor be-freckled skin ...

Things I Wish I Could Have Told My Sixteen-Year-Old Self, Not That I Would’ve Listened to Me

–Still with the fake British accent? Still?

–Look, I know I can’t talk you out of the spiral perm, because you think it’s going to make you look like Rene Russo in Major League. But just know that it’s going to look good for about four days, and then it’s going to be an incredible pain in your ass for months. Think of this as a learning experience.

–Do you really have to sign literally everyone’s yearbook with that same ridonculous signature? Seriously: “Peace & love, freedom & justice”? What does that even mean?

–That basketball player who has for some unknown reason latched on to you? Just: Never mind, OK? A) You don’t actually like him, you just like that SOMEbody asked you out, and B) In less than five years, he’s going to wait on you, your mom and your grandmother at a Red Lobster in the Metroplex, having flunked out of college and failed – shockingly! – to make the NBA. So don’t sweat it, kid.

–They never shoulda given you a driver’s license.

–What’s with the tie-dye and the broomstick skirts? You have to get over the whole hippie thing. You don’t even know what you’re talking about.

–You know that other guy you’re DYING to get asked out by is gay, right? Gay, as in … oh, never mind. You’ll figure it out soon enough. You kids have fun!

–You can try the “My watch stopped – see? – and that’s why I’m 20 minutes late for curfew” bit exactly once. Your mother will not believe you, being as how she's not a moron, and I'm just warning you, it’s really going to piss her off that you even attempted such amateur bullshit.

–You don’t look 21. Not even close. Save yourself the embarrassment – don’t order a cocktail. Please?

–You should try to bottle some of the energy you’re wasting on bogus, idiotic bands like Def Leppard. When you’re 35 and have a toddler, you’re gonna want those spent protons back.

–Enjoy your obsession with the Mysterious New Guy. It’ll be fun while it lasts, and an endless source of hilarity to you for the next couple of decades. It’s worth every stupid line of emo poetry that you are about to write.

Franch fries, Franch dressing ... and to drink: Perru!

Internets, I wanted to share with y'all an example of a kind of writing I cannot fucking stand. It's from the New York Times, one of those "36 Hours" columns written by a variety of writers. This one's about Aix, France: 

Dieters, sleep in. With its mountains of eggplants, ranks of honey jars and fields of fresh goat cheese, the morning market at Place Richelme is a bloater's paradise and sure to doom even the most fervent intentions of slimming down. 

Here's why I fucking hate it: 

1) The would-be clever phrase "bloater's paradise." What the fuck is that? You're trying to tell me what's great about this place, and you put the word bloat in there. [sad, faintly disgusted trumpet] Don't try to be clever, OK? Seriously. It's a fucking farmers' market. Tell me what it has and get out of my way.

2) Who goes on vacation in France with intentions -- fervent or not -- of "slimming down?" That is Lifelong Professional Killjoy territory, right there. France is a place for food and art and drinking and sex. If that's not what you're after, go to Germany. 

3) The use of "dieters" and "slimming down" at all -- what is this, 1971? You want to conjure up thoughts of cottage cheese on iceberg lettuce, and, like, Slim-Fast and Tab and silly-ass useless leotarded exercise routines for laaadies? Holy corseted Shatner.

4) The notion, implied rather than stated outright, that there are "good" and "bad" foods and eating behaviors -- I could fill an entire other blog about how much I hate it when people act like good chocolate is "sinful" or talk about how they "shouldn't" eat this or that; unless it is a direct threat to your immediate health, or made of nothing but petrochemicals and space-age polymers, no food is "bad." Learn to balance your nutrition, eat REAL FOOD MADE OF REAL INGREDIENTS (and the occasional Twinkie when you're, you know, hungry for one), and quit being Debbie Downer about how horrible it was of you to sample the delights of a FARMERS' MARKET IN PROVENCE for fuck's sake. 

This is why I stay with Shatner, y'all.

Lemme axe y'all all something, a question raised by my participation in the entity known as Facebook: How come all the people I went to school with -- regular people, most of whom went to, you know, whatever church their family went to but didn't really give it all that much thought as far as I could tell, and most of whom seemed to be a lot less religious than I myself was (I was pretty churchy, for reals) -- how come most of them are now, like, really super-religious? Like they post how excited they are to go to church, they talk about "worship and fellowship," they bless each other all the time, they put up bible verses on their profiles. It's nuts. I don't get it.

Also, shocking scandal time: I keep writing comments to stories on the Hometowne Paper's website, in full compliance with the rules and regs but expressing what I gather is the minority opinion (e.g.: No, the proposed Bible class at my former high school -- a public high school, and the only game in town -- is actually not a good idea, even if it is offered as an elective and not a requirement) -- and they are NOT POSTING MY COMMENTS. I mean it. It's been three times now, on three different subjects. They just ignore/block my posts, but they allow an apparently infinite number of gems like this one, below, an actual comment posted to the Letter to the Editor written by an avowed Bible-studying Christian who does not think we need this class in our local high school. Comment says:

I agree with all of the comments on here so far. I was proud of [Cowburg] for being brave enough to even consider this and to stand up and give our children a chance to expand on their beliefs and the right to learn about God. Especially during this day and age where it seems that the mere utterance of God's name is a crime or something, but cursing, pre-marital sex, drugs, and alcohol are not only welcomed nowadays, but spread shamelessly throughout our towns, televisions, and schools as if it is just a normal way of life. Well, frankly, THAT is offensive to me and my children and yet, my children are forced to be subjected to it every day. At least this class is an elective. If your child doesn't like it, they don't have to take it, but don't stop others from having it. I am glad that someone has enough sense to bring back something good for our children for a change. I hope and pray [Cowburg] is brave enough to stand up in the face of so much adversity and instead of considering what the WORLD thinks, consider what is BEST for our children for a change! I hope [Cowburg] DOES offer the class. It sure will be a nice change of pace from what the students are used to hearing and seeing! For those of you who don't like it...deal with it...we've been dealing with you taking away our God for long enough! To the students out there that want this class, stand up for it! You are our future leaders and it is ultimately up to YOU what you allow to happen and what you don't allow. If it is right, stand up for it! You are taught over and over again, IN SCHOOL, to be leaders and to make a difference...well here's your chance! Go for it!

But I'm the nutjob whose posts are not fit for consumption, eh?

These are the people in your neighborhood

Ladies, lemme axe y’all something: Would you, a college-age young lady in apparent gainful employment at a legitimate above-the-board business, whose car sports decals which indicate current student status at a degree-granting institution, be willing to regularly spend overnights at your boyfriend’s house – when it’s not really his house at all, as in, he lives with his parents in a 3BR/1BA bungalow (within spitting distance of the Gleemonex residence), a house in which one of his brothers also lives with HIS frequent overnighter-gf, a house which he could not legitimately rent (or rent a room in) himself because he apparently has neither a job nor any school, training, or apprenticeship commitments at all? If so, would it bug you that his “friends” seem to drop by at all hours in groups of one to three for visits of five to fifteen minutes, the purpose of which brief visits seems to be the exchange of cash for consumable herbal preparations, the gains from which seem to be your boyfriend’s sole means of income? And if you’re OK with all of that, would you get annoyed by the constant amateur-hour koff koff koffing from the backyard when his friends stay for longer than the usual time it takes to transact the exchange of goods for tender and decide to partake of such refreshment together?

Just a hypothetical.

Besides, it's not "Magik." It's "Magick." Ask Drew Barrymore, she'll tell ya.

Internets: No one – NO ONE – ever really loved the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Uh uh, shut up, you don’t, and neither does anyone else, not even the band members, not even their own moms.

Maybe you dig on their fonky sounds, or had sort of a thing for Keidis back in the day (even though he’s always sort of looked like he doesn’t wipe very well), or played “Under the Bridge” a million thousand goddamn times that one winter after your crummy breakup, or their shit is part of a “Yay 1991!” playlist on your iPod, or whatever. That’s all valid. I mean, I myself once paid to see them live (a mad mad mad roadtrip to the Metroplex with LW and SJ and CB, in which we drove too fast and screamed too much and acted like banshees and actually flagged down a car full of hot guys ON THE HIGHWAY to get their numbers – well, SJ and CB did; Gleemonex the Righteous Teenage Virgin stayed right out of that) and it was a pretty good show.

But nobody LOVES them, really truly in their hearts loves RHCP.

---------------------------------

PS: Mr. Gleemonex’s response to the first line of this post – which I said out loud for reasons unremembered at some point this weekend – was: “Maybe people who grew up in LA.” To which I said, “I ain’t got time for them.”

Idiocracy

Do y'all ever wonder what kind of a world we live in, where Susan Boyle's mental/emotional crisis makes bigger headlines than a goddamn Air France jet full of people disappearing over the ocean and a doctor being gunned down at church by a Christianofascist terrorist?