By The Gods!

Are you looking for a great summer read? Have a kid you’re trying to hook on a book? Loved Harry Potter, thought Twilight was eh, but you’re willing to suspend belief? Well I’ve got your summer series right here. Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan.  I’m late jumping on this band wagon, the fifth and final book in the series was just published, but hey, now we don’t have to wait for the next one.  I’ve read them back to back to back, great summer page turners.

I don’t want to say too much, because there are too many good reveals in the first book, The Lightning Theif, and I don’t want to spoil them.  I’ll just say that it’s a modern take on Greek Mythology, has a male protagonist – for all you parents of boys who won’t read “girl” books – with a female best friend, is fast paced and fun, and will make you want to go pick up a copy of D’Aulaire for nostalga’s sake.  And if you’re not nostalgic for it because you never had it, go treat yourself!

Best Cock Ring Story Ever

I feel like I need to share this, after my last post.  Not my story, but great.

Years ago in NYC I worked at The River Cafe with a FABULOUS queen named Paul – I’m leaving out lasts to protect the not so innocent.  Anyway Paul met a great guy and they got “married,” this is prelegalization.  His husband is a Biddle – you know the diamond Biddles, Mayflower family, etc – and when they got “engaged” he gave Paul a handful of loose stones, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, blah blah blah.

So they went to a little old Jewish guy in the 30’s to have them set.  They brought a design with them for circlet about three inches in diameter, with the stones set on the outside.  The little Jewish man looked at their design and asked what it was for; they nervously responded, “baby bracelets.”  The Hassid looked at them, smirked, and said, and please imagine a heavy, Jewy accent, “really?  because they’re just the right size for cock rings.”

Warms the cockles of my heart.  Pun intended.

Best Cock Ring Ever!!!

How freaking awesome is this laser cut ring???

Reality Check

Waiting tables provides me with more than just cash.  Sometimes it gives me joy, sometimes it gives me a headache, and sometimes it just makes me feel old.  The thing is, I feel exactly the same today as I did at twenty-whatever.  Yes I’ve learned things, yes I’ve “matured,” but really, I don’t feel different, but waiting tables, I’m surrounded by people who actually are twenty-whatever.   I usually don’t notice the difference, we like the same music, live the same kind of lifestyle, etc etc, but once in a while there’s a moment…

I was working tonight and I mentioned that my boss at my other job, let’s call him Monie Dore, had a white party for his birthday in late September.  I told the story to highlight how douchey he is.  First of all white parties are played and lame.  Second if you are going to have a white party, it has to be before Labor Day.  Finally, when “Monie” announced the party to his staff, he said it would have a Beatles theme and then started to sing, “Daydream Believer” to them, which we all know is the Monkees.

Okay, here’s the part that made me feel old.  I told this story to two co-workers tonight, one early twenties, the other late, and only one of them knew who the Monkees were, and only because she’d auditioned for American Idol a few years ago and was forced to sing Daydream Believer with a crowd of thousands in the Rose Bowl.  What???

Wanna See Sarah Silverman Take Off Her Bra?

It’s amazing, stuff like this makes me so hopeful and scared all at the same time.  It seems so obvious.  Fingers crossed.

You Could Have Knocked Me Over With An Art Star

There have been, thank God, some great moments waiting tables through the years, but last night was especially good. I was busying around the burger joint, went over to a new table, “Hi, how are ya, blah blah blah.”  The guy had a black sketch pad/journal on the table, with a painted cover.  I said, “Hey, that’s cool, is it  a Baseman?”  He looked at me and said, “I am Baseman.”  I was blown away, and apologized, but fawned shamelessly.

He gave me a postcard to a show in he’s doing in Barcelona, and like a dork i asked him to sign it, explaining that i never do that, and shit on actors, but he’s Gary Baseman.

Anyway I served the rest of their meal like a normal person.   Blah blah blah.  At the end of it, while chatting with his – date?  girlfriend?  wife?- he was sketching with his pen on his placemat/menu.  When he was done he gave it to me and signed it. It’s a nekid girl floating across the menu.

Aaaah!

How freaking cool is that?
I promised if he came back i’d fawn less.

Can I Show It To You?

So I don’t know how many of you remember a post from back in February, This One’s NC-17, but my neighbor is moving out.  He’s officially out end of the month, but he’s moving back East this Saturday.  I just came home and he came out into the hall as I was getting the mail, as is his wont.  He told me he was gone as of the weekend and asked if I wanted some booze and sundry items that he doesn’t want to ship.  I’m not a big drinker, but I took a cast iron skillet and some light bulbs.  I thanked him and told him if he felt like it to knock and say hi/bye before he left, if I’m around.

That was not enough.

He followed me down the hall to my apartment, hemming and hawing, and then said, so I was thinking, before I move away forever and never see you again… can I show it to you?  There was a moment of dis-ease.  Sorry?  I asked, I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.  Um, he said, well, I just would be sad if I moved away and you never saw it.  I know you said this one time you were outside a bar and this drunk guy showed you his and I want to show you mine.  At this point I knew where this was going, but once agian was in shock and disbelief (for as savvy as I am, you’d think I’d get it together in these moments, but I’m so busy trying not to shame anyone).  So what are we talking about, specifically?  I asked.  I want to show you my penis, he finally said.  Oh.  Well.

Now it was my turn to hem and haw.  Again, I never want to make anyone feel bad about their sexual proclivities.  Well, I asked, is it important to you?  I am an idiot.  He stressed once again that he really wanted to show me his penis and suggested that now would be a good time for him. I explained I had a call to make and now didn’t work for me.  Then he had the gall to say that he’d just given me a fifty dollar skillet, which I promptly offered to return.  He walked away dejected, leaving me with the skillet, but saying he’d knock to see if I’m around later in the week.

Looks like I’ll be laying low until Saturday.

The Bride Wore Pasties

Okay, she didn’t wear pasties, but she did wear those frilly undies that are burlesque-esque; the kind that look so cute, but then on make your ass really big, cause they’ve got all those frills.

Last night I went to a pole dancing class. Let me restate that, last night I had to go to a pole dancing class. A good friend of mine is getting married, and his bride-to-be does pole dancing classes once a week and thought it would be (sadistic) fun to make us pole dance. I don’t know how many of you actually know me, but I’m a group five dancer, and what I mean by that is… I kinda suck. In drama school I was always in the back of the room, with the boys, spinning into walls, so you invite me to a dance based class, and already I don’t like you much.

The first hour was warm up, stretching and a lot of touching ourselves to feel our bodies. There are no mirrors, which was a small blessing. It was like erotic ballet class. My friend Dana put it well, telling her husband that it was like Yoga with touching yourself, everything we hate. She’s almost as uncoordinated and graceless as I am, so…

And then the pole. I have to admit, it was kind of fun. Very little kid spinning around bars and such, and then you just throw on a character of, “you all want to fuck me as I walk around this pole.” I forgot to mention, the bride made us all tank tops with our “porn names” on them – your first pet’s name and the street you grew up on – mine’s Lucy 69. Could I be more Borscht Belt hooker??

Finally the bride danced for us. I’m uncomfortable now, the next morning, sitting in my living room. I never, ever needed to see that much of the bride’s ass, crotch, thighs. Ig. And of course being confronted with her sexuality makes me think about her with my friend and makes me consider his sexuality, and that’s another thing I never wanted to do.

And then we went for Mexican food.

Today, I am a little sore and have bruises from the pole.

Would it be Inappropriate to Give You My Number?

Ever experience that moment when someone tells you they’ve broken up with their girlfriend (boyfriend), and you have to express sympathy, but you’re really considering their potential now that their single?

Ugh

I have to go to the hospital.  Waiting for Parker to pick me up.  I hate hospitals, even more when I’m the one who has to go.

I cut my finger this morning while doing dishes.  There was a lot of blood.  A lot.  I’m not great with blood.  It’s still bleeding and very fleshy.  I’m getting sick writing this.

The Shadow Year by Jeffrey Ford

I was lucky enough to get an early reviewers’ copy of The Shadow Year by Jeffrey Ford, and then it sat on the pile. Who knows, too many library books due back perhaps. So, I finally got around to it and now I’m caught between disbelief that I didn’t devour it right away and joy that I waited and got to read it now. What a great novel.

It’s a mystery, a memory, a ghost story, a sleepy/suspenseful summer. Set in the 50’s the book follows three siblings as they unravel a neighborhood mystery, but still live their summer, kid lives; they fear and chase, yet they bike and age too. I love books with teen protagonists, there’s usually a sense of optimism, even amidst the darkest moments, and The Shadow Year didn’t fail to deliver.

Jeffrey Ford’s prose is beautiful and poetic. Overall an enjoyable and subtle book.

If Seinfeld Lived in LA

Which, I guess, is what Curb Your Enthusiasm is…  but anyway.  I had a moment today in the car, where I thought, “if Seinfeld were in LA, George or Elaine would rant about this.”

I was driving west on Sunset, in Beverly Hills, and only one lane was open, because they were tree trimming.  About a quarter mile in the distance I could see a car in the middle divider waiting to merge with traffic.  By the time I reached the car at least twenty others had passed, not letting her in.  I, of course, slowed and let her go.  Here’s the Seinfeld-ian rant – she didn’t give me the thank you hand!  How hard is it to raise your right hand??  Gah!  I always thank people when they let me in!  In fact a couple hours later a guy let me merge right on LaCienega, so I could turn right onto Fountain, and I gave him a big right-hand thank you sign.  I feel like a Costanza.