Adrienne Sticks it to the Man

Quengela (pronounced kuen-gue-la) the Nun Bones in Sin City

2008-08-27T14:35:00.000-07:00

I can't take full conscious credit for this because I dreamed it last night.

Once upon a time there lived a Nun named Quengela. She was sick of being chaste and sick of living the pious life. Quengela befriended a gaggle of mischievous miscreants who talked her into going to Las Vegas. She knew that Vegas meant the end of her nun days, but she was ready (she was also horny). The flashing lights, the sound of nickels pouring into buckets, and the big titty-ed (sp?) showgirls of Sin City tempted Quengela to partake in her very first copulatory experience. Since she was such an old lady and had never boinked a man before, she wanted to do it with style. Usually Celine Dion played music at Caesar's Palace, but on this fine day Quengela the Nun would take to the stage. In preparation for the event she studied images by Keith Haring that depicted rudimentarly drawn stick people in various adult positions. On her way to Caeser's Palace she drove down the strip in a big ass Cutlass hoopty. She was ravenous and drove fast. Gas was pouring out of her car like water from a busted fire hydrant on the streets of Spanish Harlem. As she crossed a bridge there was a line of waiters walking below in spiffy white suits holding plates of food with the metal bowl things covering it. Gas was pouring out of her car onto these people but she didn't care at all. She didn't care about Jesus, she didn't care about the diners whose food would be soaked with gasoline, she didn't care that her ride to the Palace was completely dependent on foreign oil, she didn't care about traffic laws. All she cared about was one thing: duplicating the pictures drawn by Keith Haring. She arrived at Caeser's Palace and the wild crowd was cheering. She took the stage wearing the veil of her habit and some daisy dukes. The following few minutes were incredibly acrobatic and triumphant and much too adult for this blog. Quengela the ex-nun left Caeser's Palace with fireworks glimmering in her eyeballs.

Tribute to a Crocodile Princess of the Bayou

2008-08-21T01:10:00.000-07:00

I honor the woman who instilled defiance in my soul…Deborah Kay Weiss. I salute you Mommy and thank you for being such a bad ass skank. Your laugh is as wild and infectious as the cough of a tuberculosis patient. And for those of you who know her, she speaks like English is a religious doctrine to be flagrantly ignored at any given moment.

Here is an example of what she has to say about people telling her what to do.

“I don’t like anyone to tell me how to act, behave, or be because I am the boss of me. I don’t like anyone to tell me that I am lying because if I want to lie, I can lie as much as I want to because I am the boss of me. I like certain weather climates…HOT! I like my house and my yard spotless and I don’t like anyone to mess it up. I like to be safe. I am street smart by staying out of the street. I like to shop and I don’t like it when anyone tells me I have to stop. One day when I lived on Spain St. in New Orleans I came home from school and Sylvia the maid put my clothes in my drawer and I could tell someone had been in my drawer. This was not okay, so I pitched a fit, crying and screaming. I wanted everything to be a certain way and that was STRAIGHT. All of the clothes straight. I had another drawer that was filled with lots of little special things: jacks, cards, bracelets, pennies, nickels, little toys and I never wanted anyone to ever open that drawer. When I got sick or pretended to be sick I had a little glass “mammy” [she’s from the south] bell that i rang when I wanted my mama or sisters to sit with me on my bed. I would ring the bell and make them get me something that I might want. The Jews are too bossy for me. Religion thinks it can tell me how to be, but I can celebrate Christmas and still be a Jew if I want because I am the princess of me.”

-Mommy

Here is an example of a wise teaching that she imparted to me on a note she packed with my lunch in high school. I encourage you to take the same advice this very day.

“Wake up you silly head
Get out of bed
And listen to the coco shosho”

Now you wonder where I come from…

My Problem With Authority Revisited

2008-08-18T21:51:00.000-07:00

Wise men tell me that I have to choose themes in order to write stories. I don’t like it when people tell me what to do because I want to do it by myself. Henceforth, the subject matter of this blog that is 99.8% my first blog will be exactly the same words as it was before. Don't even think of telling me this is a bad idea. It is an act of laziness that writers of high esteem would never think of doing. I am not a writer of high esteem, I answer to no one and I can be as fucking lazy as I want. with that said, read it again. I am sassy as fuck, and as defiant as a revolutionary rhinocerous.

It all started like this. I was sitting on my front porch rocking back and forth, to and fro, fro and to on my black garage sale rocker when a gyroscopic policeman stood in the driveway with his chin up when it should have been down. He wanted me to take my brew back into my house and to stop being so boisterous. I looked at that scoundrel, batted my eyelashes, and gave him a little come hither with my really long index finger. Today was the day. The man would not take me down. I would take the man down to the basement where I would give him a nice blow-j. To be honest, I just took a liking to him even though I’m an anarchist. That cop, he was as cute as a button on a grandma’s titty, but he wasn’t as cold as a witch’s titty, thank Allah. Guess what though. I bit his peener off.

NO ONE will tell me what to do, not even that old scooter brain I call my sister. She tried to tell me to turn on the TV when I just didn’t want it on, so I’ll tell you how much I hate authority. When she was sleepin’ sound, I put her hand in a bucket of hot water and she damn right pissed all over the bed, but I then realized that she was in my bed and pissed on my 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and I wanted to kill the scallywag. It’s okay though. It just goes to show I can undermine myself without even intending to.

My problem with authority is so strong that I want to bludgeon the authoritarian group who systematized sound. I will subvert you dear sirs as soon as I get out of this fucking fly bottle. I can subvert everything if I want because no one is the boss of me. I can turn the earth upside down even though that makes no sense because it’s a sphere. I will cut the earth in 2 and put each half flat-spot up. That’ll show them. Fuck the police, even though I love the taste of swine. Fuck me, fuck the free world, and fuck my mom too. I don’t like it when she tells me, ‘Tabitha pick up your legos.’ I hate her. She needs to pick them up, I simply don’t want to and I don’t care what anyone says. I decided to set a booby trap. I connected a buzzer to my mom’s larynx and every time she tried to tell me what to do, I pressed my little remote control and her voice vibrated. Now she’s too scared to talk.

I am the voice of the next revolution! Did I just here you say that you don’t think any of my problems are worthy of mention? Well, listen here toodley wigs. The man will bring you down too. He wants to bring everyone down, even the pretty ones. McDonald’s whispers in Cindy Crawford’s ear, “Eat me you little beauty pumpkin hyacinth sugar baby Swedish fish.” Totally transfixed, Cindy forgets to pick up her children from school and she is drawn to McDonalds as birds are drawn towards the magnetic fields of the poles. A lonely little fry in the corner yells, ‘There’s no better way to go than to go through Cindy Crawford’s mouth and intestines and excrement!’ Cindy gobbled up her happy meal like a crocodile devours a freshly hunted wildebeest both with grace and pride.

I have devised a plan for the plebeians among you to join forces with the revolution. Here are a few things to consider. You can burp all the time. Poop your pants during your Naturalization ceremony. Burn the dictionary. Eat your best friend’s mom. Chew Tylenol. Don’t drink your juice; pour it on your head. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do tomorrow morning. I’m going to stand on the top of the Empire State Building and scream at the top of my lungs, “IN ALL THAT IS SHINGLE STYLE, I RENOUNCE THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION! FUCK DA PO-LICE! LONG LIVE ALICE WATERS!!”

ha.

Welcome Home Dionysus!! <./Surrealist Manifesto part deux

2008-08-15T00:49:00.000-07:00

I am summoning Surrealists! Calling all squares! Welcoming Republicans! Octopi too! Call to all silly geese. A manifesto of magnanimous proportions is beheld in the following lines. This lunacy honors our most bespeckled and bejeweled and bewonderous and beglorious Dionysus. He has come for a drink and of course he expects a welcome warm as a molten lava chocolate cake.

This poem for him.

Call to Arms and Armaments! Call to Breton, you smithering loon! Don’t be a hermit and keep your voice to the innards of you trombone. Don’t keep her in. Let the beast off her chain and into the rain. Peltoniemi Hintrik’s Funeral is marching and she would most definitely like to snake her way to the front and light a spark.

To Aragon I am calling your arms. Obviously they need to come out of the grave, but you will understand because this call includes your souls and loins. Let it all hang loose, loose as a spaghetti goose dress come undone. Let your teeth bear fruit and let your heart go toot. A poot a toot a poot a pit a pat a pit er pat. On this summer eve I assure you my loyal Dionysus is on his way. He is waltzing and stumbling in my direction as we speak, staff in one hand, grapes and kiwi seeds in the other.

“Oh Dionysus, you are sooo sweet. You want to give me your grapes. Oh no I couldn’t. No. I mean it I couldn’t. Not your kiwi seeds, those are a delicacy for Gods. Oh no. I simply couldn’t. Fine I’ll eat your grapes. They do look crisp. You share real good. You must have passed pre-school. Did they even have preschool on Mount Olympus? Is that where you're from, I can't remember. Plato probably went to pre-school. The old squirrel. He prolly got straight A’s too. But I’ll tell you this Plato if you can hear me, tragedy is of utmost import indeed. Poetry and painting are more beautiful than all of God’s forms of a bed, more beautiful than the carpenter’s bed, more beautiful than my Uncle’s Turquoise’s bed. I assure you this Plato. My poetry of beds is no imitation. It is full of true pistachios made by the highest creator. To you Plato I say this. Your name is weird and your face is weird and your words are full of swine doo.”

Oh Andre Breton, we need to have a toast. It’s not often that you grace us with your presence. Hera knocked over her glass, Athena let out a quiet little fart, and I rose my crystalline goblet, “To Dionysus. You are here, you swillering twindle dog. To our frenzy. To our sauce, to the dervish and our forgetting. To our wonderous dispossession and repossession and to the fool. Most of all to the fool! Don’t let love make a fool of your heart let your heart make eggplant parmagianna and love will be muy jealous. I raise my glass for love, I raise it for air, but most of all for that old Baudelaire. Chink cha dink!”

I feel the presence of Luis Bunuel in my aura and he is whispering sensuous sweet nothings to me, (Dear Reader, Please read aloud in a groaning whisper, if you are at work whisper really low. He really said this so you are invoking his spirit) “See anew, think anew, mock and scandalize your way through the trembling cardboard facades… spring from false, every day “reality” to the super-reality where the impossible opposites—dream and vigil, art and life, politics and morality, good and evil, saint and demon, man and woman—are once more, as in the origins of being, united, one. ” Oh Luis, you silly moose face.

Assume there are 2: “Friend you are misguided”
Assume there is 1: “The Music is Ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Have a heart green with envy”
Assume there is 1: “The dance of the dervish is ours!”
Assume there are 2: “Woke up on the wrong side of the earth,”
Assume there is 1: “The Queen dines with the Jackal and the toad plays the lute.

“Dionysus you show me my madness, my amour fou. I am crazy person, crazy like taco. Crazy like a rhubarb pie or an ornamental yo-yo, crazy like orange lady with one blue tooth, crazy like the Lacrymosa, looney like lumberjack pie. So perhaps all I can really do is revel in this agonizing cauldron of impervious mist and drink myself to oblivion.”

2 years later…

Dionysus, Plato, Andre Breton, Louis Aragon, Luis Bunuel and myself all sit before a pink fire and hold hands sitting in a circle. After a quick game of duck-duck-goose I silence the gaggle and invoke the spirit of nothing and utter these auspicious words, “Before conception and after life, it is silent. The moment before we are brought into the light, the moment after we are cast into darkness. In we go, off we go. A painted weather beaten crone sits in front of the pearly gates and her stare pierces us with the confident recognition of illusion. She sits there as she holds wisdom deep in her eyes. She creates us from the end and the beginning, she creates us in pairs for the ark, she creates us underwater in the deep ocean dark. In her we are silence as her. And we submit to her whims. She whispers “Silencio” and fades into the dark vortex of extended nothingness [with a sound that goes wwhhhhissskkk].

Go there.

How I Tricked Homeland Security

2008-08-05T02:10:00.000-07:00

…Continued

Ye might think me paranoid, but homeland security was tapping my phone. I’m 13% sure of it. I have been known to embellish the “truth” for the sake of anarchy, but I assure you that this story is 243% accurate to life according to property dualists. I was strolling down Divisadero St. in my beloved fog pit of hell San Francisco when I decided to make a call on my shell phone (back story – my friend Zach was telling me about this mermaid movie he watched where mermaids call their mobiles “shell” phones, clever ey?) This telephone call was completely mundane. It went something like this:

Ashley: Hey Adrienne what’s up?
Adrienne: Oh nothing much, just walking home from work, what are you up to?
Ashley: Oh nothing much, just washed a spoon. How was work?
Adrienne: It was work, how was your day?
Ashley: Another day, another dollar. Hey, do you mind if I borrow a carrot, I am making soup?
Adrienne: Only if you promise to regurgitate it later and give it back. ← funny embellishment
Ashley: Ha! You sure are silly. ← fake response to funny embellishment
(Conversation gets slightly more intriguing at this point)
Adrienne: I have a scary bedtime story to tell you when I get home
Ashley: Oh do you? Well I’ll see [first suspicious click] you when [click] you [click] get home
Adrienne: Wait, wait. Don’t hang up! [click] I am going to speak in pig latin now. It’s-ey omeland-hey ecurity-say.
Ashley: What in crystalline hell [click] are you talking [click] abo[click]ut?
Adrienne: op-stay, id-dey you-ey ear-hey at-they?
Ashley: Yeah, I just heard that what the f? Speak English, I can’t understand pig latin.
Adrienne: (Whisper) I feel some “scotch tape” on my phone.
Ashley: OMG, what do we do?
Adrienne: Jive with me. Capisci?
Ashley: Capisco
Adrienne: So you know that huge bomb we were going to explode in Lady Liberty’s hand? I don’t think that’s going to work, the feds are on to something, I can feel it in my loins.
Ashley: What do we do now?
Adrienne: Plan “What did your mother cook you for dinner.” That gives us 4 days to buy some “groceries.” Don’t forget to buy “tampons and turkey”, catch my drift? When you get home put the “groceries” in the “microwave.”
Ashley: Copy. If we can make 300 million [click] pieces of toast [CLICK], at least the British will have something to put their jam on.
Adrienne: Well now that I’ve had a hearty meal of spare ribs and mojito mix, I am all geared up for a 4 day “toaster” making extravaganza [click] I’ll stop and get some “banana jolly ranchers” on the way home if you know what I mean. If you don’t know what I am mean, I will stop by Nevada and get some enriched uranium and take a nuclear physicist hostage.
Ashley: This isn’t code. I am making grilled tofu with amino acids and sesame seeds for dinner, you want some?
Adrienne: Gag me with a spork (I LOVE YOU WALL-E!!!!!) fine, I’ll have a bite or two. Toodles!
Ashley: Poodles!

If my point was not clear for the simpletons among you, I was trying to get the FBI to break down my door the next day only to find some Joan Didion books, some parmesan cheese, some cute little biscuit in her skivvies, and a cat named M’Agua Dulce Kittypants. That shell phone conversation is how I stuck it to the supreme man. I hope G-Dub himself heard that and had his best code breaking team of middle schoolers cracking the pig latin and grocery talk and then did the following three things 1) eat grilled tofu with amino acids and sesame seeds, 2) look up OMG in the urban dictionary, 3) send the troops to wake me up in my green silken nightie and my flamingo socks.

BOO-YA G-Dub! Major Psyche (Sike) Petreassismyface at your service. Over and out.

If you want to know if the feds came, give me a good reason to tell you, in the form of a comment. Thank you.

irrational purchase

2008-07-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

So when one is in graduate school as I am (living partially on loans, partially on parents, partially on waitress tips which no longer exist since I am no longer a waitress) one "should" adhere to the basic tenets of frugal living. At least this is what society tells you. Live in a cheap place, eat only boiled rice, only drink well drinks , and most definitely only shop at Old Navy. As I was strolling around the city today on a wonderful date with me unemployed self I went to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit, buy some groceries, and pick up my crazy pills at Walgreens. I accidentally got stuck in an ever so tiny and ever so wonderful vintage boutique and accidentally walked out with a gorgeous pair of Bruno Magli heels.

The moral of the story: Look at money for what it is - paper with some dead presidents on it. Sometimes beauty trumps monetary rationality, so if you don't act like a poor ass grad student you might just end up with a beautiful pair of shoes. Oopsy.

List of Important Information

2008-07-13T23:50:00.000-07:00

#1 I bet you were all wondering how my ass looks these days, so I wanted to report back that it's almost perfect. Steely Dan and Donovan took the backseat last week though, and I have been listening to Roberta Flack and Willie Nelson Christmas songs instead. My faces also changed from coy to to environmentally friendly.

#2 This is my last week as a genius waitress. For those of you who thought I was going to really stick it to the man and relinquish hopes of financial and intellectual advancement, sorry to disappoint. I am going into the incredibly lucrative field of teaching high school. I'm a sellout I know. You get one free shot to call me a conformist.

#3 I started intentionally eating black watermelon seeds at my best friend Mallory's house last night. But more excitingly, I started eating shrimp tails and shrimp skin. Honestly it's the best part of a shrimp. All crunch, no bullshit.

#4 I burned my draft card.

#5 I bought socks with flamingos on them and then flushed them down the toilet.

Sike!

They were socks with giraffes on them.

Sike!

I actually hid them in my roommates bowl of salad and then watched her eat them. But I found out later that she has Pica, so it ended up not being that sneaky of me because she would have eaten socks anyway.

Sike!

I just bought socks with flamingos on them.

#6 Tonight I thought homeland security was wiretapping my phone call because I heard a suspicious clicking sound. So you wanna know what I did...

...to be continued

I Licked the Mona Lisa

2008-07-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

I licked the Mona Lisa and it felt real good
Those old ass oils and the gilded wood
I like to lick paintings when I’m feeling blue
I know it’s not allowed but I don’t care
I like to get museum guards in a tizzy
I also like fruit drinks that are nice n’ fizzy
The best thing I licked was a Wayne Thiebaud
Gumdrops, cupcakes and even a paved road
When I stand before a painting and there’s no one around
I just put my tongue on it without a sound

Breakdown…

Tell you once, tell you twice, my mutha’s heart is made of ice
Jiggy wiggy twiggy, roshambo, the most expensive art is the best to lick

Mixed-up letter with many kinds of English

2008-06-26T00:31:00.000-07:00

For this next blog I am going to prove to you that I am able to successfully use Old English, Middle English, Irish English, Pirate English, Standard American English, Southern English and Fake English all in one letter. Whoever made strict demarcation lines between various versions of English is about to be bitterly offended by my flagrant disregard of language rules. I warn you reader (especially if you are a cousin or uncle or old high school pal or teacher colleague or just about anyone I know besides my sister) that should you proceed to read the following lines you might think me loony. I apologize sincerely if I shatter any vision that you might have had of me. Without further ado I present to you a letter that I wrote to some Countrymen and Courtesans right after I got home from South America 18 months ago.

Dearest Countrymen and Courtesans,

I hath summoned ye to say me travels abroad are doth over. Ye hath had patience with me “gold fever” and you wert correct all along; greed does drive the heart astray, specially when the Keskeysees are following me path (for those of you ignoramuses who don’t know what a Keskeysee is, it is a derogatory word for a French gold miner). I did not find what I sought, but I found what I found. Forsooth! I done tasted adventure so spicy on the tip of me tongue that me face went flush in a surge. I found blindin’ light in darkness as nocturnal creatures bellowed sweet songs and a dancin’ cactus breathed pink into me veins in a sweven. Sikerly I took a vow of gluttony though I am proud to say I did not stoop to the level of brothels. I consumed one after another after another of magical meat pies and drank copious amounts of cherimoya/orange juice. Whole days were devoted to the consumption of this betrothed pair of scrumptious wittles and divine libations. I done danced with the devil, green scarf in me hair while sipping a warm beer and salutin’ the sun in the middle of a barren desert enclosed by volcanoes with condors flyin’ above scourin’ the earth. A cleansing and mystical elixir from the mountains of Ecuador haveth warmed me innards, irrigating the toxins of me belly. A strapping alpha male hath taken to me upon the deck of a ship in the middle of the ocean, frigate birds flying aside whilst blue footed boobies nested upon their eggs. The crispy air of the high Andes haseth licked the water from me hands and face like a thirsty cat, leaving me flesh a brittle paper, cracking and bloodied. Shiver me timbers no good scallywag! And since whence, thine eyes are resting upon this here page and thee might be imagining me lascivious and bedraggled face. The tip of me nose is as cold as a witch’s titty and me right hand is about to snap off.

So moote I thee O day of yore! Follow me path and float ashore.

Most kind and sincere regards,

Captain Crazy Pants

THE REAL MASTER CLEANSE

2008-06-21T01:44:00.000-07:00

I was taking a shower because I really like being clean and I was looking at the drain and St. Catherine smote me with a stroke of genius. With all of the toxicity in the air and in the water and in our bodies, she said to me in a faint whisper, “Ssssssswilllllllering Twindle Daaaaaawwg. Don’t forget to wash your pits and your tits. Also you should think about cleansing yourself of the toxins that are festering in your body. You eat too many bad wittles, too much fried chicken and rare steak and French fries fried in duck fat and macaroni and cheese and cholesterol bunnies and lard pies and gooey cuy and marshmallows and lighter fluid soup and tornado hair. What you need is the fo shizzle, fo sho, fo REAL MASTER CLEANSE.”

You know, to be honest I have been feeling like my equilibrium is not so equal. I just feel out of whack if you know what I mean. My chakras are definitely out of line. I am not grounded. Gravity is pulling at me from two directions. I can’t tell my ass from my elbow. It’s the toxins; I know it. They are the culprit.

Contrary to popular belief I can see toxins. Other people can feel them only. Well I see the little buggers. They are a mix between sound frequencies and color waves. A body emits them in a red wave that hums at 2 decibels. They are ugly and perverse. They furiously hump your innards and outards, so I can certainly understand the new wave obsession with getting rid of them.

Some not so wise people get rid of them in the following ways: with cayenne pepper, lemon juice, and maple syrup cocktails, others go on prolonged 32 day not Ramadan fasts and others only eat copious amounts of red apples for 10 days. Others sit in eucalyptus steam rooms and the bravest among them get intestinal irrigation a.k.a. colonics. Some even let little wobbly Chinese men put hot cups on their back a.k.a. perfectly circular hickies.

For those of you that have tried all of these various cleansing techniques and still feel your body infested with toxins, have I got the MASTER CLEANSE for you. On the summer solstice it works best, but full moons are acceptable too. What you do is shut of your electricity and light some old fashion soy candles on your back porch. Have a large bucket and bed pan close by. Go to the cabinet under your kitchen sink and grab her. Hold her gently and close to your bosom and walk outside. Salute the moon and Hail June, and twist off the cap. Press play on your boom box and let Robert Johnson croon to the moon and Hail June.

The time has come for MASTER CLEANSE ala Swillering Twindle Dawg. Hold your bottle of Drano to the summer moon and say the mantra, “Om Nama Shivaya.” Then chug your bottle of Drano and your pipes will get a thoroughly spiritual and physical cleaning that you have never known. This my dear friends is the REAL MASTER CLEANSE, and I promise if you do it, you will feel like a million bucks until the next summer solstice.

You probably haven’t heard of this most simply because of capitalistic greed. It would mean that the homeopathic business would fold in t minus 2 days. I’m hear to tell you that homeopathic and eastern style medicine for toxin removal is nothing other than the robber barons trying to swindle you once again.

Down with capitalism! Drink Drano!

Exercising With Defiance

2008-06-08T16:03:00.001-07:00

If you are looking for a real life example of exercising with defiance, I can relay to you some of my own personal experience with such behavior. But before I begin I have to preface my ideas with a tall tale of a wandering troubadour named The Swillering Twindle Dawg. She was what Tom Robbins calls a “genius waitress” at a diner with perfectly seasoned fried chicken and perpetually old hard-boiled eggs. Her philosophy was to keep diners on their toes, so she only ran with food and filled their lemonade with rocks. It is related, O happy King, that Swillering Twindle Dawg had mischevious ideas in her head and would often cast a hex on ungrateful customers. The mark of her hex was a verse written in the corner of her eye that said, “Hear ye comrades near and far/My heart is unchained in the cookie jar/Don’t speak grievances lest you fall/Your ship is sinking deep in Kezar.” Upon uttering these words with her gaze, the hexed customer would start to swoon and he or she would turn into a billy goat for 17 days. These 17 days were named, “The 17 Days of The Swillering Twindle Dawg.” You might be wondering what all of this has to do with defiant exercise. To be honest it has little to do with it except that The Swillering Twindle Dawg is none other than myself and I am reading Arabian Nights right now and this tale is a not so subtle homage to the tales of Sharhazad and I think about the plight of three dervishes when I exercise. But I digress.

Now that you have a context for my week, you are ready to hear about my Sunday morning exercise. Last night before I went to bed I wrote a “Sunday To Do-ody List” with the following activites: 1. Pay Parking Ticket, 2. Write defiant blog, 3. Pray to Laksme, 4. Do ass of steel exercise, 5. Watch Lakers game. I have recently decided that my ass needs to be a little firmer so that when I put on my bikini this summer I will look extremely good. But I am not willing to compromise my integrity and put on spandex and join a gym. Nor am I willing to sell my soul to the devil in return for a perfect ass. That means I have to get the perfect ass Swillering Twindle Dawg style. I tell you this personal information so that you too may get a perfect ass while screwing the man at the same time. Woah, that sounded incredibly homoerotic, but you know what I mean.

My roommate shared some secret buns exercises with me, so every day for 15 minutes this is what I do. I put on my Steely Dan album “Gaucho” or my Donovan album “Wear Your Love Like Heaven.” I slowly turn the music up very loud and I look at myself in the mirror. I make coy faces (the best ones come during the song “Babylon Sisters” when Steely Dan sings “You’ve got to shake it baby, you’ve got to shake it, you’ve got to shake it baby, you’ve got to shake it…” and those sexy horns are just crooning the definition of swanky) and imagine myself on a remote beach somewhere with a steamy man who is admiring my absolutely flawless ass. Then in my sear sucker pants, I get on all fours on my Persian rug and lift each leg so it looks like I am a dawg taking a piss. If you’ve ever taken an exercise class, you are familiar with this exercise and I know you love it. If you do it listening to Steely Dan or Donovan while making coy faces in the mirror, I promise you will love it more. You will also be doing your part to deconstruct booooring ways of exercising.

2008-05-12T16:18:00.001-07:00

NOT Sorry

2008-05-12T01:24:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to let my small amount of loyal readers know that I am NOT sorry for not writing a blog for the past 3 weeks. Like I said before I do NOT follow rules. I have been EXTREMELY busy learning things IN school and working 4-8 hours PER week and didn't have time for the stupid internet. Now summer vacay is almost here and I might just start writing manifestos and stories EVERY day...that is ONLY if I feel like it.

P.S. Read the blog below this one. It's called "Howard Plays a Big Joke." It's an amazing tale of trickery and gluttony and sex.

Howard Plays a Big Joke (loosely based on a true story, but mostly a fantasy)

2008-05-11T23:55:00.000-07:00

Howard Rice had flowing white hair and fashion sense to bring a herd of running rhinos to a dead stop. Like any good millionaire he sometimes used his wealth to play tricks. Por ejemplo (I really like the way por ejemplo feels rolling off my tongue and I am trying to learn Espanol, so I will insert Spanish words whenever I want) Howard decided to have a dinner “extravaganza of the senses” with his wine drinking friends. It would be a luscious meal indeed: 23 pounds of foie gras, 45 pounds of bouillabaise, 2 gallons of super expensive caviar, 67 ounces of California chronic, 83 pounds of kobe beef tartar, 4 wheels of fancy French Crottin, 6 Bolivian peasants, and last but not least many pricy bottles of vino. When the wine started flowing everyone was swishing their tongues in delight. A little ant that was walking on the Cararra marble kitchen counter told me that he heard one attendee named Sherry exclaim “Sweet Fancy Catharine of Aragon! This has to be one of the best vintages I have ever had. It has long sexy legs, ever so slight hints of velvety cherry, a fat ass body, the bouquet is muy complex, blahblahblahhhh.” Other guests moaned a little, pursed their lips and wrinkled their foreheads. Oh to enjoy the fruits of the earth!

When it looked like the people could not get any happier, Howard took it as his cue to remove from his Indian Agarwood wine cabinet a Montrachet 1978 from Domaine de la Romanée-Conti bought at auction for 23,939 US bones. At first the guests thought this was some kind of joke. Sure it is rumored that there is a crane in his backyard that lowers big wads of cash on Christmas, but this was too much. This extravaganza quickly switched from extravagant to down right profligate (gracias thesaurus). The group didn’t want to get too excited about tasting the Montrachet because for all they knew they were hallucinating (gracias 67 ounces of California chronic). But I’ll tell you one thing, if you looked at their underpants you would see them soaked with pee. This could very well be the highlight of all of their drinking careers. They might taste a wine so supreme that they wondered if they would be able to recover and return to reality.

Howard loudly expelled a sweet swan song, “On the eighth day of Hanukkah my true love gave to me 8 Arnold Palmers, 7 supple virgins, 6 sweeping saris, 5 gilded grandmas, 4 forty ouncers, 3 Thurgood Marshals, 2 tame tortugas, and a bottle of Moooontraaaacheeeett!” He was a little bit of an eccentric if you know what I mean. He then proclaimed, “I have a vision and it is as follows. There are 15 brand new freshly aerated Gucci floating pool donuts floating in my heated indoor pool and there are 15 of you wearing your finest Gucci gowns and suits. The ghost of Diane Arbus is hiding in the pantry and she wants to take one more photograph before her soul returns to the Source. I will open this bottle of wine if you do as I wish and get into the pool and let Ms. Arbus get her picture.” As fast as you can say “Sweet fancy Moses, son of Sam Francis, acquaintance of Marcus Garvey” those highly fashionable people were lounging in Gucci pool toys. Howard had them right where he wanted them. He uncorked the wine and sniffed it. His eyes rolled back into his head. He poured himself a little smidgen and tasted it. He squealed like a pig that just had a feather up its ass. And then this little hobbit named Patrick who only had one frame temple on his glasses came outside wheeling a cauldron. All Howard’s friend Barnaby had to do was take one look at the cauldron to know that Howard Rice the trickster had an affinity for the pitcher drink sangria. His heart skipped 12 beats and he gasped. Just as a misbehaved child draws on the wall with crayons, Howard poured the 24,939 dollar bottle into his bubbling cauldron of sangria while his Gucci adorned house guests sat in their Gucci pool donuts in his heated indoor pool and watched in horror.

If you are a reader with oodles of money that is probably your most successful bet at sticking it to the man, considering you are the man.

Spring

2008-04-22T11:47:00.000-07:00

A miniature bulb like Chionadaxa lucilae makes a sure-to-please gift in spring.

-Sunset Western Garden

I don’t know about you, but for me a warm and bursting spring is really something to scream about. I liken the special feeling of spring with the special feeling my friend Zach gets when he thinks of light travel. Quote, “When I think about light traveling I almost get goose-bumps or a special feeling.” When I think about the cherry blossoms pregnant with pink bundles of glittering petal yummies, I get goose-bumps the size of golf balls. I admit that I even get turned on a little. If ever I am walking down a cobblestone lane flanked by Ceanothus I just take off my clothes and start licking people. When I get a big whiff of jasmine, the ever modest plants whose understated baby white flowers emit a real grade A fragrance, I twirl really fast until I throw up.

Oh, to be swallowed by Sweet Asylum when the sun’s warmth has injected the womb like air of peace into your veins. The glories of spring! Every minute feels like the earth is waking up over and over again, stretching her arms of Evergreen Candytuft towards you, inviting you to fool around.

Oak trees are always there to comfort you. They reach out and offer their hard shoulder to lean on. Go ahead and take it. Just be careful, some trees have sap, and you don’t want to roll up to the office from your lunch break with tousled hair covered in sap. Someone might ask, “Adrienne you’re sticky black. It looks like you just got in a fight with someone with a maple syrup weapon. What happened?” only to answer, “I was being swallowed by Sweet Asylum and comforted by Mother Oak near the dumpsters behind the commissary.” They might cock their brow and tell your co-workers that you play in bushes on your lunch break. Then people might talk. They might start to call you “crazy” behind your back. Your boss, if he/she hears word of it, might begin to question your competence. But if you are really smart then this reasoning for holding back from nature did not fool you. Who cares if they call you crazy! Those who honor mother earth most enthusiastically are better people anyways. So go roll around in the poppies and let the pollen lick your black suit. Join the bees as the aroma of succulent Narcissus whispers sweet nothings into their pores. And then you can tell those square mother fuckers in the office that on your lunch break you were licentiously licked by spring. Sassafras had his tongue all up your thighs. Hyacinths made you drunk as Dionysus on an odor so syrupy you chewed the air and gulped down every particle emanating from the innards of those bunches of thick creamy purple petals while those idiots were at Quizno’s.

Let Pacha Mama germinate your spirit! Boo-ya-shaka!!!

I love fire ladders

2008-04-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

Now that the sole purpose of my life is dedicated to usurping the thrown of the man, I see undercover combatants of subversion all around me. Por ejemplo my mom gave me a fire ladder that you are supposed to throw out of windows when there is a fire blocking your door. Little did she know that she was just encouraging me to question the oppressive purpose of doors. I’ll tell you what, doors can lick my ass. They are just there as another way of coercing you to accept bogus cultural norms. Last Sunday I was eating steel cut oatmeal and reading about gallerinas not ballerinas and I started to think a lot about doors. The more I thought about them the more mad I got. I spit my oatmeal into the New York Times and went for a walk to clear my mind. On this walk I stomped my feet and flailed my arms. I pulled leaves off of trees, I ripped them in half and I smelled them. I punched a thorny rose bush and at one point I just went ahead and walked backwards. When I got home from this incredibly rebellious walk I stood before my front door and I mooned it. I walked to the side of the house and broke my bedroom window and climbed in. My roommate wanted to know what in fucking hell was I doing keys in hand breaking into the house. I looked her in the eyes and grunted, “Fuck doors.” I am no hypocrite (or a ninny), so if I make a life decision I am going to follow through all the way. Thus I leave my car windows open all of the time even when it hails. That way I can always climb right in. I’m hecka sneaky huh? I also carry my fire ladder in my very beautiful diamond studded tote bag made from freshly harvested blood diamonds. You might be wondering what I do when I go on dates because men they always like to open doors if their daddy’s taught them right. You also might be thinking that people wouldn’t want to go out with some broad who renounced doors. Lucky for me I don’t date people because for the most part they are idiots, so I haven’t yet encountered that problem. However a psychic told me that I was going to meet the man I was going to marry when I was 25, so I’d better start thinking of ways to skirt the issue because I turn 25 in 9 days! I suppose I can always say that I will meet people in wide-open places that are walking distance from my house. Anyways whoever wants to marry me will love me just the way I am. If I find that life in the city becomes too hard, I will move to a hot place in the third world where they don’t have air-condition. Then they will want their windows open all of the time. And they probably can’t afford doors anyways.

Toenails and the All Night Vigil

2008-04-08T23:43:00.000-07:00

I previously stated that I would write one blog per week. But because I listen to no one including myself, I will write one whenever I want. I am supposed to be writing lesson plans, but instead I started thinking of innovative ways to undermine the man. This is what I came up with: cut your toenails with your eyes closed. In fact, close your eyes all of the time except when you sleep. On that note I am going to go listen to some Russian Orthodox choral music and I'm Jewish. Feel free to refute and/or praise anything I say in the form of a comment.

The Unhurried Cibo Association Proclamaition

2008-04-04T16:10:00.000-07:00

“Our century, which began and has developed under the insignia of industrial civilization, first invented the machine and then took it as its life model”

Slow Food Movement Manifesto

“Our era, which commenced and has matured below the emblem of urban society, primero created the engine and then assumed it as its vida representation.”

Unhurried Cibo Association Proclamation

Modern life is mired by rule after rule after regulation after law after code of conduct after dress code after instruction manual after religious decree after rational sentence progression. The time has come to rip the veils off of our souls and bear our most precious fruit. Speaking of fruit, a long while back I was in the Malibu Mountains at Jewish Summer Camp and there was only tuna fish for lunch. I don’t like cooked tuna because the fetid stench is obscenely revolting. So being the clever little avant-garde teenager that I was, I applied raspberry chocolate lip gloss to my lips and then licked it off. I repeated this action until the tub of goo was gone. This leads me to the next day where my friend Mallory was eating an apple. She got down to the core and asked me to hold it for a second while she tied her shoe. As I held this apple core, I looked deep into its loins, and I saw something for the first time. A little cloud of smoke emanated from the fruit and I read spirits in the mist. The spirits whispered to me, “For thousands of years man has eaten apples. For 30 years man has stopped eating the core.” So my obvious course of action was to eat the core. Ever since that day in Malibu I eat the core of apples. The main benefit of this action is that say you are in the car eating an apple. You get down to the core and you don’t know what to do with it. You have slight anxiety about putting it in the ashtray because soon it will be brown and it will start to smell poo-ey then you’ll have to touch it when you pick it up to throw it away. Or say you take the bus and the driver is really bad and as you grip the metal bar you instinctively tense the other hand as well. One hand is crawling with bus bar germs and the other is now sticky and you just have to hold the apple until you get to your stop. You can rid yourself of all of this anxiety if you just eat the fucking apple core. An apple tree is not going to grow in your stomach nor are you going to die of apple seed poison. It really is such a good feeling to just eat it. If you do you will begin to recognize that your idiotic rational mind that is duct taped with cultural norms will begin to be liberated.

Because of my radically iconoclastic nature I figured that if it was okay to eat entire apples, it was probably okay to eat kiwi skin as well. When I started eating kiwi con skin, I found that I got the same feeling as I got when I ate entire apples. You can imagine the things I did after this. I ate orange peels, I ate pear cores and plum pits. I ate chicken toe nails and egg shells and strawberry tops. I was wild with fury, totally unstoppable. The shackles of captivity were free. I ate the outer layer of root vegetables including but not limited to beets, carrots, parsnips, taro corms, cassava, yam tubers, ginger, galangal, water chestnuts, lotus roots, wapatoos, chufas, mashuas, jicama, radishes, daikons, and salsify. I ate banana peels. I ate chorizo casing. At my peak I ate the skin of a Durian. Did I care? No! Why? Because it felt good and you’re not the boss of me nor are you my mom. Now when I walk around the swards of San Francisco I do somersaults of joy.

Let us revive the corpse of freedom and banish the restraints of propriety. You can start small. Next time you eat an apple, don’t stop until it’s gone.

Read My Blog At Work

2008-03-31T15:40:00.001-07:00

A little bird who has the same parents as me told me that she read my blog at work. She thinks that the man sticks it to her real bad, so she figured she would stick it right back by getting paid to read my babbles. I salute her and encourage you to do the same. Valediction my mutinous soldiers!

Let me wet your palette with sweet sorbet

2008-03-31T01:24:00.000-07:00

A taste of what's to come...

1. How to reach total liberation be eating apple cores

2. How to make tender love to springtime while your coworkers are having lunch at Quizno's

3. How to give the scariest interview of a lifetime

4. and much much more

5. and more

6. by the end you will have witnessed the complete disintegration of the shackles of captivity

7. don't tell me what to do or i'll kill you, unless you have a humble suggestion for ways to stick it to the man. In that case address me as Sensei Weiss

My Problem with Authority

2008-03-30T18:06:00.000-07:00

Wise men tell me that I have to choose themes in order to write stories. I don’t like it when people tell me what to do because I want to do it by myself. Henceforth, the subject matter of my forthcoming blog will be my overarching problem with authority and various ways to subvert or “stick it” to the man.
It all started like this. I was sitting on my front porch rocking back and forth, to and fro, fro and to on my black garage sale rocker when a gyroscopic policeman stood in the driveway with his chin up when it should have been down. He wanted me to take my brew back into my house and to stop being so boisterous. I looked at that scoundrel, batted my eyelashes, and gave him a little come hither with my really long index finger. Today was the day. The man would not take me down. I would take the man down to the basement where I would give him a nice blow-j. To be honest, I just took a liking to him even though I’m an anarchist. That cop, he was as cute as a button on a grandma’s titty, but he wasn’t as cold as a witch’s titty, thank Allah. Guess what though. I bit his peener off.
NO ONE will tell me what to do, not even that old scooter brain I call a boyfriend. He tried to tell me to turn on the TV when I just didn’t want it on, so I’ll tell you how much I hate authority. When he was sleepin’ sound, I put his hand in a bucket of hot water and he damn right pissed all over the bed, but I realized that he’d pissed on my 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and I wanted to kill the scallywag. It’s okay though. It just goes to show I can undermine myself without even intending to.
My problem with authority is so strong that I want to bludgeon the authoritarian group who systematized sound. I will subvert you dear sirs as soon as I get out of this fucking fly bottle. I can subvert everything if I want because no one is the boss of me. I can turn the earth upside down even though that makes no sense because it’s a sphere. I will cut the earth in 2 and put each half flat-spot up. That’ll show them. Fuck the police, even though I love the taste of swine. Fuck me, fuck the free world, and fuck my mom too. I don’t like it when she tells me, ‘Tabitha pick up your legos.’ I hate her. She needs to pick them up, I simply don’t want to and I don’t care what anyone says. I decided to set a booby trap. I connected a buzzer to my mom’s larynx and every time she tried to tell me what to do, I pressed my little remote control and her voice vibrated. Now she’s too scared to talk.
I am the voice of the next revolution! Did I just here you say that you don’t think any of my problems are worthy of mention? Well, listen here toodley wigs. The man will bring you down too. He wants to bring everyone down, even the pretty ones. McDonald’s whispers in Cindy Crawford’s ear, “Eat me you little beauty pumpkin hyacinth sugar baby Swedish fish.” Totally transfixed, Cindy forgets to pick up her children from school and she is drawn to McDonalds as birds are drawn towards the magnetic fields of the poles. A lonely little fry in the corner yells, ‘There’s no better way to go than to go through Cindy Crawford’s mouth and intestines and excrement!’ Cindy gobbled up her happy meal like a crocodile devours a freshly hunted wildebeest both with grace and pride.
I have devised a plan for the plebeians among you to join forces with the revolution. Here are a few things to consider. You can burp all the time. Poop your pants during your Naturalization ceremony. Burn the dictionary. Eat your best friend’s mom. Chew Tylenol. Don’t drink your juice; pour it on your head. And I’ll tell you what I’m going to do tomorrow morning. I’m going to stand on the top of the Empire State Building and scream at the top of my lungs, “IN ALL THAT IS SHINGLE STYLE, I RENOUNCE THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION! FUCK THE ROBBER BARRONS! LONG LIVE JULIA MORGAN!!”