05.31.05

*fwoosh*

Oh hell. Damn time warps. Is it Tuesday all ready? Dang.

Friday was DC-hot-n-humid in Stumptown. Went to MlleE's birthday gathering/dinner/party/karaoke madness. Destro & MlleE cooked like there's no tomorrow. They made shrimp and grits (grits! oh joy! oh rapture! oh happy day!), black-eyed peas, cornbread, and for dessert, a gin watermelon. First of all--grits. Let's talk about grits, shall we? Hominy grits in particular. Ain't nothing like 'em, cooked by a Southern-cooking chef, with tons of bacon grease and butter. Oh yeah, coronary on a plate...but only if you eat like that all the time. Which I don't.

The gathering was lovely. It was nice to talk with people while sitting on the front porch. Every so often I'd run inside to get more iced tea, fighting the urge to curl up inside the 'fridge. (Did you get the impression that it was hot last Friday? You should have.)

Then we decamped to Grandma's for lowbrow karaoke entertainment. It's a strange, basement bar in the wilds of southeast Portland. The walls have been decorated within an inch of sawdust by what appears to be a family of raving woodcarvers who had to be dragged from the woodpile before they started carving each other's bones. What sets off the wood carvings are the once-red-but-faded-to-mauvy/pink velvet and fringe "decorations" that stud the walls. Heaven knows what they're covering, but they remind me of blisters gone septic. Then there are the trompe d'oeil windows looking out over a non-existent, and oddly primitive, Portland.

Once at Grandma's the party (with a couple of notable exceptions) settled into some Serious Drinking and Karaoke-ing. Much to my chagrin *koff koff* the DJ cut off new singers before I could make a singing decision. Gosh darn. I am so upset. Since my singing karaoke tilts the visible universe towards mind-numbing horror and evil, it's probably a good thing that I didn't sing. See how much I care about my fellow humans?

Saturday was quiet. Sunday was quiet. Did some more work on my latest chapbook. Monday (Memorial Day) was quiet.

I listened to part of the littlest Shrub's Rose Garden address today. Now there's a man who deserves to have a wedgie. In fact, a wedgie greater than all wedgies that have gone before would be a good start.

Here's my presidential fantasy: the littlest Shrub wakes up one morning to discover he's an minimum wage paid mother of two toddlers and a teenager. Not one of his cronies knows him. There are no savings, no food stamps, and little or no federal assistance (since "she" makes too much for a handout, but too little to actually live on).

There I go. Thinking again. Oy. I really should stop that.

Go. Be fabulous.

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