That, and: Don't work the perfume counter at Horne's department store if you don't want to end up pimped out at One-Eyed Jack's.

Two of the Many Things Teenage Me Actually Learned from Twin Peaks

1) Older people -- like, way over 22 -- could and did have sex. Even with each other. I realize this makes me sound like an idiot, but I was a very sheltered kid with typical unexamined childish ideas about sexuality, such as that, for example, one's parents had had sex exactly the same number of times as the number of children they produced together, and no longer had sexual thoughts, much less acted on them. But here were Ben Horne and Catherine Martell, gettin' it on all afternoon; here were Norma Jennings and Ed Hurley, unable to keep their hands off of each other; here were Donna's parents clearly still sexual even through they were old and the mom was in a wheelchair (that actress, btw? is Zooey Deschanel's mom). MIND BLOWN. Worlds expanding.

2) Even pretty people can be in abusive relationships. Again: Idiot. But I was accustomed, by some cultural osmosis or other, to domestic violence being seen as sort of a trailer-park thing that happened to the ugly and generally unfortunate. Twin Peaks went right for it, though -- Donna's BF at the beginning of the show (lovely young Donna, whose family life is as warm and supportive and loving as TV families ever get) is a major dick who orders her around and even lays hands on her (though he doesn't hit her), and then of course you see Shelly Johnson's incredibly awful marriage and home life -- they never go into it exactly how she hooked up with Leo, but she's this breathtakingly beautiful, capable girl who no doubt married a guy she thought was good-looking and had money, and then some months or years later, you end up cowering in his unfinished house while he prepares to beat the shit out of you with a piece of soap stuffed into the toe of a tube sock.

My preferred flavor at this time was still Red Sangria. I hadn't puked hard enough from it yet to be put off it. O those golden years.

32/40

So this is the next year, 1992, my senior year at Cowburg High School. This time, a group of us rented a room at the Sandbagger (not its real name), for years the unofficial official after-party venue just a few miles from the TacoJocko prom site. We used my friend D's mom's credit card, with her knowledge and permission; D was a junior, and her mom was kind of out of the loop on this sort of thing, so she was easier to cajole than, say, my own mom, whom NO ONE ever successfully managed to put ANYTHING over on (my mom is and was a fucking Ninja Master at ferreting out sneaky teenage ratfuckery).

ANyway. So we drove ourselves, like six to a car (as you did in those days), did all of our getting-ready at the Sandbagger, had a lovely prom, then went back to the motel for the mayhem. And my god, mayhem it was. There was pool furniture in the indoor pool, Funyuns ground into the carpet, Bud Light and Bartles & Jaymes bottles all over the fucking place, a mix of kids from our school still in promwear, changed into after-prom slutwear, already in pajamas, etc., and kids from all over the county who were invited to the after-party -- and not a person over 21 in the whole goddamn place. I can't imagine what the hotel booking office thought was going on -- our school did this every year. Nobody even called the police, that I'm aware of, which is the most amazing part of this whole stupid story. It was the funnest, except for I kept running into my ex-BF and his new GF and it made me sad so I just drank more (good plan!). Next morning was all about the Funyun cleanup, finding people's fancy prom undergarments (there were at least two lacy bras in the pool), fighting nausea and headaches, finding someplace besides your own room's trash cans to stash the empties, and trying to talk D down off the ledge of a freakout over her mom's Amex getting charged for the "damages" (Funyuns. Those fucking things are from the DEVIL.).

And but so here's me, antes de la fiesta. Woooooooooooo!

Sounds major.

An excerpt from A Student's Handbook to The History of  [Cowburg] County: EVERYTHING you need to know!, by Winona Louise Gleemonex, Mrs. L's Fourth Grade Class, c. 1984.

VII. Social Life - and - Amusement
The early settlers were always hospitable and friendly to visitors and neighbors, as was their custom. Cowboys were always, always welcome.

Horseracing was very popular. [Cowburg] County had many tracks, on which very famous horses raced. 

Barbecues were held, and dance contests and singings. In other words they were very social and friendly people. 

I know you do your own taxes -- which you really shouldn't do, by the way --

Internets, do you know who goes to Red Lobster?

I mean, besides little old me, forced there by the twin lures of those goddamn tasty-ass cheddar biscuit crack nuggets and the fact that the place shares a parking lot with the bookstore where I went with my four-and-a-half-year-old and eight-month-old, both of whom require carseats and the complex settling and buckling-in thereto and eternally drawn-out extraction processing therefrom, so that I now arrange all forays from my house in terms of least number of stops required, all other factors be straight-up damned, because Holy Ass-Pained Shatner De Todos Los Santos Madre de Dios y Nuestros Dolores is that a pain in my ass. Which raises a question: Are the chain restaurants of American Suburbia in league with the Carseat Mafia, in which one reinforces the other and e'rbody get paid? [SOUND OF ONE THOUSAND MINDS BEING BLOWN]

Anyway: So you know who really goes to Red Lobster? Women over the age of 55. That is ALLLL who else was there yesterday. They go in pairs, threes, sevenses. Some are all diety about it (forgoing the cheddar biscuits [the horror! ... the horror!]), ordering the broiled catch of the day with the plain steamed vegetable side. Some are like "All of the fats, be they cheeses or sauces or fried preparations, I will have them brought to me now for eating." Some are enjoying a glass of wine because this is a Sophisticated Joint where you can day-drink without judgment. Some you can tell just came there because at least that picky-ass Laureen can find something on the menu to eat, even if she will complain about it. But there was no table except mine that didn't have at least one over-55 female at it.

And the two gals in the booth right back of ours yesterday ... y'all! These two were borderline sexual-harassing the cute young waiter serving our section. I'm not kidding. They were going to town on this guy. Every time he came near us, they're like, "Hey Victor,* would you mind taking your cute bod to the kitchen to get us some more biscuits?" "I bet you have a lot of girlfriends, huh?" "How come we've never seen you here before? I'd remember a face like that." "Way to handle that heavy tray -- you must work out!" I was dying, listening to this -- it was hilarious, and Victor was handling it really well, but if customers had harassed me like that back in the day, I'd've been a furious embarrassed mess within minutes. I just ... hope they left a good tip. I did, because I'm like that anyway, but also because when I'm around a table of people who I suspect intend their good company and jolly banter to be the tip, I tend to put a little extra cash down to make up for my fellow humans' boobulousness.

So when the kids and I finally gathered ourselves to go, I checked the ladies out -- they were seventy-five if they were a day, and, AND, they had a dude with them! Whaaat! Obviously the husband of one of them, completely normal-looking guy, not deaf or senile, just I guess ignoring them while he read a newspaper. This changed the dynamic completely -- but to what, from what, I can't really say. Total WTF moment in an already WTF episode, I guess.

In conclusion: Red Lobster be cray.

-----------
*Not his real name

I mean, minus the hookers and assholery.

If House had existed back in the day when I was in jr. high and high school, my crush would've been on this one: 

The soft, pretty one with the floppy blond hair and the ozzie accent. Nonthreatening, vaguely exotic, very Elwes. 

But it wouldn't have taken me long to get to this one: 

Because Dead Poets Society. And but then, I'd've ended up here: 

As you do. As one does. Sorta like how your Beatle crushes start with Paul, take a little jaunt over to Ringo, and then eventually fix permanently upon John or George. 

BOBBY FLAY is now my SWORN ENEMY, which means he is also YOURS.

Look, here's the deal. Many moons ago, somebody once linked on their blog to a drawring of two kids sitting on a pile of books, thoroughly absorbed in reading -- done so well, so simple and early-sixties-looking, I loved it on sight -- and the words "There's more to life than books you know, but not much more," which of course KILLED ME DEAD (Handsome Devil, whaaaat), and I bought it in under sixty seconds from this person's etsy shop. It is waiting to be framed and hung in my reading nook -- this sort of dogleg 1/3 of the Master Bedroom (heh. master bedroom) of our new house, for which I already have a wonderful chair (the Luxe chair + ottoman from Cost Plus), and now need only my bookcases, my goddamn books which are still in boxes in the goddamn garage, a good reading lamp, and the Desk I've Been Waiting For All My Life (which I will know when I see it).

Since that time, probably two years ago, that I bought this fabulous piece of art, I have wanted desperately for some more illustrated lyrics/quotations, preferably without attribution, and not the whole goddamn song or whatever -- Beatles, Pixies, more Smiths, all kinds of cool shit -- which I would create myself if I had that kind of graphic artistry talent but I don't, SO. What I need from you is: FIND ME THIS SHIT ON ETSY. I do not know how to navigate that fucking place. I get lost and then cranky and then want to burn the mother down with every twee little crafter in it. Links, people -- direct links to items and shops. PLEASE help me!

I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

And but so here's another thing: Do you ever wonder whether somewhere in all that Duggary Duggarness, there's a Duggar kid who's like, "This fucking SUCKS. I hate sharing a bathroom with forty fuckin other kids, I don't even know if that one over there is ours or not, my mom is just a vagina with a face, I called Jinger 'Jorgia' and she didn't even notice, if I hear one more Biblical math lesson or Biblical history lesson or Biblical fucking chemistry lesson I'm going to burn this house down with everybody in it, my dad is a goddamn lunatic trying to replenish the earth all by himself, I only ever just saw a black person in real life LAST WEEK, there's no way I'm marrying that freaky twerp from that other Christing overpopulating homeschool family we hang with, and I'm sick to fucking death of that beshitted taco pie thing we eat by the 55-gallon drum every fucking Wednesday. The very MINUTE I turn eighteen I am changing my name to Terry Smith, getting my entire reproductive system removed, and FLEEING TO BOLIVIA and they will never ever find me. They won't even know I'm gone till it's time to do the publicity shoot for the next time they have to change the name of our show on Discovery -- 'Thirty-Nine and Counting!' Feets don't fail me now."

Alison's starting to happen

In honor of Women's History Month, a Selection of:

Things That Are Makin Me Happy Today!

1.) The 80th anniversary of the Earthly manifestation of the Most High Anointed, the Grand Ka-Boom, the One From Whom All Blessings Flow: William His Highness the Shatner.

2.) Mimi Smartypants -- holy Shatner, does she kill me:

4. Speaking of, who on this train could you take in a fight? Pick somebody to hate. Picture yourself standing up and thumping the hell out of that person. Picture the spilled Starbucks, the torn North Face jackets, the general pandemonium. Maybe he would fight back. Maybe other commuters would join in, vigilante-style, to beat the crap out of you. Picture your black-eyed, bloody-nosed self being carried off the train by the police, still thrashing and fighting. Hey, I won’t be in today. I kicked everybody’s ass and got my ass kicked in return. I’ll check email later.

3) These goddamn little triple ginger cookies from Trader Joe's. WHY SHATNER WHY are they so tasty?

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.

Oh boy. They have sequins.

So I'm watching actual, live/real-time network TV on Friday night in the Emergency Room,* and something terrible called "Wife Swap" comes on.

And I can't decide which is worse:

--The self-described "all-American Texas football family," with the laughably self-described "trophy wife" (I think you bought it at the wrong trophy store, dude), the members of which prided themselves on being "hard-working" Republican Christians (with that ugly & disgusting assumption such people have, that anyone who isn't at least upper middle-class just doesn't like to work and is a lazy commie welfare cheat) who love football above all else, and having a mom/wife who literally does nothing but cook meat-based meals, clean the tract house, and attend various football-related activities for the two hulking porcine teenage date-rape suspects they called sons.

--The "hippie" family from Georgia, the members of which (especially the dad) do drum circles and "clowning" (not "clowning around," as in, goofing off -- I mean "dressing up like fucking MIMES and putting on little mime shows and shit, unironically, for spectators' presumed wonderment and delight"), have no actual jobs, and have a mom/wife who hasn't shaved her armpits in 20 years (because she doesn't believe in gender roles).

--The very concept of the show, designed to exploit everyone's worst preconceptions and prejudices for trainwreck-style entertainment under the guise of busting those very notions down. BULLLLLLLLLLLSHIT.

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

*The kid had what turned out to be croup, fixable with a few 'roids, some ibuprofen, and boatloads of Yo Gabba Gabba. But it was after-hours, so off to the ER we went, on the alarmed say-so of the advice nurse after we held the phone up so she could hear the kid breathing her horrible terrifying rattly wheezy breaths. Good times!

Of course what I actually said was, "Sure. Will do."

Replies Considered And Rejected In Response to An Email From My Manager Just Now, Wondering Whether I Can "Just Go Ahead And Put Together These Packets" For Tomorrow's 3-Hour Meeting, Given The "weight of this project in terms of its scale and importance," Because The 26-Year-Old Blue-Flame Meeting/Project Lead Doesn't Need To Be "Overly Burdened" By Doing It Himself

--Oh yes, absolutely, my calendar's completely open except for that massive deliverable you already laid on me today that I have to finish before I leave.

--Yeah, no problem -- I actually went to grad school for the specific purpose of adding grim irony to performing such tasks as printing and photocopying 40-page "packets."

--For sure -- happy to free up some time for Blue Flame. He's so terribly busy outranking me by two job levels while Facebooking, harassing people via transatlantic phone call and chatting up the new gal, I'd hate to burden the poor dear.

--So am I to assume you actually realize the "weight of this project in terms of its scale and importance," then? Huh. That's funny. I recall the entire area with which this big meeting is concerned being left off my 2010 goals until I myself pointed it out. But sure, I'm on it. Top priority.

--Actually, this is beyond the scope of my core competencies at this time, but if you'd like to loop back with me on it later, we can schedule some time on our calendars for a touch-base with our Sr. Manager and HR to discuss the matter in depth and create an action plan so that I can get up to speed and really own this piece.

--Or, how about this: Blue Flame can fucking do it himself since it's his idea and he'll get credit for it anyway?

--Why don't you get your mom to do it? I hear she likes that sort of thing.

I mean, I love Jane Lynch too, but holy warbling Shatner ...

OK, so let me see if I’ve got this straight: The TV show Glee – it is a show made up of singing? There is scripted comedy/drama, as I understand it, but then several times per episode, there is Earnest Singing? By groups of alleged high school students, with choreography, and they’re covering mostly pop songs of the last thirty or so years? And no one is getting beat up over it, which makes it one of those alternate-universe things? And this appeals to enough Americans that it’s worth not only pretty much every third or fourth US Weekly/People/etc. cover but also a Rolling Stone cover (with a long and really, ferociously terribly-written article, ugh)? And part of said appeal is that the alleged high school kids sometimes sing songs you like? But then how is that better than having some stranger do that song on a karaoke machine?

I … have I missed anything? Am I wrong? Please help me, Internets.

Now thank we all our god

It is the 79th anniversary of the earthly corporeal presence of the One True Deity, the Almighty and Most Holy, He Whose Hand Is Upon The Wheel of Destiny: SHATNER!

Look ye all, look ye all and be lifted in His righteousness!

Also: Good NIGHT, Miley -- stand up straight or get a different dress.

PMFSA Spontaneously Generated In My Brain While Watching the Oscars (I Know It's Late for an Oscar Post, SHUT UP):

Celebrities, former humans, people of the world: We all have HDTV now. WE CAN SEE YOUR WEIRD STUPID COSMETIC SURGERY. Really, really well, in astonishing detail. Each odd decision, each snip, each tug, each "re-envisioning" of what used to be your face -- it's all terrifically obvious, and horrifying. You don't look any younger, ANY OF YOU. Not one minute, let alone twenty-seven years younger. You just look bizarre, and pathetic, and cartoony -- you're like that Octomom gal, getting cut to look like someone famous and winding up just barely this side of outright ghoulish. Please stop -- please. PLEASE. You're making us sick.

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.

Mike Holmes: Godlike man, or actual god in man suit?

Fresh hot new obsesh, y'all. Holmes on Homes.

Somebody done your house wrong? Some lazy good-for-nothin (probably a lush) piece-a-shit contractor drywall over a gigantic skein of live wire, 130 junction boxes (128 of which are totally unecessary) and a mold spore the size of a goddamn Great Dane? Some idiot with a total of four (4) days as a runner on a convenience-store construction site sign on to double your house's square footage (now that the triplets are on their way and also your widowed gramma is moving in), then absconded with the funds and also sued you for $90K more? Fired a crew that you caught replacing your main roof beam with a bunch of taped-together toilet-paper rolls, but they already cashed your checks and now they're so gone, it's like they never existed (sorta like Ian Ziering)?

Mike Holmes will kick ass, take names, put a goddamn vapor barrier on your basement for pete's sake, and bring his guys in (he knows about ... seventy-five guys) to prevent your family from dying in a fire, being crushed under rotted termite-infested timbers, or living forever in raccoon-piss-smelling squalor. And it will look fucking AWESOME. You will weep.

I'm telling you guys: We watched, I think, eight hour-long episodes this weekend. CANNOT GET ENOUGH. MUST HAVE MORE HOLMES. Holmes for President. Holmes for Emperor. Holmes for breakfast.

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?

The shoulder-padded silk shirts from Express fared rather less well.

Surprising Longevity: A Few Things From 1991-1992 That Are Still In Frequent Use Today

--The alarm clock given to me by Jennifer M.’s parents as a graduation gift. A 5x5” cube, it has stood vigil at my bedside, coast to coast, for 17 ½ years without a single failure.

--The keychain given to me as a grad gift by Diane R.’s parents. It’s a 1926 dollar coin. It’s in my coat pocket right now, holdin up my keys.

--The Texas Instruments pocket calculator I was directed to purchase by Mrs. E for Trig/Pre-Calc. We all pretty much had the same one. It had something to do with, like, sines and functions and “ass-ma-totes.” It is good for balancing my checkbook still. That other stuff, I couldn’t do anymore if it were the only thing standing between us and Global Thermonuclear War.

--The beach towel given to me by the hostesses of a graduation party in my honor. It is purple on one side, green on the other, and the design is a large shield bearing the words “Beverly Hills Beach Club.” Now, it’s true I watched a lot of what my young friend Sarah A. calls “the NINE-oh,” but I doubt these nice ladies knew that, and also, WTF? Nice towel, though. So I’m always prepared; as Towelie says, “Don’t forget to bring a towel.”

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?

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.