Friday, October 23, 2009

Get On Top

Let’s talk about ZZ Top. Let’s talk about how grossly underrated that band is. I think we all owe ZZ Top an apology. They deserve better. The common misconception is that ZZ Top is all about beards and sunglasses. Um…what the fuck is wrong with that? Most of you, dear blog readers, have worn beards and sunglasses. But if all you think about is ZZ Top’s campiness, you’re missing the fact that they’re actually great musicians.

A classic clean edged rock sound rooted deeply in Southern blues. If Scott Weiland sang for ZZ Top and Dave Navarro was on guitar they’d be much more famous. I think most people associate “rock star” with tight pants and scarves. (See Steven Tyler, Weiland, Chris Robinson, Axl Rose, etc…) They forgot that the point of the rock musician is to be effortlessly cool (ie: Lou Reed) with a simple leather jacket, cocaine and shades. Oh wait—that’s ZZ Top. They’re cool. Take off your feather boa, Navarro. By the way, did you actually think that Carmen Electra was going to be married to you forever? In your dreams. On a completely unrelated side note: every couple on that MTV married show is now divorced. Dave, The Blink 182 drummer and Nick Lachey. Was it worth it MTV??

Now I invite you to momentarily revisit Gimme All Your Lovin’---please hit the crank button.



video

Monday, September 28, 2009

Part One: In which the Dead Body of a Car is Discovered in an Abandon Lot

-Let’s say for example, you’ve known me at some point within the past five years, you’ll know that I drive a big fat red Buick. This Buick is named Karen. (The Yeah Yeah Yeahs were in their heyday at the time of purchase.) Now what’s interesting about this car is that I’ve driven a fucking lot in this thing, major road trips and plenty of back and forths.

I’ve been away from this here blogger.com because in a summer camp with 150 staff members, there’s two functioning computers. One of these hellish “computers” is a Mac, which is creepy and ugly. The glorious ebony tower in the city of Dell is where I want to go and there’s always ALWAYS a Hungarian sitting in front of it, changing the language of facebook and never NEVER changing it back to English.

So the car. I’m leaving camp the next day. Now I’ve noticed that my steering wheel is having a hard time. So LB and I get into our friend Lee’s roof and windowless Jeep. I’m sitting in the lap of a muscularly pitbull. No, he’s not sitting in my lap, I am sitting in his. I’m a writer. I know what I’m doing. After our delicious ice cream, (Thanks, Lee) I pick up a $4.00 bottle of power steering fluid. Back at camp, as I’m pulling the car out of the lot, to get to the Maintenance Shed, I suddenly can’t turn the wheel at all, it’s spinning right round, baby, right round.

Now, LB has fallen in love with a boy at camp. Being Scottish, her non-transferrable flight home the day after camp is forsaken. She’s just not going to go. Her and I are going to drive to Pittsburgh to see this boy, because after all, life throws you shit like that sometimes and you’re in your early twenties, so you are impulsive like that. Fuck you, Hollywood, this is my story.

The very last night of camp is a free for all. Free of kids, Free alcohol, free food and free sex from whomever has dredged their desperate ass through the summer without a sorry and regretful hook-up. (Some people enjoy this!) I however, end up wasted in a flower bed bawling because my new boyfriend had to leave early, and is not currently at the party. And not the cool bawlin’.

So the car. Karen. In the morning, as it turns out, the reason the wheel was spinning around and around is because when the motor and the transmission fell out, it ripped the power steering out. The motor and transmission FELL OUT. As in: on the ground. As in: a pile of junk. When the A Frame rusts through, it drops. And everything is was holding in, drops. It would be like if your skin got too thin and burst open. There’s nothing else holding your guts in, son. If that goes, you’re fucked.


That's the corner of the A-Frame on the ground.

And now that I’ve promised this epic road trip to LB, we are both fucked. And possibly stranded in the Adirondacks. Although it’s good this hadn’t happened while we were on the road because it probably would have killed us. Really. Terrible, terrible image.

PART Two: In Which Caito and LB Say “Pittsburgh or Bust!”

So do I cry? Do I freak out? After all, my second favorite thing in the world, my car, is dead. (My first favorite thing is Claudia, assholes.) No, I take it in stride. Ok, how do we get out of here? At this point, most of the counselors have left on the bus to New York City. Let’s rent a car. Ok, wait, I’m not 25 and my credit card is maxed out. Great! So our friend Graeme is driving the camp van, another pile of shit, to a dealer to trade in for a new one and he’ll give us a ride to the Albany airport. Awesome, that’s closer to Pittsburgh than here.
After the trade-in, we hop into a brand new Nissan Rogue which totally mocks the fact that I will not see a new car in a very very long time. So here we are, outside of the airport with all of our shit—I have SO much shit, on a balls hot day, with no intention of taking any flights whatsoever. My father heroically drives the two hours from Binghamton to pick us up.
You think you’re a grown-up sometimes don’t you? Oh yes, I’m so independent, making my own way until you take away my car and remind me that I’m a grand in debt. Daddy, bail me out please. I should be making my millions as a school teacher like you and mom said. Oh well, LB and I arrive in Binghamton, NY and have a night’s rest in my little house, I reunite with Claudia and tomorrow we’ll figure something out.

After many, many attempts we find a locally owned car dealership that will give us a rental despite my age and cash-only situation. Up rolls a fucking PT Cruiser. And it’s PURPLE. I’m driving a purple PT Cruiser to Pittsburgh and back in 24 hours. But we will do this because youth and determination are fuelling it. LB needs to get to this boy no matter what it takes! Or how many people are involved, for that matter!

Of course we get lost and show up late at night, but she’s there! And of course, on the way back, I think I’m doing so well, I’m going to get the car back on time all is well---HOLY SHIT IS THAT A………woodchuck. I killed it. First roadkill ever. And so now I’m crying in the PT Cruiser, saying phrases like “I didn’t mean it” and “I couldn’t swerve” twice, maybe ten times. That miserable latching on to a phrase and repeating it, sniveling all the while, syndrome.

Punks: 1. Woodchucks: 0.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Dead Alive

So this is Sam. This cat is 19 fucking years old and COMPLETELY DEAF, but brings me a baby bunny to show how sick awesome he still is. He looks like the Terminator. He probably just T-1000ed his look at that bunny and it jumped up into his mouth.
Mice are one thing, but now I have to deal with the unbearable cuteness of this:

It's busted though, and I'm sure it's going to die, so I make a little hospital in a shoe box and wait. Except it doesn't die. It actually seems to be getting better. Now I don't know what to do because I don't want to raise a bunny but I also can't bring myself to drown to this little thing, even though it's busted and suffering. Amidst this dillema, while calling manly men like Brent and Emil to help me make a decision about life, I hear a bunny scream.

Not to be outdone, Claudia, my cat, brings me a SECOND baby bunny. I now have two bunnies in a box and two very proud cats that want me to love pet them for these accomplishments.

In the end, I decided to turn the box on it's side and set in back into the woods. In the morning, Bunny #1 was dead in the box and Bunny #2 was gone. In this story, I am imagining that Bunny #2 stayed with his sister so she didn't have to die alone. That bunny then hopped off and, unable to locate the nest from whence he came, is currently learning how to grow up the hard way, but in no time will be the most bad ass motherfucking rabbit and will come back and kick Sam in the teeth for what he did to his sister.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Dead Prez(ents)



Claudia killed me a chipmunk today.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Number of the Beast


Sadly, the most interesting discovery during woods walking is human garbage. Can you believe this can of beast?? It looks respectable. Unlike the silly non-art can of today. I think Milwaukee could generate more profits amongst today’s conscientious youth with a sentimental design like this. Conjuring images of horses with weathered drivers, pushing on in the Wisconsin rain, the wagon spokes spitting mud onto the barrels of expertly brewed beer. It would encourage reminiscing of harder times, when the working man just needs to saddle up to the tavern for the small comfort that’s in a pint. Oh wait, the working man still does do that. Which is why an effective graphic like this could remind you that you are just like your great grandfathers, and that’s OK, because they were honest men.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Loafass Love


This is not a review! This is true love! (At last!) Let’s talk about Loafass, the greatest band in all the land. Remember when you used to get excited about going to shows and actually looked forward to seeing local bands on a regular basis? Maybe I’m retroactively glamorizing the excitement of being young at a fucking MoneyBagsGram show-- and if you get that reference, you’re so Binghamton, good for you! And if you missed Burn the Arsonist, you didn’t have a childhood. I’m sorry. I just wanted to see how that sentence looked on screen. And I LOLed so I’m keeping it.

Now imagine that the same enthusiasm can be reanimated in your brain if only you could see Loafass: Filthadelphia PhunkPunkRock! I remember reading in Dance of Days about kids crying at Rites of Spring shows because they were so overwhelmed by how much the band affected their lives. And I think I could cry at Loafass, because everything is so good; it’s the most joyous marriage of anarchic force and not giving a fuck.

“When I get home, I want a cold, cold beer”. That’s not a convoluted concept. It speaks to the people. I think many people wish they were more proactive, but most of the time, I just want to drink a lot and do drugs-- and that’s what I call “Victory”! Not in a miserable, pathetic Bukowski sense of being a wasteoid, but in a ‘let’s put all bullshit aside and have some fucking fun’!Sometimes you just wake up, and you’re having a Big Dick Day.

I also admire the legitimacy of adding a Minor Threat cover to the album OBOY, which is most excellent. And musically, Enforcer is like a really sick intro to the song Straight to LA. They go together like Led Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker and Living Loving Maid.

Perhaps Teabaggin’ is the most accomplished song in the Loafass canon. In the least misogynistic way possible Fish explains: “Then you wake up and you hope it ain’t true—look out girl, I just teabagged you!”. If you’d like to see the proof of my devotion, go to Loafass on MySpace and notice that someone is wearing a real DIY shirt, in devotion to the song and to the band--- and that hopeless loser is ME!

But really. Seeing Loafass and watching everyone singing and having good old fashioned fun is great. And I love the crassness of lead singer Fish and his brilliant sarcastic facial expressions plus spitting beer all over the crowd. I’m in love.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Tiger (in the) Woods




My latest adventures take me into the woods. And unlike the streets of Philadelphia, the woods don’t stink of or have any people. That’s not entirely true. I saw a in the creek with her dog and was really surprised. I ducked down and tried to respect her privacy. Not like I shouldn’t have been there (anarchists aren’t supposed to jive with the idea of private property, you know). But I thought I was alone, and that’s kind of the point of woods walking: to think, etc.. You don’t go into the woods to meet sexy singles exactly.

Yesterday I came upon two guys getting high, and had this momentary fantasy of joining and becoming great friends with them for the afternoon. But they thought they were alone and meeting a girl in the woods and sharing your drugs with her might be too weird for anyone.

My most exciting discovery so far is an arrangement of an almost immaculately laid deer skeleton. Every vertebra is snugly set in the mud, all in a row. Of course, I’d hoped it was a wolf or a bobcat, but it was still ing cool to play CSI for an hour.





Claudia helped.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Another Impressive Job to Add to My Resume


I’ve been taking photos of kids with the Easter Bunny. And sometimes…I am the bunny. At least the anti-corporate perks are great. It is a small local company, owned by people I know. I actually know the person who signs my paycheck, and I see her (yes her!) everyday. I don’t have to wear a uniform, or clock in, or wear a nametag. If you’ve ever worn a nametag at your work, you’ll undoubtedly be familiar with customers using your name sarcastically or to personally disrespect you. They believe they reside in some kind of exclusive echelon because they have blatant access to what your name is, while you, the ignorant working class servant, do not know their name. “Well thanks for your help, Caitlin”.

Several occasions in my retail working life have warranted a severe reaction to unconventionally rude customers. At this juncture the person has realized that this employee, me, is surprisingly confrontational, and their confidence is suddenly stricken with doubt. At which point the person will then use my name to “tell” on me, because they can no longer uphold the argument themselves. They are seen looking around for a more authoritative figure to back them up. A manger in retail does not have your back. A manager will absolutely side with that dickhead, even though he knows you, and has never seen this person in his life. An apology might be made later, in the back, and it’ll be such a laugh, oh those uptight customers. But the pseudo-apology leaves one feeling even more disgruntled and helpless.

If dickhead can’t find a manager, they then use that critical piece of information, your name, to ensure that you will be told on, yes they will be making some kind of report to the highest headquarters about your performance and they will use your name, and you will get into so much trouble.

A shameful brand on your company issued polo shirt will sabotage your argument. Dickhead will dramatically look down at your nametag and say your name with the same wrinkled nose of repulsion when one discovers expired milk in the fridge and say “Caitlin”. And with self assurance building in their face, their posture, every second they will say very syrupy sweet: “Who’s your manager?”.

If you can not hesitate and fire back, just as sickly sweet—no, be adorable when you tell them the first and last name of your boss, and the name of his boss and what their titles are, and politely encourage them to give either person a call, you will make that fucker back down!

My thing is, I don’t come to your job and treat you like shit just because you’re at work and can’t doing anything about it. So go home, and tell your partner all about what a gigantic bitch I am. Declare that you will never again return to that store whilst simultaneously rehearsing all the nasty things you will say to me when you come in again. Bring it.

At this job, my boss always takes my side, and we can tell people to get lost if they’re creating a scene because they can’t do anything about it. There is no “Mom” or “Dad” to tattle to. By contrast, if a customer arrives that we like, and is a good person, we can cut them a deal, or say things like “It’s on the house”, which is such a nice divergence from the corporate hell that would never allow you to do that for good customers.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

Boycott This Too



So Erik P. told a story last night. About the first time he felt the call of responsibility, appropriate adult decision making. He was out drinking, and it was already 1am and people wanted him to go to this other bar, other party, prolonging the fun. And EP had something to do the next day, and it was already late, so he declined and went home. And that's where "Nomad's Revolt" stems from: at what point do you start acting grown-up without realizing it?

After this explanation, a guy behind me yells "That was the most un-rock-and-roll story ever!", and the audience agreed and nodded their heads to Erik's lameness. But it's interesting that this was EP's second show that night, the first one was all ages, and probably very rowdy and sweaty. The one I saw cost me ten fucking dollars, in this trendy bar that didn't have any real beer. And I mean, nothing in a can; local beers only, cheapest was three dollars. There were candles on the tables. Didn't all of us old fuckers opt for the comfortable show, where no one was going to dance into us or spill beer on us? At least me and Kelly and Andre were enjoying ourselves.

I've just felt recently that many of the revolutionaries/partiers/don't give a fuck people I've known have slammed on the brakes. Rough housing and shenanigans are taboo, and I am seen as the immature loser, who's trying to relive some other repressed time period. As if we're SO OLD. Listen, if I've got another 60 years on my life, and I'm already deemed too old to do certain things then tell me what a 23 year old girl should be doing. I just haven't abandoned that spirit, just because I'm not in college anymore. Where does it say that it's only OK to be ridiculous and spontaneous and rowdy if you're in school. I'd agree it was a lot easier, but my understanding of anarchic life is that coming home from work and waiting for the next pre-planned activity coming up in the month is not fulfilling or stimulating in any way. I don't need an event as an excuse to hang out! Let's just see what happens!
Is pleasure too dangerous??


So with that in mind, I'm leaving Philly to go back to Binghamton for two months so that I can return to the Adirondack mountains and drive a boat all summer. Some people back home will decide I've failed at Philadelphia by moving back, but it's what I need to do to get where I want: Long Lake!

And please don't think I'm targeting a specific person, I'm really not. I'm not even that mad. I just want everyone to have a good time. And keep the good times coming. We've still got a long way to go!

"Wedge a stone in the gears of the clockworks,
try to keep us from acting our age. We swore we'd
carry on like this forever, 'til the free spirits bled.
But now can you believe who's a mother, and that
so-and-so's cut off their dreads"

After all, the nomads are settling down :(

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

PUKE II

Do you remember the first time you puked? I do. Not baby spit up, etc... But as a human being.
I didn't know what was happening! I didn't even know that it was possible to have stuff come BACK out of your body. I had no idea.
I know what throwing up is now, that it can happen to people, animals, words ("word vomit"), maybe the orgasming penis could be considered as puking if you want. Point is, lots of things have liquid-y substances forced out of them.
But I don't know this at all. Never heard of it. Never saw it. Didn't think it was a thing.
So I wake up, in what I perceive to be "the middle of the night", but it's probably like 10:00, considering I was in bed at 7:30, right after the theme song to Jeopardy!, which was my ritual lullaby before bed. La-la-la-la..... I'm definitely wearing footy pajamas.
It's the dead of night to me. I wake up and my arm is all wet.
"What the fuck?
What is this shit on my arm?"

So I don't know what puke is right? And I don't know what this is, or why I'm wet, so it certainly didn't come out of me.
I walk to the door and puke a little. Oh what the fuck. I'm really scared. I must be dying. Out to the living room, with my parents on their respective couches watching TV. They are confused. I'm never out of bed. Before anyone can process anything (Like why is she awake, and is that vomit slinking down her pajamas?) I say one word.
The word to start every childhood sickness from then on: "Moooooooom!, immediately punctuated by "BAAARRRRFFFFFF!!!!"
And here I thought I was just going out there to ask them what was up with that smell in my room and did they maybe leave a bowl of soup in my bed, cuz it just dumped on me.
Nope. Full on upchuck. All the muscles in my body working against me to heave every ounce of not-quite-digested food back out and on to the carpet. Food can come back out?? OMFG!

I called my parents the other night, and asked them if they remembered this specific time, and could offer anything else to add. Of course they didn't. It is only important to me. Hank just says "I remember you puking A LOT!".

Thursday, February 26, 2009

PUKE I

First Grade. I'm 6 years old. My best friend is Melissa. She's fat. Not disgusting. But the fattest person in our class. No matter, Melissa is hilarious. We have fun together. So it's the day after we get back from Christmas break. And everyone is parading around in their new clothes, looking and feeling sexy. I'm wearing this hot pink and purple number with cats on the sweater. My parents would never buy a sweater this sweet. It was from their friends Ralph and Amy. They know what's cool. Not anymore though. Ralph just got out of jail and Amy left their daughter with her new husband to go get a job in another city. Life sucks.
So it's lunch time and there's just enough room for all the girls in our class to sit at one table except for two. Guess who the two girls are who sit at a big long table by themselves.
Me and Melissa. Fuck 'em. We're having a better, bosser party over here.
Melissa's been whining about a stomach ache but I keep babbling on about my holiday.
Suddenly, out of fucking nowhere, she barfs like a gallon of puke onto her tray, drowning her food in this viscous brown upchuck. And here's the funny part: she pukes straight down onto her tray, looks up at me with coffee colored dribble sliding down her chin and says: "Caitlin I barfed!".
I guess little kids don't know what to say in that circumstance. Like, obviously you barfed.
And here's my disgusting, self-centered answer to my best friend: "Don't get it on ME!".
Ugghh. I have so many regrets in my life. And this is one of them. Being sick when you're young is like dying. It's unbearable. I didn't help at all. She ran to the garbage can with her tray and threw the whole thing away. And ran to the nurse, after asking an "aid" if it was alright.
And all I could think about was my new sweater, and how I didn't want any puke on it.

Now in 5th grade, I had a friend Erin. And I used to pee my pants a lot. From laughing too hard. I still do. I've laugh-peed as recently as 2008. It's a thing. And it's better than shitting the bed. Erin used to make me laugh so hard. A kid with pee stains is not ever going to live that down. Backing out of the room can only be used once or twice. So Erin would give me her sweatshirt to tie around my waist so no one would see the pee. Isn't that the nicest gesture? Even nicer was: I would give it back to her at the end of the day, with MY pee on it, and she would wash it. Or her dad would, rather. That's a good friend.
That's a GOOD friend.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Boycott This



Let's talk about Erik Petersen. At one point in Oswego, everyone was listening to Bellingham & Philadelphia. Those songs are just like "have sing-alongs of us!" and the kids said "OK!". And Erik packs so many ideas and words into a single song I not only wish I'd written every one of them, but had that shit memorized after a week. And how cool was it, when he came to our little town and played in our party house? That was the best day. I'd also seen Billy Idol the night
before, so actually that whole weekend ruled. Erik at 189! It seemed a little weird because he was such a superstar to us, but he was just doing his thing.
It's also hilarious that Shantz is on Wikipedia. Through Mischief Brew, of course. I liked that guy. And that Falyn of his.
So I was stoked about seeing Erik play in his home town. Philadelphia. City of Brotherly Love, City of the Police. Robert Blake's pretty ok. If that split were My So Called Life, Robert would be Angela and Erik would be Rayanne. Both are great, but Rayanne is also up to something, always has another idea, ready to get into some trouble. And if I were in that TV show I'd be Brian Krakow, the hideous neighbor, because I'm a tool and I have a blog.

So at the show there's all these little kids everywhere. Really young. And loving it. And singing all through. I couldn't be bothered to get in the middle of the dancing. I felt outdated and lame. And then they cried for an encore. And got one! Except it was an old Orphans song and the kids didn't know it! Caito-time to shine you old piece of shit! I may have got up on a chair and sang it loud and proud. But I was kind of miffed by the crowd. I just thought every punk and their punk girlfriend loved his music. And it was weird not to see people freaking out in his hometown.

Since this was an all ages show, all the punks were kicked out at 9:00. And then the REAL party started. While all those suckers biked home and worked on zines while their boyfriends re-heated the crock pot for another bowl of vegetarian chili, I stayed for the MichaelMaddonnaPrince party hosted by Dj Dee Jay!!
Me and Katsop don't take ourselves too seriously. I'm listening to Anti-Product right now. I forgot how good it is.
I'm actually listening Toni Braxton. God, Katsop comes out here in her Hugh Hefner bathrobe and is crunching a pickle REALLY LOUDLY.

I'm TRYING TO WRITE.

And if this were My So Called Life, Katsop would be Erik Petersen and I would be Brian Krakow because I have a blog.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Valentine's Day






Valentine's Day is like the day when single people get sad about not having anyone in their life who loves them. And it's just so the industry can sell lots of shit blah blah blah. But just because you're not in a relationship doesn't mean people don't love you. And maybe someone is in love with you, but you don't think that counts because you don't love them back.

What about remembering the love that is in your life. Your cat. Your parents. Your tight friends. Your loosely affiliated friends probably love you. Or at least like you. Which is nice.


This Valentine's card from Chosen reminds me that he is still the love in my life, even if he's not a part of it anymore. There's a lot of people I don't see ever, but I still love them.





My coupons expired.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Betrayal II




So I grow up a little and I'm 10 years old! 10! The best!
I've somehow made friends with a girl Mackenzie, who was in my girl scout troop, but way cooler at school. And by some coolness god, I am invited by Mackenzie to her house after school. The house is literally within view of the school.
Eating gushers for snack--- OMFG!



So we take a walk to the woods nearby (is "woods" too hick?). Fine. We traverse the FOREST nearby where the family has built the mother of all forts. I mean, there were three tiers on this thing. It was like the fort from Jack starring Robin Williams. Also starring Fran Drescher, Jennifer Lopez, Bill Cosby and Diane Lane. What a line-up!
"You got the zactly disease"
"What?"
"It's where your mouth smells zactly like your butt!"

And the lead kid in that film --God! Adam Zolotin was a CLOSE second to Yeah Yeah from The Sandlot in my heart. I would have done anything to have them as boyfriends.
Ok I just imdb-ed them both and Marty "Yeah Yeah" York is still superior. Shit. They are both fine!

I also signed a Marty York fan page guest book.

So Mackenzie's treehouse. Is huge. And different colors.
We are hanging out and having so much fun that we both have to pee but can't break the fun spell by going back to the house. She tells me to pee off the side of the fort.
So here's what I do: I stand up and try to piss frontways, like a man, off this thing, which is very tall. And most of my piss is still in the treehouse in a puddle in front of me. And don't I look over and see Mackenzie, with her butt hanging off the side and peeing, DOWN, like a toilet. And doesn't her OLDER BROTHER walk up minutes later to which Mackenzie yells to him that I pee standing up and that I've peed all over their wicked boss treehouse.
Way to have my back, bitch!
Fast forward 10 years.
Phrank Martian will tell you that the my most sexy moment was peeing on a fire at the lake, standing up and facing forward. So, my first go at it wasn't a success, but I can put fires out whilst lisfting the old skirt now, Mackenzie.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Betrayal!


My parents have a cottage on a lake in Pennsylvania. My mom saved all her vacation time to spend at the cottage in the summer. There was a girl, Amy, who lived on the lake all year round. We had these plastic horns that we got at a parade and we'd blow them towards the other person's house when ever we wanted to hang out.
So I'd be crafting away in the loft or something and my mom would say "I think I hear the horn!". And I'd run like hell out onto the deck with my horn and blow back. HOOOOONKK! And then I'd ask Dot if he'd take me over there. I guess the road wasn't safe. So I'd get my swimsuit, if I wasn't already in it, get in the boat and head over.
Now Amy is that type of friend who knows way more than you because they have an older sibling and a somewhat broken home. Amy is that friend who tells me about sex when I honestly never even knew that it existed. Which, at that age, Amy described to me as lots of hugging and kissing. She'd seen her parents do this, she says. Our code word for sex was "dinner table". So when we were playing House we would talk about "setting the dinner table" with our husbands.
Her brother, nicknamed Kirby (if that gives you a time frame), played guitar, had an iguana in his room and listened to a loud band called Nirvana.
So I learned the ways of the world for several summers through Amy. One day, I was over and her parents weren't actually there. Kirby was supposed to be watching us. And this time Amy had another friend from school over. Amy and her friend told me there were these three leaves that they wanted me to step on: "we promise there's nothing underneath them". So we took a walk and I stepped on them. Because they told me to. And there was a dead rat underneath the leaves. Which was scary and revolting. And I cried and started to run to the cottage. And Amy yells after me "My brother's gonna get you in trouble!".
I never knew betrayal before!

Monday, February 2, 2009

My Name Will Be Mom

I saw this old couple at the store in their late sixties. And the husband paid for their stuff on his credit card. And the woman says "Thanks, Daddy". Someday the love of your life is not going to call you by your name anymore. They're going to call you Mom because everyone else is. Meaning everyone else you live with.
My mom calls her husband "Dot". Once when I was little I talked in an English accent and would say "Mummy and Dotty". And the Dot part stuck. Still. Hank got a new name when he was 45. He calls me Caito. Which I've only been for three years. But I'm so not Caitlin anymore.

Hank was Saint Patrick in the Binghamton Parade last year. And he's neither Irish nor Catholic. He was drunk though. Which is pretty close.


Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Lynyrd Skynyrd Keyboardist Dies, 56

So in honor of Billy Powell, I pose a question. And really think about this.

Which would you rather:

Be able to play Free Bird. On guitar. Perfectly. Like, all the solos.

OR

Go back to 1976 and see Lynyrd Skynyrd play Free Bird LIVE.
In Atlanta.

Think about it.



Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Run of the Mill

"Run of the Mill" refers to products that come direct from the mill in an ungraded state and may contain some imperfections.
The college mill churns out approximately 13,140,000 people with bachelor's degrees each year. Oh! You've got a bachelor's degree? Welcome to retail. I used to feel embarrassed to tell people I work at a Petco. But with the 13 million kids from the year I graduated, and the other 13 million from the year after, I'm competing with a lot of fucking people.
Is anyone working their dream job?
I make $8 an hour.
I'm Caito. And this is what I do now.

This says it all.