This was humor. And the thought of my aging grandparents, laughing together in a bed they’ve shared for fifty years, well, that was love.
I let my robe drop. I wasn’t sure when to stop the faucet, not knowing how much water my body would displace. I took inventory: my legs to the knee are quite long- 2.5 hand spans’ worth, but not very wide (four gallons displaced maybe?), a stomach full of wine (nearly a bottle’s worth), hips and thighs (a quite meaty section)… better stop the water now. The water was hot enough to scald feathers off. I laid out the towels, the bubble bath, some candles, a cup of tea with an exorbitant amount of honey- like this was some ritualistic baptism. I had to break the surface slowly, already my feet were pink.
Submerged to the neck, I read some heroin-Dexedrine-Methedrine-influenced Ginsberg (as if there were any other kind), but I put it down after I finished “Howl.” I know some chick with “Howl” tattooed across her wrist. I wonder if this is where it’s from. Probably.
Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.
Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.
Dexedrine. Methedrine. Heroin. Soup.
In researching for my thesis on the publishing history of On the Road for my out of control English class, I’ve falling truly, madly, deeply in love with Jack Kerouac. I’ve always been pretty convinced that I was supposed to exist during the fifties as a housewife with a wild side, but I’m more convinced than ever that I’m a reincarnation of one of his muses—I think maybe Edie Parker.
So I’m doing all this research on Jack, reading 1957 New York Times reviews, navigating the original scroll, planning my own roadtrip, when I get to a blurb about the Shepherd. The Shepherd was a bar I frequented in high school with my then musician boyfriend. I really dug it then- it’s a dive with a huge bookshelf, and an owner who (when you’re really trashed and feeling intellectual) will read you passages from his book on the duality of man. It turns out, however, that the Shepherd is an official shrine to Kerouac. Also, it’s right next to Paterson, where Kerouac started his On the Road trip. This clearly is a sign that our love was meant to be.
Prerequisite: Have a valentine. Generally people who don’t have a valentine on Valentine’s Day are bitter.
Step 1: Make your valentine a valentine. And write something witty and meaningful on it. This is what I wrote on mine:
Now daddy comin' home
And I'm lookin' for a little bit of action
I be comin' through wanna do that thang
Let me bless you with thug passion
Step 2: Cover your valentine’s door in those little word candy hearts, but don’t forget to eat all the ones that say stuff about love and getting married.
Step 3: Get sexy. Wear a dress that other bitches will hate you for. Wear minimal underwear. Repaint your nails. Spend an extra minute on your eye makeup.
Step 4: Go to Red Lobster for dinner. You may be surprised at this one, but there are several reasons why this is a good idea:
a.You’ll generally look better than 90% of the other chicks there
b. You can watch the dunk contest on ESPN while you sip the house red (which is, like, $4/glass)
Step 5: Have another glass (or three) of wine when you get home while watching Talk Soup. Joel Hale is hilarious, but do not be intimidated by all the big-breasted skanks of VH1/MTV reality television.
Step 6: get some.
Step 7: Retire early, and make sure you snag your favorite pillows. This is the only day of the year where you are allowed to take all the good pillows for yourself without your valentine complaining.
Step 8: Supposedly talk about how you “want to go see the dinosaurs in 3-D” in your sleep.
Step 9: Make eggs over easy with the leftover Red Lobster biscuits that you stole the night before. Daddy told you to bring the big bag, and now you know why. [Oven at 350 for 5-8 minutes]
NOTE: Only call your valentine ‘Daddy’ if you’re not really serious and because it’s funny in an Alabama kind of way.
Today Darwin celebrates his 200th birthday. I was absolutely horrified to read today that about half of Americans believe that humans were created by God in their present form. (Does this correspond to the approximately 45% of Americans that voted McCain?)
I was thinking today about survival of the fittest. And although I would totally buy my man, Chuck Darwin, a beer, I have a bit of a qualm. I don't think "survival of the fittest" is accurate. It should be something more like “survival of the most willing to spread their legs.” Let’s face it, those willing to spread their legs are spreading their seed, and you know who’s not spreading? Apparently people like me.
That doesn’t mean that I’m not ya know-ing (Valentine’s Day is also right around the bend), but my Grandmother made a point a couple years ago to formally request that I have children—for society. Half of her reasoning was because “the Blacks” and “the Hispa…latinos or whatever” are populating a lot faster than white people. (please forgive her non-PC-ness. She's old) The other half of her reason was that typically the more successful a person is, the less likely they are to have children, or to postpone having children until their lazy dusty eggs are defunct and they’re forced to an Angelina-Jolie-esque adoption spree.
I took this as a compliment and foresight of my incredible future success. (thanks, Grandmama!)
Or if not “survival of the most willing to spread their legs,” then definitely at least “survival of the prettiest.” Being completely realistic, which of the following classic stereotypes is more likely to get their swerve on: the frumpy, super-smart girl or the is-chicken-of-the-sea-chicken? hot idiot.
Idiot, exactly. And this isn’t just limited to humans. The often plainly colored females (birds, fish, bugs) look for the most brightly colored males to sperm her eggs. Is he smarter? Who knows, who cares, he’ll make cute babies. And how often have I heard this in real life?
You’d be surprised. As a woman, I have heard my fellow birthers express this exact sentiment. I mean, why would I water down my hot genes with a stupid law degree?? I don’t want your ugly nerd baby.
We can’t force the sterilization of idiots because that would be unethical, and we’d lose a lot of biodiversity. Though on the bright side, Darwin has explained why as a society we’ve gotten increasingly sexier. And this is true if you happen to get your hands on a yearbook from as early as 1950.
By far this was my favorite:
My mom is dating Barack Obama. For publicity purposes, she and I have to spend lots of time together and act as if we’re each other’s best friends. (In real life, I haven’t spoken to my mother for nearly six years). So they’re planning their wedding, buying a house, and dragging me along. I’m obviously not thrilled.
We’re having dinner at TGIFridays, which is weird when you consider Obama’s the president and all, and Friday’s is kinda gross. All the attention he gets is annoying. Fucking Tracy Morgan comes right over to our table.
“Yo Obama! Yo I love you Obama, man. I donated, like, five dollaz to your campaign. Come to my show sometime, man”
(and this is exactly how Tracy Morgan talks)
Tracy Morgan leaves, finally, and Obama gets up to go to the bathroom. Since he’s going to be my stepfather, I ask my mother what I should be calling him. I’m certainly not going to call Barack Obama 'Daddy' (ya know, because he is kinda handsome and I want to outwardly avoid mixing kink and our President... publicly) And “hey, Barack, can I borrow ten bucks to go to the movies” sounds weird.
“Like what am I supposed to call him?” I ask.
My mother replies, “You can just call him Ricky”
And this sounds like a perfectly acceptable answer to me.