oooooooooh

While starting entry 2 of BOYS I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE ATTRACTED TO: EPISODE FAMOUS ( or BIPSBATEF if you want to make a fun pneumonic word to remember it by, which, let's face it, you did)--wait. Where the eff was i going with this. OH. ha. WHILE starting the entry, I got distracted and fell in love with this lady's handmade purses. So pretty and sweet. I plan on buying at least two. I'll finish up ol' bipsbatef when I wake up. After my oatmeal party.

It started with Axl Rose in 1987. Or you know what--that's a lie; no, it didn't. It started with Scott Howard in 1985. The latter was a real boy who went to pre-school with me. We were engaged and he wore sailor suits and used to run around with Q tips jammed into his ears. The former, though responsible for "November Rain," is insane and hardly an appropriate crush for a six-year old. A sick pattern emerged way back when, and after some serious (not REALLY serious, though) soul searching, I have decided to finally acknowledge it out loud: I have questionable taste in boys. Like, seriously. Over the course of 24 years (starting with the Q tip bandit, remember), I have managed to accumulate an impressive (not REALLY impressive, though) who's who track list of lunatics and dudes my friends meet and rightfully say things like WHY IS HE DRINKING WINE OUT OF A BOWL. I definitely have a type. And you know what? It isn't just limited to real live boys. It extends into the celebrity realm, which is pretty goddamned big, you know, and houses a lot of people who look perfectly normal from a distance. Even there, good sense and judgment is totally lost on me. And honestly, though probably symptomatic of some grave come-to-Jesus speech I need to have at myself, I find the whole thing wildly entertaining. I have decided today (who not) would be a a good time to start talking about it. Here I have assembled a top five list (a la Rob Gordon, who, incidentally, does not qualify for any position whatsoever on the list (bless his neurotic little fictional heart)) of famousish men I have found attractive throughout my life for reasons I don't even want to understand. I will call it BOYS I PROBABLY SHOULDN'T BE ATTRACTED TO: EPISODE FAMOUS


Acknowledgment of the problem is the first step to recovery.

We won't start at the very beginning ( although one time this nun was all, it's a very good place to start). Rather, I'll spend the next five days counting down backward 54321 lift-off style from what I deem the most acceptable to the stuffs that interventions are made of. Aaaaaand the winners are (drumroll, please)...

5. Billie Joe Armstrong looks like a hungover woman who didn't take her makeup off before passing out on the kitchen floor with one hand stuffed into a bag of Funyuns and the other wrapped around a phone. (It's true. And if you do not think it is true, you are wrong. The man is not attractive.) His eyeliner is a smidge to calculated (smudgy in all the right, strategic places), and his silly hair is a little too black for his age ( or for his species) and a pinch too perfectly mussed. This man takes time to look like he doesn't care. And that is a problem in my book. Because I bet he wears MAC makeup. And I'm sure he smells like roses. He's Hot Topic with feet, this guy. And yet, for some reason, I sort of want to make out with his faux-dirty face. It's weird and wrong. Also, his music is shit.

walking a mile and a half to target to buy weights:

i've had better ideas.

The south. Is home. Is less cold. Is warmer in tone. Is yellow. Is saltwater. Takes its time. Is Scarlet O'Hara isn't Scarlet O'Hara at all. Is my grandfather's house. Is the azalae bushes outside my grandfather's house and in the park in April if not March. Is moss that you don't even realize is there it just is. Is stiff drinks and sweet drunks. Is music. Is pink and gray and green and bricks and shadows. Is cemeteries. Is no liquor sales on Sunday. Is related to itself. Holds the door. Is irreverent. Is reverence. Is 2011. Is a puppet show. Smiles behind your back. Has electricity (it runs on gossip). Likes to dance with strangers. Is tailgating. Is wars and shit (it's history). Reckons. Is old. Is there. Is sunburned. Sneaks out of her house and steals the car. Is beer battered and deep fried. Is which Fogarty are you, Beth's daughter? Is every now and then a confederate flag. Is backwards. Moves forward. Is MLK Blvd. Is dirty. Is magic. Is hurricane evacuation routes. Holds a grudge. Has teeth. Is beautiful and smells like something perfect. Is gravy. Is real. Is far away. Is manners. Is violent. Is Wal Mart. Is stubborn. Lost its ass in a war. Is chicken. Drives fast. Is that time I saw a horse at a gas station. Is old money. Is poor. Is hilarious. Is moribundity in motion. Is history (it's wars and shit). Is Athens in November. Is married at 23. Isn't banjos. Is trouble. Is dirt roads. Is highways. Stings. Doesn't sound like that. Remembers. Is incestuous. Is muttonchops and pleated pants. Is art. Is porch swings. Is nice to your face. Is sweat and the sound crickets make when you're sweating. Is bugspray and the way bugspray tastes. Is crosses and coffee and doughnuts on Sunday. Is chains you can't see. Is words you don't know.

so i moved to chicago

i haven't blogged in over a year. last entry was in 2009. a lot has changed since 2009. i still don't like to capitalize sentences, though. that hasn't changed. so, yeah, i'll recap for you. 2010: the short and dirty version... in april my little sister got married. in may i finished grad school and am now the proud owner of a shiny master's degree in rhetoric and performance studies, which is, for all intents and purposes, really cool but mostly useless. i sold everything in my apartment and moved the heck out of louisiana. (i have a special place in my heart for louisiana, but i don't want to live there.) moved back to savannah for three months before packing two suitcases and moving to chicago with no job or apartment and, like, 2 friends. and now: i have a sweet apartment with a lovely roommate in a douchey neighborhood; i'm back behind a bar working with some of the sweetest, most interesting people i've ever met (i truly love these guys); feel like i've made some incredible lifelong friends; i tutor one day a week at an AIDS ministry; i'm trying to write during my downtime ( looking to join a writing group to help me focus); my romantic life is still a source of constant entertainment; i fell off the exercise wagon and am ready to get back in shape. a lot; i miss my dog; i miss the ocean; i probably drink too much; i love walking everywhere i go; i finally watched arrested development; i buy a lot of books; i still wear black all the time; and there are other things, but i'll save those for other times. right now i have to go eat some popsicles.

misery is:

driving through the florida panhandle.

driving through the florida panhandle backroads.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads ( i keep trying to write backGROUNDS, ps., so if a G shows up in the next few sentences, you just ignore it) at 35 mph.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, at night.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog, while honking your horn every five seconds because hitting a deer with your car is one of your, like, top three irrational fears in life.

driving 100 miles through the florida panhandle backroads at 35 mph, AT night, THROUGH the fog, while honking your horn every five seconds because hitting a deer with your car is one of your top three irrational fears in life, BECAUSE....wait for it...

your immune system was like, bite me, i'm out, and you got the STOMACH FLU HALFWAY THROUGH YOUR 12 HOUR DRIVE HOME and you had to detour to your sister's house in middle-of-nowhere west georgia.

OH MY GOD that sucked so much.

how many drunk strangers does it take to unlodge an orange cone out from between my car and my front tire?

Three. The answer is three. Three drunk strangers and one seriously inconvenienced valet parking attendant.