brave new world: flaskys

the economy may be in the shitter, but, oh, the sales! yesterday, i found two flasks--TWO--for the price of less than one-third of one. they are fabu.

i hung with both of them last night and realized that they each have a distinct personality. one has bright stripes, the other a floral print, and one is bigger than the other. i recalled my friend 'nabby' had named his flask steve and agreed that names were in order. george immediately came to mind: it is a friendly name. i always liked the names bert, bernice and gerta. willis sounded fun, then phyllis (cool-aunt name), phinneas, raul, javier, archibald, reginald, wesley, ludwig, wolfgang (wolfie for short), humbert (i'd call the other one humbert as well), rusty....

even while in bed, names kept coming to me. i got up to write them down. it was 4am; i was tres fatiguee. i consulted 'jazzy,' my most pragmatic friend. he'd named his el flasko. i said fuck it and settled on flasky--flasky 1 and flasky 2. if i felt fancy, i could say un et deux. i went back to bed. then i thought: if flasky shows me a good time, i could say good flasky, if bad, then bad flasky. if naughty, then naughty flasky! i could punish/reward as i saw fit (e.g., do you want to sleep with me, flasky?). i lay awake, thinking.

today, exhausted from lack of sleep yet excited still, i told my friend about flaskys. she said, 'that's like my son: he named his turtle turtley.' i nodded. 'great minds think alike,' i said. 'he's four,' she said. i have found my inner child. it seems anything's possible in this world of flaskys.

many thanks

i spent thanksgiving with my friends 'tardo' and 'jazzy' this year, and the gratitude flowed like water:

me: happy turkey day--thanks so much for having me!

tardo: so good to see you--it's been ages!

jazzy: it has been a long time, since before my show.

me: whoa, that's right! by the way, how was it?

jazzy: i was awesome.

me: did you play jazz?

jazzy: why do you say that, because i'm black?

me: no. because your name--

jazzy: thanks for reminding me i have a dumbass name.

me: it's not dumbass!

jazzy: it got my ass kicked every day as a kid--

me: that was long ago--

jazzy: are you calling me old? thanks.

me: no! it's just that now you're a big dude and--

jazzy: great, now i'm fat. thanks a lot.

tardo: (to jazzy) oh, pookie. (to me) there's a show on tuesday--come, and bring li'l willy.

jazzy: his name is Little Willy?

tardo: no, he's just got a small pe--

me: thanks, tardo! tell everyone, why don't you?

jazzy: i'm 'everyone'?

tardo: and, what, it's not like you're screwing him anymore.

me: thanks. like i needed the reminder.

tardo: (to jazzy) she hasn't done it in, like, forever.

jazzy: yipes.

tardo: (to jazzy) thank god i have you.

jazzy: (to tardo) ditto.

(tardo and jazzy make out)

me: i brought pie....

(me holds out pie)

tardo and jazzy: (sucking face) thanks....

election day/night

i know i have yet to comment on obama's stunning upset and consequently i've had to face an onslaught of email/messages demanding my reaction, thoughts, further instruction, etc. i don't condone nagging, but have decided it's time i comply. as you might have guessed, i was pained by the outcome (but time heals all wounds, and it's been weeks). here are the three main reasons:

1. i am a not a woman who takes readily to change; i like routine, and predictability. for years, i have had the same breakfast every morning.

and we all know how i regarded sarah palin, what with her uber chic crab motif and tattoos. but even more appealing to me was her promise of a smooth, seamless transition in the white house--to palin's 'never, ever did i talk about, well, gee, is africa a country or a continent?' from w's 'families is where our nation finds hope, where wings take dream.' what could be easier than that? ignoramus a philistine (et vice versa).

obama, on the other hand, has already begun surrounding himself with the 'nation's brightest' (e.g., clinton, volcker). 'smart' people in the white house after close to a decade: it will take some adjusting.

2. i read an interview with the abominable stephen colbert and jon stewart. this is what colbert had to say about the election:

The Democrats are going to change everything. We're going to have gay parents marrying their own gay babies. Obama's gonna be sworn in on a gay baby. The oath is gonna end ''So help me, gay baby."

uggh!

3. i got so hammered on election night reveling--i mean, ululating--that i don't remember much about it. i vaguely recall cancan dancers, masked men in unitards a la borat and kissing booths. my friend tells me, in the end, i laid down on the street to kiss it and praise jesus i didn't have to move to canada--i mean, barf and smash my fabulous updo:

inexplicable optimism

last night, after a grueling workday, i was feeling inexplicably optimistic. dunno why: i was exhausted from my high-stress, executive-type job and have been celibate for years now, and that morning i'd walked in on my old-man flatmate, who stinks of moth balls, sitting in full-lotus position on the living-room floor--naked. even so, i was almost skipping down the street and feeling less and less fatigued with every step-skip. i ran a few spontaneous errands. i met some friends out for a birthday dinner and upon arriving at the table declared: i got a bikini wax--i am feeling VERY OPTIMISTIC!

it made me ask myself, 'are WHALES optimistic? is this (in)consistent with the WHALES philosophy?' then i said, 'that is an excellent, excellent, excellent question.' then: 'wow, me smarter than i thought.'

my quick conclusion? yes, WHALES are optimistic, for optimism and having high/unreasonable expectations and standards are not the same things. and optimism is a fine virtue--i refer you to candide and the teachings of pangloss. um, scratch that. anyhoo, WHALES can be optimistic because dammit i'm president and me say so. (amen.)

scotch comes from scotland

some time ago, i'd gone for drinks with a lad to whose intellectual capacities, e.g., expansive vocabulary, worldly knowledge, were the main attraction. i'd envisioned dense, diarrheal discussing/arguing with head-/chin-scratching and touche!-shouting. i wore my nerd glasses and wallabees; he showed up in a cardigan. i looked at us and thought, the sky's the limit: anything from dubus to debussy, joachim to yuri g, jodorowsky to houellebecq to wollstonecraft--fruit-by-the-foot to fugu!

the night began with pricey cocktails made from fancy whiskey. neophyte drinkers (this was long, long ago, readers), we picked the brain de bartender (we learned that scotch comes from scotland) and in no time were sloshed. we went to his place and, after a few nutterbutters, were ready for intellectual discourse. 'i like your breasts,' he said. hence my love/hate of the drink.

poopie hands

my first love said that communication was the most important thing in a relationship. i thought about this 'most important thing' and that surely love, respect, honesty and the ilk (this was pre-WHALES days) were more essential. but, during the long time since, i've learned that this precocious boy was spot-on, for without communication there can be no building of all that other stuff. and even the most ardent animal attraction can be snuffed out in an instant if further connection is not made and maintained. communication is no easy thing--it requires work, sometimes a great amount of it, and if you don't put forth the effort you may rue it. i have many stories of this sort of regret, and it's with a heavy heart that i share this one.

years ago, while abroad, i fell madly, instantly in love with a feral australian. i'd spent the night in his hut after drunken revelry (full moon?). the following morning i called to him from the toilet for tissue. he replied that he didn't use toilet paper. this was not especially shocking, and i did without. but upon further inspection i discovered his bathroom was utterly bare: no shampoo, no soap, no towel--nada. i told him i had a headache, that i required coffee, and fled. i spent the remainder of my time on the tiny island rejecting his advances, leaving him bewildered and hurt. i felt awful, being that we shared such a beautiful beginning, of passionate, animated conversation, giggle fits and make-out sessions in the sand. and i could have said--i should have said: 'i adore you, i really do--stop touching me--but i can't get past the fact that you have poopie hands.' and, simple, just like that: problem solved, romance resumed. but even when he'd tell funny stories, eliciting guffaws, or bring me cocktails, or when i'd see him dancing all crazy-like about the bonfire, i couldn't do it. i just couldn't see having that convo.

cure for insomnia? UPDATE!

i headed home, tipsy on chimay, having made a decision on a plan of attack, and fully prepared to carry out said plan. but the train ride home was long enough for me to reconsider: masturbate, exercise and binge-eat all at once.... i decided to consult doogie one last time via email before undertaking project (because project it would be).

his response: BAD MENTAL PICTURE. vexed, because that does not help, i replied: okay, but do you recommend, and any suggestions (combos/variations)? i have not heard back from him. in fact, he has not appeared on gmail, facebook, etc., since.

what to do, what to do.... i wait.

wannabe doctor responds! with cure for insomnia?

turns out doctor-boy (see recent ellroy/gretzky posts) did not find my words offensive, but is merely slow: it took him 8 days to read 2 pages--of dialogue (i.e., 2 minutes of reading, as you know/saw). his response: 'HAHAHA! Did you really write that--for me? Methinks you are a genius!' he then insisted we meet. naturally, i obliged this new fan (one never wants to irk/offend a new fan, to avoid any potential obsessive/crazed reaction).

i must confess here that i had an ulterior motive, aside from the normal man-related. my insomnia (that i've mentioned oft) is being an increasingly intolerable whore, so i regarded this as an opportune time to pick a professional's brain (albeit not bona fide, but wannabe). so, over cheap shitty beer (i'd planned to pick up the tab in exchange for worthy advice), i asked the young doctor his recommendations. his response: 'exercise like really hard, then eat until you think you're gonna barf, and then masturbate.' i totally did not expect this from little doogie, and it caught me so off-guard that i paid for his beers anyway.

the next night, while out for yummy belgian beer, i relayed the story to my friend, who said it was sound advice, in his opinion. he added that masturbation always makes him hungry, so suggested adjusting the order to: masturbating, eating, exercising. i thought it over, and since my case extreme (alas, tis 4am as i write this), i've decided why not all at once. (update unlikely, so to not gross out readership.)

dear ndugu

i am not a nicholson fan, per se (though he does not offend me in any way, save for his turn in 'the departed'--barf!), but i love the bit in 'about schmidt' wherein he writes regular, copious letters to his sponsored child ndugu. it all starts out appropriately as an introduction from warren [nicholson], the lonely benefactor, to a 6-year-old tanzanian boy, eg: hi, i'm warren, i send you money, so you can stay alive, i can mention i have you at cocktail parties, etc., etc. soon, warren is unloading in his letters details about his wretched wife and miserable existence, and, if i recall correctly, expletives (but whatever: the dude is tanzanian, and 6). the letters become a journal for this journal-averse sad sack. the movie, readers, is not a good one, but i must note here that also screen siren kathy bates gets naked (and, imo, that's worth a netflix).

ladies, i have had ndugus. i mean, i have not sent relatively negligible sums of my own currency that would make a profound difference to a skinny, naked child in a third-world country--but i did write lengthy, frequent emails to cute boys. and similarly, i expected/received nothing in return and talked about them at parties.

i met my first ndugu during a particularly beautiful autumn in northern california. he traveled most of the winter and i wrote him, fully believing that he would not respond, being on the road, but i cared not. all i endeavored to do was amuse/entertain him, even if a little. he replied on occasion (which i faithfully celebrated with an extra vodka or two), and, since i too traveled, our paths crossed several times. we always had a rollicking time--skiing and partying--he'd even gushed about my witty--yet poignant--emails. so operation ndugu proved a wild success. in the end, i even wrote a story about that winter fling, which was later published in a ski magazine (the editor hailed it as 'the perfect mix of skiing, drinking, and chasing tail'; my friends called it 'ski porn'). ndugu #1 was less pleased by this, but by that time the season had ended and, with it, my affection.

i don't plan ndugus; ndugus happen. i do not meet dudes and say: self, you're gonna barrage this man with emails and messages and, reply or no reply, you're gonna be tenacious like suckling--let the lonely drunken inanities begin! readers, i am not so masochistic, or pathetic. (well....) dammit, the point is: don't be discouraged if a man refuses to acknowledge your existence, for it is not up to him alone: it takes two to commence to tango, two to tango, and two to end the tango. diligence is a virtue, and sometimes men just cease resisting: they fatigue--they can't run (or disregard) forever. sometimes men get so weary they just plain forget they don't find me particularly attractive or likable (yay me). yes--men are no match for us women, with our innate loquacity and predilection for denial. maybe i'd even feel compunction if the act didn't have a slight element of altruism to it, for to give something in order to receive in return, if you ask me, isn't giving at all. when people talk of karma, i say, 'smarmy bastard.'

wooing the wannabe doctor (cont'd from 'ellroy/gretzky dedication')

so, did the wannabe doctor i met at the airport and i date? no. and i have a few theories where things went awry. we rapid-emailed for a day or so after meeting, and i daresay it was lovely banter. then, to woo in high gear my objet d'obsession (du jour), i wrote for him a short play--about people stranded on a desert island who find doctors so boring they conclude they'd rather die from whatever ills than suffer such company. i thought it harmless--i felt certain he would love it--after all, he was a lowly student, not a real doctor.

but i'm beginning to wonder if maybe it was a misstep--this elaborate piece i worked on, night after sleepless night, in the name of like/lust for a boy i barely know. in fact, since sending it, i have not heard from him. so...methinks, perhaps yes, misstep. perhaps both feminists AND med students have no sense of humor. BUT, i did it, dammit--i picked up a stranger at a baggage claim carousel. and i'd do it all again (only entirely differently). regardless, WHALES, when pride, or timidity, or reason, tries to stick its shitty, little foot in the door, do not forget the words of the great one ('i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take'). it can't be so difficult to improve upon missing 100% of the time (can it?). 99, i aim for you.

i share with you now my offending toil:

REGGIE: People can survive without many things, Charlotte, but not without entertainment. I know. I was once stranded on an island off the coast of Thailand. It was harrowing, but I survived—

CHARLOTTE: I see that—

REGGIE: Barely.

CHARLOTTE: You almost died, Reggie?

REGGIE: Yes. The crew and I, we were parched, hungry, and without foot scrub. Feet take a beating in the tropics, you know.

CHARLOTTE: That’s hardly life-threatening—

REGGIE: And there were horrible natives—cannibals.

CHARLOTTE: Do tell.

REGGIE: Oh, would my reliving the most traumatic event of my life entertain you? That is, excuse my French, cruel [cru ell´]. You’re a sick bitch, you know that?

CHARLOTTE: But cannibals? Incredible.

REGGIE: You ought to see a shrink. Incidentally, mine is excellent. We do role play, wherein I’m a rabbit and she’s a fox, and I must hop for my life—

CHARLOTTE: I don’t need a shrink; I really don’t give a crap about the island. I was just being—

REGGIE: The island—it was a glorious day. About a dozen other men and I had taken a longtail out to snorkel, sunbathe and abuse each other with makeshift seaweed whips. I remember it like it was yesterday: Big Jack got me good—

CHARLOTTE: (To Bartender.) Beer, please.

REGGIE: (To Bartender.) Yes, another martini, too. (To Charlotte.) Where was I?

CHARLOTTE: After the whipping—way after.

REGGIE: Yes, well we all thought for certain we would die in the hands of the Amazon women. There’s no word for ‘no’ in female Amazonian.

CHARLOTTE: I thought you said Thailand.

REGGIE: Oh, now an inquisition? You know no limits…just like the Amazons.

CHARLOTTE: It’s just that the Amazon is in—

REGGIE: Oh, are you going to barrage me with facts? Facts shmacts—

CHARLOTTE: Well, maybe they were vacationing Amazons.

REGGIE: You want facts? Facts is: they were huge. Huge everything: huge heads and breasts and feet. And their hands...ack!

CHARLOTTE: What was the matter with their hands?

REGGIE: Huge hands. You know, because they’re giant women. And everything they touch looks so…tiny. Oh, it was horrible.

CHARLOTTE: What did they touch?

REGGIE: Everything, Charlotte—everything.

CHARLOTTE: Oh.

REGGIE: Yes. It was like an elephant holding a Twinkie.

CHARLOTTE: Say no more—

REGGIE: Or a tic-tac.

CHARLOTTE: Well, it would have been awful for a lesser man.

REGGIE: Yes, well....

CHARLOTTE: Anyway, on this island, you could’ve used a diversion?

REGGIE: Yes, though those womanly beasts were spellbound even by my relatively mini—

CHARLOTTE: So if you could choose a dozen people to be stranded on an island with you, you’d choose what, a dancer?

REGGIE: Naturally...preferably a tap dancer. Also, singers, storytellers, sandcastle-makers. Don’t tell me—you wouldn’t.

CHARLOTTE: Well, what about a doctor?

REGGIE: Doctor?? Whatever for?

CHARLOTTE: When people get sick, Reggie. Or hurt. Might be useful.

REGGIE: Doctors are boring, Charlotte. I’d be bored to death. So not unless it’s Dr. Kevorkian; if I’m not entertained, then, please, put me out of my fucking misery.

CHARLOTTE: But if you break a leg, get appendicitis—

REGGIE: Right up there with lawyers, accountants and mimes.

CHARLOTTE: All right, all right!

REGGIE: I want lights, camera, action, dueling pianos—

CHARLOTTE: Pianos?

REGGIE: Since when does deserted have to mean uncivilized? Never—that’s when. It’s my hypothetical, Charlotte. If you want your island to be empty, dark and devoid of theater, be my guest, morbid freak.

CHARLOTTE: You said deserted, Reggie—and deserted is empty!

REGGIE: Civilized I say, you hippie.

ellroy/gretzky dedication

while we're on the subject of trying: not only do i try, i frequently (some might argue 'invariably') make ass of self. readers, have i shared with you two of my favorite quotes pertinent to WHALES? one is by ellroy, and it is my creed of sorts: 'Any man who won't make a fool out of himself over a woman is a fucking fruit.' (note: i regard man as self--and woman as man--when i recall quote.) words to live by: WHALES 102, ladies, WHALES 102. (i've already otherwise devoted WHALES 101, to laughing at man's stupid jokes; see 'insomniacs, take heed.') the other, equally vital to a WHALES, is the quote by the great one, gretzky: 'i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take.' honestly, it is not usually an issue for me to approach men, at parties, bars, bookstores, coffee shops, subway platforms. after all, i am president of WHALES. and to me it's like throwing spaghetti at the wall: if it sticks, then yay. however, there are times and places where i hesitate, where i question propriety, and when that happens, i ask myself, what would ellroy/gretzky do? (not unlike do parker and stone brian boitano.)

in fact, it was only 2 days ago, upon my return from a soul-searching sojourn (see previous post), at the airport that i spotted an acceptably attractive man. at first, i thought, no, no, no, ms. c, you cannot accost a man at a baggage claim carousel. but then i stood there for a long time (a very long time--which, by the way, gave me an idea of the baggage loader job description: must be small and weak and get stoned out of gourd), considering, and thought that if i didn't say something, for certain later i would want to kick self in ass. (and god i hate that--because it is impossible, to kick self in ass. even i, avid runner (see 'olympics makes me randy'), near-olympian (see previous post), after giving yoga a go and everything, can only touch butt with heel, and without force. readers, show me someone who can kick their own ass--now that's raising the bar--and i'll write him a hate letter that will make the one to jon stewart look like a fucking valentine.)

anyhoo, i went over to mr. luggage-awaiter. i said, 'are you from [western city from whence we arrived]?' he said no, that he was just visiting, and thus began a most animated convo. yes, he used the word 'dude' a lot. he wore his baseball cap askew. his hair was a rat's nest, and the armpits of his t-shirt were torn. i was pleased and agreed to share a cab into town. during that half hour or so, we became relatively well acquainted. i found out he was a badass skier, finishing up med school, and that being so he had no-charge access to all the major museums in the city. i also discovered that he had visited NOT ONE museum. he saw the occasional broadway show when family visited (i gagged reflexively). i was appalled. i said, 'you probably don't even read!' to which he replied, 'i do, too!' i said, 'what--into the wild? on the road?' he angrily pulled out utopia. i rolled my eyes, despite never having read utopia. then i saw it had no bookmark, no dog-ear, no nothing. i called him a liar, that he was not in fact reading at all; otherwise, where was the bookmark? he pointed to a pink paper clip. it was on the back cover. unimpressed i was. i said, 'so, you're on page back cover?' he said, 'i hate you.' unimpressed, yes; unattracted, no. he had said that he worked 80 hours a week, unpaid; so, he was single. i asked him to dinner. he accepted and we exchanged info. (vive ellroy/gretzky!)

weeks pondering: not expecting does not mean not trying

during my hiatus, i pondered much. over the past few weeks, i've mulled over the point of our existence--as WHALES--and the hard work and dedication we've put into this most important assemblage. i've received many letters (incidentally, i apologize that i've been far too busy--pondering and mulling--to answer any of them), and, as i've said before, most suck--but there are a few that contain valid questions. today, i'd like to address one particularly excellent query that has been top-of-mind.

no, dear readers, having low expectations does NOT mean you don't pursue your man-object of desire. (it merely means you endeavor to pursue more than that, or, rather, less.) if you see the golden ring, you grab for it. you hang off that horse--hell, you fall off that horse--let's face it, what have you got to lose? (if you're anything like me: nothing.) to elucidate, i share with you a story:

at university, i was a downhill ski racer. i was never favored to win, ever, and so never expected that i would. but it never stopped me from trying. oh no, that it did not. oh, mayhap i overimbibed mid-season, but i missed nary a practice, never missed a race, and as sick, reeking of booze, as repulsive as i oft was, no one could say i didn't commit, or at least show up. and do you know what, readers? i did win. i--me, ms. c--won. i remember it like it was yesterday: the night prior, i'd gotten so shitfaced off jack and cokes that i'd puked up my pork chop dinner. at the starting gate, my coach sighed heavily, looked at me with sad eyes and said, 'just get down.' nothing, i tell you--nothing makes one haul ass more than fear of barfing whilst racing downhill. it'd have been like peeing in the wind, only vomiting in the face. everyone said i was a blur--a blur! and i know what you're thinking, and i daresay i could've gone all the way to nagano on this whiskey/pig regimen, but i was so serious a student back then... of course, i jest: school is for suckers. but, seriously, pork chops do not come up easily. also, i earned the unfortunate nickname 'porkchop' and soon thereafter fled to the rockies, where i soon became known as 'c-storm.' so, go, WHALES: stand with your big fat faces in the sun for all you're worth. yes, i just summed up a room with a view in a nutshell.