Fuck Cancer

I went to Lisa's funeral this morning and it sucked. Hard. It was also strangely good to see so many old friends again. When I got home, I headed immediately to lay by the pool, my intent being to finish Eclipse whilst acquiring my first sunburn of the season.

That's right, I'm saying, "Fuck you, Cancer" by giving myself skin cancer. Go figure that logic right out, I dare you.

It's a crazy-beautiful day here and tomorrow is supposed to be even better, and have I mentioned before how hugely glad I am that winter has gone the way of the acid wash jeans? Before the awful funeral, Gray and I spent one glorious night at our oasis in Wisconsin.

Gray spun the tunes while I helped make beer-in-the-butt chicken.

Then I took an inordinate amount of photos of the spring garden. I don't know what the purple things are, but I wish I could eat them. They look like cotton candy's edgy cousin from the big city.

And, of course, these went marching, but not at all in an orderly, one-by-one fashion.

I hope they aren't headed to carry off a pic-y-nic basket.

Lisa, may your eternal picnic basket overflow with pork products and beer, and may your team always kick ass in the angelic badminton tournament.

XO

In Memory of Lisa

Strange timing. I've had this song running on a loop in my head this week.

The world lost a dear heart on Tuesday - I had the pleasure of working with Lisa for some time at my previous job, and I know that she will be missed by many people across the country, and most especially by her husband and young daughter.

If you can, please keep this family in your thoughts this week.

Is Your Refrigerator Running? Better Beat It With A Crowbar.

So I got a text from Barack Obama this morning.

Let me back up. I was sleeping on the couch, not because I was in any sort of trouble with the Mr., but because I'm a really light sleeper and recently Gray has begun to...ahem...snore like a giant grizzly bear, and also because our mattress is an old piece of shit that is basically shaped like a taco shell, so Gray rolls his big ass into the bottom of the taco, which means he's usually laying on/cutting off circulation to one of my extremities, so I have to wake him up and ask him to scootch over, but by the time I start to drift back to sleep, my arm is once again pinned under the taco meat.

So I've been sleeping on the couch more and more lately, and last night was one of these times. I got up around 4:00, shuffled out to the living room, grabbed my cell phone to set the alarm clock, and proceeded to sleep like the dead until the alarm went off at 6:00. At which time, I noticed I'd received a text message sometime between 4 and 6 a.m. which, like, usually isn't a good thing except that if it were a really bad thing, it would have been a call instead of a text, and also that just shows you how well I sleep when Gray isn't laying on my arm: I'm on the couch in a room that's half-lit because of all the damn exterior lights, and I somehow manage to sleep through a text message even though my phone is 3 inches from my ear.

So I check the message, and I know it's from a stranger because it starts with a "+" instead of with a name, and the area code is 706, which is not a Minnesota area code, and the message says simply, "Hello." WHO THE FUCK SENDS A CASUAL "HELLO" TEXT AT 4:51 AND FORTY SECONDS, I'd like to know?

So I reply back with, "Who is this?" expecting maybe my friend in North Carolina to say she got a new number, or something like that, and forgot about the difference in time zones for a moment when she decided to text me before 5 a.m. instead of sleeping like a normal fucking person.

I started heading to the shower when I heard my message alert sound, so I hustled over to my phone, curious about who the mystery texter could be, and the message said, "Who dis".

Ok, so now I knew the mystery texter was A) black, and also B) texting random phone numbers, because he clearly didn't know who I was even though he said "hello" not more than 2 hours prior. At first I figured this was some new-fangled version of the prank call, The Prank Text, except if that were true, then this kid really sucked at prank texting because it didn't involve penis or balls OR my mother, so I realized I was missing some vital piece of information in this whole circus.

That's when it hit me: the only black person I know is Barack Obama. And he has a blackberry. And he was texting his new friend Cat to say "Hello" in hopes that I will join him on his mission of YES WE CAN, except it didn't sound like he was communicating with me in an "official" capacity, so the only explanation is that he wanted a booty call.

President Barack Obama wants a piece of dis ass.

*Updated* turns out the number 706-599-7366 is a AT&T/Cingular cell phone located in Toccoa, Georgia. So unless Obama's down south eatin' collard greens, I'm going to have to assume this is some kid being funny. Let's teach him what prank texts are really all about, shall we?

Tastes Like Teen Spirit

You'll have to forgive me, I kind of forgot all about you people. I'd like to say that was due to some magnificently romantic tryst involving Beyonce and Gene Simmons, or some hopelessly dangerous adventure wherein my bodice was both ripped and was sewn up again by that nice lady in The Never Ending Story, or at the very least some interesting turn of personal events like, say, winning the lottery or buying a car or getting syphilis from a new tattoo...

...but in the interest of full disclosure, I must tell you that (aside from the lingering gastro-intestinal distress and upper respiratory infection)((yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to be "scoped" out))(((in my nether regions))) the reason I haven't been posting is because now I'm a junkie and I can't be bothered with anything except where my next fix is going to come from and how much I can get for my used vibrator at the pawn shop if I wash it off real good first, because I need the money man. I need it bad.

Which, big surprise that I went over to the dark side, right? That's like saying the reason Star Jones is thin is because she finally went on a diet, did two reps of crunches a day, and quit eating lard by the spoonful. We all know she had surgery, and we all know I was bound to shoot up one day and decide I like it. And that's exactly what happened.

I'm completely hooked on Twilight.

It's really embarrassing for me because, in theory, I should hate these stupid teenage excuses for horror. Or romance. Or Whoremance. I swore up and down I'd never read them. My main man, SK, publicly knocked the Twilight author and said she "can't write worth a damn", which I have disagree and say that she can't write horror worth a damn, but as far as kickin' it Emo Style, she's off da hook.

The dialogue is editorialized at best, hooked on phonics at worst. The character of Bella is so fucking Emo Obnoxious that I want to punch her in the face. Seriously? Enough with the "I'm Not Good Enough For Edward" bullshit, you're making us all very nauseous, and quit being suck a fucking moron already.

But the STORY. Oh fuck me, the STORY. I CAN'T STOP READING IT. It took me a few weeks to read the first Twilight book because I was bound and determined to hate it. Then I read New Moon in about 36 hours. Then Gray brought home Eclipse last night after work, I picked it up at about 8:00, and by 11:00 I was 200 pages in and had to physically detach the book from my hand and forcibly restrain myself from going after it again.

It's VERY easy to read, thanks to the ultra-simplistic writing style which, presumably is due to the intended audience of "People Who Can't Read About Pre-marital Sex or Actual Gore", but that just makes it easier to fly through the chapters like a hot knife through butter.

It's a gigantic, big, huge guilty pleasure, and I think part of the appeal is that to me, someone who's wet dream involves getting paid to write, Stephanie Meyer has the ultimate Cinderella Story: Girl gets an idea in a dream, Girl writes book based on that dream, Girl's book gets published and then other girls masturbate to her dream, Girl gets paid to write three more books based on that dream. I really have to start sleeping more often.

What more could you ask for? Not having to struggle for years to get your story published? Not having to come up with an idea on your own and workshop the fuck out of it for 20 years?

Heaven, I say.

After Which I Will Be Saving For Rhinoplasty

A couple months ago, Gray came home babbling about some money management book he was going to buy, and that's when I choked on my hot dog and died.

The End.

Wait, that's right - I THOUGHT I was going to choke on my hot dog and die, but in actuality I just laughed like a lunatic and asked if he was feeling all right. Apparently one of our friends at work ordered a large quantity of these books written by this guy, and got them at a discounted price of $8 or something, and many of our other friends at work were reserving them from her. Gray reserved two. Don't ask me why we needed two. I still don't understand it. Especially because when the books arrived, I read my copy in three days and Gray read one chapter before abandoning his copy on the shelf next to his Playstation in favor of MLB The Show 2009.

Anyhow, I'm endlessly critical and suspicious of all self-help, money management "gurus" and seminars and books. My mother has, as one time or another, been sucked into every pyramid scheme known to man. (AMWAY, how I miss thine exceptional snack food.) I don't want to hear from strangers who tout one scheme or another, giving their miraculous story of recovery or financial success. I don't know you, I don't trust you, and I don't believe your bullshit story. I don't want to "Go Diamond". Thanks.

But this time, we actually know a couple of people who used the ideas in this book to pay off thousands of dollars of credit card debt over the last couple of years, and because I know them in person, I tend to believe them. I know they aren't being paid to promote this man. I know they have no reason to exaggerate or lie about what they did or did not accomplish with their money. Hell, I even know where they live.

I'm all about getting out of debt, believe me. I haven't used my credit cards since my split from the ex in 2007, but I'm still no closer to paying them off than I was two years ago. I struggle and pinch pennies. I am not too good to shop at Aldi (I love it, in fact), I went a month with no spending, I budget my money within an inch of it's germy life, I'm a faithful www.mint.com user, I listen intently to financial experts on talk radio, and I don't buy clothes. Like, ever.

But when all is said and done, to quote a highly over-used phrase from the book, "there is always more month than money."

As I was reading this book, I skipped over all the success stories because I don't trust them. They're in italics. If that's not a red flag, I don't know what is. I also skipped over the final section of the book regarding mortgages because, well, I don't have one at the moment. However, as I read through the steps of this TOTAL MONEY MAKEOVER (god, so cheesy), I found myself nodding and saying, "Yeah, that makes sense."

So I did step one, which is creating an Emergency Savings fund, and now I'm working on step two, which is obnoxiously called my Debt Snowball, wherein each outstanding debt is attacked one at a time while you make minimum payments on the others, and once the first debt is gone, you add that payment onto the minimum payment for the next debt and attack that one until it's gone, so on and so forth, and why the fuck didn't I think of this before?

I've been paying more than the minimums on ALL of my debt and wondering why I never seem to make a dent in any of them.

I read this book about four weeks ago, and after payday this week my first debt will be entirely paid and my next will be 3/4 paid. In four weeks. I could actually cry, I'm so happy about that. Am I anywhere close to being finished with all of my debt? Hell no. But does it feel good to have a plan? To see myself making progress already? To finally be able to envision a life with no debt? To see that owning a home again will one day be possible? HELL YEAH.

So I thought I'd share the book with you - click on any of the links to go to the page. If you live around here and want my copy of the book, just let me know. It's all yours. I can use Gray's if I need a refresher.

I'd also like to start sharing tips I find for really kick-ass money saving deals, and I've got a rad one for you today - Landers came with a trial version of Microsoft Office, and once that ran out I didn't want to pay $150 to download the basic version, so I lost all my functionality with Word, Excel, etc. It was crippling. Anyone who has ever tried using Notepad will know what I'm talking about.

My awesome Jill sent me to www.openoffice.org yesterday and I downloaded the 100% completely free Open Office, which has all of the same types of programs as Microsoft Office, and it's compatible so that you can open your Microsoft files in the Open Office programs. I haven't spent a lot of time using the programs yet, so I can't totally vouch for their functionality, but what I've seen and done so far has been comparable to what I'm used to. And it was FREE, people. FREE.

I slept a little better knowing that I can once again create spreadsheets.

Sick, But Not Really Sick

Remember when I used to post frequently and about non-health-related topics? Neither do I.

So I'm trying to figure out if my immune system is crashed due to the limited amount of food I've eaten recently, or whether it has something to do with standing outside in the wind and rain for three hours on Friday night, followed by over-consumption of vodka cranberries and two extremely long cigarettes, wrapped up with a day of hungover errand-running and close proximity to sick children.

But whatever the cause, I now have that kind of Sick that makes you feel like there's millions of shards of broken glass in your throat and that your neck glands are going to actually pop out of your body - split from your throat like some kind of fucked up cell division - but it's also the kind of Sick that doesn't actually give you a fever (i.e., an excuse to stay in bed all day) and therefore you must remain conscious and go to work and try not to scare anyone into thinking you've got the plague, "No really, this snot is all clear so we're cool, don't worry."

I've been drinking fluids like mad, which sends me to pee every 15 minutes or so (did I mention that the toilet seats around here are made of ICE?), but nothing else seems to be helping the burning eye/screaming throat/fuzzy brain situation, and the little bit of appetite I've managed to work up lately has vanished again, leaving me to my saggy pants and even tinier boobs (it's possible, I assure you) and a stomach that makes very angry sounds when I'm trying to sleep.

So basically, WAH. Oh, and WAAAAHHHH.

On another note, my mother did NOT approve of the "tone" of my bio (found here), which basically tells me that I did it right. God help us all when the day comes that she finds this blog. I'm guessing she'll like my bio here even less.

I'd also like to give a big shout out to my former boss whom I just learned reads this blog, like, even when I talk about midget porn, which in turn means I can never again use him as a reference. Fuck.

I've Also Just Been Appointed Queen of Sheba

So yesterday was my 200th post, which I'd been delaying for almost a week by following a strict schedule of Not Posting and Not Thinking About Posting and Ignoring Everyone Else's Posts because they make me feel guilty for not posting and also Reading Twilight (don't even get me started on how that happened).

I wanted to come up with something for this blogging milestone that was both MAGICAL and HORRIFYING (exactly like Disneyland)((except my characters are all doing lines of coke and humping each other)) but the best I could come up with was another Countdown List, which is boring as fuck and not at all conducive to my spring-induced attention deficit disorder. I'd get to #17 and then I'd see someone on TV wearing a bolo, and I'd be all, "Hey, are those back in style? Because I saw one on My Boys this week. Which reminds me, did I set the DVR to record the new season of Jon & Kate Plus 8? And then I'd be googling this video, crying over the impending divorce of two psychotic (but loveable) strangers, and making a double vodka cranberry for myself. At 8:30 a.m.

Then I remembered I'm very close to unveiling a kick-ass new look here at Zipbag of Bones, that I'm just waiting for my sexy, nameless, secret graphic artist to "finish" tinkering with some designs and give me the green light to use them here (the last time I counted, she was working on SEVENTY NINE different, but equally sponge-worthy versions of my header)((I've met my match in OCD Land)), and at that time I also have a naughty product review in the works to kick off the new look, and I decided that THIS was the perfect thing for my 200th post!

So I waited to get the green light on my new designs, but then my sexy, nameless, secret graphic artist flitted off to Europe and didn't invite me to go with her, NOR did she promise to bring me back foreign wine - stingy whore - so I realized I'd have to come up with some other awesome idea in the meantime.

Then my Jill's birthday was upon us, and it was too late to write a separate Blogging Milestone Extravaganza post, but I really wanted to put up a birthday tribute, so I was just like, "Fuck it. Nobody cares it's my 200th post but me, and I'll just jack off before bed to make it up to myself."

So. Here we are today. And I guess what I'm trying to say is, "Yay me."

But also, go here if you want to check out my contribution to my university's art's and literature publication (the publication is called Haute Dish. Like "Hot Dish". How fucking midwest chic is that?) My non-fiction piece Eleven's End is under the "Prose" tab, and my bio (thanks for helping me write it!) is on page 1. of the "Bios" section.

Double "Yay me."

Do You Smell A Monkey?

Happy Birthday to my awesome, beautiful, YOUTHFUL Jill (aka Michelle)!

I love you, you crazy bitch! (as in that song you like called Crazy Bitch, not as in I think you're a crazy bitch, because I know you too well and I value my life too dearly to make that kind of mistake, please don't hurt me)

Here's to a kick ass 28!

Could Actually Wear My Sister's Clothes Again...

Well, I nearly died at the gym last night and this time is wasn't due to a massive treadmill malfunction (user error), but instead it was all because of a massively pregnant chick and her side-ponytail. Her name is Sarah. She teaches a class at the gym called Body Attack. Why in the fuck did I think I should go to a group class that foreshadows your impending, self-induced, graphic physical assault right in the name IN ALL CAPS? And exactly how embarrassed should I be that this lady, so pregnant that I could see a foot sticking out of her cooter, kicked my ass all over the studio?

I'm afraid I'll have to blame that class I took with sensual, belly dancing Marya and the torture that is group cycling (aka THIRD CIRCLE OF HELL). I've been sucked into the group class cog and I can't break free. I am a hamster after all.

God, it sounds like I live at the carnival or something, pregnant bellies flying around over here...big, twitching asses over here...a couple of gangly guys in the back of the room (do they stand there to see all the asses in front of them, or is it more because their feet are the size of pontoons?)...all we're missing is that chick that swallows the swords, and frankly I kind of feel like I've got metal shards in my throat, so that's just about the same damn thing.

I know this all sounds very convoluted, but you'll have to keep in mind that my brain is melting because I'm eating about 300 calories a day at this point, and that's just a guess because the packages don't give nutritional information for 1/16 serving sizes. I'm not trying to starve myself or anything, really I'm not (although if this were 15 years ago, we'd have a whole other neurosis on our hands here), last night I made this awesome dinner with GUACAMOLE! and TACO MEAT! and CHIPS! and, well you get the idea, and I made myself up a plate of food, all the while thinking "HA! Yeah right, good luck with that!" and I sat down and ate exactly four bites before my stomach went on strike, and then I stared at my neglected dinner with bedroom eyes and pouted while Gray inhaled his food.

My digestive system is starting to work itself out (at least I think it is...calls to my colon were not immediately returned), but I still get the nausea when I eat food or drink more than a sip of liquid at a time, and I'm thinking the main problem is that my food intake was so ridiculously restricted for so many weeks that my stomach shrunk up like a pair of heterosexual testicles at Gay 90s on pageant night. Now I have to eat little bits all day long and get myself used to ingesting actual non-soup food again.

On the up side, I'm now down to my junior high weight, a modern-day miracle if there ever was one (I realize that will go to hell the moment I start eating again), and my "skinny" clothes are sagging of my hips. On the down side, my belly still looks like a cottage cheese smoothie.

Heavy

So Long, Astro

My parents must be so proud.

Couldn't I Just Break An Arm Again?

Look, I really don't have a lot of time here because I just took a gentle, pink, ladies' laxative pill (read: will be straight-up shooting water out of my ass any time now), but I wanted to let you all know that I do NOT, in fact, have a tape worm. I'm oddly disappointed because I'd already kind of come to terms with the idea of playing hostess to a long, white parasite. I named him Astro, I washed the good towels, and I created a spreadsheet to help plan a menu based around what I imagine I would like to eat if I were a tape worm (beer, beef, pickles)((unfortunately, I'm afraid anything noodle-shaped might be considered a territorial threat)), and now I'm not really sure what I should do with this case of re-fried beans I picked up, but on the other hand it's kind of great to know that I won't need to have an embarrassing tape worm extraction procedure, and also because I'm losing this weight on my own.

Well, not really on my own. Apparently I can thank the combination of my life-long undiagnosed IBS and the addition of a calcium supplement to my diet. Did you know that one side effect of calcium is (near death) pooplessness? I didn't either.

The Worm Squad (members of which have, incidentally, been downgraded to "Poop Patrol") believes that the elimination of the calcium from my diet will resolve my gastro-intestinal issues. I did have my blood drawn to check my thyroid, but the doc said she thinks it's ok because "you're thin enough that I would see it through your neck if something were wrong". Be on the lookout for neck bulges, people. I'm just saying.

However, if my shit doesn't straighten itself out, she recommends a "short scope". Um. No fucking thank you. Because quite honestly? Once the scope is actually IN there, who fucking cares if it's long or short? It's the "in" part I've got a problem with. So I'll be avoiding that at all costs. Pooping doesn't equal happiness, people. At least not when stacked up against invasive rectal cameras.

I'm headed to strain my sensitive, personal tissues now, but I thought you'd all like to know (just in time for dinner) that my tape worm wishes and parasite dreams have died. So on that note, have a good bathroom experience, but don't strain yourselves, Interwebnet!

I Have GOT To Stop Eating Feces

I'm pretty sure I've got tapeworms. In fact, I'm positive I'm dying from them because I can feel them poking me on the other side of my eye, you know the part where everything connects and cris-crosses, and I can't stop thinking about what they're doing in there, all warm and poop-smelling in my intestines, stretched out all the way from my duodenum to my star fish, sucking up my food and being all white. Evil worms should be black, and yes that IS a fat joke. THOSE BASTARDS!

Don't worry, I've got an appointment with a gastroenterologist tomorrow afternoon. I like to call them the Worm Squad, but they asked me not to do that anymore, something about how I was "scaring the children", but I'm pretty sure that one kid in the waiting room isn't suffering from a worm issue, if you know what I mean. I mean that he's fat.

If I were the gastroenterologist, I'd take pride in being the Worm Squad, and I'd have shirts made up and sell them in my office because can you imagine the bank I'd make if everyone I de-wormed bought one? I mean, DOZENS of dollars we're talking about here people, so why they don't want me to call them the Worm Squad, I'll never know. They should hire me as a marketing consultant, which would technically make me one of the Worm Squad, but I guess that might be a conflict of interest, seeing as I'm dying from tape worms. I better get de-wormed before we take the negotiations any further.

Hopefully the Worm Squad can save me from this violent tape worm infestation before I make those tacos on Thursday, because I've been craving those and I'll be DAMNED if some strung-out white parasite is going to get all the cumin-y goodness. Not on my watch, you slimy little INFIDELS! Although if they want to latch onto all the booze after it's hit my blood stream, they're welcome to those calories.

I won't go into the details of my ailment here. Let's just say that I've been eating for WEEKS now and at this point I'm not really sure where all that food is...um...GOING, exactly, but I DO know where it's NOT going, and that is "into the sewer system", so suffice it to say I'm starting to worry about some sort of "blockage" or "fugue pooping", which I heard is a real thing, but I'm a really light sleeper so somehow I doubt that's the problem in my case.

Also, eating makes me sick.

And then there's the matter of having lost almost ten pounds in the last few weeks, and not on purpose either, I lost ten pounds completely by accident...which - don't get me wrong - I am LOVING the thinness, but then I start thinking about this picture and I remember that I've never lost weight by accident in my entire life (think The Great Grapefruit Diet of '96), and then I'm positive this thing is going to come shooting out of my chest like in that movie The Thing, and it's going to GET on you, and then it's going to bite of your head and then your head is going to grow spider legs and scurry away, and I'd really hate to do that to you people.

So, you know...wish me luck.

GREEN!

I DO Make A Mean Meatball

So here's a picture of my non-broken arm hand:

And here's mummy hand - notice the absence of wrinkles? It's like I have baby skin. Or maybe like my regular skin is just turned inside out.

Ok, now I know this looks kind of like the video of those kangaroo babies or a newborn kitten, but really this is my right arm - the one that didn't spend any time in a cast:

And here...is mummy arm.

Gross, huh? All the hair? Now I look like I'm half-Italian, which would be great if the good skin came with the hair, but alas, it's just the crazy black hairs.

Although, on the plus side? I think I found the cure for baldness: Head Casts! Gray will be so happy! Ok, now I'm off to the gym for my weigh-in with a personal (torturer) trainer.

Waldo Almost Puked*

In light of the fact that it's Friday, and because I'm at risk of bursting with pleasure, and also because I'm so tired that my eyes kind of feel like they've been doused in gasoline but not set on fire yet because DUH! then I wouldn't be able to see, and obviously I can see or this post would be written in braille, which...how the hell do blind people read blogs?! and also because this format makes everything SEEM SO IMPORTANT, I am going to sum up the last 14 hours with BULLET! POINTS!

• Wanted to take a nap before the L.O.G. show, so I curled up in bed with my blankie and watched Taboo Anal Pleasures 46. Again. Just as I was dozing off, my phone rang and it was a number I didn't recognize so, of course, I didn't answer it, but then I realized that I'm at war with the hospital companies - yes, both of them - trying to get them to drop the charges from the second, completely unnecessary trip to the emergency room for mummy hand back in March, so this phone call was regarding my dispute letter and I figured if I didn't call him back, I'd be all stressed out during the concert (I do the whole "imagine the argument in your head so you can practice WINNING" thing). So I called back. And was told that a doctor reviewed my account and cleared ALL OF THE CHARGES. For BOTH trips to the emergency room. So...I was preparing for serious battle when really, it turns out that I was right! And now it should be just that much easier to get the OTHER company to drop their charges. Saving hundreds of dollars unexpectedly is fucking awesome.
• The concert. OH LORD, the concert. was. fucking. AWESOME. Turns out there were five bands, but we missed the first (Municipal Waste), which was ok with me because, well, there were FIVE bands and jesus christ, that's a lot of standing when you're used to sitting on your ass all day long. Just after we arrived, God Forbid took the stage - I'd never heard of them, but they were pretty decent and I'm a big fan of metal bands with black dudes in them. Don't ask me why, I'm not really sure, it's just that I love to see a brother head bang. Their drummer, singer, and I'm pretty sure the guitarist was black, or else he was just really dusty and his sweat mixed with the dust to form a caramel layer over his body. They were good, I would listen to them.
• Next was Children of Bodom - we decided to hit the floor for that set, which was a huge mistake because everyone was fucking 8 feet tall. I wasn't elbow to elbow, I was nose to ribs with all the sweaty, gross guys and I couldn't even hear the band because the sound wasn't making it down into my little shaft of stinky air below all the tallness. Ok, I could hear a little and I have to say that I did NOT like this band. They were great guitarists and all, but I'm not a big fan of the guitar solo thing (Gray says I'm a "riff girl"), and I told him that they sounded like 80s metal, to which he replied, "They're European" as if that explained it. I guess they're hugely popular, but I didn't like them. Although, I had to give props to the guitarist for playing the show with a BROKEN SHOULDER.
• Then As I Lay Dying took the stage, and I was particularly interested to see them because not only are they metal, but they are CHRISTIAN metal (who knew such a thing existed, I was stuck listening to Jars of Clay for, like, ever) so I thought if they were good I might pick up a CD for my brother for Christmas or something. They WERE good, very good in fact, and it was funny to listen to them talk because while all the other bands were like, "FUCK YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS", these guys were all, "HEY EVERYBODY, HOW ARE YOU?" which was totally disconcerting from a hard core band, but their playing compensated for the lack of swearing I guess. Also, they pulled this little kid up on stage with them and said he was their favorite fan and he got to stand up there on the side while they finished their set, and jesus christ that kid could HEAD BANG, and he was seriously rockin' the air guitar and doing the whole "horns in the air with the scary metal face while stomping around" and it was the funniest/slash/cutest damn thing EVER, and then the band gave him their set list and I wanted to make out with all of them, even if they don't say "fuck".
• LAMB OF GOD. Oh sweet jesus, there are no words. Those motherfuckers can SHRED, they were easily the loudest band by a factor of two, and damn. They were incredible. There really just aren't words to describe the radness. You'll have to go see them yourselves. My ears are still ringing, but in the good way.
• So this morning, I dragged my tired (but NOT hungover, thanks to the fact that I'm too poor to buy drinks and also, the one vodka cranberry I paid $6 for was poured from a gun, and it was about 1/3 of a shot, so I wasn't exactly clambering to get another one) ass out of bed and hiked into work, and when I checked my email, I found a notice from the University's arts and lit magazine saying that Eleven's End made the summer issue and I should send them a photo for my bio. I know it's not The New Yorker or anything, but there's a lot of great talent involved so I'm really excited about it.
• Tonight is my friend's choir concert, so it's like MUSICAL WEEKEND EXTRAVAGANZA up in here, and I'm a weird music fan because while my ears are still ringing from the serious thrashing Lamb of God inflicted upon them, I am psyched to go hear a bunch of women sing about how "everything's coming up roses" (I was a huge choir geek in high school)((and junior high)) while eating desserts and drinking wine. Eclectic musical taste at it's finest!

Have a metal weekend, my friends. And keep your fingers crossed that I get word soon from Writer Advice about my submission to their "flash prose" contest.

*So there was this drunk guy - no, "drunk" does not adequately describe his condition, but anyway, he was dressed like fucking Where's Waldo on St. Patrick's Day, and we were all pretty sure he was either going to fall over when the wall of people parted, gash his head open, and not realize it at all, or he was going to hurl ALL OVER the huge guy in front of him with a mohawk and a shirt that said "I'm So Metal", which would have been funny (kinda)((but only if mohawk guy had clocked him)) but in the end, Waldo just disappeared for the entire Lamb of God set THANK GOD HE WASN'T WRECKING MY JAMS, and then reappeared at the end.