Last night, you decided to sleep in a strange boy's room. It might have been late, and you were probably drunk when you made this decision. Now it's morning, and the light is pouring through the closed dusty venetian blinds (or from behind the towels tacked up over the windows). You have to get up. You have to go. You have to do the walk of shame. What comes next?
Beside you is the sleeping boy. (Or man; most likely, some kind of boy-man hybrid, if he's under the age of 40, anyway.) You can see his bare shoulder. It looks nice. The air smells like his hair, and the pile of old t-shirts over there in the corner.
If you are on the outside of the bed, suss out the situation before you slip, naked, from under the coverless down quilt that probably hasn't been washed, ever. (Straight boys don't know you can actually clean down quilts.) The room is freezing. You can't see because your contacts are in a glass in the tiny bathroom the boy shares with his roommates, down the hall, but you can tell that's a hoodie of his over there on the floor; your hastily-stepped-out-of jeans and rolled-up thong you'll deal with later.
So slip out of bed and grab the hoodie. Put it on. Don't wake the boy up. Dash for the bathroom. There. Flip the switch, and don't look at yourself too hard under that awful fluorescent light. Wash your face. No, don't use that stripy blue soap, or even bother looking for skin cleanser; use conditioner, if the boy has it, or some kind of moisturizer to get that caked on mascara off. Better.
Now, take your best guess as to which is his toothbrush, put the thought that it might not actually be his out of your mind, and use it. Put in your contacts. Now drink some water with your cupped hands (there won't be a cup there, trust me). By now, you feel almost human.
Usually, the boy will have a comb. Use it. If you're smart, you'll have left your party bag in the bathroom the night before--if not, you are going to have to sneak around the house among the beer bottles, abandoned LPs and ashtrays, looking for it. Hope the roomates don't wake up and catch your ass hanging out from under the hoodie as you lift filthy couch cushions in search of your bag.
Sneak back into the bathroom, and add a bit of mascara and clear lipgloss until you feel and look human, not like the walking, smelly hangover you actually are. Tiptoe back into the boy's room.
He wakes up just as you are picking your thong up off the floor. He looks at you, with those beautiful eyes like the middle of the ocean, and lifts the quilt.
Slip out of the hoodie and back into bed. He smells wonderful. Make him make you coffee, later, and take you home on his motorcycle.
Regret nothing.
Repeat, with same boy if preferred.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Monday, May 30, 2005
You've come a long way, baby
So, my last post made me rustle up this 1984 Virginia Slims ad. Read their THEORY on women's evolution:
"According to the THEORY OF EVOLUTION, men evolved with fat, stubby fingers and women evolved with long, slim fingers. Therefore, according to the THEORY OF LOGIC, women should smoke the long, slim cigarette designed just for them. And that's the THEORY OF SLIMNESS."
Ah, I JUST LOVE Virginia Slims's LONG-WAY THEORY. According to these SCIENTIFIC GENIOUSES, becoming a smart, sassy and genious bitch is simple. Alls you have to do is start smoking and stop eating, and your IQ will automatically increase.
Who needs a good job or a good education? With Ms. Virgina's LONG-WAY THEORY, all you need to become a fully-realized, completely logical woman is a smoking party dress and long fingers. Hand me my Nobel Peace Prize, Virginia, because I'm following your LOGIC.
Wait, I'm thinking too much, it's making my mind tingle... Wait, it's because I haven't eaten in weeks trying to shoe-horn myself into this fabulous new dress... Wait, it's the 80s, maybe I should die my silk shoes to match. I've come so far.
"According to the THEORY OF EVOLUTION, men evolved with fat, stubby fingers and women evolved with long, slim fingers. Therefore, according to the THEORY OF LOGIC, women should smoke the long, slim cigarette designed just for them. And that's the THEORY OF SLIMNESS."
Ah, I JUST LOVE Virginia Slims's LONG-WAY THEORY. According to these SCIENTIFIC GENIOUSES, becoming a smart, sassy and genious bitch is simple. Alls you have to do is start smoking and stop eating, and your IQ will automatically increase.
Who needs a good job or a good education? With Ms. Virgina's LONG-WAY THEORY, all you need to become a fully-realized, completely logical woman is a smoking party dress and long fingers. Hand me my Nobel Peace Prize, Virginia, because I'm following your LOGIC.
Wait, I'm thinking too much, it's making my mind tingle... Wait, it's because I haven't eaten in weeks trying to shoe-horn myself into this fabulous new dress... Wait, it's the 80s, maybe I should die my silk shoes to match. I've come so far.
Look How Far We've Come
In a parallel dimension, the bitches on the left could have been us. (It's May 30th and we're taking dips in the lake.)
Their suits rock. Why, you ask? Because their bottoms totally cover their bellies. No need for a gym... the bikini waistlines stop at their "real waists" (no butt crack on these sophisticated ladies), the belly buttons are totally covered. And, there is no need to Brazillian the chocha (luckee).
Yah, I know we've come far... but there are definitely some advantages to the 50s bikini.
Of course, swilling beer from a bottle while letting it all hang out is pretty damn swell. Viva la summer trash.
Their suits rock. Why, you ask? Because their bottoms totally cover their bellies. No need for a gym... the bikini waistlines stop at their "real waists" (no butt crack on these sophisticated ladies), the belly buttons are totally covered. And, there is no need to Brazillian the chocha (luckee).
Yah, I know we've come far... but there are definitely some advantages to the 50s bikini.
Of course, swilling beer from a bottle while letting it all hang out is pretty damn swell. Viva la summer trash.
Apache Byatches Chaussee
Jazz dancing. Suede Tassles. Pelvic hip thrusts. And rocking keyboard moves. Apache. This vintage music video from a 1970s Danish disco band is amazing. I can't stop watching the moustache man -- his illuminating smile, his sparkling hand waves, his bad scrawny-man posture, his carefully choreographed moves. He is magical.
And the Apache bitches who chaussee out from behind the teepee? Bewitching.
I love the word "chaussee". I remember chaussee-ing to Janet Jackson tunes back in the 80s. Remember how cool the "running man" was? Remember practicing "chaussees" diagonally across the floor? Remember the hideous spandex outfits? Okay, let's not remember that.
These video byatchs have mastered the chaussee - every move they make is carefully choreographed to enhance their "apache babe-ness" (please enjoy the political incorrectness of this video. I mean, really, how cool is it watching a group of Danish rock nerds bust out their interpretation of white american's interpretation of North American Indian chic? I love it when a style is a rip-off of a rip-off of a rip-off. It becomes its own beautiful thing).
I especially goove on the apache dancers's "search" moves - their hands shielding their brows like they're seeking out smoke signals in the hot plains sun (nevermind that they're in a forest). And, wait for it, wait for it... yes, moustache man pelvic thrusts his way over to dance with the ladies. He is the definition of smooth and these are his Apache bitches.
I want to be a cowgirl.
And the Apache bitches who chaussee out from behind the teepee? Bewitching.
I love the word "chaussee". I remember chaussee-ing to Janet Jackson tunes back in the 80s. Remember how cool the "running man" was? Remember practicing "chaussees" diagonally across the floor? Remember the hideous spandex outfits? Okay, let's not remember that.
These video byatchs have mastered the chaussee - every move they make is carefully choreographed to enhance their "apache babe-ness" (please enjoy the political incorrectness of this video. I mean, really, how cool is it watching a group of Danish rock nerds bust out their interpretation of white american's interpretation of North American Indian chic? I love it when a style is a rip-off of a rip-off of a rip-off. It becomes its own beautiful thing).
I especially goove on the apache dancers's "search" moves - their hands shielding their brows like they're seeking out smoke signals in the hot plains sun (nevermind that they're in a forest). And, wait for it, wait for it... yes, moustache man pelvic thrusts his way over to dance with the ladies. He is the definition of smooth and these are his Apache bitches.
I want to be a cowgirl.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Lady Scorpion, Ghetto Bitches' Patroness
Whoah, I have found Ghetto Bitches the most amazing patron saint. Yes, it's Lady Scorpion. This bitch is amazing.
Want to know where Uma Thurman got her Kill Bill moves? Want to know how Tarantino has defined his style? Just watch the 1972 Japanese film, Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion.
What makes this movie A for awesome-ghetto-bitches is that the women are absolutely cruel, revengeful, and out for themselves. No muss, no fuss, no pity.
Sure, Rotten Tomatoes says "Shunya Ito creates a portrait of a woman is full of strength, beauty and an honor which outshines her peers and the cage within which she's contained." And I can't disagree. But, I must say, it is one of the sappiest descriptions of a hard-ass ghetto bitch film I've ever read.
The women prisoners are horrific beasts, and yet they somehow remain honourable or principled. Sure, it's about eight women criminals who break out of prison. Sure, all their crimes have to do with being bad wives, or mothers, and women. But it's so much more fun and gruesomely satisfying that that description. These women know their lot; they know what they are; they have no illusions. The characters are absolutely corrupted, yes, but the director never lets namby-pamby female stereotypes corrupt the characters... I repeat: they are hard-ass scary bitches.
And Lady Scorpion? She is the most focused, integrity-fuelled bitch in the compound. Her dedication to revenge is unwaveringly focussed. Lady Scorpion accepts her female compatriots's "faults" because their faults, in truth, are their upfront, honest, and uncorruptable character traits. These women know who they are and what each other are: criminals.
Let this be a lesson to all ye ghetto bitches: if you want to be accepted and understood, you don't have to be good, or pure, or uncorruptable, you just have to be upfront and know what you're all about - then all the other bitches will know how to work with you.
Want to know where Uma Thurman got her Kill Bill moves? Want to know how Tarantino has defined his style? Just watch the 1972 Japanese film, Female Prisoner #701: Scorpion.
What makes this movie A for awesome-ghetto-bitches is that the women are absolutely cruel, revengeful, and out for themselves. No muss, no fuss, no pity.
Sure, Rotten Tomatoes says "Shunya Ito creates a portrait of a woman is full of strength, beauty and an honor which outshines her peers and the cage within which she's contained." And I can't disagree. But, I must say, it is one of the sappiest descriptions of a hard-ass ghetto bitch film I've ever read.
The women prisoners are horrific beasts, and yet they somehow remain honourable or principled. Sure, it's about eight women criminals who break out of prison. Sure, all their crimes have to do with being bad wives, or mothers, and women. But it's so much more fun and gruesomely satisfying that that description. These women know their lot; they know what they are; they have no illusions. The characters are absolutely corrupted, yes, but the director never lets namby-pamby female stereotypes corrupt the characters... I repeat: they are hard-ass scary bitches.
And Lady Scorpion? She is the most focused, integrity-fuelled bitch in the compound. Her dedication to revenge is unwaveringly focussed. Lady Scorpion accepts her female compatriots's "faults" because their faults, in truth, are their upfront, honest, and uncorruptable character traits. These women know who they are and what each other are: criminals.
Let this be a lesson to all ye ghetto bitches: if you want to be accepted and understood, you don't have to be good, or pure, or uncorruptable, you just have to be upfront and know what you're all about - then all the other bitches will know how to work with you.
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Girl Guide Bus Promo
Okay, so I saw this ad at the back of the bus.
One: Girl Guides? Just where are they guiding the girls these days?
Two: Don't they know that every horny and dirty 13-year-old boy sits at the back of the bus? Don't they know how much fun those dirty little boys will have with this slogan?
Three: Dear Girl Guide Leaders, please get yourselves a good PR/Ad person; do not create any in-house advertising... because you have no idea how dirty your seemingly innocent copy is.
Four: Guys pitch tents without any help... If you really want to help girls deal with the realities in life, teach them how to masturbate successfully. They have a lifetime of dealing with dirty, back-of-the-bus boys who just know (guided by some primal directive) how to get girls to help them pitch their tents. Sistas need to know what's going on between their own tent poles, more than they need to know how to pitch someone else's tent...
One: Girl Guides? Just where are they guiding the girls these days?
Two: Don't they know that every horny and dirty 13-year-old boy sits at the back of the bus? Don't they know how much fun those dirty little boys will have with this slogan?
Three: Dear Girl Guide Leaders, please get yourselves a good PR/Ad person; do not create any in-house advertising... because you have no idea how dirty your seemingly innocent copy is.
Four: Guys pitch tents without any help... If you really want to help girls deal with the realities in life, teach them how to masturbate successfully. They have a lifetime of dealing with dirty, back-of-the-bus boys who just know (guided by some primal directive) how to get girls to help them pitch their tents. Sistas need to know what's going on between their own tent poles, more than they need to know how to pitch someone else's tent...
Rock IT Boy
This man rocks the party to rock the party. All Ghetto Bitches must get one... or two, or three, or four. Make sure to invite these excellent men to every Ghetto event.
Not only will he up the male indie fashion ante, he will also make sure to inspire the other men around him to dance, sing, and be generally acerbically smart and merry. I have found that men don't rise to the party occasion without a little healthy competition.
This is an example of a man who leads men by example. Let this be an example to all of you Bitches out there.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Summer, so far
- A party of fifty closest friends at the Alibi for my birthday. It's late April. Feel incredibly blessed to feel surrounded by love, to share my peeps with each other. Feel an electric hand on my back unexpectedly, and the world kind of tilts.
- The next night, a barbecue at a crazy house. All the beautiful girls on one blanket in the back yard. The sun sets. I meet a mad Chef whom I want to trust and know forever (he does the lamb just right). It's a full moon eclipse and it's my actual birthday; the universe spins. The boy with the hand comes closer and closer. The light of the moon shines down on Violet and I, tucked under a blanket on a couch on the house's front porch, the boys of our choice behind us. Mine's The Ninja: subtle, quiet, pervasive. Violet proves the ultimate wing girl. The Chef throws empty beer cans at our heads as we duck and laugh.
I invite myself to stay, and break The Ninja's resolve, apparently. No regrets when the next day proves fully Ghetto Bitch, rolling out of there in the sunshine, pale pink cherry blossoms blanketing the road, in party clothes from the night before. I cab away in a hoodie, courtesy The Ninja's collection.
- A few days later, a big film party. Violet and I hang mostly with our own, although I get shanghaied into dancing the tango with a tiny Argentine in front of the fireplace, on the club's blood-red carpet. Must have been the Betsey Johnson. It's my night to be wing girl. The Director arrives, and I keep pulling him over to Violet and I, although the pull between them is palpable. They both just need to stay in each other's orbit. I cab away with a sly smile as I see Violet running arm in arm with him to his car, a look of delight on her lovely face.
- Then, the backyard party at the Mansion. More beautiful girls in bikini tops. The boys make us food, sate us with tequila and kisses in the kitchen. I roll around like a little girl, like a kitten, with the Russian girl and a Swiss ball in the back yard, to the delight, I think, of the boys. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. The tunes bang out the upstairs windows. Eventually night falls, and we move into the big, empty living room. The boys make a fire and take turns on the decks. We jump up and down on a mattress, finally dance until we can't dance any more, and The Ninja sweeps he and I through the night on his motorcycle, somehow safely home.
- There's more, of course. An impromptu invitation to Seattle by The Ninja, which leads to me emailing sick to work for the next day, and an incredible experience. More electricity. Fannypack urges everything on. With the Chef, we sweat it out at a dancehall club until 2 am, then drive home so I can make a huge company meeting back home for 8 am. Oh so Ghetto.
Finally, last weekend in Seattle with all of us, as chronicled by Violet. Her birthday is next weekend.
It's not yet June.
- The next night, a barbecue at a crazy house. All the beautiful girls on one blanket in the back yard. The sun sets. I meet a mad Chef whom I want to trust and know forever (he does the lamb just right). It's a full moon eclipse and it's my actual birthday; the universe spins. The boy with the hand comes closer and closer. The light of the moon shines down on Violet and I, tucked under a blanket on a couch on the house's front porch, the boys of our choice behind us. Mine's The Ninja: subtle, quiet, pervasive. Violet proves the ultimate wing girl. The Chef throws empty beer cans at our heads as we duck and laugh.
I invite myself to stay, and break The Ninja's resolve, apparently. No regrets when the next day proves fully Ghetto Bitch, rolling out of there in the sunshine, pale pink cherry blossoms blanketing the road, in party clothes from the night before. I cab away in a hoodie, courtesy The Ninja's collection.
- A few days later, a big film party. Violet and I hang mostly with our own, although I get shanghaied into dancing the tango with a tiny Argentine in front of the fireplace, on the club's blood-red carpet. Must have been the Betsey Johnson. It's my night to be wing girl. The Director arrives, and I keep pulling him over to Violet and I, although the pull between them is palpable. They both just need to stay in each other's orbit. I cab away with a sly smile as I see Violet running arm in arm with him to his car, a look of delight on her lovely face.
- Then, the backyard party at the Mansion. More beautiful girls in bikini tops. The boys make us food, sate us with tequila and kisses in the kitchen. I roll around like a little girl, like a kitten, with the Russian girl and a Swiss ball in the back yard, to the delight, I think, of the boys. We laugh until our stomachs hurt. The tunes bang out the upstairs windows. Eventually night falls, and we move into the big, empty living room. The boys make a fire and take turns on the decks. We jump up and down on a mattress, finally dance until we can't dance any more, and The Ninja sweeps he and I through the night on his motorcycle, somehow safely home.
- There's more, of course. An impromptu invitation to Seattle by The Ninja, which leads to me emailing sick to work for the next day, and an incredible experience. More electricity. Fannypack urges everything on. With the Chef, we sweat it out at a dancehall club until 2 am, then drive home so I can make a huge company meeting back home for 8 am. Oh so Ghetto.
Finally, last weekend in Seattle with all of us, as chronicled by Violet. Her birthday is next weekend.
It's not yet June.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Catch and Release Program
JO: Tall, check. Cute enough, check. Clothes, pass. Brains ... nada.
Sometimes you have to be a bit cruel -- tell a boy to swim away -- when you realize the boy just can't play. Sometimes you gotta just rip the hook out of their mouths and huck them into deeper waters.
Jo was a cute, but seriously Frankenstien-mute, Seattle boy who tagged along with the girls like a wounded puppy -- it was so classic, it wasn't even classic. I got in over my head by towing the line (I was told later that I was being a cruel byatch for not telling him to go away sooner). So, to make up for my error, the unisex posse of byatches tried to teach him how to pick me up. It failed.
One of the boy byatches in our group realized that this fish wasn't going to leave my line, so he helped me reel him in so that I could cut the line: he tried to give Jo chances to make an impression -- he even told him outright that he was trying to help him work it. But he failed. Seriously, it was like pulling teeth out of a mangled dashboard. He just sort of whirled around all drunk like while his feet grew roots. No amount of pitchers could help us, or this boy.
As the boy byatch pointed out: "In Seattle, all the cute people are indoors".
Sometimes you have to be a bit cruel -- tell a boy to swim away -- when you realize the boy just can't play. Sometimes you gotta just rip the hook out of their mouths and huck them into deeper waters.
Jo was a cute, but seriously Frankenstien-mute, Seattle boy who tagged along with the girls like a wounded puppy -- it was so classic, it wasn't even classic. I got in over my head by towing the line (I was told later that I was being a cruel byatch for not telling him to go away sooner). So, to make up for my error, the unisex posse of byatches tried to teach him how to pick me up. It failed.
One of the boy byatches in our group realized that this fish wasn't going to leave my line, so he helped me reel him in so that I could cut the line: he tried to give Jo chances to make an impression -- he even told him outright that he was trying to help him work it. But he failed. Seriously, it was like pulling teeth out of a mangled dashboard. He just sort of whirled around all drunk like while his feet grew roots. No amount of pitchers could help us, or this boy.
As the boy byatch pointed out: "In Seattle, all the cute people are indoors".
Fire Hydrant Ball
Recipe:
1 Diva with a flaire for strategical business plays and fine wine.
1 Break Dancing Young-un with the hottest stomach in the west.
1 Grown-up Goth Girl with an eye for the irreverant.
1 Bottle of tequila
1 Fire hydrant
1 Set of decks
Mixology:
Heat up a low-beam basement with some Progressive House. Set 3 Ghetto Byatches on the dance floor. Make sure to douse the Byatches with shots every 20 minutes, and keep the music just saccharine enough to drive them to repeatedly holler: "Dirtier, dirtier". Leave hand-pump fire hydrant off to side of dance floor. Now, grab two parts Byatches and set them to task on the fire hydrant - one mans the pump, the other the hose (dirtier)... now wait for it... wait for it.. wait for the DJ to move away from the decks... then hollar "dirtier" and spray the dance floor with a steady stream of water. (This levels the dance floor mix and rids all the participants of pretention.)
1 Diva with a flaire for strategical business plays and fine wine.
1 Break Dancing Young-un with the hottest stomach in the west.
1 Grown-up Goth Girl with an eye for the irreverant.
1 Bottle of tequila
1 Fire hydrant
1 Set of decks
Mixology:
Heat up a low-beam basement with some Progressive House. Set 3 Ghetto Byatches on the dance floor. Make sure to douse the Byatches with shots every 20 minutes, and keep the music just saccharine enough to drive them to repeatedly holler: "Dirtier, dirtier". Leave hand-pump fire hydrant off to side of dance floor. Now, grab two parts Byatches and set them to task on the fire hydrant - one mans the pump, the other the hose (dirtier)... now wait for it... wait for it.. wait for the DJ to move away from the decks... then hollar "dirtier" and spray the dance floor with a steady stream of water. (This levels the dance floor mix and rids all the participants of pretention.)
Monday, May 16, 2005
Booty Up
It began with the Frye boots. Violet and I had dedicated a hot spring Saturday afternoon to cruising for vintage, and I was on the hunt. We found a pair at TVV, but I didn't bother to try them on, assuming they were too big. Never assume.
Violet, Cinderella that she is, went back, tried them on (perfect fit, and we wear the same size) and snagged them for eighty bucks. Damn. OK fine, her long legs will rock them better in a miniskirt this summer. I can accept that. I just get to borrow them to tuck into skinny jeans once in a while.
How does this relate to GBS?
Well, good shoes are critical, as we know, and not just to narrative. This ain't no fairytale; but since the boots, life's been pretty fucking charmed.
Violet, Cinderella that she is, went back, tried them on (perfect fit, and we wear the same size) and snagged them for eighty bucks. Damn. OK fine, her long legs will rock them better in a miniskirt this summer. I can accept that. I just get to borrow them to tuck into skinny jeans once in a while.
How does this relate to GBS?
Well, good shoes are critical, as we know, and not just to narrative. This ain't no fairytale; but since the boots, life's been pretty fucking charmed.
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