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oh, nice, saudi arabia

Hypocrisy AND pedophilia.

You did a Google search for “p*ssy dance preteen tiny young sexy” and it brought you here??? Sick sick sick. You disgust me and I have no reservations about saying that and calling you what you are — a repulsive pervert.

And I have to laugh a little because your search gave you Andy Gibb. Hahahahahaha.

I find it bizarre that you read the whole Andy Gibb post — maybe thinking he’s a preteen girl? — and then out-clicked on one of my art links. Uhm, what? “I’m a lurking pedophile, but with a sensitive artistic side”? No, no, no. Boo-bye, Farid. I’m blocking your IP number, you creep. Sorry. I’m angry. And sickened. I will not be a party — even unwittingly — to whatever it is you’ve got going on.

Uhm, Allah is watching, isn’t he??

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back …..

100 hours later, 32 of them spent in the car — and not making out or having my clothes ripped off or, you know, anything fun like that, oh no, but just driving driving, oops, killed a bunny, driving, no, that was a small old man, driving driving, you’re going to kill us, driving driving, do you really have to sing “She’s a Bad Mamma Jamma,” driving driving, one of us has to die, driving driving, I think it should be you, driving driving, up into the sun, out into the abyss, whatever — I feel it only fair to tell you that my total psychotic break happened yesterday in the middle of Only God Knows Where at approximately 1530 hours and that blogging this week will come from a cold dark — yet oddly familiar– place of utter non compos mentis.

Also, I feel I need to inform you that the Denny’s in Morgan Hill, CA has horrible savage one-ply toilet paper whose very existence seemed to herald the arrival of Ye Olde Psychotik Breake that now has me in its suffocating grasp. MB, on the other hand, is sound asleep, the wiener. But don’t worry. I will do whatever I can to drive him insane. I have a contractual obligation to do so, you know. It’s my purpose in life.

But I’m back. I am WIPED OUT.

MUCH to tell …..

Some of you seemed to have an idea where you thought I was, based on the photo below. So I’m just curious — where was I?

Seriously. Please tell me. Where was I???

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email question

Just in case anyone else has this same question that someone emailed me (email is in the lower part of the sidebar under “contact”):

I’m a new reader of your blog and I’m confused by some of the terms you use, like MB and pippa. Can you tell me what these are?

Absolutely, new reader, and welcome! I’ve tried to explain some things here, in my admittedly horrible, cringe-inducing “About” page.

Eh. It’s a work in progress.

To me that means, if any of you want to work on it for me, it will probably progress. I myself have flappy-armed anxiety about it and try not to look at it because — I’m not kidding — it causes me pain. I’ve worked on it off and on for months now and the more I fiddle, the worse it gets. I literally cannot write an About page. I just cannot.

But, thank you, new reader, and I hope that page helps answer some of your questions.

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really??

Someone Googled “I am hairy and I am a grammar freak” and it brought them here?

Well, actually, you know, true story: I once used that exact description on a dating site and, as you might imagine, I was positively overrun, overrun I tell you, by interested menfolk.

Yup. True story.

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scary

Dear Cara emailed this link to me and, well, the freak-out has officially begun.

This is my hometown, yes, but it’s your country, our country. Scary. Truly scary. What are we? China??

Read it. I almost can’t believe it.

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oh, no no no no!!

AHHH! I am sick. SICK! I’ve spent a lot of time working on a post about the night MB and I met, and …. oh, my stomach’s a little queasy over this ….. I’ve just lost three-fourths of it. It’s just …. poof! …. gone.

No. No. Nononononononono. I’d saved it, too. Repeatedly. I don’t understand it. I think I’m going to have to write posts elsewhere and copy and paste them into the blog edit window, because the blog itself is eating things. I worked on the post earlier today, saved it, came back to it just now and, well, almost started crying. Okay. I am crying a little bit. I’m crushed. I basically have to start over or try to recreate it or …. just lie down in the road and pray to be run over by rampaging hoodlums.

I was hoping to have that up for you tonight. I was going to have it finished. Not now.

I am crushed, pippa. CRUSHED.

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heaven only knows

Well, My Beloved is visiting his parents this weekend up in the deep dark middle of nowhere. He’s having some much-needed mountain man time with his dad and The Devious Twins. So that’s why the girlie girl is here.

(Although, truthfully …. uhm ….. MB’s aunt, my mil’s older sister, is also visiting from the East Coast … and, well …… I can only take so much, okay? I am not Jesus.)

Now The Devious Twins are identical twin brothers whom MB has known since childhood. One of them — do not ask me which one — was also, along with MB, a member of that primary cause of swooning and naughty thoughts in the minds of high school girls all over town, the The Bitchen Rock Combo. He’s on the far left in the photo with the white blonde hair blending into the background, next to, oh, that superstar of hotness, My Beloved. Although, admittedly, at that time in my life MB was basically Total Stranger I’ve Neither Seen Nor Met Nor Even Know Exists. Funny how things work out, ain’t it?

So The Devious Twins were your basic clowns, your average pranksters, your neighborhood nightmares, and there were TWO OF THEM, exact replicas of one another, so whatever they did involved mayhem multiplied. They are hilarious — do not misunderstand me — but they are dangerous rubes and should not be trusted with human life in any way, shape, or form. Perhaps this weekend they will do something like drink a bunch of beers with MB and then lie down in the middle of Main Street to see if they get run over by any hapless drivers just trying to get the heck outta that loco town. Who knows? And yes, these are grown men, pippa. With wives and children and giant millstones of responsibilities around their necks.

I tell you true: whenever my phone rings this weekend and it’s MB, I will pick it up with at least a half measure of dread, wondering if this is the phone call where he’ll say, “Okay. So one of The Devious Twins was driving his truck on the shore so we could waterski in the canal which — yes, babe, it’s only five feet deep — and, well, he hit a tree — yes, it’s only five feet wide; you know, it’s the canal! — and I was on the skis being pulled but I slammed into the shore when he hit that tree and I can’t move my arms or legs so I think I might be a quadriplegic now, etc.”

And I will sigh with great wifely concern, “Okay. Well, what do you want me to do about it from here?”

To be fair, The Devious Twins did repeatedly ask MB, “Is Tracey coming with you? Are you bringing Tracey?” You know, which is nice. So they were at least willing to have a girlie girl interrupt their mountain man shenanigans. Plus, I get along well with the menfolk. I LIKE men. I even like men like The Devious Twins. No. I especially like men like The Devious Twins. Even when one of them — again, do not ask me which one — a little tipsy last Christmas, regaled me with a half-hour epic tale of his long-ago horrifying penis injury. It was told with great glee and graphic descriptions. What is it about me that causes this to happen?? I have no idea, truly. But it was hilarious. (I love being the only sober person at a party.) From the first word out of his mouth, I was howling with laughter. The next day, this same Devious Twin called MB, all remorseful and said, “Hey, dude. I’m sorry. I think I talked to Tracey about my penis last night.” Hahahaha. Yes, you did. And, God help me, I found it oddly charming. I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account, you know?

So heaven only knows what might happen this weekend with The Devious Twins in the deep dark middle of nowhere.

And heaven only knows what stupid thing I’ll end up doing out of sheer boredom around here.

Uhm, live-blog of “Frogs” anyone?

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for “sylvia”

You say that capitalism saves the world. You say that death is an instinct for you. You say that you no longer believe in love.

These are just some things you say.

So I wonder: in the face of this instinct of yours, this cold thing calling to you, what will your messiah do to help you? How will it come to your aid or give you comfort or the tiniest glimmer of hope in your isolation? How will it do these things? How does the god of capitalism save a person’s heart and soul?

I’m willing to have you hate me. I’m willing to have you think I’m an idiot, a fool, clinging to my religion, whatever. I’m willing to have you say, “That girl is whacked; I’m never talking to her again.” I’m willing to have you despise me forever, if you must. But right now, you are in a very dark cold place. The demons of too many wounds are swirling around you and they want you. I can feel them from here and I am not willing to remain silent.

That you’ve been so horribly abused in your life, I can never ever take away. I would if I could, hon. I would in a heartbeat. You’ve experienced profound evil, so you must surely know it exists.

But …….

I know you’ve known love, too. Maybe not enough. Maybe not often enough or consistently enough. But along the way, you have and, even now, you do.

So there isn’t just evil in this life. There is love, too, and it comes from somewhere. It has a Source. Water has a source. Light has a source. These basic things have a source. So love, that most important of things, must have a source, too. It can’t be manmade, can it? No. No. We’re too unreliable. We’re too selfish and blind and fickle and uncaring. We are the wind. And you need a Rock.

You were prayed for the other night. Total strangers wept for you. Total strangers took you — anonymously — and laid you and your very life at the feet of Jesus.

They did because I asked them to. And I ask anyone reading this now to do the same. Because there is love, hon. The Great Love, The Source, Jesus Christ.

He is Love and He does not disappoint. He is the one your heart longs for even though you can’t acknowledge it. He understands you like no one else ever has or ever will. He speaks your name with joy and pride for what He made in you.

Go ahead. Tell him you’re pissed. Tell him life has f***ed you over. Tell him you’re terrified. Tell him you want to die. Tell him you despair. Tell him you hate. Tell him you think He doesn’t exist. He can take it. He is, simply, Love.

You will do what you will do. I cannot stop you from here. I cannot hop on a plane to where you are. I cannot pick up the phone and expect you to answer. I cannot take whatever it is out of your hands. I would, if I were there. I would fight you and the cold thing calling you with everything I have.

But I can’t and I have wept long over the fact that I can’t. All I have is this battered keyboard and these feeble words and these aimless tears that are falling for you even now, as I write.

All I can do is tell you please do not leave this life without calling on Him. You do that and I have no doubt He will live up to his end of the eternal bargain.

Then, my very dear girl, if you feel you simply must leave this place ….. well, then, someday, I will meet you there, okay?

I love you.

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more on “idol”

You know, since I live in San Diego, aka Adam Lambert Country, it was interesting to watch the local news coverage after Kris Allen won. THE LEAD STORY was basically how Adam was robbed — Adam was robbed — don’t you think, random dude on the street, that Adam Lambert was robbed?

Okay. Look. Enough with that. Adam’s being more gracious than that and he’s the one who didn’t win. Random dude on the street, uhm, this didn’t happen to you, okay? Clearly, when you get to the top two in Idol, you have to realize that maybe the other guy WILL win. There is a reason why that other contestant is there and you, as the other guy, must consider that that person might win. Just because someone is not as flashy doesn’t mean it’s safe to underestimate his appeal. And it looks like Adam did consider that, but Adam’s fans and the press and Simon Cowell, even, could not conceive of an Idol ending that didn’t include Adam as the winner. But I’m sorry, that’s just their own shortsightedness. I don’t want there to be this shadow over the win for Kris Allen, these whispers of “he really doesn’t deserve it” or something. Obviously, people voted for him. I voted for him and I haven’t voted on Idol since the first season.

People need to look at it this way: Adam is hugely talented. This is not a news flash, obviously. He’ll have no problem getting a record deal. Producers have got to be salivating over him right now. Plus, he’s free. He has a freedom now that Kris Allen doesn’t have, so no one should feel bad for him. No one. Kris Allen has the bigger burden now: the burden of the “Adam was robbed” whispers, the “it’s an anti-gay thing” whispers, and the burden of sudden fame on his brand new marriage. Look at his reaction last night when he won, “Ohh, Adam deserves this.” Even the new American Idol had seen the outcome as a foregone conclusion. I mean, that look on his face when his name was announced: Total shock.

It’s going to be hard for the kid. Overcoming all that. Especially if he thinks it himself, which I really don’t want him to do.

Adam is the better singer, it’s true. He has a God-given gift. But Kris may well be the better musician. And I happen to like his voice, too, but it’s not this soaring undeniable force that Adam has. Think about it. To the best of my knowledge, Kris is the first Idol winner to play both guitar and piano. (Apparently, he also plays the viola. I love that. I mean, who plays the viola?) The guy is a talented musician, he demonstrated that repeatedly over the season, and perhaps is more of a total package than Adam.

No, you’ll hear no boo-hoos from me for Adam. I mean, he’s not even boo-hooing for himself because he knows he doesn’t need to boo-hoo. He’s smarter than that and more gracious — which is nice. He knows the effect he’s had because he’s ALL ABOUT the effect. He knows he’ll be fine. Finer than fine.

Let’s just say “What a great finale with two great contestants who deserve whatever success comes their way.”

Because it’s true. They do. In my opinion, the best American Idol finale ever with the best top two ever.

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we are chatting

Sarahk and I have been Gmail chatting our way through the American Idol finale.

We’ve been talking about fancy places, trollops, onesies, etc. And we simultaneously chat-screamed when Steve Martin showed up playing some sexy banjo. Or as I wrote in a frenzy “bamjo.”

I didn’t know life could be so good.

How about that Kris Allen? WOW. Good for you, dude. Good for both of you. You’re both going to be stars, I think. Each of you in his own distinct way.

Gmail chat, trollops, sexy bamjos.

Good times. Good times.

(Sarahk’s fabulous Snark of the whole event — in which she includes my chat comments, with my permission.)