Meme game.

That Talker's pretty swift. She's thanked me for something on her web via this "meme" (which, I'll have you know, is not really a word). Reflecting on the past year, speculating: what am I thankful for? Oh so many things!

Here, you think about this too. It's good to consider what we appreciate in our lives, what we give thanks for on days when there isn't a turkey on the table.

(I won't number them because this is not a hierarchy. If I could write these in a circle, I would. I am thankful for all these things relationally.)

Bird - she is one of the best friends I will ever have. I'm certain of it. I always hope to have her in my life.

Amy - another fantastic friend who understands me. Thank you for always listening and remembering.

My ex because I would have never ever EVER gone to Montana if it hadn't been for you. I am a changed person because of Montana, so, even though our relationship did not work out, I will always be grateful and indebted to you for helping me leave New York when it was essential I did just that. Also, thank you for helping me think I could attend graduate school and succeed with writing. And thank you for trying to love me when you did.

AmeriCorps - because I was able to become a part of the lives of so many amazing people. Without AmeriCorps, I may have never realized some of my deepest, most important passions.

Hellgate High School - the WHOLE school. Students, staff, everyone. I am a more accomplished person today than I was before I set foot in that incredible high school.

Missoula, MT - I am freer and more aware of who I am because of Missoula.

"Grandma" - I am thankful for all the times you listen to me, laugh with me, read and critique my work, for introducing me to your amazing husband (who is actually one of my favorite people) and inviting me into your lives. Thank you so much. Irreplaceable. I still think you're my mentor and I still want you to be my editor.

Lisa Waller - you are an amazing person. You've opened up my eyes to so many things. Thank you for facilitating my growth. I miss you every day. Thank you for making time for me when you did. And it's Michelle, not Naomi, not Nicole.

Talker - well, if you've been paying any attention, you can see why I'd thank her. Thank you for thinking of me.

Janet Marek - because you are amazing and I learn so much from you. Because I think you're one of my favorite parts of Hellgate, of Missoula, of Montana, of my life.

Monica Roscoe - because you are an incredible listener and it was so nice to meet a kindred spirit in a foreign place. I know I can always pick up the phone and call you and have a three hour conversation, like, right now.

Louise - because you have helped me realize that I can really do this. I don't know if I've ever felt this supported in something before. I know you won't read this, so I'll thank you in an e-mail. I am very grateful.

That's all folks! (It isn't. I'm grateful for other people, things. This is all for now.)

Accusations/Sexuality

As you may know, I have a roommate. Her name is Talker. Why is her name Talker? Oh, prying reader, she's Talker because she talks and Talks, airing her mind for any and all listeners. (Unless, of course, we're on the subway and someone pointedly outs me as a pregnant woman. In those instances, she remains silent, inappropriately.) Any subject at all, she's got something to say.

Lately, she has a lot to say about me. And my sexuality. Well, let's be blunt: She's accused me of being a heterosexual.

Gasp!

How could she say such a thing? Let it be known, I am no heterosexual - not that there's anything wrong with that! Talker interprets my pink pregnancy muumuu shirts and predilection for pink hair bands (They're called elastics, Nicole) as telling signs of a bad case of the Heteros. Whatever I've come down with, she's quick to assess the "problem" and I think Talker's found a cure.

We go out together. Don't all roommates? Or most? Some? Okay, I'll settle for a handful. At any rate, we dine, shop, and throw parties. Big deal. Oh, we also decorate our apartment together.

If you live in a cave, you might not know this, but Christmas is fast upon us. Actually, fellow cave dwellers may have ventured out to an internet cafe and relayed the amazing sales at Macy's (and printable coupons!) to you. Christmas has always been the "shit I don't need" and "tree killing" holiday in my book, so Talker and I decided to purchase a tree because they've ripped them, root-by-root, out of the ground anyway, right? Right!

In New York City, tree vendors set up shop around December 1st and do not move from their station until December 25th. Through sub-freezing temperatures, they stand vigil beside a lot of trees, watching the sun rise and fall every day until Christmas.

The closest tree vendor to our apartment is about five blocks south. Last Saturday, I scoped out the selection so that I could give Talker the low down. That afternoon we ventured toward our local tree vendor to pick one out and bring it home with us.

For this "date," I wore sweatpants and a sweatshirt - my gym outfit - and she wore pink pants and cute Converse knock-offs, with a winter coat concealing her lovely green blouse. We were quite the pair. My unwashed hair and spectacled look was intensely attractive, as I'm sure Talker noticed.

We approached the tree vendor and he, self-proclaimed Treeman, said to me, "Oh you're back again! I saw you perusing the lot earlier." He noticed this unkempt delight - I was surprised and thought, Treeman is hot.

Two seconds later

Talker: Which one do you want?

Me: I don't know, this one is cute over here. What do you think?

Talker: I don't know. I don't want to get a dead one. How do we know if it's dead.

Me: Well I guess we could ask Treeman. (Duh.)

Talker: Ok. (To Treeman) So, this is our first tree. I want to make sure we get a good one.

Treeman: (Looks at me then Talker then me again) Um, well I just sold the guy before you an $80 tree and it was dead -

Me: Good thing we asked then!

Treeman: Right. (Rolls eyes, continues to swindle) Well, if you just do this (pulls on a branch) and the needles bounce back, the tree is healthy.

The one we wanted was healthy.

Me: What do you think? Do you want this one? I do!

Talker: Yeah this one is good. (Turns and smiles at me.)

He wraps up the tree.

Me: I'll carry it.

Treeman: OR you could carry it together?

Talker: She'll carry it. She always does all the heavy lifting.

Treeman gives "a look" and quickly recounts the money. Sweatpants-clad butch that I've become, I hoist the tree upon my shoulder and we walk home. We don't hold hands because this butch won't engage in such dainty expressions of love while carrying heavy things for Talking Femme.

Me: That Treeman was hot, wasn't he?

Talker: Totally hot.

I hope you're getting all this. Talker formerly denounced me as a Heteros-plagued deviant and then publicly proclaimed (at least to Treeman) our unestablished romantic tryst. Something's missing!

I can't figure her out. Maybe you can. In the meantime, I'll continue my make-up free regimen, wear barrettes in my hair, and step out in black patent flats 'cuz my clothes can't tell me or anyone else whether I've got the Heteros or the Homos.

Gotta keep on truckin' in between.

Stork on a train

It happened on All Saints Day. Appropriately.

The next step in my life process finally came to head. I've been worrying for so long, but now it's happening, at last. On November 1, 2007, I learned that I was pregnant.

See, there's St. Fatima piously beaming her light over my unborn child. St. Anthony and St. Guadalupe look on, supporting the apparent out-of-wedlock birth to-be. (Things are changing.)

Don't be surprised. After all, I only advertise one persona on this blog. This is coming from the next expert on female sex terminology (see previous post, if curious). I am not a contradiction, I am a myriad of yes.

Do you know how I learned of my pregnancy? A woman on the subway told me. New York is a truly incredible place. We've got subways riding under skyscrapers, accordian players and acrobats performing street-side, and now, to add to this list, we have walking pregnancy tests.

Was this woman a gynecologist? I doubt it. Did she touch me? Ask for urine? Inquire about my sexual behavior? No, no, and no. Wait, she did touch my roommate. Perhaps this is how she found out about me and my secret womb.

On the fecundly unfurling morning of All Saints Day, my roommate, who we'll call Talker, and I boarded the subway together, delighting in the sparse showing of commuters. She claimed a seat, I stood in front of her. Everything was fine until 103rd street. That's when the seer, Ms. EPT, climbed on our train car.

A representation of Ms. EPT sans sweatsuit.

Across the floor, she scuttled, waving her cane ahead of her sweatsuit clad body. The woman sitting beside Talker allowed Ms. EPT to take her seat, and so, Ms. EPT swung around, her cane flailing, and landed not upon the seat but Talker's right side. Her entire right side and right-center, in fact. No light-weight, Ms. EPT managed an "excuse me" as she slid her bulbous frame into the orange seat. I could see she had little patience for such niceties; the music from her cheap plastic headphones demanded her full attention.

Wah ah uhhhh. Baby! Waaah Ah Uhhhhh. I stood stupefied, staring into Ms. EPT's scrunched-singing face. My face asked Talker, Who sings on the train? She shrugged, quiet. The vessel was silent but for Ms. EPT's utterances.

One ditty sounded familiar. "Is that .... ?" I started, asking Talker for some Ray Charles knowledge, who made a face and shook her head. The broad, flat (read: scary and incoherent) delivery of lyrics let me know I would never understand the song and pain of Ms. EPT. But then I decided I wouldn't care.

As we hurtled past 50th Street, Ms. EPT momentarily emerged from her musical state and gracefully asked, "What month you in."

"Um ... excuse me?" Slightly stunned, my eyes widened.

"You're pregnant?"

I think my face turned 10 shades of red before settling on "Beyond Embarassed, #49." Talker looked at me, and, as expected, said nothing. She may have been stunned too. But then Talker's neighbors gawked at me, waiting for my response. All of a sudden, the whole subway car wanted to know if I was pregnant.

"I'm not pregnant. I think you're mistaken. See, the shirt I'm wearing, it's billowy, see?" I pinched at my shirt and lifted it from my self, letting it fall back down, demonstrating my point. I wondered if it was my fault that she thought I was pregnant. Had I been shopping in the maternity section of Old Navy?

"Well, sure looks like you could use to lose a few. Mmmhmm." Song lyrics? Not even close. A moment later. "Didn't mean to offend."

"It's okay." I turn to Talker. "Is it okay!?" She shook her head, again. Not a word spoken.

I laughed politely because this is OBVIOUSLY the only correct response to some homeless chic betty telling you you're fat.

We arrived at my stop, 42nd street. "You have a good day," Ms. EPT said.

"Yeah ... ?"

When I left the train, Ms. EPT continued the conversation with Talker, who began to talk, at last.

"I hope I didn't offend your friend."

"Oh, don't worry." (This would not have been my response, by the way.)

"Maternity is a beautiful thing."

I'm sure Talker nodded, though her affirmation was omitted from her report to me.

Right. Ms. EPT thought I was SO BEAUTIFUL that she told me I was pregnant. As a compliment.

Should I have felt insulted? Probably not, since Ms. EPT also goes by Ms. CRAZY, I think. Next time we meet I can only hope that she'll comment on my smile or my eyes instead of my midriff.

Moist & Me - A Tale of Repugnance

I am affected by the words of others. It isn't hearing about the war or the rampant wild fires consuming California that bother me. Surprisingly, the invitations for sex I receive from street people daily aren't so bad either. (See below entry for more information.) I shudder at the most careful, delicate usage of one single word: moist.

Moist. Say it out loud. Allow co-workers in neighboring cubicles to hear the shape your mouth must take to accommodate its round, damp existence. Say it slowly, extend the word to two/two and a half syllables - my mode of execution because of my speech impediment. I mean, because I'm from New Jersey. Let them shudder, too. Are you thoroughly disgusted?

Good. (If not, keep reading. I promise there's entertainment below.)

So let's talk about why moist gets me down. I learned yesterday that many women actually experience repulsion upon hearing that word; I didn't feel so alone. To think, I was about to check out yahoo groups for support. But no, an article on Salon.com's broadsheet titled "Linguists: 'Moist' makes women cringe" addressed my concern.

A very brief synopsis: Carol Lloyd, the writer, contends that women's distaste for "moist" links to their discomfort with their own and all female sexuality. She writes, "One possibility: The word 'moist' straddles the same cultural polarities of shame and openness that still haunt modern female sexuality." She suggests that a Victorian-era modesty regarding sexuality has re-emerged (how post-modern) or has never exited from contemporary discourse on sexuality, and accesses an incident regarding a moist-happy male Shakespeare professor who wielded the word to the critical amusement of a handful of female students:

According to professor [Charles] Doyle [of the University of Georgia], the women offered no explanation for the word's bad juju, but one male student suggested that it might have something to do with female sexual arousal. To which I offer the following comment: No, duh.

Isn't her usage of juju the best part of the quote? (Pretty much.)

Okay, Lloyd's got a point, sorta. Of course, America isn't the most sexually open Western nation, in general, and for some women (not all, not necessarily many), the virgin/whore binary may feel like the only choices. Maybe Lloyd's onto something.

Except I don't personally agree with anything she said in her article. This is my vision of moist:

A DAMP DISGUSTING SPONGE

"MOIST" CHOCOLATE CAKE

MOLD - Still have an appetite for the cake?

When I hear the word moist, an equation suddenly appears within my mind (which should tell you that this is a completely logical response and not linked to a discomfort with arousal):

sexual arousal + warmth + non-cotton panties = yeast infection

Does it sound like I am ashamed of female sexuality? That's for you to decide.

Lloyd also mentions wet and wonders, "Why moist and not wet?" Well that's very simple, Ms. Lloyd.

When I think of wet, a different equation lights up my mind:

sexual arousal + sexual act + no panties = only good things

My roommate and I talked about the differences between moist and wet. In a sexual situation, moist, she thought, described what is more for the benefit of the other person, so to speak. It can be considered as a polite gesture, like holding the door for a stranger (my words, I'm not holding her accountable for this). I told her I thought wet was the real thing, a signifier screaming, "It's actually working!" Using wet is a proud proclamation of the arousal that occurs in tandem with the female sexuality long departed from Victorian secrecy and shame. A genuine embrace of a woman's ability to be sexual!

The moral of the story is that wet is raw, real, and accurate, whereas moist is a disgusting word that can only bring various forms of fungal growths to mind. This truly may have been the problem with Lloyd's example involving the professor and students. Were the female students worried that Ophelia or Cleopatra might have gone for a run (before the river, the asps), not worn the right underwear, and then sat around for a few hours? Were they concerned that Monistat may not have been available for them at CVS? What if there was no CVS?! Witness the anxiety brought about by moist!

It has nothing to do with sexuality, but connotation instead. Reserve moist for discussions of mold and cake - never together, please - and take up wet as the new word of empowered female arousal.

M60 Update: ALL Services Included?

Hello local friends and faraway dreamers! Welcome to New York City--site of retail, riots, and private hells. It's also the place where the homeless, surly, and otherwise strange find and target me, where they invite me into their worlds.

Don't get me wrong, I regard this incredible knack for connection as a true gift from above. Or below, or everywhere within and without my body: Shantih shantih shantih, Amen, and all that jazz. People of all orientations and shades of mental illness flock to me in great numbers. Like shit on a stick, if I do say so myself, since in this scenario (only), I'm the stick.

Right.

Let's discuss my recent trip on the great M60. On Friday nights, this strolling, express-stopping White Whale of a bus eludes even the seasoned MetroCard holder. It's the truth. Try following its schedule and you'll quickly realize that the bus itself yields to no such parameters, not even the ones specifically designed for its route.


Look! There's the M60 now, laughing at your 20-minute wait!

No, in all honesty, the M60 looks like a gigantic white shoe box. The diesel hybrid electric bus-box careens around corners and onto wide-set streets such as 125th on its way to LaGuardia Airport.

This is a better representation:



I finally caught the great beast and gave it my card. I sat in a single seat beside a window so I would remember where I was. I sometimes forget the order of the streets, or if I don't forget, I have anxiety that the unstoppable M60 creature will take me to the airport and drop me on a plane to some distant beautiful place. Or wait, is that my deepest desire?

As I moved forward with the jaunty thing, other passengers joined me on my passage to Lenox. Or India, if my traveling wish were fulfilled. One distinguished character entered the bus, sat down across the aisle from me. He looked about 50, donning a cowboy hat, and a carefully chosen button down shirt accented by a crisply starched collar. He wore corduroys and brown leather shoes. He was well-put together, and different from the other men I had seen in my neighborhood. For a moment, I wondered if he was gay.

Minutes later, I discovered he was not. As I watched people pass on the sidewalk, I noticed his gaze fixed on something in my direction. The window, he's looking out the window, too, I told myself. We stopped at a light one avenue away from my destination. I absentmindedly turned in his direction, startled. He stared directly into my eyes, not out the window. No, he was not creating romantic fantasies about the ambling passersby. If he imagined anything romantic, it had to do with me.

How did I know?

I noticed his left hand on his thigh. I saw the bulge. I observed the pressure, the rhythm, the certain thumb-and-forefinger grip he had on his growing member. He didn't pull it out, no. I imagined him as a traditional gentleman, a fine upstanding, church-going community member who single-handedly (literally) stunted gentrification through bouts of public gesturing at white women.

Slightly rattled, I pressed the button to let me off. I wondered if he would follow me or if working it on the bus was enough for him. I became increasingly more disturbed as the hours passed. If only I could avoid the M60 or any bus or public transportation in general.

To think, I took the M60 home from Labyrinth, a bookstore on 112th Street. To think, I was at Labyrinth to hear Naomi Wolf read from her latest book. To think, this kind of sexual assault would come about as an indirect result of my participation in a feminist-y forum.

Oh, what's all this thinking going to do. I'd recommend for you to watch yourself on those buses, but I'm sure "they'll" find me before they get to you. Thank me later. With a food processor.

Stories that tell themselves (too much, too often)

Here we go, blog. Here we go again.

See, I'm finding this daunting. "This" refers to posting on my blog. An "aha!" moment for us all. Conversing with an old comrade the other day, I recalled a moment from this past year when a student suggested I speak about Coming Out Day--how funny was that? Comrade jabbed, "Yeah I remember that story. I read it over and over again on your blog since you won't write new entries." I'm crying. Really. So here it is--an entry!--indulge.

I'm finding this daunting mostly because I've come across one too many bloggers who take their blogging all too seriously. Now, what does THIS mean? Simply: I'm tired of digesting the garbled voice of stifled nobodies who seek somebody-status through densely, never-deftly-conveyed blog posts. About the restaurants they've visited. Or the bums on the sidewalk. But never any commentary, no reflection whatsoever, not even a "good morning Baltimore"-esque meta-critique about their own stoic self-righteousness.

See? These bloggers I speak of irritate me to the very core--to the deepest, darkest place within!

As I write this, I recognize that I may write for an audience of one: myself. I'm okay with this. I'm not going to sit around, spouting Shakespeare--or surely less poetic prose-- with an overly elitist air. I dare not position myself as the wisest typist of the broadest band. No, no. That is foolish and I refuse to participate in any tom-snob-foolery of any kind.

You want some stories? Here. Have one or two or many or tell me your own. Please laugh and remember that you and me and everyone we know are flawed. Except for Miranda July, of course. She's one hot ticket.

1. Overfilling my gas tank. I'll teach a thing or two to you Joisey bOYs and goyls (read: garGOYLs). You sit in your SUVs with your mani-pedis and puffed hair, blasting non-white radio, as some foreigner pumps your gas. You stink of smug. I admit, I was once like you--possessed by a sense of fossil fuel entitlement. Then I moved to Montana and learned to pump for myself, for survival.

As I ventured back toward the Garden (of weed/toxmatoes) State, I made many stops at roadside gas stations. One particular night, near the end of a long-and-winding I-90 death stretch, my companion and I pulled into CENEX. This gas station is located in Mitchell, South Dakota. Some of you (or myself?) may remember that Mitchell is the site of the illustrious Corn Palace. Oooh, aaah. We may have visited the Corn Palace, but it was nearing midnight--and the Corn Palace is the stupidest "attraction" I've ever succumbed to.

My companion and I wearily exited the car. The flourescent lights beamed down on us, the lone customers, punishing our eyes with faux-bright. As Bird cleaned my windows--opaque with dead flies and remains of small mammals--I pumped the gas. Yes, I'll take Ultimate/91, I told myself as I inserted my credit card. I then helped my fine-feathered friend clean my windows. "Nicole," she screamed, "get over here and see this!!" I walked to the pump-side of the car with bleak expectations--is there really a small mammal on my car somewhere? Are there free passes to the Corn Palace littered on the floor? I never thought I'd find what I found that night: gas pouring out of my gas tank and all over the car, the cement, my hands, everywhere.

Take a moment to truly understand this scenario. It's midnight in Mitchell, South Dakota (aka NOWHERE, USA); we're near the Corn Palace; CENEX is one of the few gas stations open on this road and there's still only 2 cars (including my own) at the station. Now there's gas spilling out of the tank. Has this ever happened to you? Didn't think so.

Instead of freaking out and lighting a match or performing an equally intelligent action, I banged on the gas pump (a little trick I learned from back east) and marched into the CENEX convenient store under the spell of soul-sucking fluorescence.

"Um, excuse me? The gas pump out there--number 4? Yeah, you see the grey VW. Okay, that's my car. So, I asked the pump to stop at full and it kept going and now there's gas all over the floor." It was complicated, so sympathize with the wordiness.
"Oh, oh. Oh, okay! So, is there a lot of gas?" the strangely calm clerk replied.
"Is there a lot of gas? Well, there's enough? Um, I'm just gonna leave now, okay?"
"Sure."
...
Right. I didn't hear much about the CENEX. Maybe it blew up--at the hands of the store clerk's match. The world will never know.

Hundreds of miles later, at a different gas station--was it bp?--I cleaned the now-dried gas off my car paint with a little bit of jojoba shampoo and a bottle of water. Bird took a picture of this action. A mere milestone on our trek home.

2. Dinosaur buddies.

Bird and I went to the Field Museum in Chicago. Chicago is in Illinois, which is not pronounced Illi-noise. I still think Oregon is pronounced O-re-gone even though I've been there. The state of New Jersey and I agree that the pronunciation of Oregon is indeed O-re-gone, but we've come to a consensus that Illi-noise is all wrong. Which is true.

The Field Museum houses Sue. Who's Sue? What's the big deal abou Sue? Well, Sue is a dinosaur. A T-Rex? That's still alive. It's amazing.

Very exciting. What was really exciting was Sue's gift shop. Bird and I had a good time wholly embracing Sue's peers and her predecessors. How did we do this?

We tried on dinosaur masks and fashioned tails on our bums or around our heads. We pretended we were dinoosaurs--witih cameras. Duh.

We're learn-ed now.

3. Last one, I swear. It's about a monkey. You like monkeys. Keep reading.
Did you know that South Bend, Indiana has an awesome zoo? Correct--the University of Notre Dame isn't the only OR best! attraction.

The zoo is. Clearly.

This is why: They've got nice animals, yeah, but they have one special primate. An ape, a chimpanzee named Jodi.

That's her. She's cute, no?
What's so special about Jodi you ask? Well, take a look.

You'd think that says it all--it must!--but it doesn't.

Not only is Jodi diabetic, she's the South Bend sex-pot. I had a little chat with the zoo keeper who we'll call Jane G. The wise, ape-knowing Jane G. told me that the spry 19-year-old Jodi is also on the Pill. Which pill? The BIRTH CONTROL PILL. Jane G. informed me that chimps like Jodi live until they're about 55 years old.

This means Jodi's about 25 or so--she's looking for someone to love; to share a lair with; to mate with and mold their children grow into Ivy League material. Wait, that's sounding familiar, maybe not Jodi's situation though. Apparently, Jodi can't keep the other agile apes away from her and she wants to wait for kids until she's set on her career and able to inject her insulin herself. Well, what it comes down to is this: I'm a newly 23-year-old female who is not on the Pill and is not looking to settle down; and is probably not on the Pill because I don't have suitors banging down my door. Yet I feel this ape (note: I use "ape" lovingly) seems to have more prospects on the horizon--evidently--than I can even dream of.

Such is life. You can live behind bars and have it all, or stray and wait--forge your path, forget the Pill.

Pabst Blue Ribbon Fairy Tales

Quick question: Have you heard the one about the drunk-driving woman who ran over and killed her own husband? You haven't? Weird. Wait, wait. How about the time the man charged with a DUI accused a unicorn of driving his truck into a pole? Haven't heard that one either? How strange. Maybe you live in an area of America where IPA isn't on tap ... in your bathroom sink. Out here where I live, these tall tales grow taller by the minute, never stop anyone from driving drunk as long as that local brew keeps flowin'.

Hmm, where to begin. Well, I should establish the above suppositions as fact, as far as newsprint fact goes. That's a good place to start.

On a wintry afternoon in ol' Montana, a couple--the wife in her 60s, the husband 50s--drove out to a little watering hole near Frenchtown. She drove her Toyota along Interstate 90, or "the freeway," as folks out here say, parked her car in a dirt covered lot beside the bar. She and her husband reveled in pints of Pabst and Moose Drool in the waning afternoon, sharing laughter over obviously very funny jokes and situations they remembered. Then, suddenly, Sir Moose Drool left Lady Pabst with the tab and made his way home on foot in the early evening. As the night wore on, Lady Pabst decided she missed her dear hubby and headed home in her trusty Toyota, speeding along the freeway as darkness fell upon her and other night dwellers. Lady Pabst confidently steered her auto into her driveway and parked her body in her bed and slept until morn.



There's Lady Pabst and Sir Moose Drool! Showin their brands, hangin' tough!

Then, it was the morning that struck her. Where was her husband, she wondered. Good goody that she was, Lady Pabst made haste back toward the bar, searching for her husband. In her hungover state, Lady Pabst failed to notice the gigantic hair-and-blood encrusted crack in her windshield. She saw a fallen man and uniforms forming patterns on the opposite side of the road. Lady Pabst swung back around and pulled to a stop. At the core of the gathering, she viewed the fallen man: her husband, Sir Moose Drool. What happened to him, oh I'm his wife, yes I was out with him last night: she rattled on for minutes on end, and then the detectives noticed her car and the enormous circle of fractured glass. Did she hit an animal on the way here, they wanted to know. No, I don't remember hitting anything, she told them. How could she remember anything? She ain't no Lady O'Douls.

The uniformed men determined that the dead man was her husband and that she was at fault. (Note: Due to the small population, it is likely that her car in fact killed him. It's a sophisticated science out here.) Somehow, somewhere some court determined that she didn't intend to kill her husband. A tough case to manage, I imagine, but one must consider the clear cut motive: the bar tab. That couple stalled out at that bar for a good five hours. Did he really make her pay for her share and his? Was she aiming for his lumbering figure on the Interstate? The world will never know.

Can you believe it? Wrap your mind around this next one.

Here's the second tale, a shorter one. This time figments, rather than tipsy wives, wreak havoc on unsuspecting objects.

A Billings man, last name Holliday (Madonna style), got his fix at a local bar one night just a few weeks back. It wasn't long until Holliday had his fill of sweet nectar of the hops. Or, conversely, it was long, but Holliday got tired of the same ol', same ol' company he kept at this bar. He was looking for something fun and fantasmical. And that's what he found.

Holliday drove a truck--though he probably still drives and what he drives is undoubtedly a truck--a pick-up to be exact. Ever been in a pick-up truck? They're sure roomy in some ways, but they don't have the highest ceilings. In other words, you gotta gauge the gallons of your hat before getting in.

Anyway, when Holliday hopped into his truck, his situatiaon spun out of control, literally. In some ways, the unicorn probably saved him, but "we'll" never know what truly happened. Oh, what's that, you ask? Yes, Holliday accused a unicorn, the most magically mythical figure of all, for drunkedly driving his truck. The rim of his 10-gallon hat covered his eyes as the unicorn mounted the driver's side. Witnesses of this incredible moment are spellbound by the majesty of the unicorn's driving. You have to admit, a hand-less unicorn driving a pick-up is quite the image.



Isn't the unicorn docile and endearing? It would never drive drunk! And do you see how tiny that guy's truck is? Give me a break!

After "they" hit the pole and the media rode the unicorn into the sunset, Holliday corrected the believers. A recent headline under the "Montana" section of the newspaper read "Prosecutor: Man did not blame unicorn in DUI case." He would hire a smart lawyer, wouldn't he.

Okay, I'm going to throw my two cents in. To be quite honest, I think it's obvious that the unicorn wasn't the one to blame in this situation. Holliday spent too much time carousing at his favorite bar and got in the truck with the wrong dude. It wasn't a unicorn. Could it have been? No way! A unicorn would never fit in this guy's truck, first of all. Have you seen the horns on them? They're huge! Second, just because they're magical doesn't mean they can sit upright just like the rest of us with drivers licenses. And last of all, his pick-up definitely didn't have a moon roof. Hell, it didn't have a sun roof! How was the unicorn supposed to even see where he wanted to go?

I may be the only person in Montana who knows what happened that night. I'll let you in on my secret: it was a leprechaun named Laffy on stilts who rammed Holliday's truck into a light post. Doesn't that feel a little bit more logical than a unicorn? Laffy was in the bar with Holliday, sipping a Guiness, playing it cool, and noticed Holliday's Celtic tattoo. Aha, Laffy thought, this is my kind of guy. Who ever said that leprechauns are totally hetero? That's a really crazy assumption, actually. Laffy hopped into the staggering Holliday's truck and pushed him aside. Every self-respecting leprechaun totes stilts for the sort of situation that presented itself. Holliday played a little too rough with Laffy and that's precisely when "things got out of hand."



That's Laffy! Isn't he happy and gay?

No wonder the guy retracted his statement about the unicorn. The truth is hard enough to hear.

I want you to know that I've changed the names to protect the guilty. I've changed the names because I prefer the names I suggest over their given ones.

Only in Montana? I sure as hell hope so.

America's Youth: Less Service, More Drugs

Have you heard the word, Ferd? What I mean by "Ferd" is "friend"? I'm just having some trouble with language lately.

So, the Ferdy word I'm talking about is National and Global Youth Service Day or NGYSD or NGYSDABCDEFGHZ. At one point, my colleagues and I referred to it as GYNday, which is probably not something I should write on the internet. Oh, I suppose this "blog" is anonymous anyway, right? Well, when Youth Serve America breaks down my door, I'll start to worry. Until then, I'll just laugh about BadAcronymDay (BAD).

Okay, wait, I have a question: Why am I getting weird porn people comments on my blog? Is there anything sex-related? Do I sound interested to you? I'd like your feedback.

Pressing forward, Ferds.

So, BAD. Well, it's not so bad. I guess. Why don't I provide some background? Sure, I'll do that, alright. BAD is a gigantic service event happening all over the globe, or "wherever Angelina leads." I didn't say that. Wait, I did say that. I was just using quotes to mislead you for a moment. I'm over that moment. You?

BAD could be the most amazing event to grace the WORLD just because youth determine how to serve their communities in important and effective ways. Sounds awesome? Pretty much.

Get this: Service can only happen when "the right people" say so. Service: a potentially populist notion, surely, but this bureacratic hopscotch gets under my skin. Allow me to explain.

Our little youth (the 0-17 year old students) decided they wanted to increase the number of trash cans in Missoula, and decorate the new receptacles to boot. Wow, crazy idea! They're only encouraging folks to pick up after themselves and doing it with artistic flair. Do you have the inclination to shoot down this idea then send a dog after it to pick it up and bring it back to you like defenseless flying fowl? ME TOO!

Actually, I wouldn't. I hate the idea of hunting, and sending a dog after the prey is crossing a line I don't even want to approach (but, in a way, I have). Also, the little youth went after that community need like none other (hunter). Take that 501(c)3s! I admitted to the group that I'm a belligerent litterer, which made the trash can idea's relevance resound.

Bad news for BAD: Trash cans are trash. I was hoping it wouldn't happen, but it did.

Onto the next topic: Upgrading parks - what a concept! Art, native grasses and flowers, free music every night, a hot dog vendor. Oh wait, sounds like a park in a faraway place.

In Missoula, allowing little youths to beautify outdoor areas must break laws. I'm so happy they've deprioritized marijuana now that I realize teenagers are barred from creating aesthetically engaging venues for tomorrow's generation. Community service is a much bigger problem out west than marijuana. Actually, community service nearly beats meth as the most detrimental agent in our community. Haven't you seen the commercials?

Once the Parks idea was nixed, we moved onto the slightly daunting undertaking of the Bark Park walkway. Stop rolling your eyes. You'd love the Bark Park. It's a park of bark. Yeah, that's right. There's a ton of trees. Sometimes dogs scamper around the trees, hoping for a barky obstacle course.

So there aren't any trees in the Bark Park, but a ParksRec birdy Ferdy told us that we could build a walkway. Who the hell knows how to build a walkway? I didn't learn that in my VISTA training, believe it or not, and I'm pretty sure they don't teach "cement pouring" in AP English. Maybe my high school was an exception, though.

A visitor of the Bark Park told us that the walkway is already cemented. Okay. What the fuck? Do you know? Parks and Rec Ferdy nerdys clearly have their ducks in a row. No hunting anaology, please. This is serious.

Is there a moral to this story? Yes. Don't try to perform service in your community. You'll get shut down, shunned, told that you're an idealistic dreamer, and probably be driven to drink. Service is bad for America's youth. Missoula tells me so.

Anyway, BAD better become BAD-ass lickity split else I'm gonna throw a fit in city hall. Or, you know, just get over it.