That time I got served

Oh, gay bars. They’re the perfect safe-haven for straight girls who like to dance and dry hump pretty boys without the threat of date rape.  I loved gay bars back when I could stay up past 11:00.  In my own mind, I was a post-Madonna, pre-Gaga fruit-fly-extraordinaire.  The chorus of friends shouting ‘hey, girl!’ would ring in my ears like a beautiful song as I charged into the dark and loud room.  The thumping techno soothed my mind as the smoke-filled air enlarged my pores.

On a busy dance floor one night, I found out I was nowhere near iconic.  I would never be impersonated by a drag-queen in a Vegas show.  The humbling went down at a fabulous new gay bar in Little Rock. I don’t remember the name of the place now, but I’m sure the subtly gay name was charming.  I jumped right into the mix on the dance floor, hoping to become the princess among the queens.  A handsome African American caught my eye.  He was dancing with a cute boy, but I beckoned him over to join me.  I somehow got the gestures wrong.  My hands said, ‘come over here and dance with me’.  But his eyes saw, ‘bet you can’t top these mediocre moves in front of a crowd of hot boys who will declare you a hero.’

I danced confidently as the cutie watched, not realizing that he was merely sizing up the competition.  I thought he was admiring my shoes or jeans.  I looked really cute that night.  He jumped in and danced beside me as a small crowd gathered. I realized by the cheers and his facial expression that I had just been completely and utterly served. I also finally realized the gravity of that phrase.  All I could do was walk away.  There was no way to salvage the situation. In retrospect, it is cool to say I was once in a dance-off with a gay black man.  Even if the admission is a cautionary tale.  Learn from me (and Larry Craig), my friends.  There is more than one reason to keep your gestures in check.

(Sorry for the LC reference, I tried to fight the urge but found it overpowering.  I’m sure you understand.)

I kind of want to punch Bella Swan

I get that Robert Pattinson is completely swoon-worthy.  But I really don’t understand the Twilight phenomenon.  Bella Swan sucks.  She is a worse female role model than Paris Hilton.  She needs an intervention and therapy.

Here’s what I would say to her if she was real and not a bad characterization of a modern teen:

If a man likes to break into your house and watch you sleep, he’s a stalker or molester.  It’s not cool to try to get some guy who appeared in your bedroom to de-flower you. It makes you look pathetic, needy, and slutty.

Same goes for if he mysteriously shows up everywhere you go.  A girl should be able to go to the movies without her sort-of-boyfriend keeping tabs.  It is caveman behavior and should never be encouraged.

If the guy you fancy is way too old to be in high school, he’s a loser dumbass. It doesn’t make him smarter than your classmates.  Repeating your senior year a dozen times means you’re too dim-witted for a GED.

If a dude tells you he could kill you by having sex with you, it means he has AIDS or he’s a serial killer who kills chicks after he has sex with them.  Under no circumstances should his admission make him more attractive, unless you hate yourself and your parents.

Also, he shouldn’t constantly brag about his ability to kill you accidentally and easily.  If you like that sort of thing, you have serious emotional problems and daddy issues.

If some dude tells you he can make you feel like you’re flying, he’s trying to sell you heroin or acid.  Did you notice how pale that guy is?  Don’t hop on his back, because he’ll give you a piggy-back ride to his drug den.  You’ll end up naked with a needle hanging from your arm.  Yes, you’re boring. But drugs won’t make you more interesting.  Try booze instead.

If a pretty-boy sparkles, he’s a drag queen.  You’re not going to change him.  You’re more likely to change a vampire back to human.  The best thing you can do is start sharing clothes and make-up.  Maybe he can teach you how to walk without falling down, you clumsy asshat.

FYI: In the time it took me to write this post, Stephanie Meyer made about a gazillion dollars in royalties.

Revision and the long-running shitcom

Right now I should be editing and revising my latest manuscript.  The problem is: I really, really don’t want to.

Writing a book is an exciting journey that keeps my brain moving at crazy speeds even when my body has long since given up.   I can’t wait to find out what happens next as my characters pull me through the action.  After processing and recording  around 70,000 words of fiction, I am left with a rough-edged story that is completely unsuitable for public consumption.

Revising the work isn’t magical.  I read the text that has consumed my thoughts and evening hours for months and realize that my work hasn’t even started yet.  The individual words in need of attention inhibit me from consuming the project as it’s meant to be.  It’s not a book. It’s a nuisance that leads me to resent the craft that consumes my imagination.

That’s why I’m watching “Two and a Half Men”.   Let me tell you about this show.

The old “Two and a Half Men” went like this:

Charlie:  I’m still drunk from last night.  I banged a hooker or two.  Have you seen my car?  It’s really expensive because I’m rich.  I hope I find it soon.  I’ll just buy another one if I don’t.

Alan: Oh Charlie, you reprobate.  Can I borrow some money?  I’m a poor loser.

Charlie: Yes, you are.  Did I mention that I banged some hookers last night and paid them the equivalent to what you make in an entire year?  You should move out because you’re a moocher.

Alan:  I’m such schmuck, but you’re a hedonist.  Do you have any money for me or what?

Then there’s a masturbation joke and Berta strolls through the room to provide comic relief.

Here’s the new one:

Walden (Ashton Kutcher-as if you didn’t know): I’m so rich and good-looking.  Why doesn’t my ex-wife love me anymore?

Alan: I don’t know.  I’ve been married twice and all it did was make me poor.  Can I borrow some money?  I’m such a loser.

Walden:  Sure. I can help you out.  I’m naïve because I’m too smart to understand interpersonal relationships.

Alan: Great, thanks.  I promise to either pay you back or probably not.

Walden: Ok.  I have trouble meeting girls but this hot chick wants to make out.  Here’s some money.  I’m so glad a complete stranger is mooching off of me.  My goofy smile really reflects my good nature.

Then there’s a masturbation joke and Berta strolls through the room to provide comic relief.

Pretty sure that covers it.  Now you never have to watch an episode of “Two and a Half Men”.  You’re welcome.

Does anyone give a crap?

Because I have a book to promote, I am supposed to blog.  It’s apparently what I have to do to keep my book sales from sliding into oblivion.  If my ranking gets any lower on Amazon, I’ll give up and get a day job.  That’s a lie, but my  point is: I’m desperate enough to start rambling about crap every once and a while and hoping that you will read it and find me clever.

Here are a few things to expect/not expect from my shiny new blog:

I hereby promise to never mention what I had for breakfast, unless it was exotic enough to warrant discussion.  For example, if I ever have minty salmon pumpkin griddle cakes with creme fraiche, I will probably let you know about it.

I promise to never tell you that I have something terrible going on that I can’t tell you about it.  That’s crappy and it makes me hate social networking.  It makes me worry about people I haven’t seen in twenty years, when the terrible thing is probably a pregnancy scare or hemorrhoids.   I also won’t tell you that I’m devastated over something that I can’t tell you about it.  If I’m devastated enough to tell you I’m devastated, I’ll tell you why.

I won’t say anything about my children unless it’s funny  and can bring them future embarrassment.  I learned long ago that people don’t care if my kid is eating fishsticks or pooping on the potty .  However, if either one of them poops in the front yard, I’m sure to share.

I’ll keep my political views to a minimum, even though a bunch of pompass jerk bankers are raping the US taxpayers in plain sight.

I’ll keep working on the appearance and format of the site.  I’m more verbose than computer literate, buy I’m trying.  Does everything sound good so far?

My hope with this blog is to make you love me from afar and hang on my every word.  I need constant validation.  It’s kind of sad.