Thursday, October 29, 2009

Boo!... ya!

I have a paralyzing and completely logical fear of monkeys, of which my friends have forever exploited. I see monkeys for what they are: hairy, man eating, devil beasts that do nothing but scream and brutally attack the innocent. That said, my "friends" have spent the better part of 30 years buying me screaming stuffed monkeys, monkey birthday cards, throwing monkey toys at me in public places, taking me to movies filled with Satan monkeys... you get the picture.

I will admit that my fears have gotten a smidge irrational over the years. For instance, at night, when I go out to my car, I often have to start running for fear there may be a monkey chasing me. And sometimes, there are noises I hear outside that I'm certain belong to a gang of wild baboons on a man hunt. While I know in my right and logical mind that the odds of a blood sucking monkey parade marching down my back alleyway are slim to none, it has crossed my mind on occasion.

My terror surrounding primates is not unfounded, however. There are several reported incidents that have led me by the hand right into this dark, monkey-fearing, abyss.

My boyfriend's niece, who is 3, says she doesn't like to go outside at night because the monkeys might get her... This is not my doing. She came up with this all on her own. And kids work off instinct. I call that Exhibit A.

Exhibit B- The number of Hollywood films that use monkeys as the "fear factor" could fill an airplane hanger.

And finally, my closing argument. A few Halloween's ago some friends convinced me to go to a Haunted House with them. After much resistance, I told them I would go, but that if there was a monkey in the Haunted House, I was allowed to pee in my pants without ridicule AND they each owed me a cocktail afterward. They agreed. They also laughed at me and said that there was NO way there would be a monkey in a Haunted House. That people aren't scared of monkeys, only I am scared of monkeys... Upon entering said Haunted House we were faced with the following options Door #1 covered in "blood" or Door #2 covered in "cobwebs". They chose Door #1. And behind Door #1 there stood a GIANT GORILLA-MONKEY WIELDING A CHAINSAW, SCREAMING AND CHASING US INTO THE NEXT ROOM...


They dropped me off at home a few hours later drunk, trembling, and in need of a clean pair of pants.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

Who I am...

I am worth more than what I am offered
And who I am cannot fit on this page
But my life is littered with stories worth hearing
And I am meant to tell them on stage

I admit that I’m louder than necessary
But it’s just passion that cannot be caged
And when I find something funny I laugh at it
And I’ll smile and I’ll cry and I’ll rage

You can stand there smug and superior
But your judgment will cause me no harm
I am exaggerated and strong and determined
And that’s all just part of my charm.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Attack of the Killer Douche Rockets

A couple weeks ago my girlfriends and I decided to do it up right for my Dirty 30. And by "do it up right" I, of course mean "go out to dinner and then hit up a bar in the ultra hipster/apparently trendy Capitol Hill neighborhood". I've been going to these bars now for about 6 years. Not because I've wanted to, but because I went to school on "The Hill", which meant that was where my artsy college friends hung. And to further force the hand, one of my besties, Lola, is a bit of a hipster herself, and has an affinity for The Hill and it's nightlife.



 So there we were driving The Hill searching for a parking spot on a Friday night (which is an adventure in itself), trying to decide what Ultra-Poser bar to grace. Stopping only to gaze upon the fabulous array of androgenous pedestrians, S & M garb, and fella on beautiful fella PDAs. Finally landing in a $12/hour carpark which triples as a crack den and a Blockbuster Video parking lot, we decide to hit up a swank little gallery around the corner that serves up spirits and Emo Art on a nightly basis. So far the night was going exactly as I expected it would.

I should mention that my issues with The Hill are three fold:

1) If I wanted to spend my time literally surrounded by hipster/emo/tortured/vegan/musician/artist/Starbuck's hating/vintage/cutters I would just enroll in art school again. That is not to say that there are not some hipster/emo/tortured/vegan/musician/artist/Starbuck's hating/vintage/cutters that I don't L-O-V-E and adore as if we were marinated in the same dressing. However, I find the majority of them to be insufferable. And in most cases, happy people disguised as miserable ones as a means to stay trendy.

2) I love me some vintage. I also love me some washing machine. Just because you buy and wear something that has been loved by another, DOES NOT mean it shouldn't be washed. I assure you, Capitol Hill, it will still be kooky and vintage after a cup full of Tide and an aggitation cycle.

3) (And probably the REAL reason I'm not fond of The Hill) I don't fit in. I stick out like a sore, stilletto wearing, liquid eyelinered, designer jeaned, COACH bagged, Audi TT rollin, thumb.

But I digress, in we walk to said gallery. We purchase our drinks, we gawk at the art. (Current exhibit: "GlitterPorn"). And there it was...the last thing I thought I'd see... what made my jaw drop to the Converse All-Star covered floor... was that this neighborhood, and particularly this bar has been overthrown by Douche Rockets! Thirty-something frat boys decked out in their standard issue uniform: blue collared shirts, Seven For All Mankind jeans, and Michael Kors loafers, weaving in and out of the crowds like it was a Sigma Phi Epsilon ant farm. When the FRENCH did this happen?!?!?!

In the city of Seattle, as in most major cities, there are very clearly defined territories... The Hill is for The Hipsters, Pioneer Square is for The Collegiates, Downtown is for The Yuppies, and Belltown is for The Douche Rockets. This migration upsets the entire balance of my cities predictability! What once was a safe haven of self-indulgent manic depressives and struggling artits where I was guaranteed a night free of amatuer pick-up lines and starched collars, has turned into a poser breeding ground. So now my issues with the hill are four fold...

Regardless of the upset in natural order, we ended up having a great time. We laughed, we mocked, we drank, we danced, and my girl Mama Kat even got herself an invitation to 3rd base disguised as a conversation with Penn Badgley's Belltown doppelganger and his motley crew of wingmen.



GO DIRTY 30!

Friday, October 9, 2009

Is that a barnyard I smell, or am I in small town America?

I'm wondering if living in a small town gives people a license to stop washing their hair...

And to wear pajamas in public...

And to smoke in their cars with the windows rolled up and children in the backseat, no doubt, NOT properly buckled in...


My best friend lives an hour away from me in a "small town". And by "small town" I mean, "the middle of nowhere". The ratio of farms to trailers is an even draw. She lives so close to Mt. Rainier that if the great volcano decides to blow, the entirety of said small town will no longer exist. There will be but a large pile of ash and debris where the Safeway used to be.

I drive to them backwoods weekly to visit, and every Monday, every single Monday, the blatant absence of hygiene and dignity amongst the town's population leaves me dumbfounded. This is not to say that EVERYONE participates in a shower free lifestyle, or that I frown upon those less fortunate than myself. And this certainly is not to say that my friend is one of the offenders. But several, and I mean, MOST of those I come across are, and I would like to know why this is considered acceptable.

Is it because everyone in this town has presumably known everyone else in this town since birth and therefore, they've just stopped trying? Is it the constant impending doom of that great pulsating mountain just outside the window that causes some to think "Why put on pants? I'd rather die in flannel."? Is it hard to obtain shampoo and soap so far from a major metropolis?

And this is not the only whistle-stop I've recognized the trend in. My mother's entire family is from a small town in Michigan which suffers the same downfall.

As a self-diagnosed City Girl, I realize that my propensity for stilettos and winged eyeliner is the on the opposite end of extremes and certainly not suitable for most, but can't we find a happy medium? Isn't there a compromise? And so I implore...

Small Town Dwellers, I beg of you, wash your hair, throw on a pair of jeans, and don't give up on the eternal struggle with personal odor control! It may not lead to World Peace, but it will lead to a more pleasant and attractive trip to the grocery store... and that's something we can all rally behind!