holiday newsletter: xmas in the crick 2009

Dear friends,

Holiday greetings from here in Tennessee! I guess I can deem the season a success since I have thus far managed to avoid the Sears Portrait Studio. Still, it just wouldn’t be Christmas without my parents driving me batty. As soon as my dad rolls into town for the Holiday Proper mom comes down with sympathy deafness and they just sort of yell at each other all day. They're not even that old yet! I fear it doesn’t bode well.

Luckily, extended family obligations have been minimal due to uncle B’s well-timed adultery scandal (well done, sir!), so there has been plenty of time to make merry. Two nights ago I found myself in this bar in a chain restaurant with my friend W, her brother J, and three tables worth of children who work for J’s store at the Johnson City Miracle Mall. The other patrons were (literally) a retarded alcoholic, a fat lady reading a book, and a table of people who played Kid Rock songs on the jukebox. Two of the girls were pregnant and I suspect that all of them were Juggalos.

I didn’t think much of it when they gave me and W the stinkeye when we played the Misfits, but I was a little surprised when one of them marched up to me as they were making their exit. Much to my surprise, she said, “The next time you want to talk shit about my sister, you’d BETTER NOT!" Then she ran out the door before I could say a single word.

You guys, I was burning with unanswered questions. First and foremost: WTF kind of sentence construction was that? I mean, I’m not trying to be a pedant in the middle of some bar filled with children, pregnant ladies, and a drunk re, but it was totally a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma squeezed in the fugliest flannel shirt you’ve ever seen in your life. Q2: If I'm parsing it correctly, that was an implied threat involving a (highly unlikely) hypothetical situation based on an event that never happened in the first place, right? Q3: Or perhaps she’s a mind reader who could just tell I was *thinking shit* about her sister? I was definitely thinking shit. Q4: Really?

But those fascinating questions were nothing compared to my urge to yell, “Fuck you AND your sister! Whatever! I do what I want!” and maybe ordering a round of paternity tests for her companions. On one hand, anyone who knows me has heard my rant re: how the Dumb Southerner is the last acceptable stereotype among people who are otherwise politically correct to a fault. On the other hand: OMG my hometown is teeming with dullards. And on the third hand: because I myself am a redneck in my secret heart, I wanted nothing more than to pull that lady’s hair.

So that was awesome, but the night before was even better. Let me pause to explain that having a blog is weird and fascinating and creepy and delightful in so many unexpected ways. For instance, it has resulted in a handful of saucy solicitations, most recently from one reader, a Facebook friend, who sent me a really nice message about ze blog which eventually devolved into him asking me to send him a photo of myself topless(!). Before I explained to my Gentle Reader that I’m only hot for nerds, I seriously considered sending him a pic of some Internet strumpet’s hoo-ha. Of course, I quickly realized that I (a) didn’t actually want to troll the web for crotch shots and (b) fervently wish to avoid a future in which my mother googles me and conjures someone else’s cybercunt. All the same, I was pretty impressed with myself since I basically just invented ironic sexting. Let me tell you, it feels great to close out 2009 with this important contribution to society.

Believe it or not, though, solicitations are not my favorite thing about blogging. No, my favorite thing is the very particular look of panic in my friends’ eyes when they realize they are participating in something that might become blog fodder. Due to advanced shame-loss, I live a life that involves a daily diet of silly and ridiculous acts for which I actively recruit any and everyone. I guess that explains how I convinced my dear friend R to shake it for hours in the subterranean dance floor in the bowels of the bar where we were drinking, a place that may or may not be known to locals as “The Boom Boom Room.” The BBR was populated by some really skanky lesbian grinders, me, R, and two guys with long hair embroiled in a strangely solemn dance-off that involved some sort of modified Vogue moves.

Oh, and it was Christmas, which is when we gather for that time-honored tradition of Drinking Away the Family. (Which, due to alumni at said bar, seems to have spawned a sub-tradition called Dancing Away My High School.)

After one too many R. Kelly songs, I approached the deejay to make a request. “Do you have any 80s hits?” I asked, suggesting Madonna as a nod to the dance-off fellas.

“That’s not really my thing,” he said, but I was not ready to give up. “It doesn’t have to be 80s,” I said. “How about you just play some Lady Gaga?”

I think he took a shine to me, because the next thing I knew I was in his booth scrolling through his list of a dozen of or so pop songs. The rewards were rich: Michael Jackson, Cyndi Lauper, and “Bad Romance.”

I believe it was during the latter, perhaps as I was stomping in a circle around R like some kind of crazed gypsy, when she gave me The Look and said, “Oh my god, you’re going to write about this on your blog.”

Just thank your lucky stars I don’t have a Flip, sugar. I’m thinking about getting one to better document year 32.

Kiss kiss,
KO