No. That's not what we do.

The Legend of Bold Riley is OUT

solmaru — Sun, 08 Jul 2012 01:40:23 GMT

In case anyone on this ancient defunct LJ missed it our book is now out from Northwest Press! Go get you some!

http://northwestpress.com/the-legend-of-bold-riley/

A big fat link update

solmaru — Sat, 21 Apr 2012 06:15:33 GMT

I haven't touched this in yonks so let me show you all of the places that DO get the attention of my sticky fingers:

You can like the Bold Riley face book page, http://www.facebook.com/boldriley Check here for some extras and previews and fun things! I'm also proud to anounce that The Legend of Bold Riley has been picked up byt Northwest press and we will be releasing a full color 232 page book with fancy copper leaf on the cover in early to mid summer of this year!

You can dig my tumblr over here: http://boldriley.tumblr.com/

Follow me on Twitter @solmaru

and of course my blog which has some new posts on it: http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/

If I may be shameless for a moment I've set up a paypal account for donations. If you like what I do, comics and writing wise and are feeling benevolent you can drop some dollaz at leiamusthavedinner@gmail.com . Them dollaz keep me from sucking my thumb under the bed fretting over bills and keep me churning out happy fun time entertainment for YOU.

Kisses!

Have another Reminder!

solmaru — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 08:31:41 GMT

I have a facebook page for my Blog here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/A-Happy-Go-Lucky-Scamp/174770975902449

And i've been putting up a podcast with Erika Moen! You can listen to the first two here:
http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2011/03/17/why-lord-has-this-happened/

and here:
http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2011/03/24/a-continuing-disaster/

Just a reminder,

solmaru — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 11:43:11 GMT

I'm blogging here: http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/

If you want to read about my lifetime travails with birth control that's the place to judge me at.

solmaru — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 01:44:39 GMT

This one is about my boobs you guys.

solmaru — Thu, 09 Sep 2010 00:19:07 GMT

http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2010/09/09/over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder/

New blog post

solmaru — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 22:11:15 GMT

http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2010/09/04/the-meanest-thing-my-boyfriend-has-ever-done/

solmaru — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 00:31:23 GMT

http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2010/07/13/double-dutch/

come on knock on my door.

solmaru — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 18:21:37 GMT

http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2010/06/14/come-on-knock-on-my-door-2/

In other news still to tragically stupid to figure out the RSS despite everyone being super helpful and telling me HOW. I should have it fixed by some time in 2014.

Take this wordpress and rub it on your eye jelly

solmaru — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 23:46:59 GMT

Dylan made the brilliant point that I should have my fancy lady blog hooked up to this one but I have not figured out how to make that do yet so please go read my new thing. Here I will link you to it like the techniclly challenged fool I am.

http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/2010/06/08/the-grand-poobah-of-shmear/

Blowing this pop stand

solmaru — Wed, 26 May 2010 20:31:09 GMT

I am departing LJ for the verdant pastures of Wordpress bitches! You can now find my expletive, TMI laden posts at http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/

I'm keeping this LJ for comic updates and whatnot but if you want to read about my ridiculous adventures http://ahappygoluckyscamp.wordpress.com/ is the place to do so. Please tell all of your friends and comment a lot so that someone at a famous publishing house takes notice and gives me a book deal. I understand that is the thing now.

solmaru — Sun, 02 May 2010 22:29:36 GMT

I once sat at a dinner table with my mother and a friend of mine who through the course of conversation had a few unkind things to say about only children. They were hopelessly spoiled, felt entitled to hand outs, unable to understand or relate to others, lacking in generousity. My mother is an only child. So am I. We just looked at eachother.

WELL, OKEY DOKEY THEN.

I never quite got on board with the Only hate. Maybe it's the natural bais of being one. Can I be a fuckbag? Sure. But I've known lots of people with siblings who can be A-1 A-Holes on a fairly consistant basis. Where did this stereotype come from?

Oh wait! Found one of em'!

THIS bastard!

This is Gabe. Gabe was one of the first of many ruined human beings to be featured on A&E's Intervention, a favorite stop of mine on the shitshow tour of "How Bad Things Can Really Get". Most of the junkies featured inspire a basic feeling of empathy. There are a few exceptions though, and Gabe is one of them.

I have never loathed anyone on a TV show the way I've loathed Gabe and I've watched all three seasons of Flava Of Love AND the spinoffs.

Gabe is an only child. He was once an exceptionally bright young man, one of the youngest people to attend UCLA. He was slavishly doted on by his parents. He was given everything by luck and by upbringing. When you get that lucky you are obligated to make something of yourself and repay that gift by becoming a contributing member of society, respecting your loving parents and generally not following the path of the douchenozzel.

But Gabe DID follow the path of the Douchnozzel and he did it so spectacularly that I doubt anyone who watched this episode would not have to take a deep breath and walk away upon seeing him in the street to avoid an assault charge. He developed a massive gambling addiction and sticks to his friends and family like shit to a goldfish, begging, whining and thrashing his fat little fists like a baby when he doesn't get thousands of dollars from his mom. Who, by the way is bankrupt from bailing his ass out year after year. He actually attacks her in her car because she finally told him she won't give him money. HE ATTACKED. HIS MOTHER.

Yet my favorite part was this. And I'm quoting Gabe directly.
"When you love your kids...you do...absoulutely anything for them. You do morgage the house, You do sell everything you have, you do give them the shirt off your back. When you decide to have a child you are responsible for them their entire lives. It's a contract. For LIFE."

OK, that may be true if you were a kid with cancer. Not so much if you are a 31 year old man who squandered his potential on high stakes gambling. Oh also, this dude has an IQ of 156. I'd think he would have bothered to learn card counting.

All I know is that if I had pulled out a cherry line of bullshit like that on my folks, after wasting their cash of gambling? Now my parents aren't smacky people but I garauntee there would be a backhand involved. And I would DESERVE it.

Oh then there is this:
"Being an only child...Yes, I was a little demanding and I wanted what I wanted when I wanted it...but that's normal."

NO. NO, IT'S NOT. Every kid tries that at some point I'm sure but y'know what? Generally your mom and dad are there to tell you to cut that shit out because while they may care about your wellbeing no one else gives a shit about how you feel. Kindof an important lesson to learn. You KINDOF need it to function.

I just... I just hate this man so much. I hate his victim complex and his bullshit aspiration of working in the music industry even though he refuses to work any kind of mundane job to bank roll it. I hate that he opens the interview with the words "I'm a complicated guy...". I hate that people look at this greasy whinging slob and look at his weaking parents who can't tell him to take a leap and think: "Huh. This is what only children are like..."

I'm not like that, my mother is not like that, my only child boyfriend is not like that. You know why? Because our parents raised us right and didn't take any of our SHIT.

Way to rep for our people Gabe. I hope you die in a gutter.

You can watch the fuckstorm of jerkoff here: http://www.aetv.com/intervention/video/?bcpid=53411497001&bclid=80045068001&bctid=80187888001

(I had to soapbox. I promise I'll write a post about something funny soon. Like sexual mishaps or odd shaped dicks. Actually this post isn't even that good but I'm hittin' POST anyway.
POST)

Demeter

solmaru — Wed, 31 Mar 2010 07:26:31 GMT

One of the posters for SF Olympians Festival. 12 plays, 12 nights. You can find more info here: www.sfolympians.com.
Make sure you check out the poster for Ares! It was done by the excellent Kelly Rose who is also the artist for Bold Riley and the Golden Trumpet Tree.

He's not bluffing with his muffin

solmaru — Sun, 21 Feb 2010 05:43:25 GMT

It was about a year ago I sat down to sushi at a Polk street resturant near my house. My friends and I had just gotten our edamame when they came in. The dykes. The glorious dykes.

These were the 1980's idea of what a lesbian was.

You go into a dyke bar in San Francisco now and you won't see them. The girls there now are called Boi's, they are impossibly slender, small breasted, elegant in their fitted plaid shirts and painstakingly sculpted short hair. They wipe the remaining dusting of cocaine from their noserings before charming the pants off of you, bedding you, then high fiving like bros with their friends the morning after. the new dykes who have rejected everything the old dykes were about.

The dykes in the sushi bar were kitted in the classic stereotype. Middle aged women in Leather vests over baggy t-shirts, vast breasts unhindered by bras, studded dog collars, tapered stone washed jeans...and the mullets...oh god the unironic, greasy mullets. These were the lesbians that know you think they look like men. They know it and they don't care because they are over that shit. These are the dykes that ride bikes. These are the dykes that will pinch your ass when you go to the kitchen to get them a fresh Budwieser. The Hold outs. The ones that that spelled women with a "Y" and MEANT IT.

I wanted to high five every one of them.

I chittered in my seat and resisted the urge. But I still have a soft spot for things that seem so unabashedly homosexual. The limp wrist, the timberland boots, the glitter or the lady-mullet, there is something about a relic of the kind of homosexuality that harkens from the days of absolute suppression of the gay lifestyle when it's participants HAD to be so out there that a dress code came into being to mark your own that is heart warming. That makes me misty for all those queers who came before me who made it possible to live prouder and less afraid. The ones who made it easier for the next generation to wear whatever the fuck they pleased and still be who they are because these homos pushed through and MADE it ok.

So when I say that this is the GAYEST shit I have ever seen (and I have seen some GAY SHIT.) I want you to understand how I mean it. And I mean it in the most reverent of ways.

Johnny Weir? You go, girl. I see you at the bar and I am buyin' you SO MANY COSMOS.

The Curious Cabinet of Eleanor Olson: Part 1

solmaru — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 23:00:48 GMT

The first time Eleanor Olson opened her fabulous cabinet to Daniel Poor he was a boy of 7 and newly orphaned.
In an act of graciousness and charity the Esteemed City of Lucky Bai had seen to it that the many thousands of starving, terrified children of the neighboring war torn state be given into foster homes for a more cultured upbringing and education. Many of the children either sent by desperate parents or by mission houses for the orphaned came to have happy lives. Adopted into families and given citizenship. As they grew these fortunate ones would take on trades and usher in a prodigious economic boom to Lucky Bai. In the future many would look back on what they called the Delivered Generation and hail it as one of the most excellent political moves of the city's then leaders.
So it was that Daniel Poor was delivered to Eleanor Olson's doorstep, weeping, terrified and barefoot. The mission house he had been sent from was horribly short on funding and supplies. His case worker hadn't been able to find a pair of shoes in his size.
Eleanor Olson stood on the top step to her immense manse and looked down on the dirty little boy who was to be her charge with an unreadable face. She leaned on her cane of carved mahogany and agate, uttered a sigh that could have been of vague annoyance. Daniel clung and snotted into the skirts of the matronly mission worker.
"Awfully sorry, Madame Olson." The mission worker managed to pull him off of her apron. "Just lost his family a bit ago. He's only a little scared..."
"Of course." Said Eleanor Olson.
She extended a hand. The mission worker pushed Daniel up the marble steps. He bit his tiny fists and cried harder. Eleanor Olson took him by the shoulder as the mission worker stepped back, bowed and scurried away.
Eleanor Olson steered Daniel into the doorway of her home that yawned like the mouth of some starving, terrible beast. When the ancient door clicked shut behind them Daniel thought he may never see the sun again.
She turned to look at him. The choking, tattered little boy and the slender woman who walked with a limp, who's face was just beginning to show signs of the years faced each other. The silence broken only by his sobs. He looked back at her with enormous, wet eyes. She blinked slowly. He hiccuped.
"Daniel," Said Eleanor Olson. "Would you like to see some bees?"
The tears started anew. No. No, he did not want to see any bees. Never the less she pulled his hand away from his face and lead him by it to a sealed set of double doors carved with elegant lions only a little way down the gloomy hall.
Daniel wept and wept and wept as if it would some how stop her slow persistent tug. It didn't. He was hauled closer to the snarling carved lions with their arched backs. Why did it seem to him as if this whole house was full of sharp teeth?
Eleanor Olson turned the brass handle of the door and pushed it open. Daniel made a noise between a whimper and a squeal at the first creak of the door's hinge. He clutched Eleanor Olson's hand tightly because in lieu of his mother's it was the only thing left to hold onto. His eyes were squeezed shut at she guided him over the threshold and into the unknown that would be the rest of his days.
But then light. Light and warmth so unexpected he could not help but open his eyes. Through the glaze of his bewildered child's tears the glow of the high golden lamps made it as if he'd stepped into a rich honey comb.
He blinked the water away and saw them. Long, flat cabinets filled with winged jewels. Bee's and wasps and hornets and all manner of stinging insects pinned to soft creamy paper behind sheets of polished glass.
"These are my bees, Daniel" Said Eleanor Olson and swept one of her long elegant arms across the breadth of the massive room and it's floor to ceiling cabinets. "From every forest and field I've collected one of each."
She guided him through each cabinet, each specimen and for every name she had a different story. By the time they had circled the room to another somewhat smaller door at the end of the hall his tears had stopped and so had his breath. But from wonder this time and not from fear.
"Ahh. And this one." Eleanor Olson stopped in front of a single pedestal that stood apart from the other cabinets. On top of the pedestal was a bell jar and in that bell jar was the largest hornet Daniel Poor had seen in his life or in pictures. It was the size of his spread hand, banded with black and riotous yellow and on it's thorax a bright curl of blue.
Daniel pressed his fingers to the glass of the jar without thinking and quickly snatched them back in fear of reprisal. There was no mark on the glass.
"The Vesper Wasp." Eleanor Olson continued in her smooth, dry voice. "They build nests in the gum trees about an hour east of Lucky Bai. They have the most deadly of venom. This is the first insect I ever collected."
Eleanor Olson leaned her cane against the pedestal, lifted the bell jar from the pinned hornet and urged Daniel to lean in for a closer look.
"I thought they were beautiful when I saw them as a girl at one of the chapel picnics outside of the city. A boy who liked me thought to impress me by catching one. I found him dead on my doorstep in the evening with this wasp clutched in his fist. It had stung him to death."
Daniel looked up from the Vesper Wasp to Eleanor Olson. She placed a hand on his dark head.
"If that boy had lived I would have said to him 'I am very impressed'."
Eleanor Olson placed the bell jar back in it's place.
"Every collection begins somewhere." She said and took him by the hand again to lead him out into the main hall.
"Did you like that room, Daniel Poor?" Eleanor Olson asked.
Daniel nodded and sniffed.
"My estate is very large and I have many rooms, many collections." Eleanor Olson let go of his hand and flicked commanding fingers at the shadowed curtains in the hall. A veiled serving woman appeared from the gathered dark. "Be strong, learn my lessons well and I will show you more. Be even stronger and even smarter and I may show you everything."
The veiled serving woman stepped forward and took Daniel Poor's hand. The serving woman's hand was cool and grey.
"But for now it is late and supper will be ready shortly. Fidileaus will show you to your room."
Eleanor Olson left him there with the veiled serving maid and leaning heavily on her mahogany and agate cane, limped in the cavernous recesses of her mansion to go about her business.
Whatever business that may have been.

And that was the first time Eleanor Olson opened her fabulous cabinet to Daniel Poor.

CSI: The Morning After

solmaru — Sat, 19 Sep 2009 21:51:00 GMT

All of the time I've spent watching procedural crime shows has really helped me put together the details of my weekend binge drinking.

It's like the start of CSI. SOMETHING has happened but I am not yet clear on what. There are vauge hints. The coffee table has been dragged into the kitchen, There is a bruise across my ribs, My wallet is empty save for a bar receipt from the Tunnel Top. A string of events stretching back to my doomed Friday sobriety that spools out across Saturday and Sunday leaving a gore smeared wreckage in it's wake. Now if I could only figure out WHAT those events were.

Crime shows have taught me that interviewing witnesses is essential. Last monday I messaged my friend Ali, a fellow participant of an excellent Sunday Funday pool party. She would have the information I needed to fill in the gaps between backflipping into the hot tub and waking up.

"I need to know three things." I began. "One, did my tit fall out? Two. Did I lick my contact lens and put it back into my eye? Three, Did I weep openly on public transportation?"

"Yes to all three." came her reply.

Fuck.

Technology also plays a role in crime solving. By checking the call list on my cell phone I get an Idea of who I was out with, who I attempted to have sex with and who I called in a different time zone early in the morning to tell about the martini I was having. A quick glance at the logged Facebook chats records what was on my mind at the time and also provides the list of people I need to apologize to. This is essential. How can you apologize for calling someones girlfriend a hooker if you don't know who the boyfriend was? See? Elementary my dear Watson.

But let us not forget the importance of physical evidence. For example, The coffee table is in the kitchen, There is a smear of blood on the doorjamb, two magnum condoms are strewn across the floor and one of the carpets is hanging half off the bed, there are tortilla chips on the sofa and the TV is set to VH1.

What happened after coming back from happy hour?

I stared at the detritus, picked up one of the unwrapped condoms. Did I get laid last night? No. Impossible. They hadn't been used for that and I would have woken up next to someone... I dragged the rug back to it's place in the living room and stared at that. If just one piece of the puzzle falls into place then the rest will follow. I put the coffee table back on top of the rug and set to scrubbing the blood off of the door and got windex in the gash on my thumb that I somehow hadn't noticed.

Then it clicks.

I had two long island ice teas at Sugar Bar, came home convinced I had a bottle of wine hidden on top of the cabinets. Dragged coffee table into kitchen to stand on. No wine. But then I wanted natchos. Cut my self while attempting to slice the cheese and slapped hand on the doorjamb in despair. Ate natchos while watching TV and see an ad referencing Cleopatra. Wonder if I could recreate the scene where she rolls herself in a carpet to be presented to Mark Anthony. Drag rug into bedroom and attempt. Fail. Fall off of bed and knock over decorative box containing condoms left by old lover. Hold magnums in hand and mourn the loss of said lovers large penis. Move on from self pity and wonder if the condoms would fit over my entire leg. Attempt twice. Fail. Pass out.

Granted it's not as entertaining as watching an episode of Special Victims Unit where some one is raped and set on fire but it's close.

Insolence

solmaru — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 06:47:37 GMT

Today I went onto the ladies room at the Illustration building I work at to treat myself to a tampon. Sometimes it's nice to have new things. I put my quarter into the little slot and twisted the knob of the boxy poon padding dispenser.

A Playtex shot out with suprising force and hit me in the right tit. As if the Machine had spat it forth and said: "THERE'S your FUCKING Tampon." It was terribly rude about the whole thing, really. You know, it had been a long day for me too and I wasn't being a dick about it. Besides it's sole function is to give bleeding ladies tampons. I almost deserved a refund for this kind of service.

"You sanctimonious little vadge-plugging fuckbox..." I said and bent to pick up my hurled tampon.

It was then I noticed a student was behind me fixing her hair in the mirror and she had just watched me cuss out a feminine products vending machine.

Geek Chic

solmaru — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 02:39:02 GMT

I'm not sure if any one is aware of this but I'm writing a fashion, style and beauty column on Girlamatic.

Yes. Me. Someone entirely unqualified.

http://girlamatic.com/blog/category/features/geek-chic/

Blue Language

solmaru — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 22:50:26 GMT

It generally accepted knowledge that as people age they become more rigid about some things. It's not uncommon to hear your friends mention a visit to the family homestead along with something like "Oh, you know, We can't do much about grandpa hating Koreans. He's pretty set in his ways..."

My fathers particular hang up as he's gotten older, fortunately, doesn't have anything to do with other ethnicity's but with profanity. He never swore a huge amount when I was growing up but he never had a problem uttering a heartfelt "SHIT" during tax season. Maybe it's because he has returned to the genteel deep south where certain language just isn't used in public he's now forsworn four letter words. All I know is that when I slough casually through my parents house in a visit to New Orleans and mutter "Where are my fucking sunglasses...?" I'm sharply reprimanded from the other room. And then there are the emails I get after writing something new:

"Very good. Could be in a newspaper if not so much swearing."

But his new refusal to curse coupled with his ever present calm, unflappable demeanor make the occasions he snaps all the sweeter.

On vacation to Florida this summer we pulled into a Chevron somewhere in candy colored tourist town of Panama City. We'd driven through on our way to the family farm in Alabama so Dad could point out where the giant waterslide owned by one of his uncles that he would work at in the summers as a boy. His tour of water parks, 60's hotels and giant plaster of paris sea life finished I'd returned to reading my book in the back seat. My head snapped up though when our CRV lurched to a halt.

"What is he DOING?" My father said angrily.

Craning around the front seat head rest on the passenger side where my mother sat I could see a Buick the size of a yacht had pulled into the row of pumps haphazardly, effectively blocking Dad from pulling through to the other pumps.

"Well, waitaminute, Chris." Said my mother. "He's probably going to move..."

But the car did not move. It stayed. Skewed at a diagonal the Buick squatted fatly, resolutely, in the way.

Dad pulled up in an effort to try the pumps on the other side only to find they were out of service. Mom tried to convince him that the Buick would still move. It did not. An ancient man slowly rolled himself out of the drivers seat. He looked to be a veteran of both World Wars and the giant trucker cap with the navy logo perched on his wobbling head seemed to confirmed this. The man inched towards the pump and struggled to remove the nozzle.

Strangled noises began coming out of my father.

"What...FFFFFFF...WHAT FFFFFF... What is this Ffffudgeing...FFFFF..." Dad fought desperately to find some word that started with an "F" other than "Fuck" to articulate his rage. I sat up further in my seat. I knew something delightful was about to happen.

"This...Fornicating..." Dad floundered and then gave in. "WHAT IS THIS FUCKING IDIOT DOING?"

A small squeal of glee escaped my lips. Dad wasn't done.

"LOOK at him! Look at him! He's wearing one of those goddamned hats! Men wear those hats and and I swear their testicles SHRINK." Dad threw the car into reverse and managed to back into the last and only working pump. "I hope I NEVER get that old. SHIT." He spat.

"This is the best vacation of my life." I thought.

Dad turned to my mom "I hope he didn't have kids cuz' he FUCKED the gene pool."

"GLORIOUS." I thought.

Dad shoved open his door and filled the tank. When he was done he strode in to the store to pay and mom and I let loose. We managed to get our hysterics under control by the time he got back in the car.

He continued as he tried to back the car up, "I mean, SERIOUSLY why would you even...OH OK AND NOW THAT GUY IS PARKED BEHIND ME AND HE'S TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE."

"Calm down, Chris." Mom soothed and dug through her purse. "Do you want mint? Or a Pez?"

"Gimme a Pez." Dad held out his hand.

"Ok. Pink or Purple flavor?"

"Both."

Mom unwrapped the two packages of mini-Pez and dumped them into his hand. He crunched, I giggled, Mom ate a mint and the three of us waited for the Buick to shudder out of the gas station lot.

I can't wait until our road trip to Oregon next spring.

Common Ground part 2: Continuing adventures in the world of animal pornography.

solmaru — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 17:23:18 GMT

I like to learn new things! Take for instance I woke up this morning to a video in my Facebook of amorous Box Turtles which was sent to a group of us by a friend who I will leave nameless because she probably doesn't want to get a reputation as a herpetalogical smut peddler.

I learned in that video and subsequent YouTube research that the turtle will attempt to fuck anything and will make the most horrible noise while doing so.

Shortly after this conversation occured on AIM:

WEATHINGTON: are you at home?

BYERS: no i'm at work

WEATHINGTON: oh.
I was going to send you the turtle shoe vid.

BYERS: lol

WEATHINGTON: ill post it on FB

BYERS: ok haha

WEATHINGTON: I worry about dying suddenly at moments like this and people will check my browser history.

BYERS: hahahaha

WEATHINGTON: and see that i've watched like 30 videos of turtles having sex.

BYERS: everyone loves that shit
they're just too ashamed to admit it

WEATHINGTON: I just saw one try to fuck a wok.
what facinates me is these home videos follow the exact same formula of human porn videos.

BYERS: haha of course you would know the "formula"

WEATHINGTON: The the set up.
The insert.
The facial expression shot.
The money shot.

BYERS: lol

For further proof of my theory that strange animal coitus brings people together please refer to Common Ground Part 1: http://solmaru.livejournal.com/153431.html

Bile at 30,000 feet.

solmaru — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 04:48:29 GMT

Flying used to be all right. But then again I felt that way when I was about six years old and able to curl up in the shoebox sized seat and sleep through a flight with the help of a benedryl administered in a complimentary Ginger Ale by one or both of my parents. By the time I'd come around I was in Hawaii or Mexico or some cherry place.

Now though I'm staring twenty five in it's beady jaundiced eye and I fly alone.
No one will secretly drug my sodas and carry me to the hotel once the plane lands anymore. No. Now I am a grown woman who must do what claustrophobic grown women do. Which is buy enough Bloody Mary's to black out for a few hours over the center of the U.S. to, hopefully, come to when the plane lands, sober enough to find my connecting gate.

I'm typing this right now at an altitude of about 34,000 feet from a Southwest Airlines window seat. I like the window seat because if something horrible happens, and I'm always nigh positive it's going to, I will be sucked out and die a mercifully swift death. The only optimism I will allow myself is that maybe a fat man will be sucked out with me and I'll cling to him like a monkey in hopes that he will take most of the impact and I can walk away with only a couple broken bones. You may laugh at this but I'm convinced it could work. Remember that scene in The Bourne Identity where Jason Bourne jumped on the back of an obese gangster and rode him down 5 flights during a gunfight to land unharmed? Just saying.

Anyway, that's not what I wanted to tell you. Is anyone familiar with Southwest Airlines? Or as I have come to know them "the toilet of the skies"?

You know what. That's not fair. Southwest is fairly efficient, fairly cheap, fairly timely. Other than an incident a few weeks back where a Southwest plane suddenly developed a "Cocksucking hole" as Hamilton Nolan at Gawker put it, the problem I have with this bastard airline is such:

The stewardesses sing. Songs. They sing fucking songs, do you understand me?

I'm currently on my last leg of the journey from New Orleans back to San Francisco and this was the bullshit I had to listen to while desperately trying to slip into unconsciousness,

The hostess chirped into the intercom. "Hey there, Passengers! So we're a little tired here today so we're gonna get right to passing out your complimentary peanuts!" Then burst into a wretched ditty. "OH I WISH I WERE A SOUTHWEST AIRLINES PEANUT, OH THAT IS WHAT I'D TRUELY LIKE TO BEEEEE. FOR IF I WAS A SOUTHWEST AIRLINES PEEEANUT, THEN I'D GET TO FLY AROUND FOR FREEEEEE.

I caught the eye of the man sitting next to me.
"If this continues I will cut my own throat." I said.
The man only blinked. "Haven't you flown Southwest before?"

He's right. I shouldn't be surprised. On the 8 AM flight from Louie Armstrong in Louisiana to Houston airport the attendants wanted us to sing happy birthday to Doug, the pilot.
Hey, happy birthday and shit Doug, but it is EIGHT FUCKING AM. My pants are only half on from the security check point, most of the mornings coffee is spilled down my cleavage. I've just been seated between a teething infant and an obese man who flips his mullet into my eyes every time he turns his head. At this point, Doug, I hope you never have another birthday again.

During preflight checks the flight attendants with their terrifyingly sharp cheek bones and waxy lipstick on their teeth openly condescend to you.

"If you had to spend your money on cramped seats we're GLAD you spent it on us!" squealed one bleached, horrible attendant.
Wonderful. You have openly admitted to me that you know I'm going to be miserable during my travel and you are not hiding that fact that it makes you HAPPY.

But what can you do save ordering another Bloody and hope the plane springs a hole before another Southwest sing along starts?

solmaru — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 20:51:11 GMT

Guess who got her haaaaaair did?

And an eeeeeyebroooow wax???

A piece of advice. If you need a Haircut or a Wax look up the nearest Aveda salon college. The students will turn you out with a sweet do for super cheap. I mean look at this:

The girls there made me look so pretty that in the space of an hour I've become dangerously vain. I now make kissy face at all reflective surfaces I pass.

In other new my Southern Odyssey ends tomorrow and I fly back into the arms of San Francisco. I was going to write several posts WHILE I was down here but then I remembered I'd be busy drinking Newcastles in the pool and eating muffulettas so I'll do that when I'm back in the real world.
Here's hoping nothing is on fire when I get return.

solmaru — Wed, 15 Jul 2009 15:37:33 GMT

Whoa. Let's all just ignore that last one. Clearly if you take 2 benedryl and try to finish up what was supposed to be a lighthearted post it turns into a bitchcakes one.

Yes, I am pleading Paula Abdul here.

Thank christ for a four hour time difference that allows my mother to see the shit I write before almost anyone else does. You should have heard the phone call at 7 AM:

"LEIA."
"Mmmph."
"Are you not TRYING to seek gainful employment?"
"Eeeenph?"
"Because what you wrote last night makes you look CRAZY"
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"YOUR. LIVEJOURNAL."

I could dimly remember hitting the "Post" Button.

"Calm down. Jesus. I'll take it down or something."
"PLEASE. DO."

So I hang up an slough into my office to check up on my wrongdoings. Because I just didn't think it would be that-OH MY GOD.

I had not written anything that garbled and maudlin since HIGH SCHOOL. Oh my god. I couldn't even remember typing past the third paragraph.

The noise I made was something like: "AWK." and the great LJ/Facebook purge of 09' began.

So hey, my bad about any distress caused. To everyone who responded to that, Thanks. It was really sweet. But if we can take anything away from this it to not trip balls on cold medicine while in proximity to your laptop.

Common ground

solmaru — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 08:17:46 GMT

I didn't manage to get along with other kids very well. But to be fair all of the children at Ringing Rocks Elementary School, PA were vicious motherfuckers. A horde of tiny uncivilized people, forming disparate tribes to make war against one another, eyes wet with conjunctivitis and hatred, Mouths red with Kool Aid. Or the blood of the weak. It really depended. If there were curly fries being served in the cafeteria then it was blood. Curly Fries to seven year olds are like what Cacao Beans were to the Aztecs. If there was only one tray of curly fries then you were bound to see some Gangs of New York shit go down.

The play ground was not so much playful as it was reminiscent of the yard at Sing Sing. Turf was drawn and redrawn according to race or class or gender or some subtle social shift in the wind that I could never fucking understand. Cruelties were hurled to faces or behind backs, bigger kids shoved the smaller off the swingsets, rocks were winged at soft, still developing skulls. The one thing keeping us from going fully "Lord of the Flies" was a single listless chaperone who'd blow a whistle and kind of scream at us when he saw bullying.

The hostility was only tuned down to a dull simmer when herded back into the class room. Still 20 to 25 kids agitated against one another in an ever present effort to undermine and assert dominance.

You know, thinking back on grade school it really was like a jail. One time I shivved a boy with a fork because he tried to kiss me. He just didn't understand I ain't nobodies bitch you see? I don't just give my shit out fo' free. You gotta get momma a pack o' smokes or summa them tasty ass curly fries first. Shiiit.

Almost nothing could bring us together in a lasting harmony. Except one thing.

Ripple's dick.

Ripple was the male hamster we kept as a class pet. And for some goddamned reason when we had a spare moment all of us would crowd around the cage and put our differences aside to look at adorable Mr. Ripple, maybe pet him a little bit but always, inevitably, flip this hamster over and look at his junk.

"Look at his boner!" One of the boys would snigger. And that, boys and girls, is where I learned the word "Boner".

"Kids. KIDS. That's enough. It's time for geography." A frantic teacher would hustle us away and put Ripple and his shlong back in the cage. But for that tiny moment we were all united in puerile fascination of rodent willies.

I may be grown now but still sometimes experience a Ripple effect. I was on YouTube a while back looking for cute animal videos because I have a vagina. Ownership of a vagina causes irrational behaviors like the purchasing of hundreds of decorative pillows, weeping and the need to view fluffy bunnies and shit while imbibing merlot.

Anyway, I'd just gotten done watching an anteater in a flannel shirt drink fruit juice out of a champagne flute when on the side bar of related videos the words "ECHIDNA PENIS" stood out from the pile.

"I...Well...Fuck." I thought staring at the thumbnail, trying to make out details. "I guess I'm going know what an echidna's penis looks like." So I clicked on it.

Now when your first reaction to seeing a monotreme's gigantic cock is "Not bad..." then you need to come to grips with the fact that you deserve to be alone forever.

None the less I emailed that magnanimous wanger to friends and family and felt immidiatly vindicated in my belife that sometimes the sharing of disgusting, wretched things is a way to bring people together when I received this reply:

"This is the craziest dick I have ever seen. And I've seen a lot of dicks. That is amazing."

Perhaps this is what could end world conflict. If we all collectively sat down for a little while at a global table and realized that whatever our differences are, whatever has happened in the past we will all agree that an Echidna's dick is the WEIRDEST fucking thing ever and from that point of commonality we would all link hands and swear to stop nuclear proliferation and solve world hunger. A utopia would follow in less than a decade.

I mean ok, Australia probably wouldn't be that wowed but then they're used to Echidna dick. Wouldn't matter. No one wants to play with those kids anyway.
~~~

("BUT LEIA?" I hear you howl to me like hungry babes "HOW CAN YOU TALK ABOUT MONOTREME PEEN AND NOT SHOW US THE GOODS? PLEASE SAVE US FROM TERRIFYING IGNORANCE."
I can do this thing for you. Below you will find a video detailing the horrible machinations of the MonoPeens. Do not look away from this educational film at any moment, for while what you see may disgust you, may cause you to weep openly, in the end it will make you strong.)

Family Trauma Center

solmaru — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 22:52:39 GMT

My sense of Identity has always been fairly shaky. I find my own impulses and behaviors bizarre. At least once every hour of the day I think: "Why the fuck did I do that? Reaching into the pot of boiling water with my bare hands to pull out a bay leaf? That was crazy. Only crazy people do what I just did."

So not finding the answers in my own introspection I look elsewhere. Namely my relatives, to put the blame on them. I talk to my mom almost every day and we find ourselves not infrequently nostalgic for events from my upbringing or hers. My mother lost a lot of her family too soon. A lucky couple managed to make it long enough to see me born, but none long enough for me to have any real memory of them.

But mom remembers them. And she would tell me their stories, the family history. In our talks the anecdotes come together and a more solid picture of who I am emerges. Why I am the why I am and why I do the things I do. The saga of generations of the women on my mom's side build brick by brick into a sometimes drafty but solid structure.

Although to hear my mother talk you'd figure the foundation was built on one of self inflicted physical trauma...

GREAT-GREAT GRANDMOTHER, ALMA~1964
Alma was a massive woman. A swedish immigrant, she stood about 6 foot and had a size 12 shoe. She wore massive thick glasses now that she was getting into her sixties. Despite her brawny stature she loved feminine things like interior decorating. As a matter of fact Alma's favorite hobby was to go out at night fall in her Baltimore neighborhood when the homes are lighted and she could see through the windows at how people had done up their living rooms.
One night she was engrossed in her walk. Walking slowly enough to get a really good eyeful but quickly enough to not look like someone casing a joint for home invasion. She was passing a house, head turned fully to the picture window and thinking something along the lines of: "I would never have put that tiffany lamp next to that painting..." When she faced it into a "No Parking sign. Hard.
Alma put the entire right side of her body in to the pole of the sign, breaking her giant glasses and bruising herself from hairline to knee.

"She had to walk around like that for weeks explaining to people what had happened." Mom said. "She didn't want people to think granddad hit her so she wound up telling the truth."

GRANDMOTHER, ELEANOR~ 1955
Eleanor and her husband Barney had just bought their first home in Glenn Park, Baltimore and were celebrating and doing a little home repair. Eleanor LOVED whiskey sours and had had about three of them when she noticed that the kitchen ceiling could really use a new coat of paint.

So she fixed her self a fourth, lit a fresh cigarette and got out the oil based white paint and roller and climbed on top of the big gas stove. She rolled on the paint with one hand and drank her whiskey sour with the other, cigg dangling form her lip all the while. A combination of liquor, paint fumes and new home owned euphoria made her giddy.
She finished as much of the corner over the stove as she could reach and slurped her fifth drink. With great satisfaction in her domestic skill she turned on her heel and walked straight off of the stove and hung in the open air for a split second before belly flopping onto the linoleum.

"You mean she COMPLETELY forgot she was on top of the stove?!" I asked my mom after she told me this story.
"Oh, yes." She replied. "Mom told me she was pretty surprised when she saw the ground rising up to meet her."

MOTHER, GWENDOLYN~ 1988
four years after I was born my parents moved us to Pottstown, Pennsylvania, located in a rural area about an hour outside of Philly. We had lived there for maybe six months when the day for bulk trash pick up came around. People would huck furniture, dead refrigerators and other unwanted items onto the street to be taken away by the trash men.
Now there was an enormous, ancient steel trashcan in our garage that Mom wanted to get rid of but she was a bit worried about just putting it out on the curb. What if the trash collectors thought it was just a regular trashcan and left it? Then she hit on an Idea. Crumple it! That way it would really look like garbage!

Now my mother is not a big woman and yet for some reason she is under the impression that she is. It was this misguided self perception that led her to figure that she could somehow crush this 90 gallon steel bin with her own body weight.
So she dragged a chair over next to the can and climbed up. She readied herself for a moment and then leaped in to the air, right into the middle of the trashcan. The can, instead of buckling neatly in the middle, acted as a trampoline and catapulted my mother ACROSS the garage and into the opposite wall. She laid on the floor in a heap for a few minutes then gingerly got up and limped past the defiant trashcan back into the house.
She sat on the sofa with an ice pack and watched cartoons with me as I played with my new happy meal toy until daddy came home.
When she told him what happened he just looked at her for a minute.
"Why...didn't you just tape a sign to it that said, "TRASH, PLEASE TAKE."?"

"Oh, I don't know, Chris." My mother looked resentfully at my father and shifted her ice pack to her shoulder. "Maybe because I'm STUPID?"

DAUGHTER, LEIA~ 1991

We were still in Pottstown. The property we lived on was vast and beautiful, especially in the summer. every thing was in bloom and flowers bobbed in the sultry heat, the grasses and leaves a shade of green that was so vibrant it hurt the eyes. But my favorite part of our yard was the Dogwoods. There were about seven of them dotting the front and back of our house and all of them proud and strong, the branches stretching wide and heave with four petaled white blossoms. All except one.

A few yards away from the front door was a dogwood that was close to death. It had been pruned back several time and most of the bark had rotted away. In the hollowed interior of the trunk a hive of Yellow Jackets had built their nest. The flew in and out of a knothole about half way up. I watched them on their errands for about a week in mid july until one day I decide I was going to fix their little red wagon.

Now I tell people that what came next was born of a scientific curiosity. That both of my parents were scientists and had instilled in me an interest in the natural world and how creatures react to new stimuli.
But more likely an explaination is that I was full of piss and vinager and just wanted to pick on something smaller than myself.

Which is why I picked up a small stick and wedged it into the entrance of the nest and stood back a few feet to see what would happen.

A slow trickle of yellow jackets formed at the blocked entrance, confused as to why the front door was now firmly blocked. Then a swarm accumulated.

Then one of the little fuckers got wise and realized the JUST MAYBE the little flesh beast standing nearby was the culprit and stung me on the back of the calf. I jumped and yelped, at which point the entire cluster of bees turned their multi-faceted eyes to me at once and began pursuit.

Our kitchen looked out over the backyard and my mother was washing dishes when she saw me come sprinting and wailing around the house to go diving into the playhouse they'd build for me and slam the door.

"She's SO excitable." My mother thought and put another dish in the drying rack.

After about twenty minutes of hurling their little exoskeletons against the playhouse door they finally lost interest and I dragged my swollen leg up to the house to cry on my parents. Dad dutifully avenged me by taking a can of raid and wreaking destruction upon the hive.

...I may not have known my Great Great Grandmother or my Grandmother but they come alive when my mother talks about them. The way she spins their histories I feel like maybe I can know them and that the four of us are bound in blood and similarities that disregard time or mortality.

The two of them reach from the grave and out across generational differences with their smooth dry hands and clap me on the shoulder when I fuck something up badly. With their massive palms, their cigarette stained fingers or cracked knuckles the give a reassuring squeeze and say: "It's ok, kid. Sure, you just broke a heel and fell off the curb in broad daylight while a crowd of people watched. But you're gonna be alright. You're gonna be FINE."

"It's happened to all of us."