Dream A Little Dream of Me, Legless

I've had trouble sleeping most Sunday nights. My only explanation lies at the bottom of a bottle, and in the sludge of my dehydrated brain. But I'm not offering answers here - only experiences. I link my inability to find REM to my dreams being crazytown-2000 lately, but the one last night - well, she was a real doozy.

First off, I was dating Andre Agassi. Although, I wore his image on all of my Nike tennis t-shirts in middle school, (yah, ok, some of high school too) I have not thought of my potential lover in some years. Turns out he's a real dick in dreams: he asks me to amputate my perfectly healthy leg, which I do, up to my torso. Surprisingly, I didn't seem to miss the leg, as the prosthetic (not filled with beer) worked splendidly.

Most of the dream I was strolling on cobble stone streets and on white, rocky beaches with a hairy figure, who I perceived to be the tennis great, but never actually saw (or got to kiss) him. I felt his presence, the large lion mane glowing in the sunlight, I'd catch hints of its luster in the corner of my eye.

Of course, Andre felt some satisfaction at my frivolous surgery, and he pushed the envelope of his fantasy over to my other perfectly healthy leg. Without a fight, I agreed to amputate my other leg. Post-surgery, I leaped up from the gurney with no trouble at all, and pranced my amended body down an old street.

It was there that it hit me: I'd just amputated both of my legs, that Agassi was a real sadistic jerk, and I was a weak, stupid and regretful woman. All at once I began counting off the ways life would forever be changed, harder and less rewarding. What had I done? How would I explain this bizarre fetish to my mother? She couldn't possibly understand why Andre needed this, and why I would comply.

Wait! Could this be a dream? That's what I asked my dreaming self - but my dreaming self was all, "Yah, right. Best case scenario is you awake with at least one leg missing."

The stress drew itself out for hours, me and my plastic legs bopping along landscapes with the beasty-haired asshole, who I was starting to loathe for asking me to remove half of my limbs. Consoling myself with "you'll weigh less" didn't seem to help. I desperately wanted to take it all back, reasoning the doctor may have my legs on ice somewhere. Perhaps they could be reattached...

And when I thought my life was officially in the crapper, I woke up! And to my astonished delight and relief, both of my hairy, scabby, pale legs were still attached to my stressed and sweaty body. I shook them to check their vitals; I shot them up into the air; I kicked them in jubilation, like a newborn who's just discovered her feet. I H A V E L E G S and I LOVE THEM.

Best Monday Night Plans Ever

I can't complain. I mean, I shouldn't. Perspective check, esmallass. This is my Monday night: No workout (not that I shouldn't, but I'm just not gonna), to a great dive bar to drink (possibly a cucumber margarita) AND watch Monday Night Football (starring my team, the Indianapolis Colts). From there to Fruitvale, to not only watch a new episode of Gossip Girl but to eat the best GD walnut prawns in all of America whilst drooling over Chuck Bass, trying to find Serena's personality and wishing/not wishing I could be Blair for all of eternity. Friends! My dog! all along the way. The air is crisp (finally), my skin is clear, and I actually earned my paycheck today. Yes, dear friends, this is me... H A P P Y. How'd this happen?

I'm lucky, truly lucky.

Smarty Pants For President

Is anyone else as disturbed by this photo as I am? Jezebel posted it, almost as a throw away, but it informs me so completely of her vast inexperience and unfamiliarity with what she's trying to become a part of. And if she's trying to claim a nonpartisan stance of that "Country First" crap, I'd say that's about the dumbest marketing move for your party this side of the Alaskan/Russian border. Jezebel has a close-up and my office pal verified the photo's authenticity.

Twenty Foods For A Long Life List, Strangley Missing: Whiskey

According to a British scientist, these are "Lifespan Essentials":



* apples
* blackberries
* black tea
* blueberries
* broccoli
* cereal bran
* cherries
* cherry tomatoes
* coffee
* cranberries
* dark chocolates
* green tea
* oranges
* peaches
* plums
* raspberries
* red grapes
* red onions
* spinach
* strawberries

But based on my knowledge of "superfoods", I wonder, where are the nuts?


(That's what she said.)

NaturalNews

Further Proof of Ricky Gervais' Blatent, Logical Awesomeness & A Laughing Ira Glass Is One of My All Time Fave Sounds

So much goodness in this interview with Ricky Gervais, aka my soul's twin. "He told TV Biz: 'I’d never work out and lose weight if the part called for it. I’d say, ‘that’s not the film for me’...It’s not real life, it’s ludicrous. If you fall for someone because they’ve got a jawline and a chest and they’re brain dead it won’t last! In life, real people fall for nice people all the time and Hollywood denies that a bit. That’s what I brought over from Britain.” Let's hear it for reality! The Sun via Jezebel.

And if that didn't make you a happier, less-annoyed person, please listen to This American Life: 198 How to Win Friends And Influence People. I took away some valuable tips; tell me if you notice my new social prowess. Btw, how are you doing?

My Gut Reactions to Palin Winks And Grandpa Biden

Ok, so we all know the VP debate took place last night. Armed with red wine and salt-n-vinegar chips, and despite some nasty rush hour traffic stress, I settled in for what I anticipated to be a cringetastic, condescendatic, incomplete sentenstatic good time! I was way off, both candidates were well-prepared and almost too kind and respectful of one another. Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't catch all the weirdness or poor debate positions that make an American proud of her leadership. Please, allow me to ramble on.

The first half-hour I had this genuine and surprising happiness moment of "OMG, Obama is gonna win the white house!", 'cos Biden was bringing it. He was articulate, forceful and passionate. He was persuasive. Which is what a good debater is, essentially. Couple this with Palin's answer/characterization of the most devastating economic digression since the Great Depression, "People are asking, Is this good or is this bad?" Are we in some kind of unnatural Michael Jackson universe where all of a sudden GOOD means very, very very BAD? Unless you're someone like me who wants the dollar to fail so we can barter and eat the flesh of the formerly wealthy, I'm doubting "good" is NOT what ANYONE is deeming this fiscal hurricane to be.

Then you've got Palin doing her shtick. She's folksy and down-home. It's like your mom's mashed potatoes are crammed into her face, filling up her high, majestic cheekbones, which are sugared like red candy apples. She's so small-town wholesome, she couldn't ever locate New York or DC on a map even! Her wonky eye keeps winking at me, and she's cheesing through these macabre sentiments. Try smiling and saying "nukular" at the same time - seems fucked up. Now try watching the possible leader of the free world do it.

Then over to Smilin' Joe "I'm Joe Biden" Biden. The third-person references were either subtle attempts at branding or a doctor prescribed memory exercise. His overall accessing of names seemed to come easily when picking on Pakistan's leadership, but scrap heaped when referring to his own running mate. He was like a grandpa who has to sputter through the first syllable of seven grandchildren's names before arriving on Osama. And the McCain love? He must have said "I love John McCain" more than Palin said "energy" or "betcha". We get it - you're both career politicos with military kids and big white faces, bigger whiter hair and scary American whitey white teeth - of course you're buddies. But Americans are inept at separating policies from personas (Hello! Clinton! Blow jobs! Impeachment! Hello!). Politicians are principally seen as one-dimensional. You love John McCain literally translates to middle America as you love John McCain's policies!

Let's talk policy! I picked random topics that stuck out at me for 1) the related talking points OR 2) there obviously being missing-in-action from the proceedings...

1) Gay Marriage I'm disappointed in the democrats not supporting it. Come. On. I'm not even a democrat and I support it. The arguments you can make are simple to understand and effective, i.e. legal equality, which is an essential component for a proper democracy to flourish and the government can't force churches to recognize it, so Jesus might not smite our nation at the passing of legislation, and the term "sanctity of marriage" is a paradox at this point since heteros have pretty much destroyed it's purity through divorce. And of those marriages not ending in divorce, I'd say a certain healthy percentage of them are miserable and corrupt as evidenced by a random romp on Craigslist, a tool by which unhappy spouses find no-strings-attached arse. Don't look at it as legalizing gay marriage, look at it as legalizing gay divorce! Although, the gays would probably do a better job of restoring the sanctity to it. Oh yah, and Palin, you're a fucking liar. If these so-called gay friends of yours were as near and dear to your stone cold heart as you claim, you would want for them everything they are entitled to as American citizens and more so as human beings. See, that's how LOVE looks. LOVE denies your own religious baggage for the good, well-being and happiness of others, you fucking dick.

2) Health Care This is the issue where the tickets diverge the most. As Palin tried to sell, McCain wants the same old crap: throw more money into a system no longer sustainable and is ostensibly cost prohibitive on the whole, and Obama wants to do away with it. If we can socialize Wall Street, we've lost our Reagan-era, "little government", free market scruples, why NOT take on health care? Outside of these policy positions, neither candidate addressed out of control price gouging by pharmaceuticals, greedy and corrupt health insurers whose agents receive bonuses for denying claims and rescinding coverage midterm, or an out of touch FDA whose conflict of interest bedfellowing with doctors and big pharma have allowed them to push food policies detrimental to health and which directly oppose prevention.

3) Energy Policy Apparently, Palin rules at it and Biden AGREES WITH HER. WTF? Has anyone else noticed that the republican party didn't give a shit about energy conservation or notice global warming until about ohhhh, six months ago when they got tired of funding hurricane relief and thought spring was just "too gall darn hot!" Joe, I'm sure you could have pulled something from your repertoire besides, "yes, Sarah, you are awesome and just being next to you reduces my carbon footprint."

4) Proliferation of Pakistan, Iran Maybe I'm old school, but I was always taught the presence of nukes was... not "good" per se (unless, it's Palin's new MJ-good-is-bad cross over), but not worrisome because of a philosophy of Mutually Assured Destruction. In a post-debate cigarette break, I posed this point of view to my constituents. Videographicad suggested that crazy men with nukes means we all die. Ah, crazy. These leaders are crazy. And I think that's how these politicians scare us into unjust wars, they give us an enemy - especially a crazy one with a nukular dick and a Hezbollah ball cap, his hand lubed up and ready to stroke the bright red button. Allow me to suggest, crazy as it may seem, that these leaders - although religiously backward nut jobs - are not crazy enough to detonate a nuclear weapon that could destroy their nation as well or risk a serious, international, ANGRY response. Possible? And furthermore, Palin mentioning sanctions was so ignoramus-1991. Everyone knows that sanctions cause suffering to the citizenry and not the leadership of a nation. And in a corrupt regime, they could give a good FUCK about said citizenry. Of course, American foreign policy has NEVER taken into account the actual peoples of nation-states so I'm not surprised we would be starting now. And finally, the more and more I read about past governments taking us to war to "protect our fine liberty from the shackles of communism", the more and more I realize I can insert terrorism for communism and know the rhetoric is bullshit, and we are all irrational and forgetful of history if we don't see right through the wag-the-dog smoke screen and realize that these efforts are only self-interested, and when I say self-interested I'm speaking of MONEY, HONEY. Who's profited MORE from the war in Iraq than friggin' Dick Cheney himself?!?

So the issues they didn't address: sexism, equal pay for equal work, abortion, to name a few. All subjects Biden could have easily indicted McCain and Palin on. Of course, knowing the religious pit bulls in lipstick watching, he was probably nervous to tread in that territory. As a feminist, I was begging for it. But why not wuss out? Once you're elected, just fill the Supreme Court with puritans and keep ignoring wage discrepancies!

And finally, my biggest complaint of the evening: Biden's unwillingness? forgetfulness? wrongfully coachedness? to keep clobbering in the point until it's the sweet melody of a song: Do we want another four years of GW? He did it a bit, but that is his best argument and he put it at the top of the flow when it should have been the heart of his rebuttal. The Bush administration ABUSED executive privilege and spent us into oblivion, and the McCain ticket will do EXACTLY the same. Shit, B, that's all you had to say!

Ah well, it's a hoot. Some of these same topics have been debated for decades (anyone remember Hilary's health care plan circa 1992?). I'm not expecting much of an American government. Most, i.e. ALL, have been reactionary, resolute failures. There's an inherent problem in governance: egomaniacs tend to do it. An egomaniac can't connect with people, subconsciously s/he sees them only in terms of numbers, problems, and obstacles to his or her own valor. That being said, I'd love for Obama to win. I'm just curious to see if he's right, if he can turn the sinking ship around. Plus, he's black. Perhaps that will redeem this horrible country of ours from at least a few years of our despicable history.

Alright, off to watch The Colbert Report to see if my boyfriend agreed with me on anything.

I Bet That Viet-Cong Torture House Looks Pretty Good Right Now

I sort of feel sorry for Mc Cain. In my perception, he's taken a lot of bad advice from handlers in the GOP. I'd hope he'd agree: this is not the campaign he set forth to run. The negative ads seem beneath a man who tauts such high moral character. The choice of Palin (obviously made in the train station bathroom of Pooptown, Crazy), really abandoned the VP formula for a vote worthy ticket. Any debate coach could have smelled her lack of persuasive point-making all the way from Russia. She's got the face, the rhetoric and that small-town folksy bullshit nailed, but when challenged by well-versed political pundits, she fembots out, circuitry sizzling and popping everywhere. Plus, this whole financial institution bail-out deal isn't his making, but you sure as heck know the flip-flopping of his bro, GW, between laissez faire and Fed-to-the-rescue douses him in the sunshine of shit-for-brains strategery.

I know I prophesied, on this very site last year, that John McCain would win this election. I think he was poised to. Then times got tough. And I don't mean for that to make him sound passive. Perhaps he didn't conjure these ideas, but he signed off on them all the same. The negative tone of his campaign, the self-righteous twiddle twaddle from AK as his running mate, and this puke storm of an economy (the chunks rising, rising, rising), have all coagulated into a look of fear and shame in his eyes. Frankly, he looks tired, worn, demoralized, embarrassed. If it weren't for a gaggle of elitist, Republican puppeteers propping up his back with a stick, I'd guess he were ready to settle in for a long winter's nap and leave the governing to the fools.

Hell, if the election doesn't kill him with stress, the presidency surely would. Yep, I'm a softy for old dudes, even John McCain. I suspect when I see GW in his coffin, just as I did with Nixon, I'll feel a rush of sorrow, and it isn't because I admire the lives of these men, but because they're just dudes, who lived and died trying to conquer the world and were super bad at it. That's just sad.

What Became of Andy Millman?

I think my car was stolen. I’m 99 percent sure.

See, parking one’s car in a city like Oakland is a treacherous affair (as this blog has alluded to in the past). For one, there is always some dirty, hidden misstep which leads to a ticket (i.e. obstructed and worn street sweeping signs indicating times for this phantom service involving invisible street sweeping and yielding results which look much TO MUCH like trashy streets). For two, when one has at least 200 given spaces to park in and then one leaves her car for days and days, and that one has a propensity for foggy-brain, one can and HAS lost her car.

That only happened once.

I found it within ten minutes.

This time it feels real-err.

After dragging my nine-year-old fatty pug, Ruby, around the block at least three times, strong-arming her huge, awkward-to-carry doggy car seat and about a thousand other things in her doggy “diaper bag”, she hated me, my thighs were soaked in sweat, I was late for my internship and, still that elusive mother fucker of a car was NOT FOUND.

I had to return to home base to dump this dead weight. My roommate confirmed where I’d parked it Sunday night (this is a big deal). Even so, I set up Ruby with her much-deserved grub; I put on my running shoes and I headed out on a mission.

After checking the pay lot, and eye scanning each and every car on four streets…

Nope. No car.

Called Oakland Popo…

Nope. No tow.

I then proceeded to get loaded watching Extras: Season Two, whilst waiting for an officer to show up for my story.

Nope. No officer.

Today, I’ve decided to remain calm. Foul car-karma is my lot, and for my lot I will bend over and take it up the keester. Best case scenario? Fucking car is gone from my life forever and I can sign up for City Car Share like I’ve always dreamed of. Worst case scenario? A couple meth headed pieces of shite went for a joy ride (in a D O D G E) and ditched it in Daly City minus its rims, Little Brown Brother’s bocce set, Froggie’s inherited guitar amp and my tennis racket; the right rear door is missing, the seats have some smoke damage and the inner air quality is tantamount to Beijing’s, coupled with the aroma of teenage body. Plus, I’d owe about a million dollars in tow fees, impound fees, bribery fees, ticket fees, shampooing fees and a deductible.

Worst-case scenarios be damned... but do I have to remind everyone what happened to my Volkswagen?
_____________________________________________________________________________________


Today’s Recommendations!

Souley Vegan
431 13st
(Between Broadway & Franklin St)
Oakland

I’ve had only their mac & cheese but it was a fantastical phenom. More reviews on Yelp!


Extras: Season 1 – FOR SURE… the jury’s (me) still out on Season 2 (I felt disappointed but I’m gonna give it another go; perhaps it is just THAT layered.) www.rickygervais.com



Hot Water Music, by Charles Bukowski: One story is so powerfully gross, you’ll smell the stench of urine and taste the mix of done red wine and stale chicken soup for days. (And try to buy it here.)

Affluenza: It's The Must-Have Disease Of The Decade

Fucking rich people and their crappy kids.

I've got no energy to really comment; some of us have to work around here.

Just read the article and barf everywhere.

Remember Estelle Getty In Mannequin? Do You Believe That Movie Was Nom'd For An Oscar?

Jezebelian, Slut Machine, posted this amazing clips reel of Estelle Getty rocking her role as mama Sophia on the in-recent-years hyped (thanks to Summer on The OC and TV box sets in general) Golden Girls . Watching the montage, I realized this show was way too provocative for my roughly 12-year-old mind, which explains why I watched it and liked it, but really only GOT that Rose was picked on (which upset me terribly) and Blanche had much sex outside of marriage, which meant Hell and Gross.

I also remembered my dad making disparaging remarks about the cast, and the show's premise, begging us to change the channel (him versus four women), yet not leaving the room or looking away (more addicted to TV than Limbaugh or the Lord). Thus, as a child I subconsciously dismissed the show as less than, based solely on the leads being older, and women. Now, having abandoned my father's politics, I can safely say the progressive show was fucking smart and fucking hilarious. Rest in peace, dear. Jezebel

The Misunderstood Musician: Officially on Hiatus, Please Offer Title Suggestions

Thanks, Gekkica and e, for your interest in the story series. Unfortunately, everything I've posted is AT BEST second draft quality, and after careful consideration (i.e. it occurred to me yesterday) I've decided to discontinue posting portions, opting to post the finished product should the product ever earn the adjective "finished".

The parts posted have already been heavily edited, and now I feel dirty for even self-publishing the mediocre flim flam early drafts. See, people who think they're a "writer" (me) sometimes jump the gun -- longing to be finished, seeking feedback, fearing rejection, hoping for validation, and more problems of ego and id.

But all hope is not lost! As I said, the story is being worked on steadily and will be available in its entirety in a week or so (don't hold me to that).

Nextly, I'm open to all suggestions for a title change. I hate the title. I shat it out in a minute and the alliteration fooled me into happiness, so I went with it, but it's lazy. Sweet B Heart hates it too. And she knows! This girl can title shit like no body's business!

Finally, you all know how I tend to watch something, read something or hear something I like and then camp out on it, obsessing, wikipedia-ing, googling, searching for all things related, talking of this new thing to everyone and anyone over and over and over for months usually, and then finally when I've sucked all the marrow from the bones I move on to beat something else? I recommend a Bukowski documentary from 2003, Born Into This. I've watched it twice. And so the downward spiral into the life and work of the LA Poet Laureate of Skid Row begins... this one could last years (dude wrote a ton of shit).

The Misunderstood Musician Part III

(In case you missed it, PART II is HERE and PART I is HERE.)

With all sweetness, friendliness and confidence I address Cheech and Chong, "Hey guys. So I am Trudy, the manager of Semicolons Make Tears..." Their chuckles interrupt my explanation. "Yah, funny, right? So listen, do I see Tom for the passes or do one of you guys have them for me?" The one on the right stands, enters the ticket booth, roots around in a cardboard box and the passes are handed over. Neither smiles nor speaks; it's all business; it seems as if I register as "enemy" on their "The Man" radar. Perhaps I poured on the sappy professionalism too thick with these balls-to-the-wall death core freaks. I underestimated their hidden hardcore-edness.

"By the way, I adore Fantomas' remake of The Godfather - fucking brilliant." This spirals us into a discussion of the album The Director’s Cut. With genuine childhood-like delight, I relay to them the first time I heard them do the Jurassic Park score, and although I am sincere, my aim is really to bring them into my fold - which I successfully do. By the time I walk away, I'm getting knucks all over the place, and then I go in for the kill.

"Awesome! So I have to go take care of some shit. Will you guys just make sure no one is coming in here that shouldn't? Got to get paid, ya know?"

"Totally Trudy, we are your dudes."

"Rad. Later."

I don't look at it as manipulation. Shit. I do love that Fantomas' album, and nothing I said was untrue. I believe you can connect with anyone on something. Hell, once I had a 45-minute conversation with a girl working the merch table about the highs and lows of that shitty reality show "The Hills". She and I still email.

The venue is rarely my problem. The problems usually have to do with the band (or the label)(or other bands). For instance, now I must coax Bruce away from the GTA and into more "indie rockish" clothing.

Standing over a religiously-concentrated Bruce, as he's assumed his usual legs-folded-underneath-him-hunched-over-eyes-making-love-with-the-bouncing-lights-from-the-big-screen-TV position, I begin my efforts. Yelling toward the tiny bathroom, "Hey Lowell, do you have any more kids' pants that Bruce can wear?" Bruce and I try hard not to snicker too loudly. I hit Bruce's shoulder out of bullying-camaraderie. Still in the toilet cave, a cocky Lowell whines, "You can't handle that I'm a fashion risk-taker".

"Whatever, I know a girl sent them to you." Lowell doesn't reply. "Ike told me. He says it's hot and heavy. Which city is this one from?"

Faintly, the figurative cock fallen from his mouth, Lowell embarrassingly offers, "Tokyo."

Bruce and I lose our shit laughing at Lowell's online dating past, present and future. There's always a new one, and she's always sending him shit (lucky bastard). He's strategic about keeping them on a cyber plane. He makes sure he's never speaking to one in a city we may be coming to next. He doesn't actually want to meet a girl in person. The digital romance of words and the occasional gift give him enough "love" to deal with, then physical needs are met via blow jobs from random groupies. It's a balance he's perfected. But let me be clear, he is retardedly serious about these online ladies; there is nothing insincere about his poetic and melancholy emails.

Again, faintly, Lowell replies, "Shut up."

Bruce pauses his game to really enjoy the ribbing, "What'd her ad say? 'Prefer hipster dufus but willing to take a skinny white dude who can fit these pants?" Bruce tries hard not to lose his composure, "So the text 'pants' has a hyperlink and it takes you to an online vintage retailer... and that's when you first fell in love with your tiny boy cords?" The laughter is raucous at this point, tears stream from my eyes, I can't breathe and a bit of pee trickles out.

Lowell, occasionally a self-aware good sport, comes, literally dancing, out of the bathroom. He dances all around us in his tight, blue bottoms, leaping, pausing to take rigid air-guitar poses, head-bangingly tossing his hair all around his smiling face. He does a few more fist pumps for good measure, stops, minorly defeated, he offers, "Ya, I'll change." Back into the tiny bathroom he struts, ready to say goodbye to his tiny Tokyo-love pants.

Bruce returns to killing prostitutes with machine guns. Ike has joined him. I look at my watch. I have to start weaning Bruce off of his distraction (and true passion) and into what he calls his "laughable high school marching band uniform that I despise".

"Dude, it's time."

Ike, the ever vocal proponent of labor, always fighting "management": "Why do you make him wear those dumb clothes?" His ego is drenched in irony as he wears his traditional stage get-up: short green running shorts with white piping, a hairy belly and a beard like a mountain man whose house is most likely made entirely of sticks, glued together by his own feces. I don't know if he's joking or not.

As many times as I have explained the label's parameters on image, no one understands my need to dictate fashion. It's hardly a job I relish. Fuck marketing; fuck image; fuck trends. I hate it more than they do. And it isn't as if their attire is contractually mandated by the label. That expectation safely hovers beneath the surface, made clear in subtle comments. I'm no idiot. I get that a "look" always accompanies music. The ultimate "I could give a shit about my clothing" band was Nirvana. Ironically their "look" spawned a clothing trend finally reaching to the middle-end ranks and racks of JC Penney. Every sub-genre of the underground music scene unintentionally promotes its own style: metal, Goth, punk. Punk fashion was meant to be the ultimate fuck you to fashion, anti-fashion, and now new born babies of second-generation corporate wealth, New Yorker faux-urbanites sport "The Clash" onesies and shit. Music is a lifestyle down to the last detail. Hell, I used to say if I wasn't wearing my beat up, cheap wrist watch, I wasn't representing myself properly. No doubt that awareness of the signals I was sending through material choices was directly influenced, if not caused by my musical interests. Any slightly aware person can't be aloof enough to ignore it. So I maintain an anti-social social consciousness by pushing another social consciousness, a consciousness always teetering on destroying the same music which is solely responsible for birthing that fashion trend. It's as complicated as Federalism, and I have no idea if this band pulls it off. All I know is, they don't feel like sell-outs and the label stays off their (and mine) backs - which, incidentally are clothed in well-worn second-hand t-shirts most of the time.

To Be Continued…

Part II of The Misunderstood Musician

(In case you missed Part I, see it here - obviously it's changed from FLASH to full on FICTION.)

Semicolons Make Tears has been a band for eight years now. Well, not actually eight. They've all been playing music in different bands for the past eight years; bands called Misery Loves Your Mom, The Feng Shuit , Hot Docta Peppa, My Sweet Little Baby Heart, Puking Up My Low Self-Esteem and Reality Gone Rancid (obviously a Rancid cover band). At this point, I'm not sure which bands were considered talented, or found local notoriety, who was in which band, how long the stint of that particular band name (or band) actually lasted, or if a realized album (be it EP or full length) ever came out under such a title/line-up. And so is the summation of a musician's adolescence: throwing together a grouping of semi-competent performers, coming up with a band name, loathing the band name/line-up/musical genre, changing the band name/line-up/musical genre, brutally offending members/friends/fans by breaking up, repeat.

Semis have been a band, the three of them, with me at the helm, for the past two years. A well-funded independent label picked them up about six months ago, and here we are. The label likes and trusts me, as do the guys, so I get to fill all the roles -- manager, tour manager, cop and confidant. I work hard; musical skill-deficient folks like me have to. Don't get me wrong, the guys take this opportunity seriously and recognize their true luck, father time's blessing, but they also have a fucking ball. Extraordinarily Awesome Day Job: Just another perk of being a rock star.

Sifting through the spilled out media cabinet of DVDs and board games stacked upon my makeshift desk (which is just a Formica table top that folds down from its secured position on the wall), I find my clipboard. This night's show science is on top. So as to not look like a raging idiot, I have researched and written out all pertinent venue information for quick reference. Every detail is included, down to the capacity (should the fire marshal show up). The alcohol policy of the venue and its corresponding state's laws are noted - especially for all-ages shows. I know how many staff security, who owns the venue, who manages the venue, who manages the bar, who is working the door tonight, how many tables we will have for merch... I know how fucking high off the ground the stage is (so as to purposefully warn Ike NOT to do a stage dive or give him the green light to risk it). I know everything, it's part of my job to know.

Plus, I'll be honest, some dicks have a problem dealing with a woman - so I have to be extra on top of it. The sexism is rare and even then rarely overt, and usually only happens in places like Bakersfield or Cleveland. But I have a responsibility to women who want to be a real face in the music business. My shit's together, no one can question my hard-earned position. In fact, any who have dared to try, got the bitch. Of course, the beauty in that? They didn't know the bitch came out.

We've been on tour with the band, The Deep Pockets, and there is always a booked local band to help bring in the purist, local scene-kids. Tonight's local favorite is Da Doo Run Run. My clipboard also offers the venue is Slim's, we are in San Francisco (I always remind the team which city we are in) and the venue's booking manager is Tom Carerra.

I pass by the tiny bathroom where Lowell is trying - without much luck, as the mirror is five feet off the ground and the size of a vertical standing toaster oven - to check out himself in his tiny pants, and to hopefully justify their lustful appearance on stage this night. Immediately recognizing the scream of a cartoon hooker, I predict Bruce is playing his fave video game of all time "Grand Theft Auto". Without surprise, I see that I am correct. The 46-inch about-to-be-bloodied prostitute begging to take a ride never ever makes it.

Outside the bus, Ike is smoking a cigarette and talking on his cell phone. Poor kid, by sheer force of will, superseded convention and avoided carrying a cell phone for years. "A part of the sociopolitical machine I will not indulge" is what he used to say. Rapidly dwindling pay phone locations coupled with death glares from the rest of us in response to the repetitive "Can I use?" finally sunk him deep into the preverbal mainstream landscape. He hated it at first, but now he's always on that fucking phone. It's not clever, and lamely obscure, but I borrow an insulting characterization from the movie Scream 2 and call him "phone head". He often lovingly rolls his eyes at me.

The venue is empty, except for a scattered bevy of employees and band folk. This is how the few hours before a show always look. Although the bodies are few, the collective bustling energy and anticipation could power a whole music festival. Only the promise of live music can bring such electricity. It's one of those undiscussed, unstudied chemistries melding people to sound. I still feel it every time, every venue, no matter how tired or hung over or depressed I am.

No one hassles me at the door, which mildly bothers me. In fact the two metal-head geeks working the entrance, who barely look eighteen and who are too busy discussing the finer points of Mike Patton side projects to even notice I've just walked in, seem oblivious as to what "working the door" entails. I back up.

To Be Continued…

"...But I Can't Look at Your Blank Meathead Stare For One More Second."

Imagine my surprise when I sat down to my computer this Monday morning and saw this disturbing (yet hilarious) email, copied to me (plus a thousand of her co-workers, and upper-level management) and sent to my sister's boss, Dick Face.

CopperCrotch has the biggest balls of anyone I know - which scare and thrill me simultaneously. For anyone who's ever wanted to verbally indict management (using many cuss words) for sucking their labor teet dry, or wanted to call out the blatant and subtle ways misogyny oozes out of every orifice of the head douche in charge, or just wanted to exit in a blaze of glory, paying no mind to future references or thinking of keep bridges in tact, then this resignation email is the one for you.

(Btw, she never addresses him as "Dick Face". I changed his name to protect his identity.)

Subject: I Quit

Dick Face,

I'm sorry to do this via email, but I can't work here anymore. I feel as if I've been taken advantage of, and I can't take it any longer. I know I don't need to explain myself; you are not stupid; you know you would NEVER put up with the shit that I have put up with the last 8 months; nobody would. I left a job where I was making $38,000 per year and I had health benefits, paid vacations and paid sick days. I trusted that you were being honest with me. I was wrong.

For the past few months I have been doing all three first briefings per week, and 2-4 second briefings per week. I usually end up doing the thirds too. Plus, I am the only recruiter inviting people in to the office. I do your job. I should be making $200,000+ per year. Seriously, nobody here even knows what you do. You work six hour days and act like you have no time for anything. It's bullshit. This office used to be an awesome place to work when JD was the USM. He cares about people. He inspires people. Dick Face, you still don't even know how many kids I have. You suck ass as a manager!! You have no idea what it means to develop relationships with people. You are a salesman, always ready to manipulate people to get what you want out of them.

I know that I have been passive and let this happen to me. The thing is I'm not stupid. I'm very smart. I am GOOD at my job. I am extremely under paid and I have to hear from you that you don't have any money to pay me, like you're poor or something. Give me a fucking break, nobody is buying that shit Dick Face. And by the way, it is insulting to me when you offer me the bagel scraps at the end of the day. I'm not a charity case. I don't want bagel scraps Dick Face. I want to get paid when I'm supposed to get paid. I know it's hard for you to believe that a WOMAN can have a mind of her own and see through your slimy ways, but it has happened. I'm sorry I have to go out like this, but I can't look at your blank meathead stare for one more second. You have absolutely no integrity Dick Face. NONE.

CopperCrotch

The Fights You Fight Today Are The Fights You Fight Til' You Die

So I'm on my second attempt at reading/finishing Howard Zinn's "A People's History of the United States". I started it more than six months ago, and after about two hundred pages (or years), at least two mill D E A D, and too many gross accounts of explorers' misinterpretations of what Jesus meant when he said "Go into the world and preach the gospel", I had to put the murdered baby lamb of a history lesson down in order to regain my appetite/hope for the present/future/faith in humanity. (Incidentally, only the appetite returned.) Then, lo and behold, I start interning for this documentary project - time coding and archiving footage, writing clip synopsis, blah blah blah - and one of the interviewees for the film is none other than the actual man/historian/pinko Howard Zinn! And the best part? It's not like he's just a contributing talking-head historian, rather, he is actually part of the story being told! He hid the Pentagon Papers for Daniel Ellsberg for a time back in the 60s or 70s - or whenever the whole Vietnam... Watergate... Nixon mess happened. (Obviously, I'm no historian, nor do I fully understand the doc I'm working for.) I'm all, "how cool is it that I'm cutting and pasting the text of Howard Fuckin' Zinn's recently spoken words? I'm part of something special...maybe...!" So anyways, it made me pick up the book again so I could read his first-hand account of that VietWatNix junk, but I started with WWI instead. I don't know why; I suppose I was curious about the Socialist movement (don't tell my dad).

Cut to today, three weeks into the Espionage Act. I'd yet to pick up the book this morning as I had to move my car to a legal space. As soon as I stepped outside onto the sidewalk I smelled summer, and with the long 4th of July weekend beckoning me forth, I left footprints of happiness in the wake of my stroll to where I'd left my vehicle. THE FUCKING GREEN ENVELOPE OF DOOM crammed under my wiper didn't kill my joy at first. I grabbed it, entered my car, took off my headphones and my sunglasses, and searched for the amount this ticket would cost me... $24? No... $35? No... $48?... FUCK YOU GODDAMN MUTHERFUCKERS. No, I think I yelled something closer to YOU FUCKING PIECES OF SHIT. Yes, that was it. (You've seen my parking rants, you know how I roll.)

After re-parking my car, I attempt to calm myself down on my walk to the train. Money worries (especially saving for huge future events like moving and planned unemployment) can weigh very heavy on one's heart and rip out one's peace of mind - thereby making one a complete sourpuss bitch and not fun to be around. I don't want to be that one this long camping-weekend. Ah, the book; I decide to get lost in Zinn's eloquent and poignant prose -- even going to far as to think "now those people, those people had it rough - get some perspective".

But see, all that rhetorical jazz I used to assuage myself? That shit don't work with Zinn. 1) History actually happened. This isn't fiction; these people existed and suffered -- usually unjustly and at the hands of utmost puritanical stupidity and hypocrisy, propelled by white male ego, entitlement, and infinite greed. 2) Uhmmm, it still fucking happens. Only now, today, we lock people up under the guise of protecting the masses from terrorism (instead of communism, or treason) and we do it via oppressive and unconstitutional law called The Patriot Act (instead of The Espionage Act). We throw people in the brig sans due process, only we keep them in Guantanamo Bay, or the back room of an airport or whatever torture chambers the White House has privy to that Geraldo hasn't discovered yet.

The foundation of this nation is bologna-sandwich-firm at best. The government has no apparent interest in its people. Freedom is a slogan, akin to Just Do It or Just Say No. It's an allusion, a masterful marketing gimmick. The popular opinion of this country is to end the war in Iraq, as was it the popular opinion of this country to keep out of WWI. And if you keep your head buried in racks of discount clothing or in a newspaper or in your Big Mac Value Meal or in your fucking meds, the government will leave you alone.

My father, in his elder age (brain now ten years soaked in Limbaughisms and O'Reilly-urine) will tell you he values safety over freedom. He says terrorism is the reason. And when I ask him how that translates to him, or his family, getting carted away by FBI, tossed away in a cell with no explanation of charges, denied constitutional due process of law and waiting waiting waiting while the witch hunt round-up continues? He thinks he's immune; he also thinks some innocent should suffer for the good of many. He says terrorism is such a foe, that some freedom MUST be relinquished. I imagine if my father were around during WWI, he would have said, of the socialists fighting the war and conscription, "Treasonists! Drag them to the streets and shoot them like dogs!" Oh, my daddy.

So history repeats itself essentially. The present-day is only more desirable since it is better lit, less diseased, more connected and arguably more humane. The value system, the hierarchy, the management/labor gap, the propaganda, the injustice and war, that is all exactly the same.

Which brings me back to this doggone brilliant Zinn-afflicted documentary! Grassroots social movements spur progressive policy change, history proves it time and time again. This decade has seen the rise of the newest effectual tool of that movement, the documentary film. Support documentary filmmakers, support documentary films. Even a hopeless realist like me can't deny their far-reaching impacts. Even I believe change is possible, and the only way I believe hearts and minds can be truly moved is by film (and music) (but mostly film). See one today!

Happy Independence Day.

(Oh, btw, the pictures here are of this amazing spider sculpture at Embarcadero & Mission in SF. We have it on loan from some country in Europe through August. If you have the means, I highly recommend a visit! And thanks to commenter, e, for the Fascism image!)

Spoofing: This Is Just To Say

Some weeks ago, I listened to (repeatedly) an episode of This American Life entitled, "Mistakes Were Made". The final act stuck with me the most, and recently resurfaced in me when I was forced to think about poetry, and to try to write like a poet.

"Act Two. You’re Willing to Sacrifice Our Love.

There’s a famous William Carlos Williams poem called “This is Just to Say". It’s about, among other things, causing a loved one inconvenience and offering a non-apologizing apology. It’s only three lines long, you’ve probably read it...the one about eating the plums in the icebox. Marketplace reporter (and published poet) Sean Cole explains that this is possibly the most spoofed poem around. We asked some of our regular contributors to get into the act. Sarah Vowell, David Rakoff, Starlee Kine, Jonathan Goldstein, Shalom Auslander and Heather O’Neill, all came upwith their own variations of Williams’s classic lines. (6 minutes)"

First, I present the original poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

-- William Carlos Williams


And my spoof:

I ate the whole
burrito.

You most likely heard
me slurp
the cheese.

Drunk tosses
of foil,
and rice,
and beans.

If I woke you up,
and you're angry,
don't fret...

I barely tasted it,
and I'll pay for it
today.

You can hear the original podcast here.

The "Poet" As An Observer: The Mall Metaphors

[Sidebar: This past weekend I took part in an intensive writing seminar at BCC. Over the course of the weekend, I wrote four different pieces - each in about ten minutes. They've been edited (since I can't not edit) but the content is true to my in-the-moment inspiration. Recently, this blog has been dedicated to my lengthy Bachelorette recaps, so I'm happy to post something new. I hope you especially get a kick out of my poetry attempts.]

The Mall Metaphors

He glides among pyramids
He saunters around the pillars of the day
He smells of Gucci, and a lunch hour Chardonnay

He can fold a V-neck tee
As lovely as a wave folds up onto the sand
He can get you a key to the dressing room
As fast as a cougar runs on arid land

His name is Bo.
His code is minimum wage.
Welcome to the Gap, How can he help you today?

A "Poem": Becoming

[Sidebar: This past weekend I took part in an intensive writing seminar at BCC. Over the course of the weekend, I wrote four different pieces - each in about ten minutes. They've been edited (since I can't not edit) but the content is true to my in-the-moment inspiration. Recently, this blog has been dedicated to my lengthy Bachelorette recaps, so I'm happy to post something new. I hope you especially get a kick out of my poetry attempts.]

Becoming

I am an editor.
"Editor" fits me to a tee.
"Creative" was a word I laughed at when applied to me.

Spelling, sentence, structure
semi-colon, comma, hyphen
awkward

To finish and see the beautiful
red-inked landscape of my
practical, ruled, application:
b r e a t h t a k i n g

Then. Then anger caused exchange of red
for black
for blue
for keystroke
for pencil
for marker
for eyeliner
for chalk
for cigarette butt

Anger motivated
and always comedy
and usually tragedy
and honor memory
and love family

Brought forth by music

"Creative" can be me,
has to be me

Only I hold my own view

And then I edit, I write, I edit, I write

Duality.
Cheesy poetry.

A Monologue: I Am A "Star"

[Sidebar: This past weekend I took part in an intensive writing seminar at BCC. Over the course of the weekend, I wrote four different pieces - each in about ten minutes. They've been edited (since I can't not edit) but the content is true to my in-the-moment inspiration. Recently, this blog has been dedicated to my lengthy Bachelorette recaps, so I'm happy to post something new. I hope you especially get a kick out of my poetry attempts.]

A Monologue: I Am A "Star"


So I was a guest on Letterman last night. LETTERMAN. He seemed to mock my celebrity, but it's hard to tell with him, ya know?
He was shocked when I told him I require a hundred grand to show up at a club. Hey man, if promoters are willing to pay it, Why not take it?
Do I deserve it?
Have I earned it?
I'm on a semi-scripted, boring-as-hell, reality television show. Truth be told: I hate that fucking show. But it's made me who I am.

Who am I?

I'm famous.

What do I do?

I'm famous.

What is my passion?

F A M E.

Sure, I produced my girlfriend's record; you could call me a producer.
Sure, I directed my girlfriend's video; you could call me a director.
But fuck all that.
I get to produce, I get to direct...
because I. AM. FAMOUS.
My good looks and commitment to my bad attitude gave me my fame, gave me my money.
Why would I opt for legitimacy?
Legitimacy is difficult.
Legitimacy requires talent.
Legitimacy needs credentials, and reputation and respect.
I don't want any of those things.
I want fame; and I want money.
My father... the big deal land developer of the OC...
He could give a fuck that I'm a renegade twat with shit for brains.
He sees me wheeling and dealing on my iPhone, he sees me drive up to his mansion in my brand new Escalade, he sees me pick up the check at the country club.
He sees, and he looks... impressed.
He looks... relieved.
He looks... fortified.
He looks... proud.
He's proud of his nasty, materialistic, illegitimate, talentless wreck of a son, and that's enough for me.
So fuck 'em!
Assholes like Letterman think it's nuts to give me a hundred grand to enter a club?
He's part of that machine that pays for fame, and I'm just a paid cog in the wheel until it breaks me off forever.

Flash Fiction: The Misunderstood Musician

[Sidebar: This past weekend I took part in an intensive writing seminar at BCC. Over the course of the weekend, I wrote four different pieces - each in about ten minutes. They've been edited (since I can't not edit) but the content is true to my in-the-moment inspiration. Recently, this blog has been dedicated to my lengthy Bachelorette recaps, so I'm happy to post something new. I hope you especially get a kick out of my poetry attempts.]

The Misunderstood Musician

His corduroys were so tight, and so exactly powder blue, and he was so impressed with his ridiculous taste in fashion. His shirt was only slightly better-looking; still just as tight but (at least it was) black. His hair was ratty and unkempt as usual -- except pulled back in an unusual ponytail. To be honest, he looked like a lengthened, malnourished, pastier version of that fitness dillweed, Tony Little.

He strutted in front of me, begging for my approval.

I sat on the well-cushioned bench of the sickly-indulgent tour bus, just trying to enjoy my beer before all hell broke loose, and he presents me this silly dick-cinching pair of pants.

You look like an idiot.

My dead pan declaration, coupled with my raised eyebrow indicated to him I meant it.

Really? I don't know. I think they're cool.
Did you show the guys?
No.
Why don't you try them? Oooh, and can you take my audio recorder with you? I'd love to hear their commentary...shit, I can't find my clipboard...

He didn't take the recorder from me. Instead, he, in his tiny pants sulked off to the bus' tiny toilet.

Harsh Judgment: Just another perk of managing a band.

The Bachelorette Recap #4: Dudes Like Fuckin' Cars

Brad's residual checks have met their inevitable end. RIP, Brad's residual checks, but glory be for the rest of us. I wasn't aware, but we find out this show has been produced in an effort to "heal her broken heart" - as if a television show attempting to put two culture-killers together is a healthy way to do such a thing. One item of interest that I noticed in the recap of the last episode: Ron and Jeremy, Arch Nemeses of Night Time TV Torture, are wearing the exact same anti-cowboy shirt. Plus, ABC considers Dee to be "America's Sweetheart" - a laughable characterization. I know Sandra Bullock, and you, Dee, are no Sandra Bullock.

The build-up to the episode is actually a good twenty seconds light to what we're used to, AND, the episode order on the website is in the correct chronological sequence that they are to be in, thus, I have few complaints from the start. Give me time, ladies and gentlemen, give. me. time. This is like dreading the inevitable shit stain which is the future of rock-n-roll.

Dip Shit hangs with Tweedle Dee, Twilly Dumb, and the Seven Dwarfs to remind the group of how this whole process works; i.e. the rose-winners of yesteryear get to move up into the house on haunted hill: Fred (love), Robert (vom) and Jason (...).

Dip Shit explains the week's dates: a group date, a one-on-one date, and a two-on-one date. He promotes the last date as the kiss of death, as one of these subpar politicians will be going back to his mistress. To earn the one-on-one, the competition starts as soon as his ass leaves the bunker. The challenge? To write and perform an original song for The Deevil. Awesome. AWESOME. AWWWWESOMMMME.

Jesse's reaction is appropriate, as far as Coloradan-snowboarders are concerned. He sucks at art and wants to punch Dip Shit in the teeth.

Cue montage of douche to legal pad. Brian says he loves putting verse on paper, and my lust-roots for him grasp tighter to the soil of the most shallow planter-box. When quizzed by Sean on the status of his love song, Brian responds confidently. This is the editing which reveals he most assuredly will lose this competition. Why reward hard work and passion, REALLY?

Fred hilariously struggles through writing his song, and Jason doesn't know what a refrain is. Incidentally, the workspace Graham writes in includes a table-ornament that closely resembles a grenade.

Dip Shit calls them back to the bunker's living room, in order to embarrass themselves and those they love by performing their musical non-masterpieces before a major network's significant audience-share.

DeAnna, judgiest of the judges, gets to pick at their efforts. She waltzes into the bunker with a "How ya'll doin this mornin?", two Livestrong bracelets--you know she had to wrestle away from Graham, and the ultimate Hollywood accessory: it's-only-a-matter-of-time-until-rehab UGGS.

Fred's up first. In a talking-head, he omigods, "Oh... my... god...". His lyrics are cute, and I'm pretty sure the melody rips from the Dukes of Hazard theme song.

Next is Graham (still in his pajamas), he interviews he'd rather eat glass and that's what he feeds us with his "wine" song. Notably, he predicted his bros would laugh at him to get him through. Absolute silence follows.

DeAnna appears to be sitting in a director's chair. DeAnna, I know Marty Scorsese and you, my dear, are no Marty.

Robert tries to sing, in a way that he thinks he can sing. Dee points out she thinks he thinks he can sing, and all I can think about is that chubbster, Garth Brooks.

Twilly performs some spoken-word-over-producer-scythed-cowboys-duelling-music. Jeremy raps; he raps. Sean Garth Brooks it up; Jason embodies some alien shit with robotic spoken word, which some how alludes to his bastard child. Oh yah, also? He's got Jesse's white sunglasses on.

Jesse's song is in the vein of Woody's "Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly Kelly Kellyyyyy, K E L L Y" (tm Cheers). He one-knees it, and finds his way through her Ugg-fur to grab her hand. She flips her hair HARD in approval.

Big Brian steps it up. His muscular ass settles into the pool table, and it is there he reveals what it's like to live in "The House of [His] Pain." The song blows... yet, she still doesn't deserve it and I'd still be willing to go down on him. Funnily, his self-serious vibe causes his bros to undercover-snicker at his expense. Everyone, it seems, was in shock and awe at his willingness to offer his high school football subordinates hours of snark-time. His performance elicits a standing-O, and a Twilly reenactment akin to a duck, but do you think she'll choose him as the winner?

She fucking picks Jesse, because he touched her. He likens her to perfection. The three rosebuds depart with The Deevil, and my man Brian utters the most listenable sentence of the series, "We're losing our cook, our comic relief, and... Jason." Cue uproarious laughter, as it's warranted.

Proceeding the aftermath of the singsong, the "men" sit around pontificating on Jesse's ill-advised fashion choices for his outing - as men are naturally want to do - then lo and behold, a knock! at the door! An Executive Producer in fear of dispelling the allusion of romance, I mean, DeAnna, has messengered over a suit, courtesy of Men's Warehouse, and they have a group dick-suck over how much coin it must have cost a multi-million network. Jesse's freaking out over the loss of his Peter Pan lifestyle.

Poignantly, Jesse freaks out over the formal-attire required for the date. However, he acknowledges it's not that personality-representing shitty garb of colors and skate shoes in his suitcase, but rather shitty garb like that suit that Dee wants to date.

Dee pops out of her "home" in my prom dress from 1993. She enters, without knocking (RUDE), and beckoning back to memories of their high school proms and first times getting laid, their sixteen-year-old testosterone-drives deduce she looks so hyperventilation-good.

Dee talking-heads, "I'm not trying to change Jesse, BUT gnjwgbnogbrgrbgolgngwronog" aka, YOU'RE TRYING TO CHANGE HIM. Point of interest: Jesse is uber-tiny, like Dee-sized tiny.

The limo arrives at some Hollywood-landmarkian theater. Apparently, Dee's out of control since she put their names on a marquis. He's pooping and farting all over her, and she continues her shtick of shameless giggling.

In a talking-head, The Deevil lies that she feels good that Jesse is delusional enough to think this night is all about him. Side bar: They hug/touch each other a lot. He must be warm. Jesse, the historian, hypothesizes the building is "super old". Him and Dee gaze at the architecture and wonder where the closest Gap is, and then they serendipitously discover a dinner-scenario where the orchestra pit should be.

Nervously, Jesse farts.

At the bunker, the gonad brothers dick over a date card. The group date includes Brian, Twilly, Sean, Jeremy, Graham, and Jason. The message says, "Gentlemen, Start your engines." They all cum at once. Fred and Robert appropriately deduce it is them two for the two-on-one: The chef of sleaze vs the comedian of ease.

Back on the snowboard slopes, The Deevil forces Jesse to sing her song on the stage; several stanzas of awkward later, he finishes, to her personal amusement.

Dee talking-heads that she's seen Jesse's fun side and wonders if he has a serious side - because, really, how could a human have both? It's unimaginable in Dee's world-of-boxes. Back at the dinner table, which looks like it includes steak, Dee asks if Jesse's ever cheated on a woman. Of course, he denies it. In addition, we find out he's stubborn. This is not the opposites-attract-kind-of-world that Paula Abdul intended. Cos, guess what? The Deevil's stubborn too. Jesse remarks that he gets it as she was a total bitch the first night they met. She evilly laughs in recollection at her first-night gaming. Jesse and his locks-o-love pontificate that he was reticent at being able to find love on TV. For a moment, I think this whole illusion will dissolve in front of my very eyes, but then he lies at the realness of it all. BTW, Jerri Lor-Lor previously revealed to me that Jesse was televised on another reality show on MTV, and I know in an instant that Jesse is as much as a fame-whore as The Deevil is, despite his obtuse fashion choices.

Dee acknowledges Jesse's a "real dude" and as much as I want to give her credit since she used the nomenclature "dude", alas, I cannot, because they both suck. Jesse wants to toast to the reality of their relationship. I toast to my own alcoholic death - which will surely precede theirs.

His obsession with getting the rose is overwhelming. He dings the friggin' rose-plate every time he grabs for his Chardonnay. She finally offers him the boutonniere, to his enjoyment. I'm perplexed about the rose-speak. It's not like he's saying, "I want to be here with you cos I like you so so so much." Rather, he's saying, "Gimme the rose, I want the rose. I want to remain in competition with my competition. The Rose! The Rose!". She doesn't catch on, most likely since she's not privy to the talking-heads... that HAS to be it.

Just when I think the singing on this show cannot offend me any further, Natasha "Had to Google Her" Bedingfield shows up on the stage (accompanied by a suicidal-looking guitarist). Jesse looks utterly clueless, his face registering "Is that, like, Barbra Streisand?". It's just a guess, but I'm figuring his musical tastes hover somewhere around old Green Day.

So Jesse felt "swept away" (I'm guessing he means as unto the terror of a tsunami), and The Deevil shamelessly self-promotes (again), "When I'm around Jesse, I feel like I am the only woman in the world." Part of that may have to do with the fact that you are the only woman you've seen Jesse ever interact with in his whole damn life. My opinion: Dee does like Jesse, but we all know their relationship would only work in the context of this bubble. Their social and work commitments would look too entirely different, that conflict would inevitably crop up over and over, eventually overshadowing the fun of their fart contests.

The next peak of sunlight, we see all the men (less Rob and Fred)(oh yah, Dee's there too) board a bus. They're going to a race track to drive, since men love fuckin', and food, and fuckin', and football, and fuckin', and cars. Point of body contact: Dee's doing her best seventh grade interpretation of flirting by rubbing elbows with Graham while looking uninterested. Ah, memories. I haven't touched a boy like that since I saw The Goonies - IN THE THEATER. IN 1985. I WAS NINE.

Thousands of talking-heads later, we discover men like fuckin' cars. And chicks. The Deevil comes swaggering out of the tunnel, camel-toe in full effect. The guys hoot and holler like drunk construction workers, and I'm half-surprised production even gives her a jumpsuit. I mean, the only way a man likes a woman near his car is if she's in a string bikini and heels, rubbing her tits on the hood, while biting into a very meaty burger. I guess Dee's flashy kelly green tank top will have to do. She gets flag duty, too.

Brian can't get it into first gear (we're to believe). Once he does take off, the ripped-off Metalica/PanterA ass-kicking metal kicks in, cos men love fuckin' metal! Driving fast is like moshin' to metal, and then fuckin' to metal records!

"Pedal to the metal", "pushing it to the limit", "for DeAnna, I will go to hell and back.", and "definitely terrified" are all said during this segment. Oh, Sean says, "across the finish line or into the wall" AND "droppin' the hammer, baby". Who wins? Sean.

Sean offers nothing but race car analogies during his "gift" of a one-on-one with Dee. I stop paying attention and start counting the bugs swarming between them.

Some things you didn't know about DeAnna: She lived in Kentucky for six years. Her mom is dead. She's a redneck. She did something to Sean's pole position.

God, Dee so relishes this "I'm tiny and cute and a woman, but I can kick all yall's asses in every thang" role. Between her whining (I'm short!) to her clapping like a two-year-old and baby voice (yaaaay!), she intuits her performance comes off sexy to the men, and their drool confirms it. Quite frankly, it's grossly insulting to any woman who's ever had the distinct disadvantage (however, more rewarding) of having to promote sense of humor, awareness, and intelligence as modicums for attraction, rather than belly button rings and googoo talky talky.

Dee wins. Her prize? Sean will stuff her in his suitcase, and schedule a hymen-reconstruction surgery in an effort to get his bride ready for their nuptials.

Jeremy pulls away "the all-around athlete". He admits he's pushy, and so stupid he would spend his whole life with The Deevil.

The other bologna sandwiches discuss children's stories and their relevance to adult love.

Back on the bus, Jeremy whines he misses Dee. She lies about thinking about him all the time. Just then, Graham interrupts them, and Dee's pants go up in flames. Flames would indicate either she's turned on, or she's bound to come away with some kind of STD after this whole thing is said and done.

Dee proclaims the "most confusing situation anyone could ever be in" is choosing between Jeremy and Graham. It's as if words have no meaning to her whatsoever.

Jason correctly observes to the group that Dee's and Graham's respective nether regions have a magnetic attraction, and it makes him nervous as he's "in the process of falling in love with her." It's as if words have no meaning to him whatsoever.

Graham's a fucking infant. All Dee wants to do it make-out, and instead, he's insisting he won't suck her tongue's sloppy seconds. He's playing jealous boyfriend, which is an absolutely undeserved position to assume. The way he talks to her is so unjustified - as if she's the brain behind the whole bachelor franchise. Dude. You read the contract, you signed up for exactly the experience you're getting. Quit projecting your frustrations with your idiocy in decision-making onto Dee. She should have smacked him.

Back at Fantasy Suites, Rob and Fred check their date-mail. The first card says "who has the recipe for love?". The second is full of lies and a gross misuse of an ellipses. Robert answers the first card's question for us. "I've got lots of recipes for love... smooth, rich, succulent...". The tuna melt begins churning in my gut. He ends with a rapid tongue-flutter. Sexuality minus charisma equals creepy. I know Pepe LePieu, and you Rob, are no Pepe LePieu.

Porn-addict Robert, and my man, Fred, sit around a fire pit in the courtyard. Rob smarms the kiss will determine the Rose. Fred's nervous. He tells us in an interview that he has a recipe for love, and perhaps one for beef stew - that wasn't clear. I wish I had decided to recap a cooking show. I'm a vegetarian and I would kill for some beef stew right now.

At the race track night club (what's with the neon lights?), Dee gives the rose to Sean. Apparently, she assumed he was just a karate geek know-it-all, but today she discovered he's also well-versed in race-car analogies - which she's super in to. She pins him, and he pulls her head so tight into his shoulder, he suffocates her to death. We all get to go home!!

The next day, after the funeral, the guys decide to celebrate with a BBQ. They invite Dee's Ghost and the mansion men. There's talk about how this will be a nice and relaxing atmosphere; we all know from the previews that it most definitely will be no such thing. It most assuredly will resemble something out of a usual afternoon in daycare.

First off, Robert's to cook which he acts like he doesn't like. Plus, there's a kitty table set up for the top three. It's funny, it is, and harmless, and all in good fun. Bobbie no likey and throws a regular fit. He tosses the playful IKEA children's chair into the hillside. People awkwardly laugh, and pee themselves in fear.

So Dee's pouting that she doesn't fit in at the boys' camp. They don't seem to recognize her outside of a strapless gown or a polka-dotted two piece. Sean and Brian throw stuff off a bridge. Bobbie and his teal popped-collar polo hang out by themselves on the hammock. Twilly is "being Twilly". In an effort to gain masculine attention, Dee humbly begs Jason to roll up the sleeves on her new t-shirt. Weird, when I did that to my t-shirts in 1987, I usually was able to accomplish the task on my own. Graham's a total downer, indicting the show's premise once again. His response is to avoid her, which she notices. Outside of a shirtless, grilling Fred, the whole event looks as about as fun as a trip to Auschwitz, during WWII.

Dee discovers Bobbie being a titty-baby indoors, and she marches off to scold him. They have an interesting chat in which he states the obvious about Jeremy and Graham being the front-runners. She strategically avoids answering the issue by only saying, "I've never said that." At this point, Bobbie, your accurate and confrontational reply should have been, "You don't have to SAY it. Anyone with sight knows this to be valid. Can you honestly say that my assertion is wrong?" Instead he completely loses grip of the power he began with, and allows her to manipulate this situation so that she can throw a proper fit, and feel justified in doing so.

They go outside. The menacing drum score tell us shit's about to hit the fan. Allow me to script her monologue in it's entirety. The prose is too self-indulgent to summarize. Here she is, America's Sweetheart, in her own words, DeAnna the Fucking Spoiled Brat: "I'm really really upset right now [begin crying]. Cos right now I should be the happiest person in the world, and ya'll [strong finger point] are breaking my heart. [dramatic pause] K? [dramatic pause] Ya'll feel good about that? [voice crack, tear swipe] I came down here today, to hang out with all y'all. If ya don't want to hang out? Go home. This is not a joke! When I say I know exactly what you've all gone through, I know exactly what you've all gone through! I know how hard this is. I know how hard it is when I'm going on dates with other guys [ticks off a finger], that I'm kissing other guys [ticks off another finger]. I know exactly how you feel. But I'm the one here trying to figure things out and if you guys can't handle it then go home." There's some more, but as a conscientious writer, I can't continue to relay such terribly written dialogue. She storms off in a huff. Can't the universe help me out a bit here? A toe stub? An ankle turn? Rabies?

Jeremy's talking-head correctly deduces their little party totally backfired.

Graham is SOOOOO RIIIIIIIIGHT. That whole cry-baby routine was specifically executed for the manipulation of Graham and Graham, alone. Bobbie, internalizing her speech, kept apologizing and it had not one fucking thing to do with him. Yah, ok, Rob is a dick, but she's a cruel bastard for using him as a pawn to wield her emotional butt-fuck of Graham (with her spooge spraying the rest in her wake).

The next day the camera lingers long, long time on Robert, Fred, and Fred's adorable argyle sweater packing up their suitcases. Bobbie says he's bringing his A-game (thus far, I'm guessing we've seen the D range). Fred says something similar but minus the porn-ish delivery. The limo brings them to another mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Considering they just left a mansion, I'm guessing Dee could really give a fart about this date and is intending on axing them both. Oh, sorry, that last sentence should have been preceded with Spoiler Alert!

They sit down to dinner. Fred poignantly talking-heads he knows his personality can win out over Rob's master-chef routine. Uh, that's leaving a lot up to Dee's ability to recognize a good personality when she sees it. The Deevil asks them to relay the most romantic thing they've ever done for a girl. Robert pulls out every romance cliche in the book, and takes about the length of said book to describe it. I caught Fred snickering at him a few times - especially the whole five-bouquets-worth-of-rose-petals-spelling-out-I-LOVE-YOU trick.

Fred's story is more simple, economical, sweet. Dee seems connected to the sentiment. Robert's dwindling red wine illuminates his entire head.

A voice over from Robert admits it sucks having Fred as his competition since Fred rules. I cannot argue with that logic.

The next part, as much as I enjoyed the awkwardness, reeks of awkwardness. Robbie tries to go in for a kiss. DENIED. His voice over prophesies (unwittingly wrong) that it "could get naughty". In fact, he's doubly unwittingly wrong when he repeats, "it could get naughty". Does he have massive chin acne? Am I just noticing that for the first time?

Dee pulls the oldest cross-examination debate trick in the book, when she sets up his answer for failure with her loaded question. She asks how he handles problems in a relationship, he falls blindly into her trap when he responds with "communication". She goes in for the kill: but he didn't do that at the BBQ today. He back peddles; he didn't want to seem selfish by pulling her away. Her aloof "okay" indicates his ass is grass. And so ends their naughty, naughty exchange on the rented sofa.

Btw, Dee looks great in her white pants.

So Dee and Fred go out to the veranda (?) and sit on one of those outdoor couches. (Do rich people have their illegal immigrant house slaves bring those in when it acid-rains?)

A lot of non-talk about Fred being there for her. She thinks he's sweet. Is competition keeping Fred here? Her looks? He claims she has a good personality, but is he fooling himself? The answer is obviously yes. It seems he's been swept up in this "process" and has ignored, or been hidden from the real-deal of DeAnna. I can't, for the life of me, agree that he actually knows her. He's a catch. He could have someone his equal. It ain't her, buddy. Hell, you may be too nice for me even, and I can't pull off a half-shirt appropriately. However, I'd move to Chicago if you'd have me. And that's a legitimate offer. Well, as legitimate as the idea of Fred reading this blog ever.

Yummers sushi take-out is being had at the bunker, along with pontification over who's coming home tonight. They assume the hammer falls on Robert for his making The Deevil cry all over her shirt cuffs earlier. However, Jeremy intellectualizes Fred's precarious position. He's a great guy, but he may not be the guy for DeAnna. Jesse knucks him in agreement and whispers, "He is totally perfect for this amazing blogger I've heard about named Esmallass." Graham asks Jesse for my URL, but Jesse won't give it up since he's too busy stuffing his face with edamame beans.

Dee and Fred come back to a waiting Robert. The rose looms in the foreground of the shot. Dee blahs some crap about coming out of the closet and then rips Robert's spaghetti from his boiler too soon. His reaction is utter shock, and she walks him out. Now, there be Fred. You can feel the relief pour over him, as he picks up his beer. That fucking bitch.

Robert's wasted in the limo. He can't believe he's misread what he calls "chemistry" and what I call "your dick moves when you've been drinking a ton". Also, he's not used to rejection, meaning he gets laid all the time but it has nothing to do with him being "marriage material". He anchors his defeat with "it will be a long time before I let anyone in again". So, he's giving up gay NSA encounters he finds on Craigslist for like a month, but will continue banging drunk Google-employed chicks he finds in the Mission District.

Dee joins Fred, who's expecting to be rosed, yet instead he's given the old heave-ho. See, Dee realizes he's one of the best guys there but Graham's eight-pack is the eight-pack of her dreams, so no rose for Fred. She acts really distraught - even blatantly comparing Brad's machinations to her avoidances. But fuck her! This whole dismiss-them-both deal was underhanded and dishonest, even for TV. So Fred's hurt, but this is the best for him! You don't want to be entangled in the non-love of reality TV dating, Freddie.

At the bunker, they all freak out when both sets of luggage are whisked away. Graham looks beside himself. Jesse dudes that Fred was "stuck in the friend zone".

In the rent-a-mansion, Dee walks Fred out. She gets how fucking cool he is but she can't see a future with him. God, she's such a fake crier. Fred doesn't cry. He offers he thought fate brought him there (no) and he wants kids one day (no).

RIP, Fred. (P.S. I want you inside me.)

Dee goes back to creepy Jason at the mansion. He "comforts" her. They kiss, she opens her eyes. No way he's making it past the next round.

The requisite rose-ceremony night ushers itself in, and I know the end of the war in Iraq is in sight. Jubilation! The sandwiches make their entrance, and Jeremy finds himself getting alone time with his girlfriend.

Jeremy sells his bros out by pointing out he spent all stalker-Saturday with her when the rest retreated to hammocks. She liked that; she likes Jeremy. Big fat DUR.

Next, she wastes Brian's time. He dies to me when he matches her ignorance of real life-experience and the doubts of absolutes when he puts forth this "one time and one time only" bullshit in the context of marriage. Perhaps he thinks he'll wet her labia with such filth. All I know is mine dried up like a prune in the heat.

The next one-on-one time is spent with Twilly. He likes her, 'nuff said.

Graham gets that Twilly doesn't have a clue. You are correct, sir. Graham joins The Deevil outside. She believes he's trying. I've been there before; sometimes you just wanna fuck a dude and you delude yourself into thinking his shit doesn't stink. Let me tell ya somethin' Dee, Graham's shit stinks, it smells real bad.

The cocktail party turns into a pool party. Abs and ass later, Dip Shit comes in to kill the fun and tells them all to get dressed for the dirge.

Rose ceremony ensues... Jesse and Sean are good to go; Jason gets one; Jeremy gets one; Twilly gets one and Graham gets one. So I've lost two loves tonight, first Fred and now Brian.

Brian barely cares. He bonded with the dudes, and he knew it. He wants kids, but the loins of The Deevil will not produce such spawn. I hope he knows he's better off, cos he is.

The previews look as boring as a poetry reading; let's hope I can cope.

In Case You Were Wondering What A Virgin Looks Like

Sweet B. HeartAttack & Adam Green Are Soooo BFF!

The Bachelorette Recap #3: Girls Love Satin, Hate Hammocks & Football

First, special recognition: Congrats to the idiot intern at abc.com for loading and labeling the episode "parts" correctly this time. Your accuracy is appreciated. Your fixing of last week's order didn't go unnoticed either. Thus, going forward, I'll bully you with dimwit, rather than idiot. My happiness at easy webpage navigation doesn't quell the fire water in my belly over the indulgent length of this episode. I'm just sayin'... don't get too comfortable NETWORK AFFILIATES. (That's not a threat. I've just watched Puzo's The Godfather three times recently, and it's affecting my social interactions a great deal more than I expected it would.)

DeAnna! Paison! God, it be so much cooler if she was Italian.

Previously, on The Bachelorette, THE SAME INTRO plays. Does Brad get residuals every time they show his big face dumping her? I imagine he's cashing thousands and thousands of checks for ten cents, thirteen cents, a buck now and again. He's suffering irreparable carpal tunnel syndrome from endorsing them. He's also sitting in an New York apartment, in the early nineties, and Kramer swaggers in, unannounced.

Dip Shit recounts last week's trivialities to an absurdly detailed degree. Jeremy's parents are dead! She broke three hearts! (Mmmm, some one's making bacon, I smell it.) Cue preview for the episode which is literally to begin in ten seconds.

The new crap starts with Dip Shit in the bunker addressing the boys' team. He offers them congrats for being the final twelve. (Pausing on the scene, I see Ron is holding a football. Doesn't it seem like the dudes on the Bachelorette have so much more fun in their down time than the chicks do on the Bachelor? Did ABC even give the women a pool table and a football? Is it assumed women don't play pool, or toss around a football? Hey, Sexist Dickbags of ABC, women enjoy more than over-stuffed couch sectionals and Chardonnay.) So, nuh duh, last week's rosed, Paul, Jeremy and Graham get to move on up. Outside of that non-revelation, we find their rustic mini-mansion has been creatively dubbed, by them, "the outhouse". I'm not calling it that; my macro for "the bunker" has already been set up.

Talking-head Richnerd unknowingly prophesies his ass is grass; and the camera unsympathetically abandons him for guys who may actually win this thing.

We see the Deevil tanning herself by the pool, when the top three show up. In an interview, she neck rolls all over the place that she is "obviously" attracted to Jeremy, Lord of Death; for some insane reason, she wants to get to know Paulie better; as for Graham, well, she just likes his man meat. Yes, outstanding pecs DO make the most ideal husbands. You, my dear Dee, are making wise, wise choices for optimum time-suckage. She giggles at herself like a seventh grade cheerleader, and we cut to home movies of her seventh grade pool party.

Back at the bunker (which has a hammock) (I KNOW there was no fucking hammock for the Bachelor women), team Desperation Nation quizzes Jesse on what happens up there. There's a group wack-off to his seedy descriptions of the black magic orgies. Gross! No, he snowboard dorks, "hot tubbin', poolin'". Jason finally catches on that other dudes poolin' with his lady doesn't bode well for his relationship with her. On the I-know-the-women-didn't-have-one basketball court, Rob and Brian dole out judgement for Jeremy - actually indicting his trying to be with her as much as possible - or as Roberto cliches, his "white on rice routine". Tired Analogy is his first language. The camera rolls over Richnerd, who drops dead to me when I see his thick, gold cross pendant hanging from his thick, gold chain.

Back at the horrid puppy mill, sure enough, Jeremy is all kinds of white on Dee's rice. The most I can say about that is: I want a mimosa. Basketball court justice wants Graham to trounce Jeremy. Rob slimes Jeremy's "rubbed me the wrong way ever since we got here." Richnerd pulls out a graph he's constructed using the x, y axis relative to feeling DeAnna up. Its kind of funny to listen in on dudes over analyzing such a trite scenario, as if it's an Enron acquisition, or pi.

Up in Satan's lair, Paulie spooges all over the Deevil's arm, and as punishment, she sends them off with a date card. The three enter the bunker, showing off their Coronas and hard-ons, and the bottom nine know what else is up. Jeremy reads the message for Richnerd, "Join me for rooftop romance in the City of Angels, love DeAnna." Richnerd's reaction? "Go big or go home" and "put up or shut up". For being such a self-proclaimed geek, he sure knows a bunch of dumb jock talk.

Girls love sparkles and satin! Dee over-enthuses how much she loves about Richnerd but isn't exactly sure she understands their connection. She tops the bunker drive way. A few things I'd like to point out: 1) The guys have a fire pit. 2) The Bachelor women have never had a fire pit. 3) She begs for walking-help like a whiner. 4) In her defense, the drive way is quite steep, and constructed of uneven stone. 5) Jesse non-funnies something about her "closet of perfection". 6) Dudes laugh, even though it isn't funny. 7) Jesse still has those white sunglasses a top his ball cap. 8) No one laughs at that, even though THAT'S fucking hysterical.

Hi Fred!

The Deevil interrupts Richnerd's pool game and he says, "Not now, bitch! Can't you see I'm playing pool?" She bakes him a chicken pot pie while she waits. His whore calls, and leaves a message that she'll fuck him later than expected. Dee interrupts Richnerd again to explain the pie's done. All of a sudden, he doesn't want pie! He'll eat when he's out! Dee loses her shit and breaks all the dishes in the bunker. Richnerd takes off his belt and repeatedly whips her pregnant belly --- wait, no, I'm daydreaming about something interesting I watched recently.

Thus begins the most awkward date in Bachelorette history. It was especially horrifying for me to watch, as I have been on that date before. Ok, so ya'll remember Texas Greg? I met him on Myspace? All right, so we emailed, chatted, talked on the phone for a couple months, and we seemed to click. So he goes to Seattle for business and stops in San Francisco on the way back, just to meet me. As soon as I see him in person, I know I'm not attracted to him--a matter of human chemistry no one really understands. I forge on, facing the entirety of the evening with a man who's essentially a stranger, and who sort of likes me. All throughout dinner he is creeping me out, staring at me. You know when you like someone and you hold each other's gaze and it is this emotional, and lustful connection happening with the eyes? Yah, well that only works when it is two-sided. When one person is doing it, the other one just feels FUCKING UNCOMFORTABLE. That feeling, that I felt with Texas Greg, who was kind, smart, funny, nice - just as Richnerd is - that feeling is the same one that Dee is having the entire date and I want to hug her because it righteously SUCKS.

Up on the roof, they look at smog-encrusted buildings. Richnerd tells us he can't get over "the view which is DeAnna." Barf. That is totally shit Texas Greg would say, and it is then I know Richnerd's space junk is gonna go up in a fiery blaze. Their dinner conversation waffles between scientifically-interesting and gut-wrenching awkward.

At the pool hall, Jesse speculates there's no way Richnerd isn't coming back, further expositing Rich's impending doom. The date box shows up. Twilly is wearing this adorable sky blue knit hat that I want. Paulie reads the list of datees for the upcoming event. Jason's not on it, so we know he gets the next one-on-one. He promises Ty will finally be let out of the bag. Surely, he suffocated two weeks ago. I consider how much Ty will be spending on therapy as an adult, "He left me! For a fame-whore! And that's when I tried Meth for the first time..."

On the LA rooftop, dinner continues on with the more semi-interesting talk. Richnerd explains his job is more about his passion for science than his paycheck. Dee responds kindly. He thinks they are connecting "deeper" and "higher". Kiss of death: Richnerd admits he doesn't bring home girlfriends to meet his family. Dee stabs him in the neck with her fork. Hours later, she's huddled in the corner catatonically mumbling the words "ma family" and "oompa" over and over and over.

Ew, they move inside and Richnerd really sells his Texas Greg impersonation. He keeps lustily staring at her, and she keeps looking down. This 80/20 rule isn't working for you dude! This is rough. LONG SHOT of him staring, and her not knowing what the fuck to say. He puts her hair behind her ear. She half-giggles, half-cries, and looks down at her wine. (I'd be chugging that shit if I were her.) Cut to a talking-head, where Dee is subtlety telling us IT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN, FOLKS. She further nails it when she offers he desperately wants a spark to be between them. Oh, but before that, he says TO HER he could be devoted to her the rest of his life! We are only three episodes in! Granted, they are long long long episodes, but still! He's only known her three weeks. I think he's drunk. Thank God they move on to another surprise. I couldn't stomach any more of that exchange.

The elevator scene is also sickly awkward. Please, just end it! This is truly the first time I feel badly for Dee. She's putting on a good act, but you can tell she wants to grab a taxi.

The electro-carriage pulls up, and so begins the Trail of Tears for old Dicky. His talking-head embarrassingly reveals he has no fucking idea he's about to be axed. He's falling for her big time, and she won't be there to catch him.

Here it comes.

She's taking her sweet time digging his heart out. You can tell, for awhile, he thinks she's cooing over her love for him, then reality sets in. You can actually hear his heart break at the exact moment when he clues in to the thesis of her speech. It's sad. It's rough. It reminds me of being on the train, and telling Texas Greg he had to go back to his hotel. That look on his face mirrors Richard's. Of course, I'm a cold-hearted bitch without a television audience, and didn't lie to a camera about all this "breaking my heart too" bull. Anyways, Richard hugs her goodbye for way too long. Then relief for us rolls in, and you know Dee is feeling like she just shit out about eight pounds, i.e. she's feeling fucking fantastic.

She voice overs, quite correctly, hurting him now is the right thing to do.

At the bunker, a PA gets tackled by Ron who thinks Richie's bags are being stolen. The men mourn the death of Mr. Wizard. The music takes this shit seriously for once. Who needs a beer?

The pain continues on as Richard voice overs how he feels like a fool. To the detriment of his teaching career, he cusses so despicably that it warrants a beep and a pixelation. Rest in peace, Richards and Texas Gregs of the world, rest in peace.

Sappy Dee carries on, back to her mansion in her Disney-gifted chariot, the un-gifted rose held tightly between her knees. All of LA senses the hurt we've witnessed here tonight, and weeps its special brand of acid rain.

Enough of the tears, let's do some fake cowboy shit! A trunk of Western-style clothing shows up at the doorstep of the bunker. Dee presents a similar selection to her personal orgy-squad. And even though Jason gets a one-on-one date with her, he still talking-heads he's jealous of them going to see Billy Ray Cyrus without him, since "any opportunity to spend time with DeAnna is a good opportunity." Brian puts the bitch in his place, in a nice Brian-way. Then, in a Brian interview, he suggests he'd rope a chicken for a pretty red rose. It seems excessive to me, but what do I know about love.

The men-folk insult The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, when they show up with only the ugly part. Jesse tells us he'll do all he can to get between Jeremy and Dee. I am truly at a loss about this Jeremy situation. Perhaps the editing has been off, and I do loathe Jeremy as much as the rest of the dweebs, but I just can't fathom why everyone hates this kid so much.

So the limo arrives at The Red Barn (?) which includes a cow (?). Dee is there in the same Hollywood spaghetti western meets Abercromie & Fitch attire. All of a sudden, that fakish Southern accent of hers comes racing off her tongue, going so far as to use the word "fixin". Cliched as you may imagine, they're "fixin'" to line dance. This activity is quite possibly the gayest and most non-existent of all cowboy activities. Hell, they're not even drinking whiskey; it looks like they're sipping on champagne coolies. And btw, Jeremy and Jesse have been her wing men since they arrived.

The dancing montage commences. Awesomely, the male dance instructor tries his best to emasculate the bachelors. Everyone looks stupid. Dee shows all those assholes up, proving she could do that shit in her sleep. The guys hoot and holler like they're at the goddamn rodeo, or a strip club.

Back at the bunker, Jason verbally abuses his son. While looking at pictures of his victim, he voice overs about Ty's demotion to second class citizenry all so his daddy can get laid by an E-list celebrity.

On the farm, the mechanical bull-riding showdown is underway. Everyone sucks, just like with the dancing (but due to the real possibility of lasting injury, it has more entertainment value). No real surprises show up here, except for Dee's misguided interpretation of the guys looking "bad ass". Jesse stays on the longest, which means he has the strongest inner thighs of them all. What a catch; I wonder how Jesse's thighs stack up against Graham's ripped pectorals.

Dee plays this weak "damsel in distress" routine, calling it a "trick". She's testing them to see who's a gentleman. Ron sure ain't. Jesse certainly is. But the real loser here is the womens' rights movement.

Jesse borders on cool when he articulately explains to Dee how he doesn't want a girl who's identity is wrapped up in being his girlfriend, or an "arm doll". Dee wonders if he thinks it is important for him to live with a girl before getting married. He answers by farting. According to Dee, finding out a human farts is akin to learning about them. Jesse's talking-head reveals he considers his fart-talk a show of his serious side.

Back at the dude ranch, Twilly leads the group in some kind of clap-chant, which, having been a child myself, sounds vaguely familiar. Alas, he fucks up the ending; he admits to it though. Graham takes a pulls from a Maker's Mark bottle, and I now understand his hottness. Dee whisks Ron away to yell at him about picking on Jeremy.

Ron can't even begin to effectively defend his position. He pontificates, like a Berkeley grad student, about "guy's guy", "iron sharpening iron", and Dee's not having it. Her body language is telling; her ass is as far away from his as possible. He lies that it's really a non-issue and smugly smiles at her for like a million years. She clearly sees red, and her fake smile and "ok" indicate "YOUR GONE, DOUCHE BAG."

Ron rejoins the group at the campfire. He looks a bit distressed, angry. When Ron is questioned "what's up?" by his bros, he totally turns on Jeremy with "ya lack something brother". OK. Again, I'm not sure why all the dudes hate Jeremy so much, why he rubs everyone the wrong way. I can't say that production has been able to prove that case in the clips we've seen so far. No doubt Jeremy sucks, but for the most part, he seems quiet. Where and when is all this rubbing occurring? Maybe the guys are just jealous of him? It's obvious Dee likes him, perhaps this is eliciting the malicious reaction? I really don't get it. Can anyone explain it to me? And why didn't Dee return to the campfire with Ron? Did production yank her backstage, knowing this confrontation would occur?

Ron has the balls to indict Jeremy on his "tact", which is laughable. He generalizes for like ten minutes, but then actually says his indictment of Jeremy has nothing to do with Jeremy. Jigga wha? It's as if Ron isn't thinking, he's just repeating phrases he's read in kung fu novels. Jeremy calls his ass out on that shit, which, really only makes me like Jeremy more. Way to shoot yourself in the face, Ronnie. I think Jeremy correctly identifies Ron's shtick as being "full of himself". The other numbnuts never air their own grievances, however, Twilly incorrectly terms Ron's crap "wisdom".

Dee pulls Jeremy away for alone time. A weird edit moves us from a serious conversation about the gonad-drama to Dee giggling and putting her big cowboy head on Jeremy's shoulder. I'm nonplussed at the nonsequitor of this poorly edited exchange.

At the campfire, swollen Rob bitches he wants anyone to have the rose besides Jeremy. Cut to Graham and Fred sneaking up on Dee and Jeremy. (I hate that shit. Why are you hurting me, Fred?) Amidst the eavesdropping, we hear Dee say to Jeremy that he is different than the other fellas as he's not buddy-buddy with them. THIS IS HUGE; she recognizes he may be the only one there exclusively for her! Get a clue, boys.

Heh, Fred and Graham scare them so much so, Dee cusses her fucking brains out. I'm starting to like this girl more and more. To Jeremy's credit, he smiles, and graciously moves off camera. Hmm, it looks like Dee has her leg crossed over onto Fred's. Part of me wants her to like him, and part of me wants him to leave the show so we can domestically partner.

Back at the group site, Rob's crabbing about his one-on-one time dreams. He's crying like a baby Stella (tm Detroit Rock City). He doesn't just want to be taking up a spot; if Dee hates him, she should send him packing. Agreed. GO!

Dee comes back to them. She deduces the mood is tense. Twilly gives up Rob, and the two of them meander off -- Dee and Rob, not Twilly and Rob -- although that could be a good match.

One-on-one time is spent talking about how they don't talk, and about chemistry, mostly. After they balance a few equations, Rob's fingers have gone numb from the elements. You can tell that Dee is attracted to him, as she has that goonish grin on her face the whole time. All I wonder is: Why doesn't she ever talk to Brian?

So she gives the rose to Robert. His sincerity promotes this fungal-like growth on me, and then he smarms, "Bobby boy is movin' up to the big house." The night ends with them drunkenly singing Home, Home On the Range.

Daylight at the bunker, Rob's popped-collar grabs Jason's date box. He reads the message aloud, "Let's reach for the stars." An unrecognized voice half-guesses they are going on roller coasters. No way; that would be fun, and these dates aren't made for fun. Rob, delving into that sincere region of his gut, asks Jason if he'll bring up Ty. Jason has no idea how he'll break the news. Jesse guesses, "fifty percent of her is gonna love it, and fifty percent of her is not gonna love it." I'm no statistician, but that sounds dumbly accurate and dumbly obvious.

Dee talking-heads, she knows Jason must be feeling pressure since Richard was dissed and dismissed earlier. She has no idea the real reason why Jason is crapping his pants. Dee shows up, comments on how the dudes are messy and calmly reasons she's sticking around as they have to wait on their ride.

Cue ride: a helicopter. Everyone freaks out at Jason's luck. Commence scenery montages among "oh my god"ing from Dee.

In the bunker, Twilly funnily suggests that Jason shout his kid news over the loud propeller sounds of the copter. He gets a lot of laughs, and for me, this is the first time I actually think he may have a sense of humor. His being funny-looking still stands out as his most notable feature though.

More romantic scenery.
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They finally land at an observatory for star-gazing, dinner, and non-getting-to-know-each-other chit chat about how they don't have enough time to get to know each other.

Around the fire pit (lucky unemployed bastards), Rob suggests Dee may not be ready to take on automatic motherhood just yet. Karate Sean, who we haven't heard from in a grip, says he's dated many women with children and doesn't consider it a big deal. Jesse, the devil's advocate's devil's advocate breaks it down, but Twilly brings it home: mano y mano, all things being equal, a dude with a kid is generally less desirable than a dude who's kid-free.

Observatory blather is: ON. They eat dinner in the library section. Fascinating reveal: Jason's fave food is hamburgers. Prodded by ABC, Dee asks if Jay misses his family. Here it goes... Aha! Ty lives! Jason talks sweetly of his son. Dee also finds out Jay's divorced, but he blames the bitch (his ex-wife, not Dee). Finally, Dee buys a clue and realizes life is bigger than her silly, and unrealistic absolutes. The mood shifts from alive loved-ones, to dead loved-ones when Jason asks Dee to talk about her mama. Dee opens up a ton, and goes through the whole story of her mom's sickness and death. I won't lie; both times I watched this episode I cried during her recounting of such tragedy. Part of me felt icky that reality TV was the platform for her pain, and wondered further what her mom would think of Dee's foray into finding love this way.

Interestingly, Dee reveals she's never dated anyone who cared to know anything about her mother. Furthermore, it's been a long time since she's opened up about such things. This dinner conversation is the best one in Bachelor/ette history by far as 1) I didn't fall asleep and 2) I felt empathy and compassion for two TV numbskulls and 3) I cared to know, what are they eating?

So she roses him, and they fondle telescopes and mangle astronomy lingo for the remainder of the evening. Oh yah, he kisses her too, after he gets express-written permission from the sappy music score. Side bar: He's a chin-grabber.

The next day (?) they stretch limo it to the Ellen Generes studio. Dee wants Ellen's opinion on the guys. Wise move on Dee's part. Jesse sports his sunglasses-a-top-his-hat look, and wonders aloud if he'll SAY something dumb. Last of your worries, buddy. They record the show, and Ellen is funny all over the place. She puts them through the ringer. Ooh, I just noticed Sean's haircut - brilliant move.

Ellen embarrasses the shit out of the guys via dance off.

Ellen is a great judge of character, and nails everyone to a tee. And the fact that she loves Fred, well, that speaks volumes of her instincts. She loses me a bit when she forces them to parade around in Ellen underwear - not my bag, but she pulls it off being a lesbian talk show host and all. The most funny bit is when she carries the rose down the line of guys holding a boom box which plays the dramatic rose ceremony music. Ellen roses Fred! I love Ellen! I love Fred! It is really sweet that Ellen has taken such an interest in Dee's relationship woes. This show has stepped up its game in the last ten minutes. Is this how brain-washing begins?

FINALLY, the rose ceremony. Dee first pulls Ron away. She voice overs she's intrigued by him. I suppose I am intrigued by most nut bags I know as well. He foots-in-his-mouth some shit about waking up and thinking she isn't the one, but via a scorching case of crabs he caught from Rob at breakfast, he now has "a case of the DeAnnas". She asks him to tell her something fun about him. He offers "everything about him is fun". He abuses about three sentences in a row, and she's left dumbfounded. Your done, dude! Jeremy swoops in to save her, the frat boys eavesdrop from inside, assuming Ron will deck him.

Dee thanks Jeremy for the save, thanks him very much, in fact. Ron is clueless.

Indoors, Jesse continues in his capacity of fucking instigator. The men sit down to discuss what the hell just happened. Um, isn't is obvious? DeAnna's BOYFRIEND saved his GIRLFRIEND from an unaware, self-righteous tool bag. Ron creeps some cliched, and inapplicable analogies, offers how he could use them all, and does use them all. By the time he's fucking over himself, all of us have been married and divorced twice, and in and out of rehab four goddamn times. Ron even calls on the name of the Lord for help, yet, still, JESUS HATES YOU, TOO.

On the patio, Jeremy must have roofied her since she is ALL ABOUT HIM. No wait, he didn't roofie her! She just likes him; I'm talking to you, bologna sandwiches in the living room. The couple acknowledges the barrier between them has disappeared. End the f'n show already; if she'd abandon the Infallible Royal Family of Justice & Premature Mom Death to be with the red dirt and roaches in Texas, she obviously likes the kid. He then admits his emotional damage, I mean, involvement, and then kisses her - in a way that BOYFRIENDS AND GIRLFRIENDS kiss each other. I'm one-third pissed at how obvious the winner is (editors, do your jobs); I'm one-third pissed that I have to carry-on recapping as if the winner is unknown; I'm one-third pissed that we will inevitably be subjected to Jeremy-complaining from the other dudes cos they're too fucking clueless to read the 100-point sized neon orange writing on the wall!

Back inside, two-faced bastards that they are, the men nugg up Jeremy, and ask for the deets. Up against a wall, he waffles between not wanting to kiss and tell, and not wanting to further alienate them. Graham voice overs he's having a tough time with this whole screwball scenario of love-discovery.

Cut to Graham being nervous with Dee. Of course, Dee will ignore her own voice over which reminds us of Ellen's opinion - the boy cannot open up. To him, she only says she's worried at his lack of experience. Does. Not. Compute. He non-answers he can't change history, and oh, how he cares, oh so much for her. She's melting. Then he turns the table: Why are all of these other dudes around? Where did that camera come from? I have reason to believe this isn't really YOUR house!? Don't lie to me, DeAnna - if that's even YOUR REAL NAME! The mental patients continue to rub shit all over each other. Dee: Tell me something about you. Graham (who continues to rub shit into her palm): Ok, I'll compromise. Dee: Good. WTF? I have a feeling this is the work of shoddy editing, but I can only judge on what I see folks - and dems peoples es crrrrazzzzy.

They make-out.

Poor, insanely deluded Dee lies to herself, her dead mom and all of us when she talking-heads she accomplished her goal: Graham opened up. I can only assume she meant they kissed with tongue.

The Deevil comes back to the group. Paul double-teams her like seven times with his eyeballs and gold cross. She chooses Jason for some one-on-one time. She had some barf named after his son; confusing. No wait, I was listening to the voices in my head (they're loud sometimes). She had a STAR named after his son. Jason weeps all over the certificate - which actually makes the deal null and void - and Dee reacts like a self-satisfied trust fund brat who takes a university-level class in "volunteerism".

Anyway, this is her way of saying she's OK with it all. Kind of rude to call Ty "it". He doesn't mind - he's thinking ALL ABOARD THE PUSSY WAGON!

Off to the Rose Ceremony, or what I like to call: Rack your brain for an analogy to describe your ouster, Ronnie.

The more she talks about breakin' hearts, the more I hate her. She's so fucking full of herself. If you took her to a lesbian bar, she'd tell you over and over about how everyone is looking at her. Oh, I completely ignore her conversation with Dip Shit. I did catch her calling Ron "a motivational speaker" and calling Jason's certificate of barf "a consolation prize". No wonder this show is so friggin' long, blah blah blahing about shit we knew about relationships in like SIXTH GRADE.

Six roses to hand out: Twilly FIRST; Jesse accepts; Jeremy accepts, cut to the biggest sneer Ron's ever sneered; Brian accepts; Graham accepts (he should thank his lucky stars she's a total horn ball); Sean accepts; I feel mildly bad for Paulie since he's such a tame sap. FUCK OFF, RON!

Talking-head Paulie is pathetic, but he's young, he'll figure it out. Talking-head Ron ACTUALLY USES ANOTHER ANALOGY, and accepts absolutely no responsibility for his total SUCKAGE. "I didn't get rejected, she just chose other guys." BULLLLLSHIIIIITTTTT.