Dear Gay Pride Parade,
I love you.
I love the drag queen cheerleaders who shake their asses better than high school junior ever could.
I love the float that was supposed to be about gay fathers and how much they love their kids, but ended up looking like a giant cowboy having sex with a dog while flying a kite in the back of a wagon.
I love the Pink Riot Cops and the little girl who followed them in formation.
I love the hot lesbian firemen (who knew there were so many?!).
I love the homeless guy in the bandana who danced with the drag queen in the pocahontas getup all the way down the street until he was reminded that even when dressed like women, men still have the muscle mass of men. (he was the most agressive panhandler I've ever seen. We saw him sleeping on the lawn after all the dancing. A parade'll take a lot out of ya.).
I love the goths and their hearse and their baby-goth.
I love the kids doing karate and being cuter than should be freaking legal, holy shit they were cute. (he, standing on a ledge and looking down the street to what's coming up. "Oh Sonya, you're going to freak out on what's next. They're little and they're wearing matching outfits.")
I love the extremely freaky guy wearing the boy scout shirt with freaking SWEATPANTS AND SANDALS WITH SOCKS. He was in his thirties. It was uber freaky.
I love all the people in love.
I've got this lipstick
that I really like wearing
a boy called me sweet
I dream of championship wrestling.
This is not to say that I dream of becoming a championship wrestler as my paying job, this is to say that when I sleep, my mind concocts images of giant men in tiny outfits hitting each other with folding chairs and jumping off ropes that are made for jumping off, as opposed to clothes lines and que ropes.
(when my father was a kid, he was egging a barn and the owner of the barn came home. My father took off running for the mustard field at a full run, 13 years old. It was twilight, so he didn't see the clothes line in front of him. Caught him in the mouth and slipped up under his upper lip. Knocked him over by his gums.)
I also dream that I'm one of the wrestlers. That my body is how I make my money. I lift weights in the morning and eat eggs and half heartedly jump rope and my burly man muscles beef up and my moustache beefs up and how funny is it that a man of my size is still terrified of leaving the windows open at night?
(I have spider bites all over my body. my regular girl body, not my sleeping imaginary muscle body. i don't know where they're coming from, as tiny roomate has none at all.)
And then I dream about fighting. In my dream fights, I move like a video game. My hand is down, and then I push a button,and suddenly I've punched a guy with the back of my knuckles 3 times in less than a second, BAMBAMBAM! and the lizard king is down. He springs up with his legs and grabs me around the neck with his ankles and my face is smushed into the mat right next to the lizard kings lizardy upper thigh.
(sometimes I look at girls walking down the street and I wonder if my body looks the way theirs do. Do I have hips like that? Does she have bigger breasts but tiny legs? How is that possible? Do my arms look like her arms? Am I a giant? Am I very small? I'm taller than that. Wider through there. Thinner through there. In better shape. Will never look like that. When I look at pictures of myself with my sisters I see an older version of my body in them, but for some reason, I still can't get a clear perception of it.)
I do some really fantastic move that I'm famous for and come down hard with a boa constrictor around my shoulders like a shawl, and it's a big boa, sedated, so there's my weight added to the weight of this snake coming down on this guy, and I tap the joystick just so in the right moment and I can make the snake come to life and bite him {shiftAleftarrow, BITE BITE BITE}. And the crowd goes wild. Spitting, holding up their signs, eating hot dogs and giant stadium beers as my singlet-ed self wails on another guy in a singlet. I love the word singlet.
I've also been wondering about something I was told recently that several men have since confirmed as true. Evaluate this statement: "Because they have the vagina, women are in charge and can have whatever they like." I'm a little skeptical, let me tell you, what with equal rights and all. But what if I don't want equal rights? What if I want your ass to get up and buy me a double since you're statistically making more money doing the same job? Maybe we've been going about feminisim all wrong. Yes, I want a lime.
When I wake up from these dreams the constant throbbing need for fighting that I carry around in my right hip bone is somewhat soothed. I roll out of the big white bed into a pile of discarded 3 quarter length dresses that need to be ironed before they can be worn again and I try to imagine myself in my clothes. Blue skirt with cherry print, red top from Fred Meyer, wristband Molly made me that loops around my thumb, big red leather watch, baby blue birthday shoes. Glasses, Bobby pins, Cherry pendant. Wish I'd worn my mouth guard, my jaw hurts. If I were a boy, I'd grow chops. And Skateboard. And carry radio building manuals rolled up in my back pocket. I never have back pockets anymore.
I wanna jump off the ropes into my ergonomic chair. I want to grab the salesman who calls in first thing by the hair and slam him into the post in the corner while flash bulbs go off overhead. I want to shiftAleftarrow the guy in the Explorer who doesn't yeild to bicycle traffic. BITEBITEBITE!
rings of flowers round your eyes, and i'll love you for the rest of your life.
I Love Neutral Milk Hotel. Here are some other things I love and/or like.
1: Right now in Seattle, the sun doesnt actually set until 10:30. I feel like I've been given an extra life's worth of time in the summer.
2:The magic cellular telephone has a planner option, and you can program things into the phone and have the phone call you with your message at a specified time in the future. It's almost as good as writing on my wrists.
3: The single mix tape I've ever made for myself. All love songs that are not actually love songs at all.
4: Fuji Apples. I can't believe how delicious they are.
5: Trixie and Josh's apartment with its pots of herb garden and its cooking smells and it's dedication to being the place where Trixie and Josh Live.
6: Discussing apartment prices and orgazmatron chairs on outdoor patios with boys in nice linen shirts.
I used to think that pencils were the most magic things. Now I think coat pockets are the most magic.
Ready? Here we go:
1: Currently, the sexiest bike messenger in Seattle also happens to be the one who has a prosthetic left arm with a hook. Sexiest because of hook, or sexiest whether hook is taken into consideration or not?
2: All of the laundry is covered in battery acid and kitten vomit except for a full Tuxedo in Mauve and Purple and full set of scuba gear, black. You're going on a date in 3 minutes. You're going to walk around Greenlake. She's wearing shorts and a T shirt. Do you wear the tuxeo, the scuba gear, or a combination of both?
3: The Date Went Well! You've taken off all that ridiculous hoo haa and she's about to whisper something in your ear. Would you rather she whisper:
"I'm trying to become a wheat free Vegan"
or
"I'm trying to become a Gothic Era Vampire"?
4:Burly Scars: So Hot, or So Not?
5: What's scarier, having all the goats in the world out to get you, or having all the ghosts in the world out to get you?
6: Other Peoples Babies: For Squeezing, or Ignoring?
7: And now you're driving fast!! Are you:
Git your motor runnin' DER NER NERNER NER Head out on the Hiiiway or
Jungle, Welcome to the Jun-gle, watch it bring you to your nananananannananaknees, knees?
8: You get to erradicate one thing you said or did from the minds of your parents or loved one forever, what would it be?
9: When someone says I love you, do you say it back right away, or do you wait? Bonus: Do you ever say it if you don't mean it?
10: A band of Pirates have started a rock band called 'And You Will Know Us Because We're A Band of Pirates' and 'Zombies, The Rock Band of Zombies' is up against them in the battle of the bands. Who goes home with the Record Contract, the Girls, and the Cocaine Vending Machine, and who just goes home?
Go! Answer! Now!
What the hell is this thing Fox is doing? Bonsai something? Bazama? Something? It's supposed to look Japanese? I want to judo chop it's stupid ass. In other news, Paradise Hotel is simultaneously the most horrific and fantastic television show of all time.
Him: "This is the greatest thing I've ever seen. I can imagine myself actually getting giddy about this show coming on every week."
Me: "It's like a fucking car wreck. I don't want to watch, and yet I can't look away. Look at what she's wearing! I'm going to punch her!"
Him: "Ooh! The old one's all pissed!"
Tiny Roomate and I are getting rid of the home telephone. We went down to Drug Dealers Are Us, also known as the downtown sprint wireless store, and both got shiny new cell phones. I also stole a big red pen with a plastic telephone receiver shape at the top. (If I know you and you need the new number, shoot me an email.) I can plug the fucking phone into the fucking laptop and connect to the fucking internet! The world is amazing.
I just realized that I've had Brian Adams' 'Summer of 69' stuck in my head all morning, and that I'm thoroughly enjoying it.
Know what I love? I love being on the craptastic-ist ladder in the world in my birthday MJ's and a dress I made myself, pulling gel frames off the lighting instruments and saying 'comindown' before dropping them to the floor while John talks about the man who may or may not be dead and whats to be done about his cigarettes as he and Molly and Fetz wash the chalk off the back wall.
John: "So you're saying you want the sponge to be very wet, but you don't want any water drips?"
Molly: (looks at him as if this is the most logical thing in the world and flatly states:) "Yes."
"Oh and when you held my hand, I wanted it to last forever, Oh and something something something something, I knew that it was now or never, those were the best days of my life der ner ner der ner ner der ner ner ner ner. Summer of SIXty nine, oh whoa"
It should first be noted that I've come out of this with no battle wounds whatsoever. If anything, by the grace of what is holy, I leave the grounds with more than what I started.
So it spared me it's teeth this time, which is good.
And it gave me it's pelt all the same, which is good.
but while there are no wounds to wash, tenderness has made me weary. Tenderness, who in the past has either amassed around my heart like ivy strangles a redwood, or has softened my sensibilities like a drug dissolved in a drink, is trying to seep in through my pores this time.
It seeps in when a hand reaches up to my elbow when I step down from the high step.
It seeps into my cheekbones when they rest on shoulders, dancing.
It seeps in across the muscles of my back when spines are aligned and sleeping and it's too hot to touch.
It seeps in through first and middle fingers loosely held while waiting for the light to change.
I'm trying to wring it out of me like a dishrag. I'm trying to wash it off my skin like sweat. I'm scrubbing with soap and alcohol, but I can still feel it setting in. Poisoned by osmosis: do not induce vomiting, do not call poison control, do not flush eyes for fifteen minutes. Drink ten to twelve glasses of water. Be sweet to each other during the closing credits. Don't forget your jacket on your way out.
Too many things happened this weekend. You see something you like? I'll pull it out of the case for you and give you the details, just let me know. In the meantime, a list.
Friday:
Laptop!
Molly had 300 dollars in her bra
Paul purchased me for 10 dollars
I got an 'I heart Duran Duran' visor
Tiny Roomate was a great sport, as ever.
Saturday:
Trixie totally busted me on my walk of shame.
I helped Paul button up his officiators suit. (this had nothing to do with the fact that he now owns me.)
Wedding! Little bits of Crying! Raining! Beautiful!
Sitting around listening to records and having discussions that seemed really important at the time but were actually just kind of stupid. Eating all the coconut fruit-a-freezes.
Wishing there were more fruit-a-freezes. "NOT coconut whole fruit bars! FUCKING FRUIT-A-FREEZES!"
Movies at casa de cake.
"Are you falling asleep?"
"mmmmmrrrrghh."
Sunday:
Preamble to the Breakup and a wildly shocking turn of events about which I can only say "Holy CrapAssBitchFuck! Are you Kidding Me?!?"
Fancy dinner with Patrickt's parents in Tacoma. Patrickt bought new pants at a steal of a price. I only got kicked under the table once. We were delightful company.
A super-intense game of Catch The Barbie with PT's utterly sqeezeable niece.
The first 5 episodes of Six Feet Under watched on the new laptop in bed with Tiny Roomate.
"Man I wish we had some fruit-a-freezes..."
So who knew that Christmas was actually on June 20th? I got everything I asked for, plus a little girl on the bus who told us that she had also had a muffin for breakfast, and it was her sixth birthday.
happy birthday, six year old girl. Happy birthday, forty five year old boy.
you're both adorable.
Dear Money Fairy,
Whoo Hoo! Whoo Hoo! Whoo Hoo!
love, sonya
Dear Apple Computer Store,
The money fairy came to my house, so I'm coming to yours. Make a pot roast and I'll bring a cream pie.
sincerely, sonya
Dear Patrickt,
He Totally Is Not. I don't care how much non-talking reading and television watching goes on nor do I care about phone call frequency. We're not. I'm not. He's not. I'm serious.
Hah! Last Word! sonya
Dear People of Seattle,
Come to our Fundraiser tomorrow. It's gonna be so hot, and you'll get to see a nipple!*
Hot Nipple Action, sonya
Dear -Obviously Very Young- Kid Who Threatened to Sue Me, -and I think, called me a Bitch- Becuase One of My Best Friends has the Same Name as You and I've Called Him by Name on This Site and You Somehow Think You Have Legal Ownership of 2 Fairly Common Names that I Just Happen to be Using in Combination.
You really need to get over it. Have your parents send me an email if you'd like to discuss this further.
stop being a twerp, sonya
*nipple sightings not guaranteed, but you get a free drink with cost of admission.
If it were a musical, the big number would go like this: Kind of to the theme from the Jetsons, but not really.
"IM CRANKTASTIC! (bangs on a pan with a wooden spoon) I'M SO CRANKY! (Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang) I HATE EVERYTHING! ESPECIALLY THAT GUY AND HIS STUPID STUPID SHOES AND HAT!
(dramatic dance number)
I'M GONNA BEAT UP THAT GUY!
(Guitars!)
I'M GONNA EAT UP THAT PIE!
(More Guitars!)
I PRETTY MUCH JUST WANNA DIE!
(Exploding Guitars and a drumkit that spits out hamburgers!)
I'M CRAAAAAAAAAAANKYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!"
and then the fireworks around the rim of the stage would go off and I'd punch a stuffed weasel.
SABOTAGE: THE ANNEX DATING GAME
Friday, June 20th
Union Garage
1418 10th Ave
$10 (includes drink ticket and entry into dating pool)
Doors open at 9pm
Competition begins at 9:30
The bastard love-child of Machiavelli and Chuck Woolery, SABOTAGE encourages
consenting adults to vie for one of the following thrilling dates:
*Picnic in the Park with the tiny diva herself, SARAH RUDINOFF
*Pinball and Hot Dogs with sketch darling EVAN MOSHER
*Homecooked Luncheon by and with Stranger Food Critic MIN LIAO
*Swanky Ambience with stage sensation NICK GARRISON
*French Romanticism (oui, oui) with Maktub's REGGIE WATTS
Contestants will be fairly* judged in well-crafted rounds of Dating Delights
by social darlings Richard Lefebvre, Michele Steinwald, and Keira McDonald
and wrangled by Spin the Bottle smutress Gillian Jorgensen and Den Mother
Pamala Mijatov.
Come and play, come and drink, come and bribe, but please come.
*Did I say fairly? I meant arbitrarily and cunningly swayed by the
almighty dollar.
Dear El Camino with the word Everett painted with stencil on the side and then painted over with primer, who's back end is held together by a series of ropes, who happens to be stalled directly at the top of Boren and Pike with it's flashers on with no attendant in sight, you are the first el camino I have ever loved. I will continue to shun your brothers, but you, my friend, are golden.
Love,
Sonya
How you know I borrowed that zip-up of yours that feels like a baby blanket, the one with the hood: There is a slip of paper 2 centimeters wide and 8 inches long in the right pocket, it reads: "#21: Clowns Explode When They Die." In the left pocket there is a piece of thin pink ribbon, 3 feet long, abandoned right in the middle of a cats cradle.
How I know you've been in my satchel: A lined index card sits in the bottom with that stabby swirly pencil script: "I've got your pencil sharpener."
No mention was made of ransom.
If, on Saturday morning, at 9:30am, you saw a young lady walking down the sunny side of Boylston in a delicate cream and pink evening gown with embedded rhinestones and fake pearls around the square scoop neckline from the 1940s. And just maybe she was carrying a vintage half coat with fur neckline purchased in San Francisco in 1949, a gift passed down from her favorite neighbor growing up. And the white shoes with the cream teardrop cutouts and a little black handbag. And maybe a cream and white slip was shoved in that handbag along with a taxi reciept, a tube of lipstick, and a broken cigarette,
then the answers to your questions are:
1: Yes, I think it's a lovely dress, too. Thank you very much.
and
2: Yes, I had a very nice time.
1: It be finals time, hotpants. I have actual work to do at work. I have to pull a paper out of thin air and the air is pretty damn thin lately. ( I need at least 2 editors who can get the as-of-yet-unwritten bad boy read, edited and back to me by Tuesday morning after taking responsibility for it Monday morning. Any takers?)
2: I saw my patrickt last night for the first time since he was locateable on the map and I made him hug me every 4 and a half minutes. I wish I could hug him right now, but he's at a thing. "Roll down those pants, mister!"
3: If there was a meal and a magazine in your mailbox last night, and you think it might be good to have another one in your mailbox tonight, you should call us, hotpants. You might get it whether you want it or not. Hugging without touching.
4: It's almost Tiny Roomate time!
To be added to the list of incredibly stupid things I've done directly after waking up.
So I called in sick to work yesterday to sleep off being tired. Really. I was tired enough to call in sick. So after 18 hours in bed, I shower and dress and start walking to school. I havent had a cup of coffee yet.
I'm wearing that great tits top Ida gave me when we went camping, so maybe I should have considered the following a compliment, but no. No, I don't think I will.
SCENE: Outdoors: 6pmish. Southeast corner of SCCC campus.
Sonya Walker stumbles sloppily toward the entrance of the building, satchel slung over one shoulder, books swinging at hip level. The sun is painfully bright, the world horribly confusing. She is aproached by 2 young men in giant pants whos crotches hang somewhere below their knees, sports jackets, backwards baseball caps. We shall call them the Assmouths.
Assmouths: "Hey! Girl!"
Sonya: stumbles to a stop, turns, tries to identify tall things in front of her as people or trees or lampposts. "Aheh?"
Assmouth1: "Hey, jump for me. Put your arms up and jump. No, better idea, touch your elbows together in back and jump."
Sonya: "No! What the fuck!?"
Assmouth 2: "Howsabout you jump rope then? Jump!"
Sonya, louder and more emphatic than she expected "FUCK YOU!"
Assmouth1: "Fuck YOU."
Sonya's mouth, completely independently of Sonya's brain: "Do you want to fucking fight, or what?"
Sonya's Brain 'Sonya Lorelle! No! NoNoNO! Shut up! Walk Away! You're gonna get our fool ass shot!'
Assmouth1, somewhat startled and confused that sonya just offered to fight him and his friend. "Um, no. I don't want to fight."
Sonya: "Well fuck off, then!"
It should be noted that I really had no idea what I would have done had they actually wanted to fight. My ass would totally be grass right now.
I want to tell you about this particular glass of water left at this particular bedside table, but sometimes a glass of water is too much like an apartment key. You don't want just anybody stopping by while you're in the shower.
I will say that the key words are
1: Nice,
2: But Not Too Nice.
Listen, freaky gangsta neighbor boys across the way that I haven't complained about for several months, one of whom must have had a baby because there's a baby around all the time now. I do not care if there are 4 women in my apartment all wandering around in matching underwear, taking pictures, eating coconut fruit-a-freezes and drinking bourbon. You have GOT to at least TRY to pretend that the eight of you are not just standing on the balcony staring directly into my apartment. I can keep whatever kind of company I want! It's my damn apartment! I pay good money to wander around this place in my underwear! You're annoying me!
I don't care if you watch, really. I just want you to not lean over the balcony and stare like it's an Imax film.
Also, along the same lines. Staring is one thing, but any whistleing, hooting, hollering, or gesturing will be met with extreme violence. Or at the very least, I'll call you an ill-mannered lecherous window-fogging pants-spotting motherfucker who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut and his hand out of his pants and flip you off. Out my window. In my underpants. Yeah. Take that!
You're cutting into my writing, hotpants, because we don't ever do a thing.
but i kinda like it.
I like all the bad TV I'm watching with my head on your leg. I like that you have a COUCH. Not a futon. Not a art deco bit of furniture shaped kind of like a kidney bean with a back, but a beat-up comfy couch. I like that you thought it was a good idea to eat a dozen eggs for dinner the other night.
Very gross, but very very funny, ultimately.
Yesterday on my lunchbreak I went home and shaved my legs in the bathtub. I knicked myself twice, once over each of my middle toes. My great american poet was still missing. I felt like my collarbones weighed a thousand pounds each.
Today on my lunchbreak, I got soup and juice and crackers and delivered them to sicky-pants Ida and did things so that she could remain firmly planted on the couch for as long as possible. Except today, my begging-for-cancer shortpants shortcake is in a known location. I could drive to where he is if I had a car and a few days. I could put my finger on a map and say "He is being not dead, right here." It makes me feel like wonderbread. Sweet and fluffy and light and wrapped in big color dots of various sizes.
maybe the comparison doesn't work for you, but it feels good to feel like candy-bread.
He's Okay!
He's Okay!
He's Okay!
he can't come home for a while, but he's not dead, and not car-mangled.
Thanks guys.
Maybe you're hiding out in my mom and dad's back yard, by the apple tree. I used to set up a tent under that tree in the summer and write all day.
It made me cry last night, dummy. It came up out of no where. I was watching the pilot episode of six feet under with Ida and Molly and Evan, and a single fragment from the music playing over the closing credits made me cry like I did when i was little. When I get toward the end of crying I do this thing where I breathe in and out in a series of little gasps. My mom would always rub my back and say "Deep Breaths, sweetheart. Deep Breaths." I pulled the blanket over my head and pushed the heels of my hands into my eyes and tried to breathe like a grown up. I hate crying.
You were supposed to be here six days ago so I could give you this postcard. You missed the Carissa's Weird show. You better be back in time for Le Tigre.
It's summer. We have so many things to make fun of. We have so many girls to daydream about but never speak to. We have so much gravy to pour over things. I can't do it all by myself.
I hope you're having greasy chicken fried steak for breakfast in a restaurant that used to be a mobile home just off the off ramp. It smells like mint and mustard plants outside and it's giving you allergies, but you also kind of like the freshy goodness. The waitress is loud and missing a finger. The fact that she is also young and attractive is kind of annoying to you, since the loudness ruins her. You're also annoyed that you left your cell phone on top of the car at that gas station and then drove away. It's ringing in a ditch right now. You wonder if you should call. You decide to call tomorrow. Not ready yet. Weather too nice. Motel cable too nice. Maybe the motel has a pool with a slide. You won't go on the slide, obviously, but you like the idea of it.
I hope you've been following them for days, hands pressed against the steering wheel and cigarette hanging out of the left side of your mouth. The gash on your forehead from the knife-fight over the ravine just looks cool now, and they're running scared. You will retrieve the jewells. You will save the princess. You will pass go. You can't call home because then they'd take the cowards way out and go after your friends and family.
I hope you're locked in a windmill and the king thinks you can spin all that straw into gold. You're smoking cigarettes carefully, because this place is a tinderbox. You're wondering if that little man who saved your life last night is going to come back tonight, and what will you offer to trade him? All you've got is this carton of smokes and theres NO way you're giving that up...you'd rather give up, say, your first born than be left without the smokes. Cause who knows how long you're going to be in this thing? And they took away your cell phone.
Please be okay.
Dear Patrickt, (and universe looking after him.)
I called for 4 days and I firied a warning shot. After every joke about you calling my mom and dad to report on my sins, I looked up your parents in the phonebook to inquire of your whereabouts.
no word. to anyone. from anywhere.
Your mom called the state patrol. She's filed a missing persons report.
The last time someone spoke with you, you were only a few hours from home. You were calling from my home town.
Because I'm the type who assumes the best and doesn't believe herself, I'm hoping you got sidetracked.
I'm hoping you met a nice girl with dark eyes and a blue plastic flower in her hair. She had a copy of franny and zooey in the pocket of her apron, and she smoked cigarettes next to you on a picnic table by the river. Somewhere within 5 hours of here you're already thinking of the things she does in terms of your next epic poem with sidenotes by the author, and wishing you were bold enough to kiss her as frequently as you'd like to. But a few times is good.
I'm hoping you were 5 hours away when you decided to spend the summer following Sarah Vowell around the nation like she was the grateful dead and you didn't know better than tie dye. She just noticed yesterday that you've been at every bookstore she's read in since that one in Idaho thursday night. You're thinking about making a shirt that says "not a stalker", but you're not sure if that might make things worse. She's not used to groupies.
I'm at least hoping that you're drooling on yourself in a ditch in central washington, clutching a bottle of old crow and hallucinating that the rocks are tiny cities populated by tiny elephants, and that the state will find you, one shoe missing and socks mismatched, in a day or so.
I don't care how you do it, baby, but please let me know you're okay.
I don't know how to go looking for you.