Happy Independence Day, Costa Rica

(Which was a relatively peaceful event, but into every history, some asshats must fall. This particular one came from Tennessee.)


On this day in 1821, Costa Rica, quietly obtained its independence from Spain, as did most of Central America, with the exceptions of Belize and Panama. Costa Rica abolished its military in 1948, and people here are very proud of the reputation they've built as a peaceful, tranquilo country. They've avoided many of the hardships suffered by their neighbors, starting with colonization. Not that the colonizers didn't come. Of course they came. They just didn't amp up the raping, pillaging, and murdering to the levels they enjoyed elsewhere. They did pass around some smallpox because that's just the colonizer's calling card. A given.

When that genocidal asshat, Cristóbal Colón, (You may know him as Christopher Columbus) came a-sailing in 1502, he dubbed this place Costa Rica, meaning "rich coast", believing it to be rich in gold.  It wasn't. Nor were there enough indigenous people for old Cristóbal to pull his usual stunt of enslaving them and forcing them to work their own land for his pleasure and profit. The settlers on the seemingly Rich Coast were largely left to their own devices, meaning they had to do their own work. Needless to say, Costa no-muy-Rica was mostly ignored while the Spanish colonization *cough genocide cough* continued in golder pastures.

Likewise, Costa Rica hasn't been affected by military conflict, dictators, corruption, or the effects of the drug cartels to the extent that its neighbors have. They did have to fend off an attempted takeover by one William Walker, a member of the Southern Confederacy who hailed from Tennessee. Willy decided he wanted a couple of Central American countries of his very own, by gawd, so he pulled a Cristóbal and decided to just go take them. Willy planned to convert Central America into a slave territory, extending the land of cotton right on down to the land of bananas.

Manifest Destiny wasn't just heading west, y'all.

He declared himself president of Nicaragua in 1856, and then set his sights on his neighbors to the south. The Costa Rican president rallied his people and raised a substantial militia in short order. Armed with farming tools, rifles, and (of course) machetes, they tracked down our Nashville native and commenced an ass-whooping. The Battle of Santa Rosa lasted about 15 minutes, ending with the would-be usurper high-tailing it for Nicaragua.

They followed him.

This is where the story takes on the stuff of legend and folks start with the toasts. Having cornered Walker and his men, President Mora asked for a volunteer to carry a torch and set fire to the building in order to drive the evil-doers out. A humble drummer boy, Juan Santamaría, bravely stepped forward, asking only that his mother be cared for in the event of his death. Our courageous boy-soldier did his duty and, tragically, met his end, but he succeeded in flushing out ol' Willy and his merry band of assclowns.

Costa Rica prides itself on its claim of being the only Latin American country whose national hero is a campesino, a humble laborer, rather than a politician or military hero. Juan Santamaría was also of mixed race, being partly of African descent, though you won't find that reflected in any of the statues. (French sculptor. What are you going to do?) Our main airport is named after Juan Santamaría, so if any of you head down, now you know the story behind the name.

This is the Costa Rican national anthem. I like how it reflects peace, the beauty of nature, and working the land with your hands. It briefly mentions defense in the context of the pueblo -- here meaning the people -- exchanging their tools for weapons to defend the country's honor, in the tradition of the militia that schooled William Walker.  No rockets' red glare, no bombs bursting in air. I like the idea of a national anthem being about peace, work, nature, and the land providing sustenance and shelter for its people.

The video has some nice scenes of Costa Rica. Give a listen. It's short and sweet. (Lyrics in the comments)

The anthem sounds sweeter to me this year, as I just received notification that my Costa Rican citizenship has been approved. In about a month, I should have my cédula, or national ID card, making me an official, card-carrying citizen of Costa Rica, or as my favorite taxista likes to say, más tica que gallo pinto. (You're more Costa Rican than the national dish. Yeah, flattery, but I'll take it.)

Feliz Día de la Independencia, Costa Rica.

And So, Once Again...

“My heart is broken in the face of the stupidity of my species. I can’t cry about it. In a way I’m inoculated." ~Joni Mitchell

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Joni wrote this piece in 1969, as a "friend of America" during the Vietnam era. Now, just shy of 40 years later, the words are, almost eerily, still relevant.

This is an a cappella piece; I've always liked it. Nothing but her pure voice and the lyrics, which somehow punctuates the gravity of the message itself. The musical intervals aren't what you'd expect, and it's no cakewalk to sing a piece like this sans instrumentation. But, she's Joni.

I hope you'll give it a listen. Lots of Joni's songs transcend time, but this piece is particularly fitting in today's political climate.




The Fiddle and The Drum - Joni Mitchell

I guess Joni realized just how relevant this piece is, in current times. Last year she collaborated with the Alberta Ballet on The Fiddle and The Drum, a project in which ballet dancers perform to her music, against a backdrop of her art. The theme has to do with the warring nature of humans, and how we're affecting the earth.

Happy Birthday, Joni

Down on your knees, all of you! Wow, so many of you were already there...

It is the birth date of my personal Goddess, one Joni Mitchell. This here is a call to worship, people. Actually, Joni wouldn't want a big deal made...

"I never wanted to be a star. I didn't like entering the room with all eyes on me. I still don't like the attention of a birthday party. I prefer Christmas, which is everybody's holiday."

It's weird, whenever I read her words, I hear them in her voice, sometimes with her laugh. So, in celebration of her artistry, genius and all around beauty, Joni's words:


Songs are like tattoos
~Blue


You know the times you impress me the most
are the times when you don't try.
~Woman of Heart and Mind


All I really really want our love to do
Is to bring out the best in me and in you too.
~All I Want


I can't go back there anymore
You know my keys won't fit the door,
You know my thoughts don't fit the man
They never can,
They never can
~I Had a King



Marcie's faucet needs a plumber
Marcie's sorrow needs a man
~Marcie




Some get the gravy, some get the gristle.
~Banquet


It seems such a shame
We start out so kind and end so heartlessly
~See You Sometime


There's no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get,
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
~Coyote


But now it's cloak and dagger
Walk on eggshells and analyze
Every particle of difference
Gets like mountains in our eyes
~Good Friends

He reached past the wine for my hand to hold
And he saw me young and he saw me old
And he saw me, sitting there.
~The Priest


He's the warmest chord I ever heard
~My Old Man

And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
~River


I know you don't like weak women
You get bored so quick,
And you don't like strong women
'Cause they're hip to your tricks
~You Turn Me On, I'm a Radio




Now she rallies her defenses,
For she fears that one will ask her
For eternity
And she's so busy being free.
~Cactus Tree

One minute she's so happy
Then she's crying on someone's knee,
Saying laughing and crying
You know it's the same release
~People's Parties

Sitting in a park in Paris France
Reading the news and it sure looks bad
They won't give peace a chance
That was just a dream some of us had
~California

Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
~River




With kids nearly grown and gone
Grown so fast,
Like the turn of a page
We look like our mothers did now,
When we were those kids' age
Nothing lasts for long
~Chinese Café


And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on the carousel of time,
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came,
And go round and round and round
In the circle game
~The Circle Game


Oh, you're in my blood like holy wine
You taste so bitter and so sweet.
Oh I could drink a case of you darling,
And I would still be on my feet...
I would still be on my feet
~Case of You



Happy Birthday, Joni.

Friday Videos - A Case of Joni

Close your mouth. Yes, Cowbell made the deadline. It's actually hard for me to watch videos. I'm too much of a multi-tasker. I can't stand to sit and do nothing but watch for 4 minutes. Opening it to another window works, because then I can continue doing crap, but it also means I can't actually SEE the video, which, when it comes to videos, kind of defeats the purpose.

This video though, is special. It is absolutely my favorite song ever.

Most of you are aware that I worship at the church of Joni Mitchell. She is seriously a genius. She is an artist, a painter, a poet, a singer, a songwriter. Creative genius. If she would have me, I'd so devote my life and passion to her, regardless of the fact that she is a smoker and doesn't have a penis. Those things just don't matter when it comes to Joni.

This song is A Case of You, and it is beautiful, both music and lyrics. The video is a slide show of photos of Joni along with some of her paintings. The lyrics are below, because they're just that damn good.

Especially the middle verse.




A Case of You

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where's that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar

On the back of a cartoon coaster
In the blue tv screen light
I drew a map of canada
Oh canada
And your face sketched on it twice


Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
And I would still be on my feet
Oh I'd still be on my feet


Oh I am a lonely painter
I live in a box of paints
I'm frightened by the devil
And I'm drawn to those ones that ain't afraid

I remember that time that you told me, you said
Love is touching souls
Surely you touched mine
Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time


Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
And you taste so bitter, but you taste so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you
I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
And still be on my feet


I met a woman
She had a mouth like yours
She knew your life
She knew your devils and your deeds
And she said
Go to him, stay with him if you can
Oh but be prepared to bleed


Oh but you are in my blood you're my holy wine
Oh and you taste so bitter, bitter and so sweet
Oh I could drink a case of you darling
Still I'd be on my feet
I'd still be on my feet

mmmmm

~Joni Mitchell

Sing It, Baby

OK, so you've all heard of the whole Six Degrees of Separation theory, right? I just found out I am a mere two degrees from Barack Obama. Or at least I will be by September 28th.

Here's my logic: Senator Obama will be delivering the convocation address at Howard University's 140th opening convocations. The Howard University choir will be singing at this event. The eldest daughter is a sophomore at the University and a member of the Howard choir. The choir will (as I understand it, don't quote me on this part) be singing a medley of different songs, in which there are a couple of short solo parts. Exciting stuff. Hold onto your panties, people, it gets better.

Guess who has a solo part? Oh yeah, baby, that's right! That would be the Offspring, aka the Radical Bohemian, getting her tunes on. Go girl! I'm thinking this should qualify her for a record deal more than those pop tarts on American Idol, right? She's so excited! She's got the Big Anti-War Protest going on this weekend, then hanging with Barack.

It's pretty much first name basis now with me and Barack.

The daughter says they're more like soloettes, not like a full piece. Whatever. I don't care if it's one note, she's singing. I say that's a mere two degrees of separation between me and the Senator. And just one degree for the Radical Bohemian, she's the one with the pipes.

Barack Obama is practically family, y'all.

Here's The Confession

Okay, y'all, I am a bit freaked out on two counts, both musical. Here's what I know:

1) I do like some 80s music after all. In fact, I like a lot of it.

2) Lorraine and I sang two of the same songs for church in years past. It's true. Amy Grant's El Shaddai and Father's Eyes. Given that I found this out purely by chance while cruising old comments, I bet if we actually compared notes, there could even be more.

These are the things one discovers whilst passing time alone in a night club way past closing time on a Sunday night.

I am a child of the 80s. I'm pretty sure that was a mistake. I think I was supposed to be a child of the 60s. I may have missed out on Free Love and fringe, but I stole the music. I believe I've mentioned that I worship at the church of Joni Mitchell. The 60s was a cool decade. Woodstock, the Black Panthers, free love, natural hair, acoustic guitars. Dr. King. Flowy tunics that flattered everyone. Down with pretense. Make love, not war. Revolution. They made a difference, man. Far out.

Those days, however, were not mine, but my mother's. The 60s were her heyday, she of the GoGo boots, embroidered vests and protest buttons.

I may have come into being in the 60s, but I came of age in the 80s. Big bangs varnished with Aqua Net. Jheri curls. Side ponytails. Clown make up. Jeans desecrated with tapered ankles, pleats and acid wash finish. Shoulder pads. Leg warmers with Flashdance sweatshirts. Reagan. What a hellish legacy to leave for a generation. And it's all immortalized in our yearbooks -- bad hair, bad make up, bad fashion, bad politics, and bad music.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward: summer, 2007. Sunday night it was me, my dogs, and a some Black Dog Ale. I'm cruising around the Internets, and decide to check out that totally rockin' hot spot, Here's the 80s. This was new for me. As you know, the proprieters are the hilariously irreverent and bitter Lorraine & JP. Although I am thoroughly addicted to both their blogs I have not been a regular patron at the club. Here's the 80s? I thought. Are you kidding? I finally got my bangs to lay down and merge with the rest of my hair. My pants no longer come up to my ribcage. No way. I have been shed of the 80s since belting out Auld Lang Syne on New Year's Eve, 1989.

Or so I thought.

Here's the confession: I do too like 80s music. It's true. I'd forgotten how much of it I actually did like. Granted, a lot of it I missed, because I was doing the Contemporary Christian Music thing at the time (thus the aforementioned church solos I have in common with Lorraine), but you can't go through a decade and not hear this stuff. Plus, after I left the cornfields of my youth for the firing ranges and red clay of Fort Jackson, South Carolina, I added secular music to my list of allowable indulgences. I still had over half the decade to go, at that point.
Leaving smalltown Ohio brought other music to my experience. Thus my affinity for old school rap and groups like DeBarge. (Don't judge.) Purple Rain? Are you kidding? Prince was a god.

So anyway, I was sucked through a vortex of black lace and big hair last Sunday night. I was sucked back into the 80s. I was there for hours. Alone, inebriated, on a Sunday night. Guys, you'll see plenty of my comments scattered around the place. In fact, I made myself stop after a while, realizing that they were taking on an "I love you, man!" quality, most likely due to the freely flowing beer. Sling wasn't there to serve up anything more interesting, so I made do with Black Dog Ale.

I'd forgotten about Huey Lewis and the News. Then Dire Straits made me think about my first boyfriend ever. He was great. To this day, I can't hear Sultans of Swing without thinking of him. Damn, that boy could kiss. I credit him with my high kissing standards of today. (Also, to this day, Dan Fogelberg's Auld Lang Syne will make me get misty behind that guy.) Culture Club, Cyndy Lauper, the Commodores, Linda Ronstadt, Aretha, Foreigner, Beastie Boys, The Pointer Sisters, Journey ... yeah. I was liking some 80s music y'all. I even found a bit of old school -- LL Cool J, MC Lyte, Oran Juice Jones, Young MC, Run DMC ... hell yeah. Even the Fat Boys were there. (Trust that Kurtis Blow, Whodini and UTFO will be on the request line soon.)

So now you know. Shoot, now I know. Here's to the 80s. *clink*

Jesus Land

I just finished reading Jesus Land, a memoir by Julia Scheeres. Her story is written from the perspective of her 17-year-old self, and is both sweet and brutal. Her writing is very honest, sometimes disturbingly so, and her sarcastic dark humor flavors the agonizing experience that was her childhood.

Julia spent her teen years in rural Indiana, raised by fundamentalist Christian parents in the 80s. Her parents adopted two African American boys out of a sense of Christian guilt. Much of the story revolves around Julia's close relationship with her "twin" brother, David.

Their parents had no clue about raising a child of color in the cornfields of the Bible belt; the brothers' daily experiences with racism, both out in the world and at home, are central to the story. The parents were emotionally distant and abusive with all their children, and were physically abusive to Jerome and David. They were heavily into the whole Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child deal, to the point of having that bit of Biblery engraved on the two large paddles hanging on the wall.

My high school years were spent in the rural Midwest in the 80s, immersed in The Way, The Truth, The Life as well, so parts of the book had a familiar feel to me. Fortunately, I did not have the home life that Julia and her siblings dealt with -- my parents were not abusive, and though my mom was very religious (as was I), she was not a fundamentalist. The community though, from the school to food, dress, landscape and attitudes, could've been my town.

One thing that personally freaked me out a bit, was the music. Throughout the book, Christian music is the backdrop for the story. Mom continuously blasts Rejoice Radio over the home intercom system, and hymns and religious songs are often referenced. (The intercom is also used to eavesdrop on the kids' conversations, in case any heathenism is going down.)

I knew every single song in the book.

Every single one, y'all. Every hymn, every contemporary Christian hit, every camp song. After all these years, the words, melodies, harmonies -- in some cases multiple verses and even the tenor harmonies -- all still in there.

These songs have been running through my head for the last three days. It is freaking me the fuck out. I'm talking songs like,

Just As I Am
Power In the Blood
Were You There When They Crucified My Lord
All to Jesus I Surrender
Old Rugged Cross
Go To Dark Gethsemane

... like that. The Rejoice Radio hits too -- Sandy Patty, Amy Grant, Keith Green, Petra, those were my tunes in the 80s.

Secular music was sinful. It encouraged wild kids to have sex and become drug addicts. No bump and grind for me, no sir, I put my Keith Green in the tape deck and got my religion on.

So apparently, religious music is still in there, locked away among my neurons and synapses. Scary.

Anyway, this book kind of got in there for me. The racism that David and Jerome dealt with just tore at my heart. Adoption across racial lines is a whole'nuther post. I am not saying I think it's wrong in every circumstance, but I do believe that in many situations it is not the best option for the child. I may get a lot of disagreement on that. I'm in no way saying that every situation of interracial adoption is detrimental. I do think that it is often done by well-intentioned white folks trying to do a good deed who have no understanding of or connection to that child's culture. So the way of dealing with differences lots of times is to just assimilate the child into white culture, as a way to "make things easy" for them. So the child will "fit in" and be "accepted".

That shit doesn't work, in the end. You can assimilate your ass all day long, but it will never be white enough for society to afford you full membership privileges, and then you've lost connectivity to your culture and ethnicity to boot.

These particular parents should not have adopted any child, black or white; they had no concern or understanding of the issues that they brought upon these kids. Mom's answer to everything was "turn the other cheek". It broke my heart and pissed me off, to think of David living this life with no control over his situation, no one to understand, no one to get him the fuck out of Dodge. He was taken as a baby and given unto Jesus and and a white world of ignorance and hatred.

This book made me think of my own choice not to move back to the Midwest. It breaks my mom's heart to have us so far away, and I can't help but feel I'm going to reap what I've sown big time in the Karma department. I have this fear of my own kids scattering to the winds after they leave home, that I will not really be part of their lives, that it will be my Karmic reward for not being an actual presence in my parents' lives as an adult. (not fishing for comments about how that's not true and it will be fine -- I know in my head it's some weird guilt game, but the feeling is still there. Whaddya gonna do.)

My reasons for not moving back to the Midwest revolve largely around the conservative mindset there, and the levels of racism, right-wingery, and Bible-thumping the kids would be regularly exposed to. Not that you can avoid it anywhere in this country, but let's face it, some places are a whole lot worse than others.

I can't say it's just for the kids -- I don't think I could deal with living in that environment any more. Every time I go back to Ohio, it just sets my teeth on edge. A lot of it is subtle. A lot of it is blatant to me, but not really noticed there. I like living in a blue state, I like progressive thought being the norm.

So I struggle with that -- did I make the right choice? I don't know. My mom has MS and can't travel. I knew that, and that's part of the equation. I don't make the kind of money that would allow me to travel back and forth with three kids.

I miss my parents terribly.

On the other hand, the thought of raising kids of color in the Midwest was not something I could reconcile. We -- my ex and I -- made the conscious choice to bring each one of them into the world. I may not have understood all the ramifications at that time, but it's my responsibility to do the best I can with what I know now.

My folks say it's changed, it's not that bad, but their perception of "not that bad" is not the same as mine. Mom says, "There are a lot of East Indian and Asian kids in the schools now; they're so smart! Such good students." (I am just "looking for negatives" when I bring up the whole model minority thing.)

Anyway, this book got me thinking and remembering. I kind of got off on a tangent there. I'd suck ass as a book reviewer. I don't want to give away the story line, so no spoilers, but the story goes a lot deeper than I've mentioned here. I'm glad I read it, and will be looking for future works from this author.

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The Radical Bohemian daughter and I are heading to Value Village to drop off some donations and see if she can find any funky clothes to get her style on. Then tonight we are going to see The Tallis Scholars, hello, at St. James Cathedral. Yes, I said The Tallis Scholars, hell yeah! OK, so it's only four of them, performing with the students from their annual summer school, but still. The daughter and I saw the whole group at St. Mark's once -- I have no words to describe that experience. If you like Early Music, you've got to check these guys out. They rock.

Karaoke Kevin Strikes Out

So last Friday night, to celebrate the end of Hell Week at work, some friends and I decide to go get our par-tay on. Hell week left me too beat to actually drive into The City, as Seattle proper is called 'round these here parts. Plus, we needed to party hardy locally because alcohol.

This meant karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant.

I guess I should give some background on the whole going out deal. Before returning to the land of fast food and NASCAR, I went out all the damn time. We had community overseas, and someone was always up for fun. You could go out by yourself, and within five minutes, you'd hear someone else speaking English, and -bam- automatic connection. Before long, there'd be a group, and multiple languages, and you'd be making the rounds. Plus, the ex and I were still friends at that time, so we each had a free babysitter whenever one or the other of us was feeling all Saturday Night Fever.

Here, everybody speaks English. (And English only, bygod. This here's 'Murka! ) There's no connection. You go up and start talking to someone, they think you're a freak. Or that you want a hookup. Also, my friends are scattered all over. A night out with the girls isn't quite the same when you only have one girl.

I've got one close friend here. One. I met her because her brother was my boyfriend. She stayed with us for a while after an extended trip to Europe. Anyway, I ended up giving her brother the boot, but she stayed on for a few months. This led to a rumor that she'd stolen me away from her own brother with her nefarious bisexual ass. This rumor made it all the way to the brother, to my ex-husband in the Middle East, the brother's ex-wife in Jersey, and the brother's friend in Texas. We thought that shit was funny as hell, seeing as how I, apparently, am "nowhere near butch enough" for her. Those subtleties, however, are lost on most straight guys. That whole gay agenda thing.  They have to take their fantasies where they can get them, I guess.

Sometimes I still call her My Bitch just for old times sake.

Anyway, My Bitch and I used to go out in The City my first year or two back in 'Murka. We had to compromise when it came to our party establishments, as her ass is stuck in the 70s, musically. She also gets annoyed at "straight clubs", because men "don't know how to respect women,". Compromise was in order.

She is all about some 70s soul. It's great music. Love it. But it ain't the only show in town. Just sayin'. Anyway, my favorite place to go was Larry's, which was known around these parts as The Hip Hop Club, or The R&B Club. Which are just politically correct ways of saying The Black Club by people who "don't see color". I liked Larry's because it wasn't uptight and the music was good. (If you ignored any lyrics which happened to be misogynistic.) My Bitch maintained that it was all about men "getting all up in your ass", but when E'rbody in the Club's Gettin' Tipsy came on, her ass was the first to step out.

My Bitch, who tends toward the cynical when it comes to US race relations, told me often that Larry's was not long for this city, because "Whenever there's a black club in Seattle, they shut that shit down. Too many black folks in one place at the same time, folks here get nervous. They're going to shut that shit down."

I believe she even used the phrase "Mark my words," with an air of superiority thrown in for good measure. I blew it off. Larry's was doing the business. Seattle is all about diversity (in theory, if not in the flesh). This is a laid-back town. Larry's would be fine.

Of course, they shut that shit down about a year later, which did wonders for My Bitch's air of superiority.

Anyway, in the spirit of compromise, we'd hit Larry's sometimes and we'd hit Neighbors sometimes, which was a mixed-orientation club tending toward the techno tunes. I'd had enough of techno in Hungary to last me a lifetime, but the crowd was fun. We hit a few other places too, in search of a 70s soul music, and would go out about every couple of weeks or so.

The last year and a half, two years, I've been passing on the party more and more. This has a lot to do with the whole Seasonal Affective Psychosis I'm pretty sure I've developed here, and my ass going from phat to fat in the space of three years. And Larry's being shut down. There's that. Anyway, we've kind of turned into first rate duds.

Which pretty much horrifies me.

Goodgoddamn, but I do digress.

Okay, karaoke night at our local Mexican chain restaurant: we actually had a group, actually a foursome -- a veritable crowd for me and My Bitch. The other two ladies and I had been there twice before, after our fledgling advocacy group's first meetings. We were so charming that we are already "regulars" for our favorite waitperson, a feisty Brazilian hottie, and the manager -- also a hottie of the male persuasion -- who keeps us happy by bending the musical selections to our desires. Feisty hooks us up with the right booth, titillating conversation, and fast service, and MixMaster keeps the tunes flowing, much to My Bitch's delight.

Would that MixMaster was not quite so young. Or my ass not quite so fat. Anyway...

Karaoke was interesting. Whole lotta country going on. But there was one chick who did a few non-country songs. We were liking her. One lady did The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face. Now I love me some Roberta, y'all, but don't sing that slow shit on karaoke night.  About that time, our two compatriots decided to call it a night. There was one petite white girl who did The Humpty Dance. Girl did a great job. She also did Rapper's Delight. You just never know. Her boyfriend did a country number. He was real twangy, now. You just never know. She told us to gear up for Ice Ice Baby, and we decided to order a shot while waiting for that great American classic.

Hey, you takes what you can get. If it's Vanilla Ice or Conway Twitty, my ass is all about some Ice.

Now My Bitch isn't much for drinking. When she does, nursing a Lemon Drop is her thing. But every great once in a while, she'll do a shot. Last Friday it was a Pink Pussy. Which turned out to be sickeningly sweet, and sat neglected on our table. Now, it's not like My Bitch to neglect a Pink Pussy, but I guess the shot is nothing like its namesake. I went for a Blow Job.

We're still talking shots here, people.

As many of you may know, you don't just pick up a Blow Job like any old shot. That wouldn't be in the spirit of the drink. You have to go down on it. My Bitch was making all kinds of noise about how big and heavy the shot glass was, and how maybe she's safer on the Pink side of the fence, when I knocked it back, hands free. My Bitch was suitably impressed and was about to take notes, when some dude suddenly appeared at our booth.

I mean, really, the shot glass hadn't been back on the table a full minute. Show some restraint, man.

First time a guy's flirted in 20 or 30 lbs -- gee, ladies, I guess a good blow job really does cancel out the poundage. Bastards.

Kevin was drunk. That was his first mistake. Hook-up tip: slurring your words, not attractive. Kevin also veiled his baldness with a Kangolesque hat that looks sexyhot on some people, but looked like my grandpa's on him. That was his second mistake, trying to hide the bald with a hat.

In fact, let's stop and talk about bald, because it needs to said:

Men --especially straight men: bald is sexy. It's true. We like it. If you're upset over that receding hairline or that donut ring, shave the shit off. Sex-say. Hot.  Just shave the shit off and call it a day. A field of lonely hairs waving over your dome is not fooling us. We can see your scalp. Patrick Stewart? Sexy. Sexier than a guy 20 years younger who thinks he's fooling me with his lonely hairs or sloppy donut ring. A comb-over is a definite no-go. You can just stop reading if you think a comb-over is a viable option for thinning hair. If my man had a comb-over, I'd lop that shit off while he slept. Growing it long in the back and making a ponytail out of it? Well, I won't say it can't work, but if you choose this option, make sure you can carry that shit off. You'd best be one sexy motherfucker to go with the balding ponytail option. The hat? This is the male version of wearing falsies. Someday that shit is going to come to light. You're not fooling anyone, honey, and you may well piss a woman off with that little ruse. Now a hat can be hot, and I'm not saying you can't do the hat AND the bald. Just don't wear the hat specifically to hide the bald. It does not work.
Moving on. So, Kevin:

"Hello Ladies ... may I interest you in some conversation?"

Blank stares.

Kevin would not be dissuaded. Now I'm sorry, but when two women hesitate, look at each other, and come back with, "Um, we're actually leaving before too long, but thanks," they're really not that into you. I won't even go into how many times he asked if he could sit down. Again, guys: if the answer is not a definitive YES, assume that means NO. I decided, fine, you want to push yourself on us, let's have some fun. I'm fucking with you, Kev, and not in a good way.

I asked, "So, Kevin, what brings you over to our table?" Knowing full well it was the now-empty shot glass with whipped cream lingering on the rim. Kevin stammered and stared and finally came back with some lameass shit about true conversation and connections. Right.

"So, ladies ... what's your story? I'm a bit of a philosopher. Why are you here? Ah you're friends. Of course. The question should be, 'Why are we friends?' (ha ha ha) Are you married? Out with the girls? May I sit down?"

We did not scoot over.

We gave fake names. I was Shania, in honor of the karaoke pouring through the speakers. Kevin didn't make the connection. My Bitch was Jasmine, which apparently is some sort of street name she'd had back in the day. I believe it was actually "Sweet Jasmine", but Kevin didn't need any encouragement.

We asked Kevin about his philosophy. His philosophy was "true connections" and "real people". Right. Like I've never heard that before. At least be original, dude. I'm surprised he didn't whip out the always-impressive I Like Walks on the Beach deal. He did, however, drop the fact that he takes care of his sick father, and that he's pretty much solvent, as he's got some sort of business selling windbreakers, which allows him to pursue his passions. Including philosophy.

I told Kevin that we'd actually met through My Bitch's brother, and she caught on and chimed in that she had stolen me away from him. Kevin was looking a bit uncertain at this point. I let him know that My Bitch tended to get pretty jealous, so ...

Kevin blinked. He responded smartly with, "She does? Tha's okay ... I'm drunk too!"

Me: "No. JEAL-OUS, not drunk. I said jealous."

Kevin blinked some more. He raised himself half way out of his chair, rubbed his face, eyes darting nervously around the room. Good, I thought. That freaked him out -- he's so out of here. I underestimated the power of testosterone. (Fool!) Kevin sat back down. "I like it!" he confessed, breathlessly. "I've got to hear about this!"

Typical. I am out of practice. When has the possibility of lesbians ever freaked a guy out enough to get rid of him? What am I, a rookie?

Kevin eyed us with new interest and respect. Whatever. Like that whole "I'm so down with lesbians" bit is any kind of original.

"Do you ladies like Faith Hill? Tim McGraw?" he asked, whipping out his cell phone.

"Um... NO," in stereo.

"Oh." he shrugged, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Then there's no point in it..."

We didn't take the bait. Kevin held out for about 10 seconds. "Oh, I just have to show you this ... I'm not trying to intrude, but when you ladies see ..." he flips open the phone and proudly reveals a picture of some chick's back on a stage with a bunch of lights. "That's Faith Hill!" He reverently confides.

"Oh. Mm-hmm." (again with the stereophonics)

At this point, Kevin gets a bit emotional. His barefaced desperation is clutching at our sleeves. "No, ladies ... I met her. Faith Hill. I was on stage with her. I gave her my windbreaker. We were all together -- everyone -- this was after 2001, after 9/11." Kevin shuts his eyes tightly and takes a moment. "9/11, ladies ... it was ... we were all there," Well shit. Now he's whipped out 9/11 on our asses. What is he, George Bush? Fuck. "To this day, she still has my windbreaker. I gave it to her."

My Bitch and I exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. Mainly, "This motherfucker is just too damn pathetic to mess with. Let's blow this pop stand." I told Kevin I needed to get home to my kids. I was tempted to tell him I had nine kids, but this shit wasn't even entertaining. Plus, that probably wouldn't have fazed him.

Kevin was just on this side of tears. Goddamn. "But ... I'm real! I'm true! I showed this to you," waving the phone. Yeah. About that...

We were out of there. On the way out, I told Li'l Humpty that we were sorry to be missing her rendition of Ice Ice Baby after all.

She understood.

Musical Wisdom of the Day

Songs are like tattoos

Joni Mitchell, Blue

Musical Wisdom of the Day

Mercy what I won't give
to have the things that mean the most
not to mean the things I miss.

Indigo Girls, Language or the Kiss