What Happens When You Give a Tipsy Person a Crappy Camera

Oh, god, I’m now convinced that every Sunday afternoon could be well-spent with people drinking beer on my front porch.  If Kathy were here, I would smooch her, because she found this house for me.

Drunk, Drunk Drunk Drunk Drun k drunk drunk

Bully Hill’s Sweet Walter is a little like drinking pure sugar until the very end when it sours up nicely.  If you drink it, the shape of your mouth will be OOooooo-Oup!  We bought it because the green is a shade I don’t have for the bottle tree yet.

I have moved on to Blue Nun.  At this point, it seems fine.

And we had a fire.

And the orange cat came by.

I decided to have a confession.  To name which of you was the one who should come over to fill my bed.  But I couldn’t decide.  And so I named all of you.  And I decided that made me whitmanesque.  And so yes, I said, yes, I said yes.

And that’s how you know there’s not yet enough poetry in the world, that you had to come here, to me, who is not a poet, to rhyme Walt with Molly.

Every day I am so grateful and so lucky to have you, every day.  I don’t tell you though I should.  But I love you.  Each and every one of you.  Yes, you Bridgett, Lauredhel, Casey, Sam.  All of you.  I love you like the pillows in my warm bed.

And, I for one, believe the world can only be improved by drunken confessions of love and so I stand before you drunk and in love.

Edited to add: I love the fiddle.

Edited again to add: SEe?

Even you.

I love you.

Ha, yes, I say, yes.

Yours, It Was Yours!

So, yeah, we sat around all night and drank so much wine I about couldn’t stand it and talked about who had the most awesomely magnificant penis in the whole blogosphere, large, but not overwhelming; firm, but, well, firm; and your kisses, tender but still manly.

Yes, you, out of all of the men we’ve been with, you are the best lover in the whole blogosphere. 

But a little bit of a slut in a way that makes us feel not so special.

Okay, really, we talked about poop and farts, so, no need to fret, boys.

Night Three–Pork Chops with Sweet Potatoes and Green Beans

The pork chops were a big hit.  My nephew ate two and a half of them, which made me feel very accomplished.  The dog had one and a half, which has made her have to sprawl out on the floor and snore loudly.

Among the chicken soup, enchilladas, and pork chops, I think the pork chops were the biggest hit.  We have fixings for spaghetti, chili, and… ha, leftovers, to carry us through the weekend.  And my dad has promised the nephew a night out at Ryan’s.

I had lunch with NM, who made her famous tortilla and, now, having seen how it’s done, I can see how I ended up with so much of it on Mack’s rug the time I tried to make it.

Things with the family seem to have eased some with the arrival of my nephew.  I’m still finding it grueling, but you’re sick of hearing about it.  I’m sick of talking about it.  I’m kind of sick of everything and I’m tired of being on the defensive all the time.

Bleh, it sucks.

And I’m only writing because it feels good to go through the motions of writing.

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

I suck.

Blah, blah, blah.

I’ve got to pull myself together.  The recalcitrant brother is going to be here any minute and I’m sitting here just making a mess of myself.

On the other hand, I have invented a drink.  I call it “Family Togetherness.”  It’s coffee liqueur and milk over ice.  So, now you can believe me when I tell you that I can’t get enough family togetherness.


I’m sure it has some other name.

Did I tell you that I’m writing a play?

It’s based on the true story of the invention of the vibrator.  It’s supposed to be funny, but I’m worried it’s too obvious.

My family problems are trite and boring.  My imaginary lesbians are trite and boring.  I am trite and boring.

But my dog’s cute, so let’s fill up the glass and move on.

A Dead Man Not My Own


I wanted to drive up and down the empty streets and watch the yellow lights blink on and off and listen to Bob Dylan asking that his grave be kept clean. I wanted to cry.

I came home instead.

The solstice party was amazing. A good balance of ritual with free time.

I wrote my regrets on a piece of rice paper. I threw rice into the river. I burnt my regrets on a log. I painted what I envisioned for myself in the coming year. I can’t tell if it’s part Virgin of Guadalupe, part clitoral hood, or what. I wanted it to mean that I would try to be more sacred. Maybe it just means I’m going to masturbate more. I like it, though. It looks like a mystery.

I read fortunes. One after another after another, all met with women giving me weird looks and saying how right I was. That, in itself, would have been draining. I am drained just from that. Each person has a life that is scary. The stakes are always so high and also, at the same time, so ordinary.

I read for a woman whose brother had killed himself. I read for him. I don’t know that I have ever done that before. It was so hard. Her grief was so deep and his grief…

I can’t tell you that I’ve ever felt anything like that–his joy at being free and experiencing new things and his devastating guilt and dispair over the pain he’d caused his family. Even telling you about the memory of it is rolling the tears right down my face.

I’m not a medium, not normally. I’m not even sure that our souls survive death. I mean, I desperately want to believe, but I’m just not sure. But he was there, as real as anything I have ever felt, and when he left, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I felt buzzed and drained. I feel empty and less cramped.

I feel like I’ve pulled a truck.

I feel a little afraid.

I feel deeply honored.

Sportsblogger, Heal Thyself

Excuse me.  I’m slightly drunk on vodka and cranberries and I’ve got a bed full of obsidian-eyed men drowsily offering to run their fingers through my hair and lick me so expertly I swear off English-speakers for life, but I had to interrupt my fun because Martin Fucking Brady said, when talking about Whoopi Goldberg, and I quote:

His mother was 16 when she gave birth to him, and he was her second child. (Whoopi was 18 when she gave birth in 1973 to her daughter, Alexandrea, who in turn went on to have a child herself in 1989 at the age of 16. But I digress…)


And girl, get your good self a good map!


I have no idea—and neither does Whoopi—why Michael Vick got into dogfighting, but it seems wise when pondering the issue to leave your own stupidity and bigotry at home.

I have no words.  None.  I mean, I consider the performative contradiction to be one of the most exquisite art forms ever, but this goes too far.  You cannot insinuate that there’s something inherently immoral about being a young mother and you cannot call a grown black woman a girl and then turn around and complain about other people not leaving their stupidity and bigotry at home.  Not without running the risk of the universe collapsing in on itself right where you are and crushing you.  It just cannot happen.

That’s it.  I must retire to my bed.

Raul Malo

I went to Raul Malo’s CD release party this afternoon.  I drank mojitoes until I was good and tipsy and then I called Mack and sang “RAaaahooooolllll  RRRAAAAaaaahhhhooooolllll” to him.

I found it hilarious anyway.

Can we talk frankly, America?

Okay, it’s like this.  There appears to be no one in charge of Nashville.  Seriously.  If you go out on the town any night of the week, to hear country music being performed, you will hear someone on stage talking about how they make “real” country music unlike what’s being made in Nashville right now.  And everyone in the audience will cheer.

Okay, fine.

You find yourself drinking with some washed up old country star and you’re going to hear about how they just don’t make music like they used to.

Again, fine.

But here we are at BMI and the dude introducing Raul Malo is all talking about what a big event this is with folks from all the major studios and all up and down music row and how it just goes to show that when good music is being made, folks who like good music will show up to support it.

I call bullshit.

You cannot have a situation where the audience, the performers, and the music execs all seem to think that there’s some other, better music that’s not getting its due because of the pressures of… I don’t know.  I guess whatever group is not around at the moment so that they can be blamed.

If everyone really wanted different, better music, there would be different, better music.

Someone is buying what they’re selling.  So, why does the industry itself act ashamed of that?

In other news, even though I’d gone to a CD release party, sadly, no CD got released to me.

Malo had a beautiful voice and an infectious smile.  The songs they did sounded good.

Did I mention the mojitoes?  And all the big brown-eyed girls standing around me?

I think I need to swoon a little.

Now, where did I put that fainting couch?

‘Plop’ is my favorite onomonopoea

It is also the sound of the Professor’s phone sliding happily into her beer.

I don’t care for Johnny Jump Ups mostly because I don’t care for Jack Daniels’.

The cute guy at the table had been slapped in the face by a boob at the same strip club Exador took me to. Ha, Exador just doing a favor for a friend has done more to give me good drunken stories to tell cute boys than he could have possibly guessed.

Heilsa, Ex. I drink to your health. You are a good man.

Tomorrow, Mack is going to cause my car to be magically fixed. I don’t know how. I don’t care. I’m going to get there first thing in the morning, write down everything he says, and follow those directions like they’re orders from god, and hand out money to whoever needs money handed to them. I will think about nothing. I will just do it.

And, as usual, I will owe the man big.

A drink to his health as well.

And one to Sarcastro, who came along like a tipsy teenage girl, bumping her hips against everything as she staggered to the bathroom. And there’s me, a record stuck in my groove, bam, skip, and on to something new.

I don’t forget that, Sar, not ever. Here’s to you, my friend.

Drunk, with a capitol D that stands for drunk

I really hope I don’t puke.

So, I’m in the BSB at UIC and I need to go to the fourth floor and I get in and I press the button and it goes to the fourth floor and the door opens and my brain is all like out the door with ye because my brain is scottish and my body is all like well look at that, I pressed one again and so I came back down stairs and aye waited and stopped crying and went back in the elevator and pressed 4 and got to 4 and looked out and said move ye damn body and the body said going down and so we did.

I went to psychology and I said please take me up to four and push me off and make me go and the woman said my mom is afraid of elevators and so I know just what you’re going through and I said thank goodness and so she took me up and pulled me off and I thought I should have taken a picture so you could see for sure the things I cannot do.

I saw one of my oldest friends.  She had wet eyes and looked so kind.  We talked and talked and I was happy and drunker and drunk and now I hope I don’t throw up.

It was a shitty day and it was a marvelous day.

I took a cab.

I smiled.

I shut my eyes and the whole world spins.

I am lucky to have friends who know me like a path you take every day.

A List of Types of People I Can Not Keep My Hands Off

1.  Soft, round women with soft lips and wicked smiles.

2.  Really androgynous looking women who are wearing aprons of any sort.

3.  Men above the age of 35.

 Let us spend a moment discussing the wonders of the men who are older than 35.  Let us list their good points.

1.  Cute little eye crinkles.

2.  They bring me drinks.

3.  They beg me not to fire them when I suggest that, when I’m rich, I will buy their employer, just for shits and giggles.

4.  Their faces are very interesting.

5.  They either smell really bad or really nice.

6.  Cute little eye crinkles. 

Ha, I said that already.

So, you may ask why I’m sitting here in my hotel room rather than letting cute guys buy me more drinks while I dashingly and flirtatiously offer to sing songs in their honor.

I blame Malia, who thinks it’s wrong to lead married men astray.

Thanks a lot, Malia.  My wanting for you to think well of me meant I spent the majority of my evening listening to bitter Floridians describe how a Jeb presidency is practically inevitable.

Depressing talk about Jeb Bush… Cute eye crinkles… Depressing talk about Jeb Bush…

Fine, depressing talk about Jeb Bush.

I hope you’re happy. 

Things I Thought Today

1.  If you help run an entity with non-profit status and a mission to make the world a better place, it is immoral for you to grow richer while some of your employees struggle.  All the benefits packages in the world do not make your behavior less immoral and I, for one, think it’s just time to say so out loud.  If we’re all in it together, we should all be in it together and if the CEO is doing much better than most, the groundskeeper ought to be doing much better than most.

2.  I wish I could take a photo of my cool gray/silver strands of hair.

3.  I went to see Ordinary Heroes tonight, which was tremendous on the one hand.  On the other hand, it was such a dynamic moment in our city’s history–I mean, it’s a time when history itself has such a strong, compelling narrative arc–that I found the structure of the play less powerful than it might have been.

4.  The Butcher ate all the cookies.

5.  I like seeing everyone at the Mothership.  Even Sarcastro.  Sometimes he annoys the shit out of me and sometimes, like today, I just wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and hang out quietly with him.  I think he guessed as much, because he kept moving around.

6.  The playwright has a friend who looks like Alton Brown.  Sadly, I didn’t get to see him.

7.  I don’t think I like cheese.

8.  I do like Nashville, though.  I’m glad to be here.


John Henry takes up his hammer, drives steel as fast as he can. He’s swinging thirty pounds from his hips on down, and he dies with his hammer in his hand.

I think just about everyone knows that. But the part I love is when Miss Polly Ann walks down to the tracks, picks up John Henry’s hammer, and Polly drove steel like a man. Yes, Polly drove steel like a man.

That seems like fidelity to me.

Faithfulness not just when it comes to your man, but faithfulness to your man, that willingness to see through what he started, because it was important to him. Polly Ann gets but one verse. Still, I love her. I can see why John Henry loves her.

And it breaks my heart, this fucked up desire to prove that a person can do a job just as well as a machine. When a machine lays down its hammer and dies, there’s no woman to give a shit.

And yet, when a person works, a person gets paid.

Ah, the industrial revolution. Our blessing and our curse. John Henry wins and loses.

He shook it and he beat that steam drill, baby

Well bless my soul

He shook it and he beat that steam drill, baby

Well bless my soul, what’s wrong with me?

I rarely think about Elvis, that country boy who combed his hair and put on a shirt his mother made and he went on the air, when I think of John Henry.

I think of the guy who instead lays his hammer down–“If [the captain] asks you, was I runnin’, tell him I was flyin’. Tell him I was flyin’. I don’t want no corn bread and ‘lasses. Hurts my pride. Hurts my pride.”

John Henry can’t stop, can’t lose to a machine; he’s got his pride. But he’s dead now so what’d that get anyone else? Some folks are too proud to let a machine take their place and some folks are too proud to do work that could be done by a machine instead.

Take my hammer, carry it to the captain. Tell him I’m gone. Tell him I’m gone.


Update on Monday, August 14, 2006 at 06:55AM

You Might As Well Say It to My Face, Because I’m Going to Hear about It Eventually

Apparently some people read Tiny Cat Pants and then stomp around the house complaining about how ridiculous I’m being. 

I have a specific person in mind… Elias… but I guess maybe many of you feel similarly.

My dad said that I ought to put up a disclaimer that says, "Does not play well with others."  Then I had to apologize for acting like my Uncle B, who always takes us places and introduces us to all the people he knows.  That’s been me all weekend–"Here’s the Butcher; there’s Sarcastro; this is my dad; that’s my mom.  You know Elias over at Tiny Cat Pants?  Meet his wife: my oldest friend."

Today has been crazy.  We went to the flea market, then over to the Mothership, then here, then over to the campground and then to the airport where a veterinarian who spent the last six months in Canada working on horses kept rubbing up against me and calling JR "Ramona." 

Once we had JR’s bags, we came back here, changed for the play, went to Anatolia’s, this awesome Turkish restaurant for dinner, and America, I shit you not, my dad actually let us order dessert (that thing that’s shredded filo dough and cheese and sugar water) and he even ate it and liked it.

My dad has never in my entire life let us order dessert at a restaurant.  You eat at a restaurant.  You go to Dairy Queen for dessert.  That’s just the way the world works and you don’t want to start fucking with how the world works.

Then we went to see Faith/Doubt and everyone loved it.  My dad was just raving about the three women who sing in the piece.

My poor mom.  You have to understand that she’s really the straightman to my dad’s madness, but every once in a while, she’s her own kind of crazy. So, today, in honor of classy things like the theater, she wore her scarf that she got in that classy country of France.  She was going to speak only in French, but then she never got around to it.   I don’t know if that’s too bad or okay.

We also spent a great deal of time yesterday searching for her wallet, which apparently she loses at least once a week, because she refuses to put it in her purse.  I think she may refuse to put it in her purse because her purse is so god damned ugly that, if I were a wallet, I would commit suicide rather than be kept in a purse like that. 

My mom is a school teacher, so she’s one of those women that would wear a vest every day if she could and who sees nothing wrong with a sixty year old woman carrying a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats.

Of course, my mom is no tacky midwesterner.  If she’s going to carry a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats, it’s going to be a purse covered in tiny cartoon cats with class–it’s going to have some god damned beadwork and fringe.

You can see why the wallet might regularly decide it has something else to do.

So, today, at the flea market, we looked for a wallet with a chain that she could hook to her pants, but no such luck.  She claims she’d refuse to carry it, because, apparently a wallet with a chain is inappropriate compared to a cartoon cat covered purse with beaded fringe.

After the play, JR and I went down to the Bluegrass Inn and saw Brandon Giles swing from the ceiling and play the piano with his butt, so that’s always a good time.  God bless you, Bluegrass Inn, for being exactly the kind of place people visiting Nashville wished that people from Nashville wanted to hang out at.

Did I mention that my dad has decided that he’s an anarchist?

Remind me to tell you about that later.


I’ll have to consider it again when I’m sober, but frankly, I’m so tired of all of Ceeeelleeeceee’s fucking eeees–plus, how the fuck do you even say that?–that I knew he needed a nickname.

And tonight, it dawned on me.

Someone should call that boy Smiley.

And you know what?

I’m someone.


H[a]ppy Evening

I was thinking about we took the dog to Louisiana, and sometimes we’d leave her back at the campsite and run into New Orleans and how finally she was like, you will not leave me again, fuckers.  And so my dad was like, fine and so we drove into town with the dog and it was so fucking hot that my dad was all like, we just can’t leave her in the van.  And my mom was all like, well, we can’t go wandering around the French Quarter with her.  And so my dad just left the fucking van running with the dog sitting in air conditioned comfort.

Because, really, who’s going to break into a van with fucking Wigglebottom waiting inside for them?

In other news, I would have made a terrible h[a]ppy [person].  I think I burnt my thumb on the fucking lighter [I need to light these beautiful candles].

Come home, boys!  Help me fix myself up right [by setting a mood of calm relaxation].


My Hair Smells Like Brisket

Y’all, here’s what I realized tonight.  First, I am cute.  So, fuck y’all if you don’t want me.  I am cute and I am nice and I am smart and what I’ve got going for me over all your overly made up thin beautiful put together women is that I’m alive.  I mean it, really alive.  And I don’t take an hour and a half in the bathroom in the morning.

Any of you motherfuckers would be lucky to have me.  If you don’t know that, fuck you.  I’m fun.  I have a good time whatever I’m doing and I’m loyal like a dog and I’m wicked and smart.  And my hair smells like brisket.  Which smells damn good.  You’re lucky to know me.  You’d better start acting like it.

Sarcastro, stop your stupid fucking boycott, right this minute.  Yes, you’re a fucking oaf, so what?  There truly is a middle ground between ‘I’ll say whatever mean ass thing I can think of’ and ‘I’ll treat B. like a porcelain doll.’  Find it and stick to it.  If you want to pamper me in some way, come over and rub my feet.  Otherwise, just be nice to me.  Like medium-gentle.

Knucklehead, I want some god damned poetry in my comments every once in a while, again.   You used to write me poems all the time and now?  I’ve got no poetry in my comments.

Lee, continue to crack me up with off the wall comments about when you wear mascara.  I suspect that you’re going to surprise me.  I don’t know how, but I’ve got my eye on you.

Boy Scout, keep on keeping on.

Bridgett, you are the smartest person I know.  That’s not an order, but only because I can’t think of what to order you around about.

Peg, keep the beer cold for me.

Ceeelcee, I’m ready for you to be home.

Amanda, get a god damned blog already.  You’re cheating us.

Here’s the thing.  I went to appetisers and dinner with the Shill and her awesome friend and the Professor and Tiny the Wonder Fetus and god damn.  It was so awesome.  We talked about cooters and blow jobs and men who make sure that you come first and what the definition of “multiple” orgasms is and who has a surprisingly narrow penis and whether or not you can cure lonely.  And I realized that I’m damn lucky too.  I know such awesome people who churn up my soul and plant tiny seeds there and nurture the things that I find precious.

I love you guys.  I love beer, too.  But you knew that.

My point is… I don’t have a point.  I just mean to say that I am one lucky girl to have friends who are so smart and funny and thoughtful and I am always grateful, always, to know you.

Some of you don’t appreciate that, but that’s because you’re big old cowards.   Fine, I’m a coward, too.  But let’s be up-front about what’s going on.

Only not right now, because right now I’m going to bed.  We can sort through this stuff in the morning.

I Like Beer

Frankly, I like beer better than you.  No, not better than you do.  I mean, I like beer better than I like you.

Here are a number of reasons why I like beer better than you.  I don’t know how many reasons there will be ahead of time, because I haven’t typed them yet.  See, beer doesn’t give a shit about stuff like this.  Beer doesn’t care if there’s going to be a set number of reasons.  Beer’s all like, “Go ahead, B., just get it out there.  Here.  Let me give you a little inspiration.”

Yeah, so that’s reason one.

  1. Beer does not give a shit about minor details.

  2. Beer thinks I’m cute.

  3. Beer is not married or engaged or dating someone else.

  4. On days when I don’t feel like drinking, beer makes an excellent tonic for my hair.

  5. When it’s hot, there is nothing better than the cool, tingly sensation of that first cold swallow down my throat.

  6. Beer is dependable.

  7. Beer is not afraid to have lunch with me.

  8. Beer is not ashamed to be seen with me in public.

  9. Beer does not secretly wish I were pretty so that beer would not be embarrassed to date me.

  10. Beer does not run off to join the fucking Circe du Soleil.

  11. Beer does not care if I don’t have a car.  In fact, beer prefers I don’t drive.

  12. Beer is ancient.

  13. Beer goes with the blues; it does not give me the blues.

  14. Beer does not make me doubt myself.

  15. Beer makes me feel good and when I feel good I feel brave and when I feel brave, I feel like, well, fuck y’all if you’re too stupid to realize how great I am.

  16. Beer likes my brothers.  Beer’s like, “How ’bout the three of you sit on the couch and burp and fart and crack each other up?”

  17. Beer says, “B., you and the Shill certainly are the most spectacular thing to happen to this campus since Jim Bulleit graduated.  Put me in your pockets and go entertain the campus.”

  18. Beer says, “Smooches for everyone.”

  19. Beer says, “I bet Lithuanians would love to see your tits.”

  20. Beer says, “Sleep well, sweetie.”

In fact, the only drawback to beer is that beer also makes me have to piss about every ten seconds.  Really, compared to the shit y’all put me through, it’s not that big a drawback.  Because, you know what I think when I’m sitting in the bathroom, peeing again?

“Gosh, I sure like beer.”