I recorded a medley of Prince songs interpreted for America. Finally.
This year I decided to find a new “sexy” costume, so I went with the dowager Queen Victoria. She wore mourning black for forty years after the death of her beloved consort Prince Albert. She was the first Royal to be photographed, and believed that cosmetics were for prostitutes and actresses. Is there really a difference?
The high point of my Halloweek was visiting Emo Philips, and he seemed very pleased to meet Sexy Queen Victoria.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
When I was young, full of hormones and Anne Rice novels, I wanted to be a vampire, because living forever would be GREAT. I would get multiple opportunities to make out with David Bowie, for one. I had watched the Hunger so many times that I wore out the rental tape from the Blockbuster in Plano, Texas. (As you know, all the most sinister people rent from Blockbuster).
If I were a wampyr, I would feel powerful and important and I would save a lot of money on food, and I would outlive all of my enemies- except for the very small percentage of them that also became vampires. When life feels like it’s full of infinite possibilities and people and combinations, this is an attractive concept. There will never be enough time to read all you want to read and see all you want to see.
Twenty years later, you couldn’t pay me to be a dirty stinking vampire! If I’m this sick of humanity and media right now, how bad would it be at 500? There’s only fifteen different kinds of people in the world, and I’m sick to death of fourteen of them- Also, if I lived forever, how many Spiderman remakes would I have to endure? Who am I going to talk to? Already, my interests and music references are met with blank looks of incomprehension by young people in bars. What about the little girl vampire in Let The Right One In? Two hundred years old, and all she gives a shit about is sucking blood and working a Rubik’s cube! Who’s gonna talk to me about Robyn Hitchcock and Twin Peaks and Heathers in a hundred years? Huh? Answer me, goddammit!
Gothixxx were glad to welcome the lovely Dave and Jenn Bats of Release the Bats fame to the program, as well as guest cameraman Derrick Lemos.
Mom, pretty please don’t read this one either. I’m sorry.
This was my entry for the second round of Bryan Cook’s amazing show, Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction at the Nerdmelt Theatre on 7/16.
If you’re not familiar, it’s a show where the first half is talented writers and comics who have pre-written amazing prose, and the second half is crazy people who have had an audience suggestion assigned to them. It is released in podcast form here, please go listen and attend this show! Bryan is taking it to SF, and it’s been to Seattle, Portland, Bridgetown Comedy Festival, and just all over. It is hilarious and deeply disturbing. My first show was just posted, which was a filthy story about Touched by an Angel. This time, I wrote on a random pull of topic “Laura Palmer”, in 18 minutes.
First of all, the subject-I love Twin Peaks, it’s my favorite, it was the first show I saw every episode of, and there hasn’t been a second- but it’s a pretty weird topic for Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction. Twin Peaks was pretty much erotic fiction on its own. All in all, it’s like saying, write a really dirty version of Deep Throat. So, this story will be the only one that doesn’t have an orgy in it. Don’t be confused, you’re still at CEFF.
Laura Palmer’s postmortem diary- Fire, Go Fuck Yourself
I’m Laura Palmer and yeah, I’m dead, wrapped in plastic, sooo kinky, as imitated at Halloween by girls who want to sweat off a few extra pounds in Saran wrap. That’s the opening credits and the whole goddamned show is a smear campaign against me. A lot of claims were made about be before, during, and after the show. Recently the internet has claimed that I took off my top at the Glastonbury festival, but that was Amanda Palmer, who married Sandman creator Neil Gaiman, so fuck her. The whole two seasons are about how I f*cked everyone in the show and was eventually murdered by a malevolent spirit who took over my Dad, Leland Palmer, who used to sing as he went nuts, like Ophelia,
Does eat oats and mares eat oats and little lambs eat ivy, a kid’ll eat ivy too, wouldn’t you?
This is a heavily whitewashed version. What my Daddy really used to sing was:
Whores eat c*ck and mares eat c*ck and little lambs are fuzzy, my kid’ll eat p*ssy too, wouldn’t you?
Everyone thinks I fucked my Dad, and he went crazy from the guilt, but he was slowly going crazy because he spent most of his time licking mercury out of broken thermometers. Everyone has a hobby. Sexually, my father was ahead of his time, he was a Bronie. He went mad drawing graphic illustrations on legal pads of Twilight the Pony being f*cked in all her pony holes, her tail held aside and grasped for purchase.
The only person in this town who I might have had sex with was the FBI agent assigned to my case, unfortunately he showed up after I died. I looked down through the Douglas Fir trees and I liked what I saw. I’d like to just f*ck his chin, just once. But it’s all over for me. Dale Cooper had hair as black as shoe polish and was even hotter than he was in Dune. He loved coffee and pie and poor little rich girl Audrey Horne, who appeared to be 17 and three quarters for their whole relationship. I’d like to lick his licorice hairline and rummage through his files.
Audrey Horne, a busty brunette, had the sweetest cherry pie in all of Twin Peaks. She nearly f*cked her dad one time when she was going undercover as a prostitute at One Eyed Jack’s, but that wasn’t her fault. She was just trying to get a good review at work.
I supposedly f*cked James Hurley, the adorable boyfriend of my best friend Donna Hayward, but he wasn’t interested. James was a furry. He was only interested in people dressed as cum-covered wolves.
I supposedly f*cked Dr. Jacoby, my therapist, and honestly I tried, but he couldn’t maintain a hard on when he wasn’t wearing a lei and listening to the music of Don Ho, and I was simply not that kind of ho.
It’s true. Sometimes my arms bend back. It’s because I’m a contortionist and acrobat, which is part of my job as a cheerleader.
Supposedly I had an affair with Bobby Briggs, but honestly he was only interested in watching films of people in business suits taking a shower. Reputedly I had an affair with his lover Shelly Johnson, the hot-ass waitress in town, who would put on a wool suit and get down in the shower for Bobby, with blonde hair cascading, and I was supposed to have slept with her murderous drug dealing brain dead new-shoes loving trucker husband Leo, but I didn’t have sex with them. I couldn’t stand those guys. Besides, Shelly was a fecal freak and Leo preferred to be beaten with footlong novelty gummy rat candies while being penetrated with a Tootsie Roll bank he had bought at Disneyland.
I was accused of having an affair with Diane, whom agent cooper sends microcassettes to. She’s not even a person, she’s a figment of his goddamned imagination! He’s a hot ass crazy person!
I supposedly had sex with Jaques Renault, the Canadian drug dealer, but he was only sexually interested in women farting onto cakes. Also, as a Quebecer, he spoke French like a slow child and English like someone who once saw something in English.
I supposedly had sex with a backwards-talking dwarf who danced weird and was obsessed with gum, but honestly, who could? WHO COULD?
One woman could.
But It wasn’t me. I met my maker with a slit so tight you could whistle through it, like when you blow across a fresh green blade of grass pulled taught between your thumbs.
My c*nt looked like a goddamned paper cut on a crisp white business envelope and honestly it’s a waste.
I’m a scapegoat, when I died it was seen as a way to keep the peace and knit this broken little town torn apart by its secrets back together.
Do you know who it really was? Who screwed all those people, who catered like a slave to their strange afflictions and affectations and who simultaneously brought this town together and tore it apart?
The log lady. Her log saw things. Her log did things. Awful things. There’s splinters from that log in every tw*t and a**hole in this town, and from skull f*cking poor Nadine Hurley’s empty eyesocket, her eyepatch abandoned on the couch. she cradles her log and fingers the edges worn smooth from activity, sometimes smelling it and reliving memories and looking into the past and towards the future.
There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark, or in the city of Twin Peaks- It’s because, as Pete Martell said, “There was a fish in the percolator.”
I am close to taking my Summer Sabbatical, which is not really what it is, but it makes my Mom feel better when I say “I’m Taking A Sabbatical” instead of “I’m quitting my job and hanging out all Summer”. I thought it was time to get my list of “OTHER” skills together and post them on the Internet.
If you feel like you read a slightly different but kind of the same list as this one, it’s because my site was hacked and my service restored from last week’s restore point and I lost it. It’s because SOMEONE was very jealous of my 70 hits a day. Eat it, haters!
1. Pit Toilets: I’m very good at using pit toilets in Asia. You just have to pretend you’re camping, which you kind of are.
2. Sleeping on Airplanes: Also work related. I can sleep bolt upright on a red eye to Turkey and emerge as fresh and ready as if I had slept in a garbage- filled car.
3. Tap Dancing. I’m not the world’s best tap dancer (SAVION GLOVER, because we can really only have one famous tap dancer at a time), but it’s the skill that took the most time and expense to learn, and which has the lowest street value. I’m considering trying to make people pay me NOT to do it.
4. Bemani. It’s no longer fashionable but I can totally do it- I get more points for style than accuracy on Dance, Dance, Revolution, but Karaoke Revolution is my bitch.
5. For that matter, I can lead in six count swing, and I can lead about five things in Lindy hop- I’m a good Lindy follow- I like a lot of dances.
6. I can make dance parties happen. I can make people do it. At karaoke, at coffeeshops- most of the time.
7. Karaoke. I’m good at it. I don’t have the most amazing American Idol style voice, but I know my range and I will perform the SHIT out of a song. I like to work a crowd. When I do it in Hong Kong they are upset with the dancing and eye contact.
8. Comedy. I do it for money and for free. Mostly for free. Don’t ask me to tell you a joke, I’ll make you laugh, m-f. Just you wait.
9. I can draw- I haven’t for around five-seven years, but I probably still can, right? I’m sure I can. I have an art degree. I can blind contour the shit out of something.
10. According to the Munsell test of Color Acuity, I am a Superior Color Discriminator. I will discriminate the shit out of your color. I need a lab coat and a light box with a true North setting. But I will do it.
11. I can make patterns and sew. Again, I usually don’t. But I can make seriously obscure and fucked up Halloween costumes!
12. Goth Makeup and Fantasy Make up! I have an airbrush and I’m not scared to use it, including airbrushing a fake tattoo on you!
13. I’m really good at telling long, involved, interconnected stories to people on acid. I can be on acid or not, it doesn’t matter.
14. I can tell a fake art history lecture at the drop of a hat, especially if the hat is from a particularly evocative period
15. I’m really good at making one kind of vegan chocolate chip cookies. Just one kind.
16. I’m really good at maintaining a blog for 8 years that only my mother consistently reads!
17. If I had just bought my first guitar, I would be a crazy natural guitar playing genius- however, I have had my own guitar for a decade, and play it occasionally. I’m mediocre, but proud!
18. I’m really good at steering an oversized Costco shopping cart with my elbows while eating free BBQ nuts.
19. I’m a good trivia team member- I don’t know that much about television or sports, but I’m very good at arbitration to try to determine the likeliest answer. Also, I like to win but I don’t care if I do.
20. I’m really good at running a White Elephant party. I will whip the crowd into a frenzy over Scratch tickets and a rubber garden gnome. Blood will flow!
21. Despite all the above, I’m really good at not going to Burning Man! I haven’t gone every year it’s happened! Consecutively!
With this kind of skill set, I’m gonna destroy this job market!