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August 06, 2005 - 12:45 pm


The older I get, the more I appreciate the attitude and philosophy of Ma Rainey, who said (and I’m paraphrasing): "I like my men young and tender. There ain’t nothin’ an old man can do for me ‘cept bring me a message from a young man."

I went to yet another art show Thursday night, this time at the Peachtree Plaza hotel with Kristie. Now, lest you think I am turning into some kind of dilettante, I should tell you that I'm only sort of going for the art and mostly going for the free drinks and hors de oeuvres. And for the possibility of meeting cute, young, creative guys who believe in cleaning their fingernails every once in a while, because although I’ve sworn off men for a year, a girl can look, right? I can’t help it. It’s my wiring.

Not that there were any men fitting that description at Thursday’s show. Kristie and I have always had the uncanny ability to attract the ONE guy at every event that we LEAST want to approach us. We decided that night – just after the 6’ tall, 90 lb. homosexual man-whore with a bad dye-job, cocaine boogers, a salvation army t-shirt tucked tightly into his elastic waisted Hawaiian shorts, and athletic socks rolled down to the tops of his black Reeboks cornered us and gave us advice on hair care products – that we seriously must have ALL ARE WELCOME! invisibly tattooed on our foreheads.

I swear to god. At the last art opening it was the 5’ tall, 60 year old Chinese guy who managed to reengage me every time I weaseled away on some implausible yet uncomfortably inarguable pretense – like needing to excuse myself to the ladies’ room because my uterus fell out. I think the hint must have gotten lost in translation or something. The guy was nice as can be, but come on. Look at me. Look at him. It simply would never happen anywhere but Chinese porn. (Hi Googlers!)

In other news, Tag the dog, in his continuing effort to know me biblically, has taken to sneaking into the bathroom while I’m in the shower and slinking off with my underwear. Typically I don’t notice they’re gone right away. That is, until I’m all clean and dressed and presentable and someone comes to the door and I go to answer it and, voila, there’s my underwear right there on the living room floor for all to see, practically screaming HARLOT! at the top of its lacy, black lungs. Don’t try to tell me he doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

A big shout out to Dean (whom I developed a little internet crush on the minute he uttered the muh-na-muh-na song from the muppets) for the vinyl and the MST3K tapes. They will be enjoyed.

Oh, and one more little bit of news…


I filed them at the office of the Superior Court of Dekalb County that afternoon, and even though it may be in poor taste to say so:

WOOO HOOOO! I feel GOOD! Mama’s gotta brand new bag! OW!

Nicole, Jenny, and Melanie took me out to a surreal fancy dinner last night, and then tonight I’ll celebrate further with Julie, Kristie and (different) John, Julia, and maybe Jenny and Melanie by getting some professional HELP! from the experts at Out of Hand.

Look at me skipping from art show to carnival dinner to theater! My “new bag” does appear to be filled with artsy-fartsy candy stuffs, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, though. I snuck some quality C-Span time and a night of trivia in there last week (we came in second), so my high fiber crust remains in tact.

Make that my recently divorced high fiber crust.



reading -Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
viewing -Papillon
listening -“Kick out the Jams” by MC5

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