Your Killin’ Style

I was chatting with our friend Cheap Girl, and the topic of Colleen came up.

Cheap Girl: I’d take a bullet for her
Me: And she would shoot someone for you

Which got me to thinking. Would I take a bullet for anyone? Maybe. More likely I’d kill, but probably not with a gun.

My preferred fantasy revenge method is drowning. As in, kittens, burlap sack, rope, rocks and a murky, swift moving river. Or, asshole dude, burlap sack, cement, cabin cruiser and the deep dark ocean. The beauty of my method is the potential for variety.

And you?

Emotional Gag Reaction

What do you call the opposite of a crush? When you absolutely hate someone so much that you get lost in reveries of his or her slow, violent, agonizing death? But you can’t stop thinking or talking about the person. You bore friends rehashing every real or imagined slight. You bore yourself thinking of new ways to indicate your (supposed) monumental disdain.

It’s not a grudge, because that indicates some kind of reciprocal activity, like a fight. What I’m talking about is solo, gut-level, obsessive antipathy. An emotional gag reaction.

No reason. Just wondering.

Sunflower

Not like.

Don’t Do It, Girl: Dating Writers

Last night I was talking to my best friend (we can’t decide if BFF dog tags or Twin Peaks merchandise better honor our friendship) about an astrologer/astrophysicist she’s dating.We also discussed whether we’d date writers, and both of us came out against.

This aversion started way-back-when with male English majors. Remember them? Their tousled hair, flannel shirts, and dreams of working at Rolling Stone? The played the ’sensitive’ card when necessary, with their soulful essays on Leaves of Grass. Maybe once in “Johnson’s Age of Exuberance” class he caught you watching him jam out, offered you his headphones, and said “Want to listen?” It was Luna, “Chinatown.” You thought it meant something. On the weekends, though, he was schtupping the management majors with huge tits.

In his 20’s, the male writer is a social creature, enjoying happy hour specials at many fine watering holes. You meet him, maybe at the bar. Gradually, you understand that he’s collecting details about you to develop a character he can describe to his friends or use in a story. How your great-uncle abused you and now you can’t stand the barista’s accidental touch when he hands over your change? Genius! He has just the place for it.

Fast forward.

The male English major–let’s call him Ed–he’s 40 now, and married. He has a wife and two kids named Adèle and Harry.

Ed publishes his second novel, about a forty-year-old white guy, a program manager at a nonprofit (named Ted), who resents his job, and resents his wife for making him give up the Rolling Stone internship he was almost-nearly offered, before they had their kids Helene and Freddy. On the weekends Ted and his friend drive out to the shore and pop Vicodin. In the novel’s climax, someone beats Ted’s wife to death with a hammer. Did Ted do it? Will her family side with him? Conflict!

In short: I don’t date male writers because they think too much. And I’ve already cornered that market.

Rapists of the Deep

Yesterday an acquaintance rhapsodized about her recent family vacation to Hawaii. The highlight was her daughter’s swim with the dolphins. For $200 you get to hang on to their fins and zip around the pool. Then they circle back and somehow you get to stand on them and ride on their backs. Which we apparently think is a good and respectful thing to do to our hyper-intelligent friends in the ocean.

It was a “professional” environment so I couldn’t ask the only relevant follow-up question: is there an extra charge for forced bestiality, or do they offer you a partial refund?

Oh please. Don’t act all shocked. Yeah, everyone loves dolphins and their “smiles.” Their assistance with the War on Sharks. The cute acrobatics at Sea World. Prince Albert of Monaco even declared 2007 The Year of the Dolphin.

And yet.

Everyone also knows that these genius fish (fine, mammals, whatever) are totally aggro and attack other fish – and mammals — all the time. They practice infanticide (of their own, not ours.) They rape each other, and they rape humans.

Don’t believe me? Google “the dark side of dolphins” and watch some of those videos. Trust me, you want to have a brain cleanser ready to watch right after, something G-rated and mindless like Teletubbies that can push out the mental images and allow you to sleep that night.

So don’t tell me you’re dying to go have a magical, spiritual experience in Cabo with the dolphins. Do some yoga, burn some incense, have a couple of shots and go get f***ed by your own kind.

Hey State Dept: No Charge For This One

Bin Laden wants Whitney Houston
We don’t want Whitney
Bin Laden is willing to kill Bobby Brown to get Whitney
We don’t want Bobby Brown
We want Bin Laden

Why are we waiting to use Whitney and Bobby as bait? Whichever way it goes, I see a clear win-win scenario.

Hold this superglue. Now cough.

Last Friday we attended the kick-off of the “Fabulous Fashion in Film Festival” at the Castro Theatre, with special guest hosts Santino (aka Satan-o) and Jeffrey from Project Runway.

Santino did his Tim Gunn/Andrae/Red Lobster impression. Tattoo-necked, baby mama-dumping Jeffrey was ungracious, sneering, and not particularly smart.

He claimed his bad-boy schtick was a part he played for the camera, but his horns and pitchfork were still in evidence, despite the lack of key grips and best boys. Jeffrey mocked the talentless Daniel Vosovic and Chloe Dao, saying he only auditioned for PR because his friend Santino had been featured in a previous season. Uh uh. Uh uh! Do not even start in on my little Daniel, he of the floppy hair and crushed Muppet nose.

The film was fabulous, naturally. But when the host announced that a local actor would portray PR icon Tim Gunn, Cat’s scribbled note was exactly what I was thinking: “Provincial.” San Francisco: please. An actor playing a reality show host is Dubuque-worthy.

I can not wait for season 4.