MEGADOG

This Vegas anomaly is no longer available, for it was only sold at the Westward Ho hotel and casino, lovingly referred to as "The Ho."

Jason, Lydia, Charlie and I stayed at The Ho when we went out there for spring break last year. It was an old shanty of a place, but our room was clean and had a great view of the front of the Riviera -- which is the best view you can get in a two story hotel on the north strip. We stayed there to save a few bucks, and it was well worth it. I hated to see that place go, to make room for some bigger, better, more expensive trendy place. And they had just opened "The Ho", a small detached casino on the backlot, which happened to serve great sandwiches despite the long wait. I wonder if that is still open - it was a nice quiet little place.

Lydia of course didn't enjoy a Mega Dog with me and the guys. I think Jason is the only one who completely finished his. Aside from the Mega Dog, (which was super cheap, like $1.99) there were super cheap strawberry shortcakes. And my favorite thing about the Ho was the super cheap MARGARITA BAR! This is where my fascination with frozen strawberry margaritas began. There was a whole bar devoted to nothing but margaritas in a variety of flavors in big churning slushy machines. I'm sure the flavoring was all from a packet of dried mix, but DAMN they were tasty! One night I went to get one and the margarita bar had closed for the night. So I went to the sports bar and ordered one and the dude made it in front of me with fresh strawberries and I thought it would be really good but it sucked. The ones from the slushy machine had the perfect consistency and were the right ratio of sweet to sour. The hand made one just didn't cut it.

Yeah, I miss the Ho. And I miss Charlie, too. When Lyds and Jason and I are there this summer, we'll say hello to our beloved friend and the hotel that no longer stands. And I'll take Lydia to my newest discovery, the frozen drink bar in front of the Imperial Palace! Yummm.

A Crummy Day It Was Indeed

I'm an adjunct art professor. "Adjunct" is a fancy word for "part-time." I'm completely qualified to be a full professor, but the penny pinching state of Tennessee would rather save a few bucks by hiring several adjuncts than hire one full timer. See, adjuncts get about 1/3 of the pay that a regular professor gets, but we work 2/3 the time as a full professor. The state is basically getting slave labor. And we don't get any benefits at all -- I haven't been to a real doctor in years. If I get sick, I either suck it up and wait it out, or I go to the pay-by-income public health department. I have a Master's degree and a job in my field -- yet I live like a welfare recipient. Why do I choose to do this? I see it as biding my time, paying my dues, building up my resume, until I can land a full time gig. It's what most people have to do in this profession. On average, it takes five years of the grunt work to land the full time job.

In order to better myself and further my career, I have been interning for a professional artist in Nashville on my non-teaching days. Her name is Adrienne, and she's working on a massive sculpture project. She currently has twelve interns, and all are college students except for me. Since I have more experience than they do, I was quickly thrust into the role of Studio Manager, meaning I have a key to Adrienne's studio and I run the place when she's out (which is very often, seeing as how she's nine months pregnant - her due date is tomorrow.) This is an unpaid internship, though we are making incredible contacts with gallery directors and other professional artists, and we get to learn the ins and outs of life as a professional artist. I think that making these contacts is worth its weight in gold, so I feel like I am receiving payment of sorts.

The other day I was in the studio and was supposed to take some of Adrienne's small sculptures to the loading dock so her gallery rep could get them and ship them off to a show in Georgia. She had been trying to get me to meet this gallery rep for a long time, and told me to make a good impression on him. You can read about the chaos that ensued in the following email, which I sent to Adrienne that night. Enjoy!


Adrienne,

I finally met Jerry Dale...

and I couldn't have made more of an ass of myself.

So I'd been looking forward to meeting him for a long time, and was determined to make a good impression. He drove up to the loading dock, and I wheeled the cart close to the edge so we could easily unload it. I got down off the dock and was on my way to introduce myself to him when I saw the cart moving out of the corner of my eye. I raced to the edge of the dock just as the wheel of the cart rolled off the edge, and the boxes started sliding toward me. And what do I do? Keep in mind this all happened so fast I hadn't even introduced myself yet -- I started screaming "OH SHIT! OH SHIT! OH SHIT!" and threw myself in front of the boxes. And Jerry came running to help. Luckily I caught most of them, but a couple slipped off the cart. So, without a word passing between us, (with a couple glances of "are you a freakin' idiot?") we started opening the boxes to see if everything was okay. We didn't open the bubblewrap, because everything looked fine -- and he felt assured that it was all okay. So then we retaped the boxes, and I let him load everything in his truck because I didn't want to touch any of it, and he said he was in a hurry and had to go. Only then did I get the chance to introduce myself and try to make him believe that I'm not usually this unprofessional. Then he drove away, and I realized that in the flurry of excitement I forgot to get him to sign the consignment forms. So I called him up and asked if I could meet him at his gallery. He said okay, but warned me that there was something going on downtown with a bunch of people. I got to Broadway, and there was a swarm of people and police cars. Turns out there was a walk-a-thon AND a Predators event. Jerry then called me and said he barely convinced the cops to let him through, and asked if I wanted to wait and get the forms tomorrow. I told him to give me 5 minutes to try to find a parking spot... which I did, several blocks away. In the end I got the forms signed and left your copy in the studio manager file, and most importantly the artwork appeared to be okay, so I guess it all worked out. Unfortunately, Jerry Dale will NEVER forget who I am. I sincerely apologize for the mishap with the rolling cart, and I will totally understand if you revoke my studio priveleges. I probably shouldn't handle your art for a while, at the very least. The looming question is, can you ever trust me again when I say, "Don't worry, I've got it under control"? The only thing that remotely appeased my embarassment was when Jerry picked up the rolling cart and put it back on the loading dock, it started rolling toward him. And he said something like, "whoa, it almost rolled off again." So maybe the dock is slightly slanted. Or maybe I'm just hoping that's the case.

I'll be at the studio tomorrow if you want to stop by and chastise me.

With sincerety and gratitude,

Rachel the Dolt

"It's A Family Affaaa-air"

Okay. So Jason is supposed to be in Vegas for the World Series of Poker this summer. Which means he'll be away from home for a long time. And the blogger tournament is happening during that same time, so I've decided to go out there for a week to play in the tournament, see Jason, and enjoy Vegas. My friend and partner in crime Lydia will be accompanying me on the trip. She went with me, Jason, and Charlie to Vegas last year, so this will be her second trip. It will be my fourth or fifth. I wanted Lydia to be there to keep me company while Jason's working, because she kicks ass and is a lot of fun to be around (and she's single, guys!) Anyhoo, my dad and stepmother have been talking about going to Vegas for a long time now, and they've decided to go for their first time this summer. And it looks like they will be going at the same that time Lydia, Jason and I will be there! But wait... before you start assuming it will be a drag to have my dad out there, let me make it clear that my dad is one of my best friends. He's really cool and laughs a lot, and I think it will be neat to be a tour guide of sorts to Vegas newbies. Also, I know that he and Pat (my stepmom) will enjoy being with me and L and J, but they will also go off on their own adventures, too. Which means that the weekend of the blogger tournament will not be spoiled by family obligations. No way. The weekend of the blogger tournament is reserved for drinking and playing poker with my fabulous friends whom I have come to know and love at the Boathouse Bash, the Imperial Palace tournament, and vicariously through my husband's computer screen.

Back to my family...

I LOVE Las Vegas. And I love sharing tidbits of knowledge that can only be gained through experience with people who are unfamiliar with the place. Like good places to eat, which buffet is best for your buck, how to get around town, etc. So when my dad said he wanted to go, I told him I'd be his travel agent. I'd make out some iteneraries, help pick the right hotel for their needs, purchase airline tickets -- you name it, Travel Agent Rachel is at their service. So I had a lot of fun last week when I put together a manual (and a manual it is!) of Vegas vacationing. It's in a 1 inch three ring binder, with separate chapters devoted to hotels (I chose the six best that they could then pick from), food (with pictures, menus, and critic's reviews), entertainment (with the prices and shows listed for the week that they will be there), maps (of the strip, downtown, and how to drive to the Grand Canyon, as per Dad's request.) And I added some miscellaneous info, like how they should'nt be afraid of but should definitely ignore the illegal immigrant porn card snappers that stand en masse on the streets, and to take advantage of the 1/2 price show ticket booths. Needless to say, Dad and Pat were pleasantly surprised when out came the Vegas Manual. They were expecting some notes jotted on a piece of scrap paper, and suggested that I turn this manual into an actual book. The problem with that is that I catered it toward their personal tastes and needs, and the entertainment guide is current to the dates they'll be traveling, which means the manual will need constant revision if sold to other people.

So if anyone is interested in hiring a travel agent for a Vegas vacation, don't go through some stuffy overpriced company. Hire me instead! Rachel's Vegas Manual, specific to your tastes and budget, is only $12,999.43!!! And they're going fast - like hotcakes, even. So ACT NOW!!

Here are the six hotels I chose for my Dad and Pat (based on budget, location, and amenities):
Flamingo, Imperial Palace, Barbary Coast, Monte Carlo, Bally's, and New York New York. I wanted them to have a range of prices while staying within their price range. And I think that everyone should stay in center strip on their first trip out there. I also think they needn't go further north than TI ('cause it gets pretty creepy near the Stratosphere, I tell ya!) so I chose a couple that are further south than "center strip." And I also did that because I didn't know if they would really enjoy staying in a ridiculously over-themed place (NYNY) or if they were more concerned with cost (IP, Barbary Coast.) And they have chosen: Bally's.

Surprised me too! I thought for sure they would choose Flamingo. This is, of course, based on the information I gave them, and they've never seen the weird neon spiral in front of Bally's. but I think it's a prime location and I hear the rooms are fairly spacious, and that Bally's gets a bad rap because it can't compete with the other thematic monstrosities around it. I think Bally's is a good choice, also, because Lydia and I will be staying right next door at Barbary Coast (which I hear is Wil Wheaton's local of choice.) We didn't take the Excalibur blogger deal because savvy-shopper-Rachel got comparable rates, and it's in a great location, and there won't be so many snot nosed brats running 'twixt my feet while I'm there. (Excalibur is overrun with nasty ass kids.) I'm also glad Dad chose Bally's because the BC doesn't have a swimming pool -- I can walk next door and use the one at Bally's. And I'm quite glad, because I thought I would have to sweet-talk a blogger into letting me borrow his/her room key for access to the Excal pool, but with so many rugrats the pools would be full of poo nuggets and urine clouds. Eeewwwwwww.

So look for me, Jason, single-intelligent-and-attractive Lydia, my Dad, and Pat -- all tooling around Vegas this summer!

Recipe:

Rachel's Not-so-healthy, Not-so-authentic But Really Tasty Chicken Curry [With Saffron Rice and Creamed Spinach].
*serves 1 hearty appetite or 2 if you include room for dessert

So Jason comes into town for a week and I don't cook a thing. He leaves town and I fix a meal fit for a king. I guess it's okay, he got to eat at Noodles yesterday -- THE asian restaurant at Bellagio.

I fixed this chicken with two sides: saffron rice and creamed spinach, the recipes of will be explained.

You need:
For curry chicken--
3/4 lb chicken breast strips
3 cups plain yogurt
curry powder
coarse ground black pepper
ground cayenne pepper
garlic powder
chili powder
salt
lemon juice
sugar
1 small can tomato paste
frozen baby peas (optional)

For saffron rice --
a Mahatma brand saffron rice packet
1 tbs margarine or butter

For creamed spinach --
3 big handfuls of raw spinach
1 tbs margarine or butter
1/2 can cream of mushroom soup
salt & pepper to taste
grated parmesan cheese

Okay. Follow the directions on the rice packet -- it cooks in 20 minutes. Then, while that's simmering, cut that white vein thing out of the chicken strips because it gets rubbery when cooked. Put the chicken strips into 1/4 inch of water in a large skillet. Let the water slowly boil, turning chicken until fully cooked and white but not browned.

In a small bowl, mix the yogurt, tomato paste, and about a tsp of curry powder, then start adding the other ingredients a little at a time until it suits your taste. I like a sweet and tangy sauce, so I add a good bit of sugar and lemon juice. Go easy on the cayenne and chili powder. And you may want to add more or less curry later. I mix it until it has a ton of spice speckles, and the sauce is an orangey pink color.

Meanwhile, in a small sauce pan, cook one handful of spinach with only a teaspoon of margarine or butter on medium heat until it wilts. Stir occasionally to coat the leaves in the butter. Add a second handful, let it wilt down. Then the third. When it's all cooked down, pour the excess liquid off (spinach is surprisingly moist) and add the cream of mushroom soup. Let it cook to a slow boil while you finish the chicken...

Pour all the water off the chicken, and add enough of the yogurt curry sauce to coat it. Then cook on medium heat until the chicken starts to brown - then add the rest of the sauce and let the chicken simmer until the rice is done. If you want a sweet kick or just need an extra vegetable, throw a handful of peas into the sauce and let them simmer for just about a minute or two.

Add a little parmesan cheese to the spinach and voila! You're ready to eat!

A Urinal, A Bat, A Tomkitten, and A Bible

That sums up my morning. Sort of. It's really just to lure you in so you'll read the goings-on of my morning at the Mazda dealership waiting room.

Last week Jason and I got our new car - a 2002 Mazda Protege 5. It is a SWEET little car. It's an itty bitty station wagon (the preferred nomenclature is "sport wagon") that zips around curves like nobody's business. And around here, curves there are a-plenty.

Tennessee is divided into three geographic regions which just so happen to coincide with three distinct socio-cultural regions. First there's West Tennessee, with vast, ugly, boring, flat areas of farmland. Memphis is the big city in this region, home of the blues (ever heard of Beale Street?) and, of course, the shag carpets in the jungle room of Graceland, Elvis's not-so-humble former abode. The next region is Middle Tennessee, with large rolling hills that get bigger as you head east. Nashville is the big city in this region, home to most of Tennessee's cultural institutions. Fine art museums, a thriving country music industry, a symphony orchestra, and professional sports teams all have homes here. This is where Jason and I live. With all of the rolling hills comes incredibly curvy roads, and my little Mazda handles the curves like a champ. The last region of the state is East Tennessee, at the edge of the Appalachian Mountains. And, as one would guess, it's the hilliest part of the state. The mountains aren't the same snow capped rocky monstrosities one might see in Colorado or Switzerland, because they are incredibly old mountains, what you might call "dying mountains". The tops of the mountains have eroded and thus they have gotten smaller over time. Oh, did I say my new car drives really well, especially around curves? Umm, anyway.. Knoxville is the biggest city in the East Tennessee region, home to bad drivers, assholes, and The University of Tennessee. I think they have a football team or something.

Jeez, I went through an entire geography lesson just so I could prove the point that my new car KICKS ASS? Well, yeah.

But one thing about it didn't kick ass. When we test drove it at the dealership, there was an infrequent rattle from the undercarriage. The dealer said if we bought the car they would fix the problem, no charge. And that all cars sold there get a free detail cleaning. So I went today to make sure they would stick to their word. I sat in the little waiting area where I graded student work for a while, drank coffee, and chatted with some fellow waitees. When Jason and I had purchased the car last week, I noticed that all of the piped in music at the dealership was Christian. Really bad soft rock songs, with lyrics like, "Praise him, my saviour, let's live our lives through him" and stuff. (And yes, I know, the "h" in "him" should be capitalized, but I'm not gonna do it.) The music sounded like any soft rock, like a Bryan Adams ballad or even an Eagles tune. If I hadn't paid attention to the lyrics, I wouldn't have known. And so today while I was sitting in the waiting area, I'm hearing the same soft poppy crap, with incredibly obvious Christian lyrics. It was a radio station called "The Fish." Ya know how people drive around with fish symbols on the backs of their cars? And some have "Darwin" in them, with little legs? And some have shark fins? Yeah, so the fish is a Christian symbol, if you aren't aware of the outside world enough to know. And if you didn't know that, you've really got to get away from your computer.

So somebody comes in and turns on the waiting room TV. It's on MSNBC, which is all news headline snippet stories. I sat there from 8:30am til noon, and there was only ONE news story that was pursued with any fervence whatsoever. And it was about freakin' Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes and their new baby whose name is Suri which means "rose" in Persian and "princess" in Hebrew and she weighed 7 pounds and was 20 inches long and Tom and Katie (or "Tomkat", as some obnoxious PR person so cleverly developed in the vein of "Benifer" and "Brangelina") are at home and doing fine and no one knows if she had a silent birth and GOOD LORD!!! I heard this same crap over and OVER and OOVVVEEEERRRRR for freakin' three hours. Every once in a while they'd say something about some Duke Univeristy rape investigation, then interject a Q&A interview about Scientology with a speculative non-Scientologist journalist.

What has this country come to? Is THIS breaking news? I remember, back in my day, before the internet, that a "Breaking" story meant some bad shit had just gone down somewhere and people were probably dead. Now "Breaking" news is just whatever comes off the fax machine. There's one good thing about this celebrity fixation with which our country is so engrossed -- the state of the world must not be that bad, because hearing about some actor's kid being born isn't the same thing as a hostage crisis or plane crash. But then the logical part of me says that hostage crises and plane crashes and bad things ARE happening all the time, but our country has its priorities so mixed up that we (as a culture) would rather fixate on little Suri Holmes Cruise than gritty and painful real life.

After the second hour of this news story, I had run out of lead for my pencil, and I couldn't find a pencil to borrow - everyone had only pens. And the student work I was grading needed to be graded in pencil. So I started scoping the room for reading material. All they had were some Mazda maintenance manuals, a local auction newsletter with houses and other merchandise for sale, parenting magazines, and Holy Bibles. There was a particularly worn one right beside my chair. But it didn't have pretty pictures so I stayed away. Luckily all the other waitees left and I jumped up and changed the TV channel. Of course there was nothing on, but I did find Celebrity Poker Showdown, so I could learn how not to play.

They finally came and got me, and told me that the rattle sound under my car was the muffler - the one that's on there is not the original, and it was slightly too big, so there was a lip that was hitting something every time I accelerated from a complete stop. They fixed the problem, and did a full inspection, got a stuck seatbelt unstuck from under the rear seat, and detailed my car -- FOR FREE!!! It's such a nice feeling to walk out of a place having never touched my wallet.

When I got into my sparkly clean car, I noticed that the one item I had left in the car had been moved. Apparently they vacuumed under the seats, and found my "Internet Urinal." This was a gag gift to Jason from a friend of ours a while back - it's a little portable urinal with a female no-spill attachment. It's marketed toward computer geeks, with a slogan that says you never have to miss a second of your favorite video game again, you never have to get up from your computer to go to the bathroom, etc... Well, this was obviously a joke, but I think it's a handly little device. Anyone who has a tiny bladder and has been stuck in a dead stand-still traffic jam on the interstate for hours at a time before knows just what I mean. So I keep this little urinal under the driver's seat, in case I really need to GO. Have I ever used it? No. Would I ever? You betcha. So when I saw that they had pulled this out from under the seat, I got a little embarassed. But not nearly as embarassed as I would have been if I had forgotten to remove the coffee cup with the rotting dead bat carcass yesterday. Yeah, I had a dead bat in a coffee cup. I found it stuck to the front grill of the car. Must've hit it a couple nights ago. So I saved it, thinking that I would draw it -- artists usually draw lots of bones and dead things to get a feel for musculature and skeletal systems (and to be GOTHIC!!) But when I got in the car yesterday afternoon, on an 80 degree day, and smelled that the bat had slowly been warming up to that temperature all day, I immediately threw it out. No way in hell would I put up with that smell, not even for an amazing drawing. I rode home with the windows down and the sun roof open (did I mention my new car has a sun roof? And that it kicks ass?) so's to remove the dead bat smell, and by the time I got home my presence was graced with the pleasant aroma of my R2D2 C-3P0 vanilla scented air freshener.

Flash forward.

It's today. My car has been bat-free for 22 hours, the muffler has been fixed for 3.5 hours, and my travel urinal is back in place under my seat. Things are good.

Corn Syrup and Soy Lecithin (an emulsifier)

Here's what I got in my Easter bag-o-goodies!

pink bunny Peeps
pink chicky Peeps
purple chicky Peeps
blue chicky Peeps
yellow chicky Peeps
mini Whopper eggs
a Dove bunny
speckled malted milk eggs
Reese's peanut butter eggs
Welch's grape drink juice drink from concentrate
welch's orange pineapple juice drink from concentrate
mixed nuts
grape scented Miracle Bubbles
Mini Oreo Bite Size!
cheese crackers with peanut butter
Yummy Juicy fruit snacks
a dime bag of Skittles jelly beans
cherry cordial egg
Milky Way egg
Cadbury Creme egg
and four Nestle caramel eggs

"This is for BG, and this is for the hustlers. This is for the hustlers, now back to BG..."

I did it! I set up an RSS feed. That is what it's called, right? I don't really know what it is or does, but I DID IT! And it was surprisingly easy. I feel competent with computers in general. I can zip through Photoshop and other art related programs, but I'm not real proficient with online things. Like HTML and advanced blog settings and stuff. I am learning, though, slowly but surely. Hopefully pretty soon I might even have a PHOTO on my blog! Imagine that. I don't spend enough time online each day to really play around with settings and templates and such. But I will try to continue improving the quality of my blog.

So, BG, to quote The Big Lebowski for the hundredth time in the past month, "There. I did it. Are you happy, you crazy fuck?"

New Wheels

Jason and I made our first major purchase as a married couple yesterday. Or, shall I say, we obtained our first joint loan. We've been looking for a car to replace our 10 year old hand-me-down Bonneville for a couple months - something gas efficient and more reliable than a car that was starting to have major things break on a regular basis. We knew we wanted something compact and sporty, in a low price range to fit our budget. My stepbrother purchased a Mazda Protege 5 a few months back - a super sharp "sport wagon" that seemed to fit our criteria. So we had been looking online at prices of those. Yesterday we test drove a variety of makes and models, including a Chevy Cobalt, two Ford Foci, and something else, before randomly stumbling onto the one used Protege 5 in town. We went to several dealerships, and the Mazda dealership is where they had the one we found. Not quick to jump into major purchases, we talked about the car for a while before deciding to test drive it. I drove it, and loved it - but it's a 2002, and we were hoping for at least a 2003. After hemming and hawing for a while, and deciding it fit all of the criteria on the written list I had in my purse (always go shopping with something specific in mind! Else they will tempt you into making a sucker purchase), we entered the building.

We got the dude to see how much the financing would be, knowing damn well that we were going to say no to whatever he offered. Because we were really just browsing. Knowing that we would be getting rid of the Bonneville, we let them play their game and see how much they'd give on trade-in. I had planned on selling the Bonneville to a private party rather than trading it in, because you never get the full value on a trade-in. So during this little charade of "well, let me see what I can do for you - I'll go talk to the Big Man in back" we soon found out they were lowballing us on the trade-in value. See, I had done my Kelly Blue Book research, and I knew, I KNEW what that car was worth, and it ain't what they offered. So we said hell no. Not dead-set on making this purchase, we decided to play hard-ball with the salesman. He came back from the "Big Man" the second time and said they were trying to clear the lot, blah fucking blah, what would it take to get you to buy that car? And we told him it would take selling the Bonneville to them way over the blue book trade-in value.. the price we gave him was very close to the private party value. And he kinda laughed, knowing damn well we wouldn't get THAT, and he disappeared to talk to the Big Man. Jason and I said if we got anywhere near what we were asking, we'd consider buying the Protege on the spot.

So we had a lot to mull over when he came back and said we got the price we asked for.

This time, Jason took it for a test drive. I had driven like an old lady, afraid I might wreck someone else's property. Jason took the curves like a champ - I was gripping the door handle the whole time. Back from the test drive, we talked and talked, and went through every detail of the car. We pushed every button, looked under the hood for a while (for what, I don't know - I just thought it was a good idea), scolded ourselves and then reassured ourselves for being impulsive, and we bought it. Who knows - it may have major mechanical failures sooner than our now-former Bonneville would have, but I look pretty cute in it. And it has a sun roof! I've never had a car with a sun roof. And a rack on top - for a kayak! And the air conditioner works! And the seats fold down for large cargo space! I grew up fairly poor, so I'm gonna feel guilty about this purchase for a while, but once that wears off I'll be super pleased. YAY!!!

Oh, What a Cruel, Cruel World

I have received karmic retalliation for my recent post that talked smack about a poker player I encountered in the Wil Wheaton tournament. I either have very mild food poisoning, or a hellatious stomach virus. See, two days ago I started having really intense lower back pains accompanied by stomach cramps right below my sternum. Over a two day period, the back pains slowly moved from my lower back to middle to upper to lower again. The stomach pains sometimes felt like really really strong gas pains, other times they felt like such intense hunger pains that I almost vomited. On the way to school this morning, the pains started coming in short bursts that made me feel like my face was going to melt and I was going to pass out. Then it started - the rumbling sounds.

It sounded and felt as if Zool from Ghostbusters and the stomach alien from Alien had procreated and used my tummy as an incubator. I could hear rumbling sounds start in my upper stomach, and the sounds zigzagged back and forth through all upper and lower intestines. But I never passed gas, didn't feel the urge to poo. Just really awful pains and sounds. Until about two hours later, when I was really, really glad there was a public restroom with a bountiful supply of t.p. I will spare you the details.

And THIS, ladies and gentlemen, is how A 5'2" effeminate assless-chap-wearing dude gets all the pussy he could ever want:


She took off her dress, and I took a peek
While thunder storm played hide and seek
I begged for a kiss, she gave me 7
Our lips touched and it feel like heaven

Everything I want is what she does to me
She don't blush 'cause she's so damned free
When she makin' love it's like surgery
And she say, ooh
I love U in me

I promised myself not to come until she does
And she took both hands and a liar I was
No man in this world could ever hope 2 last
When my baby down shifts and starts pumpin' fast

Everything I want is what she does to me
She don't blush 'cause she's so damned free
When she makin' love it's like surgery
And she say, ooh
I love U in me

I love U, I love U, in me

Our bodies sink in a pool of sweat
It's the kind of love that U never forget (Never forget)
With U honey, I'm the richest in the world (So rich)
I don't need money 'cause u're my girl (Need money cause u're my girl)

Everything I want is what she does to me
She don't blush 'cause she's so damned free
When she makin' love it's like surgery (Surgery)
And she say, ooh
I love U in me

I love U in me

Everything I want is what she does to me
U don't blush 'cause she's so damned free (So free)
When we makin' love it's like surgery (Yeah)
And she say, ooh
I love U in me

(I love U)
Yeah
(Ooh, I love U in me)

I can't wait until Purple Reign in Vegas.

Song in the Head Like a Hole in the Head

Ya ever wake up with the chorus of a really bad song going through your head over and over and over and over and over again? And you have to ask yourself, "Self, were you dreaming about that awful song?" and Self replies, "Oh, I don't know, Self. I really can't remember the last dream I had. And I guess I'm glad, if it had anything to do with that awful song."

Well, THAT song for me today was by none other than the 80's supergenius music guru Rick Astley. Remember him? He was hip about as long as parachute pants were. But I guess he was kinda cute, in a Howdy Doody, Mad Magazine, faggoty sort of way.

I Guess It's Official

This is now a poker blog.

I played in my first Wil Wheaton tourney tonight. And boy did I nozedive pretty damn fast. The best hand I had the whole time was a pair of nines. But I'm not pissy or anything. And I promise, no bad beat stories. I've had problems in the past dealing with anger when I bust out of a tourney, and I'm trying hard not to let that happen again. Cause I'm a grown-up. But I will take a non-politically correct minute to bitch about the person sitting beside me the whole time. This person's avatar was a super close up photo of a face with huge cheeks and I couldn't even tell if it was a guy or a girl. Whoever it was, it played every... single... hand. Granted, I'm a pretty tight player, probably a little too tight, but no way in hell would I be reckless. I got blinded away until my M was so low I had to pick a hand and push. So I pushed with 4,5 suited preflop. I know, I know, not the best hand to push with, but I was seriously gonna get blinded away if I didn't take a chance. The table folded all the way aroud until it got to Cheeky 'tard, who of course called. And who of course caught a pair to bust me out. I was outplayed, and I can't argue with that. Thing is, I'm gonna have the afterimage of that grinning avatar burned into the back of my mind all night. I'll dream about Cheeky 'tard coming to get me wearing a too tight red catsuit while carrying a 6 foot tall pair of scissors.

Oh well, guess I need to stare at pictures of Jake Gyllenhaal for a while and burn a different afterimage into my mind.

Fast Money

That was the easiest $88 I've ever earned. Well, no, I take that back. Mr. Cashman slot machines are a bit easier, but still. I just got home from administering the ACT teast at the local high school, sat around reading a Rolling Stone with a Prince cover story, took a few leisurely bathroom breaks, and drank coffee for four hours. Lovely, eh?

Tornado Central

At least 31 tornados were spotted in the Tennessee valley today. One of them passed frighteningly close to my house. There wasn't any damage to my house, just some trees. But many of the houses around ours were damaged. About two miles away, the home and convenience store belonging to one of my dad's relatives were both completely flattened, and the two owners are in the hospital. There's a 90 year old local woman missing, her home completely leveled. Hail the size of baseballs (yes, BASEballs) was all over the place, and trees and power lines are down. Our power is on now, but right down the road is where the clearly defined swath of destruction has caused major power outages for my rural neighbors. I was in Nashville when it happened, at an artist's studio where I work two days a week, and we were listening to the radio the whole day. One tornado came frighteningly close to us there in the city, and we went to the basement for a while when they said, "If you are in the downtown Nashville area, seek immediate shelter. A tornado has touched down on I-65."

It irks the SHIT out of me that the weather people oversensationalize EVERYthing. Because we become anaesthetized to it. No one really pays attention to the weather reports anymore, because 99 percent of the time it's a false alarm. They make a business out of scaring people. But I'm glad I took it seriously today. At least 10 people were killed in the storms, and I'm sure that number will rise. And there are two more severe thunderstorm fronts on the way tonight. What a weird, weird day.

Cain, Abel, Dino Bones and The Yellin' Guy

I live in the rural south. AKA the Bible Belt. There are more churches around here than there are gas stations, post offices, and schools combined. And some of the local churches are participating in the strangest campaign I've ever seen. They hand out yard signs from the back of a pickup truck at the courthouse square on Saturday mornings. They are bright yellow with blue letters that say, "Keep Your Eyes on Jesus." And people actually take these signs and put them in their yards, in their flower beds. I have no idea what the slogan means, because, ya know, you can't see Jesus.

I made the decision not to become a Christian at a very young age. Hang on, I'm about to do some therapeutic venting, so bear with me or skip down a couple paragraphs.

I grew up going to Sunday school on a regular basis, but we didn't always stay for the sermon because my dad would fall asleep and I think it embarassed my mom. Sunday school was the compromise between my parents - we were going to church without "going to church." We kids were supposed to learn about the Bible while coloring in Christian coloring books and singing happy songs. That was the plan, anyway. It was more like, "If you learn this verse, I'll give you candy. If you don't learn this verse, we will make damn sure you feel intense shame." The adult Sunday school class was separate from the children's classes, so my folks never knew what went on in those rooms. The teachers would tell us to ask questions, but if the questions actually questioned the content of the Bible, they would get really mad at us. Like, when Cain killed Abel, God sent him away to be with the others. Who were the "others", if the only people God had created were Adam and Eve? Oooh, that was a big one. See, ten year old children aren't supposed to be observant, thinking creatures. They were supposed to smile and sit with their ankles crossed, hands in their laps, and blow up mailboxes with cherry bombs on the weekends. At least, that's what the "good Christian kids" in my class did. But their parents would never believe that they were the mailbox bloweruppers, they were little angels. And these eleven year old weekend pyrotechnicians - they never asked questions about the Bible. So the teachers thought they were "good." I'd make eye contact with those kids who played with cherry bombs and murdered kittens, and they'd always look at me with an expression of, "Look at me, Rachel. I've got these people under my thumb. They would NEVER believe I'm a delinquent. But you -- YOU don't wear nice enough Sunday dresses, and you don't go along with what they say, so they think you are the bad one. BBWWAAAA HA HA HA HA."

We were taught, of course, that evolution never happened. Over the years, my brother and I would try the same question on different Sunday school teachers. "But what about the dinosaur bones that scientists have found all over the globe? Those go millions of years back. Why aren't dinosaurs in the Bible?" With fire sparking from their retinas they always answered in the same way, "SATAN put the dinosaur bones in the ground so we could distinguish the believers from the non-believers." It's fitting that I never got the lead part in church plays. All the other little girls got to be angels while I was a stump. Or a camel. Or the curtain rope puller. But I didn't care. They didn't care about me.

Sometimes we would stay after Sunday school for the church sermon. And inevitably some lady would come greet us and welcome us on our first time visiting the church and would ask our names. And we'd tell her we'd been going there for years, thanks for being observant, bitch.

I remember the one single day that I decided not to be a Christian. I had been surrounded by hypocrisy in the church for years, and the queen of hypocrisy happened to be my Sunday school teacher. My brother was in a different class, so I was left alone to fend for myself, with the wife of the sermon director. Arg. She was one of those ladies from the movie "The Witches." She was always smiling and happy, but you just knew that when she got home she pulled off her latex mask to reveal a chronic scowl and balding head with festering wounds on her sunken pock marked cheeks. There were a couple times when her facial muscles around her mouth started to twitch, as if they were going to spasm from too many years of the pseudo smile.

Well, on this particular Sunday she thought it was her personal duty to God to make sure I got baptized. So she made all of us put our heads down with our eyes closed, and raise our hand if we hadn't given our lives to Jesus. I raised my hand. All the other kids had been baptized, and we all knew that I was the only one who hadn't, so she was just trying to single me out and make me embarassed. Because she came over and started talking to me while we still had our heads down. [If you're gonna talk to me and point me out, why the fuck do we have our heads down and eyes closed?] Well, she walked me out of the room that day, walked to the car where I was to meet my parents, sat in the car with them and me, and told them I had decided to give my life to Christ and get baptized. I was stunned silent. On the way home, my folks said they would support my decision, blah blah blah. Then I told them that what she had said was a lie - I never made any of those claims, and I DIDN'T want to get baptized - especially not after someone tried to con me into doing it. We stopped going to that church shortly thereafter, and I swear that I saw a bit of that lady's latex mask come unglued around her jawbone, the grayish pulsating skin underneath just waiting to get home to breathe.

All of this brings me to this afternoon. April 6, 2006. I was driving home from work and took a shortcut. It was a narrow, winding road, speed limit of 35. I came to a church, and there was one lone teenager standing right on the edge of the road holding one of those "Keep your eyes on Jesus" signs. He was holding it like a car wash sign, holding it up for the cars to read. I slowed as I passed him, but I didn't make eye contact. I think he was expecting a honk or a thumbs up (as people usually do when they campaign on streetcorners) but I didn't acknowledge him. My windows were down, and all of a sudden I heard an incredibly loud, gutteral yell from that guy. It sounded exactly like Macho Man Randy Savage screaming as loud as he could in an obviously pissed tone, "Heeeyyyyy!!!!" I looked in my rearview mirror to see the guy standing in the road, facing my car, alternately shaking his fist at me and pointing at the sign. Yeah, dude, keep that up. I bet you'll get a LOT of converts that way. And I can point you to a church that would just love to have you as their youth minister, so you can intimidate other young, thinking children.

How Jesus Quintana and Sexual Harassment Panda
Played A Role in My Wedding

ACT I

This here story begins way back in the year two thousand and four. I was getting ready to graduate from The University of Tennessee with my master's degree, I was preparing for two solo art shows, getting ready to move the fuck away from Knoxville, and I was planning my wedding. I was running out of time for everything that was about to happen, and I needed a wedding dress. Fast. My seemingly impossible task of finding the right dress was amplified by the fact that a) I really really hate wedding dresses (all the trains and bustles and sequins and shit) and b) I had next to zero cash. So's I spent most of my weekends going to various dress shops and looking for a good find on Ebay. When I heard about a sale at David's Bridal (ugh! The Wal-Mart of bridal attire) I figured it wouldn't hurt to check it out. So I went with a friend, and the employees wouldn't let me past the foyer without getting all of my personal information, including my mailing address. I was a sucker and gave it to them. Of course, I didn't find anything I liked during my visit, and two days later I started receiving wedding mailers at my house. Crappy stuff. Advertisements for rings and shoes and cuff links and champagne glasses and crystal dinnerware and OH MY LORD it was overwhelming. They must have sold my name to all these companies for at least the daily wages of one of their sweat shop child laborers.

A month or so later I was with my mom, still without a dress, and heard that David's Bridal had another big sale. It couldn't hurt to check it out, could it? This time I would outsmart them. I would give them the wrong name and address... no more mailers!

As expected, the lady greeted me at the foyer of the store and started taking down my information.

"First name?"
"Rachel." (True.)
"Last name?"
" Smith." (False. It was the first common surname that came to me. I know, not very imaginative, but...)
"Fiancee's name?" (Umm. The first name that popped into my head was "Jesus Quintana". As in the pederast from The Big Lebowski. That creep can roll, man. But, Rachel, it's gotta sound believable...)
"Jesse. His name is Jesse."
"Last name?"
" Quintana."

At this point, my mom started laughing so hard she choked on her own saliva and walked out of the store. The lady asked me to spell Quintana, and I started giggling uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry, I'm just nevous. I'm not used to spelling it for people, yet."
"Oh, that's alright, honey. Going from Smith to Quintana is an awfully big change. Address?"

I gave the address of an asshole graduate student who lived in an apartment downstairs from me.

I ended up getting the perfect dress at a hole-in-the-wall Mom and Pop place for super cheap - with no freakin' train or bustle.

And THAT is how Jesus Quintana played a role in my wedding planning.

ACT II

Wedding day. My nerves were shot. The two art shows, graduation, and a move to another city all happened within days of each other. My hairstylist didn't show up to my appointment so I had to fix my own hair. The photographer was nowhere to be found and I enlisted an emergency photographer to take over. While he was out buying film, the original photographer showed up, late... had to figure out how to pay for both of them. Some of the family was only invited to the reception. Would they be pissed? There was nothing religious in the ceremony. Would some people start crying and condemn me to hell? The road trip honeymoon was put on hold because the car was in the shop for major repairs. And it was HOT in the dressing room that my bridesmaids and I were using in the upstairs of an old antebellum house. Like 110 degrees hot. With one rotary fan.

Right before the ceremony, there were only four of us upstairs - me and my three best friends. When the music started (classical guitar, no "Wedding March", thank you) the bridesmaids started walking down the stairs one at a time. Lydia, my college friend, Vegas partner, and all around favorite person, saw that my nerves were shot. I was at my breaking point. And she said "If you get nervous down there, just sing the Sexual Harassment Panda song to yourself."

Now, we're all familiar with Sexual Harassment Panda, right? From South Park? Yeah, the one with the really ridiculous song.

All three of the bridesmaids had left me, and I was upstairs all alone, waiting for my cue to go down the treacherous winding staircase. I heard the ring bearer throw a screaming tantrum and a there was a flurry of excitement as they tried to get the flower girl to walk down the aisle alone, but she wasn't having it. And so I'm waiting for the kids to stop screaming, and it takes an awkardly long time for someone to realize that the screaming kid needed to get out of my way - then finally I give myself the okay to descend. I somehow managed to make it all the way down the staircase in my four inch heels without tumbling and breaking my front teeth. So when the ceremony finally happened, I was so incredibly exhausted and happy and relieved that I started to tear up. And I really REALLY did not want to cry in front of all those people. As my quivering left eyelid conjured up enough moisture to almost touch my eyelashes, Erin's voice rang through my ears. "Just sing the Sexual Harassmant Panda song to yourself." Which I did. And the biggest fit of giggles hit me and my bladder so fast... I started shaking all over, trying to keep from bursting out loud, and trying to keep from peeing myself. And then I couldn't get the damn jingle out of my head. "It's Sexual Harassment PANda! It's Sexual Harassment PANda! It's Sexual Harassment PANda!" I think I was even bopping my head from side to side. I heard nothing the officiant said to me, but I had a huge grin on my face and I faintly heard people in the audience chuckle. Guess they thought I was giggling because I was nervous. They didn't realize I had this damn song in my head. Jason, who was looking fine in his new suit, didn't even know this song was in my head - I hadn't seen him since the day before (yeah, so I'm superstitious. What's it to ya? I bet you won't touch a fifty dollar bill in a casino. Ooooh, snap!) And so I got through the rest of the ceremony, and ne'er a tear was shed. Until the reception, when I told people what had happened, and I laughed til I cried.

And THAT is how Sexual Harassment Panda played a role in my wedding ceremony.

They Say It's Your Birthday... We're Gonna Have A Good Time

Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday dear MEEEE
Happy birthday to me!

Yay! My 2-D Design students just brought me two kinds of cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory, cupcakes (in a primary color scheme... guess I've taught them something), a nice smelly candle, and they played the Beatles birthday song. And we even had birthday party napkins!

Actually, I don't usually get too excited about April 4th. I learned real quick not to expect any special treatment on this day of the year. Apparently, the charm of my joyous day faded after the first few years of cute baby Rachel planting her whole face into the cake as the family looked on in giddy amusement. I say this because the family would sometimes celebrate, sometimes not. It was really hit or miss. One year I'd get a wrapped gift, the next year I'd get nada. Zip. Zilch. I remember one year, I guess I was about 11, we had spent the day in Nashville. There was no mention of my birthday, nothing special occured. I figured they were up to something, since we were in Nashville - maybe a trip to Chuck E Cheese. As the day progressed, I got more and more anxious about this big surprise they were planning. Then, around 9pm, we headed back toward home. "They're just fooling me - my surprise is gonna happen soon" I said to myself, reassuringly. Then, when we were almost outside the city, on the way back to the country, I said from the backseat in a meek, fragile voice, "Can I have a birthday cake?" And my parents responded with a bewildered yes, saying they didn't know I wanted one. [Hell yeah I want one, bitches! Whatchoo think?] We got an ice cream cake, right before the store closed for the night. Had I not asked for a cake, they wouldn't have bought one. It was weird.

Then another year, they took me to the finest, most expensive Italian restaurant in Nashville. They brought bags of wrapped gifts and helium filled balloons into the restaurant and said I could order anything I wanted. They gleefully echoed the waitresses in their singing of "Happy Birthday", complete with the presentation of free dessert and lit candle. I didn't really enjoy that birthday much, either. I couldn't figure out why they were making such a big deal over it, when in the past they hadn't. Best I could figure, I was going to be put up for adoption. I slept with one eye open that night.

Hot Off the Press! Mrs. Spaceman Is About to Whip Ass

That's right, folks! Mrs. Spaceman has a newly activated online poker bankroll. And boy is she excited.

Jason and I have been living with dial up internet access ever since we moved to the boondocks. And that means only one person can be online at once. Well, not anymore! Jason has this nifty device called an air card that works off the cell phone towers. So we can both be online at the same time now. And that means it's poker time for the lady of the house.

I wrote a little song for the occasion, Weird Al style. It's to the tune of "Maneater" by Hall and Oates (or, as I thought they were called when I was a kid, Haulin' Oats.)


Whoa-oh here she comes
[watch out]
Watch out boy, she'll flop the nuts

Whoa-oh here she comes
She's a Baaad Beater!

Whoa-oh here she comes
[watch out]
Watch out boy, she'll quad her Jacks

Whoa-oh here she comes
She's a Baaad Beater!

See ya at the tables.

Postmodern Libido Overdrive

Q: Why did you name your blog "Postmodern Libido Overdrive", Rachel?

A: Well, Terry, I'll tell you why. See, I've met a shit ton of pompous bastards over the past few years. And I can't stand arrogant, pompous people [APP's.]. So having a blog with the most obnoxiously pretentious title possible is a sly little jab at them. When they are doing a Google search for the latest cool indie rock band, they see my blog. And they say to themselves, "Whoa, dude, I bet that's the name of some underground band that only APP's are aware of. I think I'll check it out cause it'll make me cool. And I bet there are pics with rad new hairstyles." And then they get to my blog and read posts about my granddad's dog licking its own shit and they say "Dammit! What a waste of my time!" And I say "Yes! That's exactly how I feel when I have to share the same air as you."

*kudos to those who get the reference to The Commitments

Still Thuggin'

So the family went out for my birthday celebration tonight. My actual birthday is on Tuesday, but there's this international law that all birthdays must be celebrated on the Saturday prior to the actual day. And as is customary for our crew (eleven total), we all went out to eat, then ended the night with a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake. Though the icing recipe has changed over the years, and not for the better, it's still one of my favorite foods on the planet. This time it was cookies 'n' cream ice cream with chocolate cake and white icing. And, as is customary, we had the teenager behind the counter write a completely inappropriate message on the cake (no, it wasn't vulgar, just inappropriate.) Like last year - our phrase of choice was "Still Thuggin'." And this year we went out on a limb and had them write "Hapy anerversery," spelled just like that. The year before last was even funnier, but it's slipped my mind - Lydia, can you remember our past cake phrases? Drop a comment for me, sista.

While we ate our cake we sat around telling family pet stories, like the time our grandfather's pitbull named Skidrow took a runny shit and turned around and licked it up... Then there was the schnauzer Maggie, whose named quickly became "Maggot", who lived in the trash pile behind my grandparent's house. And Possum, the Blue Heeler that slept with a bucket on his head. Ah, there are WAY too many funny family stories to go into here. If yer lucky, I might share some of them a few at a time.

I really wanted to play Putt Putt golf, but none of the courses are open this time of year. It's alright, though - I had a pretty darn good day. Yay!

3..2..1.. CONTACT!

Josh ran into the new neighbor on his way out this morning. It was a male human named Rich, late thirties to early forties, and he spoke english. He thanked us for the candy (score!) and said he's trying to get used to the way things work around here, whatever that means. He's got a wife or a special lady friend named Susan. We don't know where they're from or what they do, but they're happy to be here and say that they will be better neighbors than the coke dealing, adulterous car salesman that lived there before.

Ahhhh... but will they pay cotton-candy-smelling Mexicans to mow our grass and bring us summer sausages at Christmastime? Better neighbors, heh! We'll just see about that.