My last few weeks in Brazil have been gradually increasing in epicness.  There was the beginning of my teaching at a place called Lar São Domingo, a sort of school type place for kids from the local favelas.  There was the discovery of my favorite beach, which is off the beaten path and fairly sparsely populated even on beautiful weekend, complete with 4 beach bars in a row.  There was watching one of my new friends, a fantastic musician originally from Virginia named Atiba play at a fancy little beach bar named Lopana, and having him call me up to play bass with him on a little blues number.  The list goes on, and culminates in this, which happened just last weekend:

That’s my friend Suel, his wife Carol and me live painting a new mural at a beach bar called Milk Beach Bar, where I learned to pay attention to which cup holds the beer and which cup holds the paint, to my cost.  And also found out that water based paint, initially, tastes kinda watery.  Suel is an artist, and Carol teaches art history at the local university.  And all of it was fabulously documented by my other new friend Matias, all of whom will hopefully visit me in Portland someday.

There are still a few more days in Brazil, but the end is soon and I will shortly be reunited with my friends, my dog, my house and my city on Thanksgiving day.  A perfect end to an amazing experience.  And while I still have much I’d like to show you all about brazilian life (and yes, food) those posts may come after I’ve returned and have time to organize all the photos and video I’ve taken – which is a hell of a lot, have no fear!  I’d like to put together a couple of videos and will be posting those up as well.  As for my feelings, they are mixed; I look forward to going home.  I miss my home, and my life and everyone and everything in it tremendously. But I will also miss the people and things that have touched me here, and feel certain that I will have to return soon.


WARNING: This is not about Brazil.

This is a short story I started writing on April 1st 2010, and never finished.  I just ran across it when I remembered I had an account at and was poking around in there to see what I was writing about back then.  I didn’t even remember I’d started it, but I liked it so much I decided to take a crack at finishing it.  Hope you like it.

“But I don’t have any cash,” the boy mumbled.
“You don’t need any cash. Just follow me, and do what I do. Ok?” said the older one.
“But,” the younger boy whispered, “isn’t it illegal?”
“You wanna see it, don’t you? You came down here with me and said you wanted to see it. You’re not chickening out now, are you? Are you some chicken little baby now? You know, I don’t like hanging around with babies. Want me to take you home, baby?” The older boy glared at the younger one, derision dripping from his words like venom from a cobra. The masterful barrage of mockery worked perfectly. Just as expected, the answer: “Fuck you, Evan. I’m not a stupid baby. Quit sayin I’m a baby!”

“Well alright then! Way to man up, Jakob!” replied Evan, smiling through slitted eyes and slapping the younger boy on the back heartily. “Let’s go. Just remember, stay quiet, look like you belong there and follow along.”

Jakob watched as Evan peered around the corner of the brick wall. They’d been hanging out at the soda shop down the street for a few hours, staring at girls and imagining what it would be like to kiss them, when Evan had cracked this plan. Jakob had just mentioned that he wanted to see one, and wouldn’t it be great if they could, not really thinking that it would ever happen. His family didn’t have the money for that kind of thing. They weren’t that poor, but his parents sure had to cut out all but the strictest of necessities. They said it was for the war effort, but Jakob didn’t know anything about that.  And extravagances like these, he’d dreamed of it, lying in his room late at night, gazing out his bedroom window and pretending he was there. He would lie in his bed and watch the hazy dream images of his young imagination dance before him, but he’d never had the guts to try and go by himself. And he certainly couldn’t come up with the money to pay for it; his parents didn’t allow him to work because of the asthma. So when he mentioned it, when Evan had gotten the look in his eye, and was so sure of the plan and its success, he’d gotten carried away in the hope that this would work. And he had Evan to give him the courage to try.

He followed Evan around the corner and down the alley. There was a single green dumpster, and a metal door hiding next to it with a sign that said “Employees Only”. The dumpster smelled of rancid butter, and there was an odd colored liquid dripping from one corner. It ribboned down the alley a few feet, shiny and multicolored, before disappearing into a drain in the center of the way. It smelled like caramel, sugary sweet, but mixed with the cloying stench of rot and piss.  Real life stink, thought Jakob. He tried breathing through his mouth, but the smell still crept into his unguarded nostrils. Evan was frantically whispering at him and waving him over. “Come here you little pipsqueak, you’ll get us caught!” he whispered loudly in Jakob’s direction.  Jakob crept up to him, and Evan grabbed his shoulders.  His grip was tight. “I told you to follow me and do as I say, or I’m leavin!”  He thought he could feel the sweat from Evan’s hands seeping into his shirt, the tension and fear transmitting like an electrical current from the older boy. He was shaking Jakob by the shoulders and glaring at him, waiting for a sign that Jakob was back on the payroll and ready to follow wherever Evan lead.  Jakob nodded, his own fear starting to crawl up his insides and claw at his heart, his intestines.

Evan whispered again, quieter. “Ok. I’m gonna open the door and poke my head in first. If the coast is clear, I’ll wave you in behind me. When we go in you gotta act like you belong there, ok? Anyone thinks we look suspicious, they’ll start askin questions and we’ll be hauled out on our asses for sure. Got it?” Jakob nodded again. Evan stared into his face hard for another second, and then nodded back. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

And it all happened just like that.  Well, at first.  Evan slowly cracked open the door just enough to get an eyeball into the interior, then slowly opened it up a little more.  Jakob was holding his breath, trying to ignore the boiling fear that was cooking his bowels into a frothing stew. He could feel his lungs starting to revolt.  No, no nonononono not now! he thought in desperation, but the tightening in his chest could only mean that his lungs were staging a mutiny on this adventure, his medicine left on his bureau at home.  He’d thought he would only be gone for a few minutes.  He closed his eyes and forced himself to breath slowly, evenly, despite the increasing tension in his chest and the rising panic in his throat. Slowly, the tension eased, and he sighed with relief.  He opened his eyes, and saw Evan just turning to wave him in, the door ajar a scant few inches.

Evan whispered harshly “Get in get in quick! I’m right behind you!” and shoved Jakob through the open door.

Jakob stumbled into the hallway.  He fell to his hands and knees for a moment, the feel of thick carpet cushioning the fall.  For a split moment, his hands gloried in the luxurious feel of the floor, before he rose to his feet again.  He glanced behind him and saw Evan slipping through the doorway like a shadow, the dim light barely glinting in his eyes, which were all upon him.  He turned and faced the hallway.  It was full of people, adults and children, their hands gripped tightly in those of their parents; yet it was strangely muted, the low voices of people speaking in murmurs, the soft carpeting and thick walls soaking up the sounds.  It’s like being underwater, Jakob thought.  As he gazed at the scene, Evan came up behind and shoved him forward again.  “Quit gawking, dammit!” he whispered harshly in his ear.  Jakob stumbled again, and the motion caught the eye of a man in a strange sort of uniform, red with gold trimming.  Jakob thought he was a soldier, but he’d never seen any of the other soldiers wearing a uniform like that.  The man walked over to them, a dark look in his eye.  Evan was whispering “fuck fuck fuck!” and glancing left and right in panic.  Jakob felt the fear and panic rise from his belly again, gripping his throat and squeezing his chest.  Like he really was underwater, and the water was rushing into his lungs with the force of a tidal wave, forcing out his air with a rush.  He grasped at his throat and fell to his knees, gasping for breath.  Help, he whispered…or maybe he only thought it?  Help me…  He thought he heard the sounds of a woman’s voice nearby.

“My goodness what’s wrong with this boy! Mr. Chichester, did you see what happened?”

“I’m sure I didn’t, Mrs. Katz.  I thought they may have been sneaking in to watch one of the films, and I…”

“And you scared the poor boy to death!  Does he look like a hoodlum from the streets?  I’m sure his parents are here somewhere.  Please, do go look for them.”

“Eh, certainly, madam.  Come, boy.  Let’s see if your parents are here as well, shall we?” Jakob heard the sounds of Evan protesting. “I shall return shortly.”

Lying on that soft plush carpeting, he heard the woman’s now soothing voice saying “Just lie and rest for a moment, my dear.  There, look, your color’s coming back now, isn’t it?  There’s a good boy.”  Jakob felt the tightness gradually leave his chest once more.  Why did he ever leave the house without his medicine?  He gasped out “Th-thank you miss.  I’ve got the asthma, see, and I left home without…” She tutted at him.  “Shhh, the attack has passed now, hasn’t it?  Just lie here a few moments more.  This theatre belongs to my husband, you see, although he’s off helping with the war effort, of course.”  Her eyes grew far off, for a moment.  “He’s in Africa, last I heard.  The stories he tells! But then, he always did love a good story.”  She smiled down at him.  “I, uh, think I can stand now, miss.”  He slowly rose to his feet.  Her smile grew wider.  “Lovely!  Now, tell me the truth dear.  Did you sneak into the theatre without paying, or are you parents here with you?”  Jakob took in a deep breath.  She was so kind.  Would she call the police, have him arrested if he told the truth?  His whisper was barely audible.  “I snuck in, miss.”  He looked up at her again. “But…I’ve never seen a movie, not ever.  I dream of going to the theatre every night!  I mean…everything always turns out right in the end, in the movies.  Don’t they?”  He paused, feeling ashamed, feeling desperate to have come so close, to end up here.  “I just wanted to see if my dreams are real.  Are you….are you going to arrest me?”  He dropped his gaze to the floor, afraid of the answer.

The woman was silent for a few moments.  Jakob closed his eyes, and sighed, his head dropping even lower.  “My husband always loved a good story, did I mention?”, the woman said finally.  “When he was a boy, he used to sneak in to the theatre to watch the westerns.  That’s how we met, you know.”  Jakob’s gaze rose to meet hers, her eyes twinkling with laughter.


I brushed my teeth
I fed my fish
I put tons of yummy food
In my cute dog’s dish

My bags are packed
They’re by the door
But my home keeps whispering
“Just one more!”

One more toss of a slobbery ball
One more check of the mulberry tree
One more dip in my soothing hot tub
One more sip from my favorite mug

All these things and people and places
Will soon be replaced with different faces
But I’ll go happily into the unknown
Knowing that they’re all still waiting for me at home.


God Father

Marlon Brando as The Godfather

My father’s favorite movie was the Godfather. I remember he made me watch it one afternoon, sitting on his bed in one of the immaculately furnished apartments he rented after my parents divorced, one of the lovebirds he used to keep perched on my shoulder as the grisly horse head scene played out before my eyes. I was 12, maybe 13, and I remember feeling like I was in a mafioso family as well, because my father was just as intimidating, just as imposing a figure to me as the Godfather in the movie. When he was angry, he would fix you with one eye, the pupil quivering in the eye socket, with such a glare that you felt riveted to the spot and couldn’t move. You just waited for whatever horrible fate he decided to assign you to be issued, for your punishment to be meted out with the coldness and impartiality of a judge, for all that his visage spoke of such anger. And yet, I was my father’s daughter – I saw in the Godfather what he loved so much about it. It was the music. I think the theme from the Godfather was probably one of my father’s favorite melodies, and I would often hear him humming it to himself as he went about his day.  And when I hear it now, I am gripped by a many-faceted melancholy: for the passing of time, for the passing of opportunity, for a misunderstood life, and for the finality of death experienced and inflicted.

In Defense Of Dating, Part Two

Could this be an arm around my waist?
Well surely the hand contains a knife…
-Morrissey, “I’m Ok By Myself”

A disturbing trend has revealed itself to me, my dear faithful internets.  I’ve been trotting along my merry way, dating here and dating there.  Gathering ye rosebuds as I may, so to speak.  Now me, I have a pretty regular pattern when navigating murky dating waters: Relationship ends.  I enter period of celibate mourning.  I feel better after a variable amount of time and commence dating, ready to find the next serious relationship.  I’m not saying it’s the best, or the most effective, or even the pattern I would choose were I able.  But it’s what works for me, and that’s pretty much that.  Every relationship I’ve had has been better, healthier than the last, and I have learned valuable lessons with each one.  Binge dating, one night stands, empty sex just have never appealed to me.  Well, not *really*.  I have my moments, I mean GOD.  I’m only human. But anyway…

This time around, there is a term that has cropped up again and again, not just in my experiences, but those of my friends as well.  I had not personally encountered this term in the past, but now it seems to be pervasive:  This thing called “emotionally unavailable”.

Now this might surprise you but
I find I’m ok by myself
And I don’t need you
Or your morality
To save me
No no no no no

My reaction to this term has always been negative.  Consider the premise upon which I function:  That a person’s natural inclination, emotional entropy, if you will, is to find that one person that completes them.  It might be for a few years, or forever.  It is generally not possible for someone to connect this deeply with more than one person at a time; they can come close, but there is the desire to have that one partner, that one companion who is above all others.  A soul mate, for lack of a better term.  The urge to create connections, to bond, is stronger than all others.

This might disturb you but
I find I’m ok by myself
And I don’t need you
Or your benevolence
To make sense
No no no no

Based on that premise, I concluded that the only reasons someone could have for claiming this state of emotional unavailability are twofold; either they are unwilling to be truthful about the real reason they don’t want to connect (“She’s just not that into you”) or they have succumbed to the fear of being hurt, and are unwilling to face that fear – a cop out, in my view.  But I had never truly investigated that stance outside my own admittedly flawed brain, and decided to start asking around.  Determine if perhaps there were other reasons, or if the reasons I had were valid.  Time for some investigative blogging!  I was surprised, somewhat, by what I discovered.

After all these years
I find I’m ok by myself
And I don’t need you
Or your homespun philosophy
No no no no

What I found during my highly unscientific in-depth investigation is that while those reasons are quite valid, there is a different way to view the second one, and a third one I had not considered.

A short word on the first one:  If you’re just using someone for the sex, or to fill time, then say so.  To do otherwise is to lead someone on, and that is never ok in the world of the human heart.  That’s all I think I need to say about that.

We have all been hurt, except for all those perfect couples of which there are OH SO VERY MANY, and perhaps some yogis sitting on a mountain in Tibet.  And I’m sure there’s been squabbles over yak milk there, too.  But I’m talking about being heartbroken – that pain is hard to risk again.  I seem to be somewhat risk immune to it, but whatever.  Not everyone is so lucky, I guess.  So saying you’re emotionally unavailable could be construed as a way of keeping the definitions vague, thereby saving us from having to make a choice.  Which is not a bad thing; sometimes we need to scope out the situation for a while.  But in this case, I maintain that the use of the term is misleading.  Instead, let’s perhaps say that ‘I’m keeping my options open’, or ‘I’m not ready to commit to anything’.  Emotionally unavailable gives the impression of being inflexible.

This might make you flop in your bed
I’m ok by myself
And I don’t need you
And I never have
I never have
No no no no no

The third reason I found were those people who have not yet recovered from that heartbreak.  The ones who are still damaged, who are going through repairs.  They cannot even contemplate any sort of emotional connection.  The difference, and probably the reason I did not consider it, is that when I am in that state I turn into a hermit.  You don’t see me.  I don’t go out.  I sit in my house and heal, I do things for myself, I hug my pets.  I do not, however, eat pints of ice cream – I’m more likely to grill up a steak.  Gotta watch that waistli…um…yeah.  I may go out and see friends occasionally, but I’d much prefer they visit me.  And I do not date anyone, see anyone, sleep with anyone.  I couldn’t comprehend the thought of someone else touching me, or me being at all interested in touching anyone else, which saves me from having to explain that at that moment, I am emotionally unavailable.  Other people embark upon a game of conquest, sleeping with everyone who catches their eye and is willing, but refusing to apply or entertain any meaning to it.  These people heal however they may, but they most certainly have no business trying to enter into another serious relationship until the damage has been healed.  They then use the term to explain the situation, which is probably its most correct usage.

The greatest thing you’ll ever learn
Is how to love and be loved in return.
-Eden Ahbez, “Nature Boy” (1948)

I guess in closing, what I’m discovering is that the term “emotionally unavailable” has become a blanket term for a host of different things, and in the case of close interpersonal relationships, I suggest that a more descriptive term of the actual situation be employed, if possible – realizing that the line between the second and third reasons are very cloudy at best.  I also think that it is not something you are, it is something you become.  It is a reaction to an external input, and as it goes against the initial premise, it is not something to be content with indefinitely.  Much as I use Morrissey’s song as an effective tool at maintaining emotional distance, it is a temporary state – behind the walls, underneath the facade, my truth is the line from Eden Ahbez.  Of course, my initial premise may be wrong, or just my own; but I find that emotionally, we are so very much alike in so many different ways.  More love, more commitment, more honesty, more passion.  These are the things I seek and treasure, and hope for everyone.

Speaking of Inspiration

I’m so effin busy, this post has been half written since back during the Xanadu Days.  But I finally finished it.  Enjoy!

What inspires you?

I’ve had my head full of Muses and heavenly Inspiration for the past few weeks, you see. And of course the moment anything stirs that messy glorious soup wherein my creative juices smolder and bubble, percolate and stew, my first thoughts turn to music. Yes, there’s this writing thing. And the photography thing. And now this whole producing thing…but music is the first thing I think of.

I know. I realize that I am writing about music. Hush up and read on.

A while back I wrote about some of my favorite songs. Now, with all this talk of inspiration, I thought I’d share with you all some of the musicians who inspire me as a musician.

I started my musical career as a classical guitarist at the age of 6, so that’s where I’ll start. Probably one of the most amazing classical guitarist I’d ever seen was Andres Segovia.  I used to watch him and try to copy all the mannerisms and fingering that he would do on the few occasions I was lucky enough to see him on television.  I couldn’t find any videos of him playing these two songs I practiced endlessly back then, so here’s a few talented performers doing their own rendition: Malaguena and Aranjeuz Mon Amour .  I’d never say I ever got it down as good as these guys, but I rocked it in my own right.

The next instrument I turned my eye to was the bass.  In all honesty, I switched to the bass because it was 1. in high demand, especially for a girl and 2. I didn’t have to concentrate and think quite as much as I did playing classical guitar.  It allowed me to do something while playing that I never got to do, and that was just groove.  Go with the flow.  Feel the music, and improvise.  Classical guitar has tons of improviation potential, if you are very very awesome.  Otherwise it sounds like crap.  Bass, on the other hand, is far more forgiving, at least for me.  My inspiration for the bass is the inimitiable Gordon Sumner, heretofore referred to by his more commonly known name, Sting.  His bass lines for The Police were simple, elegant, playful, and not overly showy.  Solid, as my friend Mike aka @drnormal would say.  I once read an article he did for Bass Player magazine back in 2000, where they asked him about the importance of space when playing the bass. He responded:
“For me, the sound is only half of music – the space between the notes is also vitally important. I gave a speech at Berklee College of Music a couple years ago and talked about silence. As musicians, all we do is create a frame for silence, because silence is the perfect music.”
That concept really resounded for me.  Suffice to say, there’s a heck of a lot of Police in my bass practice repertoire.
I have lots of other instruments I dabble casually in; included in that list is the saxaphone, the drums, in particular the bodhran, and various flutey bits.  None of those are instruments I’d consider myself  particulary inspired by any one performer, so my last entry has nothing to do with an instrument, except perhaps voice – truly a marvelous instrument in its own right, to be sure.  Despite the jabs I most certainly will receive from friends and readers about writing a single music-related blog post without mentioning Sarah McLachlan, I’ve got to include her.  She’s freaking brilliant, talented in a hundred different ways, and uses her powers to create amazingly good for people everywhere. and female musicians in particular.  Sarah McLachlan is truly an amazing artist, and her inspiration to me is what you can do with music.  She’s proved you can change the world with it, between her philanthropic work and the Lilith Fair (you did hear it’s coming back this year, right?  Check the website I linked right there!)  I mean seriously, can you possibly watch that damn ASPCA commercial without bawling?  I can’t.  So unfair.
I was originally going to end with Sarah there, but it occurred to me that there was one other musician who truly inspires me with her absolute dedication to her own flavor of the craft, her  unrepentant refusal to conform, and her unique lyric patterns which constantly fascinate me.  Tori Amos will never fit into any predetermined box or genre, slamming out anger, pain, love and betrayal from a straddled piano bench.  A musical prodigy at age 5, she was asked to leave the music conservatory she was studying at when only 11.  Even then, she refused to be put into a musical box, and has pioneered ever since.

Without inspiration the best powers of the mind remain dormant, there is a fuel in us which needs to be ignited with sparks. – Johann Gottfried Von Herder


I don’t care what you call it – two thousand ten, twenty ten, or oh ten – this year has gotten off to one craaaaaazy start!  I thought I ought to share.  Because this is interesting stuff.  My life is interesting!  Or at least there’s interesting people in it.  Right?  Considering I’m spending the next few weeks watching all of Farscape from season one again, I might be exaggerating.  A little.

Anyway, here’s the rundown of the past couple weeks, which were WAY more crazy then the next two are shaping up to be.

11/29/09: My birthday!  I have a birthday party.  There’s a theme.  It’s Xanadu!  I inflict this movie on all my friends.  Mercilessly.

12/16/09: I receive numerous emails from several friends and acquaintances that the Broadway musical Xanadu was coming to Portland in January.  And the tickets went on sale on my birthday, which just SMACKS of destiny, doesn’t it?  Seriously, like 3 people all emailed me THE SAME DAY.  I guess the word kinda got out that I like Xanadu.  But for the record, I just LIKE it.  It’s not like it’s my favorite movie of all time or anything.  It’s not, you know.

12/31/09: I start working with the wonderful folks at the Portland Opera to come up with some ideas on how to drum up interest for the show via the OurPDX blog.  We come up with some AWESOME ideas…

01/03/10: I post the first blog post on  It was brilliant, of course.  Inspired, you might say.  Because I am an artiste.  Or perhaps the Muses graced my keyboard?  Whatever.

01/04/10: The first of five days of Xanadu quiz questions on the Twitters.  It was (mostly) all tagged with the hashtag #pdxanadu. Strangely, for only having 5 days of quiz questions, we had EIGHT finalists!  Because I only use the minute hand when I check who answered first.  And Friday, there were a whole gaggle of people who answered within the same minute.  Lucky!

01/07/10: I get to interview Annie Golden, who plays Calliope.  The only person I’d ever interviewed for OurPDX before this was @mediachick.  That was great, of COURSE, but I mean…she’s my friend, and we hang out, and SHE MADE ME A PIE FOR MY BIRTHDAY.  This interview was someone famous, who I never met, over the phone.  So I was a touch nervous.  But it was FABULOUS! I spend all night and part of the next day writing up the blog post.  It seemed like something I ought to get up asap, you know?

01/09/10: @camikaos and I make OurPDX blogging history!  We co-blog a hilarious post as we announce the winner of the Xanadu tickets giveaway. (Grats, @blabbey!)

01/12/09: Cami and I head out to our big night at the Keller Auditorium.  We were sparkly.  Cami wore really big earrings.  I wore a lot of glitter.  We saw all sorts of friends, like @dieselboi and @anna_v and @mizd and @chefchopper!  The show was fabulous, the company was great, and of course we went for pie afterwards.  I think.  Did we go for pie?  Maybe I don’t remember exactly.  No, I’m pretty sure there was pie.

01/13/10: Since I was super smart and took half the day off the next day, it allowed Cami and I to write our second blog post where we regale the OurPDX readers with our wild tales of glitter and glam.  Plus I was hung over.

01/15/09: I head out to my second viewing of Xanadu.  I know, you’d think once was enough, but not for me, apparently.  Truth is, I sort of told some friends I’d go see it with them before this whole OurPDX thing started.  So you know, I had to keep my commitments.  This caused several cool things to happen:  I became Mayor of the Keller Auditorium on foursquare, and I got a second chance to get a backstage tour thanks to Annie!  We weren’t on the stage for 2 minutes however, before the company manager kicked us off the stage in the most polite way I’ve ever heard, and then complemented me on my blogging.  It seems she kept the cast apprised of my online Xanadu musings.  I LOVE NEW FANS.  We ended up standing outside in the rain, chatting, my friends and Annie and I.  With an umbrella.  Dang foreigners and their umbrellas.

So there it is.  My Xanadu exploits, compiled and presented to you, dear readers.  As for me, I think I’ve had my fill of Xanadu for a while.  Or until someone wants to watch it with me.  Anyone?



Ode to Summer

I was gonna post this on the Winter Solstice, in the depth of the cold and gray…but now it’s just gray.  Not so cold.  Still…enjoy this memory of summer past and think of summer on its way.

She lounges on her back patio, her skin soaking in the last sparkling rays of sunshine as the sun makes his way to his evening engagements.  Eyes closed, she breathes in the warm late summer air, catching the faint juicy scent of the tomato plant nearby.  Small ripe yellow tomatoes the shape of tiny gourds dangle from the plant, their flesh glowing and translucent in the late afternoon sun.

Sun Tomato

Sun Tomato

She reaches an arm out and plucks a tomato, feeling its firm skin, still very warm from the heat of the day.  Holding the tomato up to the light, its veined interior glows darker against the bright yellow.  She places it in her mouth and slowly bites into the ripe flesh, the skin resisting her teeth causing a small explosion of slightly sweet, slightly tangy juice to erupt against her tongue.

I wrote this in the summertime.  I saved it for the wintertime, so I could remember what summer feels like when it’s cold and wet and rainy outside.

No really. The worst movie EVAR.

OMG Internets. O. M. G.

I just watched the absolutest worstest movie I have ever seen. And I have seen my share of crappy movies. Like Krull. And Amazon Jail. (Yeah, look that one up.)

But this one, this took the cake. Even as far as bad lesbian movies go, which are already bad, this was bad. And that is BAD.

It was called Maggie and Annie. Or annie and maggie. Or you know, two girls’ names.

First, it was a softball movie. Or at least it claimed to be a softball love story. Like as if the writers were having lunch:

Writer 1: “Hey, let’s make a lesbian romance!”

Writer 2: “Yeah, those are always easy fun! Don’t they like softball? Let’s make it a softball movie!”

Writer 1: “yeah, but we don’t know any actresses who can play softball”

Writer 2: “No problem. We’ll just film them standing out in the field and smacking gloves.”

So. Not one of the main characters was ever seen actually PLAYING softball. Standing in a softball field, yes. Yelling out encouragement, sure. But not one of them was ever seen catching, fielding or batting. There was some team of softball players playing, viewed from a great distance, like say beyond the fence at center field, but that’s about it.

Next, one of the main characters is married to a guy. A very nice, understanding guy, who didn’t freak when he finds out his wife is screwing her best friend. He even calls up the best friend, who had moved away to ‘let the flames die’, and suggested that they share his wife.

Uh huh.

Wait, it gets better!

The sex scenes were OH SO VERY LAME. They looked like two kindergarten girls playing dress up, except they were playing ‘two girls kissing’. There was lots of giggling and dreamy-eyed staring, and CRYING (omg who cries the first time they sleep with someone? Ugh). If I’d been one of those girls, I would’ve been all like “BITCH QUIT YER GIGGLING AND LET’S GET NASTY!” or something. Ok actually I don’t talk like that. Really not ever. But I’d be thinking it REALLY REALLY HARD.

And then. AND THEN.

So poor lesbian girl runs away to San Francisco (of course) to get away from the insane passion that she so (un) obviously shares with the married chick, to no avail. Married chick goes on and on to her husband about how depressed she is and how much she misses lesbian chick. And he just nods sadly until he finally calls lesbian chick and works out an arrangement to ‘share her’ (like a nice car or something, right?). And lesbian chick is all happy and drives home, and gets hit by a drunk driver and dies.


So married chick is all like ‘I’d have been so mad at you if you died without me saying goodbye…”

Ok I hate her. What a selfish little bitch! She has this great guy, a little girl, and all she can do is go on and on about how depressed she is, when the poor lesbian chick at least has the decency to try to move on, and she didn’t have a family to turn to at night.

Bitch, please.

I’m gonna watch me some Underworld, Rise of the Lycans. I need to cleanse my palate.

Internet Famous

Something fabulous happened last night, my dear internets. It was so strange and surreal and well… Here. Read.

I’m at the Bagdad Theatre last night, watching Word to the Wise(men), a festive storytelling event full of scantily clad elves, cupcakes and music. That in and of itself is fabulous, I know. Being at the Bagdad and not running an event is kinda strange for me now, but some friends of mine were represented in this effort in various ways, and I was being a fangirl supportive.

I see a friend of mine walking over with a few other people, so naturally I go over to say hello. Thats what you do in these social situations, acknowledge people you like, right? See I thought so. Anyway, my friend introduces me to the guy with him: “Morgan, this is AGuy.  AGuy, this is Morgan.”

AGuy (sorry, can’t remember his name, it takes me a minimum of 7 times before I can remember peoples names, seriously you don’t?) anyway, he says to me as he grips my hand Very Tightly (the same hand I nearly broke on Thanksgiving, ouchouchouch): “Morgan? Like as in morganpdx?” I nod affirmative, slightly bewildered. “Oh man I LOVE reading your blog! You’re so funny and awesome and amazing and I want to have your babies!!”. At least that’s what I think he said. That’s what I heard, anyway. Which means, of course, that I’M INTERNET FAMOUS!!! I’M A FUCKIN ROCK STAR!

Funny, my chauffer hasn’t arrived in my Morgan limo yet. You get one of those when you’re Internet Famous, right? And a personal chef and personal trainer? I expect the checks will start rolling in Any Day Now.