u s e y o u r h a n d s

There’s this feeling in my stomach that starts well before the actual party. Days in advance, even. The lists are forming — bolded, underlined, befonted — and I’m getting afraid.

I’ve thrown many dinner/drinking fetes that I’d like to think were successful. But this one’s going to be a biggie. It’s my 25th birthday party, to be held on the 22nd. And I think the reason I’m so nervous about this party in particular has a lot to do with the actual birthday.

I have written about my weird associations with my upcoming quarter-century mark, and instead of further mulling, I think I’ve transferred all this anxiety about my life’s performance to this party.

How many times have I rethought the menu? I’ve redecorated the apartment several times in my head, imagining spackled walls, heatgunned and varnished woodwork, a really fucking shiny pot rack. But I’m settling for one Necco-wafer-pink wall, one French’s-mustard-yellow wall, pages from a book in really cheap frames, hanging candles, a suspicious lack of chairs.

But it will be great, this party. People will wear tiaras and fezes at this party. There will be noise and laughter and stories formed at this party. I will remember this party.

I’m not necessarily bringing back the old-school Missed Connex, but here is a sampling of the bounty that is fucking Craig’s List. Holy G-O-D.

Ed. note: “pickle-tickle” is the new black.

i hate hiking

i fucking hate hiking. there is nothing i would like to do less than pack up a bunch of shitty granola, walk around some bullshit meadow or mountain in my cargo shorts and retarded clown boots from Wal-Mart, and wipe my ass with poison oak. don’t get me wrong, i like the outdoors as much as the next asshole, but hiking sucks. and what’s the deal with camping? don’t try to tell me that cooking tiny-ass fish on the side of a shopping cart over a smokey-as-shit fire is any fun. then you have to sleep in a stuffy ass tent with a heap of jackasses who, at best, smell like ballsacks while a pack of bears are patiently waiting outside with eating utensils and fucking napkins wrapped around their necks. plus, whereever you are, you know that at some point you are going to have drive about 4 hours to get home. ah, yes. nothing like sitting in traffic on 80 on sunday afternoon. and was it worth it? did you really get in touch with nature or did you just manage to scrape the hell out of your Chevy Tahoe while trying to pack your stupid backpack with those lame metal back-support things on top of your tent that reeks.

no thanks, friend. i’ll take my saturdays with a healthy dose of bbq chicken, Giants on the tube, and maybe give the old lady a pickle-tickle. thank you.

Ed. note: Someone should take away Brian Setzer’s computer.

Jingle Bells – 23

How ’bout a martini to go with that mistletoe? This year Santa’s packin’ somethin’ straight outta Yulesville for the hip chicks. And whether you’ve been naughty or nice, you’ll want to make sure you’re dancin’ your way into the season of joy. My question on the wire is this kittens, this fat kat wants to toe tap with a skirt this holy jolly season. Lets be friends first and rounders last, what makes a fat kat like me look now instead of then, i rather hit the dance floor with a kitten then search for one later.
What i got to give is this, I am latin Santa and landing on my 24 yr of dancing in November. Jazz, Swing, is all good as far as i see it, so why not have a hip spinning time with a large kat like myself?

Time to hit the road kittens,

Martini’s and Merry Time for everyone

As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized how stupid they sounded. More than anything, she wanted to speak again to erase their sound from the air. If she should die before the spoke again, these stupid words would be her last. Even if nobody had heard them (and surely, in the empty garage, nobody had) somewhere they would be recorded. Perhaps they would be etched in the pattern of her tombstone’s granite.

On Sunday night, he carefully smoothed the ten dollar bill and placed it on the kitchen table. It was just an experiment, he reminded himself. Eat for an entire week — breakfast, lunch, and dinner — on just ten dollars. By Wednesday, he felt like a poor little match girl, clutching his garments around his scrawny body. On Friday, he broke the stretch of meager, morally filling meals with a vast feast in his favorite restaurant. While he scooped up forkfuls, he summarized his conclusion into one ridiculous sentence: poor people are better than rich people.

Out of nowhere, she began to smell like noodles. She had not eaten noodles in months. Wet noodles everywhere.

“They’re for my daughter,” he told the check-out clerk. She gave him a hint of a smile and bagged up his puchases. He stashed the bag under the bed when he got home and joined his family for dinner. After everyone fell asleep, he crept downstairs with the bag. In the basement, he unwrapped the two dolls and played for hours.

She assumed she was dying. Suddenly, the sound of the shower, which had been so harsh, became a distant, hollow echo. She did not know she was just fainting as she watched the ground get closer.