Love Letters Gone Wrong
My Darling Anonymous Blog Dude,
I’ve enjoyed reading your love letters/emails to me, especially the one involving some alone time in a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit. In fact, I find myself oddly interested in many of the activities you’ve out lined for us, although I had to look up what a “Hot Carl” is, and all I can say to that is, “let me get back to you.”
I am dreaming of the day when we can finally meet, and I can tell you and SHOW you in person how your sweet words have brought out the woman in me. Please meet me at the street corner in West Hollywood you speak so eloquently about. I’ll be the blushing girl in the pink dress.
Love and kisses,
Your H.E.
**************
Dear H.E.,
You’re a CHICK?!
Uh…Never mind.
Road SPaM
This week’s SPaM features an article brought to you from Motorcycle Accident, a site/blog dedicated to public awareness on motorcycle safety as well as debunking the long held stereotype of the biker as “outlaw.” So to all you die-hard bikers and motorcycle enthusiasts out there I bring you Gina from Motorcycle Accident.org!
America’s Perception of Motorcyclists
Motorcycles have been around for decades, and like every other group or culture in life, motorcyclists are judged by society. Society‘s view of bikers has one similarity with all society’s other perceptions of groups/cultures: it is ridiculous.
Perception 1: All Motorcyclists Are Outlaws
These are the words that describe how people perceive motorcyclists: criminals, gang members, outlaws, and thugs; and the list doesn’t stop there. Sons of Anarchy is only one example of how television and movies depict bikers. The mid-1900’s mark when motorcycle clubs became popular and the foundations for America’s perception of bikers were set. According to a TV Tropes article, the view of a typical motorcyclist is a, “big, burly, grizzled man wearing a leather jacket and riding a Harley.” Bikers are always thought of as belonging to a gang; supposedly bikers wear their gang colors, “a vest over their jacket that displays their gang name, insignia, and area of operation. Most gangs also have a system of patches that indicate members’ various accomplishments and duties.” Oh, but the ridiculousness doesn’t stop there.
Motorcyclists are thought to be White Supremists who live at the tattoo parlor and love to party, drink, do drugs, and get into bar fights. Bikers are believed to live nomadic lifestyles, solely supported by their engaging in black market trades, like illegal drugs and weapons. Part of the perception is also that women are second to men in motorcycle gangs and “are called ‘mamas’” according to the TV Tropes article.
This account, though humorous, isn’t far from the truth. The truth is that the vast majority of motorcyclists aren’t in gangs, and certainly aren’t criminals, outlaws, or thugs. In recent years, with the impacts our actions have on the environment becoming more clear and with increases in gas prices, motorcycles, which typically get over 50 miles to the gallon, have become a fuel-efficient and green way to travel; and people of all career types ride them, including doctors and lawyers, whose professions seem to indicate a conservative vehicle choice.
Perception 2: All Motorcyclists Pack Because They Love to Fight
There’s a perception that motorcyclists don’t just love bar fights, but that their little hearts flutter at the idea of any fight. As a result, they are always packing just in case an opportunity to create havoc presents itself; “Classic weapons of an outlaw biker include clubs, chains, and knives. Many real-world bikers carry large maglights because legally they are not considered weapons.” And there are several ways to start a fight with fellow motorcyclists, if one feels so inclined: “The best way to piss off a biker is to wear your own “colors” displaying another gang’s turf as your home city. The ultimate crime, however, is knocking over their motorcycles.”
Perception 3: All Motorcyclists Love to Wear Cow
Another perception of motorcyclists is that all they wear are leather products; it’s a fashion statement and it makes them look like they’re tough. People believe that leather is simply part of the motorcycle culture, and it feeds into the whole “gang” view on motorcyclists. The truth is, however, that wearing leather is not simply a fashion statement and that motorcyclists do not only wear leather; the point of motorcycle wear is to protect riders from the elements and in the event of an accident. Riders also wear Cordura, Kevlar, and ballistic nylon because these materials are durable.
So there you have it. Being a motorcyclist does not entail being in a gang, nor wearing leather, packing a weapon, black market trades, or bar fights. What is does entail is fuel efficiency and a lessened impact on the environment; oh, and a really cool looking bike.
Gina Williams is a guest post and article writer bringing to the public’s perception on motorcyclists.
Gina also writes articles about motorcycle safety.
For more SPaM goodness go HERE
Next week’s SPaM features blog darling Megan from VeryNormal!
If you’d like a feature post on SPaM, contact me at heellisgoa@gmail.com
Why No NaNoWriMo
Image courtesy of Ruthless Scribblings
For those of you out there who aren’t writers or who otherwise have lives, the month of November has officially been designated “National Novel Writing Month” by some invisible entity who I’m sure has financial interests in coffee beans and manufacturers of bandages worn by carpal tunnel syndrome sufferers.
What NaNoWriMo is supposed to represent is the coming together of writers into a virtual community where they offer each other support in pursuit of their craft. As a part-time writer and full-time poster child for Oppositional Defiance Disorder this endeavor was doomed to epic failuredom before I applied my first electron to virtual paper. So in the interest of self-analysis I’ve decided to break down the factors involved in why my second novel exists entirely in my mind. In no particular order I blame:
The New England Patriots – pound cake – Nadia G’s Bitchin’ Kitchen – my daughter’s adorable feet – Junior’s Burt Reynolds style laugh – an endlessly ringing phone thanks to Prince Charming’s charm – my mother’s inability to comprehend American television – Frank Stallone – my Jeep – The New Hampshire Primaries (stand by for a longer post tackling the magnitude of what I face daily due to this gift of the Granite State) and last but not least, this little ditty of a video that I have spent entirely too much time watching over and over. Seriously, it’s a train wreck.
And yes, that is indeed Ron Jeremy.
Mystery Writer
Have I got a treat for you all just in time for the holidays. It’s a hot, bubbling cauldron of awesome in the form of a mystery writer who has hijacked my blog for the day. Prepare to have your socks blown the f*ck off. I give you:
THE PLAN
The house was exactly as she had described it to him. Standing in the entry, he controlled himself, his nervousness, his racing heart, his moist, shaking hands. Turning from hanging his coat, she smiled, hands demurely folded before her, hair just so, and completely at odds with her excitement as well. Only an imperceptible throb of a vein in her neck outwardly spoke of her tension. They had waited so very long.
“I like your place,” he said, his voice skipping.
“Oh, that is kind of you to say,” she replied, eyes lowering, lips curling so slightly at the corners.
They hugged awkwardly, an entirely shoulders and arms test of the waters. A brief silence turned awkward, and then stretched on some more. Brown eyes glanced up from under conservative eyeshadow. She watched him, clearly at odds with himself. His mind racing, all it seemed he could think of was how huge and how ungraceful his feet felt.
“I hope you like pork roast,” she said, taking the initiative, “I know we said dinner at the Terrace, but this felt a lot better when I had the idea.”
“I… well, uhm… but,” he stammered, now in mental ruin, all well-planned events for naught, yet somehow recovered, “Well, ok, and pork roast is one of my favorites.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you had put so much effort into this. I feel bad, but you know,” she paused, making an equivocating hand movement, “The situation.”
The months of careful exchanges over their shared social network site buttressed her caution to him. The shy caution she showed initially blossoming into more exciting, revealing exchanges. Then came the whispered phone conversations from basements, the tearful ones detailing the deceptions, the disappointments, the betrayals. There was implied violence thinly veiled in conversations of another related in explanations. Then, finally, a business trip, a plan, and a hope.
“Yes! Right,” he breathed, “You should have – I mean, I should have thought of that. Really.”
“Relax, it’s okay,” she soothed, and he actually did.
She pointed in a reserved way at a large bag near his feet on the floor. It was the folded, flat-bottomed kind, with two semicircular paper-covered wire handles for carrying.
“Did you bring it?” She asked.
“Oh! Yes I did,” he said, and laughed, now completely relieved.
Picking up the bag, he held each handle in one hand, an offering. With an enigmatic cat’s smile, she glanced at him and reached into the bag. She took the contents in hand and maneuvered it out, flipping it around to finally view it.
Another awkward silence stretched into infinity. For him, he waited in tortured hope for an expression. For her, she racked her brain to comprehend this work. It was the work of months, arduous and perfectionist brushstrokes based on nervously-sent photos. It was her without question, rendered with the talent of a real artist, surrounded by death, glorious in her victory.
“No,” she gasped as tears erupted down her cheeks and she shoved the painting barely-caught into his hands. She vanished into the kitchen, her muffled sobs following her. His world spun, nearly tipping off the edge. He felt actual dizziness, and fought it, somehow willing his feet forward to shuffle uneasily after her.
She stood at the counter, shoulders racking in silent tears. She stirred a crock pot with a wooden spoon. He paused, just beyond arms’ reach of her. Something metal clinked. She froze when he spoke.
“I am so sorry. I… I thought after all we talked about, your amazing strength through this… this… shit,” he managed to choke out of a tight throat. Oddly, he fixed on a coppery and fleeting smell, possibly the roast. Only a few seconds passed this time, and she slammed the lid on the pot nearly hard enough to shatter it. The potholder clung tenaciously to the handle. She spun, bracing against the counter, her fist perched on her cocked hip. From under heavy brows, her eyes now shone with a different intensity through the remnants of the tears.
“No,” she said forcefully, “I meant that you’re not going to disappoint me, and I’m so very excited by that.”
“But, you just… so,” he struggled, somewhat dizzy again yet hopeful, “So you like it?”
“I think it captures the fire I feel inside me right now,” she answered, stalking toward him.
Laughter rushed from his lips as he coughed out, “Oh wow,” and caught her feminine form. This embrace, unlike the first, was heated, close, and natural. Hands wandered, and the only sound for some moments was the nasal exhalations over a deep kiss. Fingernails dug almost painfully into his chest.
“Oh yes,” she breathed, “This will be so liberating. Love me.”
“God, yes,” he replied, “Are you sure –“
“Yes, dammit, he’s gone I swear it,” she said more loudly, “Now, love me!”
He did, and with all his energy and longing. In his arms, she smiled a wicked and pleased smile. Behind them, the potholder slid silently off of the lid, while inside the wedding band fell from the boiling flesh, making a gentle clinking noise.
Canadian SPaM
People…have I’ve got news for you. I’ve stumbled onto a blog that just may be the best kept secret in WordPress. With posts that run the gamut from poignant stories of a schoolmate named Ricky to hilarious tales of dysfunctional automatic toilets, Sightsnbytes’s Blog is penned (typed, keyed, input?) by a man with a knack for story-telling that Newfoundlanders (Newfies) are famous for. Seriously, this guy makes Garrison Keillor look like a hack. For today’s SPaM post I’m pleased to feature the best thing to come out of Canada since Wayne Gretzky. Please welcome to SPaM:
TED FROM SIGHTSNBYTES’S BLOG!
**** 1. As a Newfoundlander, what do you find is the best thing about island living, and what poses the greatest challenge?
The best thing about island living is being cut off from the rest of the world, the greatest challenge is being cut off from the rest of the world
**** 2. After a bit of research I discovered that your island home is famous for it’s storytelling. How much of your cultural surroundings influence your blog posts?
Growing up in rural Newfoundland (how much more rural can you get than a community of just 80 homes, miles from the nearest town where everyone related to you), gives me lots of material for my writings. I come from a place where there really wasn’t much other to do than tell stories, so I guess this gift comes by quite honestly.
**** 3. You have a category dedicated to books. What is your favorite read ever, and what are you currently reading now that you would recommend?
My fav book ever was Brave New World, and right now I am reading the F. Scott Wilson book “The Tomb” (Repair Man Jack).
**** 4. My favorite post of yours was one entitled, “Those things we do sometimes.” In it you discuss giving your boss a rather “randy” secret Santa gift. You have a unique sense of humor to say the least, and I was curious as to where your particular brand of humor comes from.
That was quite a laugh, again, my surroundings and the fact that I am a Newfie, probably give me the sense of humor that I have, plus, I didn’t really like that job and if I got fired, at least I would have a great story to tell.
**** 5. Since I have elected/coerced/down right forced you to speak on behalf of all Canada, what would you say is the greatest misconception other nations have about Canadians?
The greatest misconception that other nations, especially the US, have the notion that all Canadians have dog sleds and a team of huskies, and that we live in igloos. I have a terrier and a pomeranian, and the only sled I have is an old Ski-Doo snowmobile in the shed outside.
For more Canadian SPaM goodness follow Sightsnbytes’s Blog
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Gear up for next week’s SPaM with guest blogger Gina from MOTORCYCLE ACCIDENT
Love Is A Four-Poster Bed
Some of you have noticed that I’ve been on sort of a hiatus lately. The good news in this is that I’ve had some odd luck on the book front sales wise, and it’s forced me to kick writing the next one into high gear. I’ve had the basic outline for the second book in my mind for a while, but hadn’t really decided in which direction I wanted to take the plot. So far the feedback from book one tells me that the natural progression of this series into book two is going to have to include more romance. All I can say to that is….
Yeah.
People, I just may be the most non-romantic woman ever to have walked the face of the earth. Crafting an entire novel based on romance poses huge obstacles for me, as I have almost no point of reference. There are others who write this sort of thing much better than I do, like fellow blogger Sandylikeabeach or the great Edward Hotspur. Sadly, the “woo words” as EH likes to call them don’t seem to come to me as easily as they do others. But just like learning any new language, the key is to utilize opportunities to flex your language muscles and apply your new words to parts of your world as they relate to you. So instead of purple prose I give you romance as seen through my lens of life, and what I see in front of me is a lathe and a four-poster bed.
Growing up among “moderately legal” immigrants in south Florida offered little in the way of employment opportunities, so the women in my family were relegated to the humble position of cleaning ladies. Every Saturday we’d all take the bus into Palm Beach to clean the mansions of the fabulously rich and famous. Since I was the youngest and smallest it fell to me to make the beds, which was the one chore I hated most. I would rather have scrubbed toilets than be forced to strip and make the beds of other little girls who had their own room, bed, toys, etc.
What I remember most was how massive and ornate the beds were, and how it seemed to me like all the furniture had been dipped in gold, even the picture frames that lined the walls. But only the walls in the foyer, as I never saw a single picture on a flat surface. I remember thinking what a waste it was for rich people to have these huge, gold nightstands with no pictures of loved ones on them to kiss goodnight. At least that’s what I thought until we got a new family to clean for and I had a new bed to make.
Even though this new bed wasn’t as grand or as ornate as the other beds I’d made, to me it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. It was a simple four-poster wood bed with thin posts and an impossibly high canopy. I remember that first day hopping up onto the bed just so I could look up at the gauzy white fabric that draped over the top of the canopy and hung down the sides. As much as I loved the bed what made the biggest impression on me were all the photos that lined both nightstands of a smiling young couple posing together. In that instant I equated true love with that four-poster bed.
Fast forward to this summer, and me in my barn clearing out years of accumulated junk and treasures in order to set up a workshop for myself. The last thing I found was an old woodworker’s lathe, the kind that’s used to turn table legs or stair balusters. The image of the lathe forced an image of the bed from my memory, which then joined the vision of a now empty barn and in an instant I’d felt lonelier than I’d ever imagined possible; because it occurred to me that what I’d wanted more than anything in the world was someone to share that space with, and someone to share that bed with. Expressing myself romantically isn’t a skill I’ve developed, so it hasn’t been easy to find a man who can relate to someone like me. Someone who understands that I’m the type of woman who feels uneasy saying “I love you” every five seconds and who enjoys simply existing quietly alongside the man she loves. Someone who doesn’t make me feel compelled to fill the air with empty reassurances; who knows in his heart that because I choose to be with him at all is reason enough to trust my love and that the proof of it is found within the silence itself.
I know it’s not poetry, but for what it’s worth this is what romance means to me.
Yellow SPaM
The recent death of Andy Rooney has left today’s media with the loss of his signature commentaries. So I’ve decided to use today’s SPaM post to feature a name you’re likely to see more and more in the upcoming days. A man whose name is synonymous with ethical, responsible journalism and whose reputation for excellence in reporting current events rivals the standards set by greats like Cronkite, Murrow and Rivera. Ladies and Gentleman I give you….Talker96.
Thank you, it’s a pleasure to be here.
Quick little factoid before we start off though, Andy Rooney, while his death was very sad, he has actually been dead for a few years now. CBS panicked and covered it up when he died, then his body was placed in a cryogenic freezer somewhere in Scottsdale, Az. The reports you saw these last few years were spliced and edited clips from his past commentaries. How he died is where the mystery lies though. A lot of people said the head of CBS killed him after finding Andy in bed with his wife, but I have my doubts as it seems to easy of an explanation and Andy was A-sexual. The person I think is responsible for the murder of Andy Rooney is Pedro Palomar, a South American drug lord with ties to Scientology (where a large portion of his drug profits go). If you want to learn more about the case you should check out the Wesley Snipes actioner, Drop Zone, which is loosely based on Rooney’s life.
That being said, thank you for the wonderful opening, I agree that more people should be hearing my name. Now lets get to the questions shall we?
**** 1. One of your timelier articles tackles the controversial subject of bi-curious penguins. What did you learn from your research into the secret lives of potentially homosexual arctic foul, and do you feel their struggles for acceptance into mainstream society has had a causative effect on the repeal of the United States Military’s “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy?
Great question. Let’s see, when that piece was written Penguins were having a hard time gaining any ground with society. They had just been hit hard with two separate population killers, the Bird Flu and then a year later, Penguin A.I.D.S. They were struggling to survive and at the same time trying to just figure out their place in this crazy world. When scientists went down to the Arctic for the study you spoke of they found they were not necessarily Homosexual, just a little bi-curious, and that usually only lasted a few years(scientists also found a U.F.O buried deep in the snow covered ground, sadly none of them lived and the shape shifting creature that killed them disappeared, many think it might have morphed into film star Kurt Russel (star of Tango and Cash) but I believe it became Keith David (star of They Live), the only way to know for sure is to give them a blood test)Penguins have had a revival of some sorts recently though and have been well accepted back into society. With Surfs Up, Happy Feet and March of the Penguins, people are all to forgiving in their thoughts of the flightless bird. I think the view of the penguin shifted when one appeared on an episode of Will & Grace. When that happened we saw a bird that not only was funny, but had his shit together as well, that made people see them in a new way which was great and it also showed that they had chemistry with Halle Berry (also co-staring in the episode), leading up to their first feature film together this summer.
As for the don’t ask, don’t tell policy, penguins are probably the sole reason for it being repealed, which is stupid because they don’t allow birds in the military.
**** 2. Your quality news reports often delve into the realm of conjecture, as seen in your Pulitzer Prize winning article entitled simply, SMURF. What new information have you uncovered as of late in the rapidly advancing scientific field of Cryptozoology?
The Smurf Hunter profiled in that post is apparently still out there looking for it. While I don’t believe there are any blue Smurfs out in the Appalachians, I have in the recent years written about numerous other creatures that have proven to be real. Creatures like the the South American Brass Monkey, which was found by Beastie Boys rapper Adam Horowitz, or the Feral Cow, which used to only be a legend around South Texas but was proven to be a very real and deadly reality. If these things exist then who knows, Bigfoot could be waiting to be found as well. After all, he was spotted at a Macy’s a while back, looking for clothes during their One Day sale (I wrote an article about it, check out Talker96.WordPress.com for more). While some of it probably isn’t real, like the Loch Ness monster, mothman or girls that say humor, not looks, is the deciding factor in how they choose a guy, those things are only legend and therefore not real, but whose to say there can’t be creatures in the night waiting to be found? It’s fun to think about isn’t it?
**** 3. It has come to light that an episode of your acclaimed series entitled, THE FRENCHMAN, which follows the travails of a chain-smoking, passive-aggressive French patriot was found while excavating a vault. What prompted you to publish said work, but more importantly, how has Tom Jones managed to maintain a loyal following for what is now nearly fifty years?
Before we get into The Frenchman I must correct you (Talker96 takes a sip of water), while it was a series that was enjoyed by quite a few people, it was never acclaimed. I just thought I should clear that up. Don’t get me wrong, it should be acclaimed, but it never was.(takes another sip) At the time I think it was to new of an idea. I mean, now the television channels are filled with reality programing, but back then it was scary for viewers to see through the eyes of someone else, let alone a French someone else. I would love to bring it back though, well see…
Tom Jones? Not a day goes by where I am not asked about him and what it was like to write What’s new Pussycat with him. A lot of people will say his appeal lies in his penis size and tight pants, I’m here to say though, that’s not it. What makes the public love him so is that they can tell he is a genuinely nice guy. That’s it. He’s super nice and a joy to work for. There’s the big secret.
**** 4. In addition to timely reporting I see you have a page devoted to your artwork. Tell our readers what would motivate a man accustomed to the rigorous standards of journalistic integrity to expose himself to scrutiny by choosing to display such stunning examples of artistic mediocrity?
My artwork most definitely is my true love, it used to be film star Jennifer Connolly but now it’s my artwork. Thank you for speaking so highly of it. The New York Times once did a piece on it and said that my art is “like looking into the eyes of a cat, you don’t know how you feel about it but you’re still looking.” While that’s a fine description I prefer to say my art is like a My dick joke, meaning my dick is so big it’s in the other room making us drinks. I think that sums it up very well, don’t you?
All I can say about my art is that it’s a very humbling experience creating it, yet it’s still created.
**** 5. Lastly, what would you bring to the CBS news table in the form of your own signature commentary stylings, slick fashion sense or celebrity media fellatio?
Ha, great hardball question. I think I would bring wondrously stylish commentary in my own signature sense, all the while the celebrity media performs fellatio on me under the table. It’s something the whole family can enjoy and then talk about what they learned later.
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Things You Can’t Unsee
Hey…did anyone remember today is Monday? Because I COMPLETELY forgot. I blame the time change. And Canada. So instead of a helping of SPaM, I’ve decided to include something a little LESS palatable. Because if I have to know about this, then so do you. Thanks, Urethra.
Shit My Kid Does – Volume Four
Actual phone call from my fourteen year-old son’s middle school Vice Principal on March 31, 2010:
VP: “Hello, Ms. Ellis?”
ME: (Sighs…)
VP: “This is a pre-emptive call based on a recent rumor circulating concerning Junior’s plans for tomorrow.”
ME: “Tomorrow? Are you calling me to tell me you’re punishing Junior in the future now?”
VP: “I’d like to remind you that tomorrow is April 1st, Ms. Ellis.”
ME: “Of…course it is.”
VP: “Yes, yes. My call is to ask for your cooperation by making sure Junior doesn’t leave the house with anything inappropriate or….flammable, perhaps.
ME: “Yes, I can assure you that I will watch Junior like a hawk before he leaves for school tomorrow.
***** SHAKES DOWN JUNIOR BEFORE HE LEAVES THE HOUSE AND DETERMINES ALL IS CLEAR. CUT TO APRIL 1st AS I WALK IN THE DOOR TO SEE JUNIOR LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY *****
ME: “WHAT DID YOU DO??!!”
JUNIOR: (laughing) “Absolutely nothing.”
ME: “Yeah, I’m not buying it. No one who laughs like that is innocent.”
JUNIOR: “I’m serious. I didn’t do a thing. I sat in class all day and paid total attention. My teacher kept looking at me, waiting for me to do something but I never did. I just smiled and said, ‘Yes, Ma’am’ to everything she asked. By the end of the day she was all twitchy-like. It was awesome.”
ME: (thinks for a moment, then shakes head) “Screw it, kid. You’re a genius.”
