We All Get It In the End

Saw a drag queen named Justin Bond do a midnight show at the Always Lounge last night.

Best thing I've seen in a long time.

I was afraid to sit up front, because I was expecting a bitchy schtick, where she might insult my footwear. And the, you know, it's on, bitch.

But Bond was like someone's chain-smoking, ex-starlet aunt who had a wisdom that ran deep from pain and too much experience - and I swear it wasn't my gin that made me want to lunge at her and ask for redemption.

The message from the songs she belted out at my noggin was, I'm alright, and so is everyone, because:

"We all get it in the end"

What she was singing about probably has more to do with anal sex than karma, but what it meant to me at the moment was:

No matter how "good" we try to be, we all fuck up, and we all deserve to "get it" in the end. Some actually do get it, and some of us bastards don't.

While I was really hoping I don't get mine, I felt a closeness to everyone in that room that night, swaying along to those words, knowing I deserve to "get it" as much as that dude next to me.

It's not that I want to be a crappy person, it's just refreshing to acknowledge that we've all been there, and we'll all continue to go there, but we don't have to be saints to keep moving forward and upward ... just human.

Where Were We..

Tonight was the first night dancing on my table in my underwear made me happy again.

Very 90's romantic comedy, but I get my kicks where I can find em.

Fear and Loathing at the Curry Korner

After a breakup, you have this floatsy feeling. Like you're not sure what makes you tick, or where the hell your personality went.

Today, lured by the promise of steaming Indian food, I drove up
to Curry Korner between classes, head full of dal and samosas. I swung the Buick into what I thought was a fabulous parking spot, only to hear a disgusting grating sound as I turned my wheel.

They finally got me. Those sewer drains everyone kept telling me were lurking under curbs to annihilate my tires.

This one got a bite, a good one- chewed it clear through to the tread.

That's when the adrenaline hit, I waffled for a second, forgot about the chai tea, got in the car, and savagely applied the gas. No telling when this tire would blow, and I wasn't about to pay some asshole to tow me.

I found myself doing 30 on Elysian Fields, staring down every pothole defying it to try and pop my struggling tire.

It was a heinous display of pure grit and determination despite uncertain death or maiming by tire blowout- ME AT MY BEST.

And the $30 used replacement made me smile.

Damn the License Plates

So, I was waiting all month for this monthly lesbian/queer event at a local bar.

Not as a pickup thing, just to be amongst friendlies.

I'm pulling up my Buick and I see the familiar license plate... the coffee color.

Fuck.

I knew I would be THAT girl. Just didn't think it would happen so soon. You know, the one who hates the fact that her ex is probably going to infiltrate her social scene for a bit. I'm still not even used to the word "ex." Bullocks.

All told, I had a pleasant conversation and three beers. But I still wish I lived in a city where I'm a number, not a name.

Yes She Can

Been thinking a lot about my terminated relationship. Terminated. So final.

Or at least it sounds final. Human relationships are never so cut and dry.

Been thinking about what I did wrong. Driving in my car to school yesterday morning, slamming down my coffee and wondering if I'm just a relationship fuckup. If I should ever try again.

(Insert existential sigh here.)

NO, I'm not a fuckup. Matter of fact, there's lot of substance here. A lot of shine.

I could comfort myself by saying we both fucked up, which is true, but a cop-out used by people who are afraid of themselves.

Because it's not about her anymore. It's about me now, and whether I can grab my fuckups by the balls and make em teach me something.

Dropsy

Breakups are a weird monster. Emphasis on the monster.

I feel like I've taken a 1.5 year hiatus from myself and don't know where I am yet.

I have uncovered some truths, some good, some surprising, a lot nasty.

It's been about 5 weeks and I still feel like I'm floating, though more in anger lately than sadness.

So far I've coped by being captain pro-active. Yoga, then studying, then hip hop class, then capoiera, then - if I can stomach it- the gym.

But at the end of the day I still find myself stamping my disordered bedroom floor demanding to know why the fuck I still feel like shit.

I mean come on, I do the positive self-talk in the mirror, make lists of why we broke up, go see a school therapist, did a detox, won a goddamn boxing match, made loads of plans for "ladies nights," and started drinking tea instead of coffee in the morning. What more does my stubborn-ass noggin need?

I'm not sure, but it may have something to do with letting go.

Emotion's A Bitch

It's freakishly easy to let other people ride your emotions and painfully hard to turn that ship around and say, "bitch, no!"

But the hardest sometimes is letting others help you feel ok.

Thanks Ladies for helping me say "bitch, yes."

The Obvious

Today I realized something stupidly simple:

I can be whoever I want to be.

How quickly we forget.

You Can Put the Ring on Your Middle Finger

I'm probably never getting married. Never really wanted to. And that's ok.

But the closer I get to the end of my 20's (and I still have 2.2 years to go), the less ok this idea looks in the movies I see, the people whose conversations I overhear in bars, and the population in general.

Come on people, why aren't you with me on this one?

We claim to be modern and aggressive and a bastion of equality for the sexes. It's all about choice for women, the ability to be what they want to be, to pummel down the status quo and have society cheering you along into the new century.

But when I proudly declare my plan to adopt a child in my mid-30's and probably become a single mom, I get: "well don't give up on finding someone just yet!"

All this "progressiveness" and we're still stuck on wedding bells.

Take a Bow

I love spitting my mouthpiece onto the ring after a sparring match. How it launches from my mouth in an explosion of spit and sweat, leaving a mark as it bounces off that disgusting boxing ring.

And I can breath again.

House of the Screeching Sun

It's time to write about New Orleans again. Because wasn't that the whole point of this blog?

House of the Rising Sun came on the radio today. The radio that I keep on constantly because I'm suddenly a pussy about being alone.

I cranked it up and sat back on my couch to wait and see what I would feel.

Yearning with a hint of disgust and a feeling that I'm done with this place. But by the second verse a hope that I can still maybe squeeze some beauty or feeling or ... something out of it. Maybe it's a hope I need to have because I'm essentially stuck here the next two years. That's two.

Today I was driving toward the Quarter at about 9 am to meet a friend for breakfast. I've been trying to pin her down for the last two weeks, so I needed to take this opportunity when I could get it. Plus, I overslept, so I don't know how much longer she'd wait for me with her dwindling croissant. I got lost on Chippewa, looked suspicious circling the block and few times and finally found my way toward the bridge overpass.

Right before the bridge, I saw a car broken down for some reason or another and a family standing around it. Looked like a mother, an older daughter and two younger kids, one of which was manically waving his lanky arms at any passing car. They were on the other side of the street, so I could watch them through my rear-view when I stopped at the instersection. I thought 1) why are all these douchebags just speeding past them, and 2) what if they need someothing really simple like a ride to the gas station?

I even thought about giving them my spare if they needed it. Everything in me wanted to wheel my Buick around and devote the rest of my afternoon to helping them. But I didn't.

I pushed down on the gas thinking about how Kristen was waiting. How she was already probably annoyed. And how badly I needed a friend to talk to.

So I left them there. I still feel bad about it.

On the way home, I passed a guy playing trumpet on the corner near a bus stop. I sort of rolled my eyes at how "New Orleans" it was, but turned down my music anyway to hear him play. He sucked. Just made screeching sounds and stopped to laugh at himself every once in a while. It was refreshing.

Webbie On My Hand

"You're a bad bitch."

I have that written on my hand.

It's a last-grasp affirmation before bed so maybe I'll have more oompf and courage when I pry myself from my bed tomorrow morning.

Somehow, I feel like I've been here before. There's just too much emotion, stress, and forgetting between now and the last time. Suppose that puts me at square one.

But it's a new square, and I don't know what's in it. Is that a speck of wonder peering through my nervous depression?

As everyone advises: only time will tell.

And the Rest Is Drag

My interpretation of RuPaul's philosophy into my guide for positive thought shifting:

Those privileged law school hoes are snickering at me because I'm carrying my books in a grocery bag.

The fact that you still look fierce while carrying your books in a grocery bag makes them insecure and they're laughing nervously.

That girl in the gym is sort of cute and it would suck if my girlfriend had a crush on her.

Honey, you can work that jump rope like that bitch never could, and you do it with heart and nerve! Your girlfriend is a damn fool if she wants something less. And your girlfriend is no fool.

It's degrading to walk past a group of men and they comment at me and call me Baby.

Put that bass in your walk! That sidewalk is your property, girl. Look at them incredulously, like, what are you insignificants even doing here? Security! And then shrug it off like a breeze.

I'm so stressed about whether or not I'll get a good job out of law school an what will become of me if I don't.

You're born naked, the rest is drag.

And How Resilient Is YOUR Skull?

Everyone I know who is not from here mention wanting to "take a break from chaos" when they go on vacation. And usually when they are saying, they're at the break point, reeling from the latest power outage or police scandal.

Just this month, my friend got pushed through a glass window, I got into a laughable fender bender where the woman is trying to squeeze me with an injury claim, and it took me a week to retrieve my parcel of pasta and Wheatables from the post office.

Add that to what I've soaked up since my last trip to NY six months ago, and I can feel the chaos clamping down: I assume the owner of the bar I'm sitting in is laundering money, someone's body was just peeled from the street I'm driving on, and the fat man in the suit who just passed me is working for BP and about to go back to his hotel room to have a prostitute delivered from Bourbon, drink himself stupid, or kill his wife.

Then my girlfriend and I take a morning stroll to the neighborhood bakery, where they're playing Dylan as two stylish gay boys flirt and some well-groomed lesbians pick up their scones.

We felt hot and left with our coffees in plastic cups.

Mamas Don't Let Your Daughters Grow Up to Be ...

I came out to my mom.

Coming out to me means that I met somebody who I wanted to date and they happened to be a woman. It means that I tried explaining to her that this fact does not matter to me and it shouldn't to her either.

Her reaction didn't go as hoped.

I see many similarities in my mother's reaction with my girlfriend's mother's reaction. Funny how they can be so textbook.

"But you're not meant for this lifestyle."

"Life isn't about what makes you happy."

"It's not natural."


Also makes you wonder whether this is really their heartfelt reaction or whether they're reacting to how they've been programmed by society, religion, or whatever to react.

The smoke is clearing and I still see my mother, I still see she loves my woman-dating ass, and i still know she loves to argue with me on "lifestyle choices." And I still love to argue with her. At least there's love.

I'm sure she didn't intend this, but in a way it's making me more of a fighter. Thanks mom.

But She's Got Heart

In the Tyson movie I just watched, all sorts of values were carouseled around. Bravery, heart, endurance, honesty, being true to yourself, faith, etc, etc.

Makes my head spin. So which of these should one go for? What if your religion excludes some. What if you can't fit em all into your psyche? What if you don't have even one?


What if you only think you do? Should you care? And why?

Thoughts?

The Power Of Attorney

This gin and water isn't doing it for me taste-wise. Hopefully it will sleep-wise.

Summary judgment, gross negligence... I like that: gross negligence. Sounds like something you'd throw around in divorce papers to make them sound tragic, or the result of wearing the same pair of socks too many times.

Law school: so far it means red beans and rice too many times a week, some confidence with just a touch more self-doubt, strange and suppressed people, and stress-induced acne.

But for some reason I'm still snuggling up to Torts. And also, there's so much more out there.

Five of Em

I heard gunshots just now outside my apartment for the first time since moving to New Orleans. About 5 of them, very staccato, slow and evenly spaced.

I thought at first that they were fireworks or something, but the abrupt silence of the chatter coming from upstairs was a signal - yeah, that was a gun.

I reacted less than I thought I would. Lay in bed for a moment with my copy of the Economist, sort of peeved at first that it interrupted my reading of a story on the Vatican covering up alter-boy rape.

Then I hypothesized that getting away from the window with the light shining through it could mean my life, so I leisurely got out of bed and stood in the frame of my doorway -- the place they tell you is strongest during earthquakes.

Should I turn my light off? Oh no, that would make me look suspicious to an outside predator piece in hand. Better to pretend I never heard anything.

So, well, I'm back in bed again in front of that same lit window just 15 minutes later thinking about what that shooter must be thinking and ... I have no idea. Probably, hopefully, not concerned with my lit window.

I hear the elephant above me stirring and stomping around... A sign that he's not to concerned about lit windows either. But I'm not sure about whose stirrings to believe.

These Beasts

I 'm moving again soon and hoping that in some strange way, a new apartment will change my world. I'll keep up with my dishes, not go out when I shouldn't, sit up straight on my wooden chair for days hovering over law work.

Poor little apartment. It doesn't know it's a cure-all.

It's one of those nights where I find comfort in imagining stuffing some choice people I know into a large canon and shooting them, in a cartoonish arc, to the other side of the world.

Sick With Go-Getting

I'm staying up late feeling like a super-law-student entering volunteer profiles for Boston University 1L's who are coming to town next week.

Those bastards have 3.7, 3.8, even 3.9's while spending every waking moment of their non-study time doing things like teaching stepdancing in Cambodia and getting a black-belt in martial arts.

This sort of thing makes you wonder if you've been holding yourself up to the wrong yardstick.

My mother would say, ditch the yardstick.

Alright mom, I'll use it as a crop instead.

Strong Work

The night the Saints won their football game, I had maybe 6 drinks and assortment of beans and cakes and went to bed early with a protesting stomach and the remains of black eyeliner smeared across my cheeks.

But I was genuinely excited over a football -- heck, a team-sport victory of any kind -- for the first time in my life.

Excited but also sort of weirded out. Does this mean I'll start taking study breaks for Sunday football games like my colleagues in law school?

I got my answer this evening from my maniacal little Torts professor. He opened the class by declaring:

"The Saints worked hard training all year round for prolonged and deserved gratification. People are saying their victory will revitalize the city -- if revitalize means getting drunk and missing work."

This professor, I learned, is a Cajun who lives on a farm and plays in a Zydeco band, so I know he doesn't hate fun -- but he sort of reminded me of why I usually don't like following sports.

As far as the Saints go, I toasted them wholeheartedly and copiously, but I'd rather go out there now and steal their strategy.

Put Your Lighters Up

Gross Negligence

The area surrounding the Orleans Parish Prison courthouse is a gritty sprawl of petty criminals and bail bonds "offices," some more legitimate than the rest. As soon as my Buick flies over the overpass and touches down on Tulane Ave., I feel people looking at me through my windsheild in anticipation, invisible questions on their minds:

"How much power do you have?"

"Are you going to help me, or help keep my son in jail?"

The sun is always blinding there, even when it's overcast, and the first thing I see is the grey marble of the courthouse rising up out of the hovel of Quickie marts and swaying houses, trying its best to look just. I faintly remember two gigantic sculptures of eagles.

Having only been in magistrate court, I don't really know what to make of the whole thing.

All I know is that, if nobody cares enough about you to pay a $50 bond, you can sit in jail for over 60 days on a possession of marijuana charge. Also, police have trouble spelling, and, sometimes, not embellishing on their arrest reports. They also enjoy flinging "probable cause" around.

A curfew on a person subject to house arrest is later if he has a BA in something vs if he's only got a high-school education: profiling barely pretending not to be.

But por favor, don't scoff me off as a gushing liberal. The man is there regulating for a reason (wife-beaters and 17-year-old double murderers for example) he's just not quite man enough for the airs his courthouse puts on.

The Beginning of the Decade

A newly turned 27-yr old has a retrospective moment:

I'm 20 and home from college for the summer. I'm feeling angsty after having read "Please Kill Me," a sort-of illustrated history of Punk Rock. So angsty in fact that I feel like I have to rail against something somehow or be sucked into suburban normalcy before I return to school and be embarrassed under the scrutiny of my misguided-musician crush -- who, I would later discover to be an ego-maniacal ass, but who I saw at the time as the cool guy with 45's and the fatalistic attitude.

So I did what any budding punk rocker would have done -- I threw out all my makeup from the year before: when I had gone trawling to college parties with the rest of em, "shades of seduction" eyeshadow in tow -- before my life was saved by rock n' roll.

Next step: bleach hair to a crisp underneath a shopping bag, buy some t-shirts with favorite band names on them, rip holes in all my jeans (if I can't accomplish it by falling off my skateboard), and spend lots of time in my basement with my $10 record player, ignoring the suburban hell outside.

Though it has been, and continues to be at times, misguided, here's to many more years of railing against shit.