A couple of my favorite old patriotic not-really-porn stunts:
Twirling my baton(s)!!
CLICK to see me twirling batons (badly) & more!
Aaaaaand hammy song & dance number (you’ll have to turn the volume up . . . or not, if you want to spare yourself the agony of my dorkiness):
CLICK to hear me sing about my country.
Note: I didn’t get all dressed up to do that; it was a spontaneous thing that happened after shooting these pictures.
I spent most of today in a kind of homemade rehab, working on my moss garden sanctuary cell.
The white balance is not good on these pics, but just imagine a private, shady green spot. Or it will be (greener) someday. It’s a small caged area on the side of the house intended for a dog to be let out into, complete with (blocked off) pet door. I’d say it’s about 7′ x 6′. Which is perfect for me, because I like small spaces and often soothe myself by imagining I have my very own padded cell. My sanctuary/cell hadn’t had a dog in it for a long time so was completely overgrown with brush when we moved in.
We have at least half a dozen perfect areas in our yard that could be landscaped and groomed to function as lovely and convenient outdoor photo sets. That’s what I keep telling myself. And then I look around at them and don’t know where to start or which one most warrants money/plants/back-breaking labor and feel totally overwhelmed.
So FUCK IT. I have always wanted a moss garden and my mental health needs the low pressure of a manageable space and no expectations to create a little sanctuary. It’s amazing how quickly I feel peaceful and satisfied working alone slowly, looking at things – slightly modifying them – looking at them some more.
I love organizing rocks and fir cones and am completely infatuated with sticks. So much so that I wanted to buy TinyFires.com (too bad it’s already taken) and make videos and take pictures of . . . . uhhhhh, tiny fires. Yeah. All different miniature scales of small stacks of different sorts of wood, and fires for different purposes. Maybe with some action figures warming/melting their hands by them. Me as a giantess stomping out tiny fires. Throwing an .mp3 of this awesome song on as kindling. Whatever! The possibilities are endless.
So I’ve got three boxes of twigs now. Because I’m mentally ill, and putting sticks in boxes is both a symptom of and a healing salve for my madness.
I also pulled up and reoriented some planks of rotting wood. I didn’t like the direction they were pointing or the way they were stacked. I mean, because they look way cooler now that I fixed them! And I like looking at bugs underneath rotting wood. And smelling stuff. And poking around.
I keep telling myself the battles between the crows and raven are none of my business. They operate on a plane high above my sphere of influence. I don’t need to know who is picking on who, even though the sound of the juvenile raven making a horrible cry almost like a cross between a pained quacking duck and a dying honking goose HAUNTS ME.
I started thinking of the raven as Mike Tyson, a big tragic figure — both victim and rapist. Are the little crows making fun of him and hurting his pigeons? Or is he eating their babies? Maybe they’re all fighting over some other littler bird’s babies.
I don’t know, but it can be an ugly world. So I picked up an empty green glass bottle under the trees where they were fighting and started dancing around to get their attention. Then, when I was sure all the crows and raven were watching me and wondering what the fuck?!?, I smashed the bottle on the side of my head and performed a dizzy swoon before falling to the ground. We all started laughing! That really broke the tension and Mike Tyson made a clean getaway, giggling about my skullduggery.
The rest of us took a moment to catch our breaths after laughing so hard. Then the crows came down to inspect the broken bits of glass. Except for one who landed on my face and tried to peck out my left eyeball.
It goes to show you that in war, there really are no winners. Even when that funny Italian guy wound up in the concentration camp. Actually I don’t really remember how that movie ended . . . was it happy or did his daughter die or what happened?
A few nights ago I had another stressful freeway-of-many-mysterious-exits and loop-de-loops dream. Everything was so grey and I was supposed to know where I was going, but of course I didn’t. It was supposed to be Tacoma but of course it wasn’t.
And then I was in a dingy compact economy car with Conan O’Brien. He seemed sad and furtive, like he felt sorry for my sluttiness while being ashamed of himself for getting in the car with me to find a place to have sex while his wife and kids were waiting for him at a nearby hotel. I could tell his mind wasn’t really made up and he might back out at any second.
I have no idea how his tall body fit into the car, or why he had such a small car in the first place, but I hoped the freeway would stop being so confusing so we could park and kiss and fuck before he changed his mind.
Even though his behavior indicated his guilty preoccupation with recognizing he’d sunk to a new low (and I was the new low, even with the crappy car for competition), I could almost read it as tortured, doomed love for me. I desperately wanted to him to kiss me with his tiny, thin-lipped mouth.
Finally we stopped somewhere and started making out. He had a familiar, unmistakably ginger man smell I recognized from the Irish Think Tank that one time he insisted on giving me a massage and that other time he cried all over me. I’m so hot for Conan that the bad association with his scent didn’t take any of the romantic and erotic edge off of the sight of that strawberry pompadour flopping towards me when our lips parted for breath.
He pulled back from the kissing with that look I love of hungry-for-more to get at my breasts. But when he lifted my t-shirt over my boobs, I had a rash all over my belly. While I tried to explain it was nothing contagious, he seemed to come to his senses and detach from me completely. He got out of the car and left me there alone and exposed with sad, uniformly-overcast daylight shadowing grey on my spotty chest.
I woke up horny and depressed, yet pathetically grateful for the brief intimate experience with Conesy.
I’m not making this shit up; I’ve been crushing on Conan for decades (even though I loathed his brief Tonight Show stint). And I really do have PMS. And it’s not just my subconscious mind that feels all low-self-esteemed right now.
So Delia‘s driving us to get food and chuckles at something as we round a corner.
me: WHAT’S FUNNY? WHAT ARE YOU LAUGHING AT? WHAT DID I MISS?!?
Delia: Ohhhh . . . a crow. . . . Taking a bath.
me: ahhhhh . . . I didn’t get to see that crow.
. . . Four and a half seconds later Delia suddenly swerves the car into a blackberry bush so the vines hit the windshield in front of and next to my face.
me: AGGHHHHHHH!!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!
::Delia chuckles some more::
me: So what was funnier to you: crow taking a bath or me flinching at blackberry bush?
Delia, still chuckling: You flinching. Definitely.