Sunday, December 22, 2013

Smoky Vegas High (photos)

As I have referenced in a few other posts, I made a long trip to Las Vegas this summer to do a bit of fashion exploration and photography practice. Upon returning to Portland I was immersed in summer school so I placed my photos aside for another day. I suppose today is as good a day as any to bestow upon you the photographic evidence of decrepit Las Vegas. I hate it there so much I only go several times a year.

I have been impressed with recent developments in smoke fan and ventilation technology, as the casinos have been not nearly as hazy and stale as they have been in the past. I honestly did not mind spending hours wandering the shops because the ventilation was good, my asthma medication was good, and, well, it was 117 degrees outside. Literally. A vast difference from the weather in Portland as of late.

After a few days, I ventured outside for pool time, armed with gallons of water and SPF 15. Gazing through my sunglasses, I saw a haze I wasn't used to outside of my neighborhood: endless smoke. At first I assumed the casino ventilation fans were extremely efficient to the point the outdoors were now more smoky than the indoors. After a few moments, I let my intelligence creep in for a moment and realized the smoke was coming from a massive wildfire to the west of town. The following pictures are of Las Vegas and the wildfire smoke at the end of June 2013 through the beginning of July 2013. Click on them to view in large format.

las Vegas from the east during July 2013 wildfires
Hazy skyline. Those aren't rain clouds.

The Cosmopolitan and City Center
Smoky sunset.

Hilton Vacations tower with smoke column
Triangular smoke face.
Smoky twilight view of North Las Vegas Strip July 2013
North Strip.
The base of one of the new Vegas observation wheels
Early construction of one of the many new rides/observation wheels/vomit inducers.
Sunbeams stream from behind Las Vegas smoke.
Another day, another smoke column.
Close shot of Las Vegas smoke column with beams July 2013
Smoke close-up.
Wildfire in Las Vegas July 2013, smoke column with fire glow.
It moved.
Las Vegas sunset with color and smoke
Swirls at sunset.
Sun behind smoke at Las Vegas sunset
Sometimes it's okay to stare at the sun.
Closer shot of sun behind smoke Las Vegas 2013
Sun up close.
Thicker smoke now than in the other construction shot.

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Stop Inviting My Nemesis to Your Parties

I hate you.

Sparkles and bitchiness. The seated pig.
Some pig.
Whomever invites the pig, you're on notice. That swine thinks she's all that. "Look at moi!" "Where's the food?" "Ooh, champagne!"

She's always showing up at the same parties I do. By the time I get to the bar, it's empty. I dash to the buffet, she's on the floor, rolling around and snorting in the remaining scraps. This one time I tried to pull a carrot stick out from under her and she let out a huge, "Hi-Yah!" and chopped me in the throat.

From her stupid big sparkly rings to her super flexible little on-again-off-again boyfriend, she just can't stop talking about how awesome her life is and how great it is to be so famous. "Ooh, Lars is the BEST personal trainer," or "Call Bernie to book me, I'm just too busy to talk right now." Seriously, I'm getting sick of hearing about all of it. Get over yourself.

Well, get this. A couple of weeks ago, we were at the same type of function again and I unfortunately got there less fashionably late than she did. However, that did allow me to eat a box of delectable cookies before she could touch them. She swept into the room, all fluttering eyelashes and cooing in that ridiculous high-pitched squealy voice she does when she puts on a show. I know what's she's really like under all of that: a gravelly-voiced rage monster just waiting to karate kick you into next week. Anyway, there was still a large pot of warm chili on the buffet stand and I directed her attention to it. "You have to try it. It's delicious."

She didn't reply because she was too busy putting her head in the pot and gobbling down ever last meaty morsel. Oh, the tears I cried from laughter. I hope you enjoyed that pork chili as much as I enjoyed watching you eat it.

I'm freaking out about the photo op with my nemesis.
OMG. I think we're best friends now!

Saturday, November 16, 2013

My Mother Ruined Everything

Dear New Neighbors,

I am sorry. I am so SO sorry. My mother has these antiquated ideas about life, you see, and she just does not understand how it is these days, no matter how hard I try to educate her otherwise. I am truly ashamed for what she did to you and I simply do not know how I can go on. I greatly lament the fact you will now miss out on knowing the greatest creature to ever grace this universe: ME.


J. Kesgard
Famous Person

Wearing all black with black roses, in mourning for my neighbors' loss
Wracked with sadness & regret.
The fact our neighbor of 23 years had moved out and sold her house was a frightening prospect. Who would buy the house? Would they know who I am? What presents would they give me in order to curry my favor? These were questions I just could not answer until I laid eyes on the people themselves. One day, I witnessed one of them quickly moving cleaning supplies into the house. I assumed he was the new owners' servant but I soon realized he may have been one of the owners himself as he had a vampire baby with him.

We allowed the new residents to move in uninterrupted, as I would have liked them to be settled and focused when I sent over the brochure of gift baskets for them to choose from to give to me. Unfortunately, the day I was to send my publicist over, my live-in annoyance, Mommy Dearest, RUINED EVERYTHING.

Mother lives in the servants' quarters in my McMansion and decided to go outside without permission. She was putting something in the garbage can like a peasant and noticed the neighbors working on cars in the driveway. She approached like a tiger, slow and slinking but pouncing at the last second, uttering a terrible phrase I will never forget, "Hi, I'm Jan. I live next door."

The absolute nerve.

The new neighbor glanced at her for a second, said a quick, "Hi," and went back to working on his car. Mother stood there for a few moments, receiving no further acknowledgement, and finally walked off. Later, when my footballer husband was outside surveying a garden project, he attempted to introduce himself as well, and received a mere grunt. These two events destroyed my chance at becoming even more famous. At first I assumed these people would merely become my devotees, but from how they acted, it's clear they must be super famous people themselves and now we'll probably never snort coke off of a model together or anything!

I ventured outside to supervise* my husband's gardening supervision and looked over to the neighbors' house. The woman that lived there was now outside as well. She barely glanced at me in her chain smoking session; she was too busy associating with the male resident and a friend that came over wearing pajamas at two in the afternoon. When they were finished working on the cars, smoking, and listening to the baby wailing from inside the house, they hastened to disappear back into the domicile so I couldn't recognize them and call TMZ.

I can only assume their standoffishness was due to how famous they are, combined with how old fashioned my mother is. Back in the day, when you moved into an established neighborhood where most of the residents know each other, you'd welcome the new neighbors and everyone would introduce themselves. People used to like knowing who their neighbors were, so they could be friendly and look out for each other. Sadly, some of the other older residents on my street still insist on saying hello to me when they walk past. They even want to have whole conversations. The worst is when we actually step foot into each others' houses. I'm so sad these old neighbors haven't gotten the memo. Get with the now, people.

If my mother had listened to me, she would've known how to approach our new superstar neighbors: on hands and knees, eyes averted, pushing a carton of cigarettes along with her nose. When given permission to rise, she would then curtsy and kiss their rings. At that time, she'd then give them my publicist's card and she'd receive theirs in return. Someone's people would call someone's people, and then a few days later we'd be waking up in an infinity pool in Vegas, surrounded by champagne bottles and vomit. Now none of it will EVER HAPPEN. Now they will never know how super cool I am and we will never sext nudes to each other that will end up on The Dirty. They will never know what they are missing. I'm sorry. I'm just so SO sorry, new celebrity neighbors.

*If you are approached by someone insisting they have pictures of us digging up a stump, don't believe them. It's a lie!
A gravesite with black roses and a headstone that says DIE
Here lies my neighbors' chance at knowing how fabulous I am.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Now Making Guest Appearances!

I receive inquiries ALL THE TIME from so many of my fans regarding social functions and entertaining. Jennifer, how do I make my party exciting? How do I truly celebrate a life event in a special way? Do you know the secret to throwing the best bashes? DO I?!? Duh...

The best social gatherings all have one essential component: me.

Myself and a cat in my purse arriving at a social function
Mingette & I on the wood carpet.
Now that we are entering the holiday season, my services will certainly be required at a great number of public events. In the last couple years, I limited my appearances to a select few engagements due to my time being occupied by other projects and a great many naps. This year, I aim to attend numerous celebrations, especially where I can get lots of free stuff like all the other celebrities.

This last weekend, I was invited to a VIP screening of an epic sporting competition. Mingette and I were amused by the idea of making an appearance as sporting events are not usually known to possess the level of class and sophistication we do. Fortunately, this gathering required only my presence and an offering of [redacted] candy and the plans were set. My driver had me to the door a reasonable hour late and I was ushered in quickly; no velvet ropes for this superstar!

I enjoyed a wide variety of exotic foods prepared by my personal chef (which we brought in, Hugh Hefner-style). The most wonderful surprise of the evening was the choice of beverage. Usually I enjoy a delightful glass of something grape-based and bubbly. However, I was introduced to an almost equally delicious beverage that was derived from another fruit: apple cider. How exquisite. This is soon to be a topic on which I will soon be an expert and eternally annoy friends, family, acquaintances and strangers alike. Cider is my new best friend.

Purse cat watching soccer
Mingette loves Diego Valeri and would enjoy a scratch & a pat.
Mingette and I made our way to our reserved seating and watched some muscularly blessed men topple all over each other. As I am the Worst Timbers Blogger, I made sure to place most of my attention toward glimpsing abs and butts. Mingette is far better of a sports mind and often interrupted my viewing experience. She's writing a book about NASL Timbers and how much she hated their shorts.

The only difficulty I had with the evening was the fact the VIP area wasn't separated enough from the main viewing area. I'm sure I had to breathe the same air as some of the lesser people who probably haven't been on a reality show or made a sex tape yet or anything.

All in all, the evening was a success and I'm looking forward to more this season. I already have a few engagements booked in the next month and I'll be sure to tell you, my dear fans, all about them.

Purse cat watches me sleep off the gallons of cider
Post engagement on-site nap. The VIP area lacked the cushy couches I'm used to dancing on.

Friday, October 18, 2013

A Failed Self-Intervention

I've been living in a state of denial. I must confess my transgressions before I can continue with my recovery. Sadly, my dear fans, I've still been working. In a school.


I know, I know. This is terrible news. Here I am, supposedly spending all day in bed nursing epic hangovers but instead I'm disappointing all of you with continued altruistic works. I tried to stop. Many times. The rush is just too good, you know? That look they get on their faces when they finally get it. When they understand what multiplication actually is. What gives trees their green color. Why Christopher Columbus was not a hero but a massive douche deserving of a day of national immolation, not celebration. I can't break this addiction, man. And now that I'm talking about it, I don't want to stop. Seriously.

Could you stop knowing you get things like this all the time?
An epic drawing of Pokemon Pikachu by one of my students
Several times a week, trembling hands accompanied by a smiling face bestow upon me works greater than that of the classic masters. Move over, Michelangelo, this kid can draw Pikachu from memory. Shut up, Monet. You only wish you could make me a fridge magnet of Wolverine with a light saber. This little girl's leaf rubbings are second to none, Rembrandt. And they are ALL MINE.

A sad pic of me at the Crystal Ballroom
Fashion, I am disappoint.
For a long period of time I did attempt to shake this compulsion. About six weeks ago I went to a fashion show here in Portland. I was planning to attend all of the major shows this fall and started with a one-off with an artsy multimedia component. My optimistic outlook on my return to frivolity died within moments of entry. What I thought would be a welcome return to my preferred reality was instead a jarring wake-up call to my problematic mental state. There was something very wrong with me.

Why was I not elbowing people to get into the bar line? Why was I not fawning over this designer who's pretentiously showing a clip from The Monkees' Head (it was the bridge scene and everything!) before their show? Why was I more preoccupied by this line's tangential connection to a Doctor Who reference than their actual clothing?

I couldn't even figure out ahead of time the looks for which we were going to arbitrarily choose to clap. Of course it was the man-sized baby onesie. Of COURSE it was. And I missed it. Everyone else knew to clap but I didn't. Instead, I thought to myself, "This guy in the giant onesie looks ridiculous. Where the hell would you wear that?" Clearly, I was off my game. I felt so out of place I decided not to attend any further shows this season.

Attending the shows was supposed to be a major source of inspiration to me as I am finishing up some touches on the accessories line I'm about to launch. I have decided to try once more to foist my hats upon the masses, but this time I'm additionally offering handbags and various jewelry. As I profit, I will reinvest into my business to buy better sewing equipment and move on to clothing. The sense of pressure I had has been deflated and I have decided to proceed toward my humor writing and fashion house dreams at my own, non-stressful pace. It'll happen when it happens. And in the meanwhile, I can get a bigger high by teaching what I know about sewing and other subjects to some awesome children, who are inspiring me more than any giant onesie even would.

Don't worry. I have plenty of other ways to do nothing most of the rest of the time. And I still love my bubbly.

Thursday, August 29, 2013

The Vampires Have Won

I have recently come to the terrible realization that I have lost. There's nothing I can do now. They have manipulated me to help them complete their nefarious purposes and it makes me weep in utter despair. What now? What now indeed...

Those of you aware of my battles against the great pregnancy conspiracy from our vampire overlords no doubt remember the shocking mailings I received of breeder propaganda and blood sacrifice. I thought I had done all I could to avoid being enslaved by these fiends but I now realize I may be too late. Apparently, I didn't know I was pregnant and already gave birth. I wondered how I got so fat and now I know the terrible truth. The most frightening question I have is, where is the baby? But then I wonder, when did I expel it? Is it watching me? Does it live in the crawlspace? Is it mad I keep intercepting its mail?

You may be asking yourself, how does she know this? Why would she even think of this? Well, dear fans, the evidence is clear and you can see for yourself after you gaze upon what I just received in the mail:
little kickers junk mail for my mystery vampire baby
We've hit crisis level, here folks. I have now received correspondence meant for a child of at least 18 months of age. Not only did I give birth secretly against my will, but the child also has super-aged like all of the kids do on television. You have seen this frequently, I know. A television program has a character that gives birth and next season their spawn is already five and talking. Or, on a science fiction program, there is something wrong with the creature and it ages quickly on camera. Or, the kids in those pageants made up to look older actually DO look that age now. This can only mean that all children on television are portrayed by vampire babies except for the Olsen twins.

Keep your wits about you, my dears. Hypervigilance is required in times like these. Who knows how many of us have been impregnated against our will, only to birth an evil parasite that now lives in an attic or similar environs. No hell beast, I will not drive you to casting calls. I will not. Most certainly not for anything less than 60% plus expenses.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Fuzzy Logic

I love Daiya fake cheese. It's the perfect product for someone like me that pretty much can't eat anything with gluten, casein or artificial colors... it's like crack. I put it in or on everything: tuna noodles, spaghetti, breakfast scrambles, nachos, burgers and pizza. Well, I would if I ate food other than prunes and champagne. I just like to have Daiya around in case I ever feel like eating something when I'm done being hot.

Somebody drove through a fence
Not my handiwork, but it could be if I need to drive to get Daiya.
Unfortunately, there wasn't a place close to my home where I could purchase this treat. There are no Whole Foods or New Seasons stores closer than a 25 minute drive and Fred Meyer, a 15-20 minute drive, doesn't carry as wide of a selection of the Daiya products.

Sometimes I don't feel like rolling out of bed to find the phone and call my driver, so I'm forced to go by myself. I usually do my grocery shopping by walking, as drinking bubbly as much as I do and heading out on the road is not a fabulous idea. I might ruin my hair or someone's fence or something. I prefer to stumble down the street, making friends and being under the influence with people.

This summer, IT ALL CHANGED. I was skipping through the hippie section of one of my neighborhood markets when I spied ambrosia: Daiya Cheddar Wedge. It was cause for a most epic celebration. Although this was the only selection, it's my go-to melty pleasure. I quickly purchased a wedge and continued to do so weekly over the next month. In the middle of June, I noticed that a couple of the wedges had green spots on them, as you can see through the semi-transparent packaging. I put them aside and reached in the back and found two good wedges; I bought one of them. In the old days, when I actually gave a shit about being nice, I would have brought the moldy wedges up to the register with me. Not anymore. The expiration date was July 15 on them anyway so I expected they'd be getting a new shipment and trading them out any day.

The next week I walked back and the same three wedges were still there: the two moldy ones and one that wasn't, but I noticed the seal on that one wasn't good and I didn't want to risk it. At the end of June, I went to Las Vegas for a working holiday and had my driver take me to the Whole Foods while I was there so I could put Daiya on everything I ate at the champagne brunch at the MGM Grand. I spent two weeks in Sin City before I returned to Oregon. July 11, I walked to the store and was greeted by my three friends, the same moldy Daiya wedges. I pulled them out of their shelf and laid them on top of the tofu so someone would see it. I raised my cloak across my face and laughed maniacally as I darted out of the store.

July 18, I went back expecting to see the wedges replaced but NO! THEY WERE STILL THERE! Someone had picked them up and restocked them back into their shelf spot. Now they were not only fuzzy but also beyond the expiration date. I pulled them back off the shelf and laid them on the tofu. Every other day I went to the store and put the Daiya on the tofu, and I would go back and it would be right back in its spot again. This went on until this last Sunday, when I finally found my precious wedges gone. I had played this silly game for THREE WEEKS, with the wedges being moldy on the shelf for a total of seven weeks. Now I have no idea of what to do with myself. My life's purpose is gone.

Moldy daiya has been on display for over a month at my neighborhood store
My furry friends. Ready for yiffing.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Vampire Babies Hunger For Your Blood

A letter from vampire babies demanding my blood
For once I wish my postal carrier would lose my mail on purpose.
This shocking follow-up to my now school-required reading, Corporate America is Trying to Impregnate Me!, reveals even more terrifying evidence that the government insemination drone is still pursuing me. I sincerely hope they have not already succeeded and I am incubating a Freedom Fetus to be birthed and inspire an episode of I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant.

In the aforementioned entry, I already listed all of my objections to carrying an abdominal parasite, and I assumed the government's efforts would cease once the truth was out. I was wrong. Approximately a week ago, I received more breeder propaganda in the mail. Only now, it was for the benefit of vampire babies. Vampire babies apparently need more blood and I refuse to enable this dangerous menace.

Before I could even finish writing this entry, I was rudely interrupted by a research trip to Las Vegas. What I assumed was to be an informative exploration of fall's fashion trends so I could further adapt my accessories line turned out not to be the situation. Instead, I discovered the vampire baby conspiracy is growing further and faster than I previously supposed. I am frightened for my very life and you should be, too.

Before I left for my trip, I received a disturbing piece of mail. It was a brochure asking for my cord blood. Apparently, there are many babies out there that need it and they will do anything to get it, including the sending of mail to women that aren't even pregnant. They want me to get pregnant, and then give them all of my blood from some cord thing. I can only assume it's because it reminds them of a crazy straw and they can drink it fresh, directly from the source. This of course is highly disturbing and nauseating, and I have no choice but to attempt to recreate it through the medium of photography.

preemie cabbage patch baby drinking blood from a wine glass
Realistic recreation of vampire baby.
While I was in Las Vegas, I could not escape the scourge of vampire babies. They were EVERYWHERE. There they were, at 2 a.m. on the Las Vegas Strip, commanding their human minions to push them along in their carriages, searching for victims. Sometimes they even forced their slaves to carry them on their chests. As vampire babies are cold and undead, they were likely absorbing the heat from these poor souls.

I could think of no other reason why a human would have an infant accompanying them in Sin City far after the witching hour if they were not engaging in the search for blood. And in 100 degrees no less. This was perfect hunting ground for a ravenous vampire baby. Pedialyte is a poor substitute for that which these demons truly crave, but more than one adult slave pumped their charges full of this vile substance in the hope they could slake the unholy eternal thirst. That and they gave them lots of candy.

The next day, the bloodsuckers would rise early and in some bizarre ritual of masochism, brave the morning sun after only few hours of sleep, determined to burn themselves into a screaming rage. These strange beasts would wail by the pool as the minions massaged SPF 200 all over their wriggling bodies, while their servants continued to fill them with candy or frozen yogurt or breakfast sandwiches or candy or soda and candy in the attempt to delay their need of blood. Of course, to the layman this practice may appear to be parents filling their kids full of sugar after no sleep in the effort to keep them awake, bribed and happy, but I know better. That would be abusive and there was simply too much of this occurring. It is far more likely the vampire plague has spread faster and wider than even I could have imagined.

This country has been blinded by political ridiculousness. Who cares about racism and homophobia, the war against religion, the moral realignment of women's duties to the righteous patriarchy, and a power hungry unstoppable black president in his quest to continually disenfranchise the poor rich white man over the age of 50? This all means nothing when facing the threat of vampire babies. Start stocking up on wooden stakes before the government starts requiring background checks on them.

And stay away from the M&M Store in Las Vegas. I think it's the international headquarters for the vampire elite.

Thursday, June 6, 2013

About This #FridayswithMaury Thing...

I'm holding a million babies, DNA test results, not the father!
That beyotch in the audience better keep her mouth shut.
My life is hard. I never knew how difficult it would truly be to give up an 80 hour per week work schedule and devote all of my time to foolishness. Who knew sleep was so important? Who knew eating was so overrated? Who knew Cosmopolitan had such awesome tips for keeping your man? I didn't at first, but now I know these things and so much more after studying the topics that enhance my new lifestyle. For instance, did you know there's a show where you can get free trips, lie detector tests for your cheatin' ass boyfriend, and paternity tests to prove you're not lying about the fact the kids are his? I recently discovered this on accident and I've been hooked ever since.

Each weekend, I devote so much energy to partying, it takes me an entire week to recover. I usually wake up refreshed on Friday, at about 12:45 p.m., to begin the cycle all over again. A few weeks ago, my television was on in the background as I was waxing my beard and the Maury show came on at 1:00. Well, I certainly never witnessed anything like it before and haven't since. It is its own microcosm, a study on today's society encapsulated into one refreshing hour of life changing mental stimulation.

Clapping on each syllable I say, looking white trash trailer park lovely
147% sure I liked the new Star Trek movie.
I started tweeting my thoughts about the program each Friday at 1:00 P.M. (*See update at end of post*), using the hashtag #Maury. However, for some bizarre reason, my tweeting caught on and attracted conversation from a variety of sources. I changed my tag to something catchier, the inspiring #FridayswithMaury. Now, here's a complication: I have been waking up a bit earlier each day to go tanning outside and realized that awesome television is on EVERY SINGLE DAY. I don't think I'll be awake enough to manage tweeting everything all day every day, but I think I have the ability to add in a few more shows.

I can't really decide what I would like to do, so I'm leaving it open to you, my dear fans. Wilkos Wednesdays? Trisha Tuesdays? Or just a one-time, whole day event of nothing but court shows (Divorce, Mathis, Joe Brown, Judy, etc.)? How about a full day of a mix of shows, from 7 a.m. through as late as I can go, with a coordinating drinking game with copious amounts of mimosas? Soap operas? Discovery Health documentaries? I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant?

Let's have votes or suggestions. I'm leaving for Las Vegas on the 27th and the blogging and tweeting during that trip is going to be its own adventure, as I review events, locales, fashion, food and beverages in the way I do best. However, I have a few weeks left before that day to bring on some more tweet & blog action regarding our favorite daytime telly. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below or on Twitter, @JKesgard.

***UPDATE 10/24/13***
The television schedule around these parts has changed. #FridayswithMaury now occurs at 10 A.M. PST.

Preemie cabbage patch doll made his father leave
This is all your fault.

Friday, May 31, 2013

I'm Having an Affair with Your Girlfriend

The following smarty phone text conversation took place on the evening of Wednesday, May 29, 2013, while I was finishing up for the day at the school I routinely destroy for kicks. All dialogue in the series is accurate to what I received or sent; the content, format, spelling and grammar is unchanged. I do have the phone number of the Mystery Messenger but it has been redacted for possible future personal funtime use.

Mystery Messager (MM): Whos this (5:15PM)

Me: I am an enigma (5:16PM)

MM: Who (5:17PM)

Me: That depends on who is asking. (5:17PM)

MM: That a picture from my fucken girlfrieend.and.why would you be when that is not her number (5:20PM)

Me: I haven't sent you anything and I don't know who you are. (5:21PM)

MM: Yea you did you sent me a pic from my gf (5:22PM)

Me: No, sorry. I have no idea of what you are talking about. You seriously have the wrong number. (5:23PM)

{End conversation}

I lied. *ahem* I LIED! I'm TOTALLY having an affair with your girlfriend. Well, I don't know if I would call it an affair more than a brief interlude when both of us caved to our most carnal of desires and documented it with pictures to be sent to our respective partners, but yeah, basically I did her. Lots.

Unfortunately, since you didn't identify yourself, I don't know specifically which girlfriend you're talking about. When you're a fabulous party girl like me, when I'm clubbin' it up hardcore I have no choice but to steal your girlfriend and get smoochy at least until the bubbles wear off. The only exception is the chance I met her in the locker room at my gym, and that's entirely different. It's serious, bro. I've been painting portraits of her and everything. I'll be happy to send them to your phone.

MS Paint artwork of a sexy bitch
What a fucken girlfrieend may look like

Friday, May 24, 2013

Sexy Women's Locker Room Secrets Revealed!

I'm telling you to shush and I look slightly naked
Promise not to tell anyone else.

I have belonged to the same gym off and on for approximately 14 years. My attendance being spotty at times was due to my undiagnosed medical issues seeming to hinder any of my progress so I would quit. Or I couldn't find a suitable sugar daddy to pay for my membership. Anyway, I'm back to venturing to my sweaty refuge several times a week. It's a very demanding fitness regime: I sit on the oblique ab machines reading Self while everyone glares at me. Every once in a while I'll give a little half-hearted spin with a grunt to prove how hard I'm working. After that, I spend 90 minutes in the steam room clearing my throat, followed by walking up and down the slippery stairs from the hot tub to the cold plunge over and over for about an hour. Finally, I head to the locker room, where the real magic happens.

The mystique of the women's locker room has been depicted in film and TV since the dawn of time. Everyone is walking around in matching underwear sets, removing them casually to all shower together, playfully slapping at each other or assisting one another in sudsy adventures as some man peeks/films/etc. This is an outrage. This is not AT ALL what happens in a women's locker room and it's time someone set the record straight. I'm willing to tell what I know as long as you promise to keep it a secret because maybe some of the other ladies wouldn't be so thrilled I'm sharing their sexy exploits. So, do you promise to keep your mouth shut? Yes? Good. Here we go.

Story #1

It was a quiet, peaceful evening as I sauntered into the locker room, casually tossing my golden locks about my shoulders in case any strong, hunky men were watching. At a quarter to midnight, you never knew what to expect at this 24-hour wonderland of delights. I dropped my bag onto the bench and sighed, as removing my clothes felt like such a tiring chore to do alone. If only there could be someone to assist me with the complicated nature of female clothing. I sighed again--a little louder this time--following it with a quick pucker at myself in the mirror, and was shocked to hear the sound of a man coughing for attention behind the next row of lockers. I shuddered with anticipation.

"Yes?" I breathed softly, folding my coat an placing it on top of my bag.

"Is it safe for me to come around?" The man asked, his voice echoing throughout the dimmed chamber.

"For now," I chuckled, hand poised to start unbuttoning.

The gentleman appeared around the corner of the lockers, wearing a uniform and clutching a circuit tester. A second man emerged behind him. It was clearly my lucky day. I felt warmth flush over my chest and up to my face.

"Oh, hi Jen," the second man said, who I now recognized as a manager of the gym. "The lights blew out back here and we waited until late when there weren't as many people around to look at the problem. It's not just the bulbs. It should only be another couple of minutes. Could you please tell anyone else that comes in so we don't have a mishap? There's the other room upstairs if they need to get changed."

"No problem," I replied... and did what he asked.

Story #2

Against my normal routine, I dared to enter the gym at an earlier hour than usual on a sunny Friday morning. The sun's rays shone through the pool room's windows, making the warm water twinkle invitingly. I walked into the locker room and was surprised to find women everywhere. It was exactly how I heard of it in legend: everyone was topless or completely naked, laughing as they helped each other dress or rub lotion into their tired muscles. I watched, transfixed, as they took up every available space in the large room. The benches, the showers, the counters. Everywhere I looked I saw a naked woman and her endless accoutrements. I couldn't believe my eyes, so I decided to trust my ears.

"And that's why I won't eat bread anymore. I saw it on the TV. When you toast it, it turns into sugar. It crystallizes into sugar," one woman said.

I'm all wet, eating a bagel in the shower
What someone eating a bagel may look like.
Another chimed in, "Oh, really? Well, I'm not going to eat any more bread, either. I don't need my diabetes to get any worse."

A third asked, "Then what am I supposed to do with all of this?" I looked over to follow her voice and noticed the giant pile of plastic bags of nothing but bagels and cocktail breads. The largest bank of benches was covered in all types of bagels, and tiny little slices of breads begging for cheese and meat to top them.

Several other women slowly shuffled over to collect the bread items, claiming that they just wouldn't toast them, then, and the bagels would keep quite well in the freezer. All of this was well and good but I SWEAR TO GOD the next time I come in here and all the Aqua Aerobics old ladies have their shit all over the place AN HOUR AFTER CLASS HAS ENDED and I can't find an effing bench to put my stuff so I can change or even get to a locker for cripes sake I'M GOING APESHIT and TEARING THIS PLACE UP SO HELP ME!

Story #3

I exerted myself fully through a most strenuous workout and felt horrible aches and pains all over due to the fact I was still recovering from a broken foot and the overcompensation for it placed strain throughout my body. Due to this, I still required stability assistance and remembered that one of the showers had grab rails in case I felt the need to grasp something hard.

The shower head was adjustable to many lovely settings but all I cared about was feeling the sense of my dirty deeds leaving my body. As I massaged shampoo through my hair, little bubbles floated away through the air, creating a magical scene of true joy. I have never felt closer to all of creation. In fact, I suddenly felt I was not alone. Turning ever so slightly to the left, I noticed a hand pulling the curtain aside and a tiny blue eye peered in at me through the crack. I playfully giggled to myself as she continued to open the curtain--OH DAMMIT one of those old Aqua Aerobics ladies AGAIN! GTFO OF MY SHOWER! You do not have an exclusive arrangement with the handicapped shower. SERIOUSLY. You look in here to give me the stink eye ONE MORE TIME and I'll send you to you meet your maker right quick TRUST ME.

Story #4

I saw her cautiously place her treasure into the locker before carefully closing the door. She looked around with a most serious expression on her face, the twinkle in her eyes belying her facade as she locked gazes with me. She gave a wistful smile, a sexy glimpse into the very depths of her soul. This would be our little secret, I told myself as I exited the room to go sit on the leg machines for an hour with the newest issue of Cosmopolitan. In the back of my mind, the sense of anticipation for what was to come in the locker room began to build. I simply couldn't wait for the payoff I expected. It was too much for me to handle and I was ready to explode.

Merely an hour later, I returned to the locker room and rushed to get ready for the shower just in case ONE OF THOSE DAMN OLD LADIES appeared. Anyway, I was getting everything out of my locker when I heard a most intriguing sound: moaning. This soft moaning was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of licking. My ears perked up and the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. The moaning and licking were soon joined by smacking and with this I couldn't hold back any longer. I peeked around the lockers and saw my special friend from earlier. She had retrieved the fast food bag and drink out of her locker and was clearly enjoying the Big Mac that had been sitting in there for an hour, its cold meat satisfying the deepest longing and undoing the entire workout she had just completed.

I hope you enjoyed this salacious look into the true sexy stories of women's locker rooms. You're just going to have to wait for the installment of stories from the hot tub and pool area. We'll save that for another day.

I've been careless with a delicate man
The guilt from revealing these stories is too much to bear.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Go Play in Traffic

A scraped and bruised arm after a minor car accident
Owie. The first picture. Ten minutes after the incident.
 I was sooooooo bored today. Seriously. After spending a month merely staring out of the picture window at the torrents pouring from the heavens above, I noticed a strange phenomenon in the sky. It was the color blue. "Oh, joy!" I exclaimed, tears pouring down my face as I raced out the front door to bask in the sun for however long I could. My skin embraced the light as it toasted away the years of my visible youth, the under layers of leathery bliss preparing to later emerge and give me even more reasons for a chemical peel.

What to do? WHAT TO DO!?! I was faced with the quandary of dry air and nothing to do. Since my creativity had been pickled away long ago, not much entered my brain. Weed the yard? Nah. Too boring and too many bees. Wash the car? No. That's peasant work. I then remembered something my friends from middle school used to tell me quite often when I was being especially awesome around them: "Go play in traffic." As that was something I hadn't yet managed to get around to, I decided that now was as good a time as any and set out to find a great intersection for my new favorite pastime.

It didn't take long for me to find a happy little intersection just a few blocks away from my home. This was good because I was so full of caviar and mimosas I was too bloated to move. Lucky for me, it also didn't take very long to find a big truck in front of which I could leap to my certain peril. And super sweet insurance payday.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Some of you that knew me back in my more responsible days may think that instead I was just walking to work as usual and was smacked into, HARD, in the crosswalk, when I had the signal, by a stupid effer with a small penis in his giant truck when he was making a right turn without looking when he did not have the light in his favor. But, you know that can't be the case because I don't do that sort of thing any more. I was simply dancing about in the intersection with nothing better to do and the guy had the nerve to plow into my arm and then recoil in horror from me at the utter destruction I probably did to his truck. I'm sure he sped off so quickly because he needed to go check on the damage.

I was so busy having a good time I didn't even think about getting his license plate info. It's okay because I wouldn't have much to squeeze him for since it's just my arm which is mostly okay. If only I had endured an injury that would require a neck brace or a wheelchair. Shit. I missed out.

Anyway, I coped the best way I could by FINDING ALL THE LIQUOR and DRINKING IT. And taking pictures of my bruise every few hours. Even after this is posted I'm going to keep taking pictures and updating the bruise situation every few hours. Enjoy my pain, my dear fans.
Passed out on the carpet with natural painkillers
The aftermath.

The accident bruise has increased in size
6 hours after the first picture.

Still more bruising.
9 hours after 1st picture.

Friday, March 8, 2013

Corporate America is Trying to Impregnate Me!

I got two things in the mail indicating that I should be pregnant when I'm not.
The content of my mail has vastly changed in the last few weeks.
In honor of International Women's Day, I've decided to man up and finally post some thoughts that have been particularly bugging me over the last few weeks. I've had the sneaking suspicion that someone has been secretly trying to get me pregnant and now the evidence is too much to ignore. This is a notice to you, Corporate America: I'm on to you. I get it. You want a baby in my tummy (that's where it does its thing, right?). Unfortunately for you, your plans will not succeed. I have no need for any more parasites than the ones I already have special shampoos for. So there.

I first suspected your evil plot when I received an advertising magazine of tips and coupons for expectant mothers. I wondered if I had purchased something in the past months that could have been construed as a purchase for a pregnant woman or a baby. Processed meats? Canned tuna? Champagne? Nothing I had bought should have triggered such a mailing, especially since it was addressed to my maiden name and was for a store at which I do not shop.

The mailing was soon forgotten as I had many naps to take but one day, as I accidentally stumbled out the front door, the mail lady was there and I couldn't avoid having to get my own mail. In it was another terrible item: a catalog for maternity wear. This had to be a joke. Who thought I was fat? The back of the mailing indicated it was directed to my maiden-named self. The only possible answer to my quandary then was that there is a national database maintained by Corporate America and the Gubmint, dedicated to keeping track of unimpregnated women and shaming them into motherhood if it is not achieved by the age of [REDACTED].

There is a whole lot of baby shit out there to buy and if you don't produce children to necessitate yourself and your family and friends buying it, you are hurting the job creators. I suppose the next step is the Obama Fertility Drone, which will come in my window and do horrible medical experiments to me to force me to have a miracle baby but you forgot that my body has a way of shutting that whole thing down. So I win again, fools.

I know, I know. I should probably have nine or eleventy kids right now but I'm still too selfish. There's a lot of my life I would have to change that I'm just not ready for, so you will just have to wait. I'm simply not ready to:
  • Hand my social media accounts over to my child. This phenomenon occurs when the avatar changes from a picture of a friend you used to hang out with into an image of a child. This is because children are whiny little jerks starving for attention and you are required to give up any and all of your accounts over to them. Your parasite has been expelled but still manages to drain and control every part of your social life. No thanks. Tell your kid to stop posting selfies of him/herself all the time, too. I get it; they're cute. So are the other 20 kids doing the same thing today. 
  • Have to actually do something for once, like hire a nanny and another publicist.
  • Listen to other people tell me what to do with my body. Sorry, that's between me and my plastic surgeon. I don't need to hear lectures about breast feeding vs. not, natural birth vs. C-section. This slammin' bod is for teh sex0rz, not having babies.
  • Share baby food. That jar of mashed pears is mine, bitch!
  • Take my cat out of my purse. I can only carry around one little needy thing with me each day, and two don't fit in there very well. I could be like everyone else and carry a baby in the purse while putting the cat and everything I buy all day in my catch-all cart aka stroller, but until Balenciaga makes one I'm not buying one.
  • Stop mainlining coffee. Self-explanatory.
  • Stop mainlining vodka. Also self-explanatory. (Unless the baby was cool with that or something.)
  • Stop being a naked sushi body. Because Take Your Child to Work Day would be awkward unless they wanted to do it, too.
I'm sure there are lots of other reasons why I don't want to parent right now but I can't type them all while I'm shaking so hard from caffeine withdrawal. The moral of the story is, I'll have kids when I'm good and ready. Which is probably never. So stop sending me stupid mail.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

It's Okay, I'll Be the Worst Timbers Blogger

I know we all have strong preferences for and allegiances to certain members of the blogging and reporting community when it comes to the Portland Timbers. It takes a long time to learn one's craft and place in this demanding field and when someone isn't up to snuff, we all hear about it on Twitter, Facebook, by comments on the actual blogs, and in person. The sniping and verbal poo-slinging between broadcasters, writers, their readers, the people who read the tweets from the readers, people who once walked past the park during a match, their grandmothers and anyone who's ever seen a soccer ball, over the last season and into this off season, has simply been too much to bear and I can't take it any more. In order to create peace in the Timbersphere, I am hereby accepting the position of Worst Timbers Blogger EVAR so that the debate can end. If I take the title, you can all leave each other alone to read, listen to or watch anything else you like without judgment and play happy families again. It means that much to me, I am going to seal the deal by providing conclusive direct evidence of my suitable ineptitude over which you can bond.

Certainly I've had some health issues over the last few years keeping me from my true potential and restricting a majority of my contributions on the Timbers blog to snarky photography, but that's irrelevant. Now that I'm perfectly healthy, I won't have any excuse for the ridiculous crap I'm going to be spewing all season and beyond. The main reason for this is that you'll have so much more content to judge and you will be able to notice that I have absolutely no idea of what I'm talking about when it comes to soccer, the Timbers, or anything else, really. And I'm truly sorry for that because it's all my fault. Whenever I had the ability to improve myself and my product, I refused any sort of advice and assistance. I am willing to admit my shortcomings and keep it this way so that everyone else will seem even more super duper awesomer in comparison and you can all shut your pie holes. Your whipping girl is ready for action.

Years ago, my first attempt at joining the Timbers culture (after I moved back from England) was met with failure because although I did watch all the EPL I could every weekend morning at the Horse Brass, I learned that wasn't enough. On a very enlightening Craigslist-arranged tête-à-tête, I discovered that to be the best supporter around I should have been getting up at 3 a.m. to watch Serie A and Eredivisie, or even sneaking down to the local middle school matches to scout the next Chugger Adair or Brian Winters. I was clearly not ready to be a football supporter. Now that I realize it, since I never did start doing any of that stuff I am an even less qualified blogger. When I started writing, I made the assumption that my having my own unique history and experiences in regards to the team would allow me to offer something of my very own. With everyone else writing or photographing at other outlets with their own unique backgrounds we would all have something different to contribute, providing quite a range of media and styles from which audiences could choose, allowing everything to form a complete picture with something for everyone. But, I am proud to say my life experiences have resulted in a point of view that sucks more than you could possibly believe.

Personally, I've learned that since I don't have the ability to devote every second of my life to this sport, and I don't produce something that absolutely everyone loves every time, I have no business doing it. It's about devotion, people, and having to spend time working at a job to pay my mortgage is secondary to knowing if maybe I had been able to attend more practices and pay closer attention, perhaps I would have noticed Brent Richards or Bright Dike limping slightly and I could have shouted over to Coach Porter, "HEY! I think they're about to have some ACL issues! Better get them checked!" And then I would have been a hero and everything would have been unicorns and rainbows and Bright would have carried me off into the sunset as Kip wept with joy at the fact his wife got the honor of hooking up with such a goal scoring beast. Alas, this did not occur and therefore I deserve more negative blog comments than everyone else combined. I wish Facebook would hurry up and make a dislike function so you guys can use it on my posts.

Also in the beginning of my supporter culture schooling, I attended a certain TA party. I discussed the subtle nuances of Andrew Gregor's demure facial expressions and gentle bodily encouragement (some of which cute little Tommy Poltl would continue with) with an assortment of gentlemen I still know to this day, and I'm still proud of how well I manipulated them into thinking I paid attention at all of those matches I attended. Outdoors, later that evening, I was overjoyed when blessed with the opportunity of keeping one of those men from touching the flames he kept trying to grab, which were courtesy of a fire breathing show brought to us by another attendee. I'm sure I saved his life that night. It all seems like just yesterday we all had these joyous adventures and now we writers and photographers are all hardened, bitter strangers remembering only faint echoes of the magical fun times being TA used to be. Such regrets I have...

On my first Shittle away bus trip, when there was still only one bus and some guys I tried to get a ride with pretty much pretended I was dead to them, I sat in the middle by myself, not really knowing anyone else. I ended up, however, talking to a couple of gentlemen with whom I would later be on a bowling team. On the way back to Portland we discussed West Ham and gaming until a very talkative and mainly creepy fellow planted himself in the seat next to me, drank all the rest of my liquor, begged for a ride home and bragged about topics I found scary and/or tedious. From the back of the bus, the other kids sang so enticingly and would call to me, "Giiiiiiirrrrl, come back here and play with us. Girl (my board name)... come here... we want to talk to you." Oh, how I wished I could have climbed over that creepy fellow and joined you, but I'm sure I would have lost the last of my wide-eyed innocence that day and I would never have been the same.

Still, I wonder what things could you have taught me about myself, my love of the Timbers, and exactly how much volume of beer vomit is humanly possible to pass through my nasal passage in three hours' time. I'm sure these topics would have improved my writing and photography to a level I can't even begin to fathom, so now as consequence I must embrace my mediocrity with fervor. Maybe if I had gone to the back of the bus on that trip or any of the later trips I could have published a book by now. But, I know this sacrifice was essential so that you will cast your frustrations aside and let me be the reigning champ of Timbers suckitude. I mean, I'm even willing to start tweeting breaking news two weeks after it happens, or start a podcast where I drink copious amounts of cider as my cats interview me about what it was like to see Josh Wicks get an assist in San Francisco.

Don't worry, for those of you that are wondering, my photos will suffer, too. I'm finally able to afford a couple of new lenses and filters but I'll only use them at inappropriate times and encourage as much J.J. Abrams-style lens flare as I can because it's so crappy it's artsy-cool.

In summation, we should all remember that everyone covering the Timbers does not have equal income and time to devote, or equal access and opportunity to every player, coach, event, rumor, and such. Most of us got into this organically just because we loved the Timbers and wanted to do what we could to provide information, opinion or entertainment solely for the pure joy of it. Since everyone's coverage isn't uniformly perfect and has variance of style, opinion, statistical usage and substance, I'm more than happy to be the most ridiculous and take the brunt of all dissatisfaction until we all coalesce into a hive mind of egalitarian soccer coverage. By that time, hopefully the readership will have become an easily-entertained blob of consciousness, as well.

Bunch of media types shoving microphones and cameras in Caleb Porter's face. Lots of lens flare.
I think that's Spock there on the right.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

It Looks Like We're Not All Dead

I was just so certain that the exalted Mayans had it right (or the people translating their calendar, anyway) and we were all going to be floating through space, disassembled back into the subatomic particles we once were. I didn't fear this, I welcomed it. There was nothing else important to accomplish in my life, I thought, so why not make the best of being blown up into tiny pieces? That's what truly seemed exciting.

Unfortunately, there was no catastrophic event on December 21, 2012 to send us screaming into oblivion. Of course, what if we were all wrong and the end was going to be slightly later? Coming to this realization made my disappointment a little less and allowed me to dream that the end was only a few days away. I napped with greater intensity, ate even less and drank even more as I waited a few more weeks for the apocalypse. Alas, the end still didn't arrive and I was left with a sense of longing I had never before experienced. How could the Mayans do this to me? Laaaaaammeeee.

Then, I had a secondary realization: what if I needed to help the process along? After all, as super famous and influential as I am I should be able to help bring about the end of the world, shouldn't I? I resolved to make a list of things I said I would rather die than do, hoping that the universe would step in and make that result a reality.

Me, on the staircase in horrible 80s attire

#1 I would rather die than wear neon colors. 

And leggings. And slouchy boots. And a denim jacket. And wear pink eyeshadow. And pose cheesily on a staircase while hoping that my mesh tank stays firmly over my hot pink and yellow tank.

At some point in one's life, the "retro" look comes into play and you wear it either as an ironic statement or an homage to the classic. For me, it was an exercise in excess, an attempt to experience a life I wished I could have lived without having to dress that hideous way all the time. From what I've heard, the 80s were the time for supermodels, cocaine, jet setting and the ultimate life of leisure. Unfortunately, I'm too young to have lived in that era as I just missed being born in that decade and can only imagine what it would have been like.

I spent an entire evening in this horrific outfit (drinking plenty of wine to cope with the embarrassment) and no galactic portals opened, no puzzle box was solved to release creatures addicted to inflicting delicious pain, and Jesus himself did not knock on my door and tell me, "I take back everything I did for you." So much for that plan.

I'm trying not to be spotted by paparazzi at Walmart
Everyone should spend some time in the 4th circle of Hell.
#2: I would rather die than shop at Walmart.

This should be fairly self-explanatory, but the less-sophisticated of my readers may need to be clued in a bit. Each year, a family member sends me a gift card to the scary emporium for icky poor people, despite my protestations. I end up trading it away for cash or alcohol.

This year I decided to use it on myself for things that are useful to me, such as laxatives and diet shakes. I spent a whole hour experiencing a frightening side show of the macabre and the Earth did not implode. I did see a man that looked an awful lot like the Gorton's fisherman (full yellow outfit) and a lot of creative tramp stamps with accompanying animal print leggings, so you can't blame me for thinking it was all over.

I later discovered that the world was not likely to end upon my entry to that store due to the fact some of the richest bazillionaires in the universe have made their money from charging low, low prices while having the awesomest balls ever to not pay a living wage to employees. I felt so inspired from this example and started daydreaming ever so vividly about someday starting an awesome sweatshop of my very own. This plan of mine clearly backfired in a big way because I wanted to die, not be motivated to greatness!

My calico cat is biting through my ear
Daisy is professional and discreet.
#3 I would rather die than get my ears pierced at home.

During my irritating teenage years, a common slumber party activity was someone putting ice on someone's ear, then sticking a needle through that ear into a potato. The mall piercing establishments required parental permission or being 18 years of age, so finding a friend to stick you was often seen as preferable if you had shitty parents.

Well, I had the non-permissive parents but also a sense of self-preservation and fear of hepatitis. If a mom baking cupcakes at home and bringing them to school could give you organ failure, I was certainly not going to let her daughter stick something sharp into me so close to my brain. Therefore, I had virgin ears until the age of 18. After that, as long as it was professionally done, I had anything and everything shoved into my lobes and surrounding zone as much as humanly possible.

Now that I was finally ready to do damage to myself at a slumber party, I realized I didn't have any teenage friends or potatoes in the house. Luckily, Daisy offered to do the deed for me in exchange for ten cans of gooshy food. This was a payment I could easily promise as the world would soon end anyway and I wouldn't need to actually follow through on the agreement. But, like with the other attempts, Armageddon did not materialize and I now had a raging infection and an angry calico.

After so many failed attempts to doom us all, I gave up on the rest of my list and polished off a bottle of Veuve Clicquot and an entire cookie sheet of baked tater tots. Unfortunately, it looks like we're going to live after all. The worst part is now I have motivation to do things again. But not too much. I suppose I'll just have to blog about my doing things in addition to my not doing things from now on. This really sucks.