The Ace Cast of Characters

In July, my friend and I took a special visit to a magical land called Palm Springs. The Ace Hotel was our lodging for the two days we were there and it truly did not let us down. Neither did the characters and contraptions we stumbled upon. It made for instant writer fodder. Tales were spun in this fiendish brain. Characters were met and I couldn’t resist logging them down into righteous history.

Allow me to present…

Special Ed

Now I wish I had a photo of this girl because, sweet baby J, she was amazing.

Imagine a cross between Dorothy Hamill, the body of an Olympic swimmer and face of a small planetary moon. This is the only appropriate way to describe her. And I’m sorry if it’s not politcally correct, but I’m not politically correct, and that is my only disclaimer.

Tagging along with a bachelorette party, she was THAT girl. That one girl you just know the bride’s mother had made her invite. The female-version of Zack Galifianakis in The Hangover.

But to her credit this girl hit on every man in the pool. She set her sights on a sweet military kid, stroking his arm (“Are you from Army?”) and flirting until he excused himself and escaped to the bar.

I mean hell. This girl flirted like a pro. A PRO. And good for her. I say, good for Special Ed.

But we haven’t gotten to the best part of her skilled moves. There was the face. The face she’d pull on all the guys. That thousand-yard-let’s-fuck-but-wait-what?-stare.

Allow me to demonstrate ‘the face’. (Yes, I practiced this in the wilderness of my most recent camping trip).

I shit you not.

The girl literally haunts my dreams and waking nightmares. I wonder what Special Ed’s doing right now. I imagine that her name is Molly. And that we’re secretly best friends.

The Sandwich

I dropped my sandwich on the floor of the diner and ate it. Yes. You heard me correctly. I scooped it back up in front of about ten other people and promptly devoured it.

This is the sandwhich in question.

This is the face of a dirty-floor-sandwich-eater.

Big Gay Dance Party

Friday night The Ace held (and we stumbled upon) the most swinging party around. The Big Gay Dance Party –was $45 a head (pun intended), benefitting the Southwest Center for Aids, and we happily ponied up the dough.

And then some.

And all for a good cause, we met amazing drag queens, drank sub-par Chardonnay and danced our gay asses off.

DJ Mike

DJ Mike was simply put a DJ. Sadly, he was no Magic Mike.

But this guy was.

DJ Mike played good tunes.

He was also insanely angry.

The Big Gay Dance Party was in full swing, plastic beach balls being lobbed and bobbed over heads when one bounced over to DJ Mike, hitting his equipment.

Ahem, DJ equipment.

Ahem, his turntables.

In an instant, with the fierce intensity of a stabby person, DJ Mike grabbed up the beach ball and popped it. An audible gasp went through the crowd.

HULK SMASH

But then he played “Call Me Maybe” and we all forgot about it and raved on.

The Record Player

It was the selling point of the room. Yes, the Ace Hotel includes a super sweet record player in every humble abode (Swoon). Jazzed about this, I had dutifully brought along a few choice albums – The Doors, Elton John and Aerosmith.

The first thing I did when entering the room was turn that bad boy on.

Well, tried to at least.

The instructions had me befuddled. SAYWHAAANOW??

The instructions called for attaching wires to rods and all sorts of manual work I am not experienced with nor do I want to be. An hour into it – Michele opening the wine – I finally broke down and rang housekeeping. I was exasperated. I needed help.

Yeah. Thanks a lot, assholes.

But most of all I was frustrated. Vinyl is my one true love and not being able to start record machine was sheer agony.

So they sent someone from tech. A big brutish guy who did not look in the slightest happy to be there. I waited. Waited for him to connect thingies and when he bent over he simply pressed the play button.

It started.

He left and I wailed.

I follow instructions to a goddamn T and they did not make themselves useful.

Mortification set in.

I have a record player at home. I break that thing in half.

I stand by my word – the instructions said to connect wires. CONNECT WIRES PEOPLE.

(someone validate me. someone. somewhere).

Ogre Girl

And the last one on our list is Ogre Girl.

This was another divine delight at the Big Gay Dance Party. Ogre Girl was a six foot tall drink of water with a body like a brick shithouse. She plundered through the dance floor, arms skimming air, mashing people out of the way. Imagine Will Ferrell in Old School, drunkenly shoving co-eds out of the way with brute (AKA drunken) strength.

If I had moves like Ogre Girl accompanied by the rock-solid body, you can bet your ass I’d be hauling a mule-cart in Siberia somewhere.

 

That’s my wrap-up. The breakdown of The Ace hotel. People watching, check. Amazingness, check. Half-naked men, check. It’s a writer’s dream all wrapped up in one lazy weekend.

Camp So Hard.

Get out your bear skins and prepare the Montana Bananas because this blog post is all about a little thing I love to call “camping”.

Ok, so everyone calls it camping. Jerks.

Everything I learned about this great hobby (is this a sport yet Olympics?!) I learned from my dad.

My dad is awesome.

The great father is a cross between Jeff Bridges and a mountain man at its finest. He’s taught me many things in life; probably the best and most important have been (in no particular order): camping, fishing and swearing like a sailor (thanks dad!).

From the time I was a wee child, swigging watered-down apple juice like a baller, I was camping.

Nature is amazing, bitches.

My parents would let me climb on rocks and frolic in the wilderness (probably in the hopes that I’d be carried off by a mountain lion but that’s another story).

“Now drink the juice and just forget…”

Every summer my father would pack up me and my little sister and we’d hit the forest. Out in the Montana wild it’s beauty and awe. Nothing compares to Red Lodge or Cooke City or Forest Lake.

Bask in my beauty.

We would rough it too. I’m a true Montanan – I can go for days without a shower, sleep on the hard ground and chop wood with the best of them.

My dad taught me well. Even today I make him proud (hi dad!). At least in the camping realm. On the “lady-like” front I can’t speak to that.

Exhibit A.

So this weekend, my husband and I packed up our cache and hit the road for Flagstaff, AZ. Arizona may seem un-campable but up north are great little forest areas that could almost, almost, be mistaken for Montana.

Squint hard.

I have three requirements for camping:

-books

I call this the “Blair Witch” pose.

-music

-wine

The dynamic duo.

Sometimes I require a fire, but this being dry Arizona, fires are prohibited so sadly, we were unable to start one. I can make an exception. One other thing I do when camping is I always compare it to camping with my dad – something that I’m sure makes my husband want to throttle me.

“My dad always starts a fire. He doesn’t need gasoline.”

“We always would fish when we camped with my dad.”

“MY DAD IS BETTER THAN YOU. NEENER NEENER.”

So we arrived. And wearing my lucky Outsiders t-shirt…

We set up camp…

From this…

…to this

I had a glass of wine while the husband toiled with pitching a tent. I made a makeshift paper towel holder. Classing up the forest one day at a time.

The time on my hands astounds me.

From there we went on a walk where we stumbled upon the cutest horny toad. I really wanted to pick this little guy up and put him in my pocket.

All together now, “Awwwww…”

Eventually we settled in for the day/night. I discovered a few things in my newest camping attempt. Peeing in the woods is impossible when you’re on the GODDAMN ARIZONA TRAIL.

This is not the correct way to pee in the woods. I repeat IT IS NOT.

Yes. We camped right on the main trail where every 10 minutes hikers and bikers would come traipsing through. This resulted in a Jules, pants down around her ankles, scouring the forest, only in mid-pee have to yank said pants back on.

Now, as mentioned in an earlier post, I can shit/pee in the woods with the best of men. In fact, it was my stepmom who showed me the correct way to do this. I just do the P90X squat, with my back against the tree, and pray to baby Jesus that a spider doesn’t go skittering down my backside.

Tony Horton would be proud.

From there…more wine was poured, the music came on and I whipped up a delicious dinner of blue cheese burgers, beans and creamed corn.

Order up, mofos.

We lounged in chairs like sultans and enjoyed the beauty of the forest. Although I must say, drinking wine and watching mountain bikers drive by and their stares of envy was a bit intimidating since they were working out and I was not. I felt guilty.

I lied. I don’t feel guilty.

Darkness descended. There ensued the bright idea of trying to map the stars and constellations using only my phone and my drunken knowledge. I traipsed through the woods. Walking tipsy in flip flops was probably not the best idea but it worked out for the best. I found the big dipper – a third grade rookie move – and promptly called it quits.

The best part of the trip came at about 10pm. The coyotes started their howling.

LISTEN HERE

It was all sorts of creepy, majestic wonder, making me realize that whenever I’m out in the secluded woods at night is usually the precise moment I start to regret my love of horror movies.

I regret it so hard.

The Sophie’s Choice of Book Posts: The Books are on Fire

Books burn! I weep!

It’s a horrible thought – books burning. Luckily we don’t live in communist China and except for the great Disco Demolition Night of 1979 we don’t have to worry too much about people lighting the objects we love on fire on purpose.

So this got me thinking…what books would I save if it came down to it? Imagine your house is on fire and you can pause time to save five books before fleeing the burning abode as coolly as Kurt Russell in Backdraft.

 

Eeeee, FIRE!

Think of the books you couldn’t part with.

Luckily, most books are replaceable except for the ones that hold a soft spot in your dreary, sentimental soul.

And because I’m a big fan and get hot for odd numbers, let’s put a cap on this to FIVE books. Yes, you heard me. Just five.

THIS IS THE SOPHIE’S CHOICE OF BOOK POSTS.

My choices to save.

 

Book porn right here.

 

All mean something to me. All have an explanation.

 

1. The Very Scary Almanac by Eric Elfman

I SCAAAARED

I remember the moment I got this book with perfect clarity. My dad and I were in a drugstore, it was nearing Halloween and he said I could get a book. Dad knew me well.

The Very Scary Almanac was on a rack as well as another Halloween-themed recipe book. And so I was torn between how to make grapes feel like moist eyeballs or learning about The Bermuda Triangle.

I chose wisely.

11 year-old Jules approves.

I have no doubt this book set me on my path of freakiness, gave me my current love of the odd and paranormal. To this day, I’m still amazed and fascinated by the weird.

Subjects dad did not frown upon.

Every October I still read it.

I’d save this baby from a burning building any day.

With tips like this how could you not?

 

2. The Outsiders by SE Hinton.

 

Let’s do this shit for Johnny.

This book made me a writer. I read this in seventh grade I think and instantly I knew I wanted to write. It’s stuck with me. This copy is my original. Weathered and battered, it’s been mine for a long, long time.

I’ll never loan it out to anyone.

I read this book to my little sister when we lived in our grandmother’s basement (yes, make a story out of that true fact) in North Dakota. Every night I’d read her a chapter, curled up in bed together, and giggling over the dreamy boys on the cover.

nothing says teenage angst like jacket vests and cuffed sleeves

It’s still my favorite book. I’ll probably be buried with it.

clearly vandalizing books is my forte

 

3. American Gods by Neil Gaiman

I realize this is an odd choice since this book is pretty replaceable. However, I got this book on one of my best trips ever. New Orleans. Read the post here.

I loved that trip. I did everything on my own and still get warm fuzzies thinking about it. I visited about three old bookstores and decided to pick up this Gaiman book. It’s the first one I ever read of his and I started reading it in NOLA.

And it smells oh so good. Dear god, I love the smell of books.

Even now – just yesterday in fact – I picked it off the shelf and breathed in its musty scent. Yes, I’m that creeper. Invite me over to your house and you’ll find me sniffing your books.

It smells like my trip. It smells like memories.

It’s $5 to smell me. $20 for the fancy stuff.

 

4. McCall’s Guide to Teenage Beauty by Betsy Keifer

Everything I am not.

This was my mother’s book. I found it in the attic of my grandmother’s house. Originally published in 1959, the edition I have is from 1965. It sold for 50 cents. 50 CENTS.

Is your blood boiling yet?

The McCall’s Guide to Teenage Beauty is a delightful flashback to vintage nostalgia, but it also is a true look at what women’s roles were back then. Sure, we hear the stories, but seeing it in print and literally asking aloud, “Is this for real-real?” is like a punch to the ovaries.

I remember reading it as a 10 or 12-year-old and being unsure as what to make of the beauty and exercise tips. Happily, I didn’t put too much stock in it. Deep down I think I knew it was amusing.

COMMMENCE SELF-ESTEEM PROBLEMS FOR ALL WOMEN

I mean, sure, it did help in some aspects back when I was a kid. Nope, I don’t have scoliosis, yep, my face is definitely oval-shaped, meaning “any coiffure is becoming”.

Now looking through it I realize I break all the rules. I could never be a 50s housewife.

-I do not wear clothes like a model

-I slouch like a mofo

-Elbows on the table is common practice

-Showers are an afterthought

Ahem…so getting off the topic of my slovenliness… it’s just a book I’m proud to have. And again with the whole sentimental factor. Plus it’s awesome vintageness and with pictures like this you can’t get much better than that.

FML.

 

5. Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin

The big ‘R’ makes you know it’s serious.

Dear god, I love this book.

Again, this is another of my mother’s book. Found in the attic. As I type this I realize I really need to write a story on all my attic treasures…

This is the 1968 edition, selling for 95 cents.

The spine is ripped and broken but it’s still staying together somehow. I’ve only loaned it out once (to my sister who I threatened repeatedly to get it back) and it smells so lovely.

I love this book because of Levin’s writing style. Sparse, to-the-point, I’m never bored with the description. He paints a clear picture and it makes me want to be there. Well, not frolicking with devil-worshippers but you get the idea.

no really, frolic.

 

I also love it because it was my mother’s and I’ve had it for a long, long time.

Those are my answers to the five books I’d save from a fire. Sorry to the remaining bound wonders in my bookcase but these are my beauties.

 

What are yours? Do tell.

Henry demands it.

 

My Problem with the Olympics or AKA: Why I’m Un-American

As I type this I’ve sequestered myself in my office, hiding from these things you people call the Olympics.

I am not a fan. Like Lady Gaga, I’ve never understood the phenomenon. Frankly put, I don’t care for them. In fact, I heartily dislike them.

And as of this last week I’m beginning to think I’m the only one who feels negatively. It’s like an atrocious crime I’m committing when I admit this. Hell, I’m practically Vietcong. The looks of disdain I get when asked about the Olympics and I tentatively step up with, “I’m not a fan…” should be reserved for serial killers or at the very that neighbor who mows the lawn at five in the morning. In fact, I can’t count the number of times I’ve been called a communist.

I actually lied to my eye doctor last week. LIED about something I could give two shits about.

This is how the conversation went:

Doctor: “Have you been watching the Olympics?”

Me: “Oh, well I—”

Doc: “My wife and I just love the Olympics. We’ve been glued to them every night. Every goddamn night.”

Stares at me. Judges.

Me: “Oh yes. Yes, I love the Olympics as well. Especially the…uh, twirly sports…”

Doc: “Very good then.”

In the interest of self-preservation, what do I really say? The truth? Say out loud, “I seriously detest the Olympics.”  Do you know what kind of pariah I’d be? To flat out tell a total stranger you dislike an all-American sport is mind boggling.

And I like boggle.

This isn’t a persuasive piece. I don’t mean to woo you to my side.  I just want to tell my side of the Olympics in the hopes there are others so that we may join a support group and eat cookies together.

On Why I Hate the Olympics

1.      They remind me how slothful and talentless I am.

All my sins are virtually NOT validated when I watch the Olympics. Sloth is frowned upon and gluttony definitely won’t cut it.

What the floor of my bedroom looks like on a daily basis.

I’m continually reminded of what I can’t do and what I shouldn’t  do and also probably, maybe, what I won’t do. My list of cant’s and wont’s grows by the day. Granted, I’m a sorry sack of shit when it comes to exercise so it should come as no surprise that I actually don’t want to watch someone else sweat for a living.

This is my Olympics 2012.

Do you think I want to come home after a long day at work and watch some 16 year old perfect a flip she’s been working on since she was crawling? No. I don’t. I’m sorry. I want to come home and drink my wine, and pretend like my gluteus maximus is the shit.

When I see someone accomplish their life goal at age 18, it reminds me that all I’ve perfected in my day-to-day routine is cleaning the cat box and ordering a pizza in less than 30 seconds flat.

2.      My husband bogarts the TV. The Olympics will cause our divorce.

This is another reason why I hate the Olympics. They hijack anything good that’s supposed to be on TV. I mean is it too much to ask that new episodes of Ancient Aliens air? Broadcast and Cable are so scared that the precious Olympics will steal viewers they refuse to air anything new.

But I ask you, History Channel, what about me?  WHATABOUTME?

This also leaves me and my husband in a disastrous fight to the death about who owns the remote control. Eventually, because I’m a woman and have weak combat skills, he’ll claim it and I’ll scurry upstairs to watch DVR’d episodes of Duck Dynasty while consoling myself with a bowl of whip cream and peanut butter.

3.      I am the least competitive person alive.

You want this medal? Take it. My firstborn child? I’ll wrap it up burrito-style and gift it to you.

Unless there is a piece of cake to fight over (and believe me I’ll claw your eyes out for that) why do I want to watch others try to win something in a sport I never even knew existed?

The Box Stacking Competition has gotten out of hand.

Also, I know everyone says that the Olympics are some feel-goodery where entire countries can come together in the sheer pleasure of the sport and band together in harmony but I call bullshit on that.

It’s a competition. It’s bound to foster deep seated feelings (AKA hatred) between countries. Just own it Olympics. Change the tagline to: “Our country will kick your country’s ass. And we’ll like it.”

4. The Commentators. OHDEARGOD.

Sports commentary makes me seize up and want to punch something. Something preferably with teeth and a microphone. I imagine this is how men feel when the View is on (hell, I feel that way). I cannot handle the inane commentary and banter between Ryan what-the-fuck Seacrest and Bob Costas and the Cookie Monster.

Everyone is special. Everyone has a wonderful, glorious story that you just must know about. And hear. Again. And again.

I like to train for the Olympics by searching trash cans for empty Coke cans and then punting them into the air. I’m special. Write a story about me.

So special.

Or there’s the whole obvious but unnecessary narration of monologue: “He [insert your choice of swimmer’s name] has a tattoo on the back of his neck. It’s in the shape of a seal. Some say it symbolizes his deep seated love of water. What a blessing this man is to the aquatic industry…”

Thanks guys. I’ll be sure to log that away for later reference.

Those are my reasons. Maybe not very valid but I stand by them. I don’t love the Olympics.

I love America. I love apple pie and Patrick Swayze and fireworks and peace and love and motherfucking love. After all, what more could you really want?

Cake.

Yes. Cake.

4 Dirty Things I Need to Stop Doing as a Writer (and One Thing I Don’t)

1. Avoiding the Big E

Editing.

God. Can you see my face of torment right now? Screwed up and fearful, the way little kids generally look when that creepy uncle starts coming over with “candy”.

Now I like to flash a red pen at almost everything – except myself. It’s not that I don’t like to make my writing better; it’s just that I prefer to write as opposed to re-reading and fixing. And yes, I know, editing counts as writing but for some reason it’s a blockage of the most uncomfortable variety.

This is my “fuck-off-editing” face.

I’ve talked about it before but editing is intimidating. I know my work can be better, but the act is tedious and painful. I can’t come at it lightly (Thanks Stephen King!) and it freaks the almighty hell out of me for a few reasons –

1. What happens if it sucks? I mean, really, really sucks?

2. Think of all the WRITING I’m missing out on.

3. It feels SO hard (heh).

And it is. At least for me. But I’m pushing through. I got a 75,000 page first draft, just sitting on my shelf, waiting for me to flash my pen.

I just need nerve. Dear god, and maybe a drink.

 

2. Becoming Bipolar

Probably twice a month I become bipolar. Of the writerly variety.

You’ll be pleased to know I do howl at the moon too.

I waffle between bursts of fist-pumping “suck it bitches!” when I write the most fabulous, awesome thing ever to hit my word doc, to sad sack George Michael Bluth when a piece of mine is rejected or when I read some other work that blows my fricking mind.

Wheee, I wrote something GOOD!

 

Wheee, I suck.

 

That’s when I cry in the shower, the only thing of comfort my soap-on-a-rope.

Not really.

I just cut myself a little bit.

But not really.

I mean, it’s not so far off.  Who hasn’t wondered if they’re on the right path, if their writing is truly good, not just because their mom says so (hi mom!)? And so we swoon between happy and sad.

It’s the writer’s way.

Goddamn writers.

3. Writing on the Road

Traffic is the bane on my every day existence. When I’m stuck in rush hour, cursing like a virgin on prom night, that’s when it hits me. A gorgeous line. A new character. An amazing idea. And so I scramble for my phone, trying to get to the notepad, when the car swerves, I right it, and suddenly I’m thanking Sweet Baby J  I haven’t mashed into that BMW in the other lane.

“Oh, you mean I’m supposed to be looking at the road? How droll.”

Back away from the phone.

Yes. I try to write when I drive. I can’t help it.

However, I have a little bit. I’ve downloaded an Easy Voice Recorder on my phone. Now, instead of tappin keys, all I need to do is hit my little app and hit the RECORD button.

Now instead of causing a traffic collision, I simply speak into the mic.

Try it. It’s handy. You’ll like it.

 

4. Mirror Mirror Complex

I’ll admit this. I am a jealous writer. Not in the I’ll-cut-you kind of way, but in the oh-man-I wish-I-wrote-that kind of way.

It’s cool though. It’s something I need to break.

I hope everyone goes through this. It’s definitely a great way to spur myself to be better, however, you can only compare so much. You’re you. You’re not this writer or that.

Embrace what you are. Write what you do—or don’t—know. That’s the beauty of you. if you strive to write like another author you’re not being honest with yourself or your work.

I’m not trying to be a proselytizing asshole here, inspiring words actually make me squeamish. I’d rather just sock you in the arm and tell you to “cheer up, slugger”.

But I truly feel this.

Sure, compare yourself a bit. Imitation is flattery. But for god’s sake, use your own voice. No matter how long it takes you to get there, you’ll thank yourself for it later.

 

And the last thing is…the last thing to KEEP DOING is –

 

5. Eavesdropping

I am the mistress of quote stealing. Listening in a public space for those golden nuggets of delicious words (dear god now I want popcorn shrimp) and using them for my own ammunition later. I’ll immortalize a quote you never knew you said.

This is my favorite thing about being a writer. Taking every day life and making it fucking amazing. Making it yours.

The thing that amazes me is: give five writers one quote and you’ll get five different stories. Sure, no idea is ever, truly original anymore. But with writing you can take and tweak and twist the words into a mash of awesome. And it will be yours.

So write these. All of them.

All yours.

An Itinerary. Of Sorts.

[I turned my most recent trip into a story of mostly fiction (real story to come soon). Enjoy.]

 

An Itinerary. Of Sorts.

 

Friday:

10am –                

Leave [insert appropriate state].

Bring (of consumable and questionable variety):

1. Coffee

2. Vinyl

3. Booze

4. Smokes

5. Your dad’s .45

6. Camera with cracked lens

7. Mix CD

 

Note: Allot 1-2 hours for pit stops.  These include:

1. The biggest ball of yarn

2. Roadside market selling organic honey and wax candles

3. Your mom’s house

 

4pm –  

Arrive at destination.

Check into hotel.  

Ask for one key that you and you alone will use.

 

4:30pm–

Dance on the mattress (in the non-sexual term).

Test its elasticity.

 

5:00pm –

Construct fake name. Choose between:

1. Daisy Buchanan (points to those who get the reference)

2. Pilar Templeton

3. Rococo del Toro

 

6pm –  

Hit the bar.

Drinks Moscow Mules all night while bemoaning the fact that at this shoddy bar, in this shoddy town, they lack the signature copper cup.

 

8pm –  

Dinner.

Dine at the diner. Eat eggs and bacon. Sober up with black coffee.

Smooth out the local newspaper and hope it’s worth reading.

 

9:00pm –

Call it an early night.

Go back to room. Ground level, corner suite.

Smoke parliaments on the patio and pilfer miniatures from the mini bar. The ones that held clear liquor, you’ll refill later with water.

Silence the cell, you don’t get service anyway.               

 

Saturday:

8am –   

Wake.

Take in the emptiness of the king bed. Burrow in sheets. Crack the knuckles, like always.

Shower, rinse, repeat.

 

10:30am –

Breakfast.

Diner again. Two eggs, over easy. Black coffee.

 

11:00am –

Pool.

Order Bloody Marys, one olive, not two.

Try to read, only to re-read the same paragraph 17 times.  Instead, end up eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

 

3:00pm –

Go back to room.

Nap.

 

5:00pm –

Wake up.

Examine sunburn. Bum aloe vera from neighbors. Say hi to the baby in her crib. Coo words you didn’t think you knew.

 

5:45pm –

Get ready. For what, you’re not sure.

You have a glass of wine as you sort through eyeshadows and listen to a dead Casey Kasem count down the top ten hits of one  of those long-ago eras.

 

6:30pm –

Dinner.

You leave the hotel. Find the restaurant the concierge recommended.

 They seat you in a dark corner. You order oysters and a glass of something white. Smile at the elderly couple in a near booth. They touch heads, touch hands, and your heart burns.

 

8:00pm –

After-dinner drinks.

There’s a loud band playing in the corner of the hotel bar. You grit your teeth at the loudness and let a guy wearing a t-shirt with the slogan, Beer, it’s cheaper than gas, buy you a drink.

You dance and when his hand slides across your back, you call him Mister Feel Good and he laughs. His teeth are white and perfectly straight.

 

11:45pm –

Bed.

You should have asked for two room keys.

 

Sunday:

8:00am –

Get up.

Coffee. He makes the first pot. When he makes the second, that’s when you get that what-the-hell burst of hope.

He tells you there’s a dinosaur museum in town. Asks if you want to go. You go and you like it.    Laugh until your belly button hurts

 

12:00pm –

Check out.

You extend your stay. You don’t check out after all.

Give Me a Mothereffing Sign, San Diego

This blog post is all about signs. And like the mutherfucking Five Man Electrical Band said, “Sign, sign, everywhere a sign, Blockin’ out the scenery, breakin’ my mind, Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?”

Read it.

And hell, I saw a lot of them on my recent trip to the Whale’s Vagina. Or as you normal folk like to call it, San Diego.

I was there for business but had much pleasure of the writerly variety. Everywhere I went there were signs. Some bad, many entertaining, all had the whaaaaaaaa? factor that makes my blood boil in anticipation.

The hotel I stayed at provided much amusement. From the odd signage, deceitful trickster elevator shaft, and then a random red spider chandelier.

Oh, silly Hilton. Trying to make me believe the 13th floor is really the 14th.

I stayed on the delightful 13th/14th floor, where three teens informed me that since I was on the top floor I’d be the one to burn to death should a fire hit the hotel.

Whaaaaa

The

FUUUUUUUUHHHHH-

The chandelier looked like it belonged in a Harry Potter novel. Or Liberace’s bedroom.

I will crush you with red glowing audacity.

The bathroom scale taunting me was un-ironically named, giving females everywhere even more of a complex than they probably already have.

Bring forth an eating disorder. Or Stephen King.

I brewed coffee on the toilet.

It tasted like shit.

Also, the restaurant at the hotel was oddly named. It was named Stish, accompanied by a fish replacing the “I”.

I do not make this connection.

Clearly they mean to make a fish reference by the “get hooked” tagline…so why not just name the restaurant “Fish”? Why is the ST- necessary? Can someone explain this to me? HUMANITY? PATRICK SWAYZE? ANYONE?

Venturing out into the world of the Whale’s Vagina, I was met by even more awesome signage. As if the “almost caught on fire” would be an enticement, management felt it necessary to add, “Do not use.”

I wet my pants a bit over this, so much for dvd replication.

Albie’s [Hot] Beef Inn was a place I SQUEED over.

Channing Tatum lives here.

So vintage, I almost expected the Rat Pack to be chilling in the corner. The piano player played all the classics. I want to go to there. Every night, cigarette in hand, swilling liquor like a baller, staring at boobies of the bouncy variety.

Your mom says hi.

They did have one minor fault. A menu filled with grammatical errrors. Hors d’oeuvres has an apostrophe, Albie’s, not a hyphen. LEARN IT. LOVE IT.

TYPO FAIL FRICKERS

When we weren’t drinking indoors, we were drinking outdoors. We commanded a boat across San Diego Harbor (I think. I don’t even know where we went) and there were wonders in the bathroom stalls. Viagra abounded, many mentions of head…I guess of the sailor variety?

This. This was hanging in the men’s bathroom.

Avast ye boners, mateys…

How exactly does one “choke” on a “hank” of hair?

The girl’s bathroom was no better. Clearly, we’re all on the rag and need numerous warnings.

TAMPONS FOR EVERYONE

Our manly captain drank TAB.

Your Mother’s Cola.

I did learn that you are not allowed to birth babies at the San Diego pier.

Nor do they have life vests for them.

More for me.

I was so enthralled with the new design of the Budweiser can I took 10 photos of it. Here is the best one.

“You wanna be a star, don’t you, Bud?”

There is nothing better than to end this photo recap of a Whale’s Vagina, then to let you enjoy this little snapshot I accidentally took while I was peeing.

Toilet light looks good on me.

Yes. I did that.

Musica Fantastica and Cake.

Ask me what I love.

If you said cake then you are correct and if you said Rob Lowe than you are correct as well, so let me rephrase the question. Ask me what I love outside of food and 1980s teen stars.

 

This is Rob Lowe’s I-Like-Cake face.

Wait for iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit: The wide world of music.

Tunes. Vibrations. Something with soul and grit.

 

Cosby Sweater agrees. “Herp, dur, derp…”

I am a big music lover. I’m not picky or exclusive in my music choices either. I can sing show tunes with the best of them. Yes, my iPod holds Spice Girls (ah, fond/embarrassing memories) and John Mayer (shudder) but it also holds Creedence Clearwater, Neko Case and Cold War Kids.

Music is my necessary survival skill. It’s a must have for everywhere I am.  Cooking? Cleaning? There’s music. Driving with the Mother? Woman, hold your tongue, MUSIC IS PLAYING. Co-workers, do you see these earbuds in my ears? They ain’t for decoration, bitches. I got music goin on.

The most important role music plays in my everyday, wine-drenched life is when it makes sweet, dangerous love to my writing. I am one who cannot write without music. I use it to fuel my mood and my stories.

 

This is how you create music, right? RIGHT?

 

When I write I need my music to be inspirational, but I’m not talking about Yanni or Mozart-inspired. Something with oaked-soaked words and languorous vocab.  Pumped, upbeat, expressive. For me, it’s all about damn good lyrics.  

Fiona Apple. fun. Janis Joplin. Jimi.  Alanis Morissette. Amanda Fucking Palmer. Feist. Fitz & the Tantrums. Sublime. Annie Lennox.  Coconut Records. Elvis Presley. The Doors. Rilo Kiley. Jenny Lewis. Loretta Lynn. The Velvet Underground. Garth Brooks. The Grateful Dead. Tom Waits. The Dresden Dolls. Regina Spektor…

The list could go on and on.

Kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter, music also tracks my frame of mind and mood. Every month I start a new Playlist: February 2012, March 2012, April 2012…etc.

I like this.

Because when I write a specific story and I go back to the playlists I remember my mood. I remember the angst or the giddiness, the fist pumping or the writer’s block. A good or bad blast to the past I’ll take.

Sometimes I’ll find a two-year old playlist, listen, and be like WTF? Was I on the verge of slitting my wrists while downing Drano? Then I’ll remember what I wrote during that time frame and it all makes sense. It makes you remember. It’s a great growth curve.

 

Pains so good.

 

It makes me wonder how other writers use music. The authors who thank the musicians they’ve listened to in their acknowledgements for the inspiration.

Yeah. That’s me.

How about you?

Jules Just Likes: Volume III

Pressed Juicery

I can’t do much in life but trying to do a juice cleanse was one wrong turn on a dead-end street filled with zombies.

This week I drank delicious, delicious juices from the wonderful Pressed Juicery. I can’t praise this juicer enough. Sure, they’re a bit pricey but I’m lazy. There’s no way in hell I would juice. I got better things to do, which usually include lifting a glass of wine to my mouth but that’s neither here nor there…

Roswell Cat wants in on these empty bottles.

The whaaaa? is that for two days I tried to drink only juice. Just juice. Shit, I should rename this blog to JulesJustJuice but that would be depressing.

I’m a wimp. I could never be a starving child in Guana. I drank the juice, steadfastly refusing WHOLE food in favor of my liquidy diet, but at the end of each day ended up caving and having a granola bar. It didn’t help the fact that my asshole husband scarfed down chips and guacamole right in front of my face while I watched Master Chef.

Now this doesn’t sound like a good plug. But it is.

Pressed Juicery is a big hells yes.

It’s a great way to supplement meals with nutritious, lovely juice. Gorgeous website. Gorgeous drinkage. And if you’re not a wimp like me (like my hobo friend radiantrose who got me started on this is) you can definitely do it.

Although, take note, don’t go around your office bragging to co-workers that you’re a “juicer” because it sounds like you’re shooting up with steroids.

Trust me on this.

Demeter Fragrance

Want to smell like a disco inferno?

Maybe a needle in a haystack?

Okay. So Demeter Fragrance can’t get THAT precise but they can get pretty damn close.

I ordered a fragrance from this company called Paperback. Because who doesn’t want to smell like delicious book?

the subtlety of what i’m trying to get across with this photo is staggering.

And you know what? It’s pretty decent. It doesn’t have that antique smell of old books that I love, smelling more like newer books, but the mere fact that I can smell bookish hooked me.

John Dies at the End

Best. Book. Ever.

If you like Stephen King, witty banter, and scary ghosts and monsters, this book is for you. Author David Wong is brilliant.

I really need to rethink my bookmarks.

I will not claim to be an expert at book reviews so this will be a third-grade report, but ME LIKEY.

An excerpt for you:

“Scientists talk about dark matter, the invisible, mysterious substance that occupies the space between the stars. Dark matter makes up 99.99 percent of the universe, and they don’t know what it is. Well I know. It’s apathy. That’s the truth of it; pile everything together we know and care about in the universe and it will still be nothing more than a tiny spec in the middle of a vast black ocean of Who Gives a Fuck.”

 Yes.

Skulls

I have a fascination with skulls. I’ve always loved osteology and in another life I would probably be some sort of forensic pathologist, prodding your cranium with an ice pick.

They use ice picks, right?

So they’ve been on my mind lately. (PUN!)

From this great new website I discovered – craniophiles – to this super sweet skull clock I picked up at Z Gallerie.

it’s a skull

it’s a clock.

it’s blowing my mind.

Skulls are the best thing since sliced brains.

Come Along with Me to Miami. I Promise No One will Eat Your Face.

Before bums were getting their faces eaten off in Miami, I was in a hotel bar getting asked if I was a porn star.

Confused yet?

Let me back up.

A few weeks ago, myself and the husband embarked on a cruise to the Bahamas. But before the cruise we decided to spend a few days in Miami. The airplane ride boded well as to what was coming. Sitting diagonally from me was a kid, maybe 17 to 20-years-old, cradling a stuffed kangaroo wearing sunglasses.

Fucking sunglasses.

Staring at it, I kept expecting it to come alive, like some sequel to Kangaroo Jack.

Goddamn you, Jerry O’Connell.

When we landed in Miami I expected glitz. I expected to be intimidated by the money and the clothes and the nightclubs.

When in actuality I was more intimidated by the store window mannequins.

Um, hi. Hello, ladies.

So in a hotel bar such as this—

This exact bar.

–my husband and I got a drink. Our lithe, German bartender informed us the porn convention was in town. I began plotting how we would crash it. Maybe steal some black dildos. Sometime during the conversation my husband escaped, leaving me alone at the bar with the bartender and another customer.

Customer turned to me and asked, in all seriousness, “So are you a porn star?”

Torn between wondering if I’m being flattered or mocked, I swiveled on my bar stool. Arched a brow. “What do you think?”  

Now I got 10 extra pounds on me, but it’s not on my boobs.

Speaking of boobs…

Customer laughed. I asked, “Are you?” and held up my pinky.

Conversation awkwardly turned to politics.

The night ensued. Much drinking was had, causing me to croak this little ditty from a Miami sidewalk.

Anyway…

All kinds of surprises awaited me in Miami.  The painting in our hotel hallway where I questioned the creepy decision to hang this photo.  Clearly, a rape in progress.

Clearly.

 

12-year olds drinking Boone’s Farm straight from the glass bottle next to this sign, which gave it a sobering experience.

 

Walking into Mac’s Double Deuce (a bar I had hoped to drink at but promptly fled) and the first words I hear are, “Well, the first time I got my vasectomy…”

Aaaaand, exit stage right…

I excelled in ordering Café con Leche. A travel guide I had read prior to the trip warned its readers to never order straight-up American coffee or scorn and mocking would reign. “Order a Café con Leche, Colada or Cafecito or prepare to be shanked,” were the words of counsel.

So at David’s Café I promptly ordered “two café con leches”, even giving a little accent to the “leche” part. Heart pounding in my chest, I waited for the ridicule but the hot Cuban waiter rewarded me a with a wink.

I will drink you now. And you will like it.

 

After two long days of staring at double D’s and sweating like Gary Busey on a bender, it was time to go. Miami was good for a few things. The stories. The Cubanos. The hair (I had no idea how much natural curl I had until Miami).

Miami is Vegas on steroids. It wasn’t glitzy or impressive. Sometimes I feared for my life…or my soul. But the one thing I could dig up, the moral of my Miami story is: If you sit and wait for it, someone will seriously ask you if you’re a porn star. And if you stay longer than a week in Miami, you get your fucking face eaten off.