Archive for September, 2008

27
Sep
08

So she’s pretty much moved in…

By shawnster 2 Comments
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
… which you can tell by the fact that, well, her stuff is everywhere.

And you know what, I kind of like it. I’ve even made a few compromises. For instance, the Gretchen Moll-autographed Bettie Page pic? I’ve taken it down. Likewise the Bettie Page fridge magnets and my Playboy Playmate 1977 Calendar (a v. important year in my adolescence), and I’ve put away my Pamela Anderson beer coasters. It must be love!

However, disagreements are rearing their ugly heads. For instance: what do you think the cut-off age is for having a lava lamp? The Texas Twister apparently thinks it doesn’t behoove someone of my advanced age and sophistication to have this ’60s relic. I don’t know, I think they’re quaint and kitschy but also kind of cool. I mean, at least I’m not ordering badger skulls off eBay like one friend of mine. Not just a badger skull, but also a skunk and a beaver. (I’m not making this up.) And his (live-in) girlfriend is 100 per cent supportive! Or so he claims. Why can’t I get a little understanding for my little old lava lamp, which I almost never even turn on? Does she hear me complaining about her black light Jimi Hendrix poster?

Okay, I made that last one up. I wish she had a black light Jimi Hendrix poster! Well, maybe not Hendrix, but something with sorcerers and hobbits and dragons.

To be fair, however, the Texas Twister is putting up with a few things… for example, the original art I have hanging on the walls. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say I do enjoy the odd comic book (“graphic novel” to you snobs), and my tastes in art reflect this, as well as my limited budget. And she seems to have no trouble with this. (Though she did draw the line at buying me, for my birthday, this lovely vinyl set of figures based on characters by the fabulous Jim Woodring: http://www.panikstoybox.com/pd-black-white-pupshaw-pushpaw-vinyl-figure-set-by-jim-woodring.cfm.) She’s also putting up with my vinyl Drinky Crow, Simpsons toys,

One of the things she puts up with

One of the things she puts up with

Another...

Another...

and the cats–which, in the case of the female, Minnie, seems to be a taxing proposition. But I think that might be the subject of another blog.

and another...

... and most terrifying of all, Minnie the cat.

... and most terrifying of all, Minnie the cat.

But then, look what I have to deal with--bobby pins in the tub!

But then, look what I have to deal with--bobby pins in the tub!

27
Sep
08

I love you vs. a ride to work

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: ,

At lunch with a friend last week, he wondered when the proper time was to say “I love you.” He hasn’t yet, even though he’s practically living with the girlfriend he’s been with for a few months. And he thinks she’s becoming annoyed by this (not sure if she’s said the 3 little words to him). “But I give her a ride to work every morning,” he whined. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

If it is, I wish I’d known!

I told the Texas Twister this, and she said, all things considered, she’d prefer the ride to work.

But it brings up a valid question–when do you say the fateful words?  Once said, there’s no going back—you can’t exactly change your mind. “Oh sorry, I didn’t mean it, it just kind of tripped off my tongue.” There’s no excuse, unless you’re like the high school football hero in “Paradise By the Dashboard Light”: “And when the feeling came upon me/Like a tidal wave/I started swearing to my god and on my mother’s grave/That I would love you to the end of time.”

Being the cautious type, I’m usually the last to say it. When I do I say it it’s usually when she’s deep in REM sleep, or has her headphones on. Or I’ll say it under my breath, or cough in the middle. “What? What was that?” Another friend I talked to about this wondered if he says it too often. If you have to ask…

But hey, you’re putting yourself in a vulnerable position, so I can understand a person’s hesitancy. What it all boils down to, I guess, is how early you want to get up.

16
Sep
08

The boxless move

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Well, Phase I of the Texas Twister’s move is complete. All her stuff is here—piles of shoes (as she likes to point out, she’s half-Filipino), the beakers, the practice violin made out of a yellow sponge and stick. The cats are adapting… Max has welcomed her by peeing on a pile of her clothes; Minnie seems to spend more time in her favourite hidey-hole, under the bed. (In an example of life imitating article, one of the first pieces I wrote for Click by Lavalife was on compatibility between pets and lovers; I feel like now I could write a book.) It doesn’t help that, this morning, the Twister, in the midst of brushing her teeth, approached Minnie, thus spooking the cat, who isn’t used to hairless giants approaching with toothpaste foaming at the mouth.

The whole move has me pondering past transitions. It also has me wondering why, at the ripe old age of still-younger-than-George-Clooney, I’ve never lived with a girlfriend up until now–but that’s for another entry, or my next therapy session.

I, like most sentient beings, hate moving; that’s one reason I stayed in the same one-bedroom hovel for 10 years. Imagine yours truly and two cats (same ones) in a 500+ sq. ft. apartment… and I was working out of my home, which means I was there ALL THE TIME. I still can’t believe my work station was a computer on the kitchen table, surrounded by piles of paper. I must have appeared insane to outside observers.

A good chunk of my 20s, “the grunge years” as I like to call them, were spent living out a lifestyle that suited the term… me and three other guys living like animals in a beat-up old house. We’d turned the basement into a practice space for our rock band…. There was a bedroom down there as well, and the guy who took up residence there painted it black… flat black. The toilet didn’t work, or it didn’t work very well, so he’d fill up big glass juice bottles with urine and bring them upstairs to dump out. He used to watch reruns of Dragnet, which he ordered through the mail.

We had some good parties there, though. Sigh.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I moved in with two girls I met through a roommate wanted ad. Karen and Abi chose me as a roommate, apparently, because I had a VCR… or was it a stereo? Something like that. After living in a house with 3-4 guys, this was a welcome change, believe me. For one thing, these girls flushed.

And that was it, except for a few years ago, when J., my girlfriend at the time, moved in because she’d had a fight with her roommate.  But, because she was moving out East anyway in a month, that had a time limit on it, so I was able to prepare myself mentally for the psychological trauma of sharing my bathroom counter space.

So I guess my point is, this whole living-with-a-girlfriend is unexplored territory for yours truly. If we fight, where can we go? One of us in the living room, one in the bedroom? The nearest bar is several blocks away.

We already disagree on something—her method of moving which, frankly, I think is insane. For some reason, the Twister decided at some point that she was going to see if she could do a “boxless move.” What this means is, she’s been filling her numerous bags—a red Adidas gym bag, a couple of canvas totes, a big wicker basket—with her stuff, and transporting it thus. Call me old-fashioned, call me a traditionalist, but I’ve always thought boxes–sturdy, dependable, and easily transportable—was the way to go.

Anyway, she did achieve her goal—she brought over the last load last night. What she doesn’t realize, of course, is now we’re going to have to put most of it in boxes.

15
Sep
08

Barack in your pants

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , ,

DON’T get all pissy with me about this subject line till you know what I am about to say. Which is:

Last week I got a press release announcing the launch of a new line of Obama panties. And camis. And boxers, for boys. And I just think…wow, there really is no telling to what crazy heights Obamamania might go before we finally get to election day. I also think that for so-called ‘boxers,’ the boy-panties sure are awfully tight and short, and I’m not sure whether straight men will really be able to go for them. Not that they would anyway. Straight men, feel free to chime in here, but wouldn’t you feel a little bit odd wearing some other dude’s name/face on the garment closest to your, um, source of masculine power? Or would you actually be comfortable with it? Like, I got nothing to prove, I can rock Barack on my ass in a totally macho way. Or maybe, It’s all part of being a player–these Obama panties totally help me score with the ladies.

I just don’t know. And it leads me to the next part of this post, which is WHAT IS THE POINT of making a political statement in an area where, assuming you are a normal adult with a day job and a more-or-less normal wardrobe, NO ONE is going to see it?? Is it for the same reason that girls ostensibly buy super-sexy underwear for hundreds of dollars at La Perla? You know: It’s not for the guys, it’s just for me to know they’re there and feel more confident. (Which is bullshit. Allow me to tell you as one of the few honest-to-a-fault women in the world…if there’s 0% chance that a man is going to see and appreciate your underwear, you’re almost assuredly going to buy them in bulk at Target or the mall. Especially since a thong is a thong–it creeps up your ass in approximately the same fashion whether it cost $5 or $150.) 

But I digress. Where were we? Ah yes, the Obama panties. So how exactly is one supposed to make a political statement out of a garment that never sees the light of day? I’ll tell you: you can’t! Statements are meant to be given loudly, proudly, in the most visible way. That means if you get the Obama panties, it is your duty as a patriot and an activist to STRUT ‘EM in the most public setting you can find. Yessss.

 I am talking striptease photo shoots all the way down to the OBAMA money shot–posted online and on your Facebook page for all 500 of your friends and family members to see.

I am talking those hideous ’90s retro low-rider jeans like the ones skateboard punks wear…sagged like halfway down the buttcheek region so that everyone can see “Obama ‘08!”  like a little campaign poster on your thigh.

I am talking NO PANTS AT ALL, if you can manage it without being arrested. there are obviously few places, but for sure Folsom Street Fair, Halloween in any big city, and probably an assortment of nightclubs. Especially if you were wearing cool footgear.

So yeah. It seems to me that if Obama panties are the fashion/political statement of the day, then that’s cool–we should just know that it entails a new R-rated era in North American campaign history. And that when some Republican from Texas comes out with Sarah Palin pasties (which they totally will!!), then in the spirit of Equal Rights, Non-Sexism and Justice, we’ve got to grit our teeth and smiiiile at pitbulls in lipstick and nipple tassles, bouncing all over the place at a GOP rally near you.

10
Sep
08

Home birthday advantage

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

At the start of every relationship, there are several firsts to be marked. Some of these I’ve already explored in past blogs—the first meeting of the friends, of the co-workers, the first trip away together, the first time she has to break into your car. And then there’s the First Birthday.

Because there’s nothing like turning a year older and closer to death to find out where you stand in your true luv’s eyes. Fortunately, with the Texas Twister, I had the Home Birthday Advantage.

The HBA is where your birthday comes up first. The advantages of this are obvious: for instance, gift-wise, the other person is setting the precedent. You know exactly what you have to do to match her or him when their birthday comes up. You know–let’s say your beloved gives you some flowers, a bath bomb, and a paperback copy of his favourite Dean Koontz novel. For his birthday, you can give him a tin of cashews.

Going into my own (recent) past, for instance, I find the example of Stiffie Bing*. When we began seeing each other, I’d just missed Stiffie’s own most recent birthday. What luck! So my birthday came up first. I should’ve known that it wasn’t going anywhere when I opened up the wrapping paper to find a carving knife. “You need something sharp,” she said. “I started to make you a card, too, but I didn’t have time.” Christmas was a food processor. If I’d thought about it, I’d realized she was setting me up to take care of myself when I could no longer depend on her (impressive) culinary skills.

The Big L., whom I’ll always thing of with fondness, love, and not a little exasperation, went out of her way to get me something I would like. But somehow, she was always just slightly off the mark. (Can’t think of a good example at the moment.) However, she made great cards–crazy, colourful affairs using pictures, pipe-cleaners, word balloons, you name it. Those cards alone should’ve been enough for me to think more seriously about couples therapy.

As for myself, I think I’m excellent, thoughtful gift-giver. I often spend hours at the comic book shop, looking for just the right action figure.

And so which action figure will I be purchasing for the Texas Twister when her birthday rolls around, in January? That remains to be seen. I do have to give her top marks for her first birthday gift to me, which she unveiled last night. Though somehow, I think the auto club membership might be more for her than for me.

*With apologies to P.G. Wodehouse.

08
Sep
08

The new ‘it’ accessory for LA men

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , , , ,

For the longest time, it seemed like every cute/outdoorsy/vaguely eligible man in Los Angeles owned a couple Labrador retrievers. Invariably they’d adopt from shelters, and sometimes if they really wanted to wear the ‘nice guy’ badge bold and proud, their Labs would be blind, decrepit or like 416 years old. I always was bothered by this because it seemed drastically unfair to all the non-Labrador breeds in the kennel–I mean there just aren’t enough softhearted women or highly evolved couples to adopt every outcast terrier/pitbull/ridgeback/rottie in the 310. But anyway, it seems I no longer have to fret because the LA men have moved on, en sudden and well-coordinated masse.

Between 7-10 times over the past weekend, I spotted hot( ish) single (or at least solo) men out and about Hermosa Beach with fluffy white button-nosed dogs. (Actually according to the general fashion/lifestyle Stylewatch rule, 3 of the same thing makes a trend…so 7-10 sightings is actually more of a CRAZE.) These dogs come in all kinds of different breeds/mixes/mutt non-pedigrees, but generally they have bodies shaped like giant chubby sausages, and round little pink tongues that constantly stick out.  In case I do not make myself clear, here are a couple photos.

 

Damn, these dogs are cute. They’re like walking stuffed animals, and what’s especially awesome is that they come in size Small, Medium or Large. Because if there’s anything more ridiculous than a man with a handbag dog, it’s a man with a white fluffy handbag dog that can’t put its freakin’ tongue in its mouth. PLUS, I actually used to know a man who had one of these dogs (he was in San Francisco, which of course is always ahead of Los Angeles trend-wise), and that dog kicked my dog’s ass in a fight even though my dog was 5 years younger and 20 pounds heavier–so these dogs are clearly more macho than they look!   

So all this is great; however I do have one reservation. As I was researching this whole craze, I learned that while a couple of the breeds are in the terrier division, they’re much more likely to be of Doodle-Poo extraction. You know. Goldendoodle (Golden retriever plus poodle). Scottiepoo (Scottish something-or-other plus poodle). Schnoodle (schnauzer plus poodle). Whoodle (Wheaton terrier plus poodle–the uber fluffy white dog hybrid of all time). Pookimo, Westiepoo, Jackapoo and there are tons more but to list them all would just be sheer baby-talk madness.

And the point is…how manly can a man possibly be when his DOG (AKA best friend, altar ego) is a Whoodle-Doodle-Schipper-Pinny-Poo? It’s complete emasculation in a single gibberish word.

Which is why the men NEVER admit it. When you ask them, as I did on Sunday:

‘Say, what kind of breed is this adorable sausage-bodied button-nosed creature?’(Thinking: that would look adorable on my living room sofa and by the way so would you.)

The man gives a macho shrug and is like, ‘dunno. a mutt.’

At which point I think, You lie!! It’s a fucking Whoodledoodle!  and giggle sweetly before going on my way.

Luckily not all girls are as compulsive about doing their research as me, so I think this trend–the fluffy white conversation piece of supposedly unknown origins–could be here to stay.

02
Sep
08

Hot wax

By shawnster 7 Comments
Categories: Shawn
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Never let it be said I would ask my girlfriend to do something I wouldn’t do myself.

There we were, on the corner of Bumpkin & Vine, in Seattle. In town for the annual 3-day Bumbershoot Festival of art, music, comedy and beer garden lines, we—well, I—decided some personal grooming was just the thing we needed to do to celebrate the Labour Day long weekend. So, on Sunday, a mere two days ago, I charged into a place called Wax On (shouldn’t it be called “Wax Off”?), just around the corner from our room at the elegant and somewhat retro El Gaucho Inn, and said,

“Give me a bikini wax.”

Actually, what I said was, how long does it take, do you have an opening right now before I change my mind, and does it hurt? 10 minutes, yes, and no, were the answers (in somewhat fractured English) given by Helen, my Asian wax person. (Waxer? Wax goddess? Waxarista?) How she kept a straight face for her last answer, I don’t know.

With visions of Steve Carrell getting his chest waxed in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, I followed Helen into a small room in examination-room white, but with a giant Bumbershoot poster on the wall. Did many people, on their way to the festival, come in to get waxed? I wondered.

“Panties on, or off?” she asked. Did she really say “panties”? Ahem, I was wearing manly briefs.

I asked what was easier for her, and she said “off.” She told me to get undressed, and left. Before she did, she handed me a washcloth to hold over my privates. Just as I lay back on the table, my cell phone went off.

“Hey,” said my cousin. “Do you know any good places to eat in Seattle?” He was visiting the city too, with friends.

“Uhm,” I said, fully aware of where I was, and how there was no way of explaining it at the moment. “Yeah…”

After giving him a few suggestions I got back on the table. Helen opened the door. Was it too late to change my mind?

“First, one side,” she said, placing my hand and protective washcloth on top of my manhood, and to the right. She told me to bend my left leg, and she held up a wooden stick covered with a greenish substance. She blew on it to cool it off, and applied it to the inside of my thigh.

Now, I’m no expert, and in truth I didn’t know what exactly a “bikini wax” meant, i.e., what area it covered. Or uncovered. I soon found out.

She applied the strip of adhesive paper, pressed down, and pulled off. About a million hairs were yanked screaming from my flesh. I howled. “I thought you said this wasn’t going to hurt?”

“I lied,” she said.

She went to work on the area just above my groin. I stared up at the ceiling fan, feeling the hot wax, then the adhesive, followed by intense, searing pain. “Owww!”

“Sorry. You okay?”

I asked if she got a lot of men in here, and if a lot of her clients were adult movie performers. I’m not sure she understood the question, but she said yes. I replied it would be a good place to work, but at reception, since I didn’t think I was cut out to–

“Ouch!”

“Almost done,” said Helen. The thing is, they don’t warn you when you’re about to do something, because then you get anxious about the pain and it hurts more. At least, that’s what she told me.

“Do you want to leave some at the top?”

Uhm, I don’t know—do I? I guess so, considering the pain involved in getting rid of more.

In all, the waxperience took about 10 minutes, and was definitely painful. However, all the rest of the day I could think about nothing but my newly cleared path, and how I couldn’t wait to show it off back at our room… and at the nude beach.

 

September 2008
M T W T F S S
« Aug   Oct »
1234567
891011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
2930  

Category Cloud

Archives

a