I've been yawning all day, and I can't think of anything better to do on this rainy Florida afternoon than crawl under my desk and snooze the rest of the workday away. I probably wouldn't normally be this tired, although I've been staying up later than normal watching all the cable TV I can get my eyes on. Last night was special, though, and I stayed up well past my bedtime so I could rock out with Pigface at the Beta Bar, a small venue that attracts off-the-beaten-path groups for all-ages shows.
Pigface is one of my favorite bands. One of my former editors and some of my friends make fun of the band just because of its name. I try and get people to listen to the music before knocking it for its moniker alone, but it's hard to get some people to open their minds enough to let in something new.
I suppose Pigface, a revolving band that features singers and musicians from diverse existing bands, creates what is considered to be industrial music, but I feel that many of the group's songs transcend the "industrial" label.
Oddly enough, Pigface doesn't appear to have a very big following in Tallahassee. The group was supposed to play this time last year, but cancelled the show after only a handful of tickets were sold. I bought my ticket for this year's show on Saturday, two days beforehand, and held ticket number 8. I was worried the show would be cancelled again this year, but it wasn't, and now I have an official Pigface T-shirt.
The show was pretty cool, but about half the crowd left after Sheep on Drugs, the last of three opening bands, was through. The main act didn't play any of my favorite songs, but the group sounded and looked great.
The most irritating part of the evening involved this band member who thought he was cool with his head-to-toe tattoos and bald head with devil horns attached to it, a long goatee and a gold cape. During the show, he swallowed long metal crosses, passed condoms between his mouth and his nose (in his mouth, out his nose and in his nose, out his mouth), shot sparks in the air with a sander and a hatchet, hammered 8-inch long nails into his face, brandished a large whip and cracked it on stage for effect and ran around the audience with a fake chainsaw acting like he was cutting all our legs off while a stage hand chased around behind him shooting him with water from a super soaker.
The devil-man seemed nice, though, and I ended up just feeling sorry for him: He was evidently trying so hard to appear "evil," but he just came off as some hideous joke.
All in all, it was a good evening full of she-males (slightly and more-than-slightly feminine guys wearing makeup and fishnets - YUM!) and hot women dressed in fetish gear. I'll take that any night of the week.
Another good note: The two assholes who were really drunk and started this awful, mean-spirited mosh pit were thrown out on their asses. The bouncers from Beta Bar grabbed the two worst offenders. The first was forcefully made to push the front door open with his face on his way out; the second was dragged out the door backward and kicking and screaming. I hope those jerks learned their lesson about civility. I know it's just a Pigface show, but manners, my friends, are what makes this world go 'round.
maarmie's musings
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
10 Questions to Ask a Man Before You Get in Too Deep
1. Are you gay?
2. Are you still attached to your mother by an umbilical cord?
3. Have you had any severe head trauma?
4. Do you like to wear women's underwear? (A "yes" answer to this one isn't necessarily bad)
5. Are you a pedophile?
6. Are you neurotic/a narcissist/a sociopath?
7. Are more than 80 percent of your thoughts of a violent nature?
8. Do you spend more than 30 percent of your waking life grounded in reality?
9. Are you a goddamn liar?
10. Do you cry like a fucking banshee whenever a woman challenges you?
2. Are you still attached to your mother by an umbilical cord?
3. Have you had any severe head trauma?
4. Do you like to wear women's underwear? (A "yes" answer to this one isn't necessarily bad)
5. Are you a pedophile?
6. Are you neurotic/a narcissist/a sociopath?
7. Are more than 80 percent of your thoughts of a violent nature?
8. Do you spend more than 30 percent of your waking life grounded in reality?
9. Are you a goddamn liar?
10. Do you cry like a fucking banshee whenever a woman challenges you?
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Buyer's Remorse
As you all know, I signed a lease for my own apartment recently and entered the place with only a computer desk for furniture. My clothes are still in suitcases, my books are still in boxes, my TV rests on a huge rubber bin, my DVD player and VCR sit on the ground, I don't have a chair for my desk, I sleep on the floor, and I yearn for a kitchen table.
What was my first furniture purchase? A bed would have been the logical choice. After all, I wake up every night with a horrible pain in my back from trying to sleep on top of this ratty body pillow I have. But I've never been known for being all that logical in my personal life.
No, not a bed. A dresser. And not just any dresser. An expensive-ass dresser. It cost $265 at this antique store. I don't know how old it is (the lady said it's from England and is between 30 and 70 years old - is it still considered an antique?) I don't know what kind of wood it's made out of (for all I know, it's stained plywood slapped together with rusty nails.) Yes, it's gorgeous and all, but I could have used that money to fly to NY or to do a million other things. Why did I buy a dresser?
My first serious case of buyer's remorse hit me about four years ago after I bought my first nearly-new car. I put $1,500 down on a three-year-old Chevy Prizm (which, I'm convinced, is the best, most durable car in the world). The day of my purchase, I tooled around Portland, happy with the knowledge that I could easily go grocery shopping WHENEVER I FELT LIKE IT. The next day, however, I called the car dealership and told them that I wanted to give it back. "Give it back?" said the female voice on the other end of the line. "You can't do that."
The female voice said I could trade the car for something else, but that I was stuck with it. So I called the Attorney General's office and found out about a little something called the buyer's remorse law. Apparently, in some states, people have three days in which to return large items (like a car) if they are feeling they made a mistake. Unfortunately, Oregon isn't one of those states. Needless to say, I still have the car, and it's been wonderful to me. Five payments to go, and it's all mine.
What was my first furniture purchase? A bed would have been the logical choice. After all, I wake up every night with a horrible pain in my back from trying to sleep on top of this ratty body pillow I have. But I've never been known for being all that logical in my personal life.
No, not a bed. A dresser. And not just any dresser. An expensive-ass dresser. It cost $265 at this antique store. I don't know how old it is (the lady said it's from England and is between 30 and 70 years old - is it still considered an antique?) I don't know what kind of wood it's made out of (for all I know, it's stained plywood slapped together with rusty nails.) Yes, it's gorgeous and all, but I could have used that money to fly to NY or to do a million other things. Why did I buy a dresser?
My first serious case of buyer's remorse hit me about four years ago after I bought my first nearly-new car. I put $1,500 down on a three-year-old Chevy Prizm (which, I'm convinced, is the best, most durable car in the world). The day of my purchase, I tooled around Portland, happy with the knowledge that I could easily go grocery shopping WHENEVER I FELT LIKE IT. The next day, however, I called the car dealership and told them that I wanted to give it back. "Give it back?" said the female voice on the other end of the line. "You can't do that."
The female voice said I could trade the car for something else, but that I was stuck with it. So I called the Attorney General's office and found out about a little something called the buyer's remorse law. Apparently, in some states, people have three days in which to return large items (like a car) if they are feeling they made a mistake. Unfortunately, Oregon isn't one of those states. Needless to say, I still have the car, and it's been wonderful to me. Five payments to go, and it's all mine.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Talking About My Gray Spot on Blogspot
I found a big patch of gray hair this weekend located at my right temple. I have known of gray hairs there for a while (I spotted the first one when I lived in NYC and pulled it out - it was followed by many others, so I stopped pulling) but never in such abundance. I usually dye my hair to give my brown hair a kick and to cover the gray. I guess I'll stop fighting. It seems the gray is going to win in the end no matter what I do.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
To Everything, Turn, Turn, Turn
Profound change will only be created through profound sacrifice and a profound understanding of that sacrifice as a means to an uncertain end. - maarmie
Andrea Dworkin, touted as the "Malcolm X" of the women's movement, died Saturday at her home in Washington, D.C. The one-time prostitute, rape victim and battered wife led the crusade against pornography and violence against women as an unwavering advocate for women amid a slew of detrators, including other women and firm backers of the First Amendment.
Though considered radical even among feminists, Dworkin never lost sight of her goals and the sacrifices she had to make (and the criticism she had to take) along the way. For this, on behalf of women everywhere, I am grateful.
Links
Memorial and on-line catalog
Dworkin quotes
Article on her controversial life and views
Andrea Dworkin, touted as the "Malcolm X" of the women's movement, died Saturday at her home in Washington, D.C. The one-time prostitute, rape victim and battered wife led the crusade against pornography and violence against women as an unwavering advocate for women amid a slew of detrators, including other women and firm backers of the First Amendment.
Though considered radical even among feminists, Dworkin never lost sight of her goals and the sacrifices she had to make (and the criticism she had to take) along the way. For this, on behalf of women everywhere, I am grateful.
Links
Memorial and on-line catalog
Dworkin quotes
Article on her controversial life and views
Monday, April 11, 2005
Call Me Lucy Jr.
I've always had an appreciation for comedians. Good ones, anyway.
"I Love Lucy" was one of my favorite TV shows growing up. Sure, I had a crush on Ricky Ricardo, but it was Lucy that held my full attention during every episode. Her timing was impeccable. Her facial expressions were priceless. Few stand-up comedians grab hold of me today as Lucy did all those years ago.
A good comic can transform the world. I believe that a good sense of humor and the ability to make others laugh is borne out of childhoods filled with loneliness, sadness and angst, however. That loneliness, that sadness, that angst can be transformed into good comedy if one has a propensity toward it.
I've heard many times that I should venture into the world of stand-up comedy, that I possess "the gift." Not only can I tell stories, people say, but I tell stories in a way that makes people want to listen. I have the ability to act out the characters through my face and my voice. Making people laugh and being the center of attention, in turn, makes me happy.
Jokes, however, are a different story. Sure, I can spin a funny yarn. But actual jokes don't really seem to exist anymore. Funny stories have replaced the knock knock joke and those silly questions followed by even sillier answers. After Princess Diana met her tragic fate, I made up my first actual joke. I don't remember it now, and I wonder if it was ever as funny as I remember it being. That said, here's my second original joke - one I made up Saturday night after a few beers and a couple tokes off a pipe in the presence of a group of friends, one of whom happens to have grown up Amish.
Q: How many Amish people does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Lightbulb? What's a lightbulb?
(Insert a nasal "wah wah wah" after the punchline)
I wonder if anyone at a comedy club would laugh at that one. Keep in mind the drink minimum.
Since I am career-challenged at this point, I am actually considering a venture into the world of stand-up comedy. I'm planning on writing a five-minute routine and trying it out on my closest friends. Who knows? Maybe, eventually, my loneliness, sadness and angst will finally be of good use to large numbers of people. It would certainly benefit me most in the event of a success. After all, all the world loves a clown.
"I Love Lucy" was one of my favorite TV shows growing up. Sure, I had a crush on Ricky Ricardo, but it was Lucy that held my full attention during every episode. Her timing was impeccable. Her facial expressions were priceless. Few stand-up comedians grab hold of me today as Lucy did all those years ago.
A good comic can transform the world. I believe that a good sense of humor and the ability to make others laugh is borne out of childhoods filled with loneliness, sadness and angst, however. That loneliness, that sadness, that angst can be transformed into good comedy if one has a propensity toward it.
I've heard many times that I should venture into the world of stand-up comedy, that I possess "the gift." Not only can I tell stories, people say, but I tell stories in a way that makes people want to listen. I have the ability to act out the characters through my face and my voice. Making people laugh and being the center of attention, in turn, makes me happy.
Jokes, however, are a different story. Sure, I can spin a funny yarn. But actual jokes don't really seem to exist anymore. Funny stories have replaced the knock knock joke and those silly questions followed by even sillier answers. After Princess Diana met her tragic fate, I made up my first actual joke. I don't remember it now, and I wonder if it was ever as funny as I remember it being. That said, here's my second original joke - one I made up Saturday night after a few beers and a couple tokes off a pipe in the presence of a group of friends, one of whom happens to have grown up Amish.
Q: How many Amish people does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
A: Lightbulb? What's a lightbulb?
(Insert a nasal "wah wah wah" after the punchline)
I wonder if anyone at a comedy club would laugh at that one. Keep in mind the drink minimum.
Since I am career-challenged at this point, I am actually considering a venture into the world of stand-up comedy. I'm planning on writing a five-minute routine and trying it out on my closest friends. Who knows? Maybe, eventually, my loneliness, sadness and angst will finally be of good use to large numbers of people. It would certainly benefit me most in the event of a success. After all, all the world loves a clown.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Apartment Update I
I have finally finished unpacking things at my new apartment, one I don't share with anybody else. I can't tell you how great it is to finally have my own place after living in a ratty duplex with a revolving door.
Throughout my year-and-a-half stay at the duplex, I shared my space with a variety of college-aged females (and one male) who all have their own peculiarities (as if I don't). Every single one of them drove me nuts. Eating disorders. Strong religious affiliations. Bad taste in art and home decor (picture a southwestern motif mixed with the rebel flag and crosses that say "Jesus is the man of this house). Horrible taste in television shows (old westerns and sports). Mom complexes. Criminal histories. Bad attitudes. The works.
The only thing I liked about my old place more than my new place is the presence of a washing machine and dryer. The availability of these appliances should not be underestimated. One good thing and one good thing only can come from me being forced to wash my clothes at the laundromat: that I will meet a really hot single guy and break my two-year record of no penetration.
Ok. I guess the secret is out now. I haven't had sexual intercourse with a man for two years now. I'm practically a virgin again. While I was packing up my stuff at my old place, I found under my bed a box of condoms I bought about a year ago. A dozen. Two bonus condoms. That equals 14. There are 14 left. Good thing they don't expire until 2007. A girl can dream, right?
I know what all you guys out there are thinking. Yep, she's ugly. That's why she can't get laid. Well, hate to break it to you, but that's just not true. I'm actually quite decent looking, and, when I put on makeup and wear my contact lenses, I can actually be considered attractive. So, it's not that I'm physically offensive. I'm just real picky these days, and I'm not so fond of men right now.
Throughout my year-and-a-half stay at the duplex, I shared my space with a variety of college-aged females (and one male) who all have their own peculiarities (as if I don't). Every single one of them drove me nuts. Eating disorders. Strong religious affiliations. Bad taste in art and home decor (picture a southwestern motif mixed with the rebel flag and crosses that say "Jesus is the man of this house). Horrible taste in television shows (old westerns and sports). Mom complexes. Criminal histories. Bad attitudes. The works.
The only thing I liked about my old place more than my new place is the presence of a washing machine and dryer. The availability of these appliances should not be underestimated. One good thing and one good thing only can come from me being forced to wash my clothes at the laundromat: that I will meet a really hot single guy and break my two-year record of no penetration.
Ok. I guess the secret is out now. I haven't had sexual intercourse with a man for two years now. I'm practically a virgin again. While I was packing up my stuff at my old place, I found under my bed a box of condoms I bought about a year ago. A dozen. Two bonus condoms. That equals 14. There are 14 left. Good thing they don't expire until 2007. A girl can dream, right?
I know what all you guys out there are thinking. Yep, she's ugly. That's why she can't get laid. Well, hate to break it to you, but that's just not true. I'm actually quite decent looking, and, when I put on makeup and wear my contact lenses, I can actually be considered attractive. So, it's not that I'm physically offensive. I'm just real picky these days, and I'm not so fond of men right now.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
The Covered Up Cover-up
Kudos to Nigel Jaquiss and Willamette Week (JUST a weekly rag - hah!) for winning a 2005 Pulitzer for Investigative Reporting for breaking the 30-year secret regarding former Oregon Gov. Neil Goldschmidt's three-year sexual assault on a 14-year-old girl, a one-time babysitter who is the daughter of a former employee.
While I am glad to see the truth exposed about a highly regarded leader and public figure, I am saddened by what appears to be shoddy journalism that borders on a cover-up by my former employer and one of the most highly regarded papers in the country: The Oregonian. According to followup articles by Willamette Week and other news sources as well as journalism ombudsman American Journalism Review, The Oregonian first got wind of the abuse about 18 years ago yet failed to dig into it and finally reported on it only after Willamette Week published its own story. Horrifyingly enough, The Oregonian, in its article, referred to the assault as an affair, however, and had the nerve to publish an op-ed favorable to Goldschmidt written by one of Goldschmidt's friends who served as a runner between the victim and her assailant in the years following the abuse.
Many people have had knowledge of Goldschmidt's abusive and pedophilic past since the time it happened. One of the top reasons given by this myriad of monsters for not coming forward (aside from the obvious unspoken reason: the professional gain and wealth those close to Goldschmidt have enjoyed throughout the years) is that during Goldschmidt's tenure as governor, he brought about changes that helped make Portland a city people notice. Who wanted to be responsible for turning rumor into fact? Who wanted to fell a hero? Who wanted to be the one to break the news that the city's saint is really a sinner?
Apparently, Willamette Week has no problem with any of the above and is deserving of its Pulitzer. In my opinion, WW did the right thing - even more so because Goldschmidt had, before now, been held in such high regard. After all, saints don't deserve saint status if they're really cretins in disguise.
My heart goes out to the victim of the abuse, from all accounts an attractive and intelligent woman who, since the abuse, spiralled downward from getting poor grades in high school to suffering PTSD after a brutal rape in Seattle (compounded, I'm sure, by Goldschmidt's previous abuse) to drug use and a prison stint.
A settlement nearly a decade ago provided the victim with $250,000 of Goldschmidt's hard-earned (or ill-gotten) cash. That's little consolation for a life ruined by someone many years older and in a position of power who cared more about getting his dick wet than in what the consequences would be as a result of this unjustifiable crime.
One other note: Goldschmidt and his league of cronies aren't the only ones who should pay for the crime and its cover-up. The victim's mother isn't deserving of having the title "mom" considering she went back to work for her daughter's assailant even after she found out about the abuse. Years earlier, she also learned of sexual assaults committed against her daughter by an elder relative as well - and failed to do anything to stop it. I'm not a firm believer in the death penalty, but...
While I am glad to see the truth exposed about a highly regarded leader and public figure, I am saddened by what appears to be shoddy journalism that borders on a cover-up by my former employer and one of the most highly regarded papers in the country: The Oregonian. According to followup articles by Willamette Week and other news sources as well as journalism ombudsman American Journalism Review, The Oregonian first got wind of the abuse about 18 years ago yet failed to dig into it and finally reported on it only after Willamette Week published its own story. Horrifyingly enough, The Oregonian, in its article, referred to the assault as an affair, however, and had the nerve to publish an op-ed favorable to Goldschmidt written by one of Goldschmidt's friends who served as a runner between the victim and her assailant in the years following the abuse.
Many people have had knowledge of Goldschmidt's abusive and pedophilic past since the time it happened. One of the top reasons given by this myriad of monsters for not coming forward (aside from the obvious unspoken reason: the professional gain and wealth those close to Goldschmidt have enjoyed throughout the years) is that during Goldschmidt's tenure as governor, he brought about changes that helped make Portland a city people notice. Who wanted to be responsible for turning rumor into fact? Who wanted to fell a hero? Who wanted to be the one to break the news that the city's saint is really a sinner?
Apparently, Willamette Week has no problem with any of the above and is deserving of its Pulitzer. In my opinion, WW did the right thing - even more so because Goldschmidt had, before now, been held in such high regard. After all, saints don't deserve saint status if they're really cretins in disguise.
My heart goes out to the victim of the abuse, from all accounts an attractive and intelligent woman who, since the abuse, spiralled downward from getting poor grades in high school to suffering PTSD after a brutal rape in Seattle (compounded, I'm sure, by Goldschmidt's previous abuse) to drug use and a prison stint.
A settlement nearly a decade ago provided the victim with $250,000 of Goldschmidt's hard-earned (or ill-gotten) cash. That's little consolation for a life ruined by someone many years older and in a position of power who cared more about getting his dick wet than in what the consequences would be as a result of this unjustifiable crime.
One other note: Goldschmidt and his league of cronies aren't the only ones who should pay for the crime and its cover-up. The victim's mother isn't deserving of having the title "mom" considering she went back to work for her daughter's assailant even after she found out about the abuse. Years earlier, she also learned of sexual assaults committed against her daughter by an elder relative as well - and failed to do anything to stop it. I'm not a firm believer in the death penalty, but...
Friday, April 01, 2005
Why Me? Your Guide to Bullying in the Workplace
Happy April Fool's Day. As proof that the unexpected should be expected on the prankster's holiest day of days, two dozen tulips were delivered to my office today. I told the delivery lady that she must be in the wrong office. But, no, she was in the right place. I asked her who could possibly be sending me flowers. She said that I must have done something nice. I replied, "I've never done anything nice." She got a big laugh. I was being serious.
The card didn't contain a message, so, a few hours later, I called the flower shop to find out who sent them. Surprisingly, I didn't even have to bribe the lady who answered the phone. She told me right away. Now I know that if I'm ever going to stalk someone and send them anonymous flowers that I should pay in cash and not leave behind any trace of my name.
Today's topic is workplace bullying. Click on the headline above for a comprehensive guide on bullying: what it is, who bullies, how bullies pick their targets, characteristics their targets possess, how it affects the targets and how to handle the bullying. It's the best resource on the Internet for this kind of thing, and it helped me understand the dynamics in my previous workplace after I got fired by my sociopathic former boss - hereafter referred to as SFB, which could also stand for short fucking bastard and still be accurate.
Enjoy!
The card didn't contain a message, so, a few hours later, I called the flower shop to find out who sent them. Surprisingly, I didn't even have to bribe the lady who answered the phone. She told me right away. Now I know that if I'm ever going to stalk someone and send them anonymous flowers that I should pay in cash and not leave behind any trace of my name.
Today's topic is workplace bullying. Click on the headline above for a comprehensive guide on bullying: what it is, who bullies, how bullies pick their targets, characteristics their targets possess, how it affects the targets and how to handle the bullying. It's the best resource on the Internet for this kind of thing, and it helped me understand the dynamics in my previous workplace after I got fired by my sociopathic former boss - hereafter referred to as SFB, which could also stand for short fucking bastard and still be accurate.
Enjoy!
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
The Media = Farce
They've gone and done it again, by god. Those golldurn reporters are nothing but anarchist communists who want to turn the world to their leftist agendas, and one bad apple equals a million.
Increasingly, members of the media who don't or don't appear to be holding their journalistic ethics close to their hearts are wearing their woes on their sleeves as they're outed by traditional and non-traditional media sources far and wide. Most recently, it's Mike Vasilinda who's got some 'splainin to do as he's held up in the spotlight for owning and running a Tallahassee, Fla., production company - Mike Vasilinda Productions Inc. - that turns a profit off the same government and agencies he also covers as an "independent" reporter.
Things aren't as they appear, counters Vasilinda in news reports on what he's been doing and doing very publicly for many years now. While Vasilinda claims to be as committed and impartial journalist as ever there was, any dim-witted mass media consumer has a right to wonder aloud if the size of a production contract at Vasilinda Productions affects what's covered, uncovered and discovered in Florida government by Vasilinda-the-reporter-not-Vasilinda-the-businessman - and what's not.
Increasingly, members of the media who don't or don't appear to be holding their journalistic ethics close to their hearts are wearing their woes on their sleeves as they're outed by traditional and non-traditional media sources far and wide. Most recently, it's Mike Vasilinda who's got some 'splainin to do as he's held up in the spotlight for owning and running a Tallahassee, Fla., production company - Mike Vasilinda Productions Inc. - that turns a profit off the same government and agencies he also covers as an "independent" reporter.
Things aren't as they appear, counters Vasilinda in news reports on what he's been doing and doing very publicly for many years now. While Vasilinda claims to be as committed and impartial journalist as ever there was, any dim-witted mass media consumer has a right to wonder aloud if the size of a production contract at Vasilinda Productions affects what's covered, uncovered and discovered in Florida government by Vasilinda-the-reporter-not-Vasilinda-the-businessman - and what's not.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
How to Piss Me Off - updated regularly
Be a potential boyfriend who turns into a good friend who turns into a friend who turns into an acquaintance all the while becoming more and more of an arrogant asshole, dismissing me more and more and hurting my feelings more and more only to disappear when I finally call you on your stupid bullshit. Advice: Grow up and grow a conscience. No wonder your ex-wife cheated on you.
Host a going-away party before your move to New Jersey only to leave the party 10 minutes after some of your co-workers get there to see you off so you can go screw the dumb bitch who ripped apart your marriage, broke your shit and beat you up.
Run and hide when it's time for you to be the President of the United States of America and basically throw thousands of scared and dying people to the wolves because you don't know what the fuck to do. Why don't you do the country a favor and resign so we can get a COMPETENT president? Thanks a bunch if you do.
Be an ex-boyfriend I rarely see and then get all pissy when I don't accept your hostility and send me this as an e-mail:
"Do you know what it means to treat someone like shit? If you don't have a clue, then I can understand why you don't think that's what your doing. Otherwise, you ought to review your recent communication with me and reconsider."
Not only do you have an error in your text that crosses the boundaries of both spelling and grammar, but you also need to find someone else to vent on. It's not going to be me anymore. I owe you nothing.
Say and do things you know aren't right then lie about the whole situation to protect your smarmy ass while seriously hurting people in the process. Maybe if you weren't so full of shit yourself, you'd have less trouble trusting anyone else.
Upset my friend by calling up the random guy who asked her out at a club and metaphorically piss on her leg by informing him that you're her "boyfriend." I know you're young and relatively inexperienced, but the way to a woman's heart isn't by beating her over the head with a club and dragging her back to the cave by her hair.
Constantly blame me for someone else's mistakes. If you want to punish someone to make yourself feel mightier and more adequate, punish the person who actually erred and pick on someone your own size, you cowardly motherfucker.
Promise for two weeks that you're coming for the weekend on Friday and then not bothering to call and say you won't be here. I know it's embarassing that you don't have money or good credit to rent a car, but I deserve a damn phone call. Geesh!
Host a going-away party before your move to New Jersey only to leave the party 10 minutes after some of your co-workers get there to see you off so you can go screw the dumb bitch who ripped apart your marriage, broke your shit and beat you up.
Run and hide when it's time for you to be the President of the United States of America and basically throw thousands of scared and dying people to the wolves because you don't know what the fuck to do. Why don't you do the country a favor and resign so we can get a COMPETENT president? Thanks a bunch if you do.
Be an ex-boyfriend I rarely see and then get all pissy when I don't accept your hostility and send me this as an e-mail:
"Do you know what it means to treat someone like shit? If you don't have a clue, then I can understand why you don't think that's what your doing. Otherwise, you ought to review your recent communication with me and reconsider."
Not only do you have an error in your text that crosses the boundaries of both spelling and grammar, but you also need to find someone else to vent on. It's not going to be me anymore. I owe you nothing.
Say and do things you know aren't right then lie about the whole situation to protect your smarmy ass while seriously hurting people in the process. Maybe if you weren't so full of shit yourself, you'd have less trouble trusting anyone else.
Upset my friend by calling up the random guy who asked her out at a club and metaphorically piss on her leg by informing him that you're her "boyfriend." I know you're young and relatively inexperienced, but the way to a woman's heart isn't by beating her over the head with a club and dragging her back to the cave by her hair.
Constantly blame me for someone else's mistakes. If you want to punish someone to make yourself feel mightier and more adequate, punish the person who actually erred and pick on someone your own size, you cowardly motherfucker.
Promise for two weeks that you're coming for the weekend on Friday and then not bothering to call and say you won't be here. I know it's embarassing that you don't have money or good credit to rent a car, but I deserve a damn phone call. Geesh!
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Oh Marilyn, My Marilyn
My fascination with Marilyn Monroe runs deep.
All the elements are there: A virtual orphan who spent her life looking for a father figure and marrying men who seemed to fit the bill. An on-screen persona that could light up an entire city though her personal life was filled with desperation, depression and angst. A public face that epitomized the notion of "dumb blonde" though she was incredibly intelligent and a voracious reader. She was obstinate. She showed up late to the set and kept others waiting, sometimes for hours. Sometimes, she didn't show up at all. She was a huge drinker and popped enormous amounts of pills. She was a wreck. She was fabulous. She was her own woman. She's my Marilyn.
I started collecting Marilyn Monroe memorabilia when I was in high school. At its height, my collection consisted of about $1,000 worth of books, oodles of stamps (one set given to me by my brother that was cancelled in Hollywood), pens, magnets, a tie, mugs. You name it; I had it. I sold all my Marilyn books when I moved from Portland to Florida, a decision I regret.
Los Angeles, California. Home of the stars. In 2002, I visited a friend who had an internship at the Los Angeles Times and was living in Burbank in a huge apartment complex across the street from Warner Brothers Studios. During a visit to Mann's Chinese Theatre, I scanned the rows of names and handprints. I had to find Marilyn. I had thought about this day since high school. Even then, I had a feeling our hands would be the same size. Finally, I found her famous signature and squatted in front of it. I stretched out my arms and placed my hands where hers had once been. A perfect match. We're alike in more ways than this. Perhaps that's why I have such a fascination with her. Though my knowledge of her, I learn more about myself.
All the elements are there: A virtual orphan who spent her life looking for a father figure and marrying men who seemed to fit the bill. An on-screen persona that could light up an entire city though her personal life was filled with desperation, depression and angst. A public face that epitomized the notion of "dumb blonde" though she was incredibly intelligent and a voracious reader. She was obstinate. She showed up late to the set and kept others waiting, sometimes for hours. Sometimes, she didn't show up at all. She was a huge drinker and popped enormous amounts of pills. She was a wreck. She was fabulous. She was her own woman. She's my Marilyn.
I started collecting Marilyn Monroe memorabilia when I was in high school. At its height, my collection consisted of about $1,000 worth of books, oodles of stamps (one set given to me by my brother that was cancelled in Hollywood), pens, magnets, a tie, mugs. You name it; I had it. I sold all my Marilyn books when I moved from Portland to Florida, a decision I regret.
Los Angeles, California. Home of the stars. In 2002, I visited a friend who had an internship at the Los Angeles Times and was living in Burbank in a huge apartment complex across the street from Warner Brothers Studios. During a visit to Mann's Chinese Theatre, I scanned the rows of names and handprints. I had to find Marilyn. I had thought about this day since high school. Even then, I had a feeling our hands would be the same size. Finally, I found her famous signature and squatted in front of it. I stretched out my arms and placed my hands where hers had once been. A perfect match. We're alike in more ways than this. Perhaps that's why I have such a fascination with her. Though my knowledge of her, I learn more about myself.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
No Commies Here
In case you haven't guessed it by now, I'm not what you would call a patriot. Not in the traditional sense, anyway.
Not one to commit my undying loyalty to any one group, I have lived most of my life on the fringes of this group or that group and have felt like Colin Wilson's consummate "outsider" ever since I have been conscious of myself.
It all started in middle school with the dreaded "Pledge of Allegiance." It just so happened that the daily chanting of it fell during my PE class. The other students unfailingly did what was expected of them: They stopped changing long enough to pay their respects to this country by placing their right hands over their left breasts and reciting the words I refuse to utter now just as I refused to utter then. The PE teacher took notice of my apparent disdain and disrespect and commanded me to do as the others did. Again, I refused. She threatened to have a parent/teacher conference, and chastised me in front of the group. I'm not sure how it all ended, but I'm guessing that I paused during "The Pledge," and, hand on heart, thought of other things while the others did their patriotic duty.
Much to my shock and horror, my days of being expected to say these words I didn't mean didn't end with high school. At city council meetings during my city government reporting days in South Georgia, not only was "The Pledge" recited but there was also a prayer - A PRAYER - given at every meeting. Not wanting to appear overly adversarial (though, indeed I was), I stood for the prayer but kept my eyes open, and put my hand on my heart while facing in the general direction of the flag. But, still, I refused to say the words.
I pledge allegiance
To the flag
Of the United States of America...
(If I say these words, I'm telling a lie.)
...And to the republic
For which it stands
One nation
Under god
Indivisible
With liberty and justice for all.
Liberty and justice for all? I know that's a crock. How can people say there's liberty and justice for all and feel good about it? And mean it? Meanwhile, minor drug offenders rot in prisons while rapists and murderers either go free or serve lesser sentences. Meanwhile, a frighteningly large percentage of the population is racist, sexist, classist and any other -ist you can imagine. Meanwhile, women are still looked at and treated as property by men (and other WOMEN!) on the farms...in the boardrooms...in the factories...in the bedrooms. Meanwhile, children are beaten and starved and twisted by their demonic parents. Meanwhile, poor people languish without adequate food, shelter or education. Meanwhile, the literacy rate in this country is abysmal. Meanwhile, the rich get richer on the backs of the poor while we spend billions of dollars to go kill "enemies" that don't exist.
I'm not saying all this to make you, dear reader, think I don't care about this country. In fact, I am a deeply concerned citizen who cares passionately about what goes on here - and what doesn't. I am patriotic - just not in the close-my-eyes-don't-ask-any-questions-unfailingly-trust-whatever-anyone-in-power-has-to-say-to-me kind of way. I question the status quo. I object to that which I disagree. I speak my mind. I am a dissenter. All in a feeble attempt to get others to question their own views and motivations and to get them thinking about what they stand for, who they are and what it takes to build a cohesive society filled with liberty and justice for all.
Believe it or not, I haven't always been this way. I grew up the daughter of middle class bankers who (still) tow the line and now vote Republican. Along the way, I bent and broke. I fell apart and rebuilt myself several times. I morphed. Outward appearances shifted. My taste in music broadened. My interests expanded. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to find the truth that could never be found within the confines of my parent's home. The evening news after dinner. Three hours of sitcoms. Ice cream at nine. Then bed. Hooters on Friday nights; golf on Sundays. I grew up in that world and vowed never to make it mine.
I have since moved from one coast to the other and back again. Along the way, I have seen some amazing places and met some amazing people who are doing amazing things for themselves and others. And with an open mind and no firm allegiances to anything except my core set of values and beliefs - those that will never change - I continue to evolve.
Not one to commit my undying loyalty to any one group, I have lived most of my life on the fringes of this group or that group and have felt like Colin Wilson's consummate "outsider" ever since I have been conscious of myself.
It all started in middle school with the dreaded "Pledge of Allegiance." It just so happened that the daily chanting of it fell during my PE class. The other students unfailingly did what was expected of them: They stopped changing long enough to pay their respects to this country by placing their right hands over their left breasts and reciting the words I refuse to utter now just as I refused to utter then. The PE teacher took notice of my apparent disdain and disrespect and commanded me to do as the others did. Again, I refused. She threatened to have a parent/teacher conference, and chastised me in front of the group. I'm not sure how it all ended, but I'm guessing that I paused during "The Pledge," and, hand on heart, thought of other things while the others did their patriotic duty.
Much to my shock and horror, my days of being expected to say these words I didn't mean didn't end with high school. At city council meetings during my city government reporting days in South Georgia, not only was "The Pledge" recited but there was also a prayer - A PRAYER - given at every meeting. Not wanting to appear overly adversarial (though, indeed I was), I stood for the prayer but kept my eyes open, and put my hand on my heart while facing in the general direction of the flag. But, still, I refused to say the words.
I pledge allegiance
To the flag
Of the United States of America...
(If I say these words, I'm telling a lie.)
...And to the republic
For which it stands
One nation
Under god
Indivisible
With liberty and justice for all.
Liberty and justice for all? I know that's a crock. How can people say there's liberty and justice for all and feel good about it? And mean it? Meanwhile, minor drug offenders rot in prisons while rapists and murderers either go free or serve lesser sentences. Meanwhile, a frighteningly large percentage of the population is racist, sexist, classist and any other -ist you can imagine. Meanwhile, women are still looked at and treated as property by men (and other WOMEN!) on the farms...in the boardrooms...in the factories...in the bedrooms. Meanwhile, children are beaten and starved and twisted by their demonic parents. Meanwhile, poor people languish without adequate food, shelter or education. Meanwhile, the literacy rate in this country is abysmal. Meanwhile, the rich get richer on the backs of the poor while we spend billions of dollars to go kill "enemies" that don't exist.
I'm not saying all this to make you, dear reader, think I don't care about this country. In fact, I am a deeply concerned citizen who cares passionately about what goes on here - and what doesn't. I am patriotic - just not in the close-my-eyes-don't-ask-any-questions-unfailingly-trust-whatever-anyone-in-power-has-to-say-to-me kind of way. I question the status quo. I object to that which I disagree. I speak my mind. I am a dissenter. All in a feeble attempt to get others to question their own views and motivations and to get them thinking about what they stand for, who they are and what it takes to build a cohesive society filled with liberty and justice for all.
Believe it or not, I haven't always been this way. I grew up the daughter of middle class bankers who (still) tow the line and now vote Republican. Along the way, I bent and broke. I fell apart and rebuilt myself several times. I morphed. Outward appearances shifted. My taste in music broadened. My interests expanded. I wanted to see the world. I wanted to find the truth that could never be found within the confines of my parent's home. The evening news after dinner. Three hours of sitcoms. Ice cream at nine. Then bed. Hooters on Friday nights; golf on Sundays. I grew up in that world and vowed never to make it mine.
I have since moved from one coast to the other and back again. Along the way, I have seen some amazing places and met some amazing people who are doing amazing things for themselves and others. And with an open mind and no firm allegiances to anything except my core set of values and beliefs - those that will never change - I continue to evolve.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Here a Republican, There a Republican...
Cables, Brooklyn Bridge - photo/maarmie
Republicans: They're sneaky, and they're good. And now, they're the ones in charge.
The biggest error one can ever make is underestimating one's enemy, and Democrats have long underestimated their nemesis at their own peril. While a Republican may seem to be little more than an unthreatening slow talker who doesn't know the difference between his or her head and a hard, dry turd, don't let appearances be deceiving. Behind that dumber-than-a-sack-of-rocks exterior beats the heart of a pack of rabid wolves.
At best, Republicans are selfish and exclusionary. At worst, they are as informed as they are intelligent, and they rely on the bible as a mandate for how others (read liberals) should live their lives. Oh, did I forget to mention they're hypocrites? Not all; just most. They rarely practice what they preach, it seems, and the basic tenets of the religion they all Baaaaaah over like sheep are ignored out of their own loathsome self interest.
Considering my obvious disdain for all things Republican (don't get me wrong, Democrats are no better), I thought it fitting to journey to New York City this past August/September to protest the Republican National Convention. When I got back from my foray into activism, my boss fired me. I can't help but think my termination had at least something to do with my trip (one he sanctioned after he accused me of somehow making money off my adventure while taking money out of the pocket of the company!). But what the fuck. I had a great fucking time while a great fucking time was to be had.
Desperately wanting to go protest in NY but not wanting to go alone, a local activist friend of mine put out his feelers and found three others from this city who had already made plans to go and had booked hotel rooms far enough in advance to get lodging across the street from Madison Square Garden. I met up with two of them a few days before the trip and have since forged a great friendship with one of the two, a stay-at-home dad named Michael who put his wife through medical school and who thought enough of his 15-year-old daughter and what a great experience it would be for her to bring her along. Though they were strangers when we started the trip, they all now occupy special places in my heart.
Jaywalking
The day we flew into Newark was fabulous, and we troublemakers were ready to obnoxiously comb the city. After we got to the hotel and put our stuff in our rooms, we put on our protest gear and hit the streets. Throughout the entire four days, Michael wore a bright yellow tarp that, on both sides, read "Fascists repent." This slogan caught on quickly, and we saw signs popping up all over town that demanded the same. I won't say that Michael - a long-haired, sandal-wearing hippie type - didn't more than slightly resemble one of those drooling homeless guys you see roaming the streets of New York with a crazed look in their eyes and conversations for one. But he certainly grabbed lots of attention, including the notice of the Jay Leno Show just three hours after we arrived.
Some goombah from The Sopranos and that gay intern freak were standing on the street behind Madison Square Garden looking for unsuspecting protestors to make fools of for that night's show. We walked by and were almost a block away when I heard, "Hey, get that fascists repent guy. Get that fascists repent guy." One of the camera guys ran up to us and asked Michael to be on the show. That was the last thing Michael wanted, he said, but 30 seconds of peer pressure was all it took for him to sign the release form.
The two tried their hardest to make Michael trip up, to inflame his emotions, to make him look a fool. They even pulled two delegates walking by into the mix in an attempt to come away with something televisionworthy. Their attempts failed. Michael was articulate and kept his cool. Needless to say, the footage likely never made it to the small screen.
Rallies and protests
I hadn't been to NYC for a little more than a year, but I stuck to my purpose for being there and didn't wander off to any of my favorite museums, galleries or clubs while I was there. Except for a matinee viewing of "Avenue Q" and a few meals at some of my favorite restaurants in the city, my cohorts and I were diligent in our quest - our quest to protest. This meant that we had to be on our feet for about 16 hours a day while we attended protest after protest and rally after rally. Coincidentally, however, the rallys and protests were held throughout Manhattan, so we had a chance to see a lot of the city in the process.
- more to come -
Roommates No More!
That's it. I'm out. After this month, no more roommates. No more dogs. No more cats. No more piles of dirty dishes in the sink and clothes left in the dryer and bad decor and self-righteous attitudes and notes found taped to my bedroom door imploring - commanding! - that I clean the bathroom by such and such a day, or else!
April 1 will be my first night spent in my new apartment, a tiny little place just big enough for me and my meager belongings. A space in which I can cook fabulous meals (even if just for one), write that book I've always wanted to write and learn how to play my electric guitar, one I bought six months ago in an attempt to cheer myself while snared in the clutches of a sociopathic former boss.
My new apartment is tiny but cute. It's a little efficiency built on the back of a house close to downtown and within walking distance of my favorite coffee shop, one that sits near a lake infested with a certain type of duck people see as more of a parasite than a feathered creature drawn to water. This place marginally reminds me of an apartment I rented long ago. Unlike that place, though, this one has a front door that shuts AND locks, central heat and air and a proper kitchen instead of a strip of space separating the living area from the sleeping area that just happens to contain a stove and sink. And in this place, my refrigerator (a new one!) is in the kitchen where it belongs - not in the living room.
My first night there will be joyous. I think I'll crank up some Amon Tobin, cook a lovely dinner in my underwear, walk around naked, watch a little "Daily Show" then noisily masturbate before I drift off to sleep. What more could a girl want? Ah, the good life in amerikkka.
April 1 will be my first night spent in my new apartment, a tiny little place just big enough for me and my meager belongings. A space in which I can cook fabulous meals (even if just for one), write that book I've always wanted to write and learn how to play my electric guitar, one I bought six months ago in an attempt to cheer myself while snared in the clutches of a sociopathic former boss.
My new apartment is tiny but cute. It's a little efficiency built on the back of a house close to downtown and within walking distance of my favorite coffee shop, one that sits near a lake infested with a certain type of duck people see as more of a parasite than a feathered creature drawn to water. This place marginally reminds me of an apartment I rented long ago. Unlike that place, though, this one has a front door that shuts AND locks, central heat and air and a proper kitchen instead of a strip of space separating the living area from the sleeping area that just happens to contain a stove and sink. And in this place, my refrigerator (a new one!) is in the kitchen where it belongs - not in the living room.
My first night there will be joyous. I think I'll crank up some Amon Tobin, cook a lovely dinner in my underwear, walk around naked, watch a little "Daily Show" then noisily masturbate before I drift off to sleep. What more could a girl want? Ah, the good life in amerikkka.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Marriage or Bust!
I'm going to Paris this summer. Not just to roam around the Louvre and sip espresso at a trendy cafe. I'm going for the express purpose of finding a husband. Yes, it's time to abandon these here United States, and that's going to require some fancy footwork on my part considering I'll only have 30 days at my disposal.
J'ai un mois chercher un mari. Translation: I have one month to find a husband. That's not the only phrase I'm going to need to know when I hop a plane to Orley, but it's certainly going to be the most important. The plan is to bedazzle and bewitch as many men as possible in one month, and to try and convince some poor sucker to take the plunge. I need to get fluent in French, and living there is the only way I'm going to be able to do it. - more to come -
J'ai un mois chercher un mari. Translation: I have one month to find a husband. That's not the only phrase I'm going to need to know when I hop a plane to Orley, but it's certainly going to be the most important. The plan is to bedazzle and bewitch as many men as possible in one month, and to try and convince some poor sucker to take the plunge. I need to get fluent in French, and living there is the only way I'm going to be able to do it. - more to come -
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Things Everyone Should Do - updated regularly
Hike on the Appalachian Trail. One day. Three days. A week. A month. Seven months. Pick a time frame, and do it.
Confront friends and family members who hurt you. Draw the line, for once, and dare them to cross it. If they don't, that's progress. If they do, cut them out of your life. You don't need it.
Know thine enemy. The information will come in handy later.
Live in New York City for at least a year.
Stand up for things you believe in - no matter the cost.
Stand up for others, even strangers. Humanity deserves it, and the world always needs more good karma.
Protect your integrity at all times. No one (and no job) is worth the chipping away of your self esteem.
Write. It doesn't matter what you write or what form it takes or even if it's good. Just write. Often.
Take lots of photographs. Document your life and your adventures. You'll be sorry you didn't.
Drive through Arizona, New Mexico, west Texas. Just you, a car, Led Zeppelin and miles and miles of nothing except rocks, cacti and rattlesnakes. What could be better?
Confront friends and family members who hurt you. Draw the line, for once, and dare them to cross it. If they don't, that's progress. If they do, cut them out of your life. You don't need it.
Know thine enemy. The information will come in handy later.
Live in New York City for at least a year.
Stand up for things you believe in - no matter the cost.
Stand up for others, even strangers. Humanity deserves it, and the world always needs more good karma.
Protect your integrity at all times. No one (and no job) is worth the chipping away of your self esteem.
Write. It doesn't matter what you write or what form it takes or even if it's good. Just write. Often.
Take lots of photographs. Document your life and your adventures. You'll be sorry you didn't.
Drive through Arizona, New Mexico, west Texas. Just you, a car, Led Zeppelin and miles and miles of nothing except rocks, cacti and rattlesnakes. What could be better?
Things I Learned the Hard Way - updated regularly
If you think you're smart enough to take the LSAT on a whim after six weeks of study, think again. Unless you're a genius or you mind "just works that way," you'll freak out and fuck it all up.
If you insert a table from Dreamweaver into a page at Blogspot, be ready to spend a lot of time adjusting the HTML so it will look right.
If you have big tits and a vacuous head, you're sure to always get the man. If you don't threaten him with your stellar mind and personality, he will be yours. In general, men are nothing but insecure and weak.
Demand respect from all the people in your life: your family members, your friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, bosses, coworkers. If you don't, some will treat you like they treat themselves - poorly.
Never, never go hiking with a 20- to 25-pound pack for a couple of days in a pair of old-ass tennis shoes with the soles ripping off. You will end up having to duct tape the soles to the tops of the shoes and you might trip and fall and bust your fucking knee or your left ankle might give out a couple of times. Invest in a good pair of hiking boots, and break them in before you head out.
Sometimes, switching careers is the right thing to do. But don't make the jump just for the sake of a bigger salary and your own office. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
Don't fall in love with a married man. Ever.
Never buy an eight-foot-tall bookcase at Ikea unless you have a way to get it home. You just might end up stranded at Penn Station with a box that's ripping apart at the seams. People might try and help you carry it to the cab station, but the cabs won't take you ALL THE WAY to Queens and you'll end up leaving the bookcase lying on the station floor for someone else to take home and enjoy.
Never trust most of your co-workers. They will only stab you in the back to get ahead - or stay where they are.
Even if you're faster, smarter, funnier or nicer, never compete with the boss. Even if you win, you will end up losing in the end.
Hard work and dedication never pay off if the boss only has one thing on his mind.
Real friends are worth more than any amount of money. But fake friends are everywhere.
Never date a member of the armed forces who appears to be mildly homophobic. He's gay.
If you insert a table from Dreamweaver into a page at Blogspot, be ready to spend a lot of time adjusting the HTML so it will look right.
If you have big tits and a vacuous head, you're sure to always get the man. If you don't threaten him with your stellar mind and personality, he will be yours. In general, men are nothing but insecure and weak.
Demand respect from all the people in your life: your family members, your friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, bosses, coworkers. If you don't, some will treat you like they treat themselves - poorly.
Never, never go hiking with a 20- to 25-pound pack for a couple of days in a pair of old-ass tennis shoes with the soles ripping off. You will end up having to duct tape the soles to the tops of the shoes and you might trip and fall and bust your fucking knee or your left ankle might give out a couple of times. Invest in a good pair of hiking boots, and break them in before you head out.
Sometimes, switching careers is the right thing to do. But don't make the jump just for the sake of a bigger salary and your own office. The grass isn't always greener on the other side.
Don't fall in love with a married man. Ever.
Never buy an eight-foot-tall bookcase at Ikea unless you have a way to get it home. You just might end up stranded at Penn Station with a box that's ripping apart at the seams. People might try and help you carry it to the cab station, but the cabs won't take you ALL THE WAY to Queens and you'll end up leaving the bookcase lying on the station floor for someone else to take home and enjoy.
Never trust most of your co-workers. They will only stab you in the back to get ahead - or stay where they are.
Even if you're faster, smarter, funnier or nicer, never compete with the boss. Even if you win, you will end up losing in the end.
Hard work and dedication never pay off if the boss only has one thing on his mind.
Real friends are worth more than any amount of money. But fake friends are everywhere.
Never date a member of the armed forces who appears to be mildly homophobic. He's gay.
HST Remembered
Hunter S. Thompson was an annoying, roughhousing miscreant who never grew up. Though I never shared his penchant for guns and mass quantities of drugs and alcohol, I wouldn't be who I am today if it weren't for HST and my fascination with both his talent for slinging words and his strikingly original brand of journalism.
I was first introduced to HST by a guy in college whose morning meals consisted of Cheerios topped with Miller Lite. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was the first bit of HST I ingested. While I think this was his most well-crafted piece of work, his letters to friends, bosses and family members are near poetic and always full of the gusto and insanity for which HST is known.
I later became a reporter after graduating from college and moving from Florida to New York to Oregon to Florida. While the small-town paper for which I worked would not have allowed any hint of "gonzo" in my stories, his penchant for digging beneath the surface and his unwavering defense of "the truth" kept me on the straight and narrow - telling the stories that needed to be told (in the way they needed to be told) even with a mayor, a city attorney, a police chief and a sheriff breathing down my back every time I wrote something they didn't like, which was often.
I once wrote a letter to HST at his Owl Creek compound. In gonzo style, I invited the bum to come live with me in my dorm at Florida State University. FSU had just been named "party school of the year." I figured we had an image to uphold, and I told Hunter that I needed his help to do it. My offer was sincere, but I never heard back from him. Perhaps he gets invitations like that every day. Perhaps he was scared. Whatever the case, I like to think that he either read it and laughed or thumbtacked it to a tree and shot it full of holes.
You are gone but not forgotten, Hunter S. Thompson. A part of you will always live on in me.
2.20.05
I was first introduced to HST by a guy in college whose morning meals consisted of Cheerios topped with Miller Lite. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas was the first bit of HST I ingested. While I think this was his most well-crafted piece of work, his letters to friends, bosses and family members are near poetic and always full of the gusto and insanity for which HST is known.
I later became a reporter after graduating from college and moving from Florida to New York to Oregon to Florida. While the small-town paper for which I worked would not have allowed any hint of "gonzo" in my stories, his penchant for digging beneath the surface and his unwavering defense of "the truth" kept me on the straight and narrow - telling the stories that needed to be told (in the way they needed to be told) even with a mayor, a city attorney, a police chief and a sheriff breathing down my back every time I wrote something they didn't like, which was often.
I once wrote a letter to HST at his Owl Creek compound. In gonzo style, I invited the bum to come live with me in my dorm at Florida State University. FSU had just been named "party school of the year." I figured we had an image to uphold, and I told Hunter that I needed his help to do it. My offer was sincere, but I never heard back from him. Perhaps he gets invitations like that every day. Perhaps he was scared. Whatever the case, I like to think that he either read it and laughed or thumbtacked it to a tree and shot it full of holes.
You are gone but not forgotten, Hunter S. Thompson. A part of you will always live on in me.
2.20.05
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Introduction
This blog isn't for liars, cheats, thieves, weaklings, conformists or mean spirits. It's for people who value honesty, justice and equality and for those who don't mind getting their fingernails dirty to do the job and do it right - at any cost.
My name is maarmie, and I've had enough of backstabbers and misogynists and people whose minds and souls are as shallow as a puddle in the Sahara. Unfortunately, I've put my neck under the chopping block for people of this sort one too many times. Good executioners that they are, they never fail to swing the axe hard and end things in a mighty and swift manner.
I don't want to sound bitter just yet, though. I'd rather my personality be revealed to you slowly, methodically and in the time frame I have planned. Until then, sit back as I lay out my opinions for the world to see. Agree. Disagree. I couldn't care less. Just do me a favor, and think.
- maarmie
My name is maarmie, and I've had enough of backstabbers and misogynists and people whose minds and souls are as shallow as a puddle in the Sahara. Unfortunately, I've put my neck under the chopping block for people of this sort one too many times. Good executioners that they are, they never fail to swing the axe hard and end things in a mighty and swift manner.
I don't want to sound bitter just yet, though. I'd rather my personality be revealed to you slowly, methodically and in the time frame I have planned. Until then, sit back as I lay out my opinions for the world to see. Agree. Disagree. I couldn't care less. Just do me a favor, and think.
- maarmie
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