Gone to the Mattresses

My doorbell buzzed at 4:25 this morning. Since I was deep in the arms of Morpheus after one of the best massages of my life, it took me a while to realize it was buzzing...amazing because it's only six feet from my head.

And buzzing.

And buzzing.

For fear it was someone I loved, I answered it. The response?

Unintelligible. Drunky McDrunkersons pushing only my button.

After the best massage of my life.

I said goodbye, informing them, "If you don't leave immediately, I will call the police."

I also said goodbye to sleep. I went into lockdown. I locked and relocked both entrances. Checked all the windows. Closed the few curtains I have. Checked under the bed. Checked in the bathroom and closets.

No one there.

Ridiculous, I know. However, I have been the ____________ (I hate the V word so find another, please) of burglary, robbery, assault and sexual assault here in the city.

And a good old-fashioned mugging in New Haven.

Lah de dah.

Sometimes I wonder why those things happened...especially at moments like this when I've gone to the mattresses and streamed 30 ROCK on Netflix 'til the sun came up and I felt safe.

And the only answer I can come up with is I live a lot of life...not haphazardly or dangerously (unless you count the TaB)...just TONS OF LIFE. (Funny. I typoed "life" with the word "love.")

And there's bound to be some shit where there's that much life.

And where there's that much shit, there must be a pony, right?

I'm counting on the pony.*

*And if the pony's with the mattress? Call me Catherine the Great.

HAPPY !!,000

You e-lightful Bleaders. You did it!

You and ALL the Arabic readers where TiZ translates to something along the lines of "hoo hoo."

I know there are some blogs that reach 11,000+ hits in a day, but since I remain Ann Anonymous, do not promote (other than the occasional shout out on the Book of Face), and am just "the nicest random blog I've ever come across,"* I count myself mighty blessed. And do not feel like I'm toiling away in oblivion.

And for those of you who DO feel like you're toiling away in oblivion and not getting the credit you are due, my universal shout-out today is, "Excellent job. I appreciate you so."

See you in the land of 0s and 1s...it's Heaven.com.

*Thank you, random reader from India...where TIZ does not mean "hoo hoo."

Happy St. Rusty's Day

An Ode to Rusty Magee on the Anniversary of His Death...written a couple of years ago.

(It's by Rusty, of course. Stupid MySpace.)

Valentine’s Day = no celebration for me. St. Valentine was beaten to death and then beheaded…what’s to celebrate?

Plus, I’m 48, I’m single, I’m unemployed and I don’t have a dog. Pretty much rock bottom.

My rock bottom is comparatively pretty shiny. I live in Manhattan, have a rent-stabilized apartment, a membership to New York Sports Club (where I can watch 80s Pop video) and I’m not going to go hungry any time soon. But once I realized I was deep in the dirt, I decided to slow on down and pick away at the nuggets for a while.

And when I took my foot off the pedal, I found Rusty again. It always happens just when I need it.

Read more...

Rock Bottom

I've been sitting in it, picking away at the nuggets for a while. Of course, I look shiny and happy, people, on the outside.

Or I did.

And then I decided, as my jaw locked for the umpteenth time, "I don't have to grin and bear it."

Nor do I have to do either of those singularly.

My life doesn't look like what it was meant to, and I wonder how I got myself into such a mess.

I'm currently "getting through" days. I'm taking it slow. I refuse to rush anything. (My life tends to revolve around how much I can cram into a day and at what velocity.)

Not now.

All of this hit at once (Good morning, Monday) and I let the self-hatred flow like wine at a bacchanal. And the minute I did that, a distant friend wrote me...

I had a dream, a whopper of a dream, last night.

You and I were together at some sort of prep school campus, on warm afternoons and evenings, or it may have been your family's lushly manicured estate. We were hanging out, and I had the sense that we'd been hanging out all summer, lazily, playing lawn games and reading poolside. Your brother, JB, was there a lot, too. Well, it was fun and it became flirtatious, gradually, and we were falling in love, big time. We didn't even kiss in the dream, but we were tilting joyously closer, each time we did something. We teased and chased and hugged. And JB was psyched about it!

Then I woke up. And I felt so happy.

Strange under any circumstances. Given that we've never actually met, quite strange. Queer.

What?

Just. Plain. Nice.

As if the universe, through DF, offered me a wee blanket to take the chill off while I chip away at my jagged, geological growths...to mine and mind what I need for the rest of my journey.

Sometimes nice is the most important thing ever.

Sex

is good.

Marlene Gets Her Groove Back

Effie Merman, anyone?

Yes, you're right. The outfit was borrowed from an avant garde production of THE MIRACLE WORKER.