It's been a busy few days here at the Casita de Zapatos. The RLA put up a ceiling fan/light fixture in my studio, and for the first time in 12 years I can work after dark or work during the day without fainting from the heat.
I have accepted a new job, working as the personal assistant to a man I've worked for twice before in the past 15 years. This means no more mall stories (thank the gods) but it also means a return to public transit, a mixed blessing at best. On the one hand, there will be plenty of "overheard on the train" stories. On the other hand, there will be more photos of women putting on makeup and doing other things best done in private.

An aside: I think that "on the one hand, on the other hand" has to be the phrase I speak most often... well, that and "what the fuck are you looking at?" I always considered putting the latter on my tombstone, but maybe something could be done with the former, as in "On the one hand, I'm dead. On the other hand, I don't have to listen to politicians anymore."

Anyway. I also finished all three thousand pages of Neal Stephenson's Baroque Cycle. What a great read. A hard read, and a dense one, but also brilliantly written and wonderfully funny. I've now moved on to a Harry Flashman knock-off series about a cad in the US military during the turn of the last century. It isn't nearly as well written as either Fraser or Stephenson, but it's a breeze to read, and keeps me busy until I can find the next ten-pounder to slog through.

The RLA reads constantly, but mostly sci-fi, not that there's anything wrong with that. I have read about a bajillion sci-fi books my own self, it's just that I'm on an historical novel kick that seems to have started several years ago with my finally making it through Marcel Proust's Rememberance of Things Past (all million plus words of it.)

There is just something magical about being able to be transported to another time and place through the power of imagination.

Yesterday, Miss Jojo learned to swim. She is a veritable merdog. She'd been watching the Noble Dog Nails as he did laps and chased the tennis ball around the pool, but was loathe to actually get more than a paw in the water. All of a sudden yesterday, she put first one front paw, and then the other on the top step of the pool. Then her whole head went under water and she snapped away at the wet. Then, without warning, she launched herself off the steps and proceeded to do doggie laps. She can do the side stroke, the dog paddle and something that could be a backstroke. We had to bribe her with cookies to get her out of the pool. We've got a monster on our hands.

Finally, to George in Tennessee, the rumblings on my horizon which you found ominous, were merely the sounds of the job coming to fruition and my increased hours at the gym with the Marquis de Steve.

Yeah, baby. There is nothing I like better than taking part in a random survey. This one is being run by MIT's Media Lab, and any time I can be part of their science, I am one happy puppy.

My sistergirl sent me an article about Mars being closer to Earth this August than any time since the Neanderthals looked up, but it turns out it was one of those web things that circulates and circulates and circulates. The actual time of the Mars event was two summers ago. Still and all, I suppose that looking up is a good thing to do anyway.

And if you're looking up and out in mid to late August, you'll be seeing the Perseid Meteor Showers. So how bad could it be, if you get to see a few shooting stars?

So I have this friend, a very dear and wonderful friend. She's been a mentor to me professionally for years, but also a true girlfriend. A soul sister. To be honest, she scares me a little, but only a little, and considering that she can, if she tries, make men in business suits wet themselves, being only a little bit scared of her is fine.
But she is my friend, and I hers. She's a military brat, and like all military brats, has a hard time making friendships. She is self-contained, and the fact that we are close is a treasure I do not take lightly. I know how hard it is for her to give me as much of herself as she does, and I aprreciate her for it, and the friendship we share.

Of course, these are not things I could say to her face, because the sheer emotion of it, the bare exposure of self, would embarrass both of us. But sometimes, you have to put things out in the universe, so that, like the butterfly's wing beat in China, that causes a hurricane in the Gulf, the reverberations and vibrations can be felt where they should be.

I have another friend, my sistergirl. She and I have known each other since before we were born, quite literally, as our mothers were friends and pregnant at the same time. We truly are the Petit Ya-yas. She and I can pick up the phone at any time, and continue a conversation that began 40 years ago, even if we haven't spoken in weeks or months, or even years. We share a knowledge of each other that is bone-deep. My fairy garden, that is part of my koi pond, is an homage to the moss gardens we built together when we were ten or younger.

For years and years, I had a friend from college. He, too, had scared the piss out of me when we met, and then became close. We were hanging out buddies, go to movie buddies, mooch dinner off of me buddies. We were not an item, not ever, not even thinking about it. We kept in touch off and on, more off than on in some years. Then one day, after not having seen each other for about five years, we got together for an art opening and dinner. By the time I said goodnight, I knew that I was going to marry him. He's now my husband, and you all know him as the RLA.

And then there is the Coolest Person In The World. We can, and have, gone years without talking to each other. Then the phone rings, and it's like: Hi. Howyadoin? I'm going to be in your part of the world next week. Want to get together? And of course we do.

On the flip side of this is the friends who have gone and can't be regained. Not through arguments or fallings out, although there are a gracious plenty of those in my life, as well. I'm thinking specifically of Leapin' Larry. He was another college friend, and someone I spoke to once every ten years or so, and swapped outrageous e-mails with with a greater frequency. He was killed in a helicopter crash over the Gulf of Bahrain several years ago. Not a week goes by, that I don't think of him, or how I miss knowing that he's around in the world, making award-winning news videos and just being the unique and wild man he was. I can't bear to think of how much his wife and sons miss him.

Next week or so Reecie is going to be here on my turf. We've met face to face once before and totally enjoyed one another's company. I'm looking forward to face time with a person I consider a friend, although we only "know" each other through our blogs and on-line correspondence.

Is this a cool world, or what?

But I'm holding on. We're here on the left coast of Florida, and there is a red tide holding us hostage in the room. First of all, you don't want to swim in anything that kills fish, secondly, you don't want to sit on the beach and smell the rotting fish, and thirdly, the wind and waves and general evapotransporation puts the deadly red algae in the soft sea breezes, leading to a hacking cough.
All of which is fine with me, anyway, because to me a vacation entails a lot of naps, and if I can't take them on the beach while toasting myself to a crisp, then I'll do it in air-conditioning with no problem.

The other vacation staples: drinking and shopping, can be done at leisure, sun, red tides or rainstorms notwithstanding.

As far as I'm concerned, this is a fine vacation.

Add to that that I can access my blog account and there is nothing at all wrong in the world.

Excuse me, gentle readers, but there is a fresh mango margarita upstairs with my name on it.

There's blue, and then there's something else. I'm so down, it can't be the blues, it has to be something deeper. Indigo? Ultramarine? That funny crayon that nobody ever wanted to use: Prussian Blue?
Whatever. I'm in one of those funks that even therapy shopping can't help. Of course, it's hard to therapy shop when even a box of colored pens is equal to a whole day's (as opposed to an hour's) wages.

Nevertheless, it hasn't stopped me. I went on a mini-spree over at Think Geek this morning.

Tell me that this isn't one of the funniest things you've seen in ages. I think that it's right up there with the old Godzilla fire wire hub.

Anyway.

Tonight is the big season premiere of Queer Eye, and they are making over the Boston Red Sox. Anything that shows Johnny Damon is a good thing, excess facial hair notwithstanding.

I'm off to mall world, sweetiedarlings, wish me well in the world of acquisitions.

That was no bus, that was The Coolest Person In The World TM. It was her last night in town, and the first chance we had to get together. Needless to say, we drank too much, we ate too much and we had too much fun.
The RLA said it was a case of Thelma and Louise. I say, no, more like Patsy and Edina.

I got to bed at six in the morning, and I am proud to say that I was still able to get up and drive her to the airport a mere four and a half hours later. I still have it. Or I still have a functioning liver. Take your pick, sweetiedarlings.

I also have a new job. Don't expect me to be blogging it, though, there was a very specific notice in the hiring papers. It's only part time, so as not to cut into my gym time, or my sewing time, and it's only five minutes from my house. The dress code is jeans, and it involves something I truly love (hint, hint: fruit-named computers). I could not be any happier if I tried.

This was the last graph in a short story about Cheech and Chong doing a show together recently.

"Marin and Chong, who recently completed a nine-month sentence for trying to sell marijuana pipes on the Internet, said they are writing two new films, "Grumpy Old Stoners" and "Lord of the Smoke."

Oh, yeah. I laughed just reading the titles.

Blame Reecie for this, because she listed me first in the last question, and heaven forfend I not answer...
Q) What was the last movie you went to see in a theatre?
Hmmmm. Shrek 2, maybe? I hate theatres these days. Too loud, too small a screen, too many other people, and the popcorn isn't as good now that they made it healthier.

Q) What is the last movie you watched at home?
The Vampire Effect.

Q) How many movies do you own?
Hahahahahahaha. Oh. You were serious. Over 100?

Q) What was the last movie you bought?
Hmmm. We bought the entire second season of Kung Fu. Does that count?

Q) Got Netflix (or a similar service)?
Oh, yeah. Just got it and have never been happier. I already have way too many films in my queue.

Q) List five movies you adore or that mean a lot to you.
M*A*S*H
Chinatown
Pleasantville
Galaxy Quest
Restoration

Q) Name your guilty pleasure film?
Easy: Malibu's Most Wanted. It just makes me howl. And any Pauly Schorr or Adam Sandler comedy.

Q) What's your favorite quote from a film?
Only one?

"I hate the living." — Men In Black

"See, that's your problem, Jason. You were never serious about the craft." - Galaxy Quest

"She's my sister. She's my daughter. She's my sister and my daughter." — Chinatown

"I'm thinking with sand here." — Bubba Ho-Tep

"There's nothing in that little black bag for me." — The Wizard of Oz

"Look, mother, I want to go to work in one hour. We are the Pros from Dover and we figure to crack this kid's chest and get out to golf course before it gets dark. So you go find the gas-passer and you have him pre-medicate this patient. Then bring me the latest pictures on him. The ones we saw must be 48 hours old by now. Then call the kitchen and have them rustle us up some lunch. Ham and eggs will all right. Steak would be even better. And then give me at least ONE nurse who knows how to work in close without getting her tits in my way. " — MASH

Q) Name three people to whom you will pass these questions.
Ian
Dan
and
Miss Bliss

I give you me, in all my fabulousness.

During my daytime stint as mermaid, at the Raleigh Pool Party, I was without my glasses. Because, really, who ever heard of a mermaid in glasses?

Nevertheless, I was able to see well enough to notice that I was surrounded by stunning, gorgeous men. I will digress momentarily to tell a story about my mother.
Mummy did her part for the war effort (WWII) by dancing with the sailors and the soldiers at the local USO. She would go with her friend Millie, who was from Tennessee, or Georgia, or some other deep south state. When Mummy and her dance partner of the evening decided to head on off to another road house, Mummy would tell Millie to pick one and let's go. But Millie couldn't choose, and she would, without fail, say to my mother, "But Florence, I cain't choose. It's just like picking flowers. Each one is prettier than the next."

At these White Party week events, I always think of Millie because, just as she said back in the day, each one is prettier than the next. And since they are all gay, the allusion is even stronger. All I can do is smell them, and not even pick a little bittie bud.

Anyway, so there I am, sitting on the edge of the stage, flapping my tail and waving prettily at the pretty boys. Many of them asked to take their photos with me, and I was only too happy to oblige.

But there was one man who didn't ask. I watched him all afternoon, and kept thinking that there was one major hottie. "If he weren't gay," I kept saying to myself, "I would eat him with a spoon. Yum, yum fucking yum."

He was dark. Black hair in white-boy dreads, little twisty ones. Black five-o'clock shadow and it was barely past noon. Built just so. I'm telling you, he was just edible.

So when I was getting ready to pack it in, I asked one of the roving photographers if he would take a shot of me and this gorgeous thing. In fact, I was quite specific: That one, the guy that I just want to lick all over because he is just so gorgeous.

I'm sorry if I can't come up with another word other than gorgeous, but that's what he was.

The photographer went over and, I assume, passed along my assessment of his looks and request for pictures. He trotted right over and sat down on the edge of the stage with me. I flapped my tail, and blushed prettily, and batted my eyelashes, and twiddled my finger in his chest hair and we started to talk as the photographer snapped.

I learned that his name is George and he is the manager for several of our DJs. I also suspect that he is not at all gay. This made things very uncomfortable for me, since I'm married and by no means available. I couldn't ask right out. I couldn't do anything except maybe pull my fingers out of his chest hair and stop flapping and batting, and so I did.

Anyway, I felt and feel like an idiot, but in my own defense, you have never seen anything as hot as George.

I was a mermaid at White Party, and according to the buzz, I was "fabulous." The photos don't do me justice, probably because I photograph like an overweight, wrinkled old hag, whereas in real life (or at least in my mind and mirror, I am none of those things.
People, let me tell you, life is worth living when you are swimming in the warm seas of admiration from gorgeous men who tell you things like "you are so working it, girl".

Yas, yas.

I was wearing the most glamorous gown in the history of me. My sweetie, Paul Gallo, of the fabulous house of Gallofornia, made a silver lamé halter dress with a tail, and fringes of kelp in silver and white and seafoam. I had on yards of faux pearls (also known as Christmas tree garlands) and an Art Nouveau crown of beads and mylar sequins (also Christmas tree garland). There were fake eyelashes with glitter, and glitter all over my exposed parts. There was way too much eye shadow in silver and teal and teal with glitter eye liner.

Opera length gloves. Silver shoes. (Sensible flats, of course, because it is just exhausting being fabulous.) I perched (ha, fish joke) around on things and flapped my tail.

I had a million photos taken with a million beautiful men. I took a tumble down a flight of stairs (bump, bump, bump on my butt) and allowed as how it was only my dignity which was damaged, whereas I have a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my ass. Hokie smokes, Bullwinkle, it hurts like a booger.

And most fabulous of all, I got to meet, shake hands with, talk briefly to and be photographed with the most fabulous Miss Yoko Ono.

She is tiny, tiny, tiny. She was wearing this fantastic straw hat, which I would have bet money was a Phillip Treacy, but which she swore was not. Her skin is absolute egg-shell porcelain, and let me tell you, she has not had any work done. She is just that delicate and flawless.

I said hello, as part of the Board contingent, and couldn't help myself... I had to swing right around and go back and gush admiration, devotion and outright awe for her works, art and philanthropic and then told her it was an unexpected honor to meet her. She looked me in the eyes, said thank you and shook my hand, and didn't make me feel like Wayne before Alice Cooper, sobbing "I'm not worthy", but in my heart, I felt that stupid. Didn't matter, I do adore the woman, and had enough presence of mind not to say "I never believed you broke up the Beatles, it was that skank Linda."

Probably would have made more of an impression, I imagine. (Ha, John Lennon joke.)

I promise that I'll post photos as I find/get them. And more stories as I make them up remember them.

Took the surrogate daughters to see Rent yesterday. What happened to American musical theater when I wasn't looking?
OK, so Broadway has been gentrified and Disneyfied and all that, and Lion King and Beauty and the Beast are hits... But so is/was The Producers, and that was original. Avenue Q... ditto.

But Rent? I mean, aside from the fact that it's a lame ass grunginization of La Boheme, the book itself was awful. Act One drones on and on and on in what must surely be real time as it tells the story of one fateful Christmas Eve in a New York City that is no more real than the Disney version of Times Square.

AIDS, trannies, lesbians. Whoo-hoo. Was I supposed to be shocked or tittilated, or even interested? And the performance art piece at the end of the first act... help me out here, someone. The way it was played yesterday was as a really bad attempt at art by someone who seemed like an art-school dropout from Scarsdale. I thought the character, by other descriptions in the play, should have been played like Courtney Love: a desperate train wreck, but talented.

Anyway, we had fun on the ride home, when I taught Daughter2 the anal game. That's where you put the word anal in front of the car model: Anal Discovery, Anal Probe, Anal Lancer.... If you really want to get into the game, then you have to say what that is: an Anal Discovery is when you get the x-rays back and it's a coke bottle....

Hey. It was the high point of the afternoon, OK?

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

---W. B. Yeats
Ohio is the Florida of 2004... where the chads hang and the future of the free world will be determined. But... it doesn't seem to matter. Bush pulled 52% of the popular vote, winning on fear, greed and lies.

I am dressed all in black today, in mourning for my country.

The Coolest Person In the World (TM) called last night as the networks painted Florida red to ask, and I quote: "What the fuck is wrong with your state?"

Uh, people bought the ice-water thing? They're stupid? The process was corrupt?

I'm sick to my stomach. This country will be bankrupt in another four years. Our streets will be filled with blood. And the hungry and the homeless.

We will be a third world nation, isolated as the Soviet Union once was.

What happened? How could this happen? A Bush Supreme Court?

How does a man come across as badly and as ignorantly as he did in three debates and still win?

He lost three debates. He's an ex-coke head. He's lost millions of jobs. He's run the deficit into trillions in four years (from a surplus, no less). He's lost our place in the world. We are guilty of war crimes, and empire building. He lied about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction. He left Osama Bin Laden alive and organizing the jihad. He's a fucking moron and an Air Force deserter. And yet. Somehow. He's also the leader of the free world.

I'm sickened. I'm saddened. I'm going to start drinking and not get sober until 2008.

The Fabulous RJ threw another fantastic party last night. An Alice in Wonderland-themed halloween do.
In attendence, the Queen of Hearts (RJ her own self, and looking absolutely divine), a Queen of Hearts with an accompanying executioner, 1 Knave of Hearts, 1 Old Father William (who would not balance an eel on his nose, nor allow us to stand him on his head, damn it), 2 Hookah Smoking Caterpillars (neither with a smoking hookah, damn it), 2 White Rabbits (one with fan and kid gloves), 2 Gardeners (complete with red paint... for the white roses), assorted playing cards, 1 Alice, and 2 Flamingos (with a squeeky hedgehog ball).

There was a croquet game set up in the back yard, with internally lit balls (trippy) and neon hoops. There was a spread.

Have I ever mentioned that the RJ is someone who cooks quite well, and understands that cooking is a competitive sport? Well, last night we had deviled eggs, a rose-shaped red velvet cake with little assistant rose-shaped cakelets, mushroom tarts (one side makes you taller), card suite-shaped canapes, and zombies. Many were drunk. Make of that sentence what you will.



Thanks, RJ. It was a swell evening.

Read this. Read this out loud every time you hear someone say "Liberal" like it's a dirty word.

I just may have found the one person in America with a fouler mouth than me, and the bad sense guts to print their opinions. I keep saying this, and I hope I don't turn into a stalker, but the Rude Pundit is my political idol. I love him. I want him to come and visit me so we can go out and drink ourselves into a coma as we screech invective against the Bush cabal and the filthy running dogs who call themselves journalists.