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January, 2012

  1. come sit at my knee, grasshopper

    January 31, 2012 by kim

    Oh geeze. So, I have been asked by a few sweet souls if I have any advice for would-be actors. I’ve been asked a few times. So I’m just gonna come out and write this so I can, from this moment on, point and say, “Here. Have at it.”

    There are three ways of going about becoming an actor. (NOTE: All opinions expressed in this piece are merely that of one middle-aged and moderately embittered woman and are not meant to diagnose or treat any genuine artistic maladies.) The obvious way, the smart way and the artist’s way.

    The obvious way is ancient, tried and true. Everybody does it and fails, but the key is knowing it will be DIFFERENT FOR YOU! First you vow to ignore any advice you get from old, haggard actresses because they are obviously jealous. Next you have to get a tattoo of the comedy/tragedy masks somewhere on your body. Make some YouTube videos, preferably of you doing a monologue from a very famous movie or television show. Never a play, nobody out there has heard of plays and they are too hard to find and copy from YouTube. Once you have at least ten replies that either tell you that you should go to Hollywood or are from obvious “haters” of your talent, move to Hollywood. Get an apartment in Hollywood. None of this Echo Park bullshit for you, you’re gonna be an actor! I’m sorry, strike that, you’re gonna be a star! (And, uh, North Hollywood is not, repeat NOT, Hollywood, just a little further north.) So find out where the stars eat and party and stuff and hang out there. Get your hair done where they do. Buy the same dogs they have. You gotta act like a star to be a star.

    If you really want to be dedicated, find out who coaches famous actors and take their acting classes, because they totally have hookups. Read “People Magazine” and cut out pictures. When you can correctly identify every single street corner any celebrity is photographed on, you will pass your test and be discovered. In the mean time, keep making YouTube videos, complain loudly about how you are way hotter than any of the girls from “High School Musical”, (or boys from “Twilight”), and make sure any famous people you DO run into get a copy of your headshot and resume*, as well as a DVD you’ve made of your best YouTube videos. And remember, if you act like you’re important, everybody will think you’re important.

    *a note on your resume: Since it is unlikely you have actually done anything with a title and character, feel free to put classes and auditions you’ve had. Maybe a few roles you did in acting classes. It’s cool, nobody reads them anyway. Don’t lie though… it makes you think too hard.

    The smart way is a lot of fucking work, but the way to go if what you want to be isn’t so much “an actor” but “on TV” or “in the movies”. First thing you need to know is that you MUST NOT rely on your talent. Often being talented gets in the way of getting work on television or in the movies, in fact. Get that through your head right now. If you have a clear career trajectory in mind, don’t waste time in school. I totally mean this. I didn’t learn a damn thing in school that I couldn’t have learned on the job AND I wouldn’t have been wasting the most marketable years of my life in college with other poor but brilliant saps doing the same thing. Get a bunch of money in the bank and then get the hell to Hollywood. Get a cheap apartment in North Hollywood so you don’t blow through your savings, because the last thing you need right now is a day job. A night job stripping or tending bar is fine as a last resort because it leaves your day open for auditions.

    Now, I’m guessing you have a good idea who’s career you want, right? Yeah. That is the LAST person you want to contact. Find out who cast them first and who their first agent was. THAT’S who you want to target, as well as a couple of similar agencies and managers. No more than five, so you can be precise and tenacious. Find out which workshops the casting directors attend and spend the fucking money to get in front of them. At least three times. Same with the agents and managers. Rabid ferocity is the key to getting what you want in this career. If you can have your ego surgically removed, it is a good idea. Be persistent and ruthless. If you meet an important agent or casting director at a party, it is okay to sleep with them but NOT to give them your headshot. You may leave your card on the bedside table when you leave in the morning with a little note that says, “Thanks for the photos. Hear from you soon. xoxo.”

    Finally there is the artist’s way, which starts with figuring out what the hell acting is and if you even like it. I’m betting most of you REALLY like the applause and the attention and the perceived fame and scant chance at money. If you are one of the few that like telling stories, then go join a community theater group first. Watch good actors. More importantly, watch bad actors and figure out how not to do what they do. Be patient. If you aren’t cast in a play, see if you can help the director so you learn how that piece of machinery works. Read a Shakespeare play, figure out what the hell it means, then watch a movie of it and tell me why the play is better. Be nice, because if you’re doing something that makes you happy, then there’s really no reason to be an asshole.

    YOU are permitted to take classes and experiment. You may write your own pieces. You may also, ironically, make YouTube videos, but only because they crack you up and you don’t really give a shit if anybody else likes them. Get your heart broken not because you didn’t get the part, but because your soul aches to do Tennessee Williams and who knows when they’ll be brave enough to mount him (ahem) again at the Moosejaw Community Playhouse. And if you end up working as a veterinary technician for the rest of your life, know that in my opinion, you are the only one who really became an actor.

    If all else fails, try my way and start a blog.

    A Post Script….. so you know I’m taking my own advice

     

     

     

     

     

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,,,,,,, | 13 Comments

  2. on strippers… no, i mean, not “on”, on, but “about” on

    January 30, 2012 by kim

    I’m confused about strippers. No, I understand the logistics and job descriptions. That’s not confusing at all. I’m confused about how I’m supposed to FEEL about strippers.

    On the one hand a case has been made that they perpetuate stereotypes and the objectification of women. Really? Making naked women available to men at all hours of the day may have negative implications on a woman’s place in our society? Ya think? Reinforcing the fact that there are physical ideals of perfection who will do whatever you want for some bills shoved in a g-string isn’t exactly top on my Hopes for the Future. I saw a video recently outlining how a woman’s role in the media has plummeted in the last decade from “viable or not” to “fuckable or not”. We have fewer women in our government than Cuba, China, Iraq or Afghanistan. I’m not saying this is the fault of the stripper. But…. how should I feel about her? Saying strippers and porn are responsible for men’s attitudes about women and their subsequent behavior is a total blame the victim mentality. But I can’t help thinking, “Thanks for setting us back fifty years,” when I see a pair of double D’s bouncing into the alley behind the Kit Kat Klub.

    But on the other hand, maybe it’s jealousy. I’ve been naked on stage, and, I gotta tell ya, I was the most powerful one in the whole fucking room. Maybe strippers are actually using the men and keeping THEM subjugated to their penises. Maybe? I certainly know the strippers I’ve spoken to personally consider that to be the case. They aren’t up there to have some latent need for approval validated, they are up there because they are the shit and deserve to be paid for it. In their mind. And so who’s mind counts the most? If a stripper identifies herself as a strong and independent representation of womanhood, is it my right to disagree?

    I’ve been in strip clubs that affirm both standpoints. I went to a friend’s bachelor party in a swanky place in New York where the girls all had curves you wanted to sink your teeth into and wicked little glimmers in their eyes that said, “I got a secret and it’s a doozy!” They looked like they were having fun. As a result, we did too and I decided I wanted to be a stripper. (Pole dancing is hard, FYI.)

    I’ve also been in clubs where I wanted to hunt down every single girl’s father and break his ribs with a crowbar for what he did to his little girl to let her turn out like that. Heartbreaking. Like watching slaves perform a sketch comedy scene. And any guy who found them arousing was a rapist in training, I gotta say.

    Why is this question on my mind? Well, I’ll tell ya.

    A couple of weeks ago, my Dad’s friend Old Man Al, as he named himself, called me to let me know things were not good. The neighborhood woman with the bad teeth and unfinished sentences whose appearances always miraculously coincide with massive withdrawals from my Dad’s bank account was back again, claiming to be “helping” him. This time she had both Dad’s car AND his wallet. When Al arrived, there was no food in Dad’s house, he didn’t remember the last time he had bathed, and there was no toilet paper to be seen anywhere. Dad was shaky, incoherent, and Al said he thought I should get ready for the worst in the near future.

    Today I got a message to call Old Man Al. I did, with a bit of trepidation.

    “Hey, kid! How are ya?” was his jolly greeting.
    “I don’t know. Why did you call?”
    “I just wanted to give you an update on your Dad. That gal is out of the picture and I’ve gotten him to the gym probably five times in the last couple of weeks. He’s getting to howdy with his friends there again and doin’ good on the stationary bike. Um. He’s reading a book on cooking and feeding us guys the results. And he seems okay with not driving. He’d like you to call.”
    I was dumbfounded. “What happened?” I had to ask.
    “Well me ‘n’ Cousin Tom decided if the old man was gonna die, we might as well take him out for some fun before he goes. So we went to that topless bottomless place up on Killingsworth and told the girls it was his birthday. Boy they treated him good. Perked him right up, it did. “
    I answered the only way I could. “Well, if he’s gonna be shelling out that kind of money to a woman, it damn well better be one willing to take her clothes off for him.”

    So today, I think I love strippers. Especially the ones up on Killingsworth who were kind to my Dad and made him decide to live a few more weeks.

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 5 Comments

  3. waah waah waah

    January 29, 2012 by kim

    Oh fuck all y’all. I’m not gonna do it. I’m not. I’m crabby and tired and in pain and I smell like shit. No, literally, I smell like shit.

    My dog is allergic to peanut butter. I learned this years ago when I stuffed a plastic toy full of the creamy treat to keep him occupied while I was doing a double day at the theater. I came home to a house that had been hosed. See, it’s bad enough he gets the runs, but the sound his butt makes terrifies him, so he runs from it. Yeah. I believe I have painted a clear picture for you.

    Fast forward to a child who thinks it’s fun to give the puppy People Food, in spite of repeated promises she understands, “It gives Linus the Owie Butt Sick Poo.” For one brief, shining moment I thought she had eaten the peanut butter snack bar I’d given her, until I went back to our bedroom and took a whiff.

    After cleaning that, I walked into her bedroom. Yeah. Remember how I said he runs away from his own rear end? Right. And it’s not exactly stuff you can ignore. So I have spent easily an hour with my hands in dog feces, trying to scrub it out of the carpet so our landlord doesn’t have another reason to not return our security deposit. I didn’t have to worry about that when I owned a home. (Of course I did have to worry about the papers taped to my door that said, “We’re selling your place in three weeks. Get the fuck out,” after not getting a loan modification. But that’s another bitch for another post.)

    My guts feel like someone violated me with a cheese grater. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m terribly graphic when I’m in a foul mood. Should have warned you earlier. ANYWAY, there is no rhyme or reason to what causes a flare-up, but you can bet your sweet ass a thirty-five pound child learning to do a pile driver on your pelvis exacerbates it. I was so proud I almost signed her up for WWF school right then and there. She’s a prodigy! I spent the next portion of my day lying on the ground, gasping for breath. Not fun when you know why the carpet underneath you is damp.

    When I finally did manage to haul myself erect, I caught sight of my thighs in a full-length mirror. Look, I am not a perfectionist. I usually have a favorable, if realistic view of my body and I try and only look at the parts I like. But the light hit me just right and I saw every single little bump of cellulite and I literally screamed, “BUT I GAVE UP BEEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRR!” I did. And this is the thanks I get from my body. Pain and cottage cheese ass.

    My cuticles are bleeding from my auto-cannibalism habit. Can’t I just leave them alone, you ask? I’m an ex-smoker with no money in the bank. What the hell do you think? It’s pilot season and I haven’t heard a single peep because I’m not famous enough to be on the “lists” (“If we have auditions, we will definitely call her in.” THEY DON’T EVEN FUCKING HAVE AUDITIONS ANY MORE! THEY JUST OFFER ROLES TO FAMOUS PEOPLE!! The only way I can get an audition for a series regular is if the star they’ve offered it to is being difficult in negotiations and they need to threaten her with “starting the process of looking for someone else then.” FUCK ME.) I have no marketable skills outside of dog training and that’s not gonna see me through a rough winter. You think I bite my nails? You betcher.

    And the new chiropractor said of course my back hurts, the vertebrae are trying to sever my nerves. So come see her three times a week for three months and then MAYBE my legs will be the same length again. So I’m gonna be too damn busy to write for a while.

    My back hurts, I smell bad, I hate my ass, I can’t have a beer. My mack murts, my mell mad, my mate my mass, my mant mave ma meeeeeeer. Meh. Nyah nyah nyah. Meh.

    I wasn’t even going to come here, but a video I saw gave me the strength I needed to come vomit in your direction. I shall share. Only those who grew up Alternative in the 80’s will appreciate this, but it gives me faith in humanity again. I shall watch it with you and be okay tomorrow, I just know it.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 18 Comments

  4. Good Advice

    January 28, 2012 by kim

    I would like to brag. I’m not in jail right now. Yay, me! And I gained some valuable information today, thanks to a well-meaning stranger. See, it was like this…

    My daughter is a force of nature. Let’s just leave it at that.

    Now picture a force of nature, like, you know, a tornado, unleashed in Toys R Us. I’m grappling with the shopping cart, trying to wrangle the only walking bike thingy in the store into its basket while she is “trying out” race cars. Needless to say, I lost her. I tried to follow the sounds of mayhem from aisle to aisle in a discreet manner, but finally I called her name.

    “Yes, mommy?” came the angelic reply from, like, half a football field away.
    “Come back here, honey!”
    “No, thank you.”
    “You need to bring the car back.”
    “Nope,” she said, a child of simple eloquence.
    “Where are you?” I asked, trying a different tactic.
    “Right here,” came the infuriatingly honest response.

    I took a deep breath, mentally scrolling through all of my possibilities and nixing those that would result in calls to Child Protective Services. In that tiny little moment a woman with no visible kids in tow said, “You should keep an eye on her.”

    The fact that I did not brain her with a nearby Dora the Explorer Kamping Kit AND neither of my eardrums exploded is a testament to my guardian angels, not to me. I wanted to deck her. I didn’t. Thus, I am not in jail.

    It’s not that I mind unasked for advice. I mean, I do, but not to homicidal proportions. What I mind are the comments DISGUISED as advice that have absolutely no helpful purpose whatsoever. How the fuck does she expect me to respond? “Really? I should? By ‘keep an eye on’ what do you mean exactly? I’ve heard of the concept, but am unaware of how to apply it in my daily life. Perhaps you could assist me? I would love it if you could, oh bastion and font of wisdom. I need your guidance as I’ve been adrift in this world without you!!!”

    Had a woman in Costco tell me I was poisoning my child by having something in my cart with refined sugar. Then she just stared at me. I’m such a damn people pleaser, I did NOT say, “Fuck off, you withered twat.” What I said was, “I can see you’re concerned about my child’s welfare and I appreciate that, but we have differing views.” Yup, you guessed it, she said, “Well your views are wrong.”

    There’s a woman who asks, “Are you wearing sunscreen?” every time she sees me in the park. What would she do if I just looked her in the eye and said, “No,” I wonder? (The same woman tells me I should have a hat on my daughter. I DID say to her once, “If you want to staple it to her head, be my guest. Because that’s what it will take.”)

    Men do it too. Anyone ever stumble and then, once they’ve righted themselves, have a guy say, “Careful?” I know I have. Oh. Okay. NOW I’ll be careful.

    Does anyone honestly expect to change a life by lecturing them about how wrong said life is? Has anyone ever been saved by being screamed at through a megaphone about the impending apocalypse? Is anyone ever really grateful to have a guest rearrange her kitchen and put different music on? And how hard is it for these people to fool themselves into thinking they are doing some good on this planet, when they’re the human equivalent of a chain letter with poo in it?

    My favorite was when I used to smoke. I lived in New York and pretty much everyplace was a no smoking zone. I was cool with that, I don’t want my meal tasting like an ashtray either. So I’d go outside and huddle with other smokers over the warmth of the one rich guy’s Bic Lighter. And INEVITABLY, someone walking past would say to me, “Those things will kill you.” In my mind, this would happen.

    “OH MY GOD THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU SAVED MY LIFE I HAD NO IDEA!!!!” I would scream, flinging my pack of cigarettes to the ground, stamping them into oblivion, and then falling at the feet of the passerby who had given me this life changing information in tears.

    In reality, I just exhaled through my nose at them.

    However, years later, the man who was to become my husband told me he would like me to quit. Because, and I quote, “I would like to have you with me as long as I can.”

    I don’t smoke any more.

    We all want to be needed. We all want to be right. We all disagree strongly with other people sometimes. ‘Cuz sometimes people are wrong is why.

    Someone asked how we go about showing “them” a better way. Whoever “they” are, I think the first step is doing it with love. If you can’t, well then maybe we should just be keeping our mouths shut and doing exactly what we’re trying to do…. SHOW “them”. Walk the walk. And if they’re going to pay no mind and continue to be wrong, well, that’s their right, I guess.

    I’m just gonna walk my walk over here with the other smokers and sugar eaters with sunburned children and a whole lotta love.

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 14 Comments

  5. I Got Nuthin’

    January 26, 2012 by kim

    Somebody said pictures. So I present to you: torments of the damned… pets.

     

     

     

    Name: Whiskey
    Breed: Big Headed Dog
    Sin: Loving too much
    Previous life: Owned by a woman with terminal cancer and a soft heart. Short walks and table scraps were the norm. A zen-like attitude and soulful eyes accompanied a truly passive spirit who just wanted to nap. And snack.
    Current punishment: “I’m a ride Wi’key? Now? I ride ‘im now? I WANNA RIDE DOG! No! No! Wi’key! Come! Down! I ride now. NO, WI’KEY, COME, I RIDE!!!!!!!!”

     

     

     

    Name: Linus
    Breed: Border Collie-ish
    Sin: Adrenaline addict
    Previous life: I love Mommy, Mommy loves me. I love Mommy, Mommy loves me. Walk walk walk ball stuff I’ll do stuff lots and lots of stuff stuff stuff ball walk MOMMY!
    Current punishment: JESUSCHRISTTHROWTHEFUCKINGBALLALREADY!

     

     

     

    Name: Pongo
    Breed: Orange tabby
    Sin: Multiple counts of rodenticide and erroneous pissing
    Former life: Whatever the fuck I wanted
    Current punishment: You’ve got to be kidding. I’m nineteen fucking years old. Why don’t I die already?

     

     

    NOT PICTURED
    Name: Alan
    Breed: Orange tabby
    Sin: Absolutely nothing. Which just goes to show that sometimes karma misses.
    Previous life: Loving asparagus and an irresistible purr while sleeping under the covers with Mommy, head next to hers on the pillow.
    Current punishment: “Honey, lie NEXT to the kitty, not ON the kitty. Honey, he doesn’t like that. Baby, he can’t breathe. You hear that noise? It means no thank you, he doesn’t like it any more. Seriously. Okay, 1…. 2….”

    Category general musings | Tags: ,,,, | 2 Comments

  6. 100% of Men Surveyed…

    January 25, 2012 by kim

    I was not loafing yesterday. I was doing market research. I was! (The pint of Ben and Jerry’s was researching truth in labeling. They claim four servings per container. My findings? There is only one. They lie.) I thought, since I put all this time and energy into helping some deserving dudes get a li’l sumthin’ sumthin’, why not do the same for girls? Not the tedious How-Do-I-Make-Him-Love-Me. That can never be answered and you’re on your own. But the question we are all afraid to ask: What the hell makes a woman good in bed?

    Okay, “Cosmo” isn’t afraid to ask it. They ask it every month. And every month -Kevin, 28, architect, with the obscenely white teeth and perfect skin says some bullshit like, “I love it when my girl surprises me with a new position! Staying flexible is the key. That’s why I only date yoga instructors.” Then we all feel like shit about ourselves and buy whatever “Cosmo” is telling us to buy so that maybe, just maybe, -Shane, 32, graphic designer will want to sleep with us more than once. STOP THAT.

    Look, we all know Shane and Kevin are fucking each other in their well-decorated New York loft. So, seriously, stop that. “Cosmo” does not do research. I have. And what I have unearthed conflicts starkly with what headlines like “Tantalizing Tricks With Ice-Cubes and Confetti!” would have you think. When asked, “What makes a woman good in bed?” 100% OF MEN SURVEYED REPLIED… “Being there.”

    I mean yes, there were different versions of it. “Showing up,” “Saying yes,” and “Being Conscious” all were phrases employed. (Quick side note: I only interviewed one guy I ever slept with, my husband. The rest were free to answer honestly.) (Oh, and he’s not the guy who said, “Being Conscious.” That dude cemented the fact that I was right never to have slept with him.) Point being, when it comes to what a heterosexual man wants in bed, it’s pretty much covered by A. WOMAN.

    No no no no no. I asked more questions. Sheesh, don’t get your panties in a bunch. The point I wanted to make off the bat is, with I imagine very few exceptions, you win. Game over. If you want to be having sex with him, you are already light years ahead of him in terms of what will satisfy your partner. The rest is gravy. So as we move forward, do so with my first advice I could apply….

    Confidence. Apparently confidence is sexy. “I would rather see a girl’s contorted face and know she’s enjoying herself than watch some chick make pretty self-conscious pouty lips. If I wanted that, I could rent a porn and use my hand.” Now, early on in life, I watched porn and assumed that’s what guys wanted. Arched backs and coy finger sucking or whatever. Seems I was wrong. In real life, a guy wants a woman confident enough to leave the lights on and not care if cellulite shows. Confident enough to know at least she is about to have a helluva lot of fun, join if you want. Confident enough to let it rip! And ladies, we CAN AFFORD TO BE CONFIDENT. Remember, we are the prize. Own that shit. So get whatever it is you need in your life to know you’re what he wants. Then use that confidence to show him what you want.

    So, uh… second thing? Know what the hell you want and for the love of Cas, tell them. They really really want to make us happy. They do. It’s an ego thing as well as possibly they might care about our needs thing. (I threw that in for my husband. He does.) And the more clear we can be about what we want, the more he will feel like a rock star. Again, in my salad days I assumed giving suggestions would be insulting. Survey says, nnnnnope. He WANTS to know what gets you going! They think it’s hot. Go figure. Get to know yourself, then thoroughly introduce that lovely luscious slice of numminess to the man next to/on top of/underneath you. You may use diagrams. Do not, however, use examples of former lovers. “This one guy, did this thing, um, he….” yeah. Just. Don’t.

    Finally, another shocker from the peanut gallery, kindness and a sense of humor! Who knew? Dudes apparently have performance anxiety and a sweet, light take on the silliness that is sex eases a bit of their nerves. This does not mean pointing and mocking. Treat them gently. Erections are fragile flowers and must be nurtured, no matter what we were led to believe as girls. You are in the driver’s seat. Use your power for good. Let him know he’s succeeding when he is. Be verbal and effusive with feedback. Letting him know you won’t be texting score cards to your girlfriends the second he gets up to pee would be nice. It lets them take bigger risks like, I dunno, listening to your instructions. See how this all comes around, so to speak?

    Blah blah blah, Kim, we want specifics! Tweak nipples or no? Teeth or no teeth? Do we have to learn to give a rim job?

    I don’t know. Ask him. It’s what you’d want him to do for you, right?

    And no. You never ever ever have to. Tell him I said so.

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 21 Comments

  7. Stop With the Fucking Hate, Assholes!

    January 23, 2012 by kim

    I wasn’t going to write tonight. I expended a lot of energy trying to get guys laid and I’m spent. So I checked my email, scanned a few tweets, and flipped through Facebook.

    Somebody killed a kid’s cat because Daddy works for a Democratic politician. They marked “liberal” on the body in Sharpie. The cat had been bludgeoned in the face with what was assumed to be a baseball bat. As a cat owner, a parent, and a “liberal” I want to see this, (I assume), dude with his face broken against his bedside toilet by his cell mate “Binky” who didn’t want teeth getting in the way of his cock. I want to cut off his dick, pull his eyeballs out leaving the retinas attached, wrap them around his penis, then force him to eat it so he can watch his own teeth descend on his manhood. I want to…

    So now I hate too. I don’t know this person, I don’t understand his motives, I judge his actions to be unforgivable, and there is no room for discussion. Because he now represents something in my head that I fear and I hate that something. So I hate him. You know what? I joined his side.

    We are fooled into thinking black/white, good/bad, us/them, tastes great/less filling. For fuck’s sake, a dude nearly DIED at a baseball game for liking the wrong team. Things that have never and will never actually affect us in our lives upset us so deeply that we forget our own humanity. People are willing to kill babies for opposing their beliefs. THEY’RE BABIES! What the fuck? And all this shit scares me. And when I get scared, I get angry, (which really is nothing more than fear with a Mohawk, a safety pin in its cheek and a long switchblade), and anger needs a focus, so I create something to hate.

    The truth is, it isn’t black vs. white. Or us vs. them. It’s Enough vs. Not Enough. I blame the fact that we are, as advanced as humanity has gotten, still carnivores deep down. We think there aren’t enough resources or food or flat screen televisions to go around and what happens if somebody else gets ours? What if he takes something that’s mine? My tax dollars, my job, my glory, my fucking seat at Nobu on a Friday night? That switch gets thrown in a person’s head and the fight is on! MINE MINE MINE MINE! Anybody who hates is guilty of this. Even the dreadlocked hippie who hasn’t bathed in four months because she’s been camped in a tree she’s named Lola to keep it from being cut down hates. She probably hates The Man. Ironic, because The Man loves trees and has a wife named Lola, but he hates Liberals. Opposites, right? In hating, they’re just the same.

    I’ve been told the cure for hatred is love. Well…. true, hate can’t exist where love grows. (Oprah? Hallmark? A hand stitched pillow on Granny’s rocker? I can’t remember. Makes you want to puke, though, right?) But I am not an advanced enough soul to TRULY love this shit-sucking ass hat of a cat killer. I can soften the hatred by remembering that at one point he was a baby. A child. His Mom probably loved him as best she could. But the hate is still there.

    The only way I can toss this shit out on its butt is by realizing… I’ve never MET him. What he represents is my own fear of my child being traumatized, my cat being tortured, or me failing to protect those I love. And you know what? I have enough right now to keep that from happening. There is enough food on my table. There is enough heat in my apartment. The doors are locked and at this moment, everyone is safe. In fact one cat is so safe on my lap my leg has fallen asleep. No one is really capable of taking anything away from me, no matter how much my fear wants me to point a finger at a segment of the population and scream, “J’ACCUSE!” There is enough. And as soon as we realize that, we can start fucking sharing and making sure everybody has enough. But MAN, it’s an uphill battle to make my brain go there.

    A quote I DO like: Fear says, “I will make you safe.” Love says, “There is nothing to fear.” Yes, but…. No. It’s kinda true. Be sad, yes, want change, want better, want more, but don’t fear. That stops all the good stuff.

    Okay, I’m better. I still kinda want to go back and continue the paragraph about what I’d like to see done to him, but then I’m the only one to blame for my mental anguish. We know I’m good at that, (see “Fun is Too Much Work”.) Instead I’m going to go feed my cat who’s screaming like a banshee. Maybe slip him some extra tuna or a piece of asparagus or something.

    Man this world sucks sometimes.

    Category a bit more serious | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 14 Comments

  8. Go Get Laid, Guys (two special cases)

    January 22, 2012 by kim

    I have to admit, so far my advice has been generally aimed at daters, although plenty a husband could learn a thing or two. *coughfootrubscough* I’d like to address a couple specifics today. They are universal specifics, but specific nonetheless.

    First, the Perpetual Best Friend. You drove her to the vet’s office to help put her cat to sleep and then bought her sangria until eleven at night. You then held her hair as she puked and put her to bed. This is the closest you’ve EVER GOTTEN to going to bed with her. You nurse her through breakup after breakup with asshole after asshole. You know her favorite food, color, brand of jeans and reality housewife. You have seen her without makeup and still know she’s beautiful, even at four in the morning when she’s called you to come over and kill a really big spider in the bathroom I know I said I’d never do it again, but this one is HAIRY, please please please?

    And in spite of all of this and more, she only hugs you in an A-frame. She cuts you to the core when she says, “You’re like a brother to me,” or, “I’m so lucky to have a friend like you,” or, “I should set you up with one of my friends.” Plus, you keep waking up before her mouth ever lands on you in that one really good dream. What do you do?

    Dude. One of two things is going on. Call me a jaded, cynical bitch, but I think the most likely option is you are being used. Get the fuck out. The fact that she has the brass balls to ask you to do OBVIOUS boyfriend duty stuff and not put out is lame. But you’re letting her get away with it! I bet you’re the ONLY friend who does this crap, right? The rest make her pay for her own drinks and kill her own arachnids, don’t they? That’s why she’s not letting you go. And those little passive aggressive comments are as good as a guilty plea. I don’t tell my best friend, “I’m so lucky to have a friend like you. You’re like a sister.” Shit like that doesn’t need to be said unless the subtext is, “I’m totally getting away with murder but fortunately I can bat my lashes fast enough to hypnotize you.” The only answer in this case is to drop her and spend your time pursuing someone worth your goodness. I bet there are a lot of women reading this blog just WAITING for you to stop wasting your time with that bitch and ask for their numbers. (And if she’s reading this blog… either content yourself with assholes or get some therapy so you can start wanting to fuck guys who treat you well. My two cents.)

    The second thing that “could” be going on is that she really likes you and just doesn’t know how to tell you. If you believe this to be the case, then you must formally ask her for a date. Use that word. Say, “Can we go out on a date?” Then she can say yes and you can live happily ever after. I would begrudgingly admit this is the best course of action if, when you showed up at four in the morning to kill the spider, she was wearing tiny lace boy shorts and a see-through gauze babydoll. Then you may ask her out. If she says no, then she went into her bathroom to set a fire in the wastebasket and dressed for the firemen and you may never speak to her again or I will find you and kick you in the shins.

    Next, The Husband. I actually think a lot of my advice for single penises is applicable to the married kind as well. Almost doubly so. Married folk need to remember they married someone because they LIKED them, presumably. Husbands, treat your wife like you like her. Don’t expect her to do shit that isn’t fun, like pick up your socks or your bulldog’s poop in the back yard. Would you expect your best friend to do that? Come on. Don’t take shit for granted. Say please and thank you. Think before you drag that carcass you just shot/shrub you just uprooted/dog you just walked in the rain over a clean floor.

    I know, that sounds like a weird laundry list of gripes, but they have something in common…. they give your bride power. Seriously, you think YOU gave something up when the ring went on? We give up pretty much our only bargaining chip, whether or not you’re gonna get laid! This is why so many women start using abstinence as a weapon. It’s the only thing we still have power over! And believe me, it takes more testosterone to see your lady as a partner than it does to think of her as a servant. So man up and start looking at her as an equal again. I guarantee you, you’ll be looking at the top of her head soon enough. Because that’s the ONLY way you’ll be getting a BJ, buddy – if we’re feeling powerful enough to withstand getting on our knees. (Or, you know, pissed enough to want to bite.)

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,,,,, | 5 Comments

  9. Go Get Laid, Guys (part dos)

    January 21, 2012 by kim

    Guys, I spanked you pretty enthusiastically yesterday about what NOT to do to get laid. Well, some of you. And maybe you liked it, I dunno, that’s a whole ‘nutha blog. Point being, now I shall put some salve on those wounds and help you with what TO do. (The Federal Drug Administration has not approved the following statements and you can’t sue me if they don’t work.)

    What’s that you say? You’re not just interested in sex?

    We know you want sex. As much as you may genuinely have an interest in our minds and views, you’d PREFER a different aspect of the relationship, say, one with a more horizontal theme to it. Spending time and energy trying to convince us you are not up to anything at all is wasted effort. Let’s just all admit we are dancing to the same song and go from there. Sex is on the table. Always. Maybe it’s waaaaaaay off in the corner, lurking next to the horseradish, but it is always on the table.

    So how do you get it onto your plate? My advice is going to sound painfully simple, but you know what’s REALLY painful? The fact that it STILL NEEDS TO BE SAID. So listen up.

    Lesson one: Being Yourself. “Oh fuck,” you say, “Now she’s gone and turned into my mother. That’s gross. I already pictured her naked.” Sorry guys, mom was right. Trying to be something you’re not smells of fear and desperation and that’s stinky. There will always be a guy richer, funnier, more powerful, more connected or whatever you are trying to make us think you are. The only thing you can do is be you. This means that if you are in your seventeenth minute discussing the trauma of having to choose between the Beemer or the Benz, but your attention is really on the argument at the next table about who made the best Doctor, (uh, David Tennant with Tom Baker a close second – duh!), YOU ARE NOT BEING YOURSELF! “So what?” you ask. “If hottie is impressed, she’ll put out.” Nope. She’ll let you buy her dinner. She’ll let you buy her other stuff. Then she’ll go fuck the guy who had her in stitches over why Peter Davidson actually is the unsung hero of the series.

    This bears another paragraph. I don’t think you believe me. When you fake who you are, we know you are lying. One in four women have been raped. One in one women have had our hearts broken. We are deceived, ignored, threatened, and all sorts of other awful crap. If you seem like you have something, ANYTHING to hide, WE WILL NOT TRUST YOU WITH OUR PUSSIES. You may see examples that contradict what I’m saying all over the media and in the clubs. Fine, but it won’t work for you. Please please please fucking listen to me on this.

    Lesson Two: Touching. I’m amazed at the number of guys terrified to touch a chick until all of a sudden there’s a tongue is coming in like a Scud missile. Don’t let the first time you touch a girl you like be the first kiss. Even holding hands is iffy. Act on those stupid prior impulses you have. If she has hair in her eyes, push it away. If you think her hand looks super soft, stroke it and find out. Then be honest and say, “I just had to know if it was as soft as it looked. It is.” If, and ONLY if, you are following lesson one and it was a sincere and heartfelt gesture and statement, I’m guessing her panties will be in her purse before you leave the restaurant. We like to know we make guys do stupid things. We like to know your urge is stronger than your ego. Risk a little. Touch more. In fact, this applies to most of those stupid impulses. If you are inspired to buy flowers for a three o’clock coffee date, do it. If you want to send her a video of yourself singing to a song on the radio that reminds you of her, go for it. Even if she mocks you, she’ll be melting.

    Lesson Three: Ohhhhhhh, you’ve heard it before, I’m gonna say it again, LISTEN TO WHAT SHE’S SAYING! It’s so obvious when a guy is forcing himself not to stare at our tits and his entire mental dialogue consists of, “Blah blah blah are we gonna fuck yet blah blah how about now blah blah blah.” You don’t laugh at our jokes. You don’t respond to baited questions. You don’t remember if you have a dog. Doing any of those things is likely to get you one base closer to home plate. Plus, the more you listen, the less you have to stress about what to say. And who knows? You might surprise yourself and actually have a good time before you’re in the sack for a change!

    Take notice, all of these things are EMOTIONAL triggers. Mock our girly feelings if you will, boys, but the guys who get action are the guys who respect them.

    Tomorrow (maybe): Go Get Laid, Guys! (part three) Going From Friend to Naked (and Other Special Cases)

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 7 Comments

  10. Go Get Laid, Guys (part I)

    January 20, 2012 by kim

    So this blog has been rather female-centric. I’m female, go figure. But as a female, I’ve realized I may offer some perspective that guys need. Usable advice, not don’t-be-a-dipshit advice, (although that may be one of the categories). Today I would like to help some of my favorite dudes. Be you married or single, possibly even straight or gay, I wanna help you get laid. Because when you get laid, you’re a helluva lot easier to deal with for all of us.

    I’d like to start by exposing some false information you may have gotten in the past. There are go-to’s in every man’s arsenal that never work and WON’T work. Let’s get rid of them, shall we?

    -the backrub: No. No no no no no no, for three reasons. First of all, if you’re bad at it, you’re not getting any further. (And just because you’ve been told you’re good at it, doesn’t mean you’re good at it, trust me on this.) No woman is going to think, “Well, he’s hell on my shoulders but I bet he’ll be aces on my clit!” If it’s worked for you in the past, the gal only put out to get you to stop bruising her deltoids.
    Secondly, if you ARE good at it, you don’t arouse us, you put us to sleep. What woman in her right mind is going to say, “Sure, I would totes love to stop lying here and relaxing and instead work my biceps in a brand new position!” None. Well, a few, but those are the ones you didn’t need to be bothering with a backrub for in the first place.
    Finally…. oh, sweetheart, it’s so obvious. When a woman caresses your neck, you think, “Hot damn! Here we go!” When a man rubs our back, we think, “Ah, here we go.” You’re about as subtle as a brick in the head.
    REPLACE IT WITH
    - the foot rub: First of all, if you flat out ask us to take off our clothes, we’re gonna smack you. Unless it’s for a foot rub. We somehow forget that shoes count as clothes. And once the clothes START coming off…. I’m jus’ sayin’.
    Secondly, you get to use lotion. Lubrication. Slippery, slidey, soft stuff that makes us want you to maybe go up the leg a little. And once you START going up the leg… see where I’m going with this?
    And finally, if a guy is willing to love my feet, I can TOTALLY trust him with my vagina. It’s that simple.

    -getting us drunk: We puke when we are drunk. We cry when we are drunk. We change our minds when we are drunk. Why would you POSSIBLY want to get us drunk?
    REPLACE IT WITH
    -getting us dessert: This says decadence. This says you like our bodies already. This says you will pay attention to our needs and aren’t in a rush. And chocolate is an aphrodisiac.

    -insulting other women: I have never understood this. Why is it that if I’m sitting at dinner with a man, he will interrupt the conversation to point out how ugly he thinks a hot girl who just walked by is? Are you kidding me? If you think her boobs are too big, why did they just distract you from our debate over the true earth friendliness of renting herds of goats to clear brush? Huh? Huh? And insulting her doesn’t make us feel any better about ourselves; it just makes us think you’re a judgmental prick. No offense.
    REPLACE IT WITH
    -complimenting your date: There’s no denying when a competitor wins a moment. But trying to cover it or lie about it only makes our wound deeper. If she’s got double D’s and I’m sporting an A cup, don’t immediately tell me you like my boobs better, either. You might, but that screams comparison. A sweet kiss and sincere, “God, I’m glad I’m not looking any more,” WILL TOTALLY GET YOU LAID!

    -fighting: Not cool. Just stop it. Makeup sex isn’t as good as you like to think it is.
    REPLACE IT WITH
    -apologizing if you are wrong: That’s how guys get blowjobs in the middle of the afternoon. Worth it, don’t you think?

    -huge, time-consuming surprises: You may have had tickets to the theater for a month or reservations to my favorite restaurant for weeks, but if you come home and say, “Change your clothes, put on something nice, we are going out,” you are playing a game of Russian Roulette with four bullets chambered. I’m probably tired. I may already have plans. I might just not fuckin’ feel like being ordered around. God forbid you have tickets to Hawaii and tell me to pack a suitcase. I’ll go postal on your ass if I’m a day away from being out of moisturizer.
    REPLACE IT WITH
    -sly suggestions: “What do you say we go to Hungry Cat tonight?” you innocently ask. I, of course, will get all condescending and say, “Oh, honey, that place books weeks in advance.” Then all you have to do is smile and say, “Maybe. I’ll pick you up at six.” Ditto going to Hawaii, but give me a day’s notice so I can dye my roots and have my nether regions waxed. A little anticipation is WAY better than being surprised. AND you might get preemptively laid, so that’s always nice.

    Oh dear. I see to have run out of room. Well those are some of the please-stop-doing-this items on my list. As for the how-to’s, more to…. come.

    Category naughty bits | Tags: ,,,,,,,,, | 18 Comments

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