Um, I guess now would be the time to tell you, LiveJournal, that I have moved over to my own domain.

Head on over to http://www.theresyourkarma.com/ and bookmark that shit.
This whole journal has been imported over there.

It's been fun.

A random side conversation I had tonight with my friend Sean Dailey reminded me of what was undoubtedly my worst date ever -- not with Sean Dailey (although you can go bother him at his blog), but with this kid named DUSTIN, circa 2003. With the way the event is so vividly burned into my memory, I was certain I had blogged about the travesty, but a search through Blurty at that time has proven otherwise. (However, clicking through the ol’ blog reminded me that I looooooved drinking, and boys, and drinking, and boys.) (Not that much has changed, per se. I just like to think I’m more articulate about it.) I knew I had told SOMEONE the story of Dustin and the Worst Date Ever, and a search through my old e-mails confirmed that that person was my BFF, Jessica McDonnell.

Here is an abridged version of that e-mail to Jessica, [annotated in the present day by yours truly…]

September 18, 2003

“….I met a reeeeaaallllly cute guy at the gym last night, his name was Dustin. He's got that mixed ethnicity going with icy blue eyes and wavy hair, and the flirt meter was turned up high. I loved it. I was so infatuated with the boy that after we went to a 30-minute crunch class together, I didn't even continue working out, being so elated.”

 

[Who meets a guy at a CRUNCH CLASS? And what the fuck is a FLIRT METER? I want to smack 2003-Jenn in the mouth already.]

October 12, 2003

[A month later. What I didn’t write out here was that somewhere in between this time, I had drunkenly kissed Dustin at a party while I was ON A DATE WITH ANOTHER BOY. Not my finest moment, but to be fair, said boy “left to go get cigarettes” and didn’t come back for two hours.]

… I got a call from Dustin, the boy I met at the gym. He left a message, asking me out Tuesday or Wednesday, "whatever worked in my schedule." I was like, wow, cool....

[I like how impressed I was that he was willing to work with my schedule.]

So we decide on Wednesday, and he's like, okay, well, I'll cook dinner for you at eight. I'm impressed by all means at this point. Come Wednesday, I'm all dressed up, and he picks me up and we pick up pink champagne.

[Red flag #1: PINK CHAMPAGNE.]

I get back to his one-bedroom apartment.

[Red flag #2: GOING BACK TO THE APARTMENT OF SOME RANDOM DUDE WHOM YOU SPENT A MERE THIRTY MINUTES WITH, DOING CRUNCHES. Dustin gave me a quick tour of his bachelor pad, and the red lightbulbs in his bedroom's overhead lights made the moment that much more tense. From his computer, the playlist: soundtrack instrumentals from Romeo and Juliet and Legends of the Fall. I wish I was making this up.]

This is where it all goes to hell.
1) He laughs at *everything* I say. This will be explained later. But worse yet, when he laughs, his cute little face makes this joker-like expression. I don't know. It just bothered the shit out of me. Like, how can someone that attractive look so ugly at a moment's notice.
2) I'm pretty sure he had bronzer on. And he works out twice a day. He used to work at Abercrombie. (I'll let YOU sort out the judgements on THOSE comments)
3) Every time I'm in arm's length of the kid, he wants to make out. Okay, so I kissed him once at a party. Drunk. ONE GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE is NOT going to recreate that. But I admit, I tested the waters. FURTHERMORE, the kissing wasn't all that GOOD. Waaaay to much tongue -- in fact, I don't even think there was kissing, he was basically just trying to lick the lips off my face, I guess.

[RED FLAGS 3-34230423 This was exactly as I remember it. I felt like he was laughing at me not because he thought I was funny but because he was trying to get laid. Regardless, Dustin was, by all superficial accounts, a gorgeous man. He looked like a bi-racial Justin Timberlake who modeled for Hollister. If that’s what you’re into. And when I was twenty, sadly, that’s what I was into. Unfortunately, he was the worst kisser I’ve ever laid lips upon. I’ve been more turned on making my morning toast.]

4) Dinner. He cooks Teriyaki chicken (which was edible, that's good.) and as a side? Velveeta Shells and Cheese. Now hold on. That's not half bad, kinda shows his vulnerability. Or something.

[His vulnerability? I don’t know about that. However, macaroni and cheese is pretty much my favorite food, and his intentions to make it where probably the only rays of light in the darkness that is this date.]

Yeah well. Wait for this -- He begins to apologize for the shells and cheese, and I'm like, Nawww .it can't be that bad, you can't fuck up boxed pasta. And he's like . . (wait for it.) "Okay, I have to admit something. I smoked weed before you got here, and uh . .I forgot to drain the water out."

"What?"

"I added the cheese sauce without draining the water. It's kinda soupy."

"You didn't."

HE DID. FUCKING FUCKED UP SHELLS AND CHEESE, because he SMOKED SO MUCH FUCKING WEEEEEEED before I got there?

[Wow. Potty mouth. But it was embarrassing. It’s wrong on so many levels, but surely you think he would come to and just throw out the macaroni/cheese/water mess. No, he put it in a bowl and served it too me. Bad form indeed.]

6) So a couple of glasses of champagne later, some more bad kissing. I'm starting to get the feeling that he's consistently lying to me. ""This is a picture of me, in a river, when I studied for eight months in new zealand." "I've been told I look like Brad Pitt" "I'm an exercise science major, but I really want to be an actor." "I've dabbled in modeling." "Look, poetry.com wants to publish some of my poetry, want to read some of my poetry? Which one do you like better?"

[He also told me he was "black from the waist down."]

7) Probably the highlight of the night was when I smoked pot with him. Only because it was my source of escapeism from the damned situation. We watched old SNL clips on his computer and laughed (except he made that damned joker face, so I tried not to look at him). As I was coming down from my high, I looked over to find him shoving handfuls of tortilla chips in his mouth. With a look of disdain, I decided then it was my time to leave.

[Yet another good decision – you’ve already decided he’s creepy under the influence of champagne, why not let him smoke you out, too?! Nice. We also watched a performance of Michael Jackson, Live at Bucharest.]

In all honesty, Jess, I never want to see his face again. He's far too sexually aggressive, and more unfortunately, he's really creepy. Which is a shame, because he really is a pretty face, but that is about all.

[I like how creepiness degrades him more than sexual aggression. Like, I don’t care if he tries to rape me, as long as he’s not really weird about it.]

How does the story end?

Hearing me come home, my roommate came downstairs to ask how my date went and instead caught me ravaging this bag of Tostitos.

As for Dustin, he called me three times after this incident, and I left him the pleasure of leaving three voicemails. One message was some dude yelling angrily which may or may not have been him. Another was an invitation to join him and his friend in the hot tub, as they just popped a bottle of Cristal. But my favorite was the third message, in which he shouted "SUCK MY SCROTUM!" into the receiver before hanging up.

I wish him all the best.

 

..of "scene setters" from my cousin's bridal shower last month...







Some more of my faves at my Flickr account.

Does anyone else think this is hotter than p0rn? I mean, hi. Amazing.

You know how in Running with Scissors, Augusten Burroughs writes about how the Finch family would do "Bible Dips?" They'd ask the Bible a question, flip open to a random page, then try to find meaning in the word they landed on.   [Excerpt here. I'd say read the book, but there are better ones I'd recommend, and for heaven's sake do not even think about seeing the movie!]

[Anyway.]
I find myself bible-dipping in the unabridged journals of Sylvia Plath. Is that weird?

I ordered this book a few years ago after having read The Bell Jar, but could not for the life of me get through it, linearly.  I love me some Plath, but as you may know, even a simple passage about a day at the beach gets pretty intense. Regardless, I feel some sort of weird closeness to her more than anybody I've ever read. Although I don't have the time or concentration to just sit and read as much as I'd like, I pick it up daily and read a random paragraph or two.  Perhaps I do this less for direction and more for the connection, the less-alone feeling I get from it.  I guess I believe that whatever I pull from the journal is what I'm meant to read at that moment.

For example, just now: 

December 13, 1958
Blue shadows of trees looped on the sunwhite snow of the park in Lousyberg Square: the toga-Greek statue clutching his stone sheet in the front. Clear air. Bless Boston, my birthtown.  Give me the guts to begin again here my second quarter-century of life and live to the hilt.

[Amen.]

This blog is like a friend. Only, it's kind of a mutual friend, to anyone that reads it.  And so when I've ignored the friend for oh, say - two months, you feel stupid calling that friend up and being like, "How's..you know...how's your life, man?" and you have to go through that whole awkward first ten minutes before you really settle in to old times. 

So I told myself I needed an exercise to get back into writing again, and it started with the idea that I would produce 26 mini-entries, one for each letter of the alphabet. This was all going to happen by Monday [tomorrow]. It's like how when I decide I want to lose weight I tell myself I'm going to eat 3423 veggies a day and run for 2938423 miles, and then on the first day someone convinces me to go to Qdoba and I can't even find my sports bra. 

She: "How was Black Friday?"
He: "It was pretty black."
She: "How black was it?"
He: "Like, Taye Diggs Black."
She: "That's pretty fucking black."
He: "It's like that movie, when she got her groove back?"
She: "Yeah."

Something crazy happens to me when I listen to Bob Seger’s “Night Moves.”

 

Ever notice those songs that can totally shape the environment around you? For example, if you are walking anywhere with “The Only Living Boy in New York” by Simon and Garfunkel coming through your headphones, the world is suddenly so wistful, and you feel particularly pensive (this might be directly related to Zach Braff, somehow). 

 

But with “Night Moves” – nine times out of ten, I am in a car. It’s a car song (also see: a good portion of the Springsteen catalog).  I have nothing against Bob Seger, but my iTunes merely suggests on odd smattering of greatest hits, if that.  He never quite makes the cut onto the MP3 mixes I assemble for driving.  No, the only time I have the opportunity to hear “Night Moves” is on random radio rotation, like when I’m en route to work after having my wisdom teeth sutures removed. 

 

Something happens around 3:30, just after Bob has taken us to the bridge. He breaks it down for us… Strange how the night moves…with autumn closin' in…[this is where you turn it up, turn it up real loud]…the acoustic guitar comes back in…yeaaaah…and luckily I’m at a stop light on Fall Creek Parkway because I’m closing my eyes and nodding and I’m feeling the crisp breeze as the drums come rollicking back in and then, with a fist pump out the window…

 

“NIGHT MOVES!” 

 

You have to sing it. Have to. It’s like praying.

 

The light turns green.

 

You’re gonna be okay.

Hey remember THIS? If you’ve been playing the home game, my wisdom teeth have been the bane of my existence for the past couple years. The saga ended on September 19^th, 2008. 

 

Wisdom Tooth Throwdown:

In this corner, weighing in at a feather-light **coughcough** pounds – me, Jenn K.

In the other corner, weighing in at a ball-busting 2 grams – Wisdom Teeth I, II, III, and IV.

( Read more... )

 

Of some random things outside of the Indianapolis Museum of Art.  This was while I was waiting for Scott to get his proposal on.



( Read more... )

I just learned that to survive a grizzly bear attack you should play dead, and to survive a black bear attack you should fight back.

I did not know that. Most of you probably did, and it will be like that one time when I was like "Hey! Hey you guys. Did you know that Toto's Rosanna was written about Rosanna Arquette?" And you all stare at me blankly, virtually, like everyone in the world knows that.

I'll tuck this knowledge away, although I doubt I'll ever use it. I can't think of any situation in the past decade that has put me anywhere near the threat of bears. My lover is more the indoorsy-gaming type than rugged-camping type, so I don't anticipate a trip to Yellowstone anytime soon. 
That said, I would not place bets on me winning, versus the black bear.  I'm pretty sure my fight-or-flight switch is turned permanently to "flight." This can best be illustrated by that one time I visited the Exotic Feline Rescue Center, and ran behind Annie the second a lion roared.  

It's settled. I want to dance the cha-cha with Warren Sapp.  Put it on my list.


Also, anyone notice Lance Bass's partner Lacey , my favorite dancer on So You Think You Can Dance? 
Welcome!
I loved it when she said, "I am a huge fan. I thought he was going to marry me, but that's not going to happen anymore," and there was a great moment of  Disney homophobe awkwardness.

Lance Bass FTW; I'm callin' it. 

I just found out, literally, at lunch, five minutes ago - that Bess's grandpa was on Leno as "The Twinkie King." He consumed one or two twinkies every day for 64 years. He ate them with a banana, because the cream in those spongy cakes was originally banana-flavored, until a banana shortage in WWII led them to be vanilla instead. Bess and her family get a lifetime supply of Twinkies! Gah!

This is one of the highlights of my day thus far.

[The other being the sweet Dwight Shrute mousepad Jana bought me from Target.]

A few weeks ago, I guerilla-photographed the proposal of my friends, Scott and Gretchen.  This took place outside of the Indianapolis Museum of Art in front of Robert Indiana's "LOVE" sculpture.  I'll show you what the sculpture looks like...




...because I sure as hell didn't get it in the background from behind the BUSH that I was ever-so-creepily lurking behind.
I got there early and imagined this perfect shot that never happened.  The sculpture is kind of in the open, so unless I outright stood in the middle of the road, Gretchen was going to see me, and then the proposal would be messed up, and then they'd never get married, and I would have ruined both of their lives.(This is where my active imagination took me, in between waiting on the two of them to show up, and shooting cliche photographs of bees and flowers.)

Advantage point:



As soon as I saw them approaching the sculpture, I threw off my shoes and jumped into this bush. It was not what I had planned. I panicked.

( Read more... )

I got my wisdom teeth pulled last Friday...more on that later. But wisdom tooth removal means pain killers, and pain killers mean that for the past couple nights I have slept like a brick, despite the Army of Crickets that are staging a coup outside of my apartment.

[For effect, I would have inserted here a picture of a cricket with a little army hat photoshopped on it, but alas, all I have on hand is microsoft paint, and not enough patience.]

Do you ever get catch yourself lucid dreaming? Last night, I was having this dream that I was Tina Fey (which may or may not have had to do with me and Bess talking about how much we wanted to be Tina Fey yesterday. Good job, subconscious.)  In my dream, I had written a sketch that apparently just bombed, and I halfway woke up, completely stressed out.  And I kept coaching myself, go back to sleep, you're fine, you're fine, but by then the tylenol had worn off and my teeth started hurting. I faced facts; I was awake. I trudged downstairs at 3:30am, popped some pills and flipped on Flight of the Conchords. 4am came and I decided to make an attempt at sleeping again. Turned off the TV, and -

"CHIIIIRRRRRP.  chirp.  CHIRP. chirpchirp. Chirp? Chirpachirp.  Chirpity chirp."

What. The fuck.  I know that crickets are a "sound of summer," whatever. If I was sitting on a porch in a rocker with a glass of sweet tea at sunset, they'd be a great soundtrack to the moment. But not now. Not when I am tired, and cranky, and in pain.

I'm sure they were scattered throughout the apartment grounds, but in my mind, they were all gathered in one place -- on my patio, like a little Cricket United Nations.  I can only imagine that they came to avenge the deaths of the two or three crickets that have been murdered in this apartment.  One of these was most likely their cricket leader,  the Lord of the Crickets, if you will.  He would have died in one of two ways. One -  mercilessly beaten under the playful paws of Corona, followed up by me, with the vacuum. Two - caught in a cup by Damon, while I shrieked from the couch, "Ew! Git it! Git! It!" (I have a southern accent for this story.) This would also involve Damon pretending to put the cup in my face, thus proving that theory about boys, and snails, and puppy dog's tails.

Shouldn't the incessant chirping simply become background noise, you ask? Well, no.  Because once I am up from my sweet, golden slumber, certain conditions must be met to fall back into it.  Conditions are are follows:
1) No light. Any speck lighter than pitch dark, and I will see it through my eyelids, and it will scorch into my retinas with the heat of a thousands suns.
2) No sound. I have silently resented Damon in early morning hours for breathing too heavily. 
3) Perfect temperature. I need it cool. Even in the dead heat of summer, I want to sleep with my blanket. I don't care what it says about my insecurities.

Also? FACT: Everytime I can't get to sleep I think of this Ren and Stimpy episode.

I roused Damon from his sleep as I crawled back into bed, enough for him to ask, "What the hell is that on your head?" and I thought about how silly I must look with my comforter pulled down around my head, like a nun in a veil stuffed with goose feathers.  But it was the only way. It was the only way to block the chirping. I fell back asleep around 5:30am, and dreamt about an Amish apocalypse.

I was feeling particularly bad about myself, midday Saturday.  Every now and again I have these days where I look at my life in its current state and my response is a wine bottle, straight to the lips. If that sounds dramatic to you, it is.  That's the result of being an only child. And a Leo. And three years of high school theater.

The only non-condiment in my fridge was a bottle Sky Dog wine, purchased for $5.99.  If you're not familiar, the label has a DOG attached to a ROCKET on it.



The perfect compliment to my mood - fermented grape juice with a twist-off top. 

Somewhere between half-full and half-empty, I got a text message from Bess: "What are you doing tonight?"

Those five words were the only encouragement I needed.  I was not going to lie on the couch and watch eight hours of the Anthony Bourdain marathon. I need a goal again. I need a drive again. I need to feel my heart coming alive again. Before the parade passes by. (Streisand, 1969). I was going out.

Okay, I had just downed a bottle of wine.  So first, a nap.  But then, out.

Bess suggested a glorious idea: why not head out to the Indy's reknowned gay bar, Talbott Street?  Yes. But what to wear? Talbott Street plays music that's all,  ugh-tsss-ugh-tsss, and the bulk of my wardrobe is more, I don't know -  Peace Train?  Buried deep in my closet was a brown, lingerie-inspired top that got me free drinks in college. I threw on jeans and a sparkly peach scarf. That would have to do. Most of my prep was devoted to my hair, as there was a good possibility of  running into my stylist, whom I would NOT have see me with disheveled tresses.

I met Bess downtown and we caught a cab to the bar. I smiled like a giddy school girl -- there were no "dudes," no "bros." After stocking up on libations (red-headed sluts + vodka-water, splash of lime), we headed into the lounge for the drag show.  We squealed at the Stevie Nicks impersonator, and danced our hearts out to the Paula Abdul medley (when's the last time you heard Rush, Rush? I'm guessing last decade?) The following also may have been uttered: "If someone breaks out with Judy Garland, I'm going to pee my pants."  

Then it was off to the dance floor for Mariah Carey remixes and shimmying under strobe lights. I was oozing happiness. There was glitter falling from the rafters.  We checked out men grinding on platforms and wanted to be best friends with every one of them.  In the middle of my fag hag fantasies, I felt a tug on my arm.  "Are you a straight girl?"  he asked. He explained that he had brought his friend, the only straight guy in here, and he was feeling uncomfortable. [Really? With his Lakers shirt and Budweiser? Really?] He pulled his friend into our dance party and disappeared without a word.  WAIT A SECOND! I thought, as the gangly dude clumsily attempted to twirl me. I AM NOT BABYSITTING YOUR STRAIGHT FRIEND! THIS DEFEATS THE WHOLE PURPOSE OF US COMING HERE!... HEY! You may NOT put your hand awkwardly on my hip. Do not pass go. We slinked on over (yes, slinked, like Mick Jagger) to the other side of the bar and danced until I could no longer feel my feet. Bess shouted over the blasting techno: "I seriously think we're gay men trapped inside straight women's bodies!"

TRUE.

So my day pulled a 180, going from Sky Dogg wine to the finale of THIS:



You know..on the inside.

There are only 3 reasons I have a YouTube account.
1) To look at the "over 18" material.
2) To post that random video of me dancing in the sand dunes (446 views?! Who the hell is watching that shit?)
3) To subscribe to 2 channels - Amy Walker, and SuperMac18.

 Damon sent me this video a few months ago, and I was hooked...
...oh. Because 90% of the guys I've dated or had crushes on were basically just different variations of THIS KID, right.

THIS guy is Girl Talk?

      

I am torn, people. I am kind of diggin this album.  I never really figured out my stance on sampling. 

I'm a total flip-flopper on that:

Warren G sampling Michael McDonald? Good.
Kid Rock sampling Warren Zevon? Go fuck yourself.

Regarding Girl Talk's Feed the Animals, sampling is all you have. That's all there is.   But there is something incredibly satisfying about flying down Binford Blvd yelling "take your broke ass home!" with Ludacris, layered over Earth Wind and Fire's "September."   It also sparks my imagination into wondering what these artists would be like together in real-life situations, like: what would Thom Yorke say to the members of Blackstreet at a party?

But there are some things that are kind of...sacred. "God Only Knows" should be left well enough alone, unless you're listening to the deconstructed and awe-inspring Vocals Only Version from the Pet Sounds Sessions. "A Whiter Shade of Pale" doesn't sound like it should be sampled into anything, ever, let alone under Lil' Jon.  

At the end of the day, this guy's pretty talented when it comes to mashups, but it serves as more of a novelty to me than anything else. I don't go out and dance "in the clubs" so I don't know what kids are listening to these days.  If I heard Yung Joc, I'd probably stay seated, or likelier yet leave for another bar.  But Yung Joc + Ben Folds Five? I'll reconsider.

(Who am I kidding, Bess and I danced to Flight of the Conchords in the empty basement of the Casbah last Friday. Let's not pretend that I'm a dance snob.)