Saturday, July 17, 2010

What, You Don't Like Funny?

I touched him! you stage whisper to me, after Paul Mecurio runs through the audience, collecting high-five's.  And I think you should be up there, making people laugh.  I know, at the very least, you won't be like that warm-up act, doing an impression of Carol Channing singing David Bowie.
What's a Carol Channing? and I shrug, no answers to give.  But there he is, screaming at the audience, powering through his last ten minutes before he can vacate the stage and spit in all our drinks.
Then the professional takes the stage and I hear your sigh of relief, and the audience begins to wake up.  He looks at everybody and damn near yells at a lady for not clapping.  "I won a fucking emmy!  You better goddam clap!  What is that you're wearing?  You look like a stripper!"
I sink into my seat, knowing that most of his act is talking to audience members and magically turning the mundane into funny.  We arrived early, hoping to get a good seat.  In our minds "good seat" meant as far away from the funny man as possible.  The man seating us, though, decided "good seat" meant smack dab in the center.  So I make it my mission to laugh at every joke, since he picks only on the ones that are clearly too good to be there.
"Where are your husbands?  Camping?  Sure they are."

We laugh all the way home, wondering why more people don't see comedians.  Their only goal in life is to make you laugh.  How could that be bad?  Only if he talks about Carol Channing, that's how.

These Thighs O' Mine

So, 29 is fast approaching, and it occurs to me that my bucket list is getting less and less time to reach completion.  For example, what's haunting me most recently is that I have yet to ride a mechanical bull.  How does that even happen?
Are there mechanical bulls to be found in the Bay Area?  Knowing SF, I would assume that there are at least 2 bars offering such a luxury.  Truthfully, I think I'd be pretty good at it.
I grew up around horses.  Even went so far as to be a member of Pony Club, which basically consisted of learning all the parts of the hoof and then jumping over a few cross rails, and bam!  Pony Club!  Mostly all I learned there was who was sleeping with who's tennis pro.

My first horse was named Ralph.  Technically, he was a pony, but he had the full attitude of a larger animal.  He had limited patience, but behaved well enough to give rides at my birthday parties, so long as my mum was there to guide him.  Also, and my favorite, we had a cart and harness to attach to him and my mum would take me for rides around the neighborhood.  Had I been older, I would have happily pretended to be the heroine in a Bronte sister novel.  Especially considering the frequency with which my grandmother dressed me in hand-made lace dresses.
Nirvana would have shriveled up in agony with just one glance at me in those moments.

My next horse was named Dusty.  He was a love of my life.  He was, first off, the most beautiful pony I had ever laid my eyes on.  Also, by far he was the smartest.  He was the one that taught me about mind games, acting all obedient for an entire lesson and then galloping for the barn at the very end, with me strapped to the saddle.  Later, as I outgrew him, he taught me about bucking and rearing and the utter terror that comes with those actions.  Do you, dear reader, know how much it hurts when a horse steps on you?  Can you first picture being thrown off the horse before being trampled upon?
Did you know your typical pony weighs around 700 pounds, and bears his weight down upon you the harder you try to push him off? hurts.

Long story short, Dusty taught me to hold the fuck on.  To dig my heels towards the floor, tighten my stomach, and squeeze my thighs until they go near numb.  I credit him to this day for the god-like strength of my legs.  Seriously.  It's ridiculous.  I'm like a Bond villain.

In short, if you see me in some seedy western bar atop a mechanical bull, put your money on me.  These ridiculous thighs of mine will bring some game.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

The Death of the BFF

Dear Adulthood,

The bills are tough, but worth it to have a home of my own and the freedom to live in sin if I so choose. Responsibility often sucks, but hey, I get to have a dog and a cat and that's all well and good.
Mostly, you're much more difficult than people warn, but mostly it's all ok.
I only have one main complaint:

where does a girl go to get some bff's?

When you're a kid, it's so damn easy. She's the girl you sit next to in homeroom, or the girl 3 houses down that you got paired with because your mothers were friends. She's the friend that chooses the locker next to yours and also doesn't quite fit in. The first person you call when you get your license; the one that lets you sleep over when you're all upset that your crush started dating a total jerk. She ditches school with you, sits in the back of the bus with you, and knows every one of your secrets.

The last time I ever had to make the effort to find close friends was the first day of college, when you scramble not to be left out. To show everyone that you're someone worth knowing. And even that was pretty easy, because you were all in the same boat. There were R.A.'s, forcing you to sit in the common room together and play horrible games that you were secretly grateful for. There were those weird, older students that had done their time in the army and were now back, getting their free education. Your bff was the girl that walked with you, to ask them to buy you some beer.
And after that fear of leaving home was gone, you had a new group of close friends. The people that stayed up late, whispering secrets in the dark, bringing back the pinky-swear. The people that held your hair back, or whose hair you held, the ones you could call for no particular reason and would happily show up, so we could sit quietly together and enjoy the company.

But then college ended, and the real world began. And I'm here, on a different coast than the one I was familiar with, that's home to all those friends.
And I realize, when it's late like it is now, that I don't really have anyone out here to call. No one to sit quietly with. There are some truly fabulous people that I've had the pleasure of getting to know, but I can't call them bff's. I hope for some miraculous day that I could, but for now, they remain just lovely people.

Adulthood, you made making friends nearly impossible. Now, it's more like asking someone on a date. Awkward, and you damn well better have a plan. Don't expect to just sit around, no, no. Now there are guidelines, and weirdness, and smalltalk. You've made slumber parties taboo. But why should they be? When did they become so wrong? Damn you, Adulthood, because I loved those nights that we stayed up too late, giggling over our dreams. Those were the times that bff's were made.

What am I supposed to do now?