You Don't Know Me ... Don't You Know Me????

So I'm sitting here at Damngoode Pies on Kavanaugh, which I must say is the best location in Little Rock simply for nostalgia's sake. I sat down here to simply enjoy a couple of beers on my own, just to chill. Then Little Rock showed its happy face just as it does every time I come home. My refuge away from my folks house quickly turned into a barrage of "Don't I know you?"'s and "Do you know [fill in the blank]?"'s. I call this the beloved Arkansas "yackity-yack". You know it when you encounter it. And you encounter it before you even get into town. It usually starts on the flight into town. The simple question on a Southwest flight, "Are you going on to Dallas or stopping in Little Rock?", depending on the answer, will inevitably lead into an hour long conversation about someone's cousin you went to school with. I always forget how warm and fuzzy that feels, or how intrusive and annoying it can be.

For the most part, I LOVE the Yackity-Yack and welcome it at any time and any place in town. But is there some strategy that one can employ to avoid the Yackity-Yack without coming off as rude or without avoiding leaving the house altogether? I think there should be an understood code word that you can use so that approaching Yackity-Yackers get the drift and don't get insulted. Because headphones and a laptop don't seem to cut it in Little Rock. Hmmm, any ideas?

In my ears at the moment is the album So Jealous by Tegan and Sara, and unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be Yackity-Yack resistant.

All I Want ... at 30,000 Feet

So here's the deal. What have you done at 30,000 feet? I've done just about everything from joining the mile high club to tripping the light fantastic. Tonight is different. I'm adding listening to Joni Mitchell's Blue album and contemplating my world to my list of things done at 30,000 feet. I don't think I can take enough anti-depressant medication to make me numb to this record. I can run through a million thoughts in my head during track 1 alone.

"I am on a lonely road, and I am traveling, traveling, traveling .... looking for something, what can it be?" Go on, Miss Joni! She starts the album with a sentiment like that. Wanna glimpse into my head during track 1? Of course you do:

• I'm having thoughts of splitting open the gut of my ex-girlfriend with a serrated blade. It's been almost a year since she cut me to pieces (which are, by the way, being mended back together just fine), and everyone says to me, "You gotta get mad, Jen! Be angry at her, and let yourself expel that anger." Okay, damnit! I AM pissed! I was filled with expectations of a future, of a family, of a life with someone I thought was "the one." Then that "One" decided to take it all back. She took all of it back, everything! Damnit, I wanted that future with her and I thought she did too. But no, on Thanksgiving of all days, while my brother and her mother left to get butter at the grocery store, my world was flipped by the words from her lips, "I'm seeing someone else...." I wanted to curl up and die, or at least throw up. Fuck it! I'm not feeling sorry for myself anymore. I refuse to shed another tear for her! Bwaahahahaa, the guts shall be spilled!
  


• Hmmm ... I miss my bike. I'm so happy on it. Pure and simple blissful thought. I need it after turning my ears red about my ex. Nietzsche was right... "The best way to reap the most joy and happiness in life is to live dangerously." Fuck Yeah! I can't wait to get home and hit the road. I'm takin' my happy ass to Graceland this weekend. There's nothing like a visit to the King's crib and the sweet sexy sounds of Memphis. It's always amazed me how the blues can evoke such happy feelings, but Beale Street sure gets my feet to tappin'!
  


• Okay, so adrenalin is pumping at this point, what next ... debauchery of course. Memories of the mile high club have led directly into a fantasy involving this cute little brunette two rows in front of me. It's hard not to smile when thinking about sex. I'll spare you all the details of my fantasy scenario, but I will say it involved rows 26 through 29 seats D-E-F ... aww yeah! Of course, in my fantasy the damn coach seats recline a lot more than than the centimeter and a half they bless us with in real life.
  


• What's better than sex? Not much I suppose, but suddenly work has re-entered the brain. For money's sake, my job is alright. But I know as well as my co-workers that I would probably be more satisfied at a different company. It's not like I haven't already begun looking. I just need to buckle down and get serious about it.
  


• Whoa, holy buzz kill! Let's get back to happy thoughts. I could use a drink, and lucky for me American Airlines takes the company card for booze! I'm feelin' like it's a whiskey night. I don't think I have ever pushed the call button on an airplane. I usually just wait until the airline attendant makes his or her way down the aisle. Hell, I'm feeling fiesty ... I'm gonna push the button ... wait, is it rude? Why does it seem rude to me? The button is there. I should be able to use it, right? Maybe I feel rude pushing the button to summon alcohol service. Naw, I think I just feel like an alcoholic if I push the button for alcohol service. Okay, fine, I'm not pushing the damn button. A double Jack and Ginger can wait until I finish this blog.

*Whistles impatiently*

AHA!! Here she comes! Adios, readers. Blog complete. I have a date with Jack, and I don't wanna be late.

Not-So-Easy Rider

The last couple of days has been a time where everything wants to go the wrong way. Karma is dealing me a hand I must be deserving of at this point because I cannot explain why shit piles so high in a single 48 hour period. It can only be attributed to the fact that I was able to experience such incredible bliss during the 48 hours prior to this last 48 hours of craptastic circumstance. So before I dribble on about the shit, it's only fair to speak of the bliss.

Nietzsche and I took a glorious ride from St. Louis, through the Ozarks, down through central Arkansas and into Little Rock for a brief weekend of family freak outs and kickin' it with friends. The ride was perfect, sunny, fresh, changing leaves, and wicked "twisties" to navigate. Nietzsche and I were in the zone. But the even more fabulous part was my time with people I love. I was able to have a couple of beers and some tasty Arkansas BBQ with my newly wed best friend and her husband. My father, who I NEVER had a communicative relationship with, ended up bonding with me over my Harley. Seeing my mother, after the panic of the bike went away, smiling and talking with me is always a treat. I even got to have a beautiful night with a dear friend and people who are close to her. So my family was there for me, my friends were loving as always, and my fabric of people was strengthened with the addition of more hearty souls.

But, ahh, here comes the shit pile. Can you smell it? ... Leaving Little Rock on Sunday, I had planned to take highways home to save time. And actually, I couldn't have felt better, even though leaving friends and family is always a bit bittersweet. To me it's all about who says goodbye to you last, and my last goodbye that day before Nietzsche and I hit the road is one I will never forget :-) That final precious moment of bliss will live on forever in my mind as the calm before the storm that would be my ride back to St. Louis.

Okay, okay, I know I tend to babble, so I'm getting to the shit pile now. Allow me to make it into a list. The mileages are the number of miles away from Little Rock I had gotten:

• 30 miles -- The shift rod mechanism on Nietzsche detached itself from the main body of the control. I noticed when my shift peddle was lying loose on my left foot and I was creating pretty sparks behind me as the rod whipped the highway. So onto the shoulder I go, dig through my tools, lay on the pavement (scary as hell by the way with cars whizzing by at 70+ mph), reattach the rod, and merge back into traffic. Time Delay = 45 minutes.


• 80 miles -- I get pulled over by Searcy, AR, finest. Garnishing a ticket for improperly passing an officer while performing a traffic stop Time Delay = 30 minutes for the stop + 30 minutes on the phone with a friend to calm me down.


• 150 miles -- I make an off the route stop in Jonesboro, AR, to the only Harley shop anywhere nearby to obtain a tailight that worked. I knew I'd never make it to St. Louis before dark, so the tailight was a necessity. Time Delay= 40 minutes to include purchase of light, bullshitting with the shop dudes, talking to the chicks in the front, and installing my new taillight. I left with a smile on my face. Unfortunately the smile didn't last.


• 175 miles -- I decided in Jonesboro that rather than backtrack my way to the interstate, I'd try to take state roads in the direction of my destination and eventually meet up with the interstate. Bad idea, because I ended up lost. The only cool thing that came out of this lostness was the drive through areas of blooming cotton fields. First of all, I'd never seen a blooming field of cotton anywhere except in movies, and second of all, I never expected the smell that came from them. I can't even describe it to be honest. Anyway, Time Delay = 1 solid hour.


• 280 miles -- By the time I was good and going back onto the interstate, it was getting dark and friggen cold. I was nearing the town of Cape Girardeaux, MO, and with 120 miles left to ride, a wreck involving a trailer hitch and a mini-van which I was behind luckily, and the fact that my extremities were getting numb from the cold, I thought it best to pull into a hotel and leave in the morning.

So here I am frozen and exhausted in a town all the locals simply called the Cape. I saw that I had 2 options at this point. I could either settle in the room and get some work done or I could go out and peruse the Cape's nightlife. I can't let my peeps down, so of course I went out to see if there was anything to do. The decision was quickly and easily made that there really was nothing and no one for me in The Cape, so back to the Mo-Mo I go for much deserved rest and warmth after having some fried chicken and a 24 ounce beer.

I had to work in the morning, so I woke up at 5am, repacked Nietzsche, and departed once again. I have never been soooooooo in a hurry to see a sunrise in my entire life. My brown ass was freezing! I was stopping like every 25 miles just to regain feeling in my limbs. When the sun finally showed its face, I almost shed a damn tear I was so happy.

It was like instant warmth ... oh and instant light to see what I thought I would NEVER see in my life. I've seen tons of dead deer on the side of the highways in my lifetime, and I've known people who have said they've even hit a deer crossing the road. But dude, there is nothing like seeing a deer take 2 graceful leaps over a 2-lane interstate right in front of you on a motorcycle. It was like slow motion! It looked so damn fake to me that I thought the deer was photoshopped into my scenery. But it was definitely NOT fake as I used every ounce of stopping skill I could muster to bring Nietzsche's speed down from the 85 mph we were traveling. The deer was bigger than Nietzsche and I, and I knew that if a collision would have arisen, the deer would've won. After it scampered away, I gave a little kiss to Nietzsche's tachometer and accelerated away. If anything, it got my blood flowing and body warm. I managed to roll right into town just in time to get to the office.

Talk about a long day at work! The only thing that could get me through the day was a little Jimi Hendrix ... shout out for one of his best albums "VooDoo Soup"

And I must have looked a hot mess, because my teammates looked at me like I was the living dead. What it was, I still had black raccoon rings around my eyes from the goggles. Doh! It's not the first time I'd had to wash my face in the bathroom at work.

Regarding National Coming Out Day ...

I've been out to my friends and immediate acquaintances for years now. But it's really only been a handful of weeks that I've been out to my parents. Having grown up in a strict Roman Catholic (by the way, I respect this faith as much as any other, and I have no intention of shedding poor light on anyone's religious beliefs) and Filipino household, all of the feelings I'd had since I was very young were considered unnatural. I never understood how the attractions and feelings I had at such a young age could be anything BUT natural.

However, I had no choice but to discredit all of those things that made up a very important part of my core. I grew up struggling with the teachings that I was wrong, fighting myself, trying hard to understand why, and hiding my shame. Basically, the wall around my soul was being built faster than I could break it down with my own devices.

Brick by brick, I've been working that wall down:

• Convincing myself it is okay to be attracted to women


• Letting my friends know who I am


• Answering someone, “Yes, I am a lesbian.”


• Seeing that I am not really alone


• Knowing that I can be me and that's just not wrong

Life continues to be a discovery of who I am, especially now that I am out and open. My attitude had to change in order to be able to come out to my parents. I had to be sure I was coming out for ME and not for them. And I must say, coming out to them was like taking a wrecking ball to the wall around my soul. I felt like I could breathe for the first time, despite the not-so-positive reactions I received. I didn't expect them to open their arms and just accept me, and I know that they may never truly understand it. But again, I did it for ME.

I envy anyone who grows up in an environment where you're not left to your own devices. When I have a family of my own, I want my home to be like a toolbox. Hopefully, this type of exposure can help to make open and accepting environments more of the rule rather than the exception. Because we can all be wrecking balls.

All Hands On the Bad One

I just thought I'd share a little story about my day today. It's all about how just when you think you are cool, something or a series of events reminds you that in fact your NOT. So I'm gonna talk about myself in third person because I'm just that freakin' cool.

Jen notices that today is fucking gorgeous, and so rather than do the piles of laundry that are staring her in the face, she decides to take a couple of rides. First ride: Jen hops on her mountain bike and pedals away into Forest Park. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and little kiddies are playing in the grass. Sounds good, huh? Right, that was all until Jen hears her name being yelled, turns her head as she is traveling downhill along a bike path, hits a big ole rock in the path, loses the bicycle out from under her and lands flat on her brown ass. So the park isn't exactly empty. And, as it turns out, the kind voice that hollered my name was of course directing their yelp to a completely different Jen altogether. Bravo, Jen!

Second ride: Jen dusted herself off as she usually does, and pedaled home with nothing but her ego a little damaged. Luckily, she was wearing those butt padded bicycle shorts, so that padding plus her natural padding resulted in nothing more than a temporarily sore bottom. She puts up her mountain bike and decides that it's Nietzsche's turn to come out and play. To save daylight, she goes upstairs to her apartment and throws on a pair of baggy pants over her butt padded spandex, grabs the rest of her gear, and returns to the garage to crank up the old Vroom Vroom. Jen's smile is fully engaged as she winds along new roads and takes in the air around her. About 20 miles into the ride, she needs to stop for gasoline. Nietzsche gets thirsty about every 100 miles. Aha! A BP lies ahead! There is just one problem. The left turn she needed to make into the BP was on a crooked incline. Note: Don't try to stop a 550 lb. motorcycle on a crooked incline. The motorcycle stopped just fine, but as Jen put her feet down to balance the bike before making the left turn, Nietzsche thought it would be a great idea to lean. Oh Fucking Hell! Down they went, like slow motion. Neither Jen nor Nietzsche were hurt in the situation. But since Nietzsche doesn't have arms, Jen had to lift his heavy ass off the street. He was quiet, and I hugged him to make sure he felt okay. Add one more chip in the ego.

So, as dinner approached, Jen thought a good cure for the mental damage of the day would be her favorite sushi joint! She parked Nietzsche in his new free spot provided to Jen by her lady in the parking lot who thinks Jen is the shit... aww yeah! Anyway, her dinner was fabulous and it was time to head home. Now recall Jen's choice of clothing. Mountain biking shorts under baggy pants. That outfit coupled with a belly full of sushi obviously results in embarrassing moment number three. Jen walks up to Nietzsche and begins to strap on her riding gear (helmet, goggles, gloves, etc.). The entire process only takes a couple of minutes, however it takes less than a second for Jen to make a complete fool of herself. Just as she was swinging her right leg over to mount Nietzsche, Jen realized that her leg would not rise. Why, you ask? Well, her baggy ass pants are down at her ankles! Bravo, Jen! Beautiful encore for the evening of entertainment she regularly provides to her friends and cohorts in the neighborhood. Note to self: Those baggy pants are obviously too baggy ...

Today, despite my moments, I'm listening to some rockin' jams. Have a listen to the album All Hands On the Bad One by Sleater-Kinney.

This Is No Mix Up, I'm Wide Awake

Sleepless, once again. What is up in my noggin tonight? Honestly, I'd love to just jump on my Harley for a night ride. Hmmm, maybe I will if this blog doesn't put me to sleep. A kind voice commented on my last entry and said to me, "Happiness is a journey, not a destination." I have no idea if that is an original quote or not, but it makes total sense. I've always been the kind of person to throw caution to the wind and go for shit if I think it'll make me happy. So why not this time? Is it because being older has made me wiser? Obviously not, since I did buy a motorcycle. As a side note, I find it quite ironic that while this new found joy of riding without a cage has made me feel as wild and free as I did when I was five years old, I just sat here thinking that maybe I have gotten wiser with age. Wow, I'm getting really good at bullshitting myself.

Okay, so "back to the lecture at hand. Perfection is perfection, so I'm 'a let 'em understand. From a young G's perspective ..." *cough cough* Pardon my slight Snoop Dogg deviation. Where was I? Oh, right, what is it that holds me back from taking action this time? Is it because I fear the consequences of acting on a passion? Or is it because I just don't believe that what I want right now is real? I've never questioned my passions so meticulously before. I've always had a "balls-to-the-wall" attitude, even in matters of the heart. What is it that scares me this time? I think maybe I fear not that what I want isn't real, but that it is very real. With that, I'm torn. I don't know how to act, if at all. "Sippin' on juice and gin. Everybody got they cups, but they ain't chipped in." Okay everybody, friends and randoms, join me in my sleepless confusion. What are you passionate about, but are afraid to act on? And does that make it a true passion if you are honestly afraid to act on it? Should passion be defined by a desire upon which one is not afraid to act? Think about that over your coffee and bagel and hit me up.

In the meantime, check out this Beastie Boys release. It's an instrumental album called The Mix Up. Ahh, true Beastie form. Enjoy! I love me some B-Boys!

Shades of Gray, Clouds of Smoke, Louder Than Bombs

Recent events have brought me to this incredible place of both new understanding and grand confusion. Wow, don’t you love life??!! If things were outlined and filled with black and white, things would be easier but freaking boring. I could sit here and say to myself, “Jen, you are a model, law-abiding, productive, and conformed member of society.” Okay, yeah, so I can also look at this pile of work beside me and actually tackle it, but I’m not going to… tee hee. I’m no model by any stretch, for the most part law-abiding, far from productive, and in no way a conformed member of this society. A good friend of mine said that she doesn’t always color outside the lines, she just has different lines. I like that. I think we all strive for different lines. Wait … I take that back. Many people are content living and coloring inside the lines, I just don’t think I am.

Can I put my head on my pillow at night knowing that I am where I want to be? No, I’m f’ing restless and ready to explode! Am I going to have job security in 2 years? Am I going to figure out who I am, what I want in life, and what I deserve? Am I seriously 32 years old and still trying to answer these questions? Will I find happiness and then successfully maintain it? I’ll probably never answer any of these questions … ever.

The album I’ve got in my ears is probably the main reason I’m being such a Negative Nancy today. The Smiths compilation Louder Than Bombs, listen and you will understand.

Ripping Through the Sleepless Night

Ooo weee! 3 am and counting the minutes until I really should jump in the shower and go to work. I suppose I could just go the the gym instead ... pfft. Do you think all these sleepless nights are due to a bigger problem? Possibly, but I think it's just because I have no idea how to wind my mind down without the use of mind numbing alcohol. At least I have my blog and my music library, my best late night friends. "Go, DJ! That's my DJ!"

At any rate, there are particular things on my mind at the moment. My close friends already know that less than 3 weeks ago, I made the decision to come out to my folks formally. It was no news to the rest of the world, and honestly, I thought it would go over a lot better than it did. But that's whiskey under the bridge at this point (thank you Brooks & Dunn).

Every time I go to my hometown, it conjures an array of feelings. Ever since that Friday night 3 weeks ago that my folks heard the words, "Ya, so I'm gay" come out of my mouth, different feelings are conjured whenever I roll into town. Primary feelings consist of sadness, anger, and rejection. That was, until just this past weekend. I went home for the sole purpose of attending a very good friend's engagement party. Luckily, Miss Pixie accompanied me on the plane to and fro. It certainly made the ride quick and painless (just read her blog and you will understand).

Let's rewind to this past Friday night. Miss Pixie and I and my little bro had dinner with Miss Pixie's parents. Okay, make a note of family love experience #1. Her family is one of the kindest and entertaining I've ever had the pleasure of breaking bread with. Mad respect to them!!

So after dinner, the three of us break away from the folks and hit the town. Thanks to corporate perks, I was upgraded in my rental car to a convertible with a booming system. Now you KNOW we had to pimp that shit! We rolled up to the bar steady stuntin' in the drop top. I was feeling pretty randy that night because I was with good people, in a friendly bar, and a nice group of guys was playing music. Miss Pixie certainly provides most of the smiles and warm fuzzies, so by about beer #5 or so, I was sporting a perma-grin. My little brother's best friend was also in the bar that night with his parents. Mind you, his best friend is as much of a little brother to me as my flesh and blood. I spent a considerable amount of time catching up with his folks and sharing a couple of beers with them. Before his parents left, his mother pulls me aside and says, "Take care of [my son] tonight and make sure he gets home okay. You are like one of my own, and I trust you." Wow, now make note of family love experience #2.

By this time, I was on top of the world overflowing with love. And of course what better way to show it than to spread it! My eyes immediately spotted a little cutie pie who sat down next to Miss Pixie. "Go, DJ. That's my DJ!" Right, so without words, signals were passed between me and the cute little mama at the bar. I got up to go the bathroom, for no other reason than to relieve myself. Well, who gets up like 3 seconds behind me? You know it! In the line for the toilet, we did exchange some words, but I was honestly focused on getting into the rest room. I go into the men's room, because there is NEVER a line at the dude's bathroom. After having taken care of my business, I bend over to grab my pants. Guess who straight up opens the door and attempts to come into the room with me? Naturally, I was startled, seeing as how I was ass up with pants at my ankles. Noticing that I wasn't exactly inviting her into the bathroom with me, she backs out and shuts the door. My startled ass begins to flail around in a drunken loss of bodily control. A small vase full of scented oil falls off the back of the toilet, thus making the floor greasy as hell. You do the math. I wasn't wearing slip free safety shoes or anything, people.

I collect myself after the minor debacle in the bathroom and go back to my spot at the bar next to Miss Pixie. Now I'm greasy and a bit on the embarrassed side, and Miss Pixie says, "Bee-atch, you smell nice." I suppose that the smell of concentrated scented oil and humble pie makes for a nice combination. Oh well.

The next morning, Miss Pixie and I head to our friend's house for an intimate brunch with her family and her fiance's family. Again, everyone around me at brunch welcomed me with open arms. I learned a lot about everyone there, and I was able to catch up with some old friends. I am counting this family love experience as #3, #4, and #5 since there were 3 families there. I am literally almost in tears thinking about how happy I was there. It was so nice that I forgot about all the rigmarole I had to go through in order to avoid my biological immediate family the whole weekend. For some reason though, it doesn't take much for my father to "put me in my place". Luckily, I had already had 5 external family love experiences, so my pops couldn't take that much away from my mood.

Later that evening was the actual engagement party. Talk about a house full of family love experiences! My heart was on the verge of exploding with all the warm feelings in that house. I'm counting this party as family love experiences #6, #7, and #8 just because. It's my numbering system, people, get over it.

After the party winded down, some of the old crew decided we should continue the get together elsewhere. So the bride to be, the groom to be, myself, Miss Pixie, and another mutual friend headed out to a bar. Due to the number of cars and people, only the groom to be and myself were still drinking. Without going into to much detail, I just need to count this night at the bar with old friends as family love experience #9 and #10. In classic Orange Soul style, I over-emoted on everyone around me, including perfect strangers. I have no problem sharing sincere embraces with people I don't know. It's just more love to me.

What a beautiful weekend I had in my hometown! With a total of 10 family love experiences, none of which included my folks, I realized how much love really is around me. As much as it sucks that my parents may never accept me or my lifestyle, I know that I have so much more and that the bigger picture is exactly that ... a bigger picture. The look my parents gave me the day I came out to them left me afraid that I would lose my family forever. Truth is, I have absolutely nothing to fear. Mad love and respect to ALL my real family!

The album reference in this bliggity entry is Night Ripper by Girl Talk. It's an amazing ass-shaking breakbeat/hip-hop album.

The Trouble With Being Myself

For Jeebus sake, is this really what happens after the age of 30 … err, um, I mean 32? Am I seriously doing what I think I’m doing? Sitting miserable in a cubicle, daydreaming of times past, wishing for some sort of legacy, I exist here staring into the dropped ceiling and fluorescent lights subduing my inner child. My inner child wants to be the engineer she thought she would be. My inner child wants to use her hands for more than keyboard tapping, mouse-clicking, laser pointing, and even worse, forced finger-pointing. My inner child wants to look out of a window at the sunshine that she can go frolicking in without waiting for the clock to strike 5. My inner child wants to hug people, not products. She is getting moody, folks, and she rests on the verge of a temper tantrum. No, No, please do NOT call the authorities. I’m not going postal or anything. I don’t even own any sort of weapon, semi-automatic or otherwise. And yes, I am an engineer, but I’m no unabomber. The only similarities I share with Mr. Kaczynski are a fascination with advanced mathematics and an appreciation for the fashion statement imposed by donning sporty cotton hoodies. Although, I think I look way better in a hoodie than old Theodore.

With that said and the undeniable fact that I can do nothing about my current need to keep a short leash on my inner child, I am left only with my dear bliggity blog. Hmm, I think I should give my inner child a name? I’ll call her Bebe. Good enough. Bebe has been tapping her foot on the floor of my mind, standing on tiptoes knocking on the postern of my grey matter. She’s been hard to ignore as of late. Bebe knows better than I do most of the time, but I have a hard time letting her take the wheel, you know? When she is out and about, there is as much trouble as there is good unleashed. The only sure thing I can count on with Bebe is that I feel comfortable with her. Whatever, I’m renaming her! She really is just Jen. Isn’t that craptastic?!

By the way, "The Trouble With Being Myself" is the name of my absolute favorite Macy Gray album. Just get it, damn it!

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere

I've found the cure for insomnia. It used to be Pogo or some other time wasting online game. Truth be told, I'm sure I'll log into one of those as soon as I'm done convincing myself that blogging is my "new cure" for insomnia. Oh well, whatever. This is my current curse. It seems to be caused by a lack of drinking myself to sleep. So that's good, right? Well, it's easier for me to blame my sleep problem on cutting down on alcohol and cigarettes, but there is always more than a physical answer for everything. I'm just not wanting to deal with it right now, so THERE!


Thanks to my Arkansas roots, I can appreciate Alan Jackson for the fine tune "It's Five O'Clock Somewhere"

Get Me Off This Island!!

My life, like everyone else's, takes twists and turns that are almost never expected. Unpredictable and whacked are good ways to describe how I've dealt with such turns lately. If only I could flip past a few chapters to get to the fun stuff I would. Alas, I'm constantly flipping through backwards to make sense of the present. It's not a blame game, necessarily, more than a simple act of reminiscing. Well, maybe it's more an act of egotism. But that's what blogging seems to be anyway. Most of my past can be easily laughed about, and I'd like to leave this earth leaving laughs in the hearts of all my family and friends.

Unfortunately, my thoughts for my bliggity may be a bit morbid today. A friend of mine made me think of physical ailments. Another friend of mine gave me a laundry list of her particular ailments. And still another friend, who claims she can read palms, was creepily accurate about the number of "almost deaths" I've had in my life. Seeing as how this is my 32nd birthday, and birthdays seem to not have much more meaning anymore other than an excuse to get piss drunk and complain about how old I am, my mind has been wandering about this subject of passing. And yes it is completely lame to dwell on such things, seeing as how I hopefully have only lived half of my earthly years.

So many thoughts are bouncing like bingo balls in my noggin. I'll try to organize them, but they tend to escape as randomly as real bingo balls do from a rolling cage.

B1 -- Is there any way to know when my time is up? As I mentioned earlier, I thought I was gonna die a couple of times. I didn't see any white tunnels of light, nor was I greeted by anyone from the "other side." Hmm, Little Rock's finest must be aware of at least one of my "almost deaths." Anyone who is reading this and knows me can guess what this is. Let's just say that lying in bed not being able to really breathe is scary enough. However, scarier is knowing that at the time, I didn't even really care. No, it was not a suicide attempt, though some may argue this point. It was just a lack of the ability to mentally process action and reaction properly. And to think, I once thought that was fun. Nowadays, when I wake up in the morning, I have no reason not to smile.

O70 -- Have I been happy with my lonely self? Despite the lack of a "life partner", I have sooooo many good people around me constantly telling me that I am worthy of a "special someone." I tell myself on a daily basis that I don't need that someone to validate my happiness, but it does make me wonder if there is anyone out there for me. I can't help who my heart flutters for, but it never seems to flutter for the right ones. Disappointment is a constant for me in this area. I have absolutely no problems meeting people, making friends, busting the guts of random individuals wherever I am, or getting a phone number. I can have fun wherever I am. Would I be happier with a significant other? My therapist says I'm afraid of actually finding someone. I'm not so sure I need it, because I'm quite happy with myself just as I am ... wow, that was a crock of bullshit I just fed myself and almost enjoyed eating. Woo, sounds like another subject for another day. Pfft, I will carry on.

I25 -- Have I been a good person? Authorities may argue with my answer, but I know that no one else would. I may have dropped a pizza or two at a restaurant that shall remain nameless and scraped them up off the floor and served them anyway. I may have taken a good 10 years to finish college. I may have partaken in what my therapist would call a slurry of irrational decisions and "risky" behaviour. I may have made my Mama cry more times than any one daughter should. I may have not been the poster girl for a "model citizen". But so what? I am what I am, and my peeps love me. Wow, the bullshit continues. I'm good at bullshitting myself.

N42 -- What do I want my funeral to be like? I hope everyone I love will be able to just party! Tell stories about me, and laugh their asses off. I don't want any damn flowers, just a bunch of empty bottles and cans and plenty of good music. I don't want to be in a box. Turn me into ashes and plant a tree with me in the soil. Then fill the urn with Guiness and pour it out for me! That sounds like heaven to me, not to mention a helluva send off!

G58 -- So what happens next? Oye, belief systems are a pain in the ass. I was raised Roman Catholic, but I'm not 100% sold on the traditional idea of heaven. I don't wanna get all deep and philosophical, but I also don't wanna be stuck in some place with everyone else floating around being the same soul I was when I left the earth. I wanna chill out and change. I wanna keep weaving in and out of the fabric of the collective subconscious. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to end up coming back as a cow or some shit. I just hope my soul isn't some some idea that has been cooked up in my own mind to be okay with my place in the world.

*Sighs* Maybe nobody really cares anyway. I'm such an emo bitch sometimes. Happy Birthday to me, and Cheers to the world for one more year off my ticker! Oh, I've got it! I should just not really worry about it! BINGO!!!!!!

So my album recommendation today is "This Island" by LeTigre. Thanks, Jules. It is incredibly fun and danceable! Get it, play it, and dance your asses off as if it were the day of my funeral.

Welcome to the Freakshow!

"Hello, my name is Enigyo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die. "

Oh, The Princess Bride! I love that movie. Seriously though, my name is not Mr. Montoya, but I am known by many nicknames. So many so, that I choose not to list them all ... Hmm, what the hell. It's a good first shot at this thing I call My Bliggity. So, welcome to the freakshow, friends and visitors! Here are some of my nicknames, and their origins. I'll progress chronologically.

• J.B. -- The grade school curse. There were like 5 Jennifers in my grade growing up. I despise being called Jenny, and Jen and Jennifer were snatched up by the "more popular" chicks. I spat in the face of class distinctions drawn out before the age of 7 and rather than use the Karate that everyone seemed to think I knew, J.B. was ok with me. At least it made me feel tough ... heehee.

• Filipenis -- Grrrrr. This one makes me ever so angry! However, to be as complete with this list as possible, it needs to be included. I could make an entire blog about this one, and I probably will at some point, so I'll keep this short. Basically, this one little brat of a kid in second grade thought it was funny to call me this after he learned that I was Filipina. Personally, I think he was just being a little shit because he never could beat me at King of the Hill. And, of course, being beaten by a girl over and over and over again is quite a knock to a 7-year old southern male ego.
• Teddy Ruxpin -- Hmm, yet another fine memory of humiliation. I was the school mascot in 8th grade. And that wasn't so bad except we weren't anything really cool and tough like tigers or cougars or lions. No, we were the ever ferocious GOPHERS! WTF? Well, anyhoo, with my stature and the size of the gopher costume, I looked more like a teddy bear. So all the little kids would come a runnin' calling me Teddy Bear or Teddy Ruxpin ... hrrrmmph.

• Barkley -- The junior high basketball curse. Wow, I haven't been called this one in a long while. Back in the day, when my body was fit for shuffling squeaky high tops up and down a basketball court, I played AAU ball in Little Rock. One might have called my style short and feisty. I even had an arch enemy! She was a very tall and very beefy girl named Medina (yes, as in Funky Cold from our beloved Tone-Loc, I think I've just aged myself). Sorry to drown this blog entry with another Princess Bride reference, but trust me it fits. Medina was a lot like Andre the Giant ("Anybody want a peanut?") To make a long story short, I was the only one who could "punk her down" so to speak. Therefore, the referees and all the coaches began calling me Barkley, after the infamous Charles Barkley. I'm not too sure that nickname makes me proud?

• Agent 99 -- This one is pathetic. In 9th grade, I had a teacher Mrs. X who was married to another teacher Mr. X, who had this deal about midterm exams. I have chosen to keep the names anonymous, because they were scary. What I mean is, they appeared to be more like inbred siblings rather than husband and wife. Arkansas is a frightening place to grow up in sometimes. Anyhoo, if you made a 100% on her midterm, she claimed you deserved dinner in a nice restaurant her treat. Right, so I didn't get dinner, but I did get an embarrassing nickname and my exam taped to the door as an example. Apparently, I was the closest anyone had ever gotten to the free meal. Talk about instant outcast in all social circles. Doh!
  


• Eskimo -- Yes, this is yet another example of the ignorance that is Arkansas. But I can't really fault anyone for thinking I look like an Eskimo. And I don't blame the countless folks in Little Rock who may have never been exposed to anyone that doesn't fit the black or white categories (fellow others, raise your hands). I honestly blame the old TV show Northern Exposure. Of course there's a story with this one. So I'm walking down an empty hall in high school. Towards me is coming a very large black guy, which didn't phase me by the way for anyone who is wondering. Anyway, he thinks he's being funny I guess because he asks me, "Hey, where yo' igloo at?" Wow, the possibility of an igloo in Arkansas was obviously ridiculous, and I thought I'd retort back with something a little more geographically accurate. So I said to him, "Hey, where yo' watermelon at?" The look of shock almost made me fall down, but we were able to share a laugh in the hallway at the very least.

• Asian Wonder Bitch -- I'm Asian. I'm wonderful. And I'm a bitch! And I had a good friend in high school who was the Caucasian Wonder Bitch for similar reasons, only different ethnicity. Pixie Barf, fellow blogger (http://pixiebarf.blogspot.com/), can verify this one. She is a funny girl, check her out.

• Asian Persuasion -- Speaking of Pixie Barf, I played soccer with her in senior year of high school. Again, based on my stature, I was best fit for keeper (or goalie). During one fine game, we were playing against one of the more redneck towns in Arkansas (there are many). I was minding my goal, and my goal was my house! Nobody got past me without a fight. Well, this one disgruntled striker decided to call me F'ing Chink. Sure, like that was going to make me any less able to stop her strikes at goal. It actually almost got me thrown out of the game, because I had taken off my goalie gloves, thrown them to the ground, and was about to put a fist in her face when my better judgement calmed me down enough to chill on it. But I did go home that night and apply the words Asian Persuasion to my doo-rag (bandanna) that I wore at every game.

• Bee-atch -- Oh freshman year of college! Some days I remember, most are a blurr. My best friend was Asshole, and she called me Bee-atch. It stuck. It stuck so much, that just three weeks ago at her wedding I could not introduce myself as Jen. Nobody really knew who I was until I said, "Yes, I'm Bee-atch." Her mother even calls me Bee-atch to this day.
• The Mexican -- The only ones who ever called me this, and never to my face mind you, were Little Rock's finest. That's right! Arkansas bacon referred to me as The Mexican. I'd rather not expand on this one, as it may incriminate me. I take the fifth. I just wanna give a shout out to all the men and women in blue in the greater Little Rock area. Yes, I'm still alive! And yes, you may search my vehicle ...
• Big Worm -- My little brother graced me with this name around the same time I was dubbed The Mexican. Therefore, rather than take the fifth again on this one, watch the movie Friday. You will understand then.

Sweet Jeebus! I'm growing weary from the conjuring of so many memories right now. I had no idea how many nicknames I could rustle up. I also had no idea until I made this list that 99% of these names refer to my ethnicity in some sort of way. There's nothing like growing up Asian in Arkansas to make a kid aware. This isn't even half of them! I just can't go on right now. This is best left for another bliggity day. I guess my attempt at a fun nickname list turned into a an emotional purging for me. Meh, I'm over it now.

Oh, by the way, every bliggity title of mine is a reference to music I recommend that you look into. And I will give details at the end of every entry. Welcome the the Freakshow refers to this really really really hot breakbeat album by Krafty Kuts called Freakshow. Just get it, and bust a move to it!

Peace and may your soul be bright!