Alice B. Good
I bought a new vacuum cleaner! A blue and chromconia (fake chrome) little minx with a sleek, Jetsonesque, streamlined figure and long, elegant attachments that would reach the moon if I was so inclined to clean the moon.. Which I just might do if I come into any good blow sometime soon. I enjoy cleaning when I snort a little snow. Really gets the initiative up, you feel what I’m saying? Ah, just kidding. No I’m not.
Yes, I most certainly am. Not.
Shut up, Ms. Lori. No, you shut up!
Look, if I have to tell you one more time to shut your enormous piehole...
It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy as hell, and she’s mine, all mine!
My vacuum cleaner kicks ass!
The hell did I just say? Did I just say my vacuum cleaner kicks ass
Help, please. I think my hair is knotting up into one big beehive ala Alice the lovable housekeeper from the Brady Bunch.What has happened to me?
God, the horror of suburbia..
I Want to be Like Bev
So, anyway, I saw that Bev Vincent
has Ten Things I’ve Done That You Probably Haven’t
on his LiveJournal, and I felt compelled to do the same on my blog.
However, as I often feel the need to be more annoying than the rest of the human race, I have tweaked the following LiveJournal fad a bit. Plus, I’ve done too many freaky things to narrow them down to only ten. Behold... Twenty Things I've Done That You Probably Haven't!
1) Knocked boots with a former Sex Pistol.
2) Worn a Mohawk -- I believe I may have been the first bitch in Rochester to do so.
3) Appeared in a table of contents with Stephen King -- twice.
4) Been arrested at the Canadian/American border.
5) Partied with Billy Idol, The Damned, Foghat, Exploited, Neil Schon (ex-Journey guitarist) etc., etc. No, I didn’t sleep with them, but I did become good friends with one of the guys in Foghat...Till I screwed that up by being an asshole.
6) Fought for my life. Literally. I know what it‘s like to believe you‘re going to die by the hand of another human being.
7) Traveled overseas with a madman who smuggled a gun into that country.
8) Won three hundred bucks playing craps my first time in Atlantic City -- without knowing what the hell I was doing.
9) Brought a very tall, broad-shouldered well-known author to my mother’s home for Christmas Eve dinner -- wanted to die when, as she took his coat for him, said, “Jesus, this is a heavy coat -- what is this? The whole cow?”
10) Lived in an abandoned storefront in England.
11) Have, on numerous occasions, been mistaken for famous people, asked for my autograph. I happily complied.
12) Stole a gravestone, a small but heavy cross that said simply “Father.” I am ashamed.
13) Gained hundreds of pounds during my four pregnancies and lost them all within months of giving birth (I averaged 80 pounds gained during each one).
14) Was given full scholarship by a prestigious university workshop to study under Hayden Carruth, and I backed out at the last minute. I am, as we all know by now, an asshole.
15) Ate goat, and liked
it. Thanks for the experience, Ms. Olivia.
16) Was almost attacked by a rabid fox -- I discovered that I am able to move faster than lightening.
17) Arm-wrestled with Jon Bon Jovi’s roadie while Jon and my soon-to-be husband watched -- the roadie won.
18) Saw a UFO. Really.
19) Was accosted by something supernatural, something evil, while spending the night at my mother’s. It changed my life.
20) Am living out my childhood dream of being a writer.
A Mother’s Shame: Stereotyping my Own Son
So my son, Mr. Butler, a.k.a. Chicken Pie, a.k.a. Phlumpy Wieners, etc., etc., has been a naughty little boy lately. So naughty, so demanding, so frighteningly Italian, I have been forced to think up another nickname for him -- “Little Tony,” as in Tony Soprano.
Oh, I was waiting for this. I knew
that at least one of my kids would show their Italian eventually. I’m sort of happy, in a way...I’ve grown tired of the kids turning their noses up at my lovely dinners consisting of my Great-Grandma Assunta’s marinara, my pasta with finnochio, anchovy and bread crumbs, my big scrumptious logs of bracciole, and lasagna that would make a grown wise guy cry. Tired of my youngest daughter literally retching if red sauce even comes near her rigatoni. Tired of their blonde little heads filled with Americana white bread notions, their Jerry Springer, trailer park ideas of what clean
means (as you probably already know, Italians are the cleanest of all nationalities, and any good Italian mama worth her weight in oregano takes pride in a spotless home). Tired of it all..
But, as with all things good, there is some bad. Mr. Butler loves my marinara, and he is a neat little boy who finds no pleasure in being dirty as other little boys might, but he also takes after nearly every single male on my mother’s side of the family. And although he's a true mama’s boy who worships the ground his mama walks on (as he should), he is demanding beyond what is reasonable, and he has a temper so Italian in nature, his face, on occasion, actually turns green, white and red (the colors of the Italian flag, for you mamalukes out there who have no clue).
This morning, after another night of Mr. Butler roaming the house in the wee hours, after weeks of sickness and tantrums and no nappy naps, I’d finally had it. He woke up for good at five thirty a.m., and wanted company, wanted gunny worms, wanted, wanted, wanted. Oh, no, God, no, please, no.
Bleary-eyed and pissed off, I limped to the coffee maker, resigned to another sleepless night, another day of feeling dreamy and insane, and as I poured the water into the coffee maker, Little Tony, furious with my withholding gummy worms, pulled on my nightshirt so violently, the coffee pot jerked sideways, thus spilling fifty gallons of water all over the counter.
I turned to him, bared my teeth, and said this: “If you do not stop acting like this, Mommy’s head is going to catch on fire.”
He said, “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, Brandon, it will.”
“No, Mama, it will not catch on fire.”
“Yes, it will. It will catch fire then explode into a million pieces, and your sisters and daddy will be very sad because Mommy has no head.”
My son, instead of being frightened by the prospect of having a headless mommy, smiled and said, “Ew, gross! Can I paint your head purple?”
Which, of course, makes no sense at all.
I wept as I drank my first cup of coffee.
ADDENDUM: Then I smiled while drinking my second because I received wonderful writing-related news in my inbox. Will share sometime soon.
Big Scaredy Baby Who Does Not Wish to Write About Koko's Nipple Fetish
Saw The Grudge last night. Horrible. HORRIBLY CREEPY, I mean!
Japanese cat-boy emitting mewling Hell-sounds...farting dead woman with glowing eyes and pronounced limp...Sarah Michelle Gellar discovering curious genitalia on the back of her head whilst showering...
Pure horror magic. I love it.
The bad part, though: Lar finds it amusing that even though I enjoy writing horror, I'm a big scaredy baby when it comes to horror movies. So last night, after the flick ended, I head on in to the bathroom -- all of the lights are off, as it’s eleven o’clock at night -- and as I go about my business, I hear that ever so appalling fart sound outside the bathroom door. I freeze, pants around my ankles, and I wait. And wait. Then wait some more. When I feel sufficient time has passed, that the insane farter has grown bored of this game, I slowly, slowly enter the hallway, peek around to make sure he’s gone. He is. But do I, as a normal person would, walk confidently into the gloom, go back to my bedroom? No. I slither up into my office, which is only a couple feet away, where my daughter, Veronica, is chatting with friends on IM, and politely request that she escort me to my room.
Isn’t that the most adorable thing you ever heard?
Anyway, my boos, the Brutarian site is not yet up and running, the copies of #43 not yet distributed to booksellers, but you really should purchase a subscription by sending a fifteen dollar check to: Dom Salemi, 9405 Ulysses Court, Burke, VA 22015.
Dom’s a nice man. Took pity on me due to the fact that my bro stole my contributor's copy of #43, and is sending me another, gratis. I’ll be buying a subscription for my brother so that he will not put his filthy paws on my Brutarians ever again.
I was going to write a whole post about Koko the Talking Gorilla’s nipple fetish
, but I think I’ll just leave it be for now. Too disturbing, even for me.
A Disturbing Peek into the Collective Mind of Our Youth
The following video clip is making the rounds to our children via IM and e-mail. Apparently, our precious babies consider it to be the height of comedy.
Were this child
mine, he would not only receive a good hair brushing, but a good mouthful of Palmolive dishsoap (essence of lavender and ylang ylang, of course).
Warning: This is not
work safe, and may be offensive to some of my gay friends. Or maybe not.
Make sure to watch until the very end. That is, if you can make it that far.
Link courtesy of Veronica Young. Yes, I'm afraid she's my daughter. And yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I laughed.
Hail Saten! (Shut up, You -- "Saten" is the Correct Spelling For Those in the Know)
to read my guest editorial on Hail Saten
the world famous blog of hot horror sensation, handsome bastard and Leisure Books author, Brian Keene
. A film based on his novel The Rising
is currently in the works, which excites me to no end because that means I‘ll finally have a reason to play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Or something.
Well, I'm a Bit Dizzy, but Otherwise Okay
Approximately twenty-five minutes ago, I received a rejection letter from some folks I really respect -- editors that have published me before. I sent them dreck, and I should've known better than to assault these fine publishers with a plate of steaming baboon genitals instead of something worthy of their time, something, oh, I dunno...publishable
Holy Jughead and all His worshipers, man! I needed to punish myself.
So, shortly after reading the letter, what I did was this:Grabbed the hair on the back of my head -- a big fistful of it -- then forcefully, and without hesitation whatsoever, smashed my own face into the wall. Twice.
The Hamster Whisperer Part 2: I Know Why the Caged Hamster Stares
Her name is Ruby, and she is my third daughter’s second hamster. Ruby is the ignored one, the homely, oversized, rat-faced one who smells really bad despite repeated switching of hamster bedding and spritzes of perfume. She's the one who isn't played with, who must watch the other hamster, the delicate, pretty, odorless hamster in the cage next to hers, be lavished with attention and praise.
I am in love with Ruby, and it goes much deeper than mere human to hamster appreciation of a cutie-pie nose and fat, furry buttocks...I get this girl, man. I so get the misery in which she dwells, and I get that she does not dig her circumstances. I get that she is an intelligent, mysterious spirit trapped in a stinking, seed-eating existence, and truly, the commonality between us is almost more than I can bear.
We’ve had many a late night talk, Ruby and I. We both suffer from insomnia, so when that old familiar, “I’d like to kill my snoring husband” feeling begins its murderous trek across my sleep-deprived mind, I put down the butcher knife and pay her a visit. She’s always glad to see me, though sometimes she’s so involved in the television, she doesn’t notice my presence until I give forth a polite cough or press my face to the wire bars of her prison.
Yes, you heard that right -- the hamster watches television. No matter the time of night or day, if she’s not busy with her wheel or packing her cheeks full of goodies, Ruby can be found standing (upright, straight as an arrow, on two bowed legs) on her little hamster platform thing, her disturbingly human-like hands wrapped around the wire bars, nose peeking through, as she watches her Nickelodeon programs.
The T.V. is always on for Ruby. I demand it be so.
Anyway. Ruby and I speak a special language, one that requires nothing more than an open mind and a few shots of bourbon She expresses her intelligence by gazing into my eyes as I make quiet lovey sounds, small, whispery oooohs and motherly coos. She appears to enjoy this quite a lot, regardless of my intrusion into her world of Jimmy Neutron and Rosanne repeats. I coo, Ruby stares. I moan in agony, Ruby stares. I gnash my teeth and curse the hell that is my life, Ruby stares. Ruby stares a lot. And the reason Ruby stares the way she does is this: She gets me, too. She is my sole confidant, my tiny, silent, nondenominational pastor, my anthropomorphic sister.
Ruby doesn’t judge me. Ruby doesn't make faces if I say something stupid or seem bored if I read her my poems in progress, unfinished stories, revised vignettes. On occasion, I even cry. All the while, Ruby stares, interested more than is normal for a rodent, following my every move, walking on her bowed hind legs as if that was proper procedure.
It may seem silly to you, but many days I feel that Ruby is the only creature with whom I can relate. I’ve never been one to follow “proper” procedure either; I don‘t think or react in ways that are expected or “correct.” I’m not like you, or you, or even you
. I’m odd, I realize that. But so is Ruby, in her own hamsterish way. I’m thinking that if Ruby were put into a situation in which she had to relate with other hamsters, she would be shunned, sent off to her own little corner of Hamster Town. And I’m thinking that she’d most likely be grateful for her own space, would be very happy to exist on the peripheral, observing but not interacting, happy to be left alone with her thoughts, to eat in peace, away from the obnoxious others who can’t seem to respect her eccentricities.
If I were a hamster, I would be a Ruby for sure.
Ruby doesn’t have long on this earth -- the average life span for a hamster is three years. How sad to know that one day soon, I will find my friend curled up in her bedding, silent, still. The television will be on, as usual, the theme song from Rosanne squealing morosely, or perhaps a commercial jingle will be blasting obscenely when I enter the room, and there Ruby will be, silent, still. She will be at peace, finally at peace, no more prison, no more lonely hamster dreams and stale corn. Silent, still. And I will cry.
And Larry Just Stared At Me...
This just in regarding the Michael Jackson child molestation trial -- Stevie Wonder is on the list of "maybes" to testify for the defense...Attorney
: Mr. Wonder, to the best of your recollection, please describe what you witnessed during your stay at Neverland.Stevie
: Nothing, sir. Not a damn thing.Ba DA dum
My husband did not appreciate my joke. Just stared at me with his mouth full of mashed potatoes as if I were some kind of humorless animal. I was really embarrassed.
So as I hung my head in shame and left the room, I thought, Hey! Why not post it on my blog? Yeah!
What I Said When I Spilled a Bowl of Hot Soup on My Foot
Arrrggghhhh! Goddamned cock-a-long Cassidy, dickwad-whoremongering-Napoleon fuckapart
That is all.
The Hamster Whisperer Part 1: The Catalyst
When I was around seven years old, I experienced my first deep connection with a non-human creature. It was a mosquito, quite a large one; she’d found her way into my bedroom one hot summer night as I lay reading an Archie comic, and at first, she was not welcome. Being that I was (and still am) afraid of most insects, no matter how benign some may be, I nervously kept one eye on my comic, the other on that huge, scary mosquito. Soon, I knew, that mosquito would be nothing more than a tiny red dot on my wall -- just had to wait until she flew close enough for me to get her. For the better part of an hour, she remained safely on my ceiling, bouncing along the trim in a crazy blood-frenzy, whining, screaming for sustenance, for my
blood. She grew more desperate with each passing minute, her whines progressing into am almost mournful crescendo, as if she were shrieking “My babies! Must feed babies! Baaaaaabiiiiiieeeeeesssss!”
Well. She was creeping me out in the worst way, and I just couldn’t take it any more. So I stood on my bed and whacked at her with my Archie comic, but I was too short to hit my mark. Frustrated, I lay back on my pillow and resumed reading, my eye ever watchful, my heart pounding. Then, as if by some direct order from on high, the mosquito silently drifted down along my wall and settled beside me, just inches away. I watched her watching me, and, for the first time in my short life, I became fascinated with an insect -- truly
fascinated. I observed her triangular head and odd little proboscis, her delicate legs, the angle at which they were bent. She seemed to be communing with me, her head tilted up as if questioning my irrational fear of her...The more I observed, the stronger my feelings, till I became aware -- very
aware. It was like I was entering her soul, realizing her place
, her reasons for living and her right to be here, same as me.
I was such a little Buddhist.
But the mosquito decided to take wing once again, squealed about my head in an increasingly angry "gonna gitcha" war dance, and really, that was the straw that broke the Buddhist's zen.
I waited until she settled once again, then slammed her against the wall with my open palm.
Where once this creature flitted and flew, whined and shrieked, full of life and purpose, she was now nothing more than a bloody smudge on Donny Osmond's smiling face.
I mourned her death for about ten minutes, then grabbed a pen and began to write. I had
to write, was compelled, as if by some outside force, to write. My first poem was created that night, a poem about death and the sea and tiny insect angels and whatnot. I'm sure it was lovely.
Next week's installment of The Hamster Whisperer will explore my uncanny connection to my daughter's preternaturally intelligent hamster.
Tha Official Web Presence of Hollaz to the East Side, L. , Betta Check Yo Self, Lynn Young...
"Dizzark Fantasy, Science Fiction n Literary Playa. Welcome ta tha L, so sit back relax new jacks get smacked, Lynn Young website!"
That is a direct quote from the results of a search for my name on Gizoogl
e, a fabulously stupid new waste of time.
I screamed with laughter! Screamed
No I didn't. But I did smile really, really hard.
If you too would like to see your name, website, and literary creations translated into the primary language of Hell (the first lines of some of my poetry were spun into gleaming piles of hog shit), then please go here, muthafuckas: Twist Mah Nizzlewizzletriceratopsbizzle
Don't forget to use quotes, yo.
Sir, I Don't Mean to be Rude, But it Appears That Some of Your Skull is Missing...
Because I'm a bit perplexed, nay astonished
by your lack of comments regarding my uproariously funny "Elton dream" post, I feel compelled to punish you with this:
May Parietal Boneless Boy
make frequent appearances in your nightmares till the end of your days.
: And this
is especially for Ms. Ralph
And If That Diamond Ring Don't Shine, Momma's Gonna Buy You a Clinging Vine...
Good lord. Good, sweet, motherless lord, did I have the most humiliating experience last night.
The day began pleasantly enough, a day filled with promise; there was a party going on, and apparently, I was guest of honor. The festivities included friends and family all gathered together in a large venue of mysterious whereabouts. Could’ve been a party house here in Rochester or a bamboo hall in China -- no matter. The place was huge, festooned with balloons and streamers, with maybe fifty tables, six or so chairs to a table, and a low platform that served as a stage. There was much merriment, sounds of laughter and popping balloons, kids running about. The unmistakable fa-WOP
! of Champagne corks echoed throughout the space, music blasted from some unseen speakers. It was heavenly, especially because this party was all for me
, glorious me!
My best friend, Elton John, was in attendance, and he never looked better. Lost a bit of weight since the last time I’d seen him, and his Botox treatments really did make him appear ten years younger.
So Elton and I were hanging together, just chilling with some Chandon and chocolate-covered strawberries that tasted like fish, when all of a sudden, he grew angry with me. Why, I haven’t a clue, but I felt just awful about it, tried to smooth things over by making him laugh; Elton sat stone-faced despite my usually killer Creepy Old Woman Face and flapping arms. I became desperate, started to jump wildly about the place while emitting chicken sounds -- I even slapped my own forehead a couple of times and shouted whoooo dawgie
! as I stomped and mugged and spun in circles before the seated Sir Elton.
Nothing. Not even a whisper of a smile..
Then, as a last resort, I farted. It was a long, loud, squealing effort that shook the very foundation of the party house, brought silence down around me in that mysterious den of frivolity. You could hear a pin drop.
Embarrassed beyond my wildest nightmares, I ran to the ladies’ room and wept tears of bitter shame -- till Elton slunk into the room, head hung low, his own tears steaming up his orange-tinted, feather-trimmed glasses. “Come,” he said, offering me his chubby little hand. I accepted, and we walked back into the party, hand in hand. When we reached our table, he turned to me and said, “Please remove your clothing now.” Of course, I did just as he’d asked.
“Sit on my lap and sing me something good," he said.
No problemo. Would be delighted to, Eltie.
And as I sat upon his roomy, sequined lap, sang to him a lullaby of mockingbirds and diamond rings, and things that don't belong in that song because I don't know the words, our chair began to twirl, slowly at first, then faster, faster, until the room spun round us like we were rocket men or something, the twinkling lights, stars, the balloons, planets. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful experience of my life.
Next thing I knew, I found myself in a tent, and it was raining. I was puzzled.
Evidently, I'd been banished from the party by my friends and family due to my drunken, obscene behavior with Elton John, and my good friend Liz made sure to tell me all about what a horrid woman I was. She entered the tent, wagging her finger at me, scowling, and said, “Lori, big women should never, ever take their clothes off in public. What you did was unconscionable. Lar hates your guts, the kids despise you, and, to be frank, so does everybody else."
I woke this morning a haunted woman. A haunted woman who feels very, very fat. Damn you, Sir Elton. Damn you to hell.
God, I Know That You're Busy and All, But I Could Really Use a New Vacuum Cleaner. Thank You and Amen.
Okay, what’s the deal with the sudden influx of folks coming to One Whipped Mother looking for information on Cybill Shepherd? Please, I beg you -- TELL ME WHY! Surely your visit here has been a major waste of time
, but I’m curious as all get out, especially because most of you are from California and Texas.
Is she some kind of cult figure in California?
Has she recently been crowned Queen of Texas?
Is she up for an award?
Is she starring in a new movie or television production? A play?
Granted, Ms. Shepherd is a lovely, talented woman, but I’m guessing that it’s been years since she's received this kind of interest. So what up, yo?
Hmmm. In other news. I received my contributor’s copy of Brutarian Quarterly
#43 yesterday. No checky-wecky (darn it, I’ll have to wait yet another excruciating, dusty length of time for a new vacuum cleaner-- an innocent oversight, I‘m sure), but it was a pleasant surprise nonetheless, considering I hadn’t expected my story to appear until March. Now I’m forced to revise the bibliography page on my website, which, truth be known, terrifies and nauseates me.
I’m sickeningly inadequate in all things webby. Go ahead and see for yourself
if you don’t believe me. My Links page is still a broken piece of embarrassing shit, among other atrocities..
Where the hell was I? Oh, yes, my story. It is, quite simply, a divine thing to behold.
I’ll post purchasing info soon as it’s available (I know that Tower Records sells it, but the Brutarian website is still down, and I‘m not sure if it‘s yet available for order from various online booksellers), ‘cause, you know, I’m positive there are thousands, if not millions of you out there chomping at the bit to read my latest offering, yeah?