So here's my first short story kiddies, more personal CRAP to follow. Just a reminder, always looking for contributors, or at least some comments. Ash$ says's what up!
SEAT 17F
Her glasses were great. Big, bold, and black, and she never removed them on our entire three hour flight. Her hair was dark and wild, and poked out sporadically from her hood. It was hard to tell if her locks were brown or black without freaking the poor dear out by staring. She was sitting in her seat like there were flesh eating piranhas swimming below. She wasn't very big, but it was still somewhat amazing to see her fit her entire frame, feets and all, into an airline seat. At this point she began tearing pieces of the "free" magazine into tiny bits, oh so quietly, and discreetly. It was hard to tell if she was 17 or 27, but I could tell she was soft by the way she cleared her throat. Her toes were pink as if to match the bandana tied round her wrist. Seventeen you say, well you're probably correct, afterall her jacket was an army green eskimo style parka with the faux fur framing her masked identity with ease. She was a nervous wreck, or so it seemed. Maybe she's just full of energy, or she's totally spun, or perhaps horny as hell. "K<3R" was self tattooed with an erasable pen on the web between her left thumb and forefinger, which was why I thought she might be feeling the all too familiar pain of young despondent love. She had a tiny piece of string of which she incessantly wrapped and unwrapped round the digits of her lateral appendage until the little bit turned up as a large tangle of yarn which, perhaps, I just didn't notice before. She then began to wind the yarn into a brilliantly colored orb. Why was I fascinated with a ball of string? It's the not the string you say? Well, you may be on to something, I'll let you know.
I had not seen her in the airport, you know the type, it's like she crawled out of the overhead bin just before take off. Dark and sweet are things that make me think. Elusive in every way, and quite possibly the fact of the matter. This may be where I've gone awry in the past. I may have led myself to the bitch before when what I truly desired was the shy and quiet one who holds her secrets so tightly that even she has forgotten them herself. What are they and why do I care? Is it the game, the chase, or the girl? It seems strannge now that I didn't even notice the screaming child in the next row over because I was so captivated by the one I never met eyes with, and maybe that's just it. It's a mystery. You see, interesting types have always got my attention, but why? Was she really mysterious and interesting or were her clothes and body language helping her to play the role of a lifetime?
Is fantasy part of fantastic, or is that one of those things I shouldn't concern myself with? So maybe she's 27 because it appear's that she's turning those little "quiet" pieces of magazine into magic bindi's. Probably not, it's hard to tell. Got her! She's an artist, knew it all along. Right. She has musically transformed the bindi's into a collage of sorts and as far as art galleries at 30,00 feet go, I say her piece is good. It's hard to make ou,t but It must have something to do with that self impressed tattoo. I felt for her, for I had been there before, so punch drunk in some kind of love that nothing in the world would set my mind at ease. It has occurred to me now however, that I am most likely projecting who I want here to be.
Why do I want her to be this way? Is it to know that I am not the only one in the depths of my mind that is over analitical? I try to take a deep breath, but the faint scent of honey has my medulla fixated once again.
It's these awkward little bugs that tend to drive me wild. I want to say something to console her, to let her know that she is not alone in the universe, that there is someone in the seat right next to her that feels what she feels, that knows what it's like to to experience the pain. I try to think of a smalll gesture or sign I can giv e because I realize how I feel when some stranger speaks to me, especially on a plane.
And so I sit, not saying a word, At this point my thoughts turn to me and trying to get all of this fancy right out of my head. It's time to return my seat to the full upright position, and prepare for landing. I draw a correlation here. My life, my dreams, or flights of fancy, can be thought of as a three hour tour. I get up in the clouds and wonder, speculate, and worry. It's up in the cloudy reaches of my mind that I am able to dissipate these fears, but the longing remains. Upon touch down I am relaxed, and I feel as if I've grown a little. A little older, a touch wiser,a smidge softer, and the thing that puts me to rest is the realization that I am the girl in 17F. At least at 30,000 feet.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Friday, November 18, 2005
In an effort to get to the most recent writings of miss Huckleberry Tea I am posting the last three stories from the archives. Please read and comment with what you think. I'll have a short story that is basically CRAP up soon here after. Enjoy.
HUMBLY HUMAN
I am humbled by my capacity for anger. And I have never been the angry type. I have always been slow to anger and quick to let things go. But not this. This thing that happened has left this inexplicably persistent emotion that boils somewhere below the surface, just deep enough that I don’t see or feel it. The other day, without warning or provocation, it attacked, like a bird of prey. That is how I know its there. And I don’t like it.
I pride myself in being calm, rational and generally unaffected by things going on around me, or even things happening to me. And I have tried to deal with this issue in my usual peaceful and “everything happens for a reason” manner. I considered my words carefully and spoke with honesty and kindness, in as much as they could co-exist, to all who were involved. I had, I thought, succeeded in making the best of a difficult situation. But with a numbing of the senses and a casting off of inhibitions, the repressed feelings lurking below struck hard and fast. Like sharp arrows, the words shot out of my mouth and a physical rage surged through my body.
A sharp mind breeds a sharp tongue, without a doubt. But my words are almost always kept in check by a peaceful nature and a heart that knows better. I had no idea that this was inside of me.
And so I am reminded of my humanity. My actions that night hurt me worse than the person to whom they were directed. I was forced to face that fact that I cannot always face the world with a façade of emotional perfection. And I have to face the simple truth: I was hurt, I am hurt. Not hurt in a principled, self-righteous way; the explanation of which I have been trying to convince myself, but just plain hurt, in a vulnerable human way. And that is where this anger comes from.
I was betrayed and deceived and treated with far less respect than I deserved. My trust was taken advantage of. My friendship warranted much better behavior and complete forthrightness. That friendship, to which I was wholly devoted, was treated as disposable and insignificant. These things are certainly true and my principle driven argument on these facts can not be disputed nor can the behavior be justified. But anger does not come from principle. Anger comes from hurt. And I was hurt by someone that I care about. Hurt by someone that I love, by someone who knows my fallible human self. There is no way to avoid that truth, believe me, I have tried.
What happened was for the best, true. I am better off and much happier now, true. No part of this situation is my fault, true. I deserve much better, true. I am over the heartbreak and have been for some time, true. And I was hurt by someone that I care about. True.
The anger may be gone, I am not really sure. I don’t feel it and cannot really even conger any up if I try. Maybe it just took one unguarded moment to escape from my insides. Or maybe it will take time to slowly dissipate, working its way out through various outlets. Who knows how the heart works? I know for sure that I have tried and I cannot control mine. I have been humbled by my humanity.
IS BETRAYAL THE NEW BLACK?
I was informed last night that my recent brush with betrayal is actually a bit worse than I was previously led to believe. I’m not sure when the deceit stopped being hurtful and started being funny, but thankfully it happened some time ago, because the waterfall of truth pouring from Spring’s melting lies just keeps getting funnier.
While chatting with someone who did not know who my ex was, I said something that apparently clued him in, and I watched his eyes suddenly widen with epiphanic realization, “Oh, your that girl whose boyfriend was cheating on you with your friend. And everyone knew about it except you. And it started when you blew out your knee and had surgery?”
I laughed and answered with a smile, “Yeah, that’s me.”
Walking down the street with a friend the other day we contemplated and laughed about the casual relationship so many people seem to have with the truth these days. And moreover, we wondered why loving and lying so often go hand in hand. As we walked past some of Aspen’s more fashion forward clothiers, I glanced at a particularly bizarre ensemble and quipped, “Well maybe betrayal is the new black.”
One of my best friends, Ashley, told me yesterday not to fall in love for a while- so that I wouldn’t get hurt again anytime soon. I laughed and thanked her for the vote of confidence, but told her that I just don’t work that way. She said that she knew and loved me for it (but to try anyway). She called while celebrating the official termination of her marriage. The process of getting the divorce lasted longer than the marriage, and she has long since mourned the betrayal and broken dream that the freshly signed legal document represents.
On a less celebratory note, Aspen’s Heartbreak Hotel, a.k.a. my apartment, is occupied once again, by a dear friend at the opposite end of that road. The sadness of love lost and the remorse over promises broken is palpable.
Last night while brushing my teeth before bed I was overcome by a feeling of disorientation; I wondered if true, everlasting love was even possible any more. Was my entire life’s paradigm resting on a foundation of sand? Are people bound to betray, disappoint, fall short or simply lose interest and fall out of love?
Spit. Rinse.
I looked myself in the eyes; no way. I’m not buying that. Love may not always be easy, to find or to keep, but I know that it is possible. It has to be. The hope is buried too deep inside of me to be uprooted. I have too much, too much, too much. Too much love to give. Inside this body there is a partner, a lover, a mother, a friend, a companion, and a great many other things. And there is too much love to keep inside.
So I guess that means I will keep kissing frogs. I will give friendship and trust freely and I will love with out abandon. I will lavish those that I love with everything that I have to give. I will live without the fear of being hurt, because that is the only way that I know how to live. I will dive in head first and let you know how the water is, even if I do bump my head at the bottom.
So am I that girl? That girl who believes in soul mates, in love at first sight, in unconditional, till death do us part, make your heart skip a beat, happily ever after love?
Am I that girl?
You better fucking believe I am.
MY WHITE NIGHT
Revelers, dressed in all white, guzzled champagne, mingled and danced to the thumping beat of the bass and to the pounding of their own hearts. The majestic beauty of the mountains outside faded into a star filled black sky brilliant enough to outshine even the “beautiful” people inside, although I doubt that anyone thought to look up. So was the scene, high atop Red Mountain, a night so stunning, so bizarre, it was, as we decreed, the White Night.
The evening, which lasted well into the dawn, was one more exhibition, in an endless series, of Aspen’s fundamental dichotomy: nature’s raw splendor slamming into the contrived expressions of wealth it so conspicuously displays. Millionaires, billionaires, their sparkling trophies, and a sprinkling of jet setting cougars sipped martinis and noshed on lobster along side Aspen’s more beautiful personal trainers, bar backs and cocktail waitresses, while entrepreneurs, notable businessmen and local politicians casually talked business in the corner. A night like many others, in Aspen anyway. So on this night, of all nights, is it possible that I found my white knight?
I saw him walk in, in all white of course, and my whole body relaxed as he hugged me tight and I buried my face in his neck. For a few brief seconds the weight of my world and the weight of my body rested entirely on his. Without thinking I had given myself over, no hesitation, I trusted this person with, well, me. And at that moment I knew. I am in love.
It wasn’t love at first sight those many weeks ago; with my sight focused elsewhere, I wasn’t looking at anyone the night we met. But when I finally opened my eyes and saw him for the first time, I felt something. I didn’t know what it was, but it made my heart flutter and my cheeks blush. And it scared me just enough. The spark, the coy exchanges, the magnetic attraction and the something different quickly took an unexpected turn. Without warning, like a horse headed home, unbridled and driven by natural instinct, the feelings grew stronger, gained momentum and took off. And suddenly it seemed a lot like love.
But how can I know that that’s what this is? For this girl, who wants so badly to believe in the fairy tale, but who certainly knows better, I have to wonder: How do you know when it is truly love and not just your heart playing tricks on you?
Is love being swept off your feet and carried giddily off to bed or is it being lifted up off the ground because you don’t have the strength to stand on your own? Tears of joy are quickly and gingerly wiped away, but are the sad tears absorbed with such gentle understanding? Lip to lip or nose to nose? Body to body or hand in hand? Is it laughter from blissful happiness or laughing together through sorrow? Grand romantic gestures or daily thoughtfulness and generous affection? Wanting to take their breath away with your beauty or knowing that you are loved unconditionally? Love must be all of these things and so much more. It is a feeling and drive as complicated, dynamic and unpredictable and yet unchanging in spirit, simple and pure in its ideals, and inherently shaped by nature’s forces, as Aspen itself.
So how do you know? You don’t. I don’t anyway. But there is a moment when you simply let go, close your eyes, spread your arms wide open and say “love me.”
As the sun rose, once again revealing our town below and the valley beyond, my knight and I sat outside in the dawn’s still quiet, our head-to-toe whites still somehow spotless. We reveled in nature’s tranquil perfection, and in each other, hand in hand, to the sound of our own pounding hearts.
HUMBLY HUMAN
I am humbled by my capacity for anger. And I have never been the angry type. I have always been slow to anger and quick to let things go. But not this. This thing that happened has left this inexplicably persistent emotion that boils somewhere below the surface, just deep enough that I don’t see or feel it. The other day, without warning or provocation, it attacked, like a bird of prey. That is how I know its there. And I don’t like it.
I pride myself in being calm, rational and generally unaffected by things going on around me, or even things happening to me. And I have tried to deal with this issue in my usual peaceful and “everything happens for a reason” manner. I considered my words carefully and spoke with honesty and kindness, in as much as they could co-exist, to all who were involved. I had, I thought, succeeded in making the best of a difficult situation. But with a numbing of the senses and a casting off of inhibitions, the repressed feelings lurking below struck hard and fast. Like sharp arrows, the words shot out of my mouth and a physical rage surged through my body.
A sharp mind breeds a sharp tongue, without a doubt. But my words are almost always kept in check by a peaceful nature and a heart that knows better. I had no idea that this was inside of me.
And so I am reminded of my humanity. My actions that night hurt me worse than the person to whom they were directed. I was forced to face that fact that I cannot always face the world with a façade of emotional perfection. And I have to face the simple truth: I was hurt, I am hurt. Not hurt in a principled, self-righteous way; the explanation of which I have been trying to convince myself, but just plain hurt, in a vulnerable human way. And that is where this anger comes from.
I was betrayed and deceived and treated with far less respect than I deserved. My trust was taken advantage of. My friendship warranted much better behavior and complete forthrightness. That friendship, to which I was wholly devoted, was treated as disposable and insignificant. These things are certainly true and my principle driven argument on these facts can not be disputed nor can the behavior be justified. But anger does not come from principle. Anger comes from hurt. And I was hurt by someone that I care about. Hurt by someone that I love, by someone who knows my fallible human self. There is no way to avoid that truth, believe me, I have tried.
What happened was for the best, true. I am better off and much happier now, true. No part of this situation is my fault, true. I deserve much better, true. I am over the heartbreak and have been for some time, true. And I was hurt by someone that I care about. True.
The anger may be gone, I am not really sure. I don’t feel it and cannot really even conger any up if I try. Maybe it just took one unguarded moment to escape from my insides. Or maybe it will take time to slowly dissipate, working its way out through various outlets. Who knows how the heart works? I know for sure that I have tried and I cannot control mine. I have been humbled by my humanity.
IS BETRAYAL THE NEW BLACK?
I was informed last night that my recent brush with betrayal is actually a bit worse than I was previously led to believe. I’m not sure when the deceit stopped being hurtful and started being funny, but thankfully it happened some time ago, because the waterfall of truth pouring from Spring’s melting lies just keeps getting funnier.
While chatting with someone who did not know who my ex was, I said something that apparently clued him in, and I watched his eyes suddenly widen with epiphanic realization, “Oh, your that girl whose boyfriend was cheating on you with your friend. And everyone knew about it except you. And it started when you blew out your knee and had surgery?”
I laughed and answered with a smile, “Yeah, that’s me.”
Walking down the street with a friend the other day we contemplated and laughed about the casual relationship so many people seem to have with the truth these days. And moreover, we wondered why loving and lying so often go hand in hand. As we walked past some of Aspen’s more fashion forward clothiers, I glanced at a particularly bizarre ensemble and quipped, “Well maybe betrayal is the new black.”
One of my best friends, Ashley, told me yesterday not to fall in love for a while- so that I wouldn’t get hurt again anytime soon. I laughed and thanked her for the vote of confidence, but told her that I just don’t work that way. She said that she knew and loved me for it (but to try anyway). She called while celebrating the official termination of her marriage. The process of getting the divorce lasted longer than the marriage, and she has long since mourned the betrayal and broken dream that the freshly signed legal document represents.
On a less celebratory note, Aspen’s Heartbreak Hotel, a.k.a. my apartment, is occupied once again, by a dear friend at the opposite end of that road. The sadness of love lost and the remorse over promises broken is palpable.
Last night while brushing my teeth before bed I was overcome by a feeling of disorientation; I wondered if true, everlasting love was even possible any more. Was my entire life’s paradigm resting on a foundation of sand? Are people bound to betray, disappoint, fall short or simply lose interest and fall out of love?
Spit. Rinse.
I looked myself in the eyes; no way. I’m not buying that. Love may not always be easy, to find or to keep, but I know that it is possible. It has to be. The hope is buried too deep inside of me to be uprooted. I have too much, too much, too much. Too much love to give. Inside this body there is a partner, a lover, a mother, a friend, a companion, and a great many other things. And there is too much love to keep inside.
So I guess that means I will keep kissing frogs. I will give friendship and trust freely and I will love with out abandon. I will lavish those that I love with everything that I have to give. I will live without the fear of being hurt, because that is the only way that I know how to live. I will dive in head first and let you know how the water is, even if I do bump my head at the bottom.
So am I that girl? That girl who believes in soul mates, in love at first sight, in unconditional, till death do us part, make your heart skip a beat, happily ever after love?
Am I that girl?
You better fucking believe I am.
MY WHITE NIGHT
Revelers, dressed in all white, guzzled champagne, mingled and danced to the thumping beat of the bass and to the pounding of their own hearts. The majestic beauty of the mountains outside faded into a star filled black sky brilliant enough to outshine even the “beautiful” people inside, although I doubt that anyone thought to look up. So was the scene, high atop Red Mountain, a night so stunning, so bizarre, it was, as we decreed, the White Night.
The evening, which lasted well into the dawn, was one more exhibition, in an endless series, of Aspen’s fundamental dichotomy: nature’s raw splendor slamming into the contrived expressions of wealth it so conspicuously displays. Millionaires, billionaires, their sparkling trophies, and a sprinkling of jet setting cougars sipped martinis and noshed on lobster along side Aspen’s more beautiful personal trainers, bar backs and cocktail waitresses, while entrepreneurs, notable businessmen and local politicians casually talked business in the corner. A night like many others, in Aspen anyway. So on this night, of all nights, is it possible that I found my white knight?
I saw him walk in, in all white of course, and my whole body relaxed as he hugged me tight and I buried my face in his neck. For a few brief seconds the weight of my world and the weight of my body rested entirely on his. Without thinking I had given myself over, no hesitation, I trusted this person with, well, me. And at that moment I knew. I am in love.
It wasn’t love at first sight those many weeks ago; with my sight focused elsewhere, I wasn’t looking at anyone the night we met. But when I finally opened my eyes and saw him for the first time, I felt something. I didn’t know what it was, but it made my heart flutter and my cheeks blush. And it scared me just enough. The spark, the coy exchanges, the magnetic attraction and the something different quickly took an unexpected turn. Without warning, like a horse headed home, unbridled and driven by natural instinct, the feelings grew stronger, gained momentum and took off. And suddenly it seemed a lot like love.
But how can I know that that’s what this is? For this girl, who wants so badly to believe in the fairy tale, but who certainly knows better, I have to wonder: How do you know when it is truly love and not just your heart playing tricks on you?
Is love being swept off your feet and carried giddily off to bed or is it being lifted up off the ground because you don’t have the strength to stand on your own? Tears of joy are quickly and gingerly wiped away, but are the sad tears absorbed with such gentle understanding? Lip to lip or nose to nose? Body to body or hand in hand? Is it laughter from blissful happiness or laughing together through sorrow? Grand romantic gestures or daily thoughtfulness and generous affection? Wanting to take their breath away with your beauty or knowing that you are loved unconditionally? Love must be all of these things and so much more. It is a feeling and drive as complicated, dynamic and unpredictable and yet unchanging in spirit, simple and pure in its ideals, and inherently shaped by nature’s forces, as Aspen itself.
So how do you know? You don’t. I don’t anyway. But there is a moment when you simply let go, close your eyes, spread your arms wide open and say “love me.”
As the sun rose, once again revealing our town below and the valley beyond, my knight and I sat outside in the dawn’s still quiet, our head-to-toe whites still somehow spotless. We reveled in nature’s tranquil perfection, and in each other, hand in hand, to the sound of our own pounding hearts.
Monday, November 07, 2005
PLEASE BLEED.
Yeah, that's the dealio yo. I don't know why so stop asking. I 'll try to explain however. This is just how I've been feeling today, like I need to bleed. No it's not some morbid sick and twisted thought, it's just a feeling, so don't freak out. You know in the old days when someone was sick, or diseased they cut them and let them bleed out the bad spirits. Sounds crazy, right? Perhaps they were on to something. What if you could just bleed out the pain, sure it might hurt a bit and you might feel light headed, but don't I feel that way already? Hmmm... well I don't think it would actually work or I may have tried it by now. Tis like however a conversation that I had just recently with lil vin. It was much like tearing apart the sutchers from a nasty and infected wound that has scabbed over but not really healed the way it is supposed to. Supposed to, what an effing concept! What a load of CRAP. Who says what I am supposed to do, or what I am supposed to feel? That's right-ME. So I suppose, supposed to is whatever the hell I want, and since everything I do is my decision, supposed to do is what I want to do in my own life. So that nasty wound that hasn't healed the way it's supposed hasn't healed because it's not supposed to be healed yet. I don't want it to heal yet. I'll keep tearing it apart and bleeding it all night with lil vin for as long as it takes until I get to the point where I feel the wound is healing nicely, or at least nice enough for me. I would like to give it up however to my compatriate for pointing out the fact that my wound is not healing properly, for only a true friend will help you pull out the sutures so you can bleed. Thank you. I'll talk to you soon.
Yeah, that's the dealio yo. I don't know why so stop asking. I 'll try to explain however. This is just how I've been feeling today, like I need to bleed. No it's not some morbid sick and twisted thought, it's just a feeling, so don't freak out. You know in the old days when someone was sick, or diseased they cut them and let them bleed out the bad spirits. Sounds crazy, right? Perhaps they were on to something. What if you could just bleed out the pain, sure it might hurt a bit and you might feel light headed, but don't I feel that way already? Hmmm... well I don't think it would actually work or I may have tried it by now. Tis like however a conversation that I had just recently with lil vin. It was much like tearing apart the sutchers from a nasty and infected wound that has scabbed over but not really healed the way it is supposed to. Supposed to, what an effing concept! What a load of CRAP. Who says what I am supposed to do, or what I am supposed to feel? That's right-ME. So I suppose, supposed to is whatever the hell I want, and since everything I do is my decision, supposed to do is what I want to do in my own life. So that nasty wound that hasn't healed the way it's supposed hasn't healed because it's not supposed to be healed yet. I don't want it to heal yet. I'll keep tearing it apart and bleeding it all night with lil vin for as long as it takes until I get to the point where I feel the wound is healing nicely, or at least nice enough for me. I would like to give it up however to my compatriate for pointing out the fact that my wound is not healing properly, for only a true friend will help you pull out the sutures so you can bleed. Thank you. I'll talk to you soon.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Where do I start? Where does it end?
A lot of shiite has happened recently like I got fired (YAY!) and just a lot of stupid crap like that. Too much to mention everything, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Ahhh yes, Summer 05 will not be soon forgotten. So I am sitting here packing for my trip to Cali, to see the rents, the sis, and the friends. I am really looking forward to it, seeing as I have been in the valley since April. The mountains are great, but shit, they do get a bit closter (sp?) phobic when you are trapped in them for too long. I would like to take this opportunity to give a shout out to the fine folks at the unemployment office, who are still "processing" my claim. Yes, I'm sure it takes 6 weeks to figure out that my rent really is due! Go gov! You guys rock!!! Well, despite the mire of off season the Aspen Saphire did manage to throw a kickin Halloween party. The funny thing about Halloween parties is that you can never tell who anyone is, so I apologize if I grabbed your udder by mistake, I thought I knew that udder! Seriuosly, there was no udder grabbing, proving my point that in the history of Halloween, no guy has ever hooked up while dressed like a girl, unless he brought a girl with him. So needless to say, my fat ass was pregnant Britney for the shebang. It was quite fun, until the drama started, you know who you are, and it was still fun when the drama was over. Puh-leez peeps, enough drama alreads, ko? Good! So let's see here is the partial list of halloween costume accessories that I have found since the party: Britney's baby (not mine, the other Britney), K-Feds Hat, someone's back pack, Stewey Griffin's Head, A sceptor, a cow teat, Dr Phil Good's stethascope, a cereal box that had been stabbed, the phantoms mask, the zombies gloves, Bub's fro, and I am sure there was some other CRAP I forgot to mention. Not a bad collection all in all however. I was offered a job, yesterday at the prestigious Shadow Mountain Lounge at the St. regis, depending on the outcome of the "processing" of my stream, we'll see if I get the job afterall.
I guess things are mostly good, you know take the good with the bad, and all that crap. Thank the lord there is music, for with out it I would explode, implode, or decode. All of which are not my idea of fun. Here's some tunes that have gotten me through the past few. Let me know if you would like to schedule a private listening. I'll be on tour in Cali til the 15th. So if you come across some fabulous Aspen crap, you'll have to e-mail me and let me know. See you on the road...
Death Cab for Cutie-Plans
Depeche Mode-Precious
Kanye West- Late Registration (Thanks Free Spirit!!!)
Bloc Party-Silent Alarm Remixed
Nada Surf-The weight is a gift
Metric-Live it out
Ladytron-Witching Hour
Thievery Corporation-Richest Man in Babylon
Arctic Monkeys-I bet you look good on the dance floor
A lot of shiite has happened recently like I got fired (YAY!) and just a lot of stupid crap like that. Too much to mention everything, so you'll just have to take my word for it. Ahhh yes, Summer 05 will not be soon forgotten. So I am sitting here packing for my trip to Cali, to see the rents, the sis, and the friends. I am really looking forward to it, seeing as I have been in the valley since April. The mountains are great, but shit, they do get a bit closter (sp?) phobic when you are trapped in them for too long. I would like to take this opportunity to give a shout out to the fine folks at the unemployment office, who are still "processing" my claim. Yes, I'm sure it takes 6 weeks to figure out that my rent really is due! Go gov! You guys rock!!! Well, despite the mire of off season the Aspen Saphire did manage to throw a kickin Halloween party. The funny thing about Halloween parties is that you can never tell who anyone is, so I apologize if I grabbed your udder by mistake, I thought I knew that udder! Seriuosly, there was no udder grabbing, proving my point that in the history of Halloween, no guy has ever hooked up while dressed like a girl, unless he brought a girl with him. So needless to say, my fat ass was pregnant Britney for the shebang. It was quite fun, until the drama started, you know who you are, and it was still fun when the drama was over. Puh-leez peeps, enough drama alreads, ko? Good! So let's see here is the partial list of halloween costume accessories that I have found since the party: Britney's baby (not mine, the other Britney), K-Feds Hat, someone's back pack, Stewey Griffin's Head, A sceptor, a cow teat, Dr Phil Good's stethascope, a cereal box that had been stabbed, the phantoms mask, the zombies gloves, Bub's fro, and I am sure there was some other CRAP I forgot to mention. Not a bad collection all in all however. I was offered a job, yesterday at the prestigious Shadow Mountain Lounge at the St. regis, depending on the outcome of the "processing" of my stream, we'll see if I get the job afterall.
I guess things are mostly good, you know take the good with the bad, and all that crap. Thank the lord there is music, for with out it I would explode, implode, or decode. All of which are not my idea of fun. Here's some tunes that have gotten me through the past few. Let me know if you would like to schedule a private listening. I'll be on tour in Cali til the 15th. So if you come across some fabulous Aspen crap, you'll have to e-mail me and let me know. See you on the road...
Death Cab for Cutie-Plans
Depeche Mode-Precious
Kanye West- Late Registration (Thanks Free Spirit!!!)
Bloc Party-Silent Alarm Remixed
Nada Surf-The weight is a gift
Metric-Live it out
Ladytron-Witching Hour
Thievery Corporation-Richest Man in Babylon
Arctic Monkeys-I bet you look good on the dance floor
Monday, October 24, 2005
Ok biatches. It's been awhile, I know. Well the major fact it's been a while is cause my arse got effing fired!!! Yeehaw! Screw Aspen Mag, they can stick their crappy publication anywhere they want except up my ass any more. So I also moved in to mny new place, and it's been taking for-evah to get the damned internet set-up, so I apologize, I know you must be going crazy with me not posting regularly. Well don't worry, the ISP guy should be hookin me up on Wednesday. So til then...Why don't you replyu with a commment?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Well, well, well. It's been a little while since my last post, and I know you kids are chomping at the bit to get some more CRAP from me, so here we go. Lately, I have been trying to embrace being alone. It's sometimes a difficult task, but if one is able to embrace it, it can be a beautiful experience. So I have been trying. That doesn't mean that I haven't broken any doors, or called anyone and beat them with the explative stick, sorry! Anywho it just means that I can once again listen to what I wan't and what I feel without the added pressure of taking someone else's thoughts and feelings into account. So it's a time of change, new discoveries, and old feelings. The fall is my favorite time of year, and always has been, it has also seemed to serve as a time to look inward at myself and see how I am doing. So how am I doing? Good question, I'll let you know when I figure it out. You know, some days are good, some are bad, and some are just there. I would like to take this time to say thank you and I love you to all my friends who help, encourage, and are there for me. You guys rock, no, you fraggle rock! I have also recently decided that I am going to tell my friends and family that I love them more often, so they know. Life is fragile, and wonderful. So today is a pretty good day, I dunno why, it just feels crisp and fresh. Maybe it's the air, maybe it's the breeze, maybe, just maybe it's a change in me.
"when there's no where else to run, is there room for one more son, one more son, if you can't hold on, if you can't hold on ...hold on."
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
THIS ASPEN GIRL
Here's an old post from Huckleberry Tea. Don't worry she be givin' us the new stuff soon.
Love at First Trip: Lessons Learned in Sayulita
Day 1, Lesson 1
No more tequila shots.
For me, too much tequila causes crying and other irrational behavior, even in Mexico, well especially in Mexico it seems. No bueno, no more.
Day 2, Lesson 2
The shrimp burrito at the Crusty Crab is not to be missed.
Loupe and Dalia whip up great guacamole, but their shrimp burrito is one of the best things that I have ever put in my mouth. I can not describe it, I can only assure you that it transcends any notions that you may have about burritos and it is worth the trip to Sayulita alone. Muy bueno. (I bet that you thought Lesson 2 would be about hangovers given the subject of Lesson 1, but technically that would not be a lesson, since I have already “learned” the hangover lesson many times over).
Day 3, Lesson 3
Sometimes, when you are falling out of love the best therapy is watching your friend fall into love, literally.
My friend Beanie is single and was looking for more than just a tan on our vacation. Nothing serious, just someone with whom she might share a few tequila shots, sunset walks on the beach, and moonlit smooches. Since I was on vacation with my ex (boy/ friend) and thus neither coupled nor on the prowl, I made the perfect wingman.
While walking on the beach, keeping our eyes open for cute beach fling prospects, we ran into Cute Pomeroy Guy, who I met when he sold me new skis after the ACL tear (I figured that buying new skis was like getting back on the horse). As I introduced him to Beanie she tripped on a rock and nearly fell head first into him. Short story shorter: She thought that he was cute, Sayulita is small, we were running into Pomeroy Cutie pretty frequently, and they were digging each other (he apparently was not put off by a little klutziness). As it turns out, what started as a sweet nothing in Mexico may turn into a sweet something in Aspen. I am an excellent wingman.
Day 4, Lesson 4
I am over the knee thing.
Enough is enough. The ACL experience has taken its toll, and while I am a better person for it, I am, officially, over it. It is just a ligament after all, one that people tear and repair all of the time. It will encumber my life no more, mind over matter. So I decided that I was going to do what I usually do when I am going through a life adjustment: Something that scares the hell out of me.
A few years ago I ended a long and serious relationship. Soon after, I found myself at the edge of an open airplane door of wearing a parachute. Turns out I love skydiving and now I have over twenty jumps. But for me, a far more terrifying notion than jumping out of a plane is attempting to surf. It is not so much the actual surfing part, but rather it is the falling and being tossed around in powerful moving water part, that gets me. I took a lesson in Maui last year (during a small “what the hell am I doing with my life?” quarter life crisis); my heart raced, I panicked, and each time that I fell I had to muster every ounce of composure to breathe, get back on the board and paddle back out.
The first time that I caught a wave I immediately understood how surfing could transform and consume people’s lives. I will never be a great surfer, not even a good one, but that isn’t the point. So against both my doctor’s orders and the suggestion of my physical therapist, I took my second surfing lesson. My heart raced and I panicked, but I did it, and I even caught a few waves. It felt good. I am, once again, one with my left knee.
Day 5, Lesson 5
Sometimes love is not enough.
As I mentioned, ex-boy/ friend was on this trip with me. For the most part we gave each other plenty of space. I was with the girls playing cupid, and he was with the boys, who did, in deed, go fishing.
But one interesting night found the two of us across town, sitting alone on a friend’s porch as the sun was about to rise. The walk home, through the village at dawn, cleared the air. It was tranquil and sweet and for the first time in a while, honest without being raw. It reminded me of why I love him. It even made me miss him a little.
But the week in Mexico answered any lingering questions that I had about the future of our romantic relationship. For me and my old mate, friends it is. Friends has always been what we do best.
Day 6, Lesson 6
Keep it simple.
Sayulita is a small village north of Puerto Vallarta. There are no big hotels, no ATM machines and not a single person walks around in a G-string bikini selling jello shots or three feet tall cocktails. The most common sounds are crashing waves, laughing children, barking dogs and the cock-a-doodle-doing of roosters. We had no cell phones, no TV’s, and no other mindless distractions. In other words, it was perfect. Plus, showering is optional. Paradise found.
Day 7, Lesson 7
You can find something without even knowing that you lost it.
Ten of us left Aspen, bound for Mexico, relieved that off-season had finally arrived. It was everyone’s first trip to the small Mexican surf town, and I had no idea what we might find in this place called Sayulita.
I love living in Aspen. From the moment that I moved to town I have been going full speed, trying to soak up everything that this valley has to offer. It has, so far, been a fun and wild ride filled with new friends, new experiences and a new mountain lifestyle that I love. I truly cannot imagine wanting to live anywhere else. I have, however, not spent much time being still and quiet in recent months.
In Sayulita, with no distractions and the fortune of being the earliest riser, I spent my mornings outside alone, peacefully looking at the ocean, reminded of how nice quiet sounds. As the sun rose I watched the color of the sky change, and I was, finally, completely still.
I became aware that I had, in many ways, lost sight of myself. And my less than ideal and uncharacteristic behavior in dealing with life’s recent tumult was an indication of just that. I was becoming someone that I don’t want to be. But in the quiet of Sayulita I started listening to myself again, and I got back to being me. I realized that I was not falling out of love; I was falling back in love, with myself.
Here's an old post from Huckleberry Tea. Don't worry she be givin' us the new stuff soon.
Love at First Trip: Lessons Learned in Sayulita
Day 1, Lesson 1
No more tequila shots.
For me, too much tequila causes crying and other irrational behavior, even in Mexico, well especially in Mexico it seems. No bueno, no more.
Day 2, Lesson 2
The shrimp burrito at the Crusty Crab is not to be missed.
Loupe and Dalia whip up great guacamole, but their shrimp burrito is one of the best things that I have ever put in my mouth. I can not describe it, I can only assure you that it transcends any notions that you may have about burritos and it is worth the trip to Sayulita alone. Muy bueno. (I bet that you thought Lesson 2 would be about hangovers given the subject of Lesson 1, but technically that would not be a lesson, since I have already “learned” the hangover lesson many times over).
Day 3, Lesson 3
Sometimes, when you are falling out of love the best therapy is watching your friend fall into love, literally.
My friend Beanie is single and was looking for more than just a tan on our vacation. Nothing serious, just someone with whom she might share a few tequila shots, sunset walks on the beach, and moonlit smooches. Since I was on vacation with my ex (boy/ friend) and thus neither coupled nor on the prowl, I made the perfect wingman.
While walking on the beach, keeping our eyes open for cute beach fling prospects, we ran into Cute Pomeroy Guy, who I met when he sold me new skis after the ACL tear (I figured that buying new skis was like getting back on the horse). As I introduced him to Beanie she tripped on a rock and nearly fell head first into him. Short story shorter: She thought that he was cute, Sayulita is small, we were running into Pomeroy Cutie pretty frequently, and they were digging each other (he apparently was not put off by a little klutziness). As it turns out, what started as a sweet nothing in Mexico may turn into a sweet something in Aspen. I am an excellent wingman.
Day 4, Lesson 4
I am over the knee thing.
Enough is enough. The ACL experience has taken its toll, and while I am a better person for it, I am, officially, over it. It is just a ligament after all, one that people tear and repair all of the time. It will encumber my life no more, mind over matter. So I decided that I was going to do what I usually do when I am going through a life adjustment: Something that scares the hell out of me.
A few years ago I ended a long and serious relationship. Soon after, I found myself at the edge of an open airplane door of wearing a parachute. Turns out I love skydiving and now I have over twenty jumps. But for me, a far more terrifying notion than jumping out of a plane is attempting to surf. It is not so much the actual surfing part, but rather it is the falling and being tossed around in powerful moving water part, that gets me. I took a lesson in Maui last year (during a small “what the hell am I doing with my life?” quarter life crisis); my heart raced, I panicked, and each time that I fell I had to muster every ounce of composure to breathe, get back on the board and paddle back out.
The first time that I caught a wave I immediately understood how surfing could transform and consume people’s lives. I will never be a great surfer, not even a good one, but that isn’t the point. So against both my doctor’s orders and the suggestion of my physical therapist, I took my second surfing lesson. My heart raced and I panicked, but I did it, and I even caught a few waves. It felt good. I am, once again, one with my left knee.
Day 5, Lesson 5
Sometimes love is not enough.
As I mentioned, ex-boy/ friend was on this trip with me. For the most part we gave each other plenty of space. I was with the girls playing cupid, and he was with the boys, who did, in deed, go fishing.
But one interesting night found the two of us across town, sitting alone on a friend’s porch as the sun was about to rise. The walk home, through the village at dawn, cleared the air. It was tranquil and sweet and for the first time in a while, honest without being raw. It reminded me of why I love him. It even made me miss him a little.
But the week in Mexico answered any lingering questions that I had about the future of our romantic relationship. For me and my old mate, friends it is. Friends has always been what we do best.
Day 6, Lesson 6
Keep it simple.
Sayulita is a small village north of Puerto Vallarta. There are no big hotels, no ATM machines and not a single person walks around in a G-string bikini selling jello shots or three feet tall cocktails. The most common sounds are crashing waves, laughing children, barking dogs and the cock-a-doodle-doing of roosters. We had no cell phones, no TV’s, and no other mindless distractions. In other words, it was perfect. Plus, showering is optional. Paradise found.
Day 7, Lesson 7
You can find something without even knowing that you lost it.
Ten of us left Aspen, bound for Mexico, relieved that off-season had finally arrived. It was everyone’s first trip to the small Mexican surf town, and I had no idea what we might find in this place called Sayulita.
I love living in Aspen. From the moment that I moved to town I have been going full speed, trying to soak up everything that this valley has to offer. It has, so far, been a fun and wild ride filled with new friends, new experiences and a new mountain lifestyle that I love. I truly cannot imagine wanting to live anywhere else. I have, however, not spent much time being still and quiet in recent months.
In Sayulita, with no distractions and the fortune of being the earliest riser, I spent my mornings outside alone, peacefully looking at the ocean, reminded of how nice quiet sounds. As the sun rose I watched the color of the sky change, and I was, finally, completely still.
I became aware that I had, in many ways, lost sight of myself. And my less than ideal and uncharacteristic behavior in dealing with life’s recent tumult was an indication of just that. I was becoming someone that I don’t want to be. But in the quiet of Sayulita I started listening to myself again, and I got back to being me. I realized that I was not falling out of love; I was falling back in love, with myself.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Today my feelings are best explained through the words of others, so I give you song lyrics that have hit me, punched me, coddled me, or just made me cry. All, though, have helped me in some way.
Pardon the sap.
...How will you know when you‘ve found me at last? Cause I’ll be the one with my heart in my lap. I’m so tired, I’m so tired, I wish I was the moon tonight...So if your lonely, you know I’m here waiting for you...I know I won’t be leaving here with you...Oh yes, I’m the great pretender, pretending that I’m doing well. My need is is a such , I pretend too much, I’m lonely, but no one can tell...If I ever write this letter, bitter words it would contain, just an unrequitted love bird, wishing she had never spoke your name...I am finally seeing I was the one worth leaving, D.C. Sleeps alone tonight...Sweethearts walk by together, and I still miss someone...To whom can I speak today, the gentleness has perished, and the violent man has come down on everyone...This is what you get, when you mess with us...All i ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms, Words are very unecessary, they can only do harm...Love will tear us apart, again...So it came time to fight, I thought I'd just step aside, and that the time would prove you wrong, and that you would be the fool...may the wind take your troubles away, both feet on the floor, both hands on the wheel, make the wind take your troubles away...the world has turned and left me here, just where I was before you appeared...I'm bound to pack it up, and go away...another turning point, a fork stuck in the road, time grabs you by the wrist and directs you where to go...I'm tired of fighting, fighting for a lost cause...everytime I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray, I'm waiting for that final moment you say the words that I can't say...my aching heart will bleed, for you to see, but now, no more I love you's, the language is leaving me...I tried to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes, cause boys don't cry...
Pardon the sap.
...How will you know when you‘ve found me at last? Cause I’ll be the one with my heart in my lap. I’m so tired, I’m so tired, I wish I was the moon tonight...So if your lonely, you know I’m here waiting for you...I know I won’t be leaving here with you...Oh yes, I’m the great pretender, pretending that I’m doing well. My need is is a such , I pretend too much, I’m lonely, but no one can tell...If I ever write this letter, bitter words it would contain, just an unrequitted love bird, wishing she had never spoke your name...I am finally seeing I was the one worth leaving, D.C. Sleeps alone tonight...Sweethearts walk by together, and I still miss someone...To whom can I speak today, the gentleness has perished, and the violent man has come down on everyone...This is what you get, when you mess with us...All i ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms, Words are very unecessary, they can only do harm...Love will tear us apart, again...So it came time to fight, I thought I'd just step aside, and that the time would prove you wrong, and that you would be the fool...may the wind take your troubles away, both feet on the floor, both hands on the wheel, make the wind take your troubles away...the world has turned and left me here, just where I was before you appeared...I'm bound to pack it up, and go away...another turning point, a fork stuck in the road, time grabs you by the wrist and directs you where to go...I'm tired of fighting, fighting for a lost cause...everytime I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray, I'm waiting for that final moment you say the words that I can't say...my aching heart will bleed, for you to see, but now, no more I love you's, the language is leaving me...I tried to laugh about it, hiding the tears in my eyes, cause boys don't cry...
It's that time! Huckleberry Tea is in with "This Aspen Girl"
Here ya go Huck.
(note-the stories you have been reading from huck were written some time ago, giving you kids the background info)
Laundry
My ex-boy/ friend called yesterday to see if he could come over to do his laundry. This is strange only because we have not spent any time alone in a couple weeks. I said yes, and came home from work to find him on my couch; a once familiar occurrence that I realized instantly was one of the many things that I missed now that we are “taking a break.”
I have always been picky about my laundry. It is the only aspect of cleaning that I’d rather not pay someone else to do. This is not because I love lugging my dirties to the laundry room or that I find folding clothes methodically calming. It is simply that I don’t think that other people do it right. After my knee surgery, my mother, God bless her, had to do everything for me, including my laundry. But, the whites seemed dingy, stains didn’t come out, and (this is the big one) she put my ski pants in the dryer! In the dryer?! “They’re going to shrink!” I whaled in my perfect bed-ridden whine. I began to cry (I have already mentioned that nonsensical crying is an undesirable side-effect of Percocet).
Because she is my mother, and because I looked terribly pathetic laid up on the couch wearing my hideous blood stained, anti-embolism post-surgery stocking, she did not kill me on the spot. She didn’t even dump the basket of clean clothes on the floor and head for the airport. Instead, she patiently took instructions and sorted whites from colors, added just the right amount of bleach to white cotton basics, and took my jeans to the dry cleaner (with creases please). And she hung my ski pants out to dry.
So ex-boy/ friend did his laundry (and don’t worry, I don’t tell other people how to clean their clothes), and I made dinner. I wondered if in addition to his heaping piles of dirty clothes, he had come over to launder our soiled relationship. But I resisted my natural instinct to immediately plunge into the subject and decided to butter the bread, have a glass of wine and let the untouched subject bubble under the surface, like the melting cheese in the lasagna baking in the oven.
Everything gets dirty over time. Day to day wear and tear is unavoidable. Without regular and thoughtful care things get discolored and dull. And then there are stains. They happen in an instant. Usually as a result of clumsiness, thoughtlessness or carelessness. Some stains, no matter what you do, just won’t come out. Things can penetrate so deep that no amount of love, “I’m sorry,” or Spray ‘n Wash can repair the damage. Most spills, however, can be lifted if they are attended to immediately.
It is my experience that while women often have a bottle of club soda in hand before the red wine glass hits the floor, men tend to leave things in the bottom of the hamper for days, even weeks, while stains set in. The reason for this difference in stain behavior? I have no idea, but it drives me, and most of the women I know, insane, and frequently causes sleepless nights and irrational behavior.
Recently my girlfriends and I spent the better part of an evening discussing how to approach one friend’s “stain,” and more importantly what to do about the offending male’s complete lack of desire to deal with it. Ideas from this testosterone-free brain trust ranged from prank calling to physical retaliation. Instead, relentless phone calling, sarcasm, insults and yelling were employed. As it turned out, this was not the best strategy for reparation, but it did appear to be rather cathartic.
I have, admittedly, been the perpetrator of a few stains in the past couple weeks. Alcohol and fresh wounds do not mix well, but I ignored my head and numbed my heart, and the result is stinging. So after dinner, ex-boy/ friend and I got a rag and some club soda and did a little cleaning up. The stains will come out, they were just thoughtless moments. The question that remains: Do we have enough bleach, and do we even have the desire, to turn our dingy basics back into bright whites?
Here ya go Huck.
(note-the stories you have been reading from huck were written some time ago, giving you kids the background info)
Laundry
My ex-boy/ friend called yesterday to see if he could come over to do his laundry. This is strange only because we have not spent any time alone in a couple weeks. I said yes, and came home from work to find him on my couch; a once familiar occurrence that I realized instantly was one of the many things that I missed now that we are “taking a break.”
I have always been picky about my laundry. It is the only aspect of cleaning that I’d rather not pay someone else to do. This is not because I love lugging my dirties to the laundry room or that I find folding clothes methodically calming. It is simply that I don’t think that other people do it right. After my knee surgery, my mother, God bless her, had to do everything for me, including my laundry. But, the whites seemed dingy, stains didn’t come out, and (this is the big one) she put my ski pants in the dryer! In the dryer?! “They’re going to shrink!” I whaled in my perfect bed-ridden whine. I began to cry (I have already mentioned that nonsensical crying is an undesirable side-effect of Percocet).
Because she is my mother, and because I looked terribly pathetic laid up on the couch wearing my hideous blood stained, anti-embolism post-surgery stocking, she did not kill me on the spot. She didn’t even dump the basket of clean clothes on the floor and head for the airport. Instead, she patiently took instructions and sorted whites from colors, added just the right amount of bleach to white cotton basics, and took my jeans to the dry cleaner (with creases please). And she hung my ski pants out to dry.
So ex-boy/ friend did his laundry (and don’t worry, I don’t tell other people how to clean their clothes), and I made dinner. I wondered if in addition to his heaping piles of dirty clothes, he had come over to launder our soiled relationship. But I resisted my natural instinct to immediately plunge into the subject and decided to butter the bread, have a glass of wine and let the untouched subject bubble under the surface, like the melting cheese in the lasagna baking in the oven.
Everything gets dirty over time. Day to day wear and tear is unavoidable. Without regular and thoughtful care things get discolored and dull. And then there are stains. They happen in an instant. Usually as a result of clumsiness, thoughtlessness or carelessness. Some stains, no matter what you do, just won’t come out. Things can penetrate so deep that no amount of love, “I’m sorry,” or Spray ‘n Wash can repair the damage. Most spills, however, can be lifted if they are attended to immediately.
It is my experience that while women often have a bottle of club soda in hand before the red wine glass hits the floor, men tend to leave things in the bottom of the hamper for days, even weeks, while stains set in. The reason for this difference in stain behavior? I have no idea, but it drives me, and most of the women I know, insane, and frequently causes sleepless nights and irrational behavior.
Recently my girlfriends and I spent the better part of an evening discussing how to approach one friend’s “stain,” and more importantly what to do about the offending male’s complete lack of desire to deal with it. Ideas from this testosterone-free brain trust ranged from prank calling to physical retaliation. Instead, relentless phone calling, sarcasm, insults and yelling were employed. As it turned out, this was not the best strategy for reparation, but it did appear to be rather cathartic.
I have, admittedly, been the perpetrator of a few stains in the past couple weeks. Alcohol and fresh wounds do not mix well, but I ignored my head and numbed my heart, and the result is stinging. So after dinner, ex-boy/ friend and I got a rag and some club soda and did a little cleaning up. The stains will come out, they were just thoughtless moments. The question that remains: Do we have enough bleach, and do we even have the desire, to turn our dingy basics back into bright whites?
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
STUCK IN THE MIDDLE!
Hey, you. Ya I'm talking to you. You are the only one reading this, so I hope you feel special. You should, because you are special, seriously. Anywho, today was the day I was supposed to go on vacation, why am I still in CRAsPen you ask? Oh, I forgot to tell you, BECAUSE I"M STUCK HERE UNTIL THE SNOW MELTS! The funny thing being that the snow hasn't even begun to fall yet, good times. So BLAH. Blah, blah, blah, today is all about blah, or crappy blah. I guess I really don't need a vacation, I can just marinate in all that Aspen has to offer for the next six months. Do I sound crazy yet? Give me a few months, or just tune in to the blog and listen to me bitch. Or don't. It doesn't really matter, because nothing changes the fact that I am stuck in paradise. But at least your in paradise you say, well nobody asked you. Don't worry, I am not mad at you, I am actually thankful that you have taken 3 minutes out of your day to read the crap that I am writing, so THANKS! CHEERS! AWESOME!
Ok, enough ventilation for now, DAMMIT! Ok, now there's enough. So all the kids, yes all, went camping up at Lincoln Creek tonight, should be fun, but since I am on Aspen city arrest, much like house arrest, I can not go. What did I do you ask, well, the most unspeakable thing I can think of. I called in sick to work!!! I know, the atrocity, the horror, shall I ever be forgiven?
Thankfully my good friend The Mayor is here at dirty-nine to take care of me, he also has his trusty sidekick The Wily Wiggler by his side. Together, they have pledged their undying love to do whatever they can for me, until they get off work and go camping, more good times! Alright, I am serious and quit calling me Shirley. I realize that my unableness to go on vacation, is not a REAL problem. I should be sitting here bitching about how we need to do more for the Victims of Katrina, or how we need to rectify the quagmire that is Iraq. I know, so that being said I shall return to my normally scheduled programming and try to think of all of the blessings in my life, which are numerous. At least I have this outlet to get some stuff off my chest, after all your not reading it anyhow.
Monday, September 19, 2005
This Aspen Girl
Huckleberry Tea is ready for you to get to know her a little bit better. In our continuing series "This Aspen Girl" Huck takes us back to a much fuzzier time. Seriously, who else has any balls in this crap laden town? Show me the money! Put your two cents in biatches, you know you ain't got shit else to do.
Slumber Party
There must be something in the Aspen tap. It is spring and the men are ready to go fishing. This, anyway, is the explanation that my girlfriend’s mom offered to account for current events.
In addition to the “break” in my relationship (I hate when people say that, as if adding the “up” is just too difficult, so instead they say that they want to take a “break”, just rip the band-aid off already), many of my coupled friends are breaking-up, taking breaks, needing space, leaving and/or picking fights. And life seemed so tranquil only a few weeks ago.
I told a friend in Dallas about the goings on in our mountain town and she replied immediately, “Well, it is spring!” I’m not sure what that means, or how I have managed to live through twenty-six springs without learning about this “boys gone wild” or “boys gone fishing” phenomenon, but I am starting to believe that it has some validity.
So on Friday night my female friends and I decided, with much thought and reason, that the world had gone mad. The only remedy? Girls’ night. This plan worked well for everyone, as it turned out, since the men, strangely enough, did not particularly want to be around us either. And yes, I am talking about my twenty-something year old friends here, not a group of hormonally challenged high-schoolers.
Girls’ night out turned into a girls’ all-night pub crawl. 6 PM: 39 Degrees. 7 PM: J Bar. 8 PM: Kalyn’s house. 9 PM: Cantina. 10:30 PM: Eric’s. 11:30 until the lights came on: Chelsea.
You may have seen us. We entered in a group of about eight and then broke into small groups to flutter around. We could be seen taking shots, dancing wildly, making group trips to the lady’s room to re-group and re-hash, and jockeying to avoid any contact with boyfriends, ex-boyfriends, husbands or their allies. Come to think of it, we may have very closely resembled a group of hormonally challenged high-schoolers.
Not satisfied with ending our night at such an early hour, we decided to have a slumber party. We headed out to the house on Cemetery Lane, changed into pajamas, found some beer belonging to the uninvited males and sat together, in a circle, until 6 AM.
I am not sure when I last attended a slumber party. Nights out always turned into sleepovers in high school. And I guess that college is basically a four year version of a slumber party in many ways (and in many soft porn movies for that matter). So why don’t we still do this as “adults”? I don’t know, but we really should, because I had more fun between 2 AM and 6 AM than I did all night out in town. In fact, despite the varying cases of heartache, confusion and frustration, I think that we all had one of our best nights in recent memory.
While I cannot divulge the details of what was said or done that night, I can tell you that there was more laughing than crying. Marisa danced, Dava went on a treasure hunt, and Carrie revealed parts of herself that we had never seen before. Leigh Ann giggled and Dom sighed, because she still doesn’t know what she wants. I showed everyone my new scars. And I realized that sometimes, when the passion slips out of one area of your life, it resurfaces, unexpectedly, somewhere new.
Finally, as the sun began to rise, we fell asleep, comforted in knowing that we were, and are, not alone.
GOODBYE RISSY!
Well as ya'll may know, Miss Riss left us today for the thrills and chills of Beantown, we shall all miss her, but all good things must come to an end. Speaking of coming to an end, when the Hell does off-season begin? I know it's supposed to be here alreads, but shiznizzle kiddies. Town was absolutley silly with peeps this weekend. I mean saturday night alone was like a HS convention, with lil babies and their T-backs running around everywhere, WTF? Top that off with some loud mouthed, bald, ruggerfest priques, throw in some drunk bridesmaids, and that makes for an absolutlely shitty night on the town. So after friday nights debaucery and drama-;puh-leez, and the worst hang over of my life, OK not really, but it was terrible none the less, Saturday nights big blowout bonanza turned out to be a bitch blow-up barf-a-rama. After taking the four hour saturday nap, I was a rarin' to go, til I gets the word that the "party animals" were going to watch movies for Miss Riss's last night in town, and perhaps order in. Boo-hoo. Feeling a bit deflated and probably a bit hungover, I decide to go see 40 year old virgin, solo. This turns out to be actually pretty funny, but I did such a good job of making myself comfortable in the theatre that I woke up in the credits, AGAIN!!! That's twice in two movies kids, what's going on here, I am begining to experience the early stages of what can only be descirbed as movie-lepsy which effects every other male in my family? For awhile I thought it had skipped a generation, but these last couple of instances have really got me worried. HELP! BTW, did anyone watch the emmy's? Well your a dork if you did! But thanks to TR3NT, for the images of the CRAP that you missed, of r all you non-dorks out there. Peace biznatchles, I'm out! BTW-First ever MNF double header, REJOICE! Go cowboys
Friday, September 16, 2005
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Hey Kiddies,
I wanted to be the first to introduce you to the newest member of cosmiccornblog, Huckleberry Tea. Huck, as you will see her called from time to time comes to Aspen via Dallas, TX. She will be writing a column for us called, "This Aspen Girl" and will read something like this post frfom a lil' while back. If you would like to become a meber of the crap that is cosmiccornblog contact me, I would love to talk to you.
Here's Huck:
It’s Not Me, It’s You
I had a profound thought last night. Brace your self for this one: Love is blind. I was in shock when my relationship got the ax, it was, I thought, completely out of the blue. What happened? What did I do wrong? What has changed? And then, about the time that I took a breath and let it go, the blinders fell off. I have been ignoring all the signs. This break-up isn’t a bolt of lightning, coming in an instant and lighting up a cloudless sky. This is a tropical storm that has been building momentum for weeks. And while the cause of this storm is not one clear issue, but rather a number of colliding forces, I have been standing out in the rain with my eyes closed, wondering why my hair is getting wet.
I tried marijuana for the first time my senior year in college. I laughed, I cried, I hallucinated. I saw my friend Debbie’s head in a kaleidoscope, twenty little Debbie heads floating around in a circle. I shouted to the streets of Hamilton, NY, “Vote for Nader” and “Join the Green Party,” because someone suggested I get a little fresh air. Upon arriving home I engaged a pink stain on my bedspread in a conversation, “Hello stain. Where did you come from?” I promise that this all happened, and these incidents represent only a handful of many similar episodes that occurred that evening. No one else hallucinated, so we concluded that it wasn’t the pot. The only reasonable conclusion: I am allergic to marijuana. This is particularly ironic and humorous because my mom, while pregnant with me in 1978, smoked pot to alleviate morning sickness. And that wasn’t exactly her first or last experience with the substance. She has been a fan of the “gonjola” since it was built, and pretty recently she spent a little time on Willie Nelson’s tour bus. Like mother, like daughter? Maybe not so much in this area.
Most recently I have been experimenting with controlled substances. Not illegal drugs, just drugs that require a medical doctor’s prescription. On my most recent bender I ate 80 Percocet in 10 days. It started the day that I had my ACL repaired. I don’t remember much, just that I fainted, cried a lot, consumed nothing but saltine crackers and ginger ale and slept through roughly 15 DVD’s. My friend Katherine, who is an attorney, informed me that distributing my Percocet to anyone would be a felony. Not a problem, keep your friends close and your Percocet closer. I needed every last one those babies.
Following the Percocet coma I was downgraded to Vicodin. This was a real treat. Weeping and sleeping gave way to nausea and drowsiness. At this point I was trying to get back to work and life, and yet all I wanted to do was throw-up and take a nap. And I have already mentioned the disastrous affects of mixing Vicodin and alcohol on an empty stomach; an ill-fated experiment that resulted in an ugly scene at Belly Up.
On a positive note, I lost any semblance of an appetite, and I lost ten pounds just in time for my upcoming trip to Mexico. This is not a diet strategy that I would recommend to anyone, however, as I find that waking up in dry heaves is far less appealing than a little junk in the trunk.
Why anyone would choose to take this drug recreationally is completely beyond me. I can only imagine planning a night out with friends. “Well, I will have to skip Kenichi because upon first sight of the Dynamite Shrimp I will have to flee to the strange Japanese toilet to vomit. So call me after dinner, except I will probably be asleep by then, in fact, I am going to turn my ringer off so that your call doesn’t wake me, so have fun and I’ll see you later.”
Don’t get me wrong, I am no teetotaler and I like to have fun as much as anyone else in Aspen. Drugs just seem to be rubbing me the wrong way lately.
So what do break-ups, blinders and drugs have to do with each other? Well, as far as I can tell, you can end up on a crash course to What the Hell Happened Town and not even notice, because the route passes right through Ignorance Is Bliss-Ville.
Drugs and break-ups have their place, but I’ve had enough for now, so I’m going to take a pass on the next round.
I wanted to be the first to introduce you to the newest member of cosmiccornblog, Huckleberry Tea. Huck, as you will see her called from time to time comes to Aspen via Dallas, TX. She will be writing a column for us called, "This Aspen Girl" and will read something like this post frfom a lil' while back. If you would like to become a meber of the crap that is cosmiccornblog contact me, I would love to talk to you.
Here's Huck:
It’s Not Me, It’s You
I had a profound thought last night. Brace your self for this one: Love is blind. I was in shock when my relationship got the ax, it was, I thought, completely out of the blue. What happened? What did I do wrong? What has changed? And then, about the time that I took a breath and let it go, the blinders fell off. I have been ignoring all the signs. This break-up isn’t a bolt of lightning, coming in an instant and lighting up a cloudless sky. This is a tropical storm that has been building momentum for weeks. And while the cause of this storm is not one clear issue, but rather a number of colliding forces, I have been standing out in the rain with my eyes closed, wondering why my hair is getting wet.
I tried marijuana for the first time my senior year in college. I laughed, I cried, I hallucinated. I saw my friend Debbie’s head in a kaleidoscope, twenty little Debbie heads floating around in a circle. I shouted to the streets of Hamilton, NY, “Vote for Nader” and “Join the Green Party,” because someone suggested I get a little fresh air. Upon arriving home I engaged a pink stain on my bedspread in a conversation, “Hello stain. Where did you come from?” I promise that this all happened, and these incidents represent only a handful of many similar episodes that occurred that evening. No one else hallucinated, so we concluded that it wasn’t the pot. The only reasonable conclusion: I am allergic to marijuana. This is particularly ironic and humorous because my mom, while pregnant with me in 1978, smoked pot to alleviate morning sickness. And that wasn’t exactly her first or last experience with the substance. She has been a fan of the “gonjola” since it was built, and pretty recently she spent a little time on Willie Nelson’s tour bus. Like mother, like daughter? Maybe not so much in this area.
Most recently I have been experimenting with controlled substances. Not illegal drugs, just drugs that require a medical doctor’s prescription. On my most recent bender I ate 80 Percocet in 10 days. It started the day that I had my ACL repaired. I don’t remember much, just that I fainted, cried a lot, consumed nothing but saltine crackers and ginger ale and slept through roughly 15 DVD’s. My friend Katherine, who is an attorney, informed me that distributing my Percocet to anyone would be a felony. Not a problem, keep your friends close and your Percocet closer. I needed every last one those babies.
Following the Percocet coma I was downgraded to Vicodin. This was a real treat. Weeping and sleeping gave way to nausea and drowsiness. At this point I was trying to get back to work and life, and yet all I wanted to do was throw-up and take a nap. And I have already mentioned the disastrous affects of mixing Vicodin and alcohol on an empty stomach; an ill-fated experiment that resulted in an ugly scene at Belly Up.
On a positive note, I lost any semblance of an appetite, and I lost ten pounds just in time for my upcoming trip to Mexico. This is not a diet strategy that I would recommend to anyone, however, as I find that waking up in dry heaves is far less appealing than a little junk in the trunk.
Why anyone would choose to take this drug recreationally is completely beyond me. I can only imagine planning a night out with friends. “Well, I will have to skip Kenichi because upon first sight of the Dynamite Shrimp I will have to flee to the strange Japanese toilet to vomit. So call me after dinner, except I will probably be asleep by then, in fact, I am going to turn my ringer off so that your call doesn’t wake me, so have fun and I’ll see you later.”
Don’t get me wrong, I am no teetotaler and I like to have fun as much as anyone else in Aspen. Drugs just seem to be rubbing me the wrong way lately.
So what do break-ups, blinders and drugs have to do with each other? Well, as far as I can tell, you can end up on a crash course to What the Hell Happened Town and not even notice, because the route passes right through Ignorance Is Bliss-Ville.
Drugs and break-ups have their place, but I’ve had enough for now, so I’m going to take a pass on the next round.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
ASPEN FAT TUESDAY.
The night kicked off with a meet & greet at the sky hotel for the applicants of the upcoming A&E reality show, The Aspen Project. Around the same time the music got going at Belly Up and @ various other locations around town in order to get the party started to benefit the victims of hurricane katrina. The place was packed and it wasn't the usual crowd I see at the Belly Up. It was filled with silent auction items and the NOLA inspired sounds and cheap concoctions seemed to get the crowd in a most generous mood. Feeling a bit cramped and a bit tired of trying to explain my new found freedom to an old compratiate, I decided it was time to boogie, not at Belly Up, and definately not at Boogies. This evening would also welcome the official return of the vinnie special, rejoice, a week is a long time. It would also welcome the return of the vomit express conducted by the legendary lil' Vin himself. After a quick change and a bite to eat we were yet again. Before long I had made it back to dirty-nine degrees to catch up with the kids. Upon arrival I found Bubs, lil' Vin, Tater Tot, Miss Riss, Huckleberry Tea, and Thai posted up at the bar enjoying some libatious liberation. Also in appearance was JA of JA-VA and Free Spirit working the bar that evening. Here's where the night turned a lil' slippy. The great thing about the dirty-nine bar staff is that they always want to try out a new shot on you, and as long as you keep sayin' it's crap, they keep trying up the anny, cheers! So after repeatedly yellin' out crap in my worst Scottish accent, we were told that it was time to go. Somehow (wink, wink) I managed to miss all busses back to the casa de caca, so Huckleberry Tea and myself traded war stories til late in the evening. Apparently I scared the CRAP out of Miss thing, when she noticed me on her couch when she got up, so sorry, but I didn't think it was appropriate to wake you at 4am to infrom you that I would be spending the next few hours on the sofa, next time I will! When I awoke on Huck's/ Miss Things couch, I was not all that excited to go to work, but I quickly got over myself, and was soon enjoying the pleasures of a triple espresso and an egg bagel, I looked over my shoulder twice for the thieving transvestite, but she/it/he was no where to be found. Don't worry, I'm watching honey.
Monday, September 12, 2005
WEEKEND UPDATE> 9.9-9.11
So friday night i thought it would be a great idea to stay up til 4:30 doing ABSOLUTLEY nothing, so I could be a real grouch at my 12 hour photoshoot on saturday. Yes, I made the trek to uber-fabulous Basalt, CO to photo direct a shoot for an upcoming spread in Aspen Magazine about the future of prominent Aspen Yocals. Yeehaw. So after a nutritious breakfast of redbulls and nicotine we got the thing a rollin. A variety of locations ate up the day as my team, and I shot at places like a 15 year olds bedroom, and airstream trailer, on a grassy knoll (Aspen>NOT Dallas), on a faded porch, amongst some leafy vines, and lastly in a powder grey older Jeep complete with 7 & 8 year olds with their razors (scooters not the moto, yo). Kissing the shoot goodbye, I reluctantly left old towne Basalt, and headed back to la caca casa de azul (AKA my current living quarters) where I managed to pass out with all of my clothes on and a beer in hand, I managed somehow not to spill a drop, good times. As I am dreaming of waking, the plastic pocket talking device begins to buzz with the type of enthusiam not heard since the last day of school. Upon retrieving the message from somewhere deep inside the plastic talky box, I swiftly got red to go, and was off to meet Miss Riss at Chelsea for a night cap. Fast forward to Sunday morning-> I find myself in the presence of the wily wiggler herself preparing for me her best rendition of the drink formerly known as the bloody mary. Thoughts on my mind go back to the previous evening which was filled with good conversation with a great friend who sadly enough, will be leaving the valley for the alleys of Boston, MASS. We will miss ya Riss, but more on that later seeing as we've still got her for a week. At some poinnt in betwixt the worchestire, and limes I remembered that I was not going to take a nap that afternoon, because I had lots o work to do, and lots o clothes to wash. As I wake in a bit of a panic at 1:55am on JA-VA's couch I race for the bus, YES, I have made it with a minute to spare! Until, I hear coming from my brothers from south o' the border, "Where you going man" Las casa de caca, I say. "NO MAS, man" crap, I have missed the last bus, damn off season schedule! Luckily, Big E is driving by, so I flag him down, and I am able to keep my lids from dropping just long enough to crawl into bed, sans clothes this time.
So friday night i thought it would be a great idea to stay up til 4:30 doing ABSOLUTLEY nothing, so I could be a real grouch at my 12 hour photoshoot on saturday. Yes, I made the trek to uber-fabulous Basalt, CO to photo direct a shoot for an upcoming spread in Aspen Magazine about the future of prominent Aspen Yocals. Yeehaw. So after a nutritious breakfast of redbulls and nicotine we got the thing a rollin. A variety of locations ate up the day as my team, and I shot at places like a 15 year olds bedroom, and airstream trailer, on a grassy knoll (Aspen>NOT Dallas), on a faded porch, amongst some leafy vines, and lastly in a powder grey older Jeep complete with 7 & 8 year olds with their razors (scooters not the moto, yo). Kissing the shoot goodbye, I reluctantly left old towne Basalt, and headed back to la caca casa de azul (AKA my current living quarters) where I managed to pass out with all of my clothes on and a beer in hand, I managed somehow not to spill a drop, good times. As I am dreaming of waking, the plastic pocket talking device begins to buzz with the type of enthusiam not heard since the last day of school. Upon retrieving the message from somewhere deep inside the plastic talky box, I swiftly got red to go, and was off to meet Miss Riss at Chelsea for a night cap. Fast forward to Sunday morning-> I find myself in the presence of the wily wiggler herself preparing for me her best rendition of the drink formerly known as the bloody mary. Thoughts on my mind go back to the previous evening which was filled with good conversation with a great friend who sadly enough, will be leaving the valley for the alleys of Boston, MASS. We will miss ya Riss, but more on that later seeing as we've still got her for a week. At some poinnt in betwixt the worchestire, and limes I remembered that I was not going to take a nap that afternoon, because I had lots o work to do, and lots o clothes to wash. As I wake in a bit of a panic at 1:55am on JA-VA's couch I race for the bus, YES, I have made it with a minute to spare! Until, I hear coming from my brothers from south o' the border, "Where you going man" Las casa de caca, I say. "NO MAS, man" crap, I have missed the last bus, damn off season schedule! Luckily, Big E is driving by, so I flag him down, and I am able to keep my lids from dropping just long enough to crawl into bed, sans clothes this time.
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