Friday, March 29, 2013

No Soup for You

“So don’t cry for me , ‘cos I’m going away / But I’ll be back some lucky day.”  – Tom Waits, 1993

“It’s no big deal, it’s just… We have to go away and ... and dream it all up again.”  – Bono, 1989


This blog isn’t dead. It’s just sleeping.

This is an official notice. Effective immediately, I am taking some time off from writing “Lesbians in My Soup.”

I do not know how long, exactly. I’m taking as long as it takes.

Way, way back, back in August of 2011, I set a goal for this blog and the goal was this: I was going to post at least four original pieces every month for a year.

And I did! I did that and then some.

That was nineteen months ago, and I’ve posted some amazing and fun blogs since then. I’ve blogged about Dana’s religious conversion and I’ve blogged our break-up. I’ve written about meeting a redneck God and I have written about the right way to kill baby seals. I’ve even written some stuff that did not make very much sense at all.

Now I need a break.

I’ll still be around: I’m on Twitter and I have a Tumblr and do Google+.  You should connect with me there and/or chat with me and/or partake in whatever interaction is appropriate in that particular forum.

I hope to see you soon!

Saturday, March 23, 2013

City of the Nephilim

What the Rail Boys say is what Rail Boys have always said: That someplace, out, out down the line, there’s a place that’s different. Better. That the tracks will lead them there, to that untouched corner or abandoned station and that they’ll know it when they see it. That when the train goes rumbling by their utopia, they’ll recognize they’ve found it and that they’re there.

When they’re there, then the Rail Boys will leap out of their traveling closets and they’ll take up a new, perhaps more sedentary life in the perfect place they’ll have found.

They say meanwhile, we’ll all still be huddled and hiding our lives away back here.

Back here, in the City of the Nephilim.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

She Bop

If I were ever to undertake the composition of my autobiography – to set pen to paper for the story of me – I do not believe it possible that I could organize things in a manner more logical, personal, or appropriate than by The Times I Have Been Caught Masturbating.

What for anybody else would be a once-in-a-lifetime embarrassment has for me become almost an Art form unto itself. If you are listening to this blog post being read out loud somewhere, that’s Art with a big red capital “A.”  

The cast of characters busting me over the years reads like a who’s who of the people that have passed through my life, some just long enough to throw me off the bus or out of the library where the lewd conduct in question was occurring.

Yes, my chronicle of finger bang busts would feature family (nuclear and extended), teachers (junior high through graduate level), roommates, co-workers, assorted waiters, a spouse, and at least one parking lot attendant. It would include major incidents from every phase of my life going as far back as I can remember and probably even further.

It would reveal – beyond all shadow of a doubt! – how many of the people I’ve known are unusually witty and quick with a one-liner:

Boss:                          “I think it’s about time we give Katy a promotion.”
Office Manager:       “Really? Is she doing that well here?”
Boss:                         “No, but we’ve really gotta get her out of that cubicle and into an office where she has a door that locks.”

Some of the incidents – let’s say (hypothetically) a slumber party or that one time at the museum – were just exercises in poor judgment. Things where, you know, in retrospect I’d have to say, “How in the hell did I think I was going to get away with that?”  Don’t get me wrong: It’s fine and dandy to spend a little time with yourself, but you need to be able to do some sort of quick cost-benefit analysis when it comes to the right here/right now aspects.

For most, I believe this to be the kind of wisdom that comes with age and with experience.

For me, well, I believe I am incapable of the level of embarrassment that would otherwise be a critical motivator in changing a pathological behavior. It might even be the case that I am incapable of any level of embarrassment whatsoever.

This is why, in my as-yet-unwritten autobiography, we’d end up with “Chapter Four: The Incident on the School Bus and its Unfortunate Aftermath.”

It’s why we’d move on, in time, to “Chapter Seven: Why My Good Friend, Bogart, Still Can’t Look Me in the Eyes.”

And it’s why the bonus material in the paperback version of my autobiography would include a section titled “Grandma Couldn’t Figure Out How to Work That Weird Curling Iron in My Bathroom.”

But it’s not all my fault. I mean it. Bad judgment and overactive fingers do not explain everything. Bad judgment and overactive fingers do not explain why, every time I look at online porn, the gods put thought balloons into people’s heads and the thought balloons say, “Hey! I haven’t talked to Katy in months! I think I’ll go over to her place and burst in on her suddenly right now…”

Bad judgment and overactive fingers do not explain why, enjoying myself while clinging to the back of a Harley on an abandoned highway in the middle of the night, the only constable in a three-county radius saw the two of us roll by that night.

Every Prospective Employer for the Rest of Time:  “I notice on your background check that you had a relatively recent public lewdness charge. Could you tell me more about that?”

It’s not my job to live in a manner that makes you feel comfortable. A way that puts you at ease or that leaves the squeamish un-squeamed.

It’s not your job to tell me, when I mention that I’m sorta-kinda dating again, that, “Katy, you can’t love somebody else until you learn to love yourself.”

Because, I mean, don’t you already have sufficient firsthand proof (no pun intended) that I dolove myself, anytime and anywhere? That I might even be said to truly lo-o-o-o-ove myself?

These things and so much more will be made crystal clear to everyone, if ever and whenever I finally decide to write that autobiography. I’d probably have written it by now – written it a long time ago, in fact – if it wasn’t for one of my current hobbies always keeping me so damn busy.

For Bogart’s sake, though… Please remember to knock before walking into my room!

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Pictures from a Wedding

My daughter came by the other day to see me where I work, and she brought with her some pictures from a wedding.

I was thrilled to see her, but it turned out the wedding was my ex-wife and twin brother’s, to each other, and it had happened the week before. I had not known anything about the wedding – hadn’t heard so much as a peep that it was going to occur – and this was apparently not by accident.

“Mom and Anthony thought you’d hijack things if you knew,” my daughter – whose name is Rachel – said to me.

What a thing for her to say! What a thing for people to think!

Now, the truth is, I probably would have at least considered hijacking the wedding. Safe to say I’d’ve given it some thought. The truth is, I’m reasonably positive I might have even started making concrete plans regarding how one might go about hijacking a wedding. After all, the prospect of hijacking a wedding is almost too rife with possibilities, if you ask me…

But it still hurts.

Plus, I hadn’t realized I was becoming so predictable.

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Open Thread

Trying out something new here.

Introduce yourself why don’t ya?

Anons welcome. No moderation. No rules. No holds barred.

Do it!

Sunday, March 3, 2013

There’s No Such Thing as Brussels Sprouts

There’s no such thing as Brussels sprouts.

I know what you’ve been told and it’s just not so.  

You can take a moment to process that now.

Don’t tell me, let me guess: Now that you think about it, you’ve never actually seen a Brussels sprout, but you heard about them somewhere, sometime. And you don’t remember where or when that was, but you belie-e-e-eve-

Yeah. I know. There’s no such thing, baby. Brussels sprouts don’t exist.

I learned this from people I know. From people whom I trust. From people with the inside line to inside information that you and the rest of the world never ever get to see. I’ve been looking for this kind of people all my life.

And these people I am talking about, you see, they know. These people saw the memo. Hell, these people wrote the memo and then delivered the memo, too. These people are bike messengers, and Brussels sprouts, well, that was a practical joke made up on a Thursday afternoon when business was slow and everyone was getting high.

I know this because I am a bike messenger. Part-time, is all. Just for now, and just enough to cover internet and a hefty book addiction for the time being.