BLOW UP GO POP!

Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows.

2011-02-24T15:18:00.001-06:00

Wow, I had a GREAT day yesterday! Let me tell you alllll about it. It's so lame, it's actually pretty comical.

First things first, it's official, I HAVE MONO! Here I thought I was just depressed, but no. There is a reason I have been unconscious for most of the month of February. Despite being exhausted, I felt like shopping a little, and so I dragged myself out--in sweats, sans fards--to the atrocity that is the Rivergate TJMaxx. There, I received a great little text from my friend, "Can't go to Mardi Gras, sorry." The fuck? We were supposed to be STAYING WITH THIS GIRL. A minute later and I'm on the horn, cussing out one friend, while trying to comfirm some impossible hotel accomodations with another. Naturally, there LITERALLY are NO rooms left for the period of time we planned on visiting. Shit, man, it's fucking Mardi Gras.

On my way home, as I explained why I was apprehensive about even attending the puke-fest that is Mardi Gras, I witness an obese woman purging her Demos' dinner violently all over the pavement. It was literally three or more lbs of puke, flowing through the streets. I nearly barfed myself. Lovely. How appropos.

I make it home, pretty pissed at my friend for so abruptly bagging on the trip, and relax to watch a movie before a first-date, scheduled for around 8:30. My date calls to confirm, but I'm still enraged, and basically give him a wholloping dose of the Auriane Crazies and try to bail on the date. 30 minutes later, and we're back on. I select a sweater I bought at ole TJMaxx, and find it has a huge hole in it. Bummer. I put on a dress and the same weird stripey thigh highs and garters I wore on New Year's Eve.

We meet for coffee. Things go well. He's cute, and nice. I have mono, so no physical contact was allowed, which was fine for me, since I wasn't exactly in the best of moods, nor did I see giant fireworks flashing before me.

I leave the date. I go to meet a friend at 3Crow. Well, wouldn't you know, my fucking EX IS THERE! I slap him around a little and joke that he's stalking me. Please recall that this loser totally hurt me, and I am in no way capable of being okay with the fact that he is alive, let alone living in the same city, and drinking in the same bar. Please also recall that the last time I saw said Doucher, it was New Year's Eve. Yeah, the night I was basically wearing the exact same outfit. Great. Naturally, I ask Nate, my friend I went to meet, to knock him out, but no. In Baltimore, someone would've punched the dude, but no. Ugh. Maturity is overrated.

I flirt a little with some random dudes, not because they were cute, but because I was in total defensive mode, and continue talking to them until one of them insults me. Time for shots. Not a great idea, but hell, not a great night. Douchebag is at the bar, and I entertain some polite conversation. Apparently, he recently OD'd. Lovely. He did not, as far as I can tell, die, so his OD'ing story affords me no happy ending.

Here, I spring to action. I lick the entire rim of my beer glass, and slobber a little extra on the end of my cigarette. I then ask Doucher to hold my drink and cig while I fish something out of my purse. Well, he did exactly what I expected, which was to take a sip of beer and a drag from my cigarette. Well played, Mono-Annie! I gave him a surprised look and said the least genuine "Ohhhhh nooooo! You shouldn't have done that! I have MONO...I guess you do now, too." He looked grossed out, and said something like "Great, just what I need," to which I replied, "No, just what you deserve," and punctuated this extremely appropriate cuntiness with a blatant hacking cough right into his face. Fucker.

He looks at me, and it's then that I see I have a bigger problem on my hands. Nice, cute guy I went out with earlier that evening? LOOKS. EXACTLY. LIKE. MY. EX. A hotter, more mature, more toned and much nicer version, but still. Spitting goddamn image. Fucking hell. This isn't going to work, is it?

So I leave. I'm not drunk, but it's rainy. I feel like crap. I hate feeling like that over a boy, no less, and so I mass text girlfriends for help. No one replies. That's fine, I mean, everyone has a life, but last time I checked I'm pretty frequently getting "HELP!" texts and responding, so I'm not too thrilled. This adds to my feelings of overall crappiness. I call Karen, who answers thank god, and allows me to come over for cookies and ice cream. Lo isn't home, but calls to grant me permission to her wine stash.

I realllllly want to get to Karen's, so I go exactly 8 miles over the speed limit. I know the exact speed I was going because....DRUMROLL...I got pulled over. Well, this was just too much. Here I am, cops lights flashing behind me, mourning my loss of vacation, feeling insecure because some guy dumped me, confused about the date I went on, tired and sick with Mono, and Officer Tim Meadows (seriously, looked and sounded just like him! You know, the principal from such classics as Mean Girls and Mean Girls 2?) approaches my window.

"Ma'am, can you give me any reasonable explanation for why you were speeding 8 miles over the speed limit, especially on these wet roads?"

I lost it. I burst out crying. Just burst. I started to try and explain a reason, but all I could get out was "I only had hot cocoa, and my date looks like my ex, and HE DUMMMMMMMPED MEEEE!" I think it scared him a little. But hey, I didn't get a ticket. Thank God for (very) small favors. I finally got to Karen's, where I parked in an unusual spot, and upon getting around the tricky car-pavement juxtaposition, fell face down in the mud. Nice. Here's mud in your eye! I should say "Literally," here, as this is literal mud in my eye, but I've said literally about 40 times in this post already. Make that, hmmm, 43. Moving on!

Done with crying, I replenished my lost tear-liquid with Pinot Grigio, and passed out in an easy chair. I woke up, smoked a cigarette, and a spider projected itself onto my shoulder on the back porch. I decided to trek home, in sweats and five-inch heels, looking like a true lady. My neighbors, of course, were all out and about, and I naturally gave them my pageant smile and wave, flipping my bar-musty hair for emphasis. "No, I did NOT get laid, people. There is no silver lining here." Even the cop didn't ask me to blow him. What am I doing wrong?

Haha, I'm about to put on "Today was a Good Day," and eat something poisonous. Kisses!

Um, Girl Power?

2010-04-11T12:56:00.001-05:00

We should all want to be friends with Nicki Minaj.

Seriously. She's smart. She's cute as hell and dresses up like a tasteful crazy person. She's real. And her music is great. I think it's refreshing to see a female take such a lead in rap, and still be, so, so, female. I mean, don't get me wrong, but a lot of these girls who rap are hardcore and kinda butch. (Love them, too, but nice to see someone I can relate to a little differently.) So yay. Girlie girls making $$$money$$$!!! I love seeing that. And listening to it. And since record companies look at numbers and charts, and her numbers are up bigtime, maybe we'll start to see other girlie girls getting signed, which would RULE!

I support fantastic women taking over the earth.

If you don't know, now you know.

Living Room Inspiration

2010-04-09T19:45:00.002-05:00

I'll sum this all up as fast as I can: I found a new place, I move in May 1st. I have no stuff, because I sold it all when I fled Chicago. So...I need new stuff. Knowing me, that's gonna take time. But until May 1st, I have all the time in the world to seek out eclectic style inspiration. Here, I will show you what is spackled, essentially, all over the inside of my brain.

Living Room Inspiration Shots:

(This picture reminds me how pretty white can be, and also actually looks like my living room, as far as structure and windows. Yes, you should be jealous of my living room and my huge beautiful windows. Also, the new place looks out over a busy street, so you can look forward to dropping pancakes on people. Again.)

Anna Nicole will have a steady theme throughout the house. Haha, no I'm not kidding. After Jesse completed my Anna Nicole riding and Elephant painting, I've become a woman obsessed. She's my living room focal point, for sure.

Next up, Kitchen Inspiration:

When I hear someone say "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade," I want to sock them in the face most of the time. I say, when life gives you lemons, squeeze them into the eyes of your enemies! Then, make a pie, because you can buy lemonade for, like, sooooo cheap at the store and who the hell actually makes it at home, anyway?

That being said, I like yellow. It's warm, and clean, which is a good combo for my not-so cute kitchen. Yeah, the kitchen in the place is def not the focal point. So I'd like to try and spruce it up a bit.

I would like to have someone paint me a large close up of a cartoonish fat Tyra Banks digging into a juicy cheeseburger with mustard on her face. That would fucking rule for the kitchen I want.

Up next I'll have to figure out what to do with the bedroom, although my bed takes up most of that space, since it's teensy tiny, and then also I think I will convert the second, totally useless hallway into a sort of walk-thru closet, with a small corridor for a dressing space. I have decided that deciding how to use the random space in the apartment will be the key to making it the most kick-ass abode ever. I mean, EVER. Well, that and the windows. The windows are killer. Yay!!!!

I have no idea what direction to go in with the bathroom. I really wanted to get the rainbow shower curtain that Urban Outfitters sold a while ago, but it's gone baby, gone. Here's a picture.

The more I think about it, it's too cheesy anyway. But what colors could I do in the bathroom? Not brown or yellow, although that would be the funniest thing ever! Like poop and pee everywhere you look. I'd also be game for doing a sad clown bathroom, but everyone I talk to seems creeped out by clowns, and I can imagine it would make people pee shy or constipated, and that's kind of cruel. I dunno. What do you like in bathrooms?

Jocelyn and Janice's Once Upon a Time

2010-03-12T15:19:00.001-06:00

Once upon a time there was a princess. She was rich and pretty and got everything she wanted in the near-end. Of course she had to escape the wrath of an oppressive family, and was locked in a tower because she was so beautiful, but the same beauty that confined her eventually brought the knights a runnin’, and she was set free, and left alone to live life with her lovers and bask in the undeniable glow of wealth and sex.

I say near-end, because one day, she got old and haggard. Mother nature is funny and equalizes us this way. Think of Angelina Jolie. She is the most beautiful woman on earth, as far as we know, and is aging terribly. So the same happened to this princess. The sex dried up. The men lost interest. Afraid of getting fat, our girl never bore a child by any of her saviors, and so she had no insurance plan, no guarantee to any of their money. Also, this was the time of princesses, so there was no such thing as a healthy divorce settlement for a young lady. Or, in her case, an old lady.

She dies alone. That’s how the story ends. Everyone leaves her because beauty is fleeting and no one wanted to lock her in a tower and make her an object of forbidden affection anymore. This is what happens when a realist writes a fairy tale. News flash, princess: There is no prince charming. There is no magical tower. In the end you don’t just live happily ever after. You will get old, and look ugly. You will sag and wrinkle and tear. Unless of course your prince charming is a plastic surgeon, in which case you will still end up fucked.

I dedicate my short story to Jocelyn Wildenstein and Janice Dickinson. You haggard old bitches.

This could be the place.

2010-03-10T14:47:00.000-06:00

So I've decided to try and stay put for a little while, and make my current hometown my, well, home. This raises some migration issues for me. Do I want to live alone again? Can I afford to live alone again? Mentally and financially living alone is a drain, but I miss my space, and truly want to find a sweet, little two-bedroom dwelling where I can set up an office for my writing endeavors.

Timing is everything, and I think I may have found the space that I am interested in. A quaint, 1920s cottage, the affordable home I'm looking into sort of scares me. It's not a terribly unsafe neighborhood, but I have to remind myself of who I am when I live alone. I get terminally lonely, and tend to overcompensate for said lonliness by drinking more, going out much more, and indulging in a string of naredowell lovers.

I wonder if I've grown past this thanks to my year living at The Forrest House. I feel like I have. I feel well adjusted, but I am also starting to feel trapped. I do not think a new roomate situation would amend any of this. If I am going to continue living with people, I am going to continue living with the people I am already with. I like them. It's just....is it time?

I have an appointment tomorrow morning to sit down and possibly rent this new place. If things go very well, it will be time to cloud my mind with the expenses involved in funishing an entire home. My expenses would go up about 20%. I do have a new job, and my income has increased to match this. I just don't know. I guess it all depends on the house and the hood. If it feels just right, I just might...

Funny Feet.

2010-02-27T16:22:00.001-06:00

I love shoes with a sense of humor.

Buy them, and see them at a variety of angles right here.

Chapters, stories, help help help tell me what you want!

2010-02-23T15:33:00.001-06:00

Ok so as many of you know I have been really taking initiative when it comes to writing all of the stories so many of you have heard, and as I'm writing them I started to notice a lot of recurring themes. So I took the list of stories that I want to write, and organized them around said themes. I guess this gives me a chapter list--although this is not in order, is extremely rough, and many of these stories won't make the final cut depending on how much I like how they turn out. Still, I would love some feedback on which story lines catch your immediate interest. I will need to choose about 15 stories max for this book, and there are a lot listed below, so any info you can offer will help tons. You can email me thoughts at Aurianimal@gmail.com or you can just call me because let's face it, you and I are probably already friends if you're reading my blog.

Apartments:
How to move: a guide to using young men who happen to be Jehovah’s Witnesses.
The broken dress strap, champagne, trying to get into the apartment screaming help while bleeding naked in high heels--i.e. THE ABSOLUTE DRUNKEST I HAVE EVER BEEN IN MY LIFE.

The elevator
-Adam and I on Halloween caught having sex in nerd costumes
-The cherry pie I baked for an asshole, that I stuck tampons in
-Waking up with a black eye on 4th of July.
-Eating mushrooms and charring the whole apartment building, and then killing my hamster on accident
-The homeless family I found in the basement of 202 W Monument

Pets:
Strangling the cat, yes I am a psycho.
Sonya the bitch cat who used to attack me when no one was looking.
When Sinner got stolen/lost
When jesse beat his dog within an inch of her life--the end of our relationship

Hospital Visits/injuries:
Er after cracking my head
Redneck party stitches
Getting beat up by the rando Mexican guy in DC and peeing on the keyboard.
Family:
France
The baby bird and Larry--Auriane learns about death by putting an animal in the garbage disposal
Pregnancy and subsequent abortion
My first period--age six, thank you slide accident.
Getting attacked by the pony in Assateague
Men:
The Dog Fucker, yeah it's exactly what it sounds like.
Eddie’s Stolen Fish
Mike the cocaine dealer: Everyone stalks someone at least once.

Stalking:
Kip Winger
Tony Danza
Christmas Stalking: How to have more fun at Holiday Time

Sex:
My first date with a woman
Sex and hairdye: This is a lengthy look at how my orgasms match my hair color. It's weird, but it's true.

Illegal activity:
Being arrested for political terrorism in Mount Vernon on Nov. 2nd
Mexico, smnuggling the crack rock, stripping to cheesy music, and the Christian girls.
Tagging and other acts of vandalism as a middle schooler--faco the taco, and other delinquent things I did with my friend Katie
Getting mugged, and shattering my tailbone.
Stealing liquor: A working for MyOpenBar drunken retrospective.

Dead Blondes by Amica Lane

2010-02-22T16:23:00.001-06:00

My internet soul sister, Amica Lane, who writes a blog HERE, has put together a few short videos of dead iconic blondes, and I'm pretty much in love with them. Here, for your viewing pleasure...

Getting to Know your Father: A Postmortem Affair

2010-02-21T19:25:00.002-06:00

In a few hours, it will be my biological father's birthday. Hmm let's do the math, tomorrow he would have turned 62 years old. I thought, for the longest time, that he was around 62 when he died. I always thought he was much older than he was. Strange. I only know his actual age because I have in my possession his old driver's license. It is the only picture I have of him, and he looks like a mad terrorist. Or so I've been told. I just think he looks very, very French. Some people would call them one and the same, I suppose.
I used to have a video of my sister, Christian and myself goofing off in my mother's apartment in Silverdale, Washington. I used to like it because I was actually realllllllly fucking cute in it, something I didn't retain for much of my childhood. Now I wish I had it because it was video footage of him, although even in that video he was sort of cold to me, and frantic and odd. Foreign. Literally and figuratively. As if he sensed or believed he didn't belong.

In college, I had to write a short paper about something life-altering that had happened to me. I wrote about my last visit with my dad. We were essentially estranged, although not on bad terms. Well, not on apparent bad terms, although I was passively angry. I felt overall pretty abandoned by him, still do of course, and didn't have the adult wherewithal to contact him, and maintain a relationship with him. He also lacked such wherewithal. The difference is, I was a kid, and he was a grown man. I relocated the college paper in an old email recently, and it's pretty dead on. Still, as most college essays do, it tied a nice bow around something so much more complex and messy than I was--at that time--willing to address. My relationship with my father, his life, our lives after and before his death, that's a LOT of time there. I can't sit and digest his death. I can't fit all of my feelings, and all of the effects his estrangement and that trip to France had on my current relationships and feeling about almost everything. I am okay, I'm not saying I'm not, but still. Reading that essay was interesting, but it's a trite attempt to sum up something that will not be summarized. I will spend the rest of my life getting to know my family, and being forever influenced by who they were. That's just fact. For all of us. I have been left with a lot of work to do. Perhaps you have, as well. Here's the paper in italics, if you're interested in reading it. It was my second to last year of college, so this was in hmmm...2005? Maybe 2004.

France
by Auriane de Rudder

Defining moments in life often occur when we aren’t looking. For most of us, waking up on any given day, we walk, talk, work and proceed with out lives unaware that, in some cases, this day will forever change us. Usually, it is not until a moment of later reflection that we interpret such days as life-altering. This was not so when I visited France to meet my dying father.

My sister and I prepped ourselves for the trip. It was difficult for me to leave school; it was my last week of my senior year at Wilde Lake High. I wanted to be with my friends, but as every teacher, family member, and friend kept telling me, “You’ll regret this for the rest of your life.” And so I went, with my sister, Amelia, to Paris by way of Chicago. One long, leg-cramping flight and two train-rides later (approximately 20 hours of travel all together), we were picked up by my half-brother, Francois. I had known Francois when I was an infant, just as I had known my father. Looking at him was interesting. We have my father’s face, all three of us. He informed us that Christian, who my sister still calls “Papa,” was not doing well. Both Amelia and Francois spoke in French. I did not. In fact, I couldn’t have.

I moved from France as an infant. My mother abandoned her husband and career as a translator and took up teaching in America. We stayed mainly with her mother, Marge, and our neighbors Theresa and Shelly while mom was away working. Shelly, a tiny raven-haired girl with pointy teeth and dimples, spoke Spanish. Theresa, her mother, taught me to speak tiny bits of Spanish, but never enough to deem me bilingual. I was pretty much useless in France, then. When we reached the run-down home my father had chosen as his tomb, it became clear that the language barrier would be a hindrance.

My father did not appear sick at all. He was well dressed, with a scarf tied around his neck (he looked exactly as French as you're imagining, I swear), and spoke very clearly to my sister and brother. Still, he spoke only in French, and so his clarity was useless to me. I said a quick “Bonjour,” and went to unpack in my room.

The home was less than luxurious. An abandoned castle, half in ruins, situated high in the Cevennes mountains, the air was as thin as my father’s mullet-sporting roommate, Jean-Pierre. Another man shared the electricity-free, chilly stone building with the two men, but was away with his lover for the duration of my stay. I was given his room and informed, in mangled Franglish, to shake out my sheets before sleeping to clear any scorpions from the bed. I had been there for fifteen minutes before I started to cry, quietly, in my room. I missed my friends. I missed central heat. I missed windows that closed and a life free of lethal bugs. I missed air full of oxygen and was unimpressed with the dizziness I experienced; a side-effect of altitude and jet-lag.

Four days passed. France has delicious cheese and ice cream, and so, I ate cheese and ice cream. My father watched me, and although he was perfectly fluent in English, he spoke only French. Occasionally, Jean-Pierre would attempt to discuss pop-culture with me, but his English was lacking, and I spoke too fast for him to understand. I hastily edited manuscripts for friends with a red pen, letting my anger unfurl on their pages. For the first time in my life, I did optional homework. More camembert cheese. More pistachio ice cream. If I kept my mouth full, I was less inclined to speak. My father brought both foods home in surplus.

Four more similar days passed. It was finally time to go home. I had a permanent chill from staying in the room farthest from the fireplace, and felt I had learned very little about where I came from. My brother’s Italian fiancé arrived, and placed her things in my room. My father silently packed my belongings into the car, and we set out on a long drive to the train station. My sister, fluent in French, mind you, stayed behind for several more days.

The car ride was quiet. What could be said? My father was dying. His cancer had metastasized throughout his body, and when he unbuttoned the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt, it was easy to see large lumps of cancerous flesh protruding from his arms. I had a long life ahead of me. The years in which he could have impacted me had passed. Life is not always art. He had nothing wise to leave me with.

At the train station, he spoke English. It was just he and I. He told me that his roommate, Luc, was visiting his lover in Paris. I knew this. Jean-Pierre had told me. In English. My father told me “She is a nice woman. But she talks very much and says nothing.” Funny, he would choose to make this his last statement to me. Is that irony? He told me he loved me, and chased the train waving madly at me as my car departed from the station. Now, that's got to be irony.

I went to France knowing I would learn something about who I came from, and what I am. I expected to learn this from my father. I knew that when I got there, he would tell me he was sorry for never keeping in touch. He would hug me. I would be cured. I was afraid of him, but I never expected him to be terrified of me.

Amazing moments and moments that define us are not always the same thing. Often, the more ordinary circumstances, the biggest let-downs or disappointments, can shape us in ways that great achievement never will. I was not cured by my trip to France. If anything, I was deeply disturbed by it. Only a month later, I was informed that my father had died. I was not invited to the funeral. There was little closure, just as there had been very little opening up. But am I affected? Certainly. Life is not what we’re told to expect. Often, estranged parents stay estranged. Children are sometimes more adult than grown-ups, and fear and guilt weigh heavily on strained relationships. The world is not a perfect place, and moments that are supposed to positively impact us often set us back emotionally. I had to go to France to see where I came from, and I don’t regret learning that I come from no place perfect.

NOTE: the events in that story aren't totally true. I wasn't to exceed 1,000 words, so I had to cut out a trip to the French Grand Canyon where our one-sentence "she talks much and says nothing" conversation actually took place. Truth, my sister came with me to the train station, along with Christian. Also, his roomate's name was not Luc. I don't know what his name was. OH! And more importantly, my college paper left out the funny part about how I got a fucking STD from sharing a towel with the roomate with the mullet. Yeah. TRUE! That was really the icing on the fucking emotionally disturbed cake. But I digress.

Naturally, there is obvious resentment there. I think I am allowed to resent him a little. Or even a lot. I try not to resent him a lot, though. It doesn't seem fair to anything anyone A LOT when they're not around to defend themselves. The extraordinary circumstance here, though, is that I never really knew anything about him. Like many families, mine was not one of open communication. We were all very adept at ignoring our emotions and sentimental feelings, be they feelings of love or of anger. An example: I remember my parents (mother and step-father) actually asking me to start saying "I love you." I never said it naturally before I had gotten used to saying it because Larry, my step-dad, wanted to hear it. We are emotional suppressors. We are strong willed and tough, but not very in-tune with our feelers, so to speak.

Anyway. My mother informed me that there were "hundreds" of letter from my father to her after she left Paris, and him, subsequently. Good to know. Nice timing, mom. A little late seeing as he's been in the ground for almost ten years now. Still, I have to applaud positive change in a person, no matter how screwy the timing may be. So Bravo, Catherine. It is important for me to learn more about who my father was. Not because he is still alive and there is a relationship with him to be salvaged. No. It is important to me because my sister adored him, and has always looked up to him. To regain the amazing relationship I had with her--it has been strained immensely since his death--I need to learn to respect him for who he was. I cannot, given the information I have now, respect his decision to be an absentee father to me. But I guess learning who he was, and being interested in that is a compromise of sorts. Also, on a selfish note, the letters are interesting, and I enjoy learning about who and where I came from.

So, without further ado, here is my first letter. Hopefully my mom won't get too wine drunk to keep 'em coming!
'Paris,January 3 1986

This morning I picked up my films at the lab. It was good, and I hope Vogue will like the subject "L'art Brut". In fact it is "L'art Fou" (crazy art). 5000 works by the painter Jean Dubuffet, I think I mentioned this exhibition to you already. At the entrance to this museum, these words are inscribed in concrete:
"Art does not come to sleep in the beds we make for it; Art escapes as soon as we pronounce its name. What art loves is the incognito. Its best moments occur when it forgets its name."

It's warmer in Paris, but dark, and sad. Few people in the street. With the 5th week of vacation for all French people, most have taken off for a week of winter sports. They'll all be returning this weekend. I'm working this week with Alain Riou on a series of interviews with the "new" young film directors who are having such an impact on the country.

Jean-Pierre called me last night. The construction of his restaurant is advancing and he expects to open at the end of January. I hope it goes well for him. I'm convinced, he's the perfect host. He will create a very pleasant atmosphere, and of course, as you remember, he will serve fabulous "campagnard" food.

I must find a new frame for the new photos you sent to me. Thanks again. What a great pleasure to see how Auriane and Amelia have grown! How I miss them! What beautiful and extraordinary girls! I'm proud of them, and love them so much.'

Happy Christian de Rudder day, everyone. I am going to celebrate by once again taking the T-Tops off of my Camaro and remembering what it was like to drive around with him in his T-Top white Camaro in Oregon, listening to Rick Astley and Little Lies by Fleetwood Mac. Man, what year was that? Should have been 1987, if both those songs were getting serious radio play. I was 4. Yes, that makes sense because I wasn't in Kindergarten yet, since we were in Oregon. This letter-translating business should be an interesting little trip down repressed/forgotten memory lane.

Let's play a game!

2010-02-20T12:58:00.006-06:00

I was just thinking how awesome it would be if Tony Danza starred in some new-classic movies. Just think about it.

Imagine Tony instead of Patrick Swayze (no offense, Patrick. I still looooove you) in Roadhouse.

Or imagine Tony Danza instead of either of the main characters in White Chicks.

What about Tony Danza as the voice of Cinderella in the Disney classic?

Better yet, imagine a CGI'd Tony D as the midget who speaks backwards in Twin Peaks Fire Walk With Me.

I could go on and on and on. Also, I'd like to see Tony Danza play the crazy chola bitch who jumps Reese Witherspoon in Freeway in the juvenile detention center scene. That'd be some good shit.

Or Tony as the Peter what's-his-eyebrows role in Center Stage.

What would you put Tony Danza in?

Post Feminist Faux Pas

2010-02-19T18:20:00.005-06:00

Well well well.

Here we are again. Hello, sir. Have a seat. Or stand, if you're feeling physically insecure. No, really, go ahead. I understand.

So we've slept together. And no, I didn't wait. And shockingly--and that's sarcasm, dear--you seem to lack respect for me mentally and physically. I have become, I assume by your actions, a kind of pedestal of booty calls. You're nice enough to me keep getting laid, but make me feel as if I am only nice enough to fuck. And sloppily at that.

And I knew this would happen. It's the perfect equation. After all, a woman cannot simply put out right off the bat on dates without being considered easy, a piece of ass, and little more. There is no proving your worth afterward, because our worth is proven for us when we have our first-date orgasm (or lack thereof). That's a shame, isn't it? Here I thought we'd gained some kind of platform. Some kind of equality in the sex-game. But no. We're still either easy or tricky. Simple or intriguing. A sure thing or a challenge. I would, for one, consider myself incredibly tricky, even if I am a little easy. I'm picky, too. I'm also a real live woman with hopes, dreams, aspirations, a dog, friends, bills, taxes, car troubles, a weird family, a pension for wacky nail polish colors and odd fashion accesories and a talent for story telling. The list goes on. As it does for millions of other "easy" girls out there.

Hmph.

So I've considered playing not-so-easy. In fact, I did just that when I moved a year or so ago. It was awful. I am not an actress, and if you delve at all into my history--which men trying to get laid will do--you can't imagine I'd wait for sex. I don't, as I have been told, "seem like the type." What exactly is that supposed to mean? I have a healthy libido, and I'm at my prime. I've lost weight, I feel great, and I love sex. Why shouldn't I be getting laid? Why should I wait? Why do I have to prove my self-worth out of bed, and not in it/the morning after/the rest of our time together/etc? Is it possible to be a human being and a sexual being when you're a woman? Is it impossible for us to not be compartmentalized? I want to be me, be respected, and be sexually active, but the three--in the eyes of many people I have met-- seem to be mutually exclusive.

And here's the thing: I cannot and will not date anyone with antiquated views of what a woman should be in or out of bed. I have no respect for that. If you think a girl is one-dimensional, or plan to treat her as if she is because she put out early on, you're not on my (or should I say OUR--sisters, you know you feel me) level. While the easy solution would be to stop putting out, play little "nice" girl who dreams of ponies and sunsets and romance, and settle down with someone who repects me for who I am certainly not, I refuse. That wouldn't be me. That wouldn't be respect. That would be theatre, and I'm no actress.

The only solution here is to sleep with everyone I want to, and if they act like a cad afterward, or stifle me in the slightest, well? I guess we just have to set his or her sofa on fire. No, not really. But you understand, right?

After all, my sex-life is just one part of my life in general. It is a portion of me, not an entirety. When I meet a man, I am not only thinking about his penis-size, nor am I only thinking about his sense of humor. Attraction, for me, and I bet for you as well, is based on a laundry list of factors. His entirety. If the whole pie isn't delicious, I won't eat a slice. I hope to garner the same respect and attention without pretending to be something I'm not.

Like leaving a lover....who you never really even liked that much

2010-02-14T05:07:00.004-06:00

Today I started my new job, and let me tell you, I just love it.

I was working at Brewhouse for about a year and a month, and the place started to go downhill hardcore. My shifts were long, my money did not at all add up given the length of shift, and I worked--for at least the first 9 months--alongside cheats, thieves, and psychos. Or one of each, to be more precise.

I somehow became convinced that I simply couldn't do better. After all--this is DOWNTOWN! It's supposed to be where the money is at, but it's quite the opposite. The way of that bar was very strange. It was like dating an abusive lover you just couldn't leave. Where would you go without him? The mentality was something I was really not used to, but somehow I fell into it for a long time. It was depressing. I drank, smoked, ate and was depressed much more than usual. The abuse didn't become blatant until recently, though.

Brewhouse started to really suck it about 4 months back, when we earned ourselves a new GM who is a watcher of all things fun at the bar. Having fun at work? Better be careful! They're watching!! Taking a shot after a redneck fueled rush that made you and your coworkers want to commit suicide? Better be careful! Someone is WATCHING! Things really took a turn for me when I was forced to wear a company tank top that was, well, just FUGLY. Cheesy sexist remarks we written on it as some kind of stupid company slogan, bad cut, bad style, bad design, terrible silk screen, and just ewwww. So I decided then and there that I would not be told what to wear! Ha ha, it sounds so stupid, but you know I hate ill fitting clothing. I have cute clothes, thank you, I will dress myself. I think I earned that priviledge around, ohhh, age 7. I immediately decided to quit, but bills be damned, I had to bide my time until I found another gig.

Anyway, I found one. I was hesitant, but I really wanted out of Brewhouse, so I took the first lucrative and seemingly up-my-alley offer. I basically work at Roadhouse now. You know, Patrick Swayze Roadhouse. Yeah. It's sort of wonderful.

I pretty much live--once or twice a week--in the best B movie ever made! Oh, new job, how I love thee. You are my savior and Valentine, happy work scenario. Let me count the ways: Better money, MUCH shorter shifts, no need or time to talk to the people whose money I'm taking, funny southern rap music and line-dancing to watch, really supportive and helpful coworkers, freedom to decide when or what I should be drinking (no thanks, for the most part), NO SMOKING IN THE BAR, oh I could go on and on and on.

Anyway, happy Valentine's Day to everyone. I will be at work. If I'm lucky, I'll even still be this happy.

Death Metal Rooster, j'adore!!

2010-02-08T20:19:00.001-06:00

Proximity without Intimacy: My Developmentally Challenged Love Life

2010-01-30T13:11:00.005-06:00

It seems that with all things I grow consistently. I have never really felt stagnant for too long, and my life has a very natural ebb and flow to it that I am comfortable with. Well, most parts of my life, do, anyway.

I do seem to have a problem with intimacy, however. Not sexual intimacy. Giving myself to someone physically can be difficult at times, but for the most part my sexual desires have motivated me to get beyond that. Like, my hormones and sexual impulses take precidence over my fear of giving my body to someone and trusting them enough to please it.

But intimacy in a relationship is hard for me. I don't trust people that I date. I am consistently waiting for the other shoe to drop, and while I'd like to be open and carefree and whatever it is people who have successful relationships are, the other shoe always does drop, and I'm proven right. My resistance to trusting people is solidified, then. The cycle repeats. I meet someone. I do not trust them. My sexual urges motivate me to sleep with them. We develop a one-on-one relationship. I doubt their intentions the entire time. I grow tired of not being able to trust them. I search until I find what it is they're hiding, or hunt until I discover what is truly wrong with them. The relationship ends. I feel justified in knowing they were terrible all along, and I should never have thought they'd be anything else. Rinse and repeat. Hopefully with someone cuter/richer/funnier. You get the idea.

After one of these cycles, I am left hollowed out and physically exhausted. I want to hide, or move, or go back home to Baltimore and drink until I black out with people I actually do trust. My friends. How is it that we form such amazing bonds with friends, but can't do so with lovers? Don't you think that's strange? And sure, getting black out drunk in Charm City may sound sad, but take it with a grain of salt because drinking heavily with people in Baltimore is, like, the most fun EVERRRRR. Srrriously. I digress.

I don't know if there is a point to this post. It's a little waah waah whiney for a blog, but I suppose recognizing the patterns I have and that these patterns upset me is part of solving the problem. For me, writing things down and admitting them in a public arena is how I problem solve. So here we are then.

I watched a movie called The Easy Girl not too long ago, and I really empathized with the main character. I'm watching a movie called Suburban Girl now, and again I can empathize. In the first film, a woman basically just slept with everyone she dated. None of the men she met ever called her afterward, and she had a hard time with the cycle she was in until eventually she broke it by maintaining celibacy for some odd stretch of time. She got to know herself, her trust issues, etc and fell in love. Everyone lived happily ever after. In the second movie, a young girl dates and older man, has a significant relationship, but also recognizes come the end of the film that just because a relationship is valuable is is not always supposed to last. Moral: People are--more often than not--supposed to break up. Also, as in the first film, everyone lives happily ever after. Just not with eachother.

I feel like a combo of the two films most acurately describes my mentality for dating. It's like, I know I should hold out, wait to put out, make people get to know me for me, and then be physically intimate with them. But I am also well aware that most relationships I have will end. They are not forever. So why waste so much time getting to the good stuff? Also, isn't being impulsive sexually a part of me? Aren't you getting to know me if you discover I am a fun girl with pretty kick-ass lapses in clear judgment? Seriously, it's a wild ride (haha not the sex, but the poor decision making) but it can be a fun one, too.

I had a boyfriend recently who did a nice job of dating me. Of course it didn't work out, but he was on top of taking me nice places, learning and listening to me and about me, and sharing things about himself in the process. It was one of the most healthy experiences I have had with a man. Boring, but healthy. To contrast that, the men who have really made me laugh in and out of bed, have never courted me at all. I jump into bed with them. I make the mistake of thinking "OH! Someone like-minded. We have so much in common as far as our personalities," and I assume--wrongly--that we would have a similar moral code about sexual encounters, which is that you don't need to wait for sex in order to still respect and want to get to know the person afterward.

It's all a big mess if you ask me. I can sit around and daydream that I will meet someone creative, sensitive, damaged but not ruined and dead sexy all day. The sad thing is that I think instead I need to work on me. But I'm tired of working on me!! The work piles up and it never, ever ends!! Aggggg.

Celibacy, anyone? Man, that would suck. I feel like my love-life is mentally retarded. Haha, or it's like Memento and I have no idea why everything keeps repeating.

Look, I don't know about you, but

2010-01-28T02:04:00.002-06:00

I feel really good when someone I hated to see get kicked off of America's Next Top Model ends up on another reality show.

Get it, Lisa D'Amato. Even if you are getting "it" on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. I still love you, girl.

Ain't that some shit.

2010-01-17T15:53:00.003-06:00

So here we have one woman holding an autistic baby, and a teen mother holding her little baby whoopsie. Nice family portrait, you hypocrites. Even better? Bristol is now speaking publicly about her belief in abstinence. Because teaching kids to abstain from sex worked so, SO well in her case. Meanwhile her baby-gay-faced sperminator ex boyfriend is posing in Playgirl and not even showing us the you-know-what.

Oh, and as for the "struggle to find romance after Levi," I can guarantee she's up for a challenge. A.) She's a mommy now, which we all know hardly draws young men likes flies and B.) She's a Palin. INLAW NIGHTMARE!

Can someone take these children away so they don't grow up to be twice as damaged as they have already genetically inherited? Heartwarming family photos?? Ugh. Gross! Good job choosing life, next time please choose progressive and current sexual education. As for you, Sarah Palin...I, I..have no words. Well, no words that would come off as educated, at least. I'd hate to make a hypocrite out of all three of us.

Tea Party in Aurianeland...starring Ke$ha, Nicki, Mariah and more!

2010-01-08T12:55:00.007-06:00

This girl is my new favorite.

Ohhhh, Ke$ha let me count the ways...It's a combo triple threat of her always-dirty hair, her glitter spattered website, and her blantantly whorey and wasted lyrics that make me feel like (AT LAST!) I have found a pop star I can truly put stock in. If you know me and silly pop music, than you understand.

Look, I love some Britney, but the girl is tired, and you know it. I mean, what was that "3" shit? Terrible. And the weave! God, girl, THAT WEAVE!

Kylie is fabulous, and her last cd was great, but truth be told, Kylie is going to be winding down soon enough. I mean, she's been around since I was, like, 4. Plus her style is classy. I like classy, but I relate to dirty a lot more. Still, I love Kylie. I mean, best on-stage and video choreography and most consistently fun albums of them all.

We had a flash in the pan with Christina Aguilera, speaking of, ahem, dirrty, but after she released Stripped I feel like most of her music went a little downhill. Stripped is amazing, though. Plus between the mega-sized fake boobs and the three tons of makeup she wears when she grocery shops, I just can't relate. Sorry, boo. Or maybe I can relate a little too well. I don't need anyone inspiring me to wear more makeup than I already do!

I highly doubt that Ke$ha will elevate to the level of fame that these ladies did, but I adore her. I have consistently had "Bla Bla Bla" in my head, which is a song about a guy who won't shut up when Ke$ha just wants to bang bang bang. I mean, did she really just say, "Don't be a little bitch with your chit-chat, just show me where the dick's at?" Good girl. Hahah, please don't die soon...but watching this video makes me think she might. Be careful, drinky!

Also, "Dinosaur," makes me laugh. It's about old guys hitting on pieces that are too young for them. You've probably heard "Tik Tok," on the radio but the video above is where you can really see what a hot mess this girl is marketing herself as.

http://www.keshasparty.com/us/music/animal

Between Ke$ha and Nicki Minaj (oh my god she is sooo fierce, get the new album it's worth your while) I have my new 20-somethings to love. I still like Lily Allen, especially since she's started partying with Kate Moss and showing more and more nipple. Basically I just love hot messes who own it. ***Please note: Britney did not OWN her messy times...or messy weave!*** I have a feeling that we may see Miley Cyrus jump on the hot-mess bandwagon as soon as she hits, like, 18 or 21. We can only hope! DOWN WITH THE WHOLESOME FACADE! Real girls say and do real things. And I love whorey lyrics and 4-letter-words more than I love back-rubs. So there.

Oh, here's a link to Nicki Minaj, too. Kill da Dj is great, and you've probably already heard I Get Crazy. So good. SO GOOD.

In my musical fantasies, I have a tea party with Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson and Mary J. Blige while R Kelly cooks for us (NO PEE!). In the background? Ke$ha and Nicki Minaj's collab album plays. What? A girl can dream. Oh, and can Tony Danza be there, too? Thanks.

Guerilla: The Taking of Patty Hearst

2009-12-17T01:36:00.002-06:00

Best. Movie. Ever.

If you haven't seen it yet, well, DUH watch it NOW!

It's amazing, and it's all true. Don't be a retard. Things like this actually happen, and there are easy peasy movies about it to be seen, dammit!

I know, I'm sorry, but...

2009-12-10T15:15:00.003-06:00

I know that I've just been posting random material that I like from all over the place, and haven't put up much of anything I actually wrote or made, but I've been busy. I'm working really hard on fiction writing, which I don't really want to put up here--yet, anyway--and also getting ready for the holidays/fixing the Camaro/putting random Christmas Cards in the mailboxes of strangers/awaiting Lauren Vinopal's visit/stalking Kip and Tony/etc.

So, in true busy Auriane fashion, here are some more videos I love. Sawwwwwwy.

They really lose something if you don't watch one and then the other. It's, like, a perfect contrast of childhood. Also, what's with all the smoking? They could have just shown them doing drugs. It's not a big deal, Muse.

All I want for Christmas is a Repaired Sex Doll?

2009-12-07T08:59:00.010-06:00

This is possibly the single most interesting, debauched, lovely article I have ever read in a men's magazine. Below, a taste...

"'If you care for it, if you treat it right, you can crank her knees up to her shoulders and bang away at that doll with good hard intercourse and come out shining. But clean her out,' Fiero says, his voice rising with indignation. 'Clean her off. If you've got a hairy chest, you're going to leave hairs all over her. If you've got a cat, she's going to pick up cat hair. You want to take care of what you've got.'"

"'He told me the doll was in great shape,' Fiero says, 'and she wasn't. In this guy's doll the jaw was so displaced it was in the back of her head. How the hell do you get somebody's jaw—it was on the outside, behind the doll's neck! And her left breast was hanging on by less than a half an inch of still-attached silicone. Her breast was practically ripped off. Her fingers were ripped off. It saddened me to think that somebody would spend that kind of money and treat something like that, when it's basically a human object. I had one guy from Berkeley who had sex so hard with his doll that he ripped the leg off it. The doll was less than a year old, and destroyed. Her calves, from below the knee, had what looked almost like knife puncture wounds. Hundreds of them. I don't know what this guy was doing to this doll.' Fiero has his principles."

Normally, I'm not so into Details Magazine. Truth be told I'm an avid Esquire subscriber and pretty much faithful to their content. Still. This article takes the cake. I read it about this time last year while working at a friend's consignment shop. Best. Distraction. Ever. Let's link to it one more time, in case you haven't wised up and clicked on it yet.

Actually, while I'm here, there's a few other articles I really liked last year. One is about a woman who infiltrated the KKK and found out--shocker--how boring and stupid they actually are. You can read that one here. I just like the title. Well, no. I like the entire articleis great. But you can't deny "The Day I Joined the KKK...was Super Fucking Gay," jumps right off the page and sets your yard-cross on fire a little, no?

Finally, the entire June 2008 issue of GQ was so fucking great, but this profile on (of all people) Shia Labeouf was AMAZING. I love clowns, I love hotdogs (I miss you filthy pork leftovers!), and I love Echo Park mainly because of Sad Girl and Mousy's Adventures in Mi Vida Loca.

As for my favorite CNN articles this year, I have a short list:

New Giant Rat Species Discovered!
Homeless Woman leaves 150k to Charity
Woman Accused of Targeting 9-year-old on Craigslist

As for other presents I feel you may enjoy, here are links to a variety of great things, including a Karl Lagerfeld/Kanye West trivia game, a page that will replace all images on a webpage with pictures of kittens (I prefer the glittery unicorn version, but it's your call), and a heart-warming blog filled with only good news. That last one if out of character for me, but still. I'm no Scrooge! Merry Christmas, and Happy Hanukkah.

Okay, and last but not least for your internet Christmas entertainment--here are my favorite songs that aren't totally old...and a picture of a baby animal or two.

Wait, before I go...let's have some more Mi Vida Loca!

Maaaaaaannnnnn I love that movie.

These are a few of my favorite things...

2009-11-03T14:29:00.002-06:00

Have a great day!

Palm Beach Ken is the guy my Barbies would've played with...

2009-10-29T10:14:00.005-05:00

This is the new Ken doll from Mattel. Yes, really. I saw it on Dlisted and nearly peed my pants laughing. Finally--a super gay Ken!! And now, for the product description:

"Cool sophistication in breezy Palm Beach! Sporting a dashing jacquard-patterned jacket with a light pink polo shirt and crisp white pants, Ken doll is ready for Palm Beach social season, sunning by the pool and a stroll with his little companion. Fashion designed exclusively for the Silkstone Barbie doll body includes Ken doll, jacket, pink polo shirt, white shoes, dog with leash, swim trunks and accessories, doll stand and certificate of authenticity. For the adult collector. Order yours today!"

Seriously? That's amazing.

How can it be?

2009-10-26T16:00:00.003-05:00

I am a little confused.

Not to be super emo, or dwell or anything, but how can it possibly be that when I keep myself as distant as I do with men, I still feel the burn and dirty sick-to-my-stomach feeling when I break things off.

It happened with Ray. Ray offended me to no end, and it was only logical to cut him off. He agreed. His friends were bigots and had their paws all over me. They talked shit about my roomates and friends for their sexual orientations, and Ray didn't stick up for us at all. So he was out. Boom. Gone. But for a month I felt terrible. I was hurtful and hateful and nasty to him. He deserved it, but still. Gross. I hate being that way, but it's some strange unstoppable self-defense power storm of ickiness.

It happened before that when I slept with Robert. He was a total cad, a douche, a nut. He had an over-inflated ego and thought he was somehow going to save the world. Truth be told, he was dreadful, and I didn't really like him. But I wanted to, and the rejection from him turned me into a drunk, easy mark and resulted in affairs with people I wouldn't normally give the time of day.

And now it's happening again. Did you read my last post? How mean was that? And when someone is kind of terrible to me, will it always be my reaction to be so much more terrible that they are inevitably hurt, offended and want nothing to do with me? If so, is that okay? Is that smart--a form of self-perseverance? Like, if I offend them to the point they will never come back, or never talk to me again, then am I ensuring I will never have to make the decision to let them back in?

"Life is everybody's personal untrained hammerhead shark, full of thwacking emotional whiplash and spinal emergency, full of weighty grace and random threat." --Cintra Wilson

I think the answer is complicated. The answers. Multiple answers. I think the truth is that I am a little crazy, and I am very intolerant of any kind of fuckery at the hands of men in my life. I hope that one day I will meet someone who is interested enough in me to bear through that, and I hope that this person I meet will interest me enough to inspire me to be more tolerant. In the mean time, I suppose I'll stick with the old cookie analogy. No matter how far I come, no matter how many things I change about my life, I am still cookie dough. One day, I hope to be cookies. Then you all can eat me! Ha ha. Yeah I said it.

Going back to the kitchen. Got some baking to do.

Lovers lost, and of course, their pants...

2009-10-22T15:15:00.007-05:00

Sweet holy Hannah! Another one bites the dust!

Let's see where do I begin? It all started with a pair of pants.

I was dating a guy. We will call him Mister Short Rib. I don't really have a good reason for naming him this, but our last date took place at Korean BBQ, and that's what he ordered, so, there you go.

Mister Short Rib wasn't a nice guy, per se. But Mister Short Rib was nice to me. On our first date, he took me somewhere proper and lovely. He didn't scrimp, and the conversation was decent, if not entirely thrilling. For our second date, we drank and made out. He treated me, which was a really nice change of pace. He was a good kisser at first, so that tossed points in his direction as well. On our third date, he made me dinner, allowed me to get properly wino-ed, and threw me in a hot tub. Naturally, we started sleeping together about the second my brain warmed to the temp of the hot tub. What can I say. Wine and water. A dangerous combination for a girl on the loose. Also, he had a story about saving baby squirrels and even had cellphone pictures to prove it! Like any girl in her hot-tubbed, drunken mind--after a yummy dinner mind you--would be able to resist a man who saves squirrels. I was done for.

A month passed. We gave eachother kinda nicknames and spoke in odd half spanish kissing codes. We got used to each other's bodies, we tip toed around one another's egos. The highlight of our romance was when Mister Short Rib brought me a morning after pill at work. We had a little slip--literally--and I hadn't had time to pick one up between my jobs. Ha ha, I'm serious when I say that's the nicest thing a guy has done for me in a while. Let me please stress to you that my standards--although higher than ever--are still INCREDIBLY LOW. I find romance in emergency contraceptives. Ladies, if you've ever for some odd reason envied me? Yeah, now is the time to come to your senses and STOP.

Well, back to the pants. At one point, I had left my clothes on Mister Short Rib's porch, and they were soaked with dew the following morning. (How did you leave your pants on someone's porch, you ask? Wine. Hot tub. You do the math.) So he made the tragic and predictable mistake of loaning me super comfy PJ pants. I mean, we are talking SUPER COMFY. By far the second comfiest pants I have ever robbed a man of. Anyone who knows me knows I collect men's pants, whether they allow me to or not. Still, Mister Short Rib wanted his pants back. I--naturally--wouldn't budge, but instead cemented what I would repesct as our verbal contract--and he, of course would not: That if our relationship ended on bad terms because of his despicable behavior, or him doing something tragic and awful to me, then I would keep the pants. If I were the purveyor of such sin, and broke Mister Spare Rib's little heart, then I would return the pants laundered and in a timely fashion.

Well. The jerk wants his pants back. And honestly, I think I'm just going to give them to him. Besides, why on earth would a girl like me want the schrapnel or a dating past with some guy who a.) never said thank you for dinner the other night b.) commented on how hot her roomate is (A stupid mistake--guys YOU NEVER DO THAT!) c.) ignored and interrupted her everytime she tried to talk about anything more important than chit-chat and d.) then repeatedly ignored her TO TALK TO HER ROOMATE AT A BAR WHILE PRACTICALLY SITTING ON TOP OF HER RIGHT AFTER MENTIONING HOW HOT AND COMPATIBLE HE THOUGHT THEY WERE.

You know, traditionally, "wearing the pants," is a masculine cliche of sorts, and is used to describe a person being in control of a household or situation. So in good spirits I really do intend on returning his pants. Because I think we all know that I am already wearing the proverbial pants in my dating life, and that loser Mr. Short Rib is so done it's not even funny. Like seriously, I lost it and was like "BYE!" right there at the bar. He whimpered a little, like, "Don't I get a chance to explain?" and of course I was like, "No." What the hell is there to explain? You are not interested in me at all. Nothing that has come out of my mouth--other than kisses or stories you can repeat to make your life seem more interesting--has ever been of interest to you. You, instead, are interested in making me feel terrible by blatantly hitting on my roomate in a bar full of people I know.

The lesson I have learned from this is as follows:

Girls, date hot guys who may be a little out of your league. Do not settle for less. Sure, dating someone super-dead-sexy can be a challenge, because they have other options, your friends will be jealous, etc. But still. When you inevitably have to dump your lover-turned-douchebag for doing something completely asinine and hurtful, the only solace you will have is that the sex was great while it lasted, and the guy was amazingly hot. If you get your little heart trampled on by someone who weighs less than you, is barely packing, and has just a case of the mediocres going on? How humiliating is that! You let THAT GUY hurt YOU???!!! Don't be a total idiot. Go for the gold! Bonus if you can find someone who won't turn into a toad down the road (oh hey that rhymes) but you know, that takes time. Did I just rhyme twice? Yeah...

So, pardon me. I will of course have casual flings with all kinds of people. But never, ever EVER will I take a long-term lover who isn't the finest piece you've set your jealous eyes on. Well, that or Lebron James. Or TONY DANZA, hahah.

NEXT!

I have been waiting for this for my ENTIRE LIFE!

2009-10-07T12:28:00.002-05:00

All I want for Christmas is a micro-piglet. You KNOW how I feel about baby animals. Hell, just look at my choice in dog! These piggies stay little just like tiny babies for their entire lives. Pigs are incredibly smart, mischevious, and fun to play with. Here, take a look!

I WANT I WANT I WANT!

Let's Get it ON...

2009-09-03T14:38:00.006-05:00

I discovered a feature available on my Myspace blogs a few weeks back, and now I can enter any date in the past several years, and view my blog for said date. It's kind of amazing. Late last night, I found this little gem from 2006, around the same time of year...

AURIANE'S INFALLIBLE GUIDE TO SEDUCTION!!!

1.) You must first set the mood. To do so, I recommend sexy lighting, sounds, and smells. My personal trick? Light approximately 12 citronella candles all around your bed, and burn a cermonial lock of your own hair. If you can do it while it is still on your head, the Sexy Gods say you will have a ripple-effect orgasm. Those are the rare ones. As for music, I recommend a lovely mix of Bad Boy Bill's Bangin' the Box Volume 2, Lionel Ritchie, the soundtrack to the Little Mermaid, and of course (this one's essential) Carmen Electra's funky and sensual hit "Everybody Get on up!" "Brother for Sale" by the Olsen Twins (pre-menstruation) is also a sexy tune that really puts guys in the mood.

2.) Now that your home smells delicious, the lights are low, and the sounds are right, you must take into account the often underestimated sex appeal of bringing food into the bedroom. I don't know how many of you have eaten pork rinds off a man's scrotum, but let me tell you, it's a wild ride! Other top sensual foods that I recommend? Chocolate covered worms, the spray variation of "I Can't Believe it's Not Butter," Grandma Utz Homecooked Potato Chips, and of course split pea soup.

3.) Sexual positions are very important indeed, but even more crucial is the way you position your wheelchair for the big night. I have found that laying it on its side as if you have fallen and can't get up really achieves that helpless female thing some less-dominant males need to get their sexual hormones a stirrin'! If you don't have a wheelchair, a Rascal will do, but be careful not to get semen on the fabric console. Trust me, it's a real bitch to get out!

4.) Finally, watching a sexy movie when it's time to cool down can help the actual event last longer! I've found that playing Love and Human Remains or and respectable Jean Claude Van Damme movie can light a seemingly exhausted desire-fire. If you can't find these at your local video store, Mommie Dearest will do. Still can't find one? Settle for Maid in Manhattan. Every horny guy LOVES a romantic comedy.
Alright girls. Get to it!

Obviously, I have been a genius at romance since my very early 20s. Don't be jealous. If you follow my lead, you too can be as charismatic and score with the same winners I do--CONSTANTLY!

Also, oddly enough, I found out only moments after posting this little tidbit that Carmen Electra is actually recording again. In case you missed her earlier success, here it is, in full 90s style!

Oh, but wait! This one is BY FAR my favorite display of her talents! EVERYBODY GET ON UP!

Read about the awful idea that is re-vamping her music career, here.

And FYI? She hasn't gotten much better, people.

Reality Killer on the Loose!

2009-08-20T12:07:00.004-05:00

Oh my god, so no, seriously, this is NUTS!

If you watch Reality Television at all, than you probably know about a new show called Megan Wants a Millionaire. Well, the show has been cut, not because it sucked so bad (which it really did, and Megan isn't super hot, or super funny, or even super fun to make fun of) but because of sensitivity issues and developments in a...HOMICIDE!

Apparently, the biggest douche on the show--the guy who kept saying "I'm sexy. She's sexy. This is gonna happen!" may have killed his last wife, left her body in a suitcase, and run off. But I suppose that's when his agent called, and he just couldn't resist the lure of reality stardom. So the body--in the suitcase--was found, and so was the douche. Although now, he's on the RUN!

You can read it on Dlisted, and you're sure to hear about it on my favorite reality teevee show of all time, THE NEWS.

Crazy! Thank god this didn't happen on Daisy of Love, or our poor little D could've gotten hurt!

God I love her, she is so dumb it amazes me.

"Feed your Dog Blue M&M Shells" or "Don't Drink That!"

2009-08-20T09:03:00.010-05:00

Well, something in blue M&Ms has been linked to reducing spine injury, according to CNN. Apparently, a chemical in the blue dye used in candy and Gatorade inhibits ATP's ability to latch onto important cells in the spine, and eventually kill them off. I know. What the fuck is ATP, right? Well, ATP is a nucleotide that is present in muscles. It's kind of like biological "lifeblood," and is responsible for energy in your muscles. So back to what I was saying. Something in blue M&M dye and blue Gatorade (known to many as Gatorade FIERCE, but known to me and Smashley as not so fierce at all...) can block some weird molecule that sits in the spinal cord, and the molecule this dye can block is responsible for letting ATP stick itself to cells and then kill them. Doctors can't really figure out why the combo of ATP and a spinal injury is such a perfect storm of destruction, but it is. So a drug or something that could stop ATP from rushing to a spinal injury and damaging the spine beyond repair would be great.

I bet I'm not making sense, am I? Am I? Well, let's re-try.

Think of it like this: the blue dye is a like a line of cocaine, while the ATP and the particular molecule (called something like P47 or something like that) are like Cuervo and Bailey's. If you mix Cuervo and Bailey's together, like you're doing a shot of one, then a shot of another, you're definitely not going to be able to drive home. But a line of cocaine, and you may be at least able to stumble to a cab with a bit more coordination. Why on earth you'd be drinking Bailey's and Tequila no one knows, but at least there's that line if you need it. You won't be quite as fucked up. That end part is still part of the metaphor, people.

Anyway, the reason you should care about all of this is not because you have a spinal injury, or because you care about where our energy in our muscles comes from, oh no no. I am not that boring! See, the scientists tested their theories on mice. And the temporary side effect of injecting those poor little squirts with the blue dye? Well, see for yourself:

I know. Cutest thing ever. It's like a little Snow Queen Mouse. I want one! Of course, I have my own little mouse. I wonder if I could turn him blue by feeding him the blue shells of M&Ms???

Moving on.

So as of late, I've found myself bored with the whole social networking online thing. I used to love Myspace. It was almost a problem for a little while there. I even wrote an article about Myspace addiction for a college magazine a few years back. But thanks to a handful of random incidents including Rupert Murdoch's Myspace takeover and maketing redux, and the onset of Facebook madness, I just can't be bothered with it anymore. It's sort of nice. I like to go elsewhere for my daily internet fix, and have found some kick ass websites to waste time on instead.

One of my new favorites includes the Billionaire Boys Club blog. BBC is a fashion line created by Pharrell and other members of the Neptunes. I wrote an article on that, too, actually, for CRUNK! But yeah. The BBC blog has all kinds of neat random things to entertain me, the latest being the following film. It's just footage of the July 14th Bastille Day parade in Paris, but it's shot using something called a Tilt Shift effect, which pretty much makes people look like ants in a claymation world. I likey.

Toy Soldiers from Alta Media Productions on Vimeo.

It's a little long, but the way it is shot is so fun to watch!

Other websites I've become obsessed with include a blog called I Heart Gum, which brought me the following little gem, among others:

I could be mistaken, but I think I Heart Gum also brought us the American Psycho themed video a few blog posts back, and I definitely stole the all-one-shot-killer-clowns-rob-a-bank video from there. It's a great site, and its moderator has good taste in interesting web trash. Or art. Or both.

I'm also now obsessed with a shark-warning and propaganda site called SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK! It basically blogs shark sightings, attacks, and close-calls. It's sure to scare me half out of the water just in time for our family Christmas trip to the British Virgin Islands. Whatever. I love sharks! Pull my total geek card, I wanna swim with a Mako and live to tell the tale!

SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Okay well that was a big random post. There's so much going on in my head right now, but I'll save the all-about-me rambling for when I organize my thoughts a bit better. Until then, cheers! And don't drink tequila, then Bailey's, and then do lines. That was simply a metaphor for getting your spine right with some blue M&Ms, which was only a good reason for me to make cute blue pictures of my dog, mmmmkay?

P.S. Here's the source/mouse article on CNN if you'd like...

At long last!

2009-08-13T01:04:00.002-05:00

Here is my absolute favorite sketch from Kids in the Hall. I've been hunting for it for some time, and BAM tonight was the night. Enjoy....CHALET 2000!

But wait...IT GETS SOOOOO MUCH BETTER!

I just adore Beaver Boy.

Free versus Cheap.

2009-08-03T16:00:00.003-05:00

Hi!
Here is a video from this guy named Miles Fisher.

I like it! The song, the video, the whole thing. Fabulous! and I also like the rest of the free album, which you can download at this link:

http://www.milesfisher.com/music.htm

Moving on. How retarded and hysterically funny is the new Shakira video??!! What the hell is she doing? Like, WHAT. THE. HELL. IS. SHE. DOING?!

The song is kind of catchy, but truly, no, the video just cracks me up. I don't know if it's the one-legged capezio style dance competition jumper thing she's wearing, or the cage, or the dance moves when she finally breaks out of that jumper thingy and is on some roof, but MAN I only wish girls would actually dance like that in a club. Seriously, the writing in the cage was enough, but when it cuts to her with the ponytail on the roof, I thought, "Okay, this is obviously a girl who grew up never knowing what 'cool' oor'normal' was." Like she's actually been raised by wolves, perhaps SHEWOLVES, who inspired her to act like a hot mess of a dancer in her videos. Maybe that was the point? I sadly do not think it was.

Anyway, I'd have the funniest night of my life, every night, if actual people I encounter would only bust out the spastic horny Shaki moves on us all. They're amazing! She simply MUST just have a more developed sense of humor than us all. It HAS to be a prank!

Wait. Back to the capezio dance outfit. I get wearing it in the cave. It's spacey. You know, spacey, we've liked that before.

But wearing it to the club after you get back from space? Shaki, no.

Maybe I can learn all the moves and start dancing like that. Then I could make myself laugh every night. Will you learn them with me? I need that outfit, too. So do you! Oh my gosh, you can get the red Britney Space suit, and we'll cut a leg off of it. I'll get the black Shakira one. We need flashing visors, I think, too, for that extra cool look. And perhaps, hmmmm, shoes with pumps.

Okay, enough. Here it is! In all its tragic, odd glory! Feast your eyes!

Shakira - She Wolf (Official Music Video) Full HD

Why does she bite her finger like that? WHYYYYY?

Sneaky Bitches...Continued!

2009-07-22T23:16:00.004-05:00

Unless you've been stuffed under a boulder for the last year, you're well aware of the drama of Jon and Kate Plus 8. Seems Jon's been getting some strange on the side with...A SNEAKY BITCH!

Am I crazy, or is Hailey Glassman actually Brooke Smith? You know, the girl who spent 90% of the scariest movie ever down a well, yelling at a fluffy white dog named Princess? You know, Brooke Smith, who played a seriously scary power lesbian on Grey's Anatomy?

See for yourself.

Give ole Brookey a chola-gone-wrong eyebrow plucking, and a good face lift...maybe some veneers? Yep. Sneaky bitches.

Megan Hauserman wants a Millionaire...but is she the Poor man's Blair Waldorf?

2009-07-22T23:14:00.005-05:00

If you've known me long enough, you're well aware of my penchant for busting what I like to call "sneaky bitches." If you haven't, well, sneaky bitches are celebrity look-alikes, or people I secretly think have body snatched celebs of the past for celebs of the now for a refresh on their career track. See below: Could Megan Houserman actually be the real Blair Waldorf? Haha, well....

I'm just saying. Megan is about 15 lbs, a breast implant removal and a good, respectable dye-job away from being the Blair Waldorf of reality teevee. Not that she has the class.

Guys with iPhones who Love Puppies: DON'T TRUST!

2009-07-22T17:39:00.006-05:00

Whew. Okay. Where to start with this one.

I met this guy. We'll call him David, because that is actually his name. Yeah, full disclosure, people. I don't know his last name, which is lucky for him. I met David at a bar one night a few weeks back. He was cute, I was a little drunk. He had this very clean cut boy thing going on, looked innocent, and I dug it. I hit on him. Hard. I think I said something like "Put your number in my phone! NOW! You're sexy!" So lame, but whatever.

The next morning, I found a few random numbers in my phone, and did what any responsible girl would do. I sent the obligatory apology text for my behavior the night before, and deleted each one of the numbers. I was on a roll that night, but didn't expect to ever take any of the guys I met seriously.

Well...I ran back into David within a few days. We talked for a bit, and had a nice chat. Mainly--and this is an important detail here, just wait and see--we talked about animals. David loves animals. Like, really. He told me. He loves dogs. Me too. He even invited me to a doggie birthday party, which I admit was a little gay, but still, sweet.

Later the next week, I ran into David again. He gave off (the whole time, not just during this encounter) a strange vibe. Each time I saw him, he would go through the motions of being attracted to me, but I sensed the attraction wasn't really there. He would buy me shots, but he wouldn't touch me. He was cute, but almost too well groomed to be straight. He almost seemed a-sexual. Like perhaps he was attracted to nothing, or something I hadn't encountered previously. I chalked it up to homosexuality--not that I haven't encountered that, HELLO--which is no big deal. We can still be friends, and he's cute and seems nice. Word. Or so I thought.

So when I saw David this time, and we got to talking about how close he is with his best friend Ben (who he described to me as "Look, let me put it this way, you don't have a friend like Ben") I flat out asked, so that I could get a better idea:

"Well, how close are you? Have you given him a blow job?"
"No! I"m totally straight!"
"You haven't ever had his you know what in your mouth, not even for a second?"
"No! I told you, TOTALLY STRAIGHT!"
"okay, but when you guys get drunk, you french kiss?"
"NO!"
"Okay, just checking my bases, here,"

And the conversation bulldozed on. He said he's straight, and I believed him. Still, something was off. David mentioned his friend Ben's love for his dog. In fact, he kept mentioning it. Apparently David was dogsitting this pup at the time of our encounter. So he says to me,

"I took these pictures, you know because Ben really LOVES his dog so much, so I took these pictures to make him jealous!"

David pulls out an iPhone. (This, ladies and gentlemen, is a sign of distress. If you don't know not to look at any man's iPhone pics, now you do.)
!!!FYI!!!THAT LINK THERE IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK, PEOPLE!!!!FYI!!!

Anyway. David's got his iPhone out, and he's flipping around for pictures. I'm expecting to see some pictures of David feeding Ben's dog a steak, or with Ben's dog dressed up in a jersey playing football, or maybe him chasing a frisbee with a big doggie smile. You know, things that show Ben how well David treated his little baby. Instead, I see...

Well, I'm not even totally sure what I saw. I mean, when I saw it, I was sure. But it's so awful my mind keeps trying to re-arrange the trauma of it into something more acceptable. But look, I know this is true: It involved David's NAKED ASS, and parts of the dog being pushed toward David's asshole. Yes. Really. Truly.

I lost it. I Stormed away from that table with a quickness. I think my last words to David were "MOTHERFUCKER DO NOT CALL ME!" A girl who was with him that night came up to me at the bar, talking about how "I know them, but I'm not really close with them or anything," to which I do believe I shouted back "WHAT YOU DON'T FUCK DOGS, TOO? Get the fuck away!"

Needless to say? Yeah that guy is out. Like expelled! For sure. Seriously? Wow, really? I can't believe people ask me why I am still single. I am still single because the world is full of freaks and weirdos who do things like show my shitty iPhone pics of them basically having sex with OTHER PEOPLE'S DOGS! Not even his own, haha! Filthy! But in all seriousness, DIRTY DIRTY DIRTY!

I cannot believe that really happened. Oh my god, yes I can. Ew.

Tom Cruise Thinks "You're a JERK!"

2009-07-17T10:32:00.004-05:00

So according to Dlisted, Tom Cruise was on BET recently and did a little imaginary motorcycle dance for us all to enjoy.

He is so old now. It's just strange. Why is it when people get old their rhythm seems to dissapate? Maybe he needs some joint juice. Those knees were creakin'!

I love Tom Cruise. He's so goddamn insane, it pleases me.

And check out his undereyes in the following video. He looks like he's been up and manic for days!

And really? What in the hell happened to Katie Holmes? She used to be almost hot! Or at least sweet and healthy looking...

But now?

And I think we all know I am being forgiving in the above picture. That's hardly her worst as of late.

But enough about poor Katie. She'll dust it off soon enough I'm sure.

Well, it is your Un-Birthday, isn't it?

2009-07-14T14:04:00.014-05:00

Well my birthday is coming up like a freight train of fun, and I figured this is the time to make a not-really-don't-buy-it-for-me, but-buy-it-for-you-because-it's-great list for your reading/viewing pleasure.

Here is my top list of things I've found recently that I think we all should make an effort to own/take pleasure in.

First up, a little 2 minute film that makes me squeal with glee and disbelief. This is a free present, from me to you. Happy un-birthday!

Next up is something, well, a little less free, but all the more fabulous. I must have it!

(The above and below bear images were shamelessly hijacked from this blog, so feel free to click the link to visit and pay homage.)

Steiff, a German teddy bear company, has created a Karl Lagerfeld bear and I want, want WANT it. That reminds me of another little stuffed critter I've craved since it's reality teevee debut several years ago:

This is the Therapy Doll, as seen on an ancient (okay, 3 years old?) episode of American Inventor. The doll, which looks rather soothing--or creepy--tells it's owner "Everything is going to be alright." No, like, really. It says that when you press its sensor. It repeats the phrase, and even tags on "Believe it! Everything is going to be alright."

I don't think the doll would have the therapeutic effect intended, but I do think it's hysterical, and I want one. Don't you?

If you click on this link, you can hear it speak!

Next up, I'd especially like some artwork from my friend (and pretty much one of the best artists EVER) Briana Bainbridge. Briana went to school in Baltimore, but now resides in sunny California. She just recently launched her website, which you can visit and buy from by clicking HERE.

Fear links? Here are my favorite pieces of hers...well, that I don't already have.

This little guy, above, is a favorite mainly because he is from the Enchanted Forest in Elicott City. If you've been there, you can totally understand the sentimental value of that place. If you haven't, maybe you've seen it here?

Or more likely, you've seen a bit of it here:

Anyway, the Enchanted Forest was awesome, and became awesome-creepy after a fire wrecked most of it, and left the remains of it (like that little Gingerbread man up above) all alone and oddly placed in the woods.

Next up on my un-birthday wish list is a necklace. Expensive jewelry has never really been my thing, but cheap and gawdy always has. Case in point?

You can order this necklace with any number you'd like. I think it's fierce as hell. I do, however, wonder if the longer part of the chain wouldn't hang in between my cleavage. That's a pet peeve of mine with longer necklaces.

If you want one, be my guest. The designer, Leviticus Jewelry, has quite a few interesting pieces, all of which are pretty inexpensive.

Oh! How could I forget!? I have wanted this book since I was just a wee 15-year-old girl, with high hopes of becoming the next great American Madam.

It's a book by Heidi Fleiss, and it is AMAZING! The handwritten testimonials from Heidi's girls are perhaps my favorite part. That and getting Heidi's opinion on men, which is--to say the least--skewed by her career path. Or is it? Oh my god, just buy that book. It's incredible.

In honor of the new blog, I feel like I need to have this vodka. Yes, it's disgusstingly sweet, and what on earth would you mix it with? Still! It's like the official Blow Up Go Pop! Vodka.

Like I said, it may be hard to mix, but some people have been infusing their own bubble gum vodka for some time, and seem to think they have the answers for us>.

Finally--and this is hardly a stretch, because I WILL be getting this--I want season one of HBO's True Blood. It's perfect for a hungover after-bday bed and pizza party, no?

THE BURGER MIGHT HAVE AIDS!

You Oatmeal Wrestle, and Sometimes, You Get Hurt.

2009-07-09T08:34:00.017-05:00

Chances are, if you have run into me in the past few weeks, you've heard about my recent, hmmm, accident.

While the story is fun to hear, is more fun to see, so I will walk you through our latest party, the First Annual Redneck Party via images from the event. Thanks to Erna, I also have a video of my favorite--and simultaneously least favorite--part of the party--OATMEAL WRESTLING!

And here we go, then.

Jamie had a lovely homemade tattoo to show us. This was literally what I saw the first five minutes of our party. I knew it would be a doozie.

Jeff did his hair up special for the event.

I wore my everyday party gear, of course.

But man! It was actually the hotttest day of the summer thusfar, and we were all frying like hotdogs. So....

We opened up a few cases of oatmeal, put em in the kiddie pool, and prepared to get dirty. Because, well, you know...nothing cools a girl off like actively wrestling in luke warm oatmeal. Fuck it! Pass my beer! WOOOOOO THESE COLORS DON'T RUN! I"M WRASSLIN FOR AMERICA!

ROUND ONE: DING! Auriane versus Jeffrica. Spolier? I get stomped.

"Please, Jeff, don't drown me, but if you do, make sure they bury me in this bikini."

Kiss and Make up.

Splish Splash.

SNEAK ATTACK AND I'M BACK DOWN!!! OH NO!

"Say Mercy!"

At the end of our fight, both Jeffrica and I were pretty fucked up. There was one head-smack/ jaw-crack that went down between us. Jeff was left with a welt, and I couldn't open my mouth properly for a few hours. (Stop your jokes.) Still, we're drunk, we're dumb, we're REDNECKS! Now let's wrassle, motherfuckers.

ROUND TWO! Jeff versus Jammy.

I'm not going to lie. This fight went fast. Perhaps because there is a romantic history between the two? I don't know, but let me tell you, there was a lot less splish-splash, and a lot more "please don't drown me." I guess that's what guys are like when they fight, though. YEE HAW MAKE EM BLEED BOY!

After all that fighting, our cracks were literally jammed full of oatmeal. Bath time! We elected Big Swanger (that's actually his last name, people, and he's like, 6-foot-8, so drop the penis references, or actually don't that's fine) to hose us off.

Okay. Maybe our colors do run, afterall.

But Jamie's sure as hell don't!

That hat, in case you can't read it, actually says "HEY IRAQ! These Colors Don't Run." I mean, wow. Wow. To address Iraq like that. Just like, HEY YOU! HEY IRAQ! What a find!

Ashley, Jamie's girlfriend, wore some pretty sweet shoes.

After getting so beat up, I was a little frustrated.

But new people arrived, and I was somehow convinced to wrassle again! This is when things get a little more serious.

First of all, I was drunk. Hell, we all were.

Second of all, I think we all know I have no wrestling capabilities. I mean, Jeff killed me! Also, I was set to wrestle my friend Brian. No, no, no. He's a BOY! Also, Brian and I always have very short, very intense interactions. Some of you may remember him from New Year's Eve? Anyway. That link was so misleading, because Brian and I did not have any village-sex at all on NYE, or ever, but I just think that link is so funny. Sorry. I get distracted by Google when I'm writing these things.

Back on track? It was destined that if we wrassled, someone would get hurt. And fast.

Thankfully, Erna (the stunnah in the pink bikini tee up there somewhere) captured my flailing on tape. Seriously. HOW DRUNK IS THAT GIRL!? Oh. That's me. Yeah...

It is important that you watch the last few seconds, and keep a side-eye on my face, blatantly smacking into Brian's head. Why? Oh, you'll find out why.

Oatmeal Wresteling!!

For me, this is pretty much when the party ended. I stood from the ring, and had blood dripping down my face. Not cute! My colors are runnin'! My colors are runnin'!

After some heated debate about my injury and a little "Everyone grab a drink, I'm okay, I just need a towel," I was convinced to go see a professional.

Shit! Look how mad I was to be in the hospital! Jammy was so sweet, he rubbed my feet while they shot me up with (ACK!) Lidocaine.

After that, I went back home, had a few more drinks (with a straw, thank you) and eventually was the last to pass out. I was devastated to find that my phone had consumed an entire bottle of vodka while I was out getting stitched up, and had developed a severe case of alcohol poisoning. My phone died that night. I however, did not.

Here are some Glamour Shots I had taken at the mall the next day!

When I told my poor mother what happened, she responded--via email--with this little gem:

"I must say I love the details of my daughters' lives, however, they don't make good entries for a Christmas newsletter. Dear friends and family, It's been a wonderful year and we hope you're all happy and well. Things are great here. Phillip is in remission from cancer, and drinking the very best of fine cognac to celebrate. sometimes he gets a little drunk and stumbles, but so far he's only knocked one picture off the wall. I still have eosinophilic pneumonia, but the steroids are helping me and making me pretty buff too. although I occasionally slip into prednisone psychosis, usually work it out by just throwing flower pots at pedestrians, so far haven't struck any of my second grade students. Amelia is a tatoo artist, having a little tiff with her dope addicted boyfriend, who is actually very cute and nice. Auriane is loving Nashville, recovering from a lip wound from oatmeal wrestling incident. Her lesbian roommates are so dear, and thank god, got her to the emergency room so that the scar will be barely visible.

You guys are crazier than I ever was, but then times have changed. I think craziness has to come with the territory or how could one survive???"

What did we learn from this, everyone?

Rednecks are fucking idiots. Don't try to be one. You will only hurt your very retarded self. Oh, and my mom says you should try to be crazy to survive. However that works, haha.

You're right, Bre. Megan Fox is a Blow-up Doll.

2009-07-08T13:34:00.004-05:00

Okay okay, Megan Fox is really dumb, and always says things in interviews that she thinks are progressive but are actually just kinda whore-y. STILL! I have been so, so excited for this movie she's in to come out. Not Transformers 2, and not Teresa: The Making of a Saint, although I'm all about Netflixing that bad boy, but no, I'm talking about Jennifer's Body.

The movie is about a literal man-eater of a bitch, and it takes place in a bitch's natural habitat--Highschool! Seriously, people. Bitches are to highschool as adult white women are to SUVs. They can do ANYTHING in their natural habitat, so beware!

And while, yes, Megan Fox is a silly head, this preview proves to me that the film's writer, Diablo Cody, is not. I like her dialogue, and I like films with blood, guts, and mega-hot chicks. So bring it on.

Or even better yet (speaking of SUVS) Bring it On Again.

My god, that's the best Bring it On, I swear. When the mean girl flips out and says she wants to run everyone over with a Jeep Cherokee SUV, I nearly peed. But I digress.

Here's the "red" preview that says adult stuff like "fuck" and "you're killing people," "--no, I'm killing BOYS."

You know, I don't think anything will ever beat my love for Freeway--which is the best movie I have EVER seen, but this movie could tie itse;f with May. That's the second best movie I've ever seen.

I don't know who this "Darkness02" is, but thanks for the You Tube-y montage, doll.

Oh, and by the way, that Saint movie with Megan Fox aka Sophie Mayes isn't real. If only...

Boobs and Butts Comin Atcha

2009-07-01T20:13:00.003-05:00

Just about every month or so, I decide what "I want to do with my life." My latest life-altering decision was to work in porn.

No, no, no. I don't want to be in porn. I don't want people to see me having sex. At least not at this point. But, seriously, you guys. I want to MAKE porn. Really, really good porn. I want it to be funny, sexy, random, and full of attractive people. Gone would be the days of stereotypical porn where some nasty dude bangs a seemingly unwilling and unhappy young girl. Gone would be stupid Asian-American porn with tiny little girls tied up and "aahhh-Ahhhh-ahhh-ing" as if the penis inside them were about to split them wide open.

No. I want to make porn that I would actually watch. Think about it. Porn that women would really watch. Because, while I wouldn't consider myself a big feminist activist in any way, I do think that porn has the ability to teach us new things about our sexuality, and at this point, has only taught us exploitative, tired messages that aren't totally relevant.

Anyway. That's not what this post is all about. But it leads me to a great concept that some adult feature makers are already exploring.

Ladies and gentlemen? Get ready for 3D porn. As the director puts it, "Boobs and butts comin atcha." And...ACTION!

But how fun would that be? Going to see a great, funny, sexy adult film with friends or a lover in a clean, safe 3D theatre? Goodbye Porn-Store-Sundays. Hello 3D Days!

Tony? It's Angela. It's an emergency. Sam's been kidnapped.

2009-06-30T13:13:00.003-05:00

This is one of the scariest things ever. I mean, EVER. I found it late last night on Look at This Fucking Hipster, a blog about, well, fucking hipsters.

This guy--woo! The wig. I think the wig is the most horrifying part. For sure. Maybe I'm alone on this one, but when people wear wigs slightly off-kilter, like twisted a bit to the side, I get an instant case of what New Jersey Housewife Teresa would call the "skeeves."

Anyway, here is the video. Prepare for some serious skeev-i-ness.

I Killed Billy Mays

2009-06-29T20:03:00.003-05:00

Well, you may as well hear it from the horse's mouth.

I killed Billy Mays.

Sure, sure. The "news" is saying he had a heart condition. That's true, and that is what killed him. You know what else is true? Billy and I were having a passionate, Viagra-fueled, torrid, disgustingly filthy love affair. And my vagina killed him.

Yep. I mean, I didn't want to hurt Billy. I loved him. But he died during animal sex. With me. Yes, that's it. Believe it or not, it's true.

Don't be jealous.

Naturally I am in mourning. I can barely bring myself to eat anything but pizza. I cried during Glitter this afternoon. I have no desire to hula hoop.

I'm sure many of you are hurting, too. Billy got around. Even if you hadn't slept with Billy as so many of us have, you may have just been intoxicated by the scent of his thick, manly bear-beard. It smelled like chocolate covered cherries mixed with the woods. Oh, Billy. We miss you so.

That's why I'm wearing my special Billy T-shirt to let the world know how I feel.

What, you don't have one?

Well, you can buy one right here. For only $15 no less! I love it when t-shirts commemorating my dead lovers are on sale. So bittersweet. So recessionista!

Get it Gurrrl!

2009-06-29T11:18:00.006-05:00

A Baltimore rap career can be a double-edged sword. Living in what locals call 'Murder City' gains Baltimore artists enviable street-cred. Still, artists find themselves trapped in a world where the combo of poverty, drugs and low opportunity combat their creative endeavors. Street-cred or not, how can an artist express themselves successfully when violence is the majority of what surrounds them? Baltimore’s newest, Westport-repping duo, the Get Em Mami’s, are trying to do just that. Half silly, half serious, these girl’s tracks are blowing up online, and challenging Baltimore hip-hop artists to lighten up a little bit, even if they are in the hood of all hoods.

On 2008’s “Beyond Hamsterdam: Baltimore Tracks From The Wire,“ the Mami’s debuted a song that would pleasantly reverberate in the ears of seasoned rap lovers, and put dance in the pants of teenagers clicking through MySpace. The song was “When You See Us,” and the buzz was about to get serious.

The girls, however, were not. My recent talk with Roxzi and Symphony was surprisingly light-hearted. Seems these girls just want to make the world a Get Em Mami’s cocktail, teach us all a new language, and have a little--okay, a LOT--of fun.

You know you want those glasses! Click to get em, Mami.

When I asked their ages, the girls playfully stated they are “from the age of Terawesome,” (that’s part terrific, part awesome, feel free to steal the term) and went on to tell me, “We hail from the Planet Swag.” Fond of using their own brand of made-up phrases, the girls say they want to develop a new language by the end of 2009. Later, Roxzi taught me how to mix the perfect 'Get Em Mami' cocktail--which is Grey Goose and lime juice--and Symph recommended local Baltimore artists for me to check out, including Skarr Akbar, and Bmore club king, D.O.G.

When it came down to talking sexism in the rap-game, the girls wouldn’t play. Brushing off questions about their abilities versus their gender, the two instead started listed what they love about Baltimore (everything), and what they can do despite working in an arguably male-dominated career (anything). The conversation jumped back on the playful track, when we talked about everyone--from Baltimore or not--sweating the success of The Wire so hard. “We love the Wire, though,” the girls laughed. When I asked the girls about their favorite character, they excitedly chirped out: “We want to jump little Michael’s bones!”

Since the original hype in 2008, G.E.M. has attracted the attention of writers at Fader, Vibe and the Rolling Stone--where the Mami’s earned a respectable rating for their single “Cold Summer.” Another burst of attention erupted after some unexpected online-networking with internet darlings, Waffles and Falafels. A clothing company run by girls with their fingers on the pulse of what’s hot in music and fashion, the Waffles Girls blogged and bulletined about G.E.M., and fans took notice.

You can download Roxzi and Symphony’s current personal fave, “Crazy,” as well as many other tracks at http://www.myspace.com/getemma.

Mmmmmmm...Fruity....

2009-06-27T11:21:00.006-05:00

Gone were the days of art stars and ingénues. When the shot that killed Andy Warhol rang out, when the AIDS epidemic slaughtered a large chunk of America’s sexually-charged creative class, when synthesizers and production beat out the sound of gravelly rock voices, America found itself in a creative conundrum: How can the country we’ve built--a well produced, surgically altered, digitally enhanced and fiery group of multi-tasking consumers--create art that reflects not only who we have been, but also what we’ve become? Enter Austin Young.

King of plastiscened photographs of surgically enhanced modern beauty, Young has multi-tasked his way to the forefront of the L.A. art world, working with film, photography and digital artwork. With an impressive resume and an activist art project geared at expanding community awareness and possibly ending public hunger, Young may have cracked the ever-evolving creative code needed to produce our generation’s overdue contemporary art star. The trick? Well, for starters, most of Young‘s striking female ingénues are actually men.

To appreciate Young’s work requires an open mind, and to love his work requires an affection for camp. Tongue in cheek images bombard an onlooker, and shock value colors many of his canvasses. Celebrity is mocked and mauled by Young’s lens. Beauty is questioned. Sex is ever-present, and identifiable gender is not a prerequisite for female dominance in a portrait. Still, the initial shock presented is a pleasant one, a kind of teal and pink glitter-bomb of pretty that requires each of us to ask, “What the fuck just happened?"

With art-hag followers, club cronies and creative creeps in tow, Young has curated shows titled “Ultra Fabulous: Beyond Drag,” and created shock-porn-granny nudes for a controversial installation titled, “Golden Girls Gone Wild.” An online visit to Young’s MySpace page associates him with freaks of all sizes and shapes, names worth dropping and ultra-violet queens in high-res.

Model and fellow artist Lenora Claire and her generous bosom pose with Young as Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds in one candid snap shot. Party Monster James St. James is seen enjoying (and no doubt claiming he directly influenced) Young’s work. Tiny and tawdry burlesque diva Selene Luna is another fixture on Young’s site. Super drag queen Jackie Beat of Dirty Sanchez fame appears on Young’s arm at many events, including a recent installation for RuPaul’s Drag Race Group Art Show. These are the party-people you wish were your friends.

Navigate away from Young’s MySpace page, and you’ll find a softer, simpler homepage. Here, Young’s portraits of notable new-school ingénues (Rose Byrne, Ziyi Zhang, Amy Poehler) and drag divas are artfully displayed alongside links to Young’s pet projects and favorite things, including L.A.’s Fallen Fruit Movement. A California chapter of a worldwide public fruit movement, Fallen Fruit encourages community members to plant, harvest, sample and map overhanging fruit trees. The idea is to beautify city streets, provide sustainable food for all community members, and strengthen the bond between not only neighbors, but humans and the earth.

Click here to visit the official site of Fallen Fruit

It's an interesting concept for many reasons. For example, imagine the homeless not begging for food, but picking it from a community-planted food source instead.(Too bad there aren't crack-bearing trees?) Instead of expensive trips through the produce aisle on Sundays, imagine reaping your own harvest on your favorite city street.

To learn more about Austin Young, or start your own public fruit initiative, visit www.AustinYoung.com.

Farrah, Michael, Jeff?

2009-06-26T12:16:00.007-05:00

Last night was wacky. First, we hear the fabulous, beautiful, dynamic and worthy-of-serious-hair-envy Farrah Fawcett died. Major bummer, but I think we were all expecting that, seeing as she was very ill.

Still an icon has passed. As a girl I had great admiration for Jane Fonda and Farrah Fawcett. I think it was because I was mostly blonde from 7th grade on, and also I enjoyed Jane's workout video which helped me slim my inner thighs, which--a horrifying detail to a 7th grader--"touched."

Most people remember Farrah for her wicked badass hair and her role as the sexy-mom-jeans wearing Jill Munroe in Charlie's Angels, but here are some things you may have forgotten about the late actress:

Farrah's Red Swinsuit poster broke records in sales, making her a pop icon and international pin-up.

Although Farrah refused to do any nudity in the 70s and 80s, she caved in the 90s and her issue of Playboy was the best selling issue. EVER. She re-posed for the magazine at age 50, and looked fierce.

Fawcett's role in The Burning Bed, a story about a woman being abused by her husband and eventually fighting back by setting her abuser's bed on fire while he slept in it, brought massive ammounts of attention to spousal abuse. The film gained attention for not only Fawcett as an actress, but also for the issue at hand. The movie was the first commercially successful film--no doubt thanks to Farrah's starring role--to address the psychological toruture that comes along with physical abuse in a relationship. Based on a true story, The Burning Bed was a groundbreaking story Farrah was passionate about telling. It scared the hell out of me!

Finally, Farrah has a son who struggles with substance abuse. His name is Redmond O'Neal. Farrah left behind her son, and her long-time lover, Ryan O'Neal, who she had recently agreed to marry. Sadly, that marriage was never actualized.

Farrah died of anal cancer, yesterday, June 25th, around 10pm. She was a motherfucking rockstar of a woman. And damn, that hair was so fierce.

No one can stop talking about the passing of Michael Jackson. If you live under a rock, he died yesterday as well. While I'm not so sure how I feel about Jackson as a man, there is no denying that as an artist he fully surpassed any and all expectations. His songs are amazing, and not one person in the world (well, minus infants who can't speak yet) will tell you they don't know who he is. Seriously. I dare you to go to a 3rd world country ravaged by disease and poverty and ask them about Michael Jackson. They can sing you a song of his, I promise. He was THAT famous.

While you will no doubt be clobbered with MJ's music all week, I made a little list of somewhat forgotten songs I think you may enjoy. Okay, Man in the Mirror is not somewhat forgotten. I just like it, sorry, guilty pleasure. Anyway.

Sure, sure we all like Billie Jean, and Beat It, and Dirty Diana, and, well, you know the rest, but here are my favorites for today. A lot of it is Jackson Five. Young Michael Jackson was my favorite, alongside the Michael Jackson Kelsey and I were lucky enough to observe through the 5-part interview aired during the Maryland snowstorm years ago. Clips of that are also below.

Here are those clips (bit by bit, it's actually almost the entire interview) from Martin Bashir's 2003 documentary, Living With Michael. AMAZING! SO NUTS!

Finally, Jeff Goldblum DID NOT die last night. Although the rumor that circulated reminded me a little bit of the time Sarah Moore and I put that Cuba Gooding Junior died on Wikipedia, and the rumor spread like wildfire. Pranks are good, I support them always.