And then there's this sort of thing...

A few years ago I was tapped to do some live caricature at a trendy multimedia event. The premise was this; a photographer would wander around the event floor and snap photos of the attendees, then send them to a computer, where I would do a quick cartoon rendering. The whole process was projected to a huge screen beside the stage.

Zero minus two hours before the event and I receive a panicked call from the promoter. Some unavoidable last minute drama occurred and they could not provide a laptop for me to "perform" with.

I needed to bring my own computer.

(eeek)

At the time, Harry Potter star Daniel Radcliff was starring in the Broadway production of "Equus", which is a controversial play concerning nudity and horse love. As a perfectly hu-uge fan of HP, I had procured some promotional photos of young Dan Rad, fully nude, shot from the front, softly caressing a white horse.

That photo was the screensaver on my computer, which, when rigged up to that big screen, projected a monster size photo of what I now lovingly refer to as "Potter Cock".

An entire wall of 18 year old Harry Potter's naked dick.

Now sure, that's kinda funny, but then there's this.

I was awkwardly positioned in the center of the dance floor, at a makeshift computer station that consisted of a folding card table and a wobbly plastic chair. Every mustached sweatervest in the crowd was curious as to why there was someone sitting in the middle of the dance floor, staring at a cheap laptop with the intensity of a thousand suns.

And so the crowd around me grew.

Every time I started a new caricature, my computer crashed and defaulted to full frontal Potter Cock. And as the crowd grew denser, and my small area more heavily populated, my computer, possibly feeling overwhelmed by new file sharing programs and the thick air of aggressively fashionable assholes, began crashing more frequently, flashing the crowd more and more Potter Cock.

Every time that offensive, possibly illegal photo dominated that wall, hundreds of eyeballs focused first on the perturbing photo of the world's favorite boy wizard and his uncircumcised magic stick, then on me.

I wish I could say I'd never been so mortified, but once when I was kid, my panties fell off in the Safeway parking lot, so, yea, it takes a little more than some nebulous pedophilia to embarrass me.

Radical Ways to Break an Arm

Mr. Boss broke his arm. I asked him how he did it. He was tired of answering that question. I told him, "No bother. Actually, I really rather not know". I instead imagined 30 stories in which a radical person breaks their arm.

1) Base Jumping Accident:
got tangled up in my parachute base jumping from the worlds tallest building.

2)Rodeo Accident;
I was thrown from the nation's orneriest bucking bronco. But not after I rode that son of a bitch for 42 seconds.

3)Bar Brawl;
Called a wannabe biker gang a bunch of puss-nuts, kicked over all of their stupid Harley Davidsons, then broke all the bones in my right hand punching each of them out.

4)Concert Accident;
Broke arm while protecting horde of underage scene kids from a terrible trampling at the Lady Gaga show.

5)Ice Skating Accident;
Lost footing and ate shit trying to land a triple axle, especially bittersweet since I nailed it repeatedly in rehearsal.

6)Frisbee Accident;
While enjoying a friendly game of frisbee, I jumped too high and slapped a helicopter out of the sky.

7)Juggling Accident;
I was stuck in a one handed juggler's purgatory for 78 hours.

8)Camping Accident;
Had to fight a mountain lion away from camp with one hand while I restrained an adult male elk with the other. I rode the elk back to civilization, then I killed him with the same hand I used to punch a mountain lion to death. I smoked his meat and fed all the hungry children of SE Portland.

9)Nude Beach Accident
Attacked by several middle aged nudists after removing my trunks and showcasing my junx.

10)Party Accident;
Strained all the muscles in forearm while breaking the world's record for "longest one handed kegstand."

11)Diving Accident;
Dove off the longest, tallest bridge known to man in order to save the drowning puppy of a small weeping child. Dog consequently bit through my entire wrist. Returned pet to child, then slapped child for raising such a shitty dog.

12)Poetry Accident;
Wrote 10,000 lines of prose, which when complete read as a palindrome. Developed severe tendonitis as a result. Never again wrote a line of prose, yet won the nobel prize for literature.

13)Playground Accident;
Attacked by a army of bloodthirsty 3rd graders. Received worst indian burn of all time.

14)Philanthropy;
One man campaign to bitch-slap every deserving man, woman and child in America.

15)Science;
I'm growing a stronger, more flexible, super-arm

16)Thumb Wrestling accident;
Challenged "Long Thumb Cunningham" to a balls-to-the-wall thumb wrestling match. Lost.

17)Arm Wrestling Accident;
Won 12 consecutive matches against the nations top ranked wrestlers, only to have my arm broken during a photo op with my 12 year old protege. I taught that dumb-ass a little too well.

18)Physical Education Accident;
Got carried away while demonstrating perfect pull ups. Did 8000 one armed pull ups, then dazzled everyone with a 45 minute, one armed gymnastics presentation. (**it's worth noting that the real Mr Boss, he says "I'll show you a 45 minute gymnastics presentation..."**)

19)Sisyphean Accident;
Read too much goddamn philosophy in college. It made my bitch ass bones all soft.

20)Stage-diving Accident;
No one caught me

21)Philanthropy #2
Fed my arm to all the starving children of SW Portland.

22)Breakdancing Accident;
Windmilled 376 times in a row. Also now suffering from vertigo.

23)Competitive Eating Accident;
Mistakenly stuck hand in the pie of reigning cherry pie eating champ of Idaho, Jerry Sizzerlean.

24)Self Inflicted;
I broke my own arm to prove to you what a badass I am.

25)Physical Education Accident #2;
Demonstrated dead lifting 500 lbs one handed. Then I high fived everyone and did 1000 push ups with THE SAME ARM!

26)Camping Accident;
Needed to start fire, used own arm for friction. The sparks were 10 times more intense than that of the usual lame wood or flint/steel friction sparks.

27)Fishing Accident;
While noodling (that's bare-fist fishing for all you intellectual assholes) I became locked in a battle royale with the worlds largest catfish. After my victory, I smoked that bastard and fed all the hungry children of Gresham.

28)Ecological Accident;
Tried single handedly to stop the oil leak in the Gulf of Mexico. Literally.

29)Pervert Accident;
Look, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

30)Realistic-if-you-know-me Accident;
My pimp hand is strong, but not that strong.

Closet Bombshell

On the second grade playground, two "play-leaders" of a higher grade, got into an argument over who the cutest second grader was, me or Gwen Guererro. The play-leaders in question were popular twin cheerleaders. I can't remember what the outcome was, but that was the day that I learned a lesson that would stay with me forever.

I am cute.

Unfortunately, that is not the healthiest lesson to learn nor the healthiest place to learn it. Yet, this new found knowledge was not lost on me. However, it did lie dormant until I got boobs.

From adolescence to my early 20s, I used my boobs and my cuteness for evil. I had no code of ethics, and everything was fair game.

That was a regrettable time, and the ethical backlash was so intense it resulted in my hiding under layers of baggy, unwashed, unisex attire until I felt that I had somehow paid my penance.

Now, my work keeps me mostly covered up. And when I get a chance to release the combination of confident 2nd grader and 25 year old sex beast, it is so explosive that people who see me every day don't recognize me.

It is a phenomenon I call closet bombshell.

Just when you thought you liked me.

So, I'm at work, and I'm manning the register, which looks out onto the atrium/dining room just outside the cafeteria. Most of the cashier shift involves staring out into the atrium/dining room. Snoresville, to say the least.

A customer comes in and purchases a cup of ice for 10 cents. She's obviously ill, her walk is pained, and she is on her way to dialysis. She ambles past the cash register and into the atrium, and almost immediately passes out. She falls hard and suddenly.

If you've ever seen a legitimate pass-out, you know it's not all "I got the vapors" and then a gentle drop to the floor like a feather. It's a lot more like a tree being snapped off of it's trunk, and falling headfirst to the ground.

It is disturbing to see someone pass out, it's infinitely more disturbing when that person is frail, dying and probably has no business walking around in the first place.

However, in the course of these events, the sick woman falling face first onto a hardwood floor, and taking out 2 chairs and a table on the way down, was surprisingly the least disturbing.
The most disturbing of these events is that i stood and watched. I watched her walk like an unsteady, malnourished baby deer, I watched her knees buckle and give way, and I watched her face slam into a table edge, before coming to rest on the cold shiny floor.

And she just laid there, not moving.

And I just stood there, watching.

Several employees in the periphery ran to her aid, fanning her, checking her vitals, bringing her back to life. A security guard rushed to provide a wheelchair for her, my co-workers rushed to the dining room to mop up her spilled ice. Rush, rush, rush.

And I just stood there, less that 5 feet away, and did nothing.

I am losing my faith in humanity, and it's my own fault. I was the closest to that fallen woman. That fallen woman who is probably somebody's mother, somebody's daughter, somebody's sister. What if it was my sister. Would I just stand there like some asshole?

Fuck.

A car collided with my moped a couple of years ago, and as I lay on the ground, dizzy and hurt, I could hear the screech of tires as people pulled over to help me. Several people milled around me, trying to protect me. I handed my phone to someone I had never seen before and instructed them to call my boyfriend. And they did. My phone rang again, and I handed it to another nameless, faceless person. It was my job calling. Someone who had never met me, who didn't even know my name explained to my boss that I had just been in a serious accident.

Someone took off my helmet and stroked my hair, and told me evrything was going to be okay.

When it was finally my turn to pay it forward, I just stood there. Not frozen, not scared, just completley uninterested.

I think I even caught myself rolling my eyes.

And that is why I am probably going to hell.

It's the #3 ranked haunted house in the nation.

Ah, my birthday weekend. Let's talk about it.

My friends and I finally gave in to popular temptation and shelled out 20 bucks for the " Scream at the Beach" Halloween event that occupies the parking lot of the Jantzen Beach Mall every October. The theme of this years haunted house appeared to be "Attack of the Drama Kids". From every darkened corner lurked a 15 year old, screechily performing as if their lives depended on it. I screamed till I choked, for nothing is quite as frightening as a shitty teenager on full display, like an angry peacock, getting paid to punk you.

((Fun Fairs like this one are some of the most sociologically interesting examples of youth culture. Observe the native pimply teenager in it's most desired, if not natural, habitat. Relieved of parental supervision for the most part, these teenagers are volatile kegs of hormonal discord. Oh my god, am I wrong to love it so much?))

Upon exiting the haunted house, we found ourselves deposited on the theoretical doorstep of a good old fashioned carnival. Within minutes i had a face full of radioactive-green cotton candy.
I approached the ticket booth, slid my cash across the counter and through a mouthfull of cotton candy, ordered my ride tickets. The charming lady of distinction behind said counter looked at me through evil carnie slits, which I assume are the equivalent to human eyes, and picked up a big-ass pickle on a stick. She never broke eye contact with me as she took a huge sloppy bite out of that pickle.

So she's looking at me while she fights a pickle off of a popsicle stick with what's left of her teeth, and I'm looking at her while I brainlessly shove cotton candy at my mouth, with only 75% of the candy actually making it inside.

You wonder, "was that weird?" the answer is "yes, it was very fucking weird".

Later that evening, as i was simultaneously eating an elephant ear and a caramel apple, it occurred to me that all the elements of a perfect birthday were present. The fist fulls of sugar, the racing, blinking, hyper-colored lights, the creeping chill of fall in the air, my friends concerned faces as I approached what was clearly a heart attack or a minor stroke, it was the perfect birthday storm.

My tongue has been sugar swollen all weekend. It is a small price to pay.

Young Professionals of Portland

I have emotional attachments to the piles of random crap in my house. No emotional connections are stronger or more disturbing than the ones I have with my clothes. Piles and piles of memories choke every inch of bedroom floorspace. The closets replete with apparel that has not seen the light of day in years.

I supplemented my closet with 2 full sized garment racks a few years ago, as if I could solve my hoarding problem with proper storage. It did get several of the piles of clothes off of the floor, but it wasn't long before new clothes took their place.

I knew I had to purge my wardrobe. I've known it for years. I've avoided it for so long.

The miniskirts that comprised most of my wardrobe for the bulk of my 20s are inappropriate for a Portland dwelling 31 year old. Same goes for sparkly camisoles and sundresses with spaghetti straps. If you can only wear an item of clothing for 3 months a year, but shouldn't have been wearing for it the last 7 years anyway, it's time to put in a bag and put said bag on the curb.

But, I looked soooo cute in that polka dot mini, and I scored so hard when I would wear that gold sequined tank, and that denim mini dress was my go-to outfit for-evah. I let go of several miniskirts and sequined cami's a few years ago, after my first full year in Portland and Oh My God, it was as painful as childbirth (probably).

Miniskirt girl has to grow up sometime and miniskirt woman does not sound charming or sexy.

I turned 30 one year ago next week. So I've had an entire year to live in total age-denial. I rode this last summer out in ridiculously "hot" pants, (denim underwear with pockets is more like it) and the bitter end of my vast miniskirt collection. I knew that this was the last summer I could get away with such fashion shenanigans.

So now, as I look at 2 bags full of cute, girly clothes, and one bag full of stilettos so high they double as torture devices, I am confident that in 31 years, i have finally learned how not to look like a total skank.

My colors are "blush" and "bashful."

In a bit of a funk one day, I decided to watch "Steel Magnolias" for the billionth time ( women of a certain age, you know what I'm talking about, Pink is all our signature color) Steel Magnolias is one of the ladies-only-weepy-rejoicy-way-beyond-chick-flick-in-that-i -mean-men's-eyes-will-melt-if -they-try-to-watch-it-unless-they-are-gay-and-maybe-still-then-movies.

I just want to break some crucial plot points down before i tear this film favorite a new asshole.
M'lynn (sally feild) is the mother to hyper-diabetic Shelby (julia roberts)
Ousier (pronounced Weezer, and played by Shirley Maclaine) is their loud, brash codgery neighbor and Clairee (Olympia Dukakis) is her rich, fabulous, oldest friend.
They all meet at Truvie's (Dolly Parton) Hair Salon, where Truvie and Annelle (Daryl Hannah) aqua net their glorious southern belle hairdos into oblivion.

Okay, now that we're caught up on the basic framework, let's discuss (and by discuss I mean read my point of view and mine alone) some details.
WARNING spoilers ahead!!
Shelby's getting married to a young delicious Dylan McDermott, but oh dear, she's just so sick with the diabetes.
My'lynn is just so worried about the fruits of their marriage ie; bebehs, seeing as Shelby's just so sick with the diabetes.
All these other bitches are doing shit too, and a good hour of their drama consumes screen time, but hey everyone, don't forget, Shelby's just so sick with the diabetes.
The she gets pregnant and oh no, she's just so pretty and just so sick with the diabetes.

Here's where I'm gonna get pissed.

Shelby dies when her hyper-diabetic kidneys quit that bitch. She dies and her stupid little toddler-baby is all "wahhhh, wahhhh" cuz that little fucker can't talk. Shelby dies because, and you can quote me here, SHE IS A SELFISH CUNT.

If every medical professional in the modern world told you you'd be an asshole to have a baby, that you would DIE from motherhood, that you would orphan your child and devastate your whole damn family, how much of a hurry would you be in to get knocked up?

Personally, I'd be out there in Malaysia or Thailand Angelina Jolie-ing the fuck out of some precious caramel colored orphans.

I never before held Shelby's condition and subsequent death against her. Those "Steel Magnolias" were the facets of womanhood embodied. Sure, they were 2 dimensional southern caricatures,but they were relate-able nonetheless. Shelby represented youth. Capricious and altuistric, naive and genuine. Shelby is a beautiful tragic creature, and you helplessly watch as she flouts the restrictions of her hyper-diabetes. She just rubs your face right in it, because you may not be a southern belle, a smart sassy hairdresser, a lovable curmudgeon, or a wealthy southern landowner, but damnit, you were young. You could relate to Shelby more than any other character, because you were both young. And she left you, so she could birth a kid. A kid she KNEW she wouldn't see grow up. Isn't that just as frustrating as anything?

What a shitty bitch.