Bang, bang — we’re beautiful and DIRTY RICH.

Similarities between Lady Gaga and myself:

1. We are both in the 24-25 age range.
2. We both smoke.
3. We both spend our time singing and dancing to Lady Gaga songs.
4. When we were invited on Larry King, we both dressed up as him.
   

   My outfit was better, but hers was pretty good too.

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I can’t with this.

All two of my readers know that if there is something that I just can’t even for one second tolerate, it’s hippies.

Thank you, but no.

First, both Mother and Father Bean were dirty, icky, Woodstock-attending hippies in their day, so whenever I see two flower children erotically swaying on each other while tripping, I have to think of my parents doing the same, and it bothers me.

Secondly, hippies are empirically annoying. You can care about the earth (even though I don’t) and be progressive while giving the whole patchouli thing a miss. Their aesthetic is just so very incorrect. Everyone has to construct their identities, and that’s fine, but what are you expressing when you wear corduroy cargo shorts and a Guatemalan hoodie?

Nothing I want any part of.

So it was with great loathing that I read this Sunday’s NYT Magazine article about freegans, who really manage to take the sanctimonious up a notch, especially considering that their entire lifestyle is made possibly by the very thing they claim to hate. I read the entire thing, shuddering quietly to myself.

I suppose everyone is entitled to do what they like, and this obviously makes them happy, so who am I to judge? That being said, any time my life seems like it’s going poorly, from here on out I will remind myself that at least I am not squatting in Buffalo. Also, the entire article was worth the price of admission for this one quote:

The line between this help-yourself mentality and a more freewheeling spirit of communal property isn’t always so clear. One resident, Brianna, remarked to me that her stuff often goes missing and that “everyone just thinks everything that’s here is up for grabs.”

One morning, after I had been hanging out at the mansion for a few days, we were about to have breakfast when someone noticed that all the forks and spoons were missing.

“What happened to all the silverware?” someone asked.

“They got turned into a wind chime,” someone replied nonchalantly. Sure enough, moments later, we could all hear the sound of forks clanging in the breeze.

If there is one thing I dislike nearly as much as hippies, it’s wind chimes. This place is my personal hell.

ting ... tingtingtingtingTINGTINGTING ... ... ... ting.

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She poppin’, she rockin’, she rollin’. She climbin’ that pole.

Chris Rock famously noted that if you are a father and you have a daughter, your only goal — your only job — is to keep her off the pole. If you’ve successfully maintained a distance between your little one and the world of lucite heels, g-strings and endless loops of Warrant’s “Cherry Pie,” then congratulations! You win!

This is what you want to avoid, dads.

I will say before I begin this entry that Father Bean, for all his quirks and foibles has, in this way, completely fulfilled his fatherly duties. There was never one time that I have considered stripping.

But. But. It does seem like it’d be kinda fun, if only for a night or two.

When I worked in a certain well-known entertainment zone in my college years, I knew a lot of strippers. And I really adored them! At least the ones that weren’t constantly coked up. They’re no-bullshit, mercenary chicks. They have giant fake tits. They make thousands of dollars in a weekend, then fly first-class back to whatever Florida city they live in on the weekdays. They were fun to party with. They wear sparkly body glitter. What’s not to like?

Pretty.

Plus, I love dancing and yet am a terrible dancer, so in my fantasy two-day stripping career, I’m really, really good at it. Especially the gyrating. Strippers always have a certain panache with their moves, especially that loudly clapping of the lucite heels together over the head one. I wonder if they have a little coaching sessions for the newbies? Probably not, because if there’s one thing strippers hate more than their customers, it’s each other.

I’ve heard from more than one source that the best stripping song, ever, period, is R. Kelly’s Remix to Ignition, which is also one of my favorite songs. “Mamma rollin’ that body, got every man in here wiiiishin’.” Indeed! Later in the song, R. Kelly notes that he’s been “sippin’ on coke and rum,” and then he’s like, “So what? I’m drunk,” which is another sentiment I relate to. I think this could work.

These are the shoes I would wear. I would pair them with a slutty business woman-themed outfit. My stripper name would be "Contessa." As in, "and now, weeeeeelcome to the center stage — CONTESSSSSSSSSSSA!"

In the course of writing this entry and looking for good stripper images to put in, I noticed that, hilariously enough, the costumes that they sell on StripperZone.com are really no different than your run-of-the-mill skanky Halloween outfit. Granted, I don’t wear those, but I have friends that do. None of you, of course.

Anyway, of course I won’t actually do this. BUT, all of this has been leading up to a truly impressive video: the 2010 Pole Dancing Championship highlight reel. All of these ladies have on outfits that are, for the most part, less revealing than a bikini, so no worries. And they are so goddamned impressive. Seriously, I cannot imagine the ab/upper body strength that goes into these sorts of acrobatics. A lot of these moves I don’t even fully understand the physics of.

It reminded me of one of the more famous strippers on Bourbon Street, who worked at the Hustler Club. She was not particularly beautiful, nor ever that sexual in her moves. She did not do lapdances. But the pole in her club was three stories high, and so over the course of three minutes, she would climb all the way to the top using this loping, seal-like motion. She would then turn upside down and whirl around down the pole, only stopping about six inches before her head smashed into the ground. This process would then repeat five or six times, except each time it was scarier and scarier — wait, is she only hooking her high heel around the pole? How does this work?

She got mad tips. I wonder what she’s up to these days.

Discussion question: If you were going to be a stripper, what would your stripper name be?

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T-Pain supports single mothers, and I support T-Pain.

I have shitty taste in music, and I don’t even care who knows.

Every song from The Shins or Neko Case I own is buttressed by a good 14 T-Pain remixes of rap songs that were bad to start with and needed some autotune to push them over into entirely shameful territory.

That's why they call him Teddy Penderherassdown.

My love for Tallahassee Pain began with 2006’s “I’m in Luv (Wit A Stripper),” which was the skanky dancin’ at the bar song my senior year and will forever remind me of a phenomenally slutty sorority sister of mine. Believe me, there is little better than an account of a three-way with two frat guys delivered in a thick Mississippi accent.

Owwwkay, so theyn, we heahded to thuh rich-oo-al room ...

Things really solidified with 2007’s “I’m a Flirt”, though it must be said that the best line of the song — “Now the moral of this story is cuff yo bitch, cause hey! I’m black, handsome, rich, and I sing, plus I’m a flirt,” — belongs to R. Kelly, but he is another blog entry entirely.

But the moment when I really and truly knew I would never be able to quit Pain was “Shawty.” Even though T-Pain’s not my man, I’m not his girl, he’sa call me his shaaaaaaawty. Sing it to him, girl! This is one of those songs that I listened to over and over and over and over, and then maybe one more time, and again tomorrow.Also, Rick Ro$$’s corpulent ass shows up in the video for no good reason. BAWSE!

I think my favorite T-Pain phase to date has been the top hats. I was really, really sad to see this go, because for awhile, every time he showed up he would be in a ridiculous, yet thematic, top hat. For example, if it was the Country Music Awards, which he had been invited to for whatever reason, it’d be a cowboy top hat. Or, for a nice Wednesday on the town, a purple top hat with a subdued floral pattern.

Because, why not?

The peak of my T-Pain obsession came with “On A Boat,” which not only once again reinforced his rappa-ternt-sanga chops but also demonstrated his tremendous sense of humor.

Never thought he'd be on a boat. It's a big blue watery rooooooad.

You can’t tell, but this picture demonstrates this herky-jerky knee-centric dance that he does right at the end of the video. Please believe that this is now, like, my signature move.

Is there a point to this, you might ask? No, other than the very important point that T-Pain occupies a special place in my heart. I’ve been jamming out to his new song, “Zoosk Girl,” which is doubly shameful in that I think it’s an advertisement for an online dating site called “Zoosk.” T-Pain, surely someone with the game-ending chain seen below doesn’t need to be trawling the internet for ladies.

Just what it says it is.

Before I leave you with the video for Zoosk, here are some T-Painisms for you to ponder:

• “Ooooh, she made us drinks — to drink. We drunk ’em. Got drunk!”
— On how why he likes the bartender, besides the fact that besides her, there’s 200 bitches in the club and ain’t none of them hot

• “She looked me dead in the eye, then my pants got bigger, she already knew what to figure, had her lookin’ at her boyfriend, like, fuck that (n-word)!”
— T. Pain, on the dangers of combining your lady, him and alcohol

• “Cause I support the naked hustle. One cheek at a time, show me that booty muscle!”
— T. Pain on his support of single mothers, later adding that strippers may consider him their unofficial baby’s daddy

• “Oh, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday! Till the sun comes up! Till the Feds roll up!”
— T. Pain on his busy thuggery schedule. At least he observes the sabbath

Anyway, if all this hasn’t whet your proverbial whistle for T-Pain, then I can’t imagine what would. Here is my new club banger:

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We can work it night by night.

So here is today’s video of the day, presented for my darling little sister E’s enjoyment.

Before we get to it, I’ll take a moment to editorialize. Dave 1, I cannot even deal with your scorching hotness. I cannot believe that when you aren’t making this music, you are an English professor. It isn’t even fair. I do not know what it is about you and your tall, skinny, swarthy ilk, that is so devastating. But I will gladly pay cash money to do silly yet sexy dances with you in a warehouse, Dave 1. Name the place.

Chromeo, “Night by Night”

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Intrepid as shit.

Warning: I am having a moment of self-congratulation.

This is, of course, nothing new. Just today, I have congratulated myself for achievements like getting out of bed only 20 minutes after my alarm went off, putting my hair up into a cute ponytail and tying a sash properly. And that was only before 9 a.m. It’s amazing, the things I accomplish!

I do nothing but astonish myself, all damn day.

But just now, I got back from a little bit of acting like an actual reporter. There is an apartment building, one that I do not have access to but is full of people that must be interviewed if I want my story to come out proper-like. No one was going in or out. But there was a callbox. And so into the fray I jumped. If you have never tried to explain to someone, through a scratchy callbox transmission, that you are a reporter writing a story and you are so sorry to bother them during dinner, but have they been complaining about such-and-such to the city? then you haven’t really lived.*

This is just as bad for me as it is for you, angry apartment dweller.

* and by lived, I mean yelled at by a bunch of strangers. Via callbox.

People who walked by on the street gave me the super side eye, this redhead crouched awkwardly and shouting apologies into a metal box. Let them stare. I actually love that feeling of awkwardness, because it makes me feel like I’m doing my job, for once.

I think something that separates reporters from people with more conventional jobs is the willingness to get up in people’s faces, when they don’t want to talk to you but are packed full of information that you would like to extract. They are like defensive coconuts, full of the sweet milk necessary for your zoning story. Where’s my hammer?

I can’t summon this every day or even most days, which is why I’m a terrible hard news reporter. And honestly, doing this does make me feel terribly uncomfortable, but it’s also incredibly freeing. Especially as women, everything we have been taught — don’t talk to people who don’t want to talk, don’t pry, don’t be aggressive, don’t ignore social boundaries, don’t call strangers on callboxes — goes out the window.

This was the most relevant image result for "intrepid girl reporter." It works, I guess.

But eesh, I will leave it to the more capable, and instead just accept this tiny nugget of satisfaction. And tomorrow, go back to writing about baby animals.

P.S. To the person who landed on this blog by Googling “crushing expectations,” I say, welcome!

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And passion burns you like never before.

Cool news, everyone! I’ve picked up a new reader!

Which makes five of you.

Anyway, this new reader is Ruth, who I can say without hesitation is the nicest person I have ever, ever met. I’m fairly certain that if I mentioned, offhandedly, that I would like a kidney to play pranks with, Ruth would show up within the hour to give me hers, freshly removed and packaged in an adorable homemade box decoupaged with vintage shoe advertisements.

That's just the kind of girl she is.

Anyway, in honor of New Reader Ruth, here’s another installment of Made Up Stories About Your Life. Today’s is …

Ruth Becomes A Woman, Not In The Getting-Her-Period-For-The-First-Time Sense, But In The Having-Sex-For-The-First-Time Sense

When Ruth was a fresh young thing of 16, she was perhaps the most popular girl at This American Life High School, located in Enormous Metropolis That Isn’t Dallas, Texas. You see, not only was Ruth pretty and smart and efficient, but she also had a very special talent. Each Friday, Ruth would head out to the underage karaoke clubs in Enormous Metropolis That Isn’t Dallas. A shiver would move through the crowd. It squirmed collectively, everyone wanting as one but none who dared to voice their desire, lest it not come true.

But each time it would. Ruth would nod at the KJ, and an impish grin would spread across his face. Soon enough, a classic 80s jam — maybe “Maneater” by Hall and Oates, or “Rio” by Duran Duran, would boom through the club. Ruth would open her mouths and angels would sigh with jealousy. She’d build anticipation, through the first verses! chorus! second verse! bridge! But … wait … what’s that? She’s busting out her saxophone and fucking accompanying herself on the sax solo?

That's exactly what she's fucking doing!

This continued for months, and Ruth became lonely. It’s hard at the top. People want so much, and all you really want is someone who understands. Someone who can fly on your eagle-esque level. What was the point anymore? Ruth wondered. How long would she keep this up, giving so much of herself and expecting nothing in return?

And then it was another night, one in a blurry stream of synthesized beats and smeared, vibrato flat notes. Ruth headed up to the front as she had so many times before, and the opening strains of Billy Ocean’s “Carribean Queen” issued from the speakers. She raised the mic to her lips, slowly, with none of the passion she’d once known.

But then there was a flurry towards the back, and a 16-year-old was calmly walking towards her, as a soldier walks to battle. His grey eyes met hers, and then Ruth looked downward and gasped. This not-yet-man, whose name was Hunt Downer, was already lifting his fingers to the aggressive keytar strapped around his neck.

It looked kind of like this, except Hunt's keytar shined like the sun, shined like the face of God

He was already playing the dulcet keyboard tones, and Ruth opened her mouth to sing. The words fell like rain.

Caribbean Queen.

Now we’re sharing the same dream!

And our hearts … they beat as one.

The audience rose to their feet, not quite believing what had transpired, not willing to acknowledge what had just happened. Meanwhile, Ruth and Hunt noticed nothing else. They were each the tiger the other wanted to tame, and after a breathless pause, they strode out of the underaged karaoke club to Hunt’s Mazda Miata, where they wasted no time in consummating things.

Unfortunately, despite their supernatural 80s karaoke/outmoded instrument synchronicity, the sex was mediocre, because they were both virgins, and also they were in a Mazda Miata. That’s how it goes when you’re 16 years old and having sex, at least at first.

It's just not a very big car, especially when the top's up.

But Ruth couldn’t do it, couldn’t bridge the gap between expectations and reality, and told Hunt as much.

To this day, Hunt can’t think about oceans, people named Billy, or especially Billy Ocean without a strangled gasp issuing from his mouth.

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This tornado loves you.

So I’ve got tornadoes on my tiny mind.

Yep.

This isn’t unique. I think about tornadoes a lot, since those twisty, terrifying things are one of my phobias, and the only one that I’m fascinated with enough to watch videos about and do school reports on (sorry, ghosts, alligators and being alone!) They show up in my dreams, hopping rivers and downing planes and ruining family picnics.

When I was four, there was one that passed about a quarter mile from my house, and I remember sitting with my mother, dog and baby sister in the hallway, listening for the sound of a freight train. Which is what tornadoes make. Because they’re scary as shit.

Like, for example:

• The average tornado is 500 feet wide. Average. That is the width of one and a half football fields.
• The widest tornado ever recorded was 2.5 miles wide. That’s right. Think about how far you can run in 25 minutes. Then, imagine everything you passed on that jog sucked right on up into a demon cloud. Every house, every tree, every cat.
• The longest tornado was on the ground for 219 miles. That, for example, could be Southeast Portland to Walla Walla, Wash.
• Before a tornado comes, the sky turns yellow. Just to remind you of the biblical-style destruction that’s about to come.

Oh, you know, the usual. Just cruisin' around, destroyin', whistlin' a creepy trainlike whistle.

But in a certain way, these things kind of make me adore tornadoes. They come from the biggest and scariest thunderstorms, they shake your house, you have no control. It’s a little bit like love, maybe?

And, for whatever  reason, I feel like I have had more of my fair share of tornado experiences. Second-hand, mostly, like the tornado wanted to get my number but in the end she was too shy. Or at least I did in 2007, which was truly the Year of the Tornado for me.

In January, a tornado ripped through my old neighborhood in New Orleans, smashing a window of the cafe where I’d worked in college and ruining ex-boyfriend B’s deck and forever claiming his trusty camper chairs (though he was lucky — it knocked down the house next to his). Later that year, one would cut an angry gash through the county I covered. It would knock down a house, one with a mother and three young kids sleeping inside. Two of the kids, in turn, would be life flighted to Jackson with severe head injuries. Later that same day, I would come across the father, who had flown in from the oil rig where he was working offshore, and was sitting and sobbing on the remains of his house. Just a big, splintery pile, with Precious Moments figurines and a Confederate flag mixed in with siding and muddy carpet. For a second, I considered asking him how does he spell his daughter’s name? but then thought better of it.

A month later, one headed through my neighborhood during a thunderstorm.

That night, I was laying in bed, listening for train whistle sounds, jet engine sounds, whatever it was. I’d woken up to a sea of angry red on the television. Normally, the channel went off the air at 1:30 a.m., but what with the tornadoes, they’d elected instead to just air the emergency alert and a Doppler map. They thought the tornado was headed down Hardy Street, but they weren’t sure. Thunder kept exploding, louder than anything I’d been able to imagine previously. My cats were wigging out. I wondered what to do, if I should leave my rickety carriage house apartment and head down to the main house? But what about the cats? I couldn’t carry both of them through pouring rain and lightning. I considered for a second putting them in the dryer, on the theory that nothing could fall on them and crush them. I thought about how, in the morning, if my house hadn’t fallen down, I would go and get a bike helmet. I would keep this bike helmet by my bed, and if a tornado came, my safety plan would for sure would be to put the cats in the dryer, and then pull on the bike helmet, and then pull my mattress on top of me. This would definitely protect me, I thought.

No, it wouldn't.

But mostly I felt afraid in that lonely way, with the knowledge that if there were someone, anyone, in the house with me, we would cling together, wearing our matching bike helmets, and things would seem a lot more tolerable than they were at that moment.

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The stories of your life.

So today is Friend/Blog Reader Sarah’s birthday. Hurrah!

Birthdays come but once a year!

Anyway, to celebrate, I’d like to make up the story of her birth.

The story of Sarah’s birth

The day was April 22, 1984. Ronald Reagan had just signed an accord of some sort with the Japanese, so everyone was in high spirits. Everyone, that is, except Deborah, Sarah’s mom. Because she was in labor, with Sarah, and trying to push Sarah out of her vagina. Times were tough, for Sarah’s mom.

The nurse brought in some lime Jell-O, which has always been Sarah’s mom’s favorite gelatin dessert, but nothing could take her mind off the fact that, by golly, she had a baby in her womb and it was time for it to come out.

And then … it did. That baby was Sarah, as I mentioned earlier. But something I didn’t mention earlier is that is was Easter (this part of the story is not made up). This explains why, when Sarah emerged triumphant from the womb, everyone gasped and noted how she was the spitting image of Jesus. And not even the baby Jesus, but the full-grown man Jesus.

Kind of like this.

Thank goodness for Sarah, it was one of those weird infant things that she grew out of in a few days, like how sometimes babies are born with blue eyes or black hair, and then it changes.

Which is kind of freaky, but that’s how babies are.

What’s that? The three regular readers of this blog are clammoring for more made-up stories about significant moments in their life? Well, I mean, I guess just one more couldn’t hurt …

Molly’s first kiss

His name was Rupus Frapple, and he was quite the commodity at Alfred P. Sloan Junior High School in Small Coastal Town, Wash. An exchange student from the European microstate of Andorra, Rufus was an extremely capable foosball player, which is something that is kind of sexy to 13-year-olds. At least, it was for Molly. Molly was also very attracted to the fact that, at birth, Andorrans have the second-highest life expectancy in the world at 82 years (this part of the story is true). She liked those odds.

One bright January morning, Rufus invited Molly and several of her peers on a ski trip, which is something people in Andorra, but also Small Coastal Town, Wash., like to do. Rufus’  host family drove everyone out there in their Ford Windstar Van.

Rufus and the ladies. Molly is far right.

Soon enough, Molly and Rufus had a moment alone by the rope tow. The kiss itself was awkward, but what came next was even more so.

“Molly,” Rufus said. “I brought you something … from my homeland.” You see, even though Rufus hadn’t met Molly, he brought this special present for the lady 13-year-old that would capture his heart.

But when he opened his hand, Molly made a face. The kind of face you make when you feel disappointed. Because Rufus had brought handcrafted Andorran butterfly barrettes. And if there’s one thing Molly hates, it’s butterflies (this part of the story is also true).

Rufus could see her disappointment, and it tore through him, like sandpaper through paper towels that are damp.

Rufus Frapple never spoke another word.

Discussion question: Should Sarah and Molly feel violated by these fabrications?

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Magic EVERYWHERE in this bitch!

OK, granted, everyone has already blogged about this, but I just can’t let it pass without comment.

Insane Clown Posse (hereafter known as ICP) is best known for their horrorcore, which is an abortion of a genre that combines rap and metal with satanic themes into something that you couldn’t pay me to listen to.

I just ... can't. No.

But they are now exploring magic and miracles in their new song, “Miracles.” Miracles like pelicans. And rivers. And rainbows. And magnets — how the fuck do they work?

What THE FUCK is going on here?

If this description hasn’t convinced you to watch the video, enjoys these lyrical snippets:

“I’ve seen miracles all around me/Stop and look around its all astounding/Water, fire air and dirt/Fucking magnets, how do they work? I don’t want to talk to a scientist/y’all motherfucking lying and getting me pissed.”

Some other scientific phenomena that is ascribed to either magic and/or miracles: Oceans, stars, mountains, trees, the seven seas, everything chillin’ under water please, hot lava, snow, rain and fog, long neck giraffes, pet cats and dogs, UFOs, a river flows, plant a little seed and nature grows, Niagara falls and the pyramids, and fuckin’ rainbows after it rains.

Violent KJ goes on: “There’s enough miracles here to blow your brain/I fed a fish to a pelican in Frisco bay/And he tried to eat my cell phone/I ran away.” That’s the way with pelicans, Violent J.

Sadly, the ICP has roundly rejected the scientific community, so it appears that these miracles will be forever unexplained to the legions of Juggalos … you know, hardcore ICP fans who paint their faces.

I ... just ... but ...

Anyway, if all of this hasn’t convinced you to run and not walk to the video, then I don’t know what will. Except maybe linking it right below. Here it is!

And, if you haven’t seen SNL’s hilarious and mean takedown (“Blankets! How do they work?”) then it is also required viewing.

P.S., ICP — 15,000 Juggalos in one room is not a miracle. I don’t know that there are words to describe what it is, but a miracle it is not.

Discussion question: What would you do if you found out your favorite uncle is a Juggalo? Your favorite auntie a Juggalette?

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