iDont Really Give a Fuck…

Remember the Matrix? I do, I actually own an official script from it. You know in the scene when Neo learns of his fate and takes the blue pill and then unplugs himself from the machines? I fear that the majority of the population has become nothing more than Copper Tops.

I sat and watch my town today. People moving, bobbing, shuffling down the street. All of them, and I mean that (in exception to the city workers), every one of them were plugged into there iPods, iPhones, iDon’t really care.

Is it that I’m super lame for not buying into this? Am I behind the times and old fashion? I don’t think so. I get to hear the doves cooing outside library. Absorb the rustling of the winter leaves. The babbling of babies. The hissing of the espresso machine. All of that I own. It is a part of me, my memory, and of my character.

Really I don’t understand the almost addictive nature of the mass consumption of music. You all think you’re all ‘under ground’ or uber cool because you know of some obscure band? No. You are not.

I have only known one true-blue music  aficionado in my life. Someone who doesn’t just collect music but respects it in its purest form. When she left to spend time in Europe and returned to find her expansive record–yes record–collection raped and pillaged she wept. My sister, who when we were kids wouldn’t allow me to like Nirvana (instead I loved Pearl Jam), had spent the better part of a decade collecting rare records was left with 20 out of the hundreds she had carefully placed via band and style in crates.

It has been 10 years since then and she has not yet reclaimed all that she lost. But what she has collected she is sharing her love of music with her niece, my daughter, in record form. How many almost seven-year-olds do you know that loves Devo, the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s, Motorhead, Tom Waits, and Leonerd Cohen to just name a few?

So you can stay plugged in. You can ignore the world that is going on around you. That’s fine. But don’t think you’re better than me because you know more band names than me. Because I don’t care.

The Five “P’s” of Amanda…

My sister, Amanda, has done more for me than any other person that has been a positive influence in my life. It was a year after she had person-napped me that my mother sent us on a trip to NYC. I stayed in my first real squat. I got to go to an underground art show hosted by Anna Sui. In general I was submerged fully into the real  punk/Anarchist movement in that two week window of time.

I had just gotten out of my first, albeit abusive and downright emotionally damaging, love relationship. One of the things my sister was trying to get me to understand about real love and real relationships is this; that no matter what–your partner should be able to love you even when you are perfectly imperfect. It was on Wall Street that she dropped this knowledge on me, I live and love by this philosophy. The philosophy of the five “P’s.”

1. Pee

2. Poop

3. Pick

4. Puke

5. Pass

Let me elaborate a little further on these five words, most are obvious, but two of them are a little ambiguous and need to be clarified just a bit more. The basic idea is that at some time or another you should be able to do all five of these natural bodily functions in front of your lover with no fear of judgement or disapproval. That you should feel no shame in what your body does, because your body is fucking amazing–even when you are praying to the porcelain Gods.

Some examples are as followed: After sex it is common knowledge that we ladies need to go pee to avoid getting a nasty bladder infection. You should be 100% okay with hopping out of bed (couch, floor, kitchen table, you get my point) and leaving the bathroom door wide open when you tinkle. Or as you shower your lover should have no reservations of taking a leak while you rinse the shampoo out of your hair, just as long as they don’t flush, brrr! At some point you might find yourself with one of those dry, bothersome boogers. There should be no hesitation with picking it out when no tissues are to be found. Whether you’re hung-over, or you have a stomach bug, you and your partner should gladly hold back each others’ hair or just caress their back as the retch into the potty. Now, those three are generally accepted as normal behaviors, the last two…well, for women there seems to be some residual 1950’s ideal that we just should not do these. Or better yet, that you can’t do them because that would remove the allure of who we are as a sexual identity to our male counterparts. To that I say, pish-posh!

The idea that we, women, don’t poop is such an archaic stereotype that it actually makes me laugh. But I worked with a man whose wife, let me restate that–WIFE, never pooped in their home. She would rather drive to the convenient store to take a shit in a nasty bathroom than allow her husband to know that she did in fact take a poop. Although I am in no way saying that the ‘pee’ rule should be upheld here, there always comes a time when you are doing the sitting-on-the-pot-while-holding-the-bucket song and dance, your lover should not fear bringing you a glass of water. At the same time the person doing this song and dance should not feel the slightest bit of embarrassment, everyone does it so why try to hide it.

The last one, to pass gas freely, was the hardest for me to ‘let go’ of (pun intended). I personally was so guilty of never doing this in front of my first lover. I would have a reason to go outside or worse I would wait until I was alone in my car to avoid the shocked expression on his face. Butt again, there should be no reason to fear the fart. “Better out than in,” to quote Shrek.

What my sister was trying to get through to me is that if you cannot does these human, normal, natural functions in front of the person you are fucking–then you have serious intimacy issues. Which she could not have been so right about. There is something so inherently liberating about being snuggled up, watching a movie on the couch and sharing the warm-love that rumbles out of your ass. Only to have it met with a high-five or, if you are able to do this, one up your partners gaseous release with your on-command anal-acoustics. The giggle factor should be your reward for this, not a look of disgust or worse a denial of affection or further cuddling.

As I mentioned at the start, I live and love by this philosophy. If you can’t handle that I pick my nose, pee with the door open, get the occasional bout of diarrhea, barf my brains out after too much to drink, and the Holy Grail of the five “P’s” pooting when the I need to…then you will never be able to pleasure me. I will never fully give myself to you. By holding that all in (literally) it halts my body in other, and much more pleasurable, ways. I know this to be fact, at least for me, I never experienced a single orgasm in the 2 and a half years I was with my first boyfriend. But after this life-lesson that Amanda gave me I got a serious flu. The toilet, the bucket, the snot…all of it was coming out of me. I met my second boyfriend, and father of my child, while in the throws of this flu while he was visiting my roommates. He actually said to me that he thought that it was ‘hot’ that I didn’t give a fuck. That he had come over to meet me, saw me at my worst, and was able to see me for who I really am. And I am fucking AWESOME.

So be liberated, be accepting, and be human with your lovers and you will find that you will have a truly deep, intimate relationship with them. And at the very least you will get a good belly-laugh out of all of it.

 

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

I always feel as though I am walking onto a yacht with an apricot scarf when I step into Fred’s Speakeasy on a Wednesday night. This night was no different. Well, that’s a lie. As a matter a fact nothing was what it normally was. Purple color had vomited onto every surface. That included my corset. It was Doug E. Freshs’ birthday, subsequently it was Mary Magdalene’s day of honor, so to honor them both the collective we draped everything we could in purple.

As a creature of habit I am used to the ‘Easy being dark, smoky, and full of familiar faces. Not this night. You know those ubiquitous college kids? Yeah, they were there. All sparkly and rich. The gaggle of girls was taking so many pictures with their camera I nearly had an epileptic fit from the flashing white light. As I am sure many of you feel this way about your watering-hole; Fred’s is my bar and I’ll do what it takes to get you to leave.

The night wore on, Doug arrived, and I lead the crowd in a Marilyn Monroe-like version of Happy Birthday.  It was all very bourgeois. The glitterati were now crumpled in the doorframe attempting not to vomit. As the brightest and bubbliest babe stammered to leave I was compelled to stop her. I said to her, “I may not like you but I will not let you drive drunk.” You can be a rich-bitch whose friends encroached and violated my space; but you will still get a ride when wasted from me.

Sadly, that was the last time I went to the real Fred’s Speakeasy. They closed they’re doors for about 6 weeks, they reopened the bar using the same name–but it is not the same at all. Every square inch has been painted, with new flooring, big-screen TV’s and electronic dart boards. Fred’s looks just like every other college bar in my small town and I refuse to go there now. For 7 years I went there every Wednesday for karaoke, conversation, and good, cheap drinks. It almost feels like I’ve been broken up with. Like I went away on a family vacation only return and find another lover in my bed with my partner. It’s been a year now since I last walked down the steps of the ‘Easy and I have yet to find a suitable new bar.