Full-frontal: Lame ballads, pink-haired gossip queens, and peanut butter by the spoonful

Wikipedia, or more appropriate, the self-assured well-intentioned contributor who posted it, defines "guilty pleasure" as "something one considers pleasurable despite it being mainly received negatively or looked down on by a majority of society". You know something you do, or like, that you probably wouldn't confess except to your closest friends -those guys who already know you are a cool-less freak so no further harm is done to your character. Said contributor goes on to offer the example of a guy liking "Sex in the City". I'm going to infer that he meant "a straight" guy.

Our guilty pleasures make us giddy. They titillate the little school girls in us. They tickle the pooh bear buried in our bellies. They are what we watch and listen to when the doors are double-locked and no one has access to our hidden-in-plain-sight On-the-Go 4 iPod playlist.

Instinctively we should keep the gps on the qt. But, you see, I have a condition which requires me to share. It's a combination of attention-seeking and cries for acceptance. Work with me, here.

So in the spirit of full exposure, here are a few of mine. I'm curious if any of ya'll will pony up and admit your share them or add some of your own. Just, you know, porn doesn't count. Really.- These things should have little to no sense of cool (like you can't say "Princess Bride" or "Diff'nt Strokes" - they have that 80's retro cool thing going on). Guilty pleasures are things that probably don't add any prominence. No nice patina to your aging. They just highlight your geekiness. Your freak flag flying high.

My Top 5 Guilty Pleasures:
1) Train's "Drops of Jupiter" - Oh, c'mon and lie to me and tell me you don't crank that shit up when it comes on the radio and you're alone in the car. Try to convince me of that. When Pat hits his vocal-stride ( 3:00 on the vid below), how can you NOT pound the steering wheel and cry out with him, "Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?!" This IS always on my 'Most Recently Played" and "Top 25 Played". No hiding there.

2) PerezHilton.com - I soooo want to be better than the commoner I am. But damn it, Janet, I can't resist the gossip. I can't!!! And though he can be cruel, he can also be, well, sweet. I actually think he cares for Britney. He is right-on most of the time, too. Like Simon on "American Idol". Just instead of articulated musical critique, Perez likes to draw dribbles and penises. Who doesn't?

3) "Constantine" the movie- I put this here because, well, after living with a fan-boy comic-freak for 11yrs, you learn a thing or two. Though we broke up, I took away a deep understanding of these guys. And they are harsh f'n critics. Oh they love hard. And they will take you down with their replica-sabers if you mess with them. I still can't get the voices out of my head about how "they" [Hollywood] are sooo going to mess-up "The Watchmen". So trust me on this, those that matter, are rather 'eh' about this movie. Me? I can't get enough of it. I don't know what it is. I can't turn away when it's on HBO. It's like I'm Iggy Pop and it's a big o'dish of multi-colored good-time capsules. And it isn't Keanu. I promise. There is something in this movie that makes me watch. Every. Time.

4) Dance-movies in general - i.e. "Step up and Bring It to the Server" or whatever - I'm waaay too old to want to see these movies. I stash them in my Netflix queue. I offer to take my fourteen-year-old niece and cousin to see them. I check IMDB to make sure Channing Tatum is over 18 (he is - 28 to be exact, I mean, if you needed to know). I have issues. I know. And again, I'm not going to believe your lie that you haven't dropped it to the floor after hearing "Low". I'm calling you out, punk. Show 'em what you got. Go hard!

5) Peanut butter from the jar - See? I'm giving ya'll the whole truth. This is a disgusting habit, but I swear I don't double-dip. Give me a spoonful of natural Skippy (no stirring!!!) and I'm a happy-happy-happy girl. :) Work that with some apple, and dang. It's the simple things ya'll :)

Enjoy these clips!!

Mmm... the honesty gush of the blogger: Tastes like tofu and preening

A friend told me the other night that I had balls in my writings. He was drunk. And it was IM. So I'm gonna think he was being honest. Instant messaging is confessional. Alcohol just makes the typing more cardiac.

I often refer to my blogs as random up-chucks of consciousness. If you've read more than two, you've probably got me figured out. Pegged. Though I control what I put down, what goes up is as much me as anything else. Snaps, Jason, Koka, and Matt can attest to that. There's a certain life-bond created when you hold someone's hair while they're puking. When you make them laugh through tears over a miserable little boy, generally referred to as Satan - you know the one who broke-up with you in your dorm parking lot because he was "bad for you", but not before giving you a case of Zima (I like my drinks bubbly, sue me!) and stating "You'll probably be needing this". When the dirt gets aired, it is those people who will get the big payday.

So, really, what do I have left to hide? I'm a plebeian with uptown tastes and a smackering of education. I'm an attention starlet who name drops philosophers so you don't think she's small-town. I want you to look while I cover my eyes. Seriously, this is basic psychology kids. Don't stress yourself.

In all my efforts to not be what I am, I suppressed. I beat down and bruised my inclinations and my instincts. I recited, hand over heart, that being the good little cube-dweller would bring me the peace that they sold on SUV commercials. I could make a mix-CD of Led Zepplin's "Black Dog" and the Stooge's "Search and Destroy" and be cool while living my American dream.

As you probably have figured out, that didn't work for me. Maybe I'm missing a gene. A little burp during mitosis. I'm impatient. I gotta think my DNA is as well. Like when I hear a bad sound in my car and I just turn the radio up louder, I developed on, ignoring the grinding and whining timing belt.

And, so, here I am. Throwing up on you, but, you know, in a good way. The way that doesn't charge-up a cleaning bill or leave a bad smell. Well, usually not.

I write here not because I think I'm better than you or that my opinions matter. They don't. I do it 'cause I'm selfish. I do it because I like doing it. Like I've said, I'm Veruca. I'm a kitten. I want it now and I want it to be pleasing to the touch. -Scratchy scratchy. Break the skin. Itchy Itchy. Let it in. - My same drunk friend told me that his gf found me "alien" and that she just doesn't get me. Awesome. I need that. I like the thought of being alien. Enigmatic and armed to the teeth with pop banter and fan-boy wit. It makes me feel cool. Crank the New York Dolls. Let's get our glam on.

Oh, and post-script here darlings, I sincerely thank you for reading. For commenting and msging me. I don't want to be your Messiah. Just your idol. I'm done with saving souls and turning water into wine. I'm just after your stroke and your thoughts. Trust me, I want you much more than you want me. I think you're beautiful.

Feel the lovin'. Feel the cool. - Black Dog - 5:35

Ah, so this is why I'm so f'ed up: Bronte broads and Russian bastards

I blame the Bronte sisters, especially Emily. Jane Austen should be charged as well. And Tolstoy and Dostoevsky are far from innocent here. F'n passion-filled geniuses. And while we are at it, toss in Thomas Hardy. He's fucked up enough.

While the PTA blasts videogames for their violence and movies are slapped with sexual-situations and adult-themes warnings, no one calls classic literature out for what it is. What it does. Where was Tipper Gore when I needed her? "As Nasty As They Wanna Be" was comedy. Did she listen to that whole album? "Dirty Nursery Rhymes" wasn't going to hurt anyone. But unrequited love for your stable-boy played out against fields of sweeping heather and forbidding class-structure? That does no damage? Bullshit. I say bullshit on thee.

I want my fucking Heathcliff. I want a love that transcends normalcy. I want a love that lasts. I want fucking-forever. And these people, these grand and great authors of lit class masturbation and holier-than-thou sentence structure (let's be honest, I've never met a run-on-sentence I haven't loved), they owe it to me.

How am I supposed to function in the real world when my first crush was Bronte's brooding, angry Heathcliff? I read "Wuthering Heights" when I was 11. I've been trying to save every boy I've met since. Do you know how messed up that is? - Aloysha Karamazov. Prince Andrei Bolkonsky. Count Vronsky. Jude Fawley. Yeah. I tapped all those asses. And they mind-fucked me back.

No one ever stepped in and told me they were just fantasies without the elves and the pixies. That they were unachievable examples of love and passion. That they have all the realism of porn just in much more acceptable Penguin Classics packaging. Catherine Earnshaw was just Jenna Jamison giving it up to her adopted brother and the rich-boy next door. - Heathcliff deserved better. He deserved me.

I'm trying to be better. Giving up the "leprechauns". The misunderstood 5'10", scrawny boys who can quote "Crime and Punishment" but can't hold down a job. - I know I can't blame my unrealistic views of love and relationships entirely on the books I read. They're called fiction for a reason I suppose. Still though. If such things weren't possible, if no one ever really had that sort of love, then we wouldn't be affected by them, would we? We wouldn't read them over and over and make them into movies. We wouldn't still believe the lie, would we?

I don't believe in the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. But I believe in one-and-only and forever. I still want my Heathcliff. "He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, we're the same"

Here's "Wuthering Heights" in 1:09 minutes:

Happy Harry Hardon ruined me & all the good themes have been used up

It started out like this:
"Did you ever get the feeling that everything in America is completely fucked up? You know that feeling that the whole country is like one inch away from saying 'That's it, forget it'. You think about it. Everything is polluted. The environment, the government, the schools, you name it. "

I didn't see "Pump Up the Volume" when it came out in 1990. I had to wait for it to hit video. Then watch it in secret. Southern Baptist are like that. We like our sinning done in the dark so there are no witnesses. Maybe that's why I like "talk hard" so much. "A dirty thought in a clean mind".

I did, at one time, care about politics. Oh, I was a little Campus Republican (they had the best parties). I was a volunteer on the campaign trail. I could whip out the Reagan and bring you to your fucking liberal knees with my jedi-mindtricks of voo-doo economics and SDI/MAD diplomacy. - Then I met Ralph Reed, who creeped-me-the-fuck-out when I shook his hand. A week later I met Nadine Strossen of the ACLU on campus and I burned my contract with America and went out and hugged some trees. I even started thinking Bill Clinton was kinda sexxy hott. And that summer that Monica was interning, well, uh, that was the summer I was supposed to be interning too. Though I ditched that to spend the summer with my idiot boyfriend at the time. F'n boys. - Still though, part of me thinks Bill would have liked me. We'd have gotten along. As anyone who has funneled with me knows, as all good Southern girls do, I know how to drink and I always swallow. It would have been good times.

Somewhere though, I've lost it. I just don't care. Maybe it was Clinton proving he was a real-boy after-all with the faults that go along with that. Then Bush did not help. Maybe it was the year or so spent agonizing over the daily casualty reports from Iraq. Relieved that it wasn't my baby brother or my friend Adj. Then realizing that it was someone else's someone. Maybe not mine today, but someone's heart was ripped out so I would cry anyway for being selfish and for their pain.

I know Barack is inspirational. I've seen theater. I've seen religion. I've even bought tickets to both. And I know Hillary has experience and contacts and knows how to get things done. I also know that John McCain is a good guy. Really. I can't imagine the shit he went through over there. - Still though, I can't help but think that what was true in Harry's 1990 is still true now. How sad is that?

Don't get me wrong, here. I WANT to care. Really I do. I've been letting this play out gladiator-style and we are coming down to the final contestants. President of the United States. Yeah, I should care. But really, I'm not feeling the warm and fuzzies for any of them. No one is making me want them. No one has licked me right and set me off. And I want that. I WANT to be in love with one of them. I want to believe that my teenaged view of isolation and melancholy hasn't come full-circle. That there is hope. Problem is. I'm old enough to know that hope is air. That's it's something you believe in when you don't have anything else. It's all that keeps you going when you're drowning in the shit and flotsam of life. Maybe I'm not drowning just yet. Or maybe I'm already under and I just don't know it.

As Harry says, "All the great themes have been used up and turned into theme parks." And right now, I don't feel like dealing with the crowds just to toss my cookies on the 3rd loopty-loop.

But then again, maybe my political soul can still be saved. Go ahead. Give it a try. Seduce me. Show me what you got, little mama. Show me what you got, big baller. - - - Until then, I'm breaking out the Leonard Cohen and mellowing to "Everybody Knows". Talk to me hard, babies.

Here are a few "Pump" clips for your enjoyment (1st two: 27 and 33 secs). Including the yummy Cohen song, which is a bit longer at but very enjoyable :)

Douchebaggery: It's not just a New Jersey thing, we just do it best

With over 11million views, I'm sure you've seen the "My New Haircut" (thanks, Kaori!) or any of its many variations, by now. - This thing cracks me up. I view it more as a documentary-style clip than parody. After 11yrs in NJ, I can confirm these guys do exist and, yeah kiddies, they have absolutely no sense of irony.

For the record, douchebags are everywhere. New Jersey doesn't have an exclusive first-look deal with them, as the equally entertaining site "Hot Chicks with Douchebags" confirms (thanks, Matt!). - The state just gives them the perfect environment for their douchebaggery. It's God's little Garden State for asshole breeding. If only we could get pandas to screw like these guys.

Maybe it's the whole bridge-and-tunnel mentality where Manhattan is the cooler, older step-brother and we're just trying to get his attention. Apparently that is best gotten with barely-buttoned silk shirts, over-producted hair, and 'roiding attitude. In NJ they know every Bruuuuce song, is kin to a Bon Giovanni, and can get you a deal on a dozen, no less, leather jackets. The "Sopranos" wasn't just good TV. It was Sunday evening at the Globe. It was Shakespeare's pen and Maya Angelou's soul. They were telling the story of your uncle, your cousin, and all that you secretly wanted to be. In New Jersey, the last 3 governors have all ended up in the hospital in some sort of "accident". In New Jersey, strippers are dancers and dancers are always landing-stip waxed. You so want to bang that.

I think NJ is kinda proud of its douchebags. It's like, "Yeah, ok, we're douchebags, but at least we ain't fags. Whoa!" - I think that should be the new state motto. "At least we ain't fags". Nothing sums up the douchebag mentality better than that. - Though, of course, saying that, dressed as they are, might be the gayest thing ever. And trust me, I've seen some really gay shit. Can I get a "sweetie, darling Amen"?

So next time you're at a bar, the Port Authority at 1am, or karaoke night (they fucking love those places), take a look around. Find your state's douchebags. Don't get too close. Just watch. Marvel at how they wedge their off-the-truck Versace shades between spike#4 and 5 on their head. Be stunned at the ladies who line up and laugh at their jokes and witty lines that always end with, "so, you wanna check out the back of my cousin's Escalade?". - - We've got some pretty awesome, top-notch douchebags in the NJ. We're talking Olympic athletes. How good are yours?

In case the Lunesta Butterflies aren't doing the trick...

I've posted the most recent episodes of my on-going myspace story there. I don't post those ramblings on here as most of my readers are there. But hey, if you are bored, you are more than welcomed to check it out.

I post them as I complete them so they are in reverse order. The dates are listed with the episodes so you can use the myspace date filters on the blog to pull up the section you want.

Input is always welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!!

Oh, and I should mention that there is language and sex. But it isn't what you think. Some of my red state friends freaked out over Part I. Like it was all about sex. No no. Just had to establish that up front. *laugh*

http://blog.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

Parts I, II – 12/30/07

Part III, IV – 12/31/07

Parts V, VI – 12/31/07

Part VII – 1/22/08

Part VIII- 1/22/08

Part IX- 1/27/07

Part X – 1/27/07

Parts XI, XII - 2/27/07

Google, you ignorant slut, what do you mean no matching documents found?

Are you f'n kidding me? WTMF?! And what are you doing now? Asking me did I mean something else? - And what was that, Suzy Sunshine? Maybe I should try again, putting quotes around grouped words? Seriously? You're advising me on how to compose a query? Ok, yeah, uh, bitch, now's whens you best be stepping the fuck off. This isn't my first rodeo.

C'mon, I'm not being crazy, am I? If there is one grand truth to the world, one shining point of light of Athenian promises and Herculean strength that makes the daily drop-to-your-knees, lips rounded and parted, suck-off acceptable it is this: Someone, somewhere, has posted it.

That's the moist smack of the Internet, no? That all information is available, you just have to look. That for every freak, there are 1,000 more just like you,huddled and whacking off to, well, whatever it is you are whack off to. The Internet is the Bushiest of uniters-not-dividers. Spread wide and ready for the insert of your query, your manifesto, your fanfic, and your family reunion pictures of Uncle Tommy passed out in the lawn chair, Heiny in hand, covered in silly-string.

It isn't a particularly picky lover but there's an agreement. An understanding between the Internet and us, right? We feed it. We put our petty shit out there. We lube up and shove in our secrets and our lusts. We disrobe and prance and feel pretty behind our avatars and our clever nom de jeu and give up the layers we have until we are a raw nub, just right for the mutual rubbing.

All the Internet has to do is be there for us. To never let us down. To hold us and let us freak out and cry we aren't pretty enough. That our friends don't really like us. That we are disappointed in life, ourselves, and our parents. It should be there to tell us how to find Mulberry Street and what is the highest Zagat-rated Thai joint in Chelsea. It should alert us when sad things happen and when Britney makes her 3am Rite-Aid run.

And, mostly, it should always be there, and have handy, any bit of information we are wanting. Because really, we've come to expect that. We've come to deserve it. We've given it our souls, our social security numbers, and our credit history. So, honestly, no matching documents found? Fuck you Internet. I never loved you in the first place. I've been fucking the NY Times Print Edition anyway.

p.s. I still love you, Internet. I still love your Google, it's just that... well, I can't be with you right now. Give me some time. Yeah, I remember when you won me that netsuke on eBay. Yeah, we've had some great times. We'll always have this Winona clip. - Fuck, baby, you know I love you. Come here. I just put on a fresh coat of lip plumper. Let's see how that feels on you. Let's see if I can leave a mark.

"Feed us drinks! Get us laid!"

A friend posted a comment on my mysp in reply to my "mood status" there stating that I " just got a msg that constituted some "quick" "drunken love". Ahh, it's like being back in college. And he was a Sig Ep even! ;)". My buddy Adj was up late and apparently he had been enjoying the weekend. He's a Lt in the Army. He's earned all the beer he ever wants.

The comment I got said, "i hated frat boys even though one of my best friends was one. the vile excuse to be in gang with greek lettering".

I get what he is trying to say I do. - But still... could any of us stand-up to scrutiny based on the oh-my-God-it's-so-huge-tools we were when we were younger? I mean, all of the world is an asshole at age 20. We are all scared, insecure, cocky bastards, weebling around, trying not to fall down. Either geared with keg-stand skills or armed with self-righteous schooled insight ("it's Knee-che people, like Che Guevara" - dude, I hate those people), we all pick teams, gather for warmth, and just try to survive. Accountability can't really start until you're 30. Everything before is just a testing-ground, Double-Dare obstacle course. There's bells to ring, slip-n-slides to belly-flop, and a shit-load of goo to be dived into, all with the intent of finding some ticket. Some thing that will get us to the next round.

I've known frat boys in my day. Some super-awesome. Some not so much. Even the worst of them had something to offer. I still remember the night one certain arrogant, womanizer broke down and "shared" something (ok, at 20 I had a real bad case of the messiah-complex ... that each of these guys had a sensitive poet inside them and their homophobic fuck-machine exterior was just window-dressing... yeah, I know. I f'n know.). He said, "You know, all women are beautiful... from the back of their head." - Yeah. They should put that on pillows and sell them with Thomas Kincade pics. But still, I love that moment. It taught me so much about boys.

Jeremy Piven has it right in this clip below. "PCU" is my favorite college movie. Maybe it's because I was in college (my first time, back in TN) when it came out and the political correctness was in full-swing. "Feed us drinks! Get us Laid!" - Geeks. Feminazis. Stoners. Jocks. And, yes, Greeks. - Basically at 20 we are all assholes. Who want to get drunk. Get laid. And forget that we are really just children thrown into an adult world we aren't ready for and the only equipment we have on hand is whatever we brought with us.

After this, I think I'd F*ck Matt Damon too...

One of my most favoritest thing in all the world is when people get their own joke. When they just make fun of themselves. Something Barry Manilow does but Elton John, eh, not so much (he is a queen, honey, it isn't irony).

Congratulations indeed!

Damn, Miss Jackson -Is it just a spoke in my cycle, or am I really such a populist?

Arggs! NKOTB. New Freddy K. movie. K T Tunstall goes all cover on "Walk Like an Egyptian" and now I can't get this damn song out of my head!!! What a week so far.

I like Radiohead. Really I do! And I can so go punk-a-punk with you. I've exchanged rent money for David Bowie Madison Square Garden tix. I've traversed hipster Brooklyn neighborhoods for Sarah Vowel readings, TMBG secret shows, Dave Cross improv, and avant-garde shit involving silence, a strobe light, and two guys dressed like Sendak creatures reciting "Jabberwocky" over slowed-down, barely recognizable N.E.R.D tracks from "Fly or Die".

All it takes is a nasty hook, pulses, and Underworld-style black-slick to undo all my assumed credentials. Maybe I should just embrace the contradictions and stop the analysis. *sigh* F'n existentialism and ethos.

Go ahead ... Enjoy .. No one is looking. Go ahead... Download. Your player won't tell.

My head just exploded ... NKOTB? Holy Freshman Year, Batman!

I know I shouldn't be this excited. And honestly, cubbies, I wish I wasn't. I wish the news glided over me with just a whimsy of nostalgia.

That being said ...

OMG!!!! Break out the banana-clips, girls, 'cause it looks like Jordan, Donnie, Joey, Jon, and Danny are going to be getting out on that floor and doing The New Kids Dance.

As described to some friends, I am dancing around like I just got a Butterscotch My Little Pony, still in the original packaging (prrreeettty). As Mark wisely observed, I'm so retarded and I'm unashamed.

And to think I normally do verbose blogs citing the influence of Rousseau in episodes of "Married With Children". Kristy is a complex-critter.

I'm upside-down, victory pose on the sticky stripper-pole that is pop-culture. Throw some dollar bills, ya'll. Make some noise! Are you tough enough??

Enjoy..............

When your grrrl-power is running a little low ....

So yeah... I was down today. Beaten and bruised by the grinding of life. Me cigarette. Life big old shit-kicker of a steel-toe.

So like a modern girl with high-speed internet and time to spare, I sought out motivation. Not from the Bible. And not even from Oprah. Oh no. I need my go-girlfriend to come from a TV show. 'Scrubs' to be exact.

When this first aired I remembered thinking, "A-motherfuck-yeah". Eloquent I know. Putting that Rutgers education to use.

But I challenge any girl out there to not have this moment in their head. Where they shake off the little and razor their ends and get all rocked out. Ok, and I'll even fess up this is the haircut I started with, though it's grown out.

Boys got their Wiis and their Guitar-Hero. I'll take an Elliot Reid make-over any day. Tom Petty suh-weet bonus.

Enjoy!

Random, Useless Discourse 27: Faking It-When You Care Enough To Send the Very Least, But Still Want Some Credit

also posted 12/13 - www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

Lying gets a bad rap. Let’s face it, somewhere between your mom, your teachers, your pastor, your girlfriend, your boyfriend, and those 2-tons-of-fun the Ten Commandments, lying is publicly flogged like a tired Clinton joke. It’s the whipping post of our sub-conscious, and it isn’t really fair.

Of course lying about a crime is wrong. You should admit those things. “Yes, I stole that." “Yes, I embezzled that.” “Yes, I stalked and hacked up my girlfriend, strategically placing bits of her along the landmarks of this fair city that came to represent our poisonous-hate filled-I-could-have-changed-for-her-really relationship. Careful, that over there is where we first confessed our love, the lying bitch. Guess what's buried.." – These are all confessions we should make. Especially the last one. Really. I’m not condoning that kind of conduct.

Yet the good-kind of lying, the sort of lying that rounds the edges of our daily lives, that’s the type of faking we should be a bit proud of and we aren’t. We toss it high onto our guilt-pile where we’ll drink it, snort it, or eat it into numbness.

What we are missing is the fact that we are bothering to fake it. Caring enough to lie means that you cared in the first place. Embrace that.

Okay, sure, your significant other is crying and you really, really, really want to feel something. But instead you don’t. You aren’t evil. You’re just tired. Either your day at the office also sucked or, well, you’re just tired of the crying. Whatever. They look up, all crystal eyed, and you freeze. What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO? (A) Yeah, that’s too bad, Alicia, I really want to help, I do. But honestly, you’ve started to bore me and, ya know, Janet wasn’t being a bitch after all. You were. (B) Make a sad face. Reach over and hug them, promising it’ll all be better. And agreeing to everything they say. - - - Obviously, unless, you know, you like drama, you choose B. Which is selfish, yes, because you avoided a fight and possible physical harm. But hey, step back, and think that out. Put the self-preservation aside and look what else you did. You didn’t laugh did you, Big Boy? Nope. You didn’t switch on the TV. Smart move. You knew that would hurt her feelings. So you faked it because you cared. Uh huh. Breathe it in. You got a win-win there, Sport. Drink it deep. Sometimes we just don’t feel it. We can’t muster up the sympathy or the empathy or any pathy what-so-ever.

And it just isn’t in our relationships. Work is all about the faking. Not because we are lazy, but because that’s the game and we care just enough to do it. Oh, come on, you’ve feigned a laugh at yet-another-story about the boss’s precocious sugar-plum-princess. You’ve cluelessly nodded in a conference room. And you’ve went with the flow when talking to a co-worker with a thick accent that you can’t follow because you’re too embarrassed to have them repeat.

It’s okay, people. We don’t have to always be honest with each other. We don’t WANT to be honest with each other. Did we want Jennifer Love-Hewitt to be truthful with us when she went swimming? No. We want to be lied to. We NEED to be lied to. I need to think my boyfriend hates the same nasty bitches I hate. I NEED my Hollywood celebrities to be flawless, size 0’s because if they aren’t , well that’s one less thing to hate myself for, and really, I’m kinda lazy and don't want to go looking for or creating a new self-hate.

So go ahead, Jimmy-Jack, lay back, grab the remote, and wrap your arm around your girl. Soothe her and tell her it’ll be okay. It might not be all real, but hey, you are caring just enough to fake, and you should get something for that.

Random, Useless Discourse 25: Playlist Your Life, M’Fer! Part 2: Red-n-Blue Tuinals, Lipstick Red Seconals

(also posted: 11/23/07: www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer)

In case you don’t know me very well, first off, hey, how’s it going? Good. Good. Excellent. Glad to hear it. I’m well. Thanks for asking. Hope you had a happy Thanksgiving.

Oh, and before we get too far in, I’m a self-analyzing non-medicated freak. If you are still reading, well then, allow me to lay out the mat, and usher you into this lunatic parade (thank you, Scissor Sisters).

I’ve blogged about playlists before (myspace: 11/29/06 post: RUD #9 – Playlist your Life, M’Fers!) and music at other various times (myspace: 4/7/07 post: RUD #18 –If Justin hadn’t brought sexy back, would we know it was missing?). So none of this should come as a surprise.

I love making playlist. Few things are more satisfying. Straight-into-the-vein junk. G-sweet, candied self-pleasuring. Look at me world! I’m so awesomely eclectic. I’m soooooo fucking cool. - The act is on par with blogging. Combine the two and you have all the self-pity of a Dickens orphan. Fingerless gloves, muffler a-wrapped, rags on your feet, asking for more. Please, sir, validate me.

Playlisting, like most public acts, are little more than expressions of the person you want to be. The person you see when you look in the mirror, eyes closed. They aren’t entirely honest, and by that, they are always false. Playlist are smart, referential-tartans to cover our less-pleasant naked underside.

I don’t lie on my playlist. Every song on there is among my favorites. I truly, truly do love Lou Reed (“Transformer” – go download it NOW… I’ll wait) and I truly, truly do love the Judds. But I must admit, the fact I have both “Heroin” and “Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days” on my current myspace playlist, makes me feel good about myself. Makes me feel clever. And, I’ll tell you Susanna and only you, Kristy really loves to feel clever. Kristy needs to feel clever. – Yeah, I know I’m referring to myself in the third person. I’m an egotist. Classic with self-destruction tendencies (myspace: 9/30/06 –RU#6 – Destruction for the sake of reconstruction: Pleasuring the masses) and narcissism (see people’s exhibit A: my myspace). I’m working on it.

But c’mon, dude! Show me some love! I put David Bowie’s cover of Pixie’s “Cactus” over the Pixie’s own version. That sooo deserves like a 5minute make-out session, right? Tongue optional. I also tossed in “Where is my Mind” and “Hey” to get your Pixie fix. I resisted adding the Stooges because, you know, that would have looked desperate. Actually, the shark would have been catapulted over if I had included Boontown Rats or New York Dolls.

See? I know how to play the game. This cock knows how to work the walk. I got all my bases covered. I got not one but TWO Elvi (mmmmm ‘Elvi’). I got Beasties. I got your Arcade Fire, right here, gummy-gumdrop. I’m the pusher and the crack I’m selling is my fine cut Tennessee-Kristy.

So please, check out my mysp playlist (www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer). See how cool I am. How cool I want you to think I am.

If you don’t have the time, that’s okay. You read this blog and that’ll stroke me through. But do both, and I’m shuttering to the floor, grinned and sated. And wouldn’t THAT make YOU feel good? Cool and clever, that’s you, rockstar-bitch.

Random, Useless Discourse 23: If it can’t be found at Wal-Mart, it ain’t worth having …

Sunday, November 04, 2007 - also posted on www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

Random, Useless Discourse 23: If it can’t be found at Wal-Mart, it ain’t worth having … For those of you not familiar with Wal-Marts in the South, let me explain. They are life. They are the spice. And he who controls the spice, controls the universe. Or, more appropriately, he who can afford the spice, shows he's a good provider. Wal-Marts are Willy Wonka fantasies except instead of the oddly-lovable, if not a touch criminal, Gene Wilder, you are greeted and guided by a well-placed grandmother whose sole-purpose is to make you feel guilty about stealing from her so that you don't shoplift from the massive chain that profits more in a month than many countries in a year. So there you are, Augustus Gloop, in your smart little outfit. Ederly oompah-loompahs offering up their creepy hey-ya'll grins as they scrutinize your purchases (Diet Soda and a King Size Kit Kat. Really?) and mark your every move with all the skill and training of a prison guard. To your right are the beauty aides which will not only assist, but can clear-up and doctor any rash or break-out. To the left are aisles of crackers, cheeses, shortenings, cake mixes, pre-packaged brownies and pastries. The front walls are lined with stores-within-a-store. Ophthalmologist. Optometrist. Financial Advisors and accountants. Bank branches. Hair stylist. And cell phones. All the modern needs and delights. The back houses your camouflage, oil change stations, guns, knives, bows, arrows, and sporting goods of all sorts. Like a lollipop forest in need of clear cutting, there is something for everyone and everything for somebody. Come in for the Charmin 12pack. Stay for the tire rotation. To some , those who come from places with other things to do, this all might seem overkill. A Mecca where the white-trash come to spend their Friday pay and flaunt their saloned tans and curled bangs. But it's more than that. Disregarding it as a mere collective for the NASCAR set only highlights the stigma of the store and the elitist notion of the reader. Wal-Mart is a social scene. A trunk of Wal-Mart plastic, beloved blue and occasionally white, is as much a status symbol as the Saks bags the Vassar grads tote their Conde Nast lunches in. In small towns you don't have options. You don't have three Wegmans or Whole Foods competing for your organic, all natural dollars. You don't have Macys to buy your Calphalon. You have one place. Wal-Mart. And in a reality where only a generation or two ago your family didn't have plumbing and a college degree is still an earned privilege and never an assumption or certainty, the fact you can afford a carload of Wal-Mart goodies says more about your class and prosperity than anything else. It makes you feel good about yourself. It lets you know, and others know, you can take care of your own. And basically, when you have no other options, if it can't be found at the Wal-Mart, then chances are, it really isn't worth having. Because if it were, they'd have it.

Random, Useless Discourse 22: In a small town, Time stands still, but the Breeding Continues

Saturday, November 03, 2007 -orig post date - www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

It has been thirteen years since I've lived in my small town. Visits were limited to 5day spans twice a year. Once at Christmas. Another open to discussion.

Not to go all Golden Girls on you, but picture it: Small Southern town in Tennessee. Population 1,000. Diversity defined by degrees of Protestant reflections on salvation and musical accompaniment. Methodist tend to be quiet, keeping the faith on the inside and the singing light. Church of God have tambourines in the pews, bass and electric guitar upfront, and a shiny, glittery drum set in the back all keeping time to the pitter-patter of altar-trips and testimonials in tongues. There is nothing like a Sunday morning spent in a Southern church. When the preachers pulls out the handkerchief, the sweat bullying up his face, jerks off his jacket, and grabs the microphone, you know entertainment is about to go down. Nothing sizzles and swirls the spirit like threats of brimstone and promises of fire.

In my romantic way, I like to think I ran away the night of high school graduation to college, never looking back. But it was less dramatic than that. Despite what one might think, I enjoyed my school years. I was in with a cool clique. I was at the parties. I knew the cheerleaders. My family was always supportive if somewhat reluctant to let me go. Tears to the airport. Yet there is no edge in having a functional childhood. So let's pretend I was an outsider. Insert all the stereotypes here.

After 11yrs in the surreal alter-reality that is NY/NJ, I'm back home. That all is a tale for another time. Let's just say I just needed to breathe different air. When you don't know what you want or what to do. You go home. Like I said, I have a good family.

In the short time I've been back, a few things have become apparent. The high school football game is still the thing to do on Fridays. The one last night resulting in parents fighting and kids being cleared from the field. Awesome. The Fishing Hole, this paved little parking area next to the park, is still, well, the Fishing Hole, where you pull in to talk and be seen (though in a town with 2 traffic lights, it isn't that difficult to be noticed if that is what you want). And the Hasti-Mart, the local version of a convenience store with its sub sandwiches, Slushy Machine, and old men in their Dicky overalls sipping coffee and eyeing you over, trying to figure out whose kid you are, is still the only place to get a Sun-Drop (if only because it is open until midnight).

What has changed, however, are the first names. And I don't mean just in that everyone is now named Colten, Jaden, Harrison, Britton, Chase, or Dyron (admittedly the last three examples are my nephews). Apparently in my 13yrs of absence, my schoolmates have been fruitful and multiplied. A few did it even before I left. My mom points them out. That is so-and-so's son. That is blah-blah's girl. Generations sit together at the games. The parents I once knew at sleepovers now grandparents. The kid I remember giving Indian-burns and eating dirt, now stalking the sidelines like my daddy once did. Watching the game. Ready to yell out opinions and play-calls.

Parenting aside, people themselves have changed. The one time dazed-and-confused are now born-again preachers. Pastors proclaiming the power of Christ regaling with their confessions of gutter-life and the healing from the blinding warmth. The uppity, self-righteous have been unseated by their four kids and two ex-husbands. I suppose I am entertained by the roll of the die for them all. How things played out, but, yet, I'm unsettled by it.

Or maybe I'm most disturbed because I don't know where I fit in all of this. What conversation can I have with my peers if I ran into them? I have no kids. No Meghan or Brantly to speak of. I have no insight into marriage nor pick-up trucks nor, God help me, hunting.

I'm embarrassed to say I've moved back and am a little too quick to add-in that it's only until January when I plan to be in Nashville, at the very least. "And Nashville sooo has museums and theaters", as I keep reminding no one but myself.

In a small town nothing changes but the first names. The families are the same. Brewers. Stults. Berrys, of all variations. Holts. Thompsons. A few move out, but the families are large enough that no void is felt. Thing is, I'm no longer part of this small town. And that's ok. Collinwood doesn't need me. And I'm happy to just be visiting. Dear Lord, just let me be visiting.

Sunday, May 27, 2007 - original post date on www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer

Random, Useless, Discourse 20: I am Veruca. And I Want My Oompah-Loompah Now! Is a forced epiphany any good? Is it a valid Saul-to-Paul revelation on high? Or is it the end result of your unconscious getting bored with itself? I didn't go into my weekend with any grand illusions of revelation. I did not expect the meaning of life and whatnot to be revealed to me in my moment of mundane – struck as it were by Cassandra-like lightning, all made clear by the shock and purity. No. I merely wanted to work something out. To sort some feelings. To catalog them and identify them for what they truly are. There are people in this world who do this naturally. In the moment of the happening. Those who have control, discipline, and patience, can trust themselves enough to trust their emotions. I, however, am not one of those people. I am for all reasons of debate and understanding, a 12-year-old girl. I react quickly and intensely. Passion and entertainment are what guide me. What lure me along my snail-trail, the slow crawl of life progressing. Skipping and speeding along when you least want it to. I have no control. No discipline. And Lord help me, no patience. This state of emotional affairs was, at best, cute in my twenties. But now, they are thinning even to me. I do so very much want to be like the others. Those who do not jump. Those who do not feel their insides screaming with the churning of molten impulse. But I do not understand them. I do not know how to be them. How can they not be kinetic? How are they not in motion? How do they do it? How are their urges subjugated and relegated to the background? I am the id-ridden and they are the super-ego-plus. I know I disappoint them. Really I must. How could I not? They tell me to use more discipline. To think before reacting. But God help me, I can't on my own! Do they not feel the same whirling? Sirens, doppling-by, in their hearts? Their core gutted and tossed, landing in Pollackesque dripped-chaos where hues mingle and blend into the pretty pretty grey of homogony and the true struggle is to sort out the real from the unreal. To react to only one set and not all. Do they not have this battle? How do they know they are alive, then? I do so very badly want to be the stable, conscious, rational friend and lover to them all. I WANT to be but I'm not sure I NEED to be. If I've learned anything from them, it is that wants and needs are separate entities and differentiating them is the first step in controlling your actions. How much can I give up before I lose who I am? How is what I am not good enough right now? Why must I change? Of course I know why I must change, to some degree. I react like a child. It is selfish and it is small. I have no option. This is not how an adult moves. I just need help. To find the balance. To be the adult but still be me. I am a random energy. When I meet someone new, I want to devour them. I want their conscious, their breath, and their thoughts on me. My reaction is a magnesium-tape lit and supernova. And I am alive. While not an epiphany, I've realized this much: I'll be patient. And controlled. And disciplined. Again, I don't want to disappoint. My guilt-drive is even more powerful than my reaction center. I'll wait for my oompah-loompah, whoever he is. I just hope he doesn't give up or give in before I'm ready. And I hope that when it is time, I'm still Kristy-enough to need him.

Self-Indulgent Post 4: Strung out on Lasers and Slash-back Blazers – Part I

Monday, July 30, 2007 - posted originally - www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer


Self-Indulgent Post 4: Strung out on Lasers and Slash-back Blazers – Part I

I.

It can rain sand. Grains streaming through your hands. Shifting dunes puddling in the palms. Grit congesting the passes between the fingers.

He tried to sweep them away. Futile kicking that only seemed to smear and embed.

"Be still," she warned with what passed as a whisper only because he knew she was capable of much more. She eyed the child suspiciously. Always in movement. Always about to tumble and take them all down with him. Her sixty-two years wore hard. The last five spent with the child have not helped matters at all. She could recall every wrinkle that now populated her once vibrant face. Recall them with experiences of narrow-escapes, near-deaths, and worry. Constant, constant worry.

He stared down at the streaks of sand browning the dark planks that passed as a floor. He felt bad, but only for a brief moment. He snorted and look around. It was a shack after all. What damage was he causing?

She shook her head and rubbed her heavy brown eyes. She slumped over, wrapping the rags that passed as a shawl around her shoulders and over her head. She was tired of watching. The boy was going to do what he wanted. He always did.

"We'll move in two hours. The sun is settling." She raised her head to give him another look. She turned it oddly. "How old are you today, boy?" she asked.

He crawled toward her, his knees scrapping along the floor, dirt tracks behind him. He gently pulled the blanket tighter around her. His long, thin arms encasing her like pale tentacles, clutching the ends of the cloth, urging it to expand to complete the circle. The dimming light in the room caught his face, the eyes glowing fire and blue. His head was hairless, kept closely shaven, allowing for the quick change and the opportunistic disguise.

It might have been frightening. The boy's face. Cold and empty as it was, with the ethereal orbs emitting their own light. His sharp angles told of knowing beyond his youth. He was a man just in a smaller scale.Yet his smile, gentle and emotional, humanized it all. His lips were full and warm. They were the visual proof of life on the inside.

The voice was soft and soothing. No emotion but yet, still, human and loving. "Today?" he asked. He looked down at himself. The small chest. The loose-fitting shirt and pant legs rolled-up, the tightly-cinched make-shift belt keeping him barely decent. His wrists were small and fragile with long effeminate fingers.

His attention returned to her. Her face was smoothing. Relaxing. She would need the full two hours to sleep. The running was aging her too fast. Wearing her down. He placed his palm against her cheek and she pressed into it, eyes closed, smile large.

"I believe I have been twelve today, Ohma," he finally answered. "It is always a good age. A fun age." He paused. He didn't want to lie to her. "I can't be sure, but I think I have been twelve all of today."

She laughed softly. Slipping into sleep. "You always have fun, no matter the age."


Gael sat back, resting down on his elbows, legs stretching long before him. His cuffs hitting half-way below his knees. The room was losing day but be barely noticed. His pupils expanded, taking in what light they could trap. He looked at the mess he had only moments before been dancing in. The sand sparkled in what was now, practically, moonlight.

He did so love being twelve. When this was all done, the "Journey" as Ohma romantically called it, he would go back to twelve for real. Constant fun and no obligations. No one to protect. No considerations for the greater good. No destiny. Just bodily functions to laugh at and rails to be tricked.

But not now. Now he was twenty and while he could be twenty or twelve or one, or any age in between, he needed the strength of his full age. He needed what all his brief tenure permitted him. Because for now, at least, Gael did have people to protect and obligations to consider and a destiny to, well, aim for. Because now, in this moment, they had only ninety minutes to rest in. Ninety minutes before night became solid and they were on the move.

Random, Useless, Discourse 6: Destruction for the sake of Reconstruction: Pleasuring the Masses

(originally posted: 09/30/2006: www.myspace.com/chief_reindeer)

So a friend advised me on Friday to be self-destructive because it will allow for the opportunity to rebuild. Destruction for the sake of reconstruction. Curious. Interesting. Random. I love it.

Don't get him wrong. It wasn't like he was saying go out and rain chaos and malice on the population. It was more like go have fun and forget the crap that's bringing you down.

But I just like the concept of "destruction for the sake of reconstruction". Is it bad? Is it necessary? Let's see if we can work it out.

So the first question is, how far down must we go before we throw in the towel, set the charges, and wipe-clean the debris? What is our criteria for self-condemnation?

We are very self-destructive creatures. We research, develop, and create our temptations. We then package them in shiny boxes and cellophane and put them on-sale to move faster. To beat-down quicker. The beauty of this system, and there is beauty to be appreciated here, kids (there is always beauty in such an efficient thing), is that we pay, usually money on the counter, for the temptation.

We can drink ourselves silly. We can eat ourselves sick. But we'll still have the same issues that drove us to the liquor and to the box of Dove. We know this. But we do it anyway. Shoveling cake frosting in like it is the body of Christ and drowning sores in liters of Stoly as an obvious stand-in for absolution. A cry for help that we purchased an hour before at the all-too-convenient store.

Then there are the other teases. The 27-year-old thing in cargo shorts and a beaming smile. So full of optimism. So not completely slapped by life yet. On that cusp. So eager. So very… Ok. Wow. Yeah. Those sort of temptations. If you have them.

Or the relationship we have now. The one that we can't shake. We can't tear away from our body. Like some symbiotic infection that has turned to the dark-side, we just can't seem to medicate enough. So will it be death by brownie, Kirin, a bad co-dependent relationship we can't seem to end, or the sexed one we definitely shouldn't begin?

But still. Where is that line? That point we say, "Enough. I'm through. I'm spent. Let's start over". Can it be the day after a binge? Or must it be the day after the 100th binge? How far down must we fall from the grace of our own self? How much must we hate ourselves before we have earned the right, been punished enough, to return, all-American style? Bigger. Better. And stronger.

There is a certain enjoyment in always being in a remodeling mode. That's the real truth here. And we all know it. As much pleasure as our descent provides, what with his beat-up copy of "Notes from the Underground" strategically-placed in his side-pocket, we often get more enjoyment out of our redemption.

Scoot in closer kids, Kristy is going to tell you a little dirty secret about ourselves. About yourself. You see, the gratifications we incur on the way down, well, they can be awesome. Boy howdy awesome. But yet they are fleeting. They are of-the-moment. And the overall sensation is singular. It is derived from ourselves. We get only as much as we put into it. Actually, we get less. But the ride back-up, well that is another story. We take pleasure in our struggle. "Look at me. I've fallen and I'm getting up". But we also get it from others. "You go, Joe!!" They'll shout as you turn your corners, and then, quickly whisper aside, hand on heart, sounding out each syllable for proper respect and effect, "he was at rock bot-tom, I tell you, and look...at…him now. Such an in-spir-ation". And we know the whispers are there. We don't need to hear them. We seem them. In the twinkle. In the nod. People love an underdog. People love the struggle. It let's them feel good about themselves without having to destroy themselves. Plug-and-play destruction and redemption. Everyone wins.

So back to my friend's 'destruction for the sake of reconstruction' advise (though, admittedly, I've turned it into that). Where is that bar for us, huh? Well, I guess it depends. Depends not on how far and fast we want to dive down, but how far we want to climb back up. Many, quick tailspins equal many, quick erections back to the top. Or are we looking for a Big One? Something grand that will inspire legions and make us a legend? Quantity versus quality. Which are we looking for?

Another friend wrote and used the terms of credit/debit to sum up life. The theory being, you just want to come out a little ahead in the end, no? So maybe that's all we are trying to do with our self-destructive paths. All those selfish, selfish debits. But maybe when we're a pretty pretty Phoenix, ablaze in our own righteous redemption, well maybe then, we get a few more credits out of the deal. Maybe, in the end, the beating we unleash on ourselves isn't so very destructive, but part of some human barter system hidden in our genetic-coding. We know the payment plan. We know the interest rates. We know the agreement.

I step-up to the auction-bloc and draw your attention. I stretch my arms, tilt my head, and offer up the sincerity sitting, heavy, in my eyes. The dramatic Messiah effect not lost to me or you. I explain the terms of an already sealed-deal, "Here I am, world. I'm gonna be the one today. I'm gonna take one for the team of Man," I say, pointing at a few in the crowd. Letting them know I'm doing this for them. Sneaking in a little ego-stroke for myself. Winking at the cute guy up-front. We'll hook-up after, baby. "I'm going to do stupid things for the sake of doing stupid things. I'm going to bruise. I'm going to bleed internally. There might be a concussion or two. You'll watch in horror through the spread fingers as you cover your face in anguish or ecstasy. I care neither. You'll pray and light candles. But it'll all be my own self-destruction. My very, very own. But when I come back, you'll fight over the front-row seating." I pause and put on my sexiest smirk, my most come-hither gaze and actually lean out to them, willing them in closer. This is when the fun starts for us both. "The lights will go down, the curtain will rise, and we'll all come together in the theatre of self-importance. It'll be an orgy for all the senses," I promise them. I mean it, too. I love them all right now. "You'll be reminded how much better than me you are. I'll bask openly in your adoration and attention. Validating myself back into the fold with a retelling of my debauchery and suffering. On bended-knees, eyes screwed up watching your faces contort, under my breathe, I'll hate and loathe you, as I pleasure and entertain you. This, my friends, this is our covenant. I'll take out a loan of destruction. Pay the high finance charges myself. But you'll cover the rebuild. And it'll be better than before. I win. You win. We all get off a little."

Yes. We can be very self-destructive creatures. But we can also be very, very clever ones as well. The complications of the spirit. Of the mind. Tease and titillate. Cast down and rise up. So yeah. I'll take the hits. But you'll be the one paying my tab at the end of the day. Until next time. When it'll be your turn to get yours. That's cool. That's how it should be.