Surreal Turkey

I had the strangest, and most oddly familial (is that a word?!), Thanksgiving ever. The food was great, it was great to see my family, blah blah blah, all that's true. The strange part was this: it was at my Auntie Kathy's house and I was in my cousin Stephanie's room, getting ready to smoke with Stephanie, Jimmy (her twin), Megan (her older sister), and Pedro (Megan's boyfriend). Apparently, my Auntie Kathy has been okay with them smoking for quite some time now. At any rate, Stephanie does the old towel-under-the-door trick and we smoke a bowl or two. About a minute after the third bowl was packed, Mike (Auntie Kathy's boyfriend of 6 or 7 years and my dad's best friend of about 40 years) walks through the door and holds his hand out for both pipe and lighter. The kids, ten years younger than me, thought he was there to do a little confiscating, but I knew better. My dad follows two steps behind him, and before he can close the door, in walks Auntie Kathy. We all smoked together (except for Auntie Mary, who was DD for the night). It was so oddly touching, this strange bonding experience. Three generations of us, really, all smoking together. It was amazing. There was this...I don't know, comaraderie. Oh, and the kids were so excited, I can't even begin to explain. All in all, I have to say it was probably the best Thanksgiving I've had in a very long time (would have been better if Dean had felt well enough to go, but ah well. Next year). And anyway, when Christmas rolls around...

I Hate Myself...

Did I look that good? No. Was I that cool? For God's sake, no; I couldn't even look at the fucking audience. But I sang that shit, I was in key the whole time, I didn't trip or fall, and I got to sing with my dad. It was fucking amazing. Just watching him play renders me speechless, but actually getting to sing with him is the most amazing feeling in the world. I hadn't actually done it for a few years, in front of people like that. Dean was there and was proud of me, which was amazing. And my friends, God bless them, screamed for me before they even know what I'd sound like...and told me I was good when I was done, which had a tremendous effect on my ego. I found it nearly impossible to stop smiling all night. Ah music, glorious music. Is there anything better? Has there ever been anything better? Honestly...I can't think of anything. It is the great equalizer, the only true international language. What else can make someone cry and laugh and scream and tear their hair out all at the same time? If I could have stayed up there all night, I would have. No wonder the old man does it for a living. My God, getting paid at the end of it?! What fuck must that be like?!

nowadays, the songs on the radio...

...all drive me crazy. I doubt I'll make the mistake of trying to listen to the radio again any time soon. This country's entertainment has gotten so...I mean Jesus Christ, are all of these people fucking retarded? It's not that there's no good music out there, it's just that none of it will ever make it to the radio. It doesn't stop at music, either. At least 75% of television and films (probably more, now that I think of it) have been dumbed-down to a spectacular degree. And, my God, the fucking toys nowadays. Smoking copious amounts of marijuana makes it incredibly difficult for me to watch anything but Cartoon Network, and upon watching it I've seen endless amounts of toy commercials. Does your fucking five year old really need an indesctructable DVD player?!?! For God's sake, how about interacting with him a little? Even better, employ the Robert Bacca Method and let the kid choose every second album you listen to on the road. That way, they feel involved and a little grown up, and they're much less likely to talk. Oh, and Leapfrog?!?! Fucking Leapfrog?!?! FUCK LEAPFROG!! TEACH YOUR KIDS TO READ WITH BOOKS, FOR GOD'S SAKE!!! When I was a kid, Leapfrog was just this oddly sexual game you played on the playground. The radio is making the adults retarded and lazy, they buy the ridiculous toys, and the kids grown up retarded and lazy. Oh, and can we talk about the toys being made for girls?! Can we, please?! In one half-hour timeslot, I saw commercials for a playhouse with a stove, washer, dryer, and crib; the Easy-Bake Oven's demon-posessed, modernized cousin, and a fucking Barbie head that comes with hands so you can do her hair and her fucking nails. Jesus Christ, if I see one more ad for a fucking baby doll, I'm gonna crack. They sold this shit when I was a kid, and when my Auntie Mary was a kid, and when my Grandma was a kid. There have been no advances- they're still teaching little girls to be Mommies and cooks and beau-fucking-ticians. Where the hell is this country going? How close are we to Planet of the Apes? Somebody resurrect Charleton Heston.

Auntie Em

The Wizard of Oz is on right now. Some things- movies, songs, TV shows, etc.- take me back to my childhood so completely and so sharply, it almost physically hurts. I miss my Grandma. She was my Auntie Em; the one who stayed right by me every minute when I was sick, who would've gone out in the cyclone to look for me if she thought I was in danger, the reason I would've taken my ass out of Oz in the first place. I never really appreciated her while she was around. Cliche, I know, but true nonetheless. I was a mean, rotten, nasty little kid. I was never as nice to her as I should have been, and she was easily the sweetest person to ever walk the earth. No matter how much I yelled at her, or disobeyed her, or disrespected her, she never stopped loving me. Yeah, she'd smack me, but I deserved it (and worse, believe me). If she were here now, I'd tell her I was sorry. I'd dance with her, and sing with her, and listen to every story she told me without rolling my eyes once. I'd tell her that she made me a better person simply by being my Grandma. She couldn't really remember much toward the end- not anything, really- but she had a moment of clarity when she grabbed my arm and smiled at me and told me that I was the best one in the parade. Even during the worst of her Alzheimer's, she remembered me and she loved me (even if it was only for a minute). I never, ever treated her the way she deserved to be treated and now she's gone and all I can do is cry like a fucking idiot every time I remember her. Why is it that I never appreciate anyone until they're gone? Is that normal? Does everyone do that?! I just know I miss my Grandma. I miss her so much, it feels like a hole's been punched in my chest. If I could just hug her one more time, or hear her laugh (even if she was laughing at me). Oh Jesus, this is ridiculous. I have been reduced to a sniveling eight-year-old while watching the fucking Wizard of Oz. I know she forgave me, because that's who she was, but I just wish I could go back. Fuck, I sound like a retard. I don't fucking care. I love her. I love her, and I miss her. I miss my Grandma, and it fucking hurts. It hurts like a bastard. God, the worst part of this movie is when Dorothy can see Auntie Em looking for her in the witch's crystal ball, and she cries out to her, and the witch comes into view cackling and mocking her. That's how I feel right now. Like I'm yelling and she can't hear me, and someone's out there laughing at me.

Erm...

What is it about some people? I'm dead sick and tired of walking on eggshells, trying to read everyone's moods. I don't know what it is about me that forces me to do it in the first place, but Goddamn...I mean...why should I have to suffer through a day of awkward silence and derisive laughing simply because you're having a bad day? I'm very sorry you don't have any weed and you couldn't mooch any from anyone, but gimme a fuckin' break! I don't want to have to work under a sort of "us against them" mentality, but that's exactly what it's turning into. For God's sake, what makes one human being call another human being a dirtbag and expect absolutely no repercussions?
That being said, I have a spectacular list of worries this week. For one, there never seems to be enough money to go around. I always think I'll have enough this time, but I never do. Jobs are incredibly scarce right now, and still we're going ahead with our plan to move. (I may have a job waiting for me out there, but I try not to count my chickens) California is burning and, selfishly I suppose, all I can think about is whether I and my loved ones will be alright and if it's the end of the world. If it is, I'm fucked, because I'm still legally married and so is Dean. I'm always worried that I'll end up in hell, and then I find myself wondering if there is a Heaven or hell (I can't believe I'm actually committing this to print), which I suppose would send me to hell all on its own. I pray every night, but the fear of eternal damnation is omnipresent. I suppose I can blame my quasi-Catholic upbringing for that. I'm getting incredible headaches, I'm assuming from all the smoke in the air, and they make me nearly unfit to work. I can't, however, call in sick, because I enjoy a job where anyone who calls in sick is instantly subject to criticism, disbelief, and endless amounts of backbiting. The high school-style shit-talking and two-facedness (enough to give Janus a fucking neckache) are at an amazing degree. I can't say that I've never taken part in it, but I can proudly say that I've never said a word against those on whom one would only find a single face. I'm trying hard not to make my job the center of my universe, but it's not easy when I'm there five days a week.
I supposed all I can do is keep my own side of the street clean, to quote a phrase I learned long ago, and count my blessings. My family kicks ass, my boyfriend is the coolest person on the planet, and I've got 30 gigs of beautiful at the end of my headphones.

Batteries Not Included

The best way to end a miracle is to ask it why it is, or what it wants.

Marriage

Speaking as someone who should never have been allowed to marry, but was nevertheless due to the gender of my ex-husband, I can categorically say that the passing of Prop 8 is fucking bullshit. Yeah, it took me awhiile to get to this entry, but gimme a break; I just opened this fucking blog yesterday. I got married in Vegas- the mecca of ridiculous weddings. I got married in a 15 minute ceremony in a fucking chapel by the airport. I'm going to repeat that. THE FUCKING AIRPORT. When we got our wedding license, there were representatives from a dozen other wedding chapels, selling weddings to the hapless motherfuckers exiting the courthouse who had just signed their life away. There were countless wedding chapels with neon lights, drive-thrus, and Elvis impersonators who are somehow ordained as ministers with the power to marry these retarded couples. We split up not long after that, and I can't wait to get a real divorce. If all of this doesn't make a mockery of marriage, I don't know what does. And yet, I was allowed to make this collossal mistake simply because I'm a woman and the idiot I married was a man (sort of). My current boyfriend was tricked into impregnating a fat whore at the age of 16, married her because he believed it was the right thing to do, and was subsequently cheated on, lied about, and stolen from. This was also allowed, because the fat whore was a woman (sort of). Am I to believe that the religious right in this country are really planning on allowing this to go on, as long as the two assholes involved are of different genders? It's ridiculous. Love is a gift, and everyone should be allowed to open it. And please, stop giving me the "civil union is allowed, and it's the same as marriage," argument. If it truly was the same, it would be the standard for all couples. Are we to return to the days of "separate but equal"? Are the gay people in this country one step away from being forced into different bathrooms, separate water fountains, and sub-par schools? What happened to "life, liberty,and the pursuit of happiness"?!?! Granted, that phrase was written by men who refused to allow women or black people to vote, and in most cases marriage goes directly agianst the pursuit of happiness, but it's a mistake everyone should be allowed to make. Yes, the Bible is dead set against it (and yes, I love Jesus), but one of the principles upon which this country was founded is religious freedom. Why, then, are there couples being forced to cowtow to the Christian ideal? None of this shit makes sense. I'm through.

Dreamgirls

I may go to hell for this post, but I'll be posting it nonetheless. I just saw Dreamgirls, and I think I may have figured out what really happened to Jennifer Hudson's family. I'm afraid to just write it outright, but...well...Jennifer Hudson was amazing. She was an infinitely better actress than Beyonce, and can obviously blow her out of the water vocally (probably even in her sleep). Beyonce is clearly convinced that she's a star and has been trounced through the entire movie. Add that to the fact that Jennifer Hudson won the Oscar and Beyonce's with someone who is convinced he's a gangster and, well...do I really need to finish this sentence? Question: why is it that Jennifer Holliday won a Tony at her size, and Jennifer Hudson had to be smaller to win the Oscar? Ah, well. Good pipes is good pipes, sir.

Something...

I'm not sure why, but there's something inside of me that is constantly on the verge of breaking into tears. God, that sounds ridiculous. That feeling in the throat that happens just before you cry...that's always there. I don't know where it comes from or why it happens, but it keeps me from sleeping and it goes away when I write. I'd like it to go away when I sing, but it doesn't always. I'm not really sure why I'm even writing this right now. Maybe it comes from not knowing my mother's family very well. Maybe I'm crazy. Maybe there's something wrong with my fucking esophagus, I don't know.
I have quite a few friends I haven't seen in awhile, and thinking about that fucks me up too. I miss them. I feel like an awful person for not calling them, but I still don't do it. I just sit on my fucking bed and think about what an asshole I am. Do other people do that?!

This Is My First Post

So..uh...yeah. At first I thought that posting my thoughts like this would be a sort of conceited endeavour; I mean, who wants to read this shit? Am I an asshole for thinking someone would want to read this stuff? Then I had to think to myself "shut the fuck up and write." It just feels good. I don't care if anyone reads it, honestly. I'm doing this because keeping a longhand journal gives me cramps and I tend to think a little faster than I can write. I was listening to George Carlin's Class Clown a few days ago and, in the midst of my laughing, I started to cry hysterically. Class Clown was one of the first records I ever put on a turntable, and in the middle of his Father Rivera bit, I remembered that Carlin is dead and it just destroyed me. Is it ridiculous to let the death of someone who you've never met bother you that much? I don't know. I just know that he was a huge part of my life and the shaping of my humor and now he's gone. Life is fleeting.